The Canary Club

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  Detective Dewey follows, removing his own fedora as he steps inside. His face is stern, his mouth thin and wide, his hair dark, bone straight, and parted down the center.

  As soon as I close the door, O’Hara turns, strutting toward the window and drawing the curtain back with one hooked finger. “We’d like to talk with you about your employer, Dutch Schultz.”

  The muscles in my back tighten into knots as I wave for Dewey to have a seat, then settle into the chair across from him. “Of course.” I manage to keep my voice emotionless. “Though my employer is his son, John David.”

  At the window, O’Hara snorts.

  Dewey shoots him an impatient glance before turning back to me.

  “And what is it that you do for John David?”

  “I unload and load trucks.”

  “What sort of trucks?”

  I shrug. “Regular trucks, sir.”

  Now O’Hara turns to me, glaring. “And what is on those regular trucks?”

  “Crates, sometimes barrels. I don’t know what’s inside, sir. Only that some are marked fragile, so I assumed some sort of glassware or dishes. But I never asked what was inside. I would just load and unload.”

  “And where would you deliver this cargo?” Dewey asks, taking a pad of paper and pencil from his coat pocket.

  “Everywhere, sir. Restaurants, private clubs, warehouses, even folk’s houses. It was different every time.”

  “And on one occasion did you deliver goods to the Schultz’s own club?”

  I nod.

  O’Hara cuts in. “We know you took a bullet for Dutch Schultz. We have a witness. Still want to tell us you’re just a moving boy?”

  “No, sir, that’s true in a manner. I was outside the club when someone drove by and fired at a group of us standing around, including Mr. Schultz and some other fellas. I didn’t take the bullet for him on purpose, sir. I was just standing in the way.”

  “Well, isn’t that lucky for you?” O’Hara gripes.

  “I think the hole in my shoulder would disagree with you. But when I woke up after being shot, I was in their house. He’d taken me there and brought a doctor in to stitch me up.”

  O’Hara continues to glare, but he clamps his jaw shut. I can see the rage beginning to boil in his expression. It’s Dewey who continues.

  “This doctor’s name?”

  I shrug. “I don’t actually know. He’d come and gone before I came to.”

  “And Schultz did all that for some nobody he never met before?”

  I can only nod. “He was very grateful.” I hesitate, trying to choose my next words carefully. I’m sure they’ve already done their homework on me, so I have to assume they know about Aggie as well. “As a matter of fact, when he heard my sister was taken ill, he offered to pay her medical bills, even send her to a specialist. He’s been very kind.”

  It’s stretching the truth a bit, but it’s close enough to make my point.

  “And how do you reciprocate that kindness?” Dewey presses, scribbling notes in his little pad of paper.

  “He asked me to accompany his daughter shopping while he is out of town. Her regular chaperone is ill.” Okay, the last bit is a lie, but I’m hoping they assume it’s what I was told.

  “Not a bad gig for some nobody from the wrong side of town, is it?” Dewey asks.

  I shake my head. “Not at all. The whole family has been very kind, sir.”

  “Have you ever heard any mentions of Dutch’s business or his associates?”

  I shake my head. This is it, the little voice nags in the back of my mind. The other shoe dropping, my typical bad luck rearing its head once more. I should have expected it.

  “Do you have regular access to the Schultz home?”

  I shake my head again. “No, sir. Other than when I saw the doc, I’ve never made it past the front door.”

  “Have you ever been asked to do anything illegal?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you ever witnessed the illegal sale or transportation of alcohol on their premises?”

  “No, sir,” I lie, keeping my expression neutral.

  Closing his notebook, Dewey looks at O’Hara and shrugs. Apparently not ready to let the matter drop, O’Hara takes a seat beside Dewey and pulls a large envelope from the inside of his jacket. Opening it, he takes out small photographs, one by one, tossing them on the table between us. I pick up the first photograph. Even in its monotone stillness, it’s nearly enough to make me sick to my stomach.

  The bloated, beaten face of a man with half his head missing stares at me with one eyeless socket.

  “You seem to be under the impression that these are good people, Benjamin. But you need to ask yourself, would good people do this?” O’Hara continues tossing photo after photo until they are strewn across the table in a grotesque collage.

  “Benny?” Thomas’ small voice calls from the hallway where he stands, clearly afraid.

  Leaping to my feet, I go to him, putting my body between him and the horror show in the living room as I usher him back to his room.

  “Hey, Tommy. Why don’t you get cleaned up and put on some fresh clothes? We’re heading back to the hospital soon, okay?”

  Leaning over, he looks past me down the hall. “Benny, who are those fellas? Are you in trouble?”

  “Nah, of course not. It’s alright. Just let me take care of this. Then we’ll go, okay?”

  Reluctantly, he nods and heads toward the bathroom. Hurrying back to the living room, I gather up the photos, trying not to look at them and failing. I heave involuntarily.

  “It’s good that these images bother you, Benny,” Dewey offers, taking them from me and passing them to his partner. “It tells me that you’re a good kid. But you’re in bed with some very bad people.”

  I shake my head. “No, I can’t believe JD would do that. Or Dutch for that matter.”

  “These were all done by one Vincent Coll. You know him?”

  I shake my head.

  “He’s Dutch’s enforcer and personal assassin. Goes by the name Mad Dog.”

  “I’ve never met him or heard the name, sir.”

  Leaning forward, Dewey taps the table with his knuckles. “And I hope for your sake that you never do. But if you should overhear anything or come across anything you’d like to talk about, here’s my card.” Producing a plain white business card from his pocket, he hands it to me. I take it, stuffing it in my pants. I know all too well what will happen if I appear anything less than totally cooperative. I’ve seen the broken knuckles and the half-caved in faces of men who’d thought to speak out, or worse, outright challenge the cops in this town.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The men stand to leave. On the way out the door, O’Hara slaps me on the back and whispers, “Be seeing you real soon, kid.”

  By the time I shut the door, my heart is racing. How can I possibly reconcile the people who took me in and treated me like family with the ones responsible for those photos? The only thing I know with any certainty is I’ll be seeing those faces again the next time I close my eyes.

  The specialist arrives at the hospital before us—thanks to city traffic—and I barely have a minute to give the still-unconscious Agatha a kiss on the forehead before they rush her to surgery. Thomas curls up in Ma’s lap, clutching her while she rocks him gently. Stealing a cup of joe from the nurse’s station, I take a seat beside them. None of us speak. There’s nothing to say now. Finally, Ma closes her eyes. Probably for the first time since Pa died, she murmurs a prayer without being asked.

  If the worst should happen, I wonder how any of us will survive it. Being twins, Thomas and Agnes share more than a special bond. Since before they could talk, they developed their own language—complicated hand gestures that seemed to change just when I thought I might have it figured out. They are the counter balance to each other. Where Thomas can be mischievous and brooding, Agnes is light, bubbly, and full of wonder.

  There’s an emptiness in my chest
at the thought of losing that light. It aches so deeply it’s as if someone has their fingers around my heart, squeezing it.

  The waiting is the worst.

  Not knowing what’s happening on the other side of the off-white double doors. Watching helplessly as every possible worst-case scenario plays in my mind like a moving picture. Holding my head in my hands as guilt eats away at me.

  If only I hadn’t taken the fall for Dickey, I’d have been there for her. Maybe she wouldn’t have gotten sick. I should have let him do his own time—though it would have been much worse than what I got with him being a third-time crook. I should do what Ma wants and get a job sweeping up at the cannery. Leave the dangerous business of mobsters and gin joints behind. Yes, the money’s been nice, but is it worth putting my family at risk?

  No.

  I know the answer before I even ask the question. And if my dangerous new life blows back on them, I won’t be able to live with myself.

  Sighing deeply, I run a hand down my face. I’ll tell Masie tomorrow. Once Dutch and her guard get back, I’ll have to back out. I’ll gather the stuff Masie bought me—I haven’t worn most of it anyway—and she can return it. The rest I’ll have to pay back slowly, over time. Surely Dutch will understand. He’s a family man; he knows what it means to put loved ones in danger.

  By the time the doctor comes out, the coffee in my hand has long since grown cold. Ma is snoozing in her chair, and Tommy is drawing a card for his twin on a piece of paper one of the nurses had given him.

  Shaking Ma gently, I stand. She quickly does the same. We are braced against the other, searching his face for any hint of the news he’s about to deliver, but finding it frustratingly neutral.

  “The good news is we’ve relieved the fluid around her lungs and heart,” he begins with no preamble. “The bad news is there has been some scarring from the infection. But, with proper care, I’m confident she will make a full recovery.”

  Ma sags against me, and I struggle to hold her upright.

  “She’ll stay a few nights to recover, and so we can keep an eye on her vitals. We’ve given her the medicine that will fight off the last of the infection. It will probably keep her asleep for a bit yet, though that’s the best thing for her right now, to just rest.”

  “Can I see her?” Tommy asks, squeezing between Ma and me.

  The doctor frowns. “I’m afraid not just yet. We need to keep her room sterile for now. We don’t want to risk a secondary infection.”

  I nod.

  Ma clutches my shirt. “Can’t I stay with her? She’ll be so afraid if she wakes up alone.”

  “I’ll tell you what…one of you can stay with her tonight, but keep your hands washed and keep your distance.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  Ma hugs Tommy, and I wrap my arms around them both.

  Wiping the freshly fallen tears from her eyes, Ma smiles. “Alright, you take Tommy home and I’ll stay here—”

  I cut her off. “Ma, why don’t you go home and rest? I’ll stay here tonight.”

  She opens her mouth to protest, but I continue. “I mean it. You’re so tired you can barely stand. She’ll probably sleep all night anyway, and if anything changes, I’ll telephone you right away.”

  I watch as indecision plays across her face.

  “Will you give her the picture I made her?” Tommy asks, thrusting his drawing at me.

  “Of course I will.”

  With his now-free hand, he takes Ma’s, twining his fingers through hers. Finally, she nods.

  “Alright,” she says, her voice heavy, but resigned.

  Scooping Tommy into her arms even though his legs are so long they dangle nearly to the ground, she grabs her coat and hat and heads down the hall. Jogging to catch up with her, I hand her a few bucks.

  “Here, take a taxi home. It’ll be safer this time of night.”

  With a frown, she accepts the money and pockets it.

  The nurse leads me toward a large washbasin and shows me how to scrub myself clean.

  “Wash any exposed skin,” she demands. “And use this scrub brush to get under your fingernails, too.”

  I obey, washing and scraping until every piece of my arms, neck, and face are red and raw. Only then does she lead me into the private room where little Aggie sleeps.

  She drags in a hard-back wooden chair and places it in the room, as far from my sister as the space will allow.

  “You stay here. If you, or she, need anything, just pop your head out and ask for me, Margot. I’m on duty till seven am.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  With a sympathetic smile, she turns, drawing the door closed behind her. The oxygen tank and tent is gone, leaving little Aggie, her yellow hair splayed wildly across the stark white pillow, looking very small in the large, iron-framed bed.

  I sit with her for hours. Dawn breaks, and though I can’t see it from where I sit, I feel the energy of the hospital shift with the new day. Every so often, a nurse comes in to take a look at Aggie, one even brings me a cup of joe, which I accept with a groggy thanks.

  Finally, Aggie stirs. Opening her bright blue eyes as if for the first time, she yawns, takes a deep breath, then coughs.

  “Hey there, Aggie,” I say, standing and moving to the foot of her bed. “Take it easy. You don’t want the surgeon to have to come back.”

  Opening and closing her mouth with a frown, she whispers hoarsely, “Can I have a drink, Benny?”

  “Let me see,” I offer, poking my head out the door and motioning to a nearby nurse. “She’s awake and asking for a drink.”

  “I’ll be right there,” she says curtly before heading down the hall.

  I sigh and pop back inside. “She says she’ll bring you something in a minute. How are you feeling?”

  She blinks a few times, then wiggles experimentally. “Better. I feel better, Benny.”

  “Not too much pain?”

  She shakes her head. “No, just sleepy. But I can breathe. Look.” She takes another deep breath, forcing a tender smile. “Is Ma here?” she asks finally.

  I shake my head. “She wanted to stay, but I sent her home to get some rest. I’ll call her to come back if you want.”

  She nods. Behind me, the door swings open, the doctor and a nurse squeezing into the room. “Okay. I’ll be right back, Aggie.”

  Stepping outside, I head for the nurses’ station and grab the telephone. Waiting for the operator, I request a connection to our tenement’s hall line. When a man answers—I’m not even sure who it is—I give our apartment number and ask if he can get Ma on the phone. There’s a clatter as the phone is set down, and I wait with only the clicking of the party line to break the silence until I hear loud, sharp raps, which must be the man knocking on our door.

  I can tell she just woke up when she finally says, “Hello?” in a voice scratchy from sleep.

  “Hey, Ma. Aggie’s awake and asking for you.”

  I hear her shout down the hall to Thomas before returning to me. “Of course. We’ll be right there. How is she?”

  I smile. “She looks really good, Ma. She said she feels good too. The doc just went in to check on her.”

  “Okay, we are on our way,” she says and hangs up.

  I catch the doc just as he’s leaving the room. “How’s she doing?” I ask.

  “She’s doing better than expected. The incision was small, but it looks good—no sign of infection. Her fever’s down and her color is good. I want to make sure she’s eating well and walking before we release her. I sent the nurse down to get her a tray of food. But I think she’s going to recover just fine.”

  His words lift a weight from my shoulders that I hadn’t even realized I was carrying, “Thanks, Doc.”

  By the time Ma and Thomas arrive, Agnes is sitting propped up by two thick pillows, poking experimentally at a tray of runny eggs and burnt toast. When Thomas bursts in, her face lights up with delight.

  “Tommy,” she shouts. “Mama.” />
  “Aggie, you look so much better,” he says, crawling onto the foot of her bed.

  I watch Ma cross the room and lay a long kiss on her forehead, then brush her hair back over her head.

  I relate the doctor’s orders about her eating and walking, then pull Ma to the side and whisper, “I need to go to work. You gonna be alright here?”

  She nods, patting my chest. I expect her to protest or at least make a snide comment, but she doesn’t. Between her relief at Aggie’s recovery and the charm Masie laid on her yesterday, I’m sure she’s far too content to rock the boat now.

  I give Aggie and Thomas a quick peck on the cheek and head to Masie’s before I lose my nerve.

  Deciding to walk—it’s still early and I know how they love to lie in—I make my way uptown, practicing my speech in my mind. I’ll stay with Masie until Dutch gets back, then I’m out. But no matter how much I replay it in my head, it never sounds quite right. I’m a well-spoken fella, thanks in no small part to my pa’s dedication to our schooling and his determination I not sound like the son of a poor immigrant, but even so, I can’t seem to say what I really want to. At least not without sounding ungrateful at best, like a bumbling palooka at worst.

  By the time my wing-tip shoes hit the pavement below the penthouse, I’ve exhausted every possible scenario and decided I’ll just have to play it by ear. The doorman greets me with a nod and opens the door for me. The elevator ride feels longer than usual, probably my nerves getting the better of me.

  Slipping off my fedora, I hold it in one hand and knock with the other.

  Rudy pulls the door open and gestures me inside, taking my hat and coat.

  “Miss Masie is on the terrace,” he says, waving me in that direction.

  She’s dining alone, to my surprise, and when I step outside, she flutters her hands. “Benjamin, how is your sister?”

  I rub the back of my neck. “She’s swell, thank you. The doc thinks she’ll make a full recovery.”

  She claps. “That’s wonderful. I’m so glad. Won’t you join me?”

  I pull out the chair opposite her. Despite my desire to get this over with, my stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten in a day and a half. “Thank you.”