The Silver Gun

by L. A. Chandlar

  “No. Can’t say that it is. Why? Is it familiar to you?”

  “Yes, I dream about it all the time. It’s the same scroll on the silver gun.”

  “Bloody hell, that gun has a lot of history.”

  “Yeah. You can say that again. That cannot be a coincidence. Can it?”

  He nodded as he thought about it. Then he shook his head with a worried, furrowed brow. “No. I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

  “Well . . . let’s not think about it right now. The day is too beautiful. I’ve got an idea,” I said as I grasped his hand.

  We walked down into the grassy area of Cedar Hill. I tried to shake off that image of the scroll and the gun. It was beginning to take on a life all its own, with a more profound history than I ever could have guessed.

  We got down to the open grass, and I brought out my kite. Finn looked at the colorful fabric and smiled. He said softly, “I haven’t flown one of those in about twenty years.”

  “Doctors highly recommend flying a kite at least once a year,” I said knowledgeably, successfully shaking off the feeling of ghosts nearby.

  “Oh, really? I’ll have to remember that.”

  I unfurled the long, curling, red tail of the kite while Finn expertly attached the crossbars to my brightly colored flier. I was momentarily distracted by those arms of his and almost got my kite tail in a knot. We got it all together, and the wind behaved perfectly. Not too strong, but it definitely got a hold of the kite. Finn had the string winder and let the kite up, slowly walking backward, letting out more string.

  “This is nice,” he said, with a calm look of satisfaction. We took turns flying the kite, and after quite a long while and two near misses by the large sycamore trees that loved to snatch at my kite, we decided to sit in the grass and finish off the cookies. I wanted to stay for weeks, I was having so much fun. I wondered where the rest of the day would lead.

  That was right when Roarke showed up.

  “My God, do I have a beacon attached to my head?” I asked indignantly. Roarke was mystified, and Finn cracked up. “Is it really that easy to follow me?”

  In unison, Roarke and Finn said, “Yes.”

  “I ran into Kirkland, and he told me where to find you,” said Finn.

  “I ran into Valerie,” said Roarke. I rolled my eyes.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry to, uh, bother you guys, but I have a lead about Roxy’s mother,” said Roarke. “Lane, do you think you can come with me? I think she’d respond better to a woman.”

  I pulled Finn over to the side as he said, “Well, actually, I have to get going anyway, Lane.”

  I wanted to continue my afternoon with Finn, but then again . . . Roarke’s lead about Roxy’s mother was tantalizing.

  “From what Roarke found out in Michigan, she sounded like a wreck,” I said, feeling weirdly responsible.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said softly. “Lane?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Be careful, love.”

  I cocked my eyebrow. “Of the lead? Or of Roarke?”

  He laughed out loud. “Both!” Then he said softly, “Thanks for a great day, Lane. It was the best I’ve had in a long time.” He kissed me quickly on the cheek and left us.

  “So, how do you want to handle this lead, Roarke?” I asked. His eyes shifted left to right as he shuffled his feet. “Wait, does this one lead us to the Meatpacking District or Chinatown again?” I asked warily.

  “No. But it may be worse,” he said, suddenly much more serious.

  “Worse?” I asked, with a skeptical turn of my head.

  “Well . . . Roxy’s mom, Daphne Franco, is on Blackwell’s Island.”

  “Oh, no. Here we go again.”

  CHAPTER 26

  I put my heart and soul into my work, and I have lost my mind in the process.

  —ML

  We took Ripley home, and I changed into nicer clothes: a respectable, below-the-knee navy skirt with white blouse and a red and violet scarf at my neck. I needed something cheerful to go to that dark place. It was really called Welfare Island. After the prison and the workhouse got to have such a horrible reputation for violence and drug trafficking, the city changed the name of the island about fifteen years ago. Then last year, in ‘35, the prison was moved to Rikers Island, so now Welfare Island was home to only the elderly and the infirm. But somehow, the name Blackwell still stuck for many of us. Maybe that name fit the semicreepy feel of it better.

  You could only access it via Queens, so we stopped and picked up Roarke’s car. When we were on our way and going over the Queensboro Bridge from Manhattan into Queens, I finally asked him, “Um, where exactly is Roxy’s mom on Blackwell’s Island?”

  “Oh . . . the hospital,” he said.

  “Aw, Roarke! Are you kidding me? Metropolitan Hospital?” I whined. “Just like Chinatown all over again.”

  Metropolitan Hospital’s official descriptor was lunatic asylum. Fantastic. Call me a scaredy cat, but you put a prison, a workhouse, and a lunatic asylum, not to mention a smallpox hospital, on one dinky island . . . I broke out into a cold sweat.

  “It’s okay, Lane.” Roarke chuckled. “Would I really take you somewhere that was unsafe?”

  “Are you really asking me that?” I said flatly.

  “Sheesh, it’ll be fine. Look! We’re almost there!” Like I was going to be excited by that.

  Once into Queens, we took the bridge that led to Blackwell’s, right by the towering white and red factory smokestacks that also kindled warm, fuzzy feelings. We went down Main Street (the only street that went down the middle of the narrow island) and drove up to the hospital with its infamous octagonal tower.

  “So, how did you locate Daphne?” I asked.

  “Well, a buddy of mine—shut up, Lane—checked into a few ideas I had. I wanted to see about the time frame when Daphne and her daughter, Louise, may have come to New York. I had him check out a platinum blond lady hanging out with anyone associated with Venetti’s crew, with a daughter in tow. It took a while. I’ve actually been checking this out since that first trip to Michigan. I think this is the right woman. We’ll find out,” he said, with an air of for better or worse—and it’s probably worse.

  We walked up the front steps and talked with the receptionist about a Mrs. Franco. That was definitely not Roxy’s last name, which was Loughlin, but it was the last known name of that man in Michigan who had perished in the lake accident, along with my parents. Daphne and Rutherford Franco . . . daughter, Louise Franco. I tossed around the names in my mind, trying to hunt for clues, small shreds of memory, anything.

  Roarke came up with some story to get in to see her, batting his wonderful eyelashes and bringing the dimples out for the receptionist. She was done in. We went up to the third floor, through several doorways, and down a few hallways, and believe me, I was memorizing the way back out.

  Inside, the hospital felt like any other hospital—with additional locked doors. It was clean, not too dark, and filled with the smell of antiseptic and the sound of nurses and aides chatting away. However, I felt uneasy. It could be my admittedly overactive imagination, but it was difficult walking through there. I longed to get back outside and would have been quite happy to swim across the East River to Manhattan if need be.

  We got to Daphne Franco’s room, and the interior was not what I expected at all. It was a sunny room with fancier bed linens and curtains than I thought strictly necessary. And an elegant woman of about fifty was lying across the bed in a carefully crafted pose, wearing a plain, white robe. I could easily imagine a silky negligee and fluffy, feathery boa wrapped around her neck. She had a melodramatic arm across her brow, as if she were fighting off a fit of the vapors.

  “Hello, darlings,” she drawled, in a trans-Atlantic accent, like a movie star.

  “Hello, Mrs. Franco,” replied Roarke. He had said that he needed my help, that maybe Mrs. Franco would respond better to a woman. But after one momentary glance at her . . . not a chance. It was goin
g to be Roarke all the way.

  He looked over at me, and I cocked my eyebrow at him, muttering under my breath, “Go for it, Loverboy.”

  He looked confused. Honestly, men could be so naïve. So I mouthed the word watch. I meaningfully nodded to Mrs. Franco, walked one step closer to her, and clearly said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Franco, how are you today?”

  She didn’t acknowledge my presence in so much as a blink. Her eyes were plastered onto Roarke. I turned back to him and said out loud this time, “See?”

  I turned back and took a more thorough look at Mrs. Franco. It’s very helpful watching someone when they aren’t aware of you. You can see things in their eyes and their facial features that you might be blind to when they are actively engaging your attention.

  She was staring at Roarke hungrily, which made him nervous in the extreme. Her blond hair was brushed, but it looked like it needed a good cut, and it had lost its luster. She certainly was well-rounded, like Roxy. She kept pursing her lips, trying her best to look like a Hollywood starlet. Yet there was also something else. Her face looked like there was something lurking just beneath the surface. But there was a nice, tight and shiny veneer over the top. Covering what?

  Roarke stammered out a question. “Um, Mrs. Franco, we were wondering when you came to New York City.” She looked at him with a dubious expression, so he continued. “Ah, you see, I’m a reporter, and I’m doing a story on, uh, people who might like to be famous actors.”

  “Like to be actors?” she said, with disdain.

  “Are famous actors,” he amended. She brightened right up and started chattering a mile a minute about her promising career; how she was cooped up in this hotel while her agent was working on the deal of the century for her; how all the top directors had heard of her, etc. We nodded our heads enthusiastically.

  “And so you got to New York . . . when?” he asked again.

  “Oh, let’s see, not long ago, I think it’s been just a couple years, about 1926, I think.” Which was a decade ago.

  “Uh-huh,” said Roarke, making a show of taking down notes. I wondered how he would frame the next question. “And . . . did you come with any family?”

  “Of course not. I came here for my career,” she said importantly.

  Roarke pretended to check his notes again. “Um, it says here that you came with a little girl. Would that be your daughter?” he said, with a smile and dimples. No dice.

  “Why do you want to know about her?” she demanded, with a curl to her lip. And the veneer slipped just the tiniest, scariest little bit. My eyes flashed to Roarke. He didn’t glimpse the monster beneath the mask; he kept going.

  “Oh, nothing at all, the fans, you know,” he said, with a conspiratorial wink. “They just love stories with moms and their daughters. Really makes the stars stand out,” he said, with a knowing smile. She took the cue.

  “Oh, yes, of course! Yes, I came with my . . . daughter.” But she couldn’t help herself, even for the fans. She still said the word daughter with less than love. Far less.

  “But you know, just between you and me, Louise was always a useless burden on me. She was always so selfish. And then when she was about sixteen, she started hanging out with these guys, one in particular. He was actually pretty good-looking, but I think she was loose,” she said, with derision. “Why else were they hanging around?”

  “This one guy, do you remember his name?” Roarke slipped in smoothly.

  “Oh, something like Dennis, David, Daniel . . . something with a D.”

  “Danny?”

  “Yes, I guess. That sounds right,” she said airily, like she was quickly becoming bored not talking about herself. The veneer was tight, locked firmly in place once again.

  Then I made my fatal error. I should have kept my mouth shut, but I spoke up innocently, with a lighthearted smile, and asked, “So, before New York, where did you come from, Mrs. Franco?”

  Her head slowly turned to me like it was on a mechanical swivel. She looked directly into my eyes, deep down into my soul, making my flesh crawl. Her pupils dilated. And the veneer came crashing down.

  Her face was suddenly a mockery of what it had been a second before. Her skin became taut, with the tiny veins in her face coming to the surface of her papery white skin. Her nostrils flared; she squinted her eyes and bared her teeth. “You!” she snarled.

  I jumped, ready for her to pounce, but she stayed put. Roarke took a defensive step toward me with his arm out.

  “You came back, huh?” she said as her lips curled into a cruel smile. Then she raggedly whispered with her teeth bared, “Want me to finish the job now?”

  “Oh, my God, it’s her,” I gasped, my knees wanting to give out.

  “Lane!” said Roarke, rushing close.

  Then she cackled like a witch, to some inside joke known only to her . . . and she wouldn’t stop. She just kept cackling and cackling. I had to get out of there.

  “Roarke,” I said, desperate to get the message to him. “We have to go!” The cackling kept going relentlessly on and on, with grating insanity. He didn’t say one word. His arm went around my waist, and he hauled me out of there for all he was worth.

  We were moving fast, and the distance was starting to clear my head. My feet started to make better purchase on the shiny floors. We hustled down each corridor, and I had never been more elated to see an exit in my life. We could still hear the now-distant maniacal laughter.

  “Lane, what the hell was that?” demanded Roarke as we burst out the front door and ran down the front steps, making our way to the parking lot. I was panting as we ran out, trying to get as much clean, unsullied air into my lungs as possible.

  “My God, Roarke. I remember her! I’ve had nightmares about that woman ever since my parents died. She came to the hospital where I was recovering and leered over me with that demonic smile. She was wearing a green hat,” I told him. I was out of breath, but not wanting to stop our fast pace.

  “You remember her? Well, she certainly remembered you. I think we have our answer. That was definitely Roxy’s mom, and there is absolutely a link between that family and you.”

  “Yeah,” I panted. “Yeah, I know.”

  Suddenly we heard the clip of shoes behind us. I looked back, and about twenty feet away was the weasely Schmidt brother. The one I had sucker punched. And he had a gun pointing right at us.

  CHAPTER 27

  A great fire burns within me.

  —ML

  Roarke spotted him at the exact instant I did, and we both stopped dead in our tracks, putting our hands up, breathing hard from our run.

  “Huh. You don’t look so tough now, chicky,” he said to me as he slowly strolled closer. Was that boring line the best he could do? Really, you’d think New York thugs could do better. I suppressed an eye roll, since that gun was still pointing at my chest and coming closer.

  “So, you find what you were looking for here?” he asked, nodding toward the hospital entrance.

  I said, “Oh, yes, thanks. Roarke’s aunt is here. We were visiting for her birthday.” Weasel looked confused, like I had thrown a wrench into his plan. I fought the urge to speak with a Southern accent.

  Roarke said convincingly, and at a quick pace, “Poor Aunt Trudy has been here for about two years. She’s doing really well, though. I think it made her day that we stopped by, Lane. Really. Thanks for coming with me.”

  Weasel’s gun lowered a few crucial inches, and he wrinkled his nose in what I think was an attempt at deep thought. From behind Weasel came a loud voice that yelled out, “Hey!”

  I knew that voice.

  At just that moment, three policemen came running toward us. Weasel made a mad dash into an alley.

  I was still using all my mental faculties to process what had just happened, so I let Roarke handle talking to the police and thanking them as they walked us back to our car.

  We didn’t waste any time chitchatting before we started up the car and got the hell off that abysm
al island. Even the smokestacks now looked warm and friendly in comparison. I desperately wanted to get home and take a hot, hot shower. I felt almost as grubby as when I had that run-in with Daley Joseph.

  After I got home, showered, and went down to our warm, homey kitchen, I felt like myself again. Mr. Kirkland was prepping mashed potatoes to go with the roast beef that was slowly roasting in the oven; delectable scents wafted throughout the house. My mouth watered. I was suddenly ravenous, which surprised me, because at one point this afternoon I was pretty sure I’d never have an appetite again.

  There were some oatmeal cookies (without raisins—they really ruin a good cookie) in the tin, so I helped myself and made some tea. I filled in Mr. Kirkland on our strange visit to Metropolitan Hospital, including the part about the mystery lady with the green hat from my dreams. I still couldn’t believe that I had finally put a real person to that dream. And I wasn’t entirely sure that that was a good thing.

  Mr. Kirkland had taken it all in, nodding from time to time. It was pleasing to watch his long, capable fingers deftly peeling the potatoes, cutting them up, and putting them into a large pot of water. I perched on a stool at the kitchen counter, sipping my tea, outlining the etched fleur-de-lis on the mug with my finger over and over again. Aunt Evelyn was upstairs in her studio; I’d fill her in when she came down. Slow, jazzy piano music floated down from upstairs.

  There was a knock at the front door. I told Mr. Kirkland I’d get it; I had a feeling I knew who it would be. Ripley and I got to the door at the same time, and I opened it. Finn was standing there with worry etched into his brow, looking just about ready to break the door down.

  “Thanks for distracting Weasel,” I said casually, my arms crossed in front of me, leaning up against the door jamb.

  “Wh . . .” he stammered. “I better come in.”

  It was still warm out, but the day was getting dark, and heavy clouds had rolled in. The entryway was dark and shadowy, but a warm candle in a hurricane globe had been lit and the flames danced on the walls, making it an especially inviting alcove. The music from upstairs was still going, and suddenly it felt like we were in the middle of a lonely jazz club. Just the two of us.