Jimmy the Stick

by Michael Mayo

  It was a hot day, and we both took off our suit jackets to keep them from getting wrinkled and sweaty. Whenever we were dealing with important customers, we tried to look like we belonged wherever we were going. No overalls, no loud colors or flashy suits, just businessmen’s clothes. Made everybody more comfortable.

  We drove out to Valley Green and turned at the long driveway. But well before we got to the house, we saw a sign that said DELIVERIES, directing us to a narrow road that brought us to the back of the place. The house was at the top of a slope leading down to a lake and the woods. There was a two-story boathouse at the water’s edge, and the lawn between the two was filled with canopies, tables, and umbrellas. A bandstand and dance floor had been set up near the boathouse. It was a hell of a nice spread, maybe not as grand as some of the joints we supplied out in Great Neck, but not bad.

  A harried woman seemed to be in charge. She told me to unload the liquor behind the table at the big white canopy, but was unsure about who would be paying. I told her we had to take care of money before anything else. While she was dealing with me, half a dozen other people were wanting decisions about this and that. Sometime in there Spence wandered off and I waited thirty minutes before Mrs. Pennyweight herself showed up and took over. She was clearly a woman used to being obeyed, standing taller than she actually was in a light pleated dress, a wide hat, and sunglasses.

  She held out an envelope of cash but demanded to see the invoice, checking off each case against it and opening the cases to make sure there were no broken or missing bottles inside. She kept me busy for the better part of two hours, more than enough time for Spence to wander up to the big house and meet her husband, Ethan Pennyweight.

  The master of the house didn’t hold with the damn fool parties his wife threw, so he and Spence hit it off right away. They were both war veterans, Spence of O’Ryan’s Roughnecks and Pennyweight of Roosevelt’s Rough Riders, and they both liked to drink.

  Spence said to me now, reminiscing, “While she played hostess, we got drunk as lords in this very library. Ethan told me he’d never read any of these goddamn books. He didn’t need no library when he had mineral rights. God, did we ever get plastered.”

  “I know. I was the one who tried to wake you up.” And when I finally gave up and left him and drove the truck back to Longy’s warehouse, I was about as pissed off as I’d ever been.

  Spence said, “I stayed the night. The next day I met Ethan’s daughter, and even as hungover as I was, I still fell for Flora. Fell hard.”

  That part, I remembered clearly. Two days after I left him at the Pennyweight mansion, Spence showed up, shamefaced as hell. He tried to act like he was sorry for getting so damn drunk and leaving me to handle all the work. But that wasn’t really what he had on his mind. He said, “I’ve met this girl,” as if that one sentence explained everything, and I guess it did. “She’s young, beautiful, rich, and she’s built in a way I can’t describe.” He had a dreamy look I didn’t understand. After that, he spent most of his time in Jersey.

  “Ethan approved,” Spence told me now. “I think he knew what was going to happen before I did. Six months later we got married. You know that, too; you were invited but you didn’t come.” He sighed heavily. “A year after that the goddamn stock market collapsed.

  “I’d put everything I had into Pennyweight Petroleum, and Ethan and I worked like crazy to keep the company running. We were hurt by the crash just like everybody else, and I know the strain took a toll. Ethan had a stroke and spent the rest of his days with Cloninger’s sawbones poking at him. He died at the sanatorium. Now I’m in charge, and we’re about to open three new parcels in Louisiana and south Texas. That’s why I brought you here. Look at all this.”

  He went behind his big desk and rummaged through papers and unrolled maps that were weighed down at the sides. He held up two handfuls of official-looking documents. “Hydrologists’ reports, leases, deeds, contracts. I don’t understand half these goddamn things, and I’ve got to use them to make decisions that will keep this company going. Or ruin us.” He shook his head and sighed again.

  “I’m going to fly down to supervise the exploratory wells. I’d planned to leave this morning but Flora got hysterical when she heard about the Lindbergh kidnapping. She’s convinced that we’re next. And the only place little Ethan will be safe is here in this room, where the windows are all barred.”

  “That explains the duffer with the scattergun.”

  Spence rolled his eyes and nodded. “Flora believes that with her family’s prominence and wealth and my ‘underworld connections,’ Ethan is the perfect target. I tried to tell her that nobody I knew had anything to do with the Lindbergh business. But by then she’d gotten herself so worked up, there was no talking to her. It got so bad, I had to call Dr. Cloninger to give her something to calm her down.”

  “Her and the kid?”

  “The man’s a genius. He’s perfecting compounds with sedatives and stimulants that no one else is even thinking about. But she still demanded that I stay to protect them both, and I can’t. I’ve got to go to Louisiana and Texas. Nobody else can handle this end of the business. I’m responsible, and I can’t put it off. So I’m asking you to stay here and make certain that nothing happens to my family.”

  “The hell you say. You don’t understand, I’m not ‘fast Jimmy Quinn’ anymore. I’m a saloon keeper with a bad pin.”

  “You’re the best shot I’ve ever known, and you’re the only man I’d trust with my wife and son. You’ve got to do this for me, Jimmy, it’s too important.”

  “Walter!” She shrieked his name as she pushed open the doors. “You absolutely cannot leave now! You promised me!”

  Spence jumped up at the sound of that loud, panicked voice.

  His wife was even more beautiful than the pictures I’d seen, and she was damn near naked.

  Chapter Three

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 2, 1932

  VALLEY GREEN, NEW JERSEY

  In newspapers, she looked slender with a long, oval face, light hair, and the moony expression favored by wedding photographers. The rotogravure didn’t come close to the truth. She was sixteen when they got married, and in three years she’d filled out sweetly under a loosely unbuttoned top of silvery satin. She was tall and she had a faint spray of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. Her face was glistening with fevered sweat, maybe from the spooky doctor’s joy juice, and she was barefoot beneath loose pajama pants.

  “Walter, they could be here.” Her voice had a whispery quality. “Right now, they could be right outside.” She grabbed her husband’s coat sleeves at the biceps, her fingers digging in and twisting the material.

  For the first time, I understood what had happened to Spence. I couldn’t take my eyes off the woman.

  “Don’t worry, darling, I’ve taken care of everything. This is Jimmy Quinn, my old friend. I’ve told you all about him.”

  She turned and stared intently while I tried not to look down her loose pajama top.

  “Will you protect little Ethan? Do you understand the danger he faces now? I’ll have to trust you with my only son. Do you swear to me that you will do it? Do you swear that?”

  At the time, I thought it must have been the dope that was making her lay on the drama so thick. I was wrong.

  Spence put his arm around her shoulders and led her out of the room. “I’ll explain everything to you in the morning, dear. Go back to sleep now. Jimmy’s here, he’s going to stay with the baby all night. There’s nothing to be concerned about, nothing at all.”

  I poured another splash of rye and laid a log on the fire. A few minutes later, Spence came back in and sat behind his desk. “She’ll be fine now. She was just more upset than Dr. Cloninger thought she was.” He loaded a briefcase and rolled the maps into cardboard tubes. His voice took on the offhand tone he always used when he was trying to talk me into something.

  “Look, Jimmy, I know this all sounds kind of crazy, but we don’t know what�
��s happened with Charles and Anne. You’ll be doing me a great favor if you agree to stay here for few days and keep an eye on things. From what Dixie told me, your place is going to have to stay closed for a bit, so what do you say? I’ll make it worth your while. That’s a promise.”

  I stared into my whiskey, stalling for a few seconds. But by then we both knew what the answer was.

  I finished the drink and said, “Why the hell not,” and the deed was done.

  Spence came around the desk and clapped me on the shoulder. “Good man.”

  “Where’s the phone? I gotta make some calls.”

  Spence gestured to the telephone on his desk. “Use this line. I’ll look in on Flora, and here . . .” He opened the top right-hand drawer and took out a little Mauser .25 automatic. “You’ll want this.”

  As soon he left, I popped the clip out of the pistol and worked the slide to clear the chamber. Nothing there. I put the clip in the coat pocket with the shotgun shells, the pistol in the other. I dialed the operator and gave her the number of the Utley Hotel, where Connie stayed. The night man there told me that Miss Halloran wasn’t in. I left a message with Walter’s number. Then I called the Chelsea. She wasn’t there, either.

  I hung up the phone, pissed off and disappointed. Where the hell was she anyway? It was goddamn ten o’clock. She might be with Marie Therese and Frenchy, but they didn’t have a telephone.

  I took a slow drink, tried to calm down, and thought back to the first day that Marie Therese brought Connie in. It had been right before Thanksgiving last year, midafternoon when things were always slow. Marie Therese came out from behind the bar to hand me a cup of coffee. She sat down at the table and lit a cigarette, waiting for me to put down the newspaper.

  “Jimmy,” she said, “I’m going to do you a good turn today. I’m going to introduce you to your marvelous new waitress.”

  “Another marvelous new waitress? Didn’t you say that about Dinah? And, before that, Gaby? They lasted less than a week between them. And what’s-her-name, Bridgid something.” Marie Therese was one of those kind souls who attracts strays. She brought in my marvelous new waitress or dishwasher every month or so.

  She waved the names away with a plume of smoke. “They weren’t serious, you know. This Connie’s different. She’s a good girl. She’s new in town.”

  “And wait till you get a load of her porch,” Frenchy interrupted. “This one’s really put together.”

  She glared back at him. “Pay no attention to my pig of a husband. Trust me, you will like this girl and you know how busy we’re going to be between now and New Year’s. We need the help.”

  “OK, I’ll talk to her. Tell her to come by.”

  Marie Therese called out, “Connie,” and a girl came in from the front hallway, where she’d been waiting.

  She was about five-foot-three, just my height, and Frenchy hadn’t exaggerated about her shape. She was nice, very nice. I saw a dark-blue coat and skirt, bobbed blond-brown hair under a hat, and an uncertain, hopeful smile. She worried a small purse with both gloved hands.

  Marie Therese pulled out a third chair. “Come over here, honey. Have a seat. I told you, you don’t have to worry about Jimmy. He won’t bite. Unless you want him to.” The girl blushed.

  I liked her right away. But then Marie Therese knew I was a sucker for the girls she brought around. She wouldn’t bring them if she didn’t know that my speak was a good place to work. Things were tough then. There were a lot of places where guys would assume that any girl working there was a whore. But not mine. I hired nice-looking young women because they helped bring customers into a speak that didn’t have a floor show or a dance band or ice to piss on. Instead, we had the best brand-name liquor from Canada and England, wine from France and Italy, and, when I could get it, beer that hadn’t been needled with ether. All at top-drawer prices.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Constance. Connie Halloran.”

  “Where’re you from?”

  “Yonkers.”

  “Are you an actress? You’re pretty enough.”

  Another blush. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve thought about it and I sang in school.”

  “That’s not why you came here? You’re not planning to become a showgirl?”

  “No, at least . . .” She shook her head, “No, I’m not a showgirl.”

  Marie Therese fired up another smoke. “Her boyfriend kept pushing her to settle down and she’s not ready.”

  “Have you ever worked in a speak?”

  “I was a waitress at the New Ideal diner last summer.”

  Marie Therese said, “She can start tonight.”

  She did. For the next two weeks, Connie Halloran showed up on time every night. She worked extra shifts whenever one of the other girls wanted time off. She didn’t take any guff from the idiots, drunk or sober, and still did fine with tips. She volunteered to help me close up when Frenchy and Marie Therese left early on Christmas Eve. And then, to my happy surprise, she spent that night at the Chelsea Hotel with me. It was the best Christmas I ever had.

  So now I asked the operator to call the private line at my speak. Frenchy picked up. “Boss, where the hell are you?”

  “It’s a long story. I’m in New Jersey, and it looks like I’m going to stay here for a while. What’s going on?”

  “Fat Joe and me came in this afternoon and cleaned up. There’s not a lock or a seal on the door, so Marie Therese and I opened up late but only to regulars. No real business. What the hell went on last night?”

  “I don’t know. Dixie Davis sprung me and he said the paperwork on the bust was hinky. Did you recognize that guy? I think I remember him coming in with some other cops from the Bronx.”

  “Could be, yeah, now that you mention it, he was kinda familiar.”

  “All I know is that he was a damn sight more interested in working me over than making sure the place stayed closed. He left the station before they even finished taking my prints.”

  “Doesn’t add up, Jimmy.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Look, open like normal tomorrow. Has Connie been by?”

  “No, want me to ask Marie Therese?”

  “Sure.”

  I heard him talking in French and his wife answering, “Je ne l’ai pas vu.”

  “She ain’t seen her,” he said.

  “OK, open up as usual tomorrow. But tell Fat Joe not to let in cops who aren’t regulars. And if any cops do come by, find out if they know anything. You got last night’s take, right?”

  “Sure, boss.”

  “Hold on to it. I’ll be in as soon as I can, and I’ll call again tomorrow. And, oh yeah, here is my number in Jersey.” I read it off from the tag under the glassine cover on the dial, then hung up.

  The library doors slid open immediately, and Mrs. Pennyweight came in, leaning on a cane. I guessed she’d been listening at the door and was waiting until I hung up the phone. What did that mean? Was she being considerate or was she eavesdropping?

  We looked each other over, checking out our sticks. Hers was ebony with an ornate, tarnished silver handle. Mine was made of wood, I don’t know what kind, painted black with a curved handle.

  She said, “You look like you slept in your suit. I’ll take two fingers of that whiskey.”

  She was about as tall as her daughter and more angular. She had pale blue eyes, and was fond of tilting her head back and staring intently at anyone she was speaking to, daring them to disagree with any damn thing she said. Her hair was pinned up and she wore a thick, brown-gray belted sweater over loose trousers. Her brown leather shoes sported no heels. If she had on makeup, I couldn’t tell.

  I poured three fingers of whiskey neat.

  “I know who you are, Mr. Quinn, and I know why Walter asked you to come. I’m not sure I approve. Still, after giving the matter full consideration, I believe he’s right. If something that horrible can happen to a wonderful young couple like Charles and Anne, it can happen to anyone. We’re taking reas
onably prudent precautions. And unlike my daughter, who sometimes doesn’t have a brain in her head, I understand exactly why Walter has to leave now and what he has to do. And how important the trip is to our family. These are hard times. Sometimes you don’t have a meaningful choice.”

  “I’ve already told Spence that I’d stay, and I will.”

  “Fine.” She gave me another long, cool look. “We’ve met before. Do you remember it?”

  “Sure, the garden party. Spence, Mr. Pennyweight, the booze, and everything.”

  “Yes, getting drunk with my husband was not a difficult thing but Walter was better at it than most.”

  She frowned at the memory. Then her focus shifted and she looked toward the door. A second later, I heard the sound of an approaching car—the whining engine and a loud scatter of gravel as it slid to a stop. I could make out a loud, strident voice outside, and I picked up the shotgun. It was a man’s voice, followed by a heavy fist pounding on the big front doors. I fed the shells into the Purdey. There was more bellowing from outside.

  I held out the gun butt-first to Mrs. Pennyweight. “Can you use this?”

  She reached out impatiently. “Of course.” The front door banged open and the man yelled, still unintelligibly.

  I snapped the clip into the Mauser, chambered a round, and gimped out into the main reception room.

  A tall, potbellied man in a long black overcoat and tuxedo stood at the front door. He had a fringe of hair around his bald head and a smooth pale face with bulging eyes. He had a snootful, couldn’t stand without weaving. When he saw me, he got angry as some drunks will do, and teetered forward. I thought I could hear the wail of an approaching police siren in the distance.

  “My garden is properly tilled and the pigeons will soon be home to roost where’s Walter I’ve got to talk to him it’s critically important that he know about the hotel . . .” The man’s babble had a weird lilting, hypnotic quality. He spoke carefully, each word clear and precise, but his big eyes snapped as he reeled forward, and his clawlike hands opened and closed mechanically. He reminded me of Lon Chaney in one of his really scary movies. The sound of the siren grew louder.