by Michael Mayo
Three guys brought me the stuff, and it began to worry me that I recognized them so easily. If I knew who they were, so did other people. One of my contacts was a dark, hungry-looking young fellow with gaunt, hollow cheeks and eyes that were never still. Then there was the blond guy who didn’t look like much of anything, always trying to be very cool, unruffled, and sure of himself. My third connection was a taller blond guy, very nervous, always chewing on a toothpick stuck between his teeth. He tried to act snappy and sharp but even I could tell he was afraid. Mr. Rothstein was sending me out three, four times a week. My part went off smoothly. One of my guys would show up at the right place within an hour or so of the proper time, and then I was off. It was all silky smooth—until one particular day.
I was waiting at the southeast corner of Union Square, bored with the posters in front of this movie theater, impatient and hungry as the sun rose higher and I was running out of peanuts. I was thinking, Just give me the damn thing so I can deliver it to the Chatham Hotel, which is twenty minutes away if traffic is what it ought to be on a Thursday. Then I can get something to eat, a dog with mustard, and a Coke. . . .
But there was a commotion on Seventeenth Street, and I saw my messenger stumbling forward, arms flailing with bright red blood on his face and his white shirt. Panicked, he ran straight into two old ladies and sprawled ass over elbows into the gutter not five feet away. I could see the wild look in his eyes and the bloody toothpick sticking through his upper lip. Two guys were chasing him, and they ran over the old ladies too. The women screamed as blood spurted from my man’s face. His wide, frightened eyes locked on mine. The last thing I heard was the sickening crunch of a sap on a skull as I backed away.
The two men were ripping through my guy’s clothes, evidently looking for the clasp envelope. But an outraged street crowd fell on them, helping the old ladies and yelling for the cops.
I threaded through groups of people, hopped the wall that bordered Union Square, and went straight to the room at the Chatham Hotel, where I was supposed to make the day’s delivery. The place was empty, nobody there. It was too early to find Mr. Rothstein at Reuben’s. But I knew he had offices on Fifty-Seventh Street, so I headed there, and found the Rothmore Investment Company on the building directory. I could read well enough for that.
Upstairs, a woman sat behind a desk in the front room. I knew her name was Freda Rosenberg, though I’d never met her before. She looked startled when I came through the door, like she knew who I was and what I did—and if she knew that, she also knew I wasn’t supposed to be there. I could see Mr. Rothstein on the other side of a glass partition. He was talking urgently with a couple of other men. The woman at the desk nodded toward the door, meaning I should scram out of there. I did, with a crushing worry that gnawed at me all day. Had I screwed up? If I’d failed A. R., what would they do to me?
Around midnight, I went to Reuben’s, trying to act like nothing unusual had happened during the day. I figured if I showed up with a long story of what I’d seen, I’d sound like a kid. Better to wait and be quiet, let the man ask what he wanted to know.
An hour later, the longest hour of my life, Rothstein beckoned me over to his table. He said, “I know what happened. Did you see it?”
“Yes.”
“Did Berkowitz put up a fight?”
Berkowitz must have been the toothpick guy. “He was running but already bleeding when I saw him. He didn’t have a chance.”
He nodded, looking kind of sad. “Were they cops?”
I started to answer no, then stopped. “Yeah, they coulda been.”
A. R. nodded again and murmured, “All right then.” Relief washed over me though I tried not to let it show as he gave me a tightly folded bill from his vest pocket. “Tomorrow’s going to be different. I’ve got something new for you. You know my friend Mr. Heller. Come here at two o’clock. He’ll have something for you to deliver to Abe Attell at Jack’s place. We’ve got a lot of work to do with the Series.”
I didn’t know what he meant, but the next month was really busy.
Chapter Eight
THURSDAY, MARCH 3, 1932
VALLEY GREEN, NEW JERSEY
That evening, I woke up still seeing the bloody doll and the pale figure and Fordham Evans’s cold, naked body hanging by his hands, and I was no closer to understanding what the hell any of it meant. Another hot shower and shave revived me, but I was still worried and confused. It was almost fully dark by the time I’d dressed in a warmer turtleneck and my good charcoal gray double-breasted. I put my notepad and fountain pen in a breast pocket, dropping the Detective Special in the right-hand coat pocket, knucks in the left pants pocket.
Mrs. Pennyweight called as I opened the door, and I went down the short hall to her suite. Across the balcony, the door to her daughter’s room was open. I could see an empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot upturned in an ice bucket and two more on the floor.
The door to the nursery was open too. It looked and smelled like a cleaning crew had been at work. The bloody table and curtains were gone, and the wall had been scrubbed clean.
In Mrs. Pennyweight’s rooms, a wall of louvered windows and French doors opened onto a terrace with a view of the lake. The wallpaper, furniture, and carpets were pale blue and light tan. Everything looked new. She had a desk, a low table, and a sideboard for her sherry and console radio. Her armchair faced a crackling fireplace. The tray that Connie Nix had been preparing that morning was on the table. Scattered around it were sections of the New York newspapers. I took the Daily News, the Mirror, and the Times. She had a robe tucked around her legs and wore a heavy sweater. She looked at me over glasses that had slipped down to the tip of her nose. I could see a bit of her bedroom through an open door. They’d moved the crib up to her room from the library. The baby was in it, playing with his feet.
The mantel was crowded with photographs. One was a formal portrait of an older woman draped in dark, heavy clothes. Given the style of her dress, I guessed she was Mrs. Pennyweight’s mother. There was also a wedding picture of Spence and Flora. The largest photograph, in the center of the mantel, showed two dazzlingly pretty teenage girls, Flora and Mandelina. They were wearing light summer dresses and laughing in the sunshine. Arms around each other, they seemed simply to be two happy girls, not stiff young ladies posing for a photograph. Mandelina was slimmer and a little shorter than her younger sister. I was about to pick up the picture when Mrs. Pennyweight said, “Please don’t touch that.”
There was no trace of her recently departed husband anywhere in the room.
“Did you hear about your friend, Fordham Evans?” I asked.
“Yes, I’ve spoken to Sheriff Kittner. I can’t for the life of me understand why anyone would want to mutilate that poor man.”
“Yeah,” I said, “took a pretty strong stomach.”
“Fordham simply wasn’t the type to inspire great passion. He pottered around with his poetry and drank far too much.”
“And broke into houses, and stripped naked from time to time.”
She waved me away. “He was simply befuddled by alcohol. The other thing was just eccentricity. Whatever may be threatening us, Fordham is not a part of it. Of that I am positive. What did you do to make the sheriff so angry at you?”
“I don’t like bullies. I really don’t like bullies with badges. What’s the story with him? Why does a place as small as Valley Green have a sheriff’s department?”
“Taxes. We weren’t getting our money’s worth from the county for services, so Ethan, Dr. Cloninger, and one or two of the other prominent landowners decided to carve the borough of Valley Green out of the county. There was a time when we could do things like that.”
“So the department is your private police force?”
“I hadn’t thought of it in those terms, but, yes, I suppose that’s the case. Kittner makes sure that our needs are met. But as you saw with the business of the ladder and that hideous doll, he’s overmatched. I discussed it al
l with Walter before he left. We agreed that we did not want Kittner and his clumsy deputies underfoot in this house.”
I thought that if Spence had any sense, he wouldn’t want young Parker around his wife, period.
“We needed someone we could trust, someone who was proficient with weapons. I don’t know anyone who meets those qualifications.”
“The trust or the guns?”
“Trust, of course.” Her lips stretched in a tight smile and she sipped her sherry. “Mrs. Conway tells me that you’re going ahead with your plan to instruct Nix in the use of firearms. That’s probably a good idea. Like all servants, she’s often lazy and requires supervision but she’s not flighty. I think in this situation she can be trusted.”
“Where’s Flora?”
The question pissed her off. “Her old friend Cameron Rivers and some of their school chums came by to cheer her up. Lord knows when they’ll be back.”
“So she’s got over being terrified of kidnappers?”
Mrs. Pennyweight rolled her eyes. “Apparently that’s the case today. Tomorrow, who can say?”
Flora, it seemed, could turn from concerned mother to flaming youth without missing a beat.
As I left, I saw Connie Nix coming up the stairs with a tray of the weird foods for the baby. All business, she wouldn’t meet my eyes as she passed. She paused at the door, tapped it lightly, and went in.
Mrs. Pennyweight sounded exasperated. “Finally. There you are. Did you and Mrs. Conway make sure that these are the right supplements? We don’t want a repeat of the last time.”
Downstairs in the kitchen, Mrs. Conway banged her pots around the stove. She was not happy to see me. “The chicken won’t be ready for another hour, so don’t bother to ask. The soup is done but that’s all.”
I sat at the table and spread out the newspapers. “I see you’ve got some bread. If I could have a couple of slices and a bit of cheese, I’ll be fine. And some mustard, please. And perhaps a drop of Mr. Mears’s dago red.” Mr. Mears, who’d been staring blankly at the table, looked up and cupped a hand protectively around his glass.
Mrs. Conway harrumphed but cut three slices of warm bread along with a wide wedge of cheddar. She also put a crock of mustard on the table before taking one of the newspapers. She read the latest kidnapping news avidly, following the words with her finger.
“Oh my dear sweet goodness, look at this, the baby’s diet.” Her voice was sad as she read aloud. “‘A quart of milk, three tablespoons of cooked cereal twice a day, two tablespoons of cooked vegetables, an egg yolk, a baked potato or rice, two tablespoons of stewed fruit in the morning, half a cup of prune juice after his nap, fourteen drops of viosterol vitamins.’ The poor dear.”
She looked over at the shelves of imported baby food and muttered, “If Little Ethan were to be taken, it could be the death of him.”
Oh Boy sidled inside, going directly, quietly to the stove. Without looking up, Mrs. Conway said, “Stay away from there. It’s not ready yet.”
“Jimmy’s having dinner,” he complained.
“Bread and cheese. It’s there on the counter.”
“Is there any devil’s food cake left?”
“Have you tended the furnace?”
“Oh, boy,” he sighed theatrically, slumped his shoulders, and left.
Upstairs in the library, I lit a fire, poured a shot of Spence’s rye, and added a splash of soda from the siphon. I picked up the telephone and asked the local operator for New York information. The operator connected me to J. Richard Davis, attorney at law. A woman answered. I asked to speak to Dixie. A few seconds later he said, “Jimmy, where the hell are you?”
“I’m at Spence’s place in New Jersey. What have you found out?”
“A name. Hourigan. Detective Eustace Hourigan. Mean anything to you?”
“Nothing. He’s not on my payoff list.”
“He wouldn’t be. You were right. He works out of the Bronx. Morrisania.”
“Then where the hell does he get off trying to close down my place?”
“Nobody knows. He’s a complete straight arrow, one of those guys you can’t deal with. And now he’s disappeared, nobody’s seen him. He hasn’t been back to his station house since Tuesday afternoon.”
“Dixie, this doesn’t make any damn sense. You’re sure he’s the guy?”
“Sure enough, yeah. Do you want me to keep working on it?”
“Of course, I gotta know why, and when I know why, I’ll come back and do something about it.”
“Be careful, Jimmy. He’s a cop. He may have broken the rules by busting up your place but he’s still a cop.”
“I’ll worry about that when I know what he’s up to.” I gave him Spence’s number and hung up before I called my place.
“Frenchy, it’s me.”
“Hello, boss. You still in Jersey?”
Even through the long-distance static, I could hear the babble of conversation from the bar. Things usually picked up early on a Thursday, so word must’ve got out that the place had reopened.
“Yeah, I’m still here. How’s the house?”
“Nice crowd. Nice.” That probably meant that the bar was busy but not packed two-deep, also that maybe half the booths and tables were filled. On this dark evening, they’d have the lights turned up a little, but not much. Nobody wanted to see too clearly in Jimmy Quinn’s.
“Any problems?”
“Nothing serious, boss. We replaced a table and three chairs from the stuff we had stored in the attic. Had to clean the carpet, too. Other than that, just the usual. Norris and Cheeks got their envelopes. Whaddya want me to do about Sergeant Marks?”
Norris and Cheeks were the beat cops who patrolled the neighborhood. Marks was their sergeant. Their captain’s weekly payoff was included with Marks’s money.
“Have Marks’s envelope ready if he comes in tonight, and it’s a good bet that he will. If he doesn’t, he’ll be in tomorrow. Did Pauley make his delivery?” Pauley was our beer guy.
“Uh-huh.” Somebody close to the telephone laughed and others picked it up. The faint sounds cheered me. The laugh sounded like Kerwin, a reporter for the Daily News who held forth nightly, usually entertaining an appreciative crowd of regulars, lying to them about things he knew but couldn’t print.
Of course, later in the night, some of those same guys would be puking in the potted palm or passing out in the bathroom. Even so, the good tended to outweigh the bad with the joint. At least, that’s what I told myself after I finished cleaning the potted palm.
“I just talked to Dixie Davis. He says the cop who busted things up is named Hourigan, Detective Eustace Hourigan. Works out of the Morrisania station in the Bronx. That mean anything to you?”
After a thoughtful pause Frenchy said, “Nah, I don’t think so, but like you said, I know I seen him before.”
“That’s all Dixie’s got, so why don’t you ask around. See if you can dig up anything else about the son of a bitch. You learn anything, call me.”
“Will do, boss.”
“Is Connie there?”
“Yeah.”
She must’ve been standing right next to the telephone, and took it right away. “Jimmy, I’ve been so worried about you. Marie Therese told me what happened but I don’t understand why you’re in New Jersey and not here. They said a cop came in the other night and busted things up and they arrested you but then they didn’t really arrest you. What’s going on?”
She sounded worried, but I thought I heard something strained and nervous in her voice. “It was just a mistake with the cop. I’m taking care of it. I’m in New Jersey because of something else. Did I mention an old friend of mine, Walter Spencer? Spence? No? Well, from the time I was a kid, he and I have known each other. We were real close but then a few years ago, he married this rich girl out here in New Jersey. They’ve got a swell place, I’ll show it to you sometime. But, see, Spence had to go out of town for a few days, and this whole Lindbergh thing has got his
wife so upset that he thought she and their kid needed some protection. So he asked me, as a friend, to stay out here while he’s gone.” Even as I was talking, it sounded crazy as hell. “It doesn’t have anything to do with the cop.”
“Is he coming back?”
“Nah, and even if he does, there’s nothing to worry about. Fat Joe won’t let him in again. What’s the matter, you scared?”
“Well, I don’t want to be arrested.”
“I know, but I can’t come back right now. Look, why don’t you pack up your things and move into my room at the Chelsea. You’ll feel better there, it’s closer to work, and I’ll feel better knowing you’re comfortable. What do you say?”
She piped up right away. “Sure, Jimmy, I’d like that. I’d like it a lot.”
“I’ll call the front desk and tell ’em you’re coming,” I said, but I knew something was bothering her.
Still troubled, I mixed another rye and soda and took it downstairs to the gun room. Most of the rifles displayed in the glass case were hunting pieces, the kind that old Ethan Pennyweight used to bring down Cape buffalo and rhinos. A few showed some signs of wear. All were well-oiled and clean. None had been fired recently. They were powerful, heavy, and completely useless for my purposes.
I found what I was looking for on the workbench. It was a simple Winchester 92 carbine with a short barrel, probably the one that Mandelina was holding in the photograph. It was the least expensive, least exotic weapon of the bunch. It looked like someone had been cleaning the gun, and left it there on the bench with a cleaning rod, rags, solvent, and oil. The lever action seemed to work smoothly, but I couldn’t really say because I’d never used a rifle myself.
I opened the pistol drawer and saw the box of .44–04 bullets right away. But the little Mauser pistol wasn’t there. The cutout space was empty. I thought back to the night before. After the first crazy business with Fordham Evans and the ladder and the doll, we came down there and I offered it to Oh Boy but he said no, so I put it inside the cutout. I remembered doing it distinctly. Was there a chance that Oh Boy changed his mind and took it? No. I stared at the empty space.
