Jimmy the Stick

by Michael Mayo

  “You have a week and now no more no more . . .”

  The man reeked of gin but his weird nonsense sounded like it was coming from dope. He lurched closer and clapped a paw on my shoulder. I twisted away and wondered why the hell everyone was so goddamned tall out there. I felt like I’d climbed up the beanstalk into the land of the giants. Who was this guy? By his clothes, he could be a rich neighbor. Should I try to jolly him back out the front door like a regular who’s had one too many? Or shoot him in the heart?

  “Spence’ll be here in just a minute. Why don’t you sit down and cool off.”

  “And I take everything into consideration for I have never wept nor damned the Roman kin, I am going to give you money if I can . . .”

  He lunged forward clumsily, grabbing at me with both hands. I pivoted on my good leg and swung the cane around like a baseball bat at the back of his knees. He folded, knees hitting the carpet first, then hands, elbows, and finally his head. He shook it for a moment like a wet dog. Then he roared and rose up. When he turned, he was smiling madly, and his eyes bulged wider.

  I was pulling the pistol out of my pocket when I heard Spence yell from above, “Don’t shoot him, Jimmy.”

  “Fordham Evans, stop this instant.” Mrs. Pennyweight’s voice cut like a whip.The crazy guy turned to her, smiling, and his voice lost the weird drugged quality. “Ah, Catherine, there you are. Who’s the runt?”

  I looked up and saw Spence and Flora on a second-floor balcony. Still falling out of her pajamas, she was excited by the fight, if you could call it that.

  I pocketed the pistol as two cops sauntered in, one middle-aged, the other much younger, about my age. They wore snappy uniforms with black-peaked caps, dark-gray tunics, riding breeches, and tall leather boots. Fordham Evans raised his arms in welcome when he saw them. “Sheriff Kittner and Deputy . . . Deputy . . . what’s your name? I know I know your name but it’s flown straight out of my head. Fancy meeting you here. That little man hit me with something. My legs hurt. Let’s have a drink.”

  The younger cop took the man’s arm. “You’re in the wrong house again, Mr. Evans. Let’s go now, we’ll get you back on the road.” He stopped and both of them looked up at the balcony. “Hello, Flora . . . I mean, Mrs. Spencer.” I was close enough to see a flush rise on his cheeks.

  She smiled and waggled her fingers. “Hi, Jeff, good to see you.”

  As Spence led her away, the deputy stared after them. Well, he stared after her.

  The sheriff paid no attention to the drunk. He touched his cap and said, “I hope he’s not been too much trouble, Mrs. Pennyweight, but we can only do so much. Parker will make sure he gets home all right.” The flesh of his thick neck strained against the high collar of the tunic. He hooked thumbs into his Sam Browne belt and rocked back on his boot heels. “With the kidnapping, we’ve had our hands full.” He gave me his best hard cop stare but got no reaction.

  “I’m sure you have. Here, let me see you out,” said Mrs. Pennyweight, honey dripping from her lips.

  He ignored her. “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Mr. Quinn. He’s staying with us for a few days.”

  The sheriff stepped up close and leaned in, smelling of cigar smoke and alcohol. Maybe he and Fordham Evans patronized the same bootlegger. “One of Mr. Spencer’s old friends, is he? And just what were you doing with that piece you’ve got in your pocket?”

  “I was going to shoot the fat drunk in the heart if he threatened Spence’s kid. I didn’t know that Valley Green’s finest were in hot pursuit.”

  The sheriff sniffed. “A wiseguy, huh?” He leaned even closer, spit misting as he hissed. “Maybe that kind of talk buys you something in New York, but you keep a civil tongue in your head in my county if you know what’s good for you.”

  Before he finished, I turned and gimped back to the library for my drink. Mrs. Pennyweight steered him toward the front door.

  If the sheriff thought it was unusual for her to be carrying a shotgun around the house, he didn’t say anything.

  When Mrs. Pennyweight came back into the library, she said, “It’s not a good idea to anger Sheriff Kittner. He’s often quite useful.”

  “What about the other guy?”

  “Fordham lives down the road. He used to be in love with Flora. As often as not when he gets boiled, he stops by here. Last time he hit one of the trees by the drive. We didn’t find him until the next morning when he’d stripped stark naked to take a swim in the lake. As you heard, he fancies himself a poet. The more he drinks, the more ‘poetic’ he becomes. At heart, he’s just a harmless, crazy drunk.”

  Oh Boy came in and said, “I’ve put your stuff in your room.”

  Mrs. Pennyweight tucked the Purdey comfortably under her arm. “I think I can handle things here with little Ethan. Get settled in and tell Mears to have that suit cleaned. Oliver, show Mr. Quinn upstairs.”

  On the second floor, the stairs opened onto a balcony that overlooked the big room. Spence and Flora’s rooms were on the other side. Through an open door, I could see them sitting on the bed in her room, Spence’s shoulder and her hair reflected in a mirror that appeared to cover one wall. They were close together, arms around each other. He was still whispering to her.

  Oh Boy said, “This way,” and led me down another hall.

  The room had a comfortable-looking bed, an armchair, a small table with a lamp and an ashtray, and a chest of drawers with a radio. A radiator ticked near the window. My Gladstone and spare cane, the heavier one I used outdoors, were on the bed. Some of my suits were hanging in the closet, along with a pair of shoes and my walking boots. A dark brown curtain with wide red stripes covered the window and looked heavy enough to darken the room during the day. A door on the wall opposite the bed led to a white-and-black tiled bathroom. The tub had a shower enclosure. Both rooms smelled of a slightly dark odor, as if they’d been closed off for months.

  I hooked my stick over the back of the chair and put Spence’s Mauser on the chest. “Oh Boy, what the hell’s going on here?”

  “Don’t worry about Mr. Evans, he’s just a drunk.”

  “What about the guys out front when we came in?”

  “Dr. Cloninger, he’s another story. Oh boy, that man gives me the willies.” Oh Boy shivered, his face twisting into a worried frown. I saw that his hairline had retreated to the top of his head and his ginger hair was cut short. The imprint of the chauffeur’s cap still dented his forehead. And yet, except for the hair, he looked as young as I remembered.

  “He and Spence have business together?”

  Oh Boy shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’s got an office in the city, but his main place is close, on the other side of the lake.”

  “The sanatorium?”

  Oh Boy snorted, “Yeah, the nuthouse. Rich drunks from the city go there to dry out.” He hooked a thumb toward the window. “In the daytime you can see it from here.”

  “Who’s the other guy? The one with the wild hair and the rifle.”

  “That’s Dietz, the groundskeeper.”

  I opened the top of my bag and sorted through clothes, knee brace, and other stuff that Oh Boy had taken from the hotel, including my knucks and knife.“Did Spence tell you he was going to fly to Texas?”

  “Yeah, he was supposed to leave today. They’ve got the Pennyweight Petroleum Tri-Motor over at the airfield. I don’t know if Walter’s going to want me to drive him there tonight or tomorrow.” He looked even more worried than usual. “I guess I’ll have to stay up tonight, too.”

  “How does a guy get something to eat around this joint?”

  Oh Boy smiled at the mention of food. “That’s easy. Come down to the kitchen after you clean up. The chow’s good.”

  After Oh Boy left, I pulled open the curtains, turned off the table lamp, and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The sheer craziness of the past twenty-four hours was still too confused to figure. Maybe that damn big cop hit me harder than I thought. And why did
he close me down in the first place, and then why did he do such a piss poor job of it? It’s like he knew it wasn’t going to stick but he did it anyway. If Vinnie Coll was still alive, I’d think he was behind this scheme. I decided I’d call Dixie in the morning. And Lansky, if he was in town.

  Shapes outside slowly became visible. Faint light from a ground-floor window fanned out over brown grass directly below. Beyond the light was the lake. I could make out the dark shape of Dr. Cloninger’s sanatorium on the other side. Headlights were moving near it. I opened the window and heard the sound of an engine and transmission gears in the cold night air.

  I closed the window and curtains. Who the hell would snatch the Lindbergh kid? More important, where was Connie?

  I stood under the shower and let the water beat down on my head and neck for a long time. It revived me and sharpened my hunger.

  I got out my razor and turned on the radio to warm up while I shaved. I twisted the tuning knob until I heard a man’s voice.

  “. . . since yesterday. We know that this was not the first experience with kidnapping the family has dealt with. A year ago, Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s sister Constance received a written threat that authorities took so seriously a false ransom payment was arranged while the colonel spirited the young woman to safety. No one was ever apprehended in that instance, and it is unknown whether the incident has any bearing on what happened yesterday.”

  The announcer had a crisp British accent but he also sounded tired. I wondered how long he’d been talking.

  “For many of us, the reality of this crime is still hard to accept. You think that someone will step out from behind a curtain and explain that it did not really happen, but I’m afraid that’s not the case.

  “Colonel Lindbergh came to America’s attention five years ago when he became the first man to fly solo across the Atlantic in the Spirit of St. Louis. He and his airplane returned on the USS Memphis to massive parades in Washington and New York, and then, of course, he was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. ‘Lucky Lindy’ became one of the most famous men in the world. He has used that fame to promote the cause of commercial aviation.

  “In fact, he was doing just that when he flew to Mexico and met Anne Morrow, daughter of Ambassador Dwight Morrow. After their marriage, she came to share his passion for aviation, and they have literally circled the globe, seeking out and mapping new air routes. When Charles Jr. was born, they purchased several hundred acres of land in New Jersey’s Somerset and Mercer Counties. Work on their graceful stone home was finished last year.

  “So, to recapitulate the situation as we understand it now . . .”

  When I finished shaving, I dug into my Gladstone for my notepad and fountain pen. I opened the pad to the first partially blank page and wrote recapitulate, sounding it out as I wrote the letters. Also on the page were

  liminal

  biddable

  gormless

  fasade façade.

  The radio continued, “Police have identified two pairs of footprints, likely made by a man and his female accomplice. The wooded area around the house was thoroughly searched last night and today. Thinking that a stolen car might have been involved, law-enforcement agencies in New Jersey, New York, and Pennsylvania have identified sixteen stolen vehicles and are on the lookout for them.”

  The voice paused and the man said, “What?” and then “I don’t think so,” and “All right” to someone. “Here are the makes and models of those sixteen stolen cars. Police welcome any information the public can provide.”

  I finished shaving and thought that the guy had been right. I still couldn’t believe what had happened to the Lindbergh kid. That feeling of things not being completely real was in the background of everything that happened for the next seven days at Valley Green, and the really strange stuff was just getting cranked up.

  Chapter Four

  THURSDAY, MARCH 3, 1932

  VALLEY GREEN, NEW JERSEY

  I turned off the radio and started worrying about Connie Halloran again. Then I decided I was being a sap.

  I didn’t realize how she’d got under my skin. As I thought about it, for the first time, really, I remembered how little we actually spoke. At least, I didn’t say much, and she wasn’t a talker herself. For the most part, we screwed and walked and went to the movies. I thought it was great, and she hadn’t complained about any of it. She was fascinated by stuff we saw on the crowded crush of city sidewalks—the charging kids, the peddlers, the pushcarts, all the tired guys looking for something to do, and the guys who had work and tried to look like they were heading somewhere important.

  And she loved the movies, most of them anyway. Sometimes she surprised me by not liking the ones I thought she would, but that was OK because it was fun when she got bored. We always sat in double seats in the balcony, my arm over her shoulder, tickling her hair or her ear. Sometimes she’d brush my hand away. But if she really didn’t like a movie, she’d slip off her coat to crawl over me. We could always go to the Chelsea of course, but there was something different in those dark seats where I could look up to see the gray smoky light playing over us. There was Connie on my lap, busy little hands working at the buttons of my shirt, and me tugging her blouse out of her skirt, carefully unbuttoning it from the bottom, one button after another, my hands rubbing across her soft stomach, fingers teasing at the edges of her brassiere, feeling her lips smiling against mine as she reached back to help me. I loved the smell of the stuff she put on her hair, the feel of it against my face. They don’t make movies like that anymore.

  I always tipped the usher on our way in to make sure we weren’t disturbed. We never were.

  Damn, where the hell was she?

  I put on a black pinstripe single-breasted and a turtleneck sweater. It was too cold in that house for a shirt and tie. When I strapped on my watch, I was a little surprised to see the time: after midnight. I slipped my brass knucks into a pocket, notepad and pen into my coat, and bounced the little pistol in my hand. That’s when I saw the stamp on the side. I held the gun closer to the light and realized that Spence had bought the piece at Abercrombie & Fitch. Well, hell, I guess he could afford the best, and even if the Mauser wasn’t my first choice, it would do until I found something I was more familiar with. I slipped it into my coat pocket.

  Then I picked up my everyday stick, checked the room one more time, and went out to find something to eat.

  The stairs leading to the first floor were wide and easy. The servants’ stairs at the far end of the hall were narrow, dim, and steep. I held on to the railing with my right hand, and took them carefully one at a time, leading with my right leg, the cane held in my left hand: “Good foot goes to heaven, bad foot goes to hell.” That was the way Dr. Ricardo put it. “Stairs are easy if you do ’em right,” he’d said, “but your right knee will never work the way it used to. The muscles will become stronger and support you most of the time. If you twist or put too much weight on that bad knee, it’ll fold underneath you. So keep the cane on the same step with your right foot. When you have to support your weight on a bent knee, make sure it’s your left. And when you’re going upstairs, lead with your left, your good foot. Good foot goes to heaven, get it? Going downstairs is actually harder so you gotta be real careful. Bad foot goes to hell.”

  The doctor may have been a hophead but he was also right. And so Fast Jimmy Quinn, who’d been the quickest kid in the city, was reduced to going down stairs one step at a time. Thinking of Ricardo brought back the bad times and made me angry for feeling sorry for myself. That was pointless, and I thought I was done with it.

  The stairs ended at a hall with the walls painted white. I could see and smell a kitchen at one end, and it made my mouth water, I was so hungry. It was a wide, warm room with a big rectangular table and half a dozen chairs in the middle.

  A wiry, gray-haired woman banged pots at a stove and muttered to herself. Next to her stood an open pantry, a tall refrigerator, and a set of shelves s
tacked high with boxes and jars of baby food. It looked like there were a dozen different kinds.

  Oh Boy sat at the table, hands warming around a mug of creamy coffee. The duffer who’d been guarding the library had a bottle of dago red and a half full glass in front of him. What was his name? Mears. And the wiry woman had to be the cook.

  She turned around and nailed me with a gimlet glare.

  Oh Boy stood, scraping his chair back. “Mrs. Conway, this is the guy I was telling you about, my pal Jimmy.”

  She sniffed. “The gunman.” I guessed she was suspicious of anyone who came to Valley Green from the wicked city.

  But I make it a rule to always stay on good terms with the cook.

  I walked around the table and extended my hand. “I suppose you’re right. I am a gunman, Mrs. Conway. That’s what Spence thinks he needs right now. But I’m not a gangster. I’m just here to help an old friend. Do you think I could get something to eat, a sandwich maybe, and a thimble of Mr. Mears’s wine?”

  She sniffed again but I sensed a thaw. “Of course. Any guest in this house will have the full hospitality of the kitchen. Mears!” The old gent’s head snapped up. “Another glass, if you please. We’ve some mutton left over that will do nicely.”

  The wine wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

  She sliced and buttered two pieces of bread and warmed them on the oven while she carved slices from a roast on the counter. As she worked, a dark-haired girl came in through a second doorway, pushing a cart full of dirty dishes and leftovers of what looked to be the same mutton.

  “Constance,” Oh Boy said, “this is my friend Jimmy Quinn.”

  She had glossy black hair, skin that was about the color of Oh Boy’s light coffee, and a challenging look in her eyes. I couldn’t tell about the rest of her under that frumpy black maid’s dress.“Constance . . . ?” I held out my hand and she took it.