One O'Clock Jump

by Lise McClendon

  The radio clicked off in the dining room; the listeners drifted away, heads down, silent. In their faces was the gloom of the beginning of the promised war. From the kitchen came the slap of a pan hitting the dishwater. So like the distant, final plunk of a body against hard water.

  Amos stood up. “Let’s get it over with.”

  On her way back upstairs to get her handbag, she ran into Betty Kimble telling Ilo Gobbs a joke. “What did Scarlett Polsky say when the Nazis came to town? ‘War, war, war. I’ll think about that tomorrow!’”

  Betty’s smile was contagious. Sometimes, Lennox wished she was more like her. Betty nudged her. “You know. Like Gone With the Wind.”

  “She’s read it four times,” Ilo said.

  “Five,” Betty corrected. “I can’t wait to see Clark Gable as Rhett. I saw The Wizard of Oz last night at the Palace. Luther hadn’t seen it, so I said, ‘Dang, son, I’ll take you.’ They didn’t want to let him in, accounta they said no coloreds, until I gave them the what-for. Told that white trash I’d be asking her granny for documents of who she rolled in the hay with. He wore the funniest old coat that smelled like last week’s sauerkraut. Oh, golly, do you s’pose we won’t eat sauerkraut no more?”

  Betty bubbled off down the stairs, regaling Ilo with tales of naughty dance moves at the jitterbug contest at Municipal Auditorium. When she’d first moved into the boardinghouse, Lennox had tried to keep up with Betty. Now a joke on the stairs was about all she had the energy for. At the top of the stairs, the twins, Norma and Nell Crybacker, smiled a good morning.

  “Off to slay a few dragons before breakfast?” Norma—or was it Nell?—asked. Gray-haired and identical in neat navy blue suits and heavy black shoes, the two schoolteachers had romantic notions about detective work.

  “Have to get my sword.”

  “Look at her, Nell.” Norma tugged on her sister’s elbow. “Isn’t she energetic and smart and everything a young woman should be?”

  “Oh, to be sure. But you’re embarrassing her, Norma.”

  Lennox felt herself blush. She smiled at the ladies and let herself into her room. She found her handbag on the dresser. It felt heavy; she found the switchblade inside. She always kept it in her pocket, handy. Last night had shaken her more than she’d thought.

  Amos said little on the drive downtown. He had taken the streetcar to the boardinghouse, for some reason he kept to himself. It was Labor Day weekend, and an air of holiday was in the streets despite the war news, with children jumping rope and squirting themselves with hoses as the heat rose in waves from the pavement.

  The law offices were on the fourth floor of the grand old New York Life Building at Ninth and Baltimore. Its arches crowned a bronze eagle on its nest, meaning, Lennox supposed, that the company was guarding your nest egg. Not much comfort, since the ten-story building, as tall as it could go in 1890, now sat half-empty.

  The marble stairs were the only option, with the elevator cage locked and dark. Thick Oriental rugs covered the polished oak floor of the hushed reception area. Amos had mounted the stairs at a snail’s pace, paused now, rasping, then began to walk down the hallway unescorted, a sin on a weekday, when the man himself stepped out of his office.

  Vanvleet glared at them, tall, stout, mouthing an unlit cigar. As they stepped to the door of the corner office, Georgie Terraciano stood up and Vanvleet sat down. Georgie gave the lawyer a dark look and sat again in the leather chair. His gray silk shirt billowed over a trim torso; fancy wool slacks led to patent-leather loafers that had seen neither dirt nor pavement. Amos and Dorie sat in well-worn red velvet wing-back chairs.

  The sun through the east windows lit up the law cases filled with leather-bound books, dark file cabinets of carved oak, brass lion’s heads for pulls. The old man’s desk was spotless, gleaming cherry. The room smelled of lemon oil and tobacco.

  The cigar rotated in Vanvleet’s stained teeth. With his freckled, hairless scalp and double chin, the name Warbucks came to mind. He carried his weight well behind impeccable pinstriped clothes, but his chair groaned as he leaned back.

  No one spoke. Amos appeared serene. Georgie played with his large gold and diamond ring. Lennox shifted on the chair and let the men play out their games. Finally, Vanvleet threw his soggy cigar butt in a brass wastebasket with a ringing thud.

  “So, you lost her,” he said.

  “Aye, sir, we all have lost her,” Amos said in a scratchy voice. “A sad, sad thing.”

  Georgie’s face was set in a mix of anger and menace. Handsome in a hard way, deep lines ran from his nostrils to the corners of too-red lips. His black hair was slicked back from a thick brow.

  “That it is,” Vanvleet said.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Terraciano,” Lennox said a little too loudly. The three men looked at her. “For your loss.”

  Still no reaction from the stone-hearted Georgie. This was no girlfriend tail. Anger seeped up in her. She felt used by these men who didn’t know her but wanted her to do their dirty work. She tried to tell herself that’s what she was getting paid for, but the anger didn’t hear.

  “All right, all right.” Vanvleet stood up suddenly and turned to the window, hands clasped behind him. “The question is, What happens now. What do you want to do, Georgie?”

  “Do the cops know who she was?” Georgie said, his voice gravelly.

  “Not yet,” Amos said. “But don’t count on them not finding it out.”

  “Since somebody went and sang to them,” Georgie said, his eyes hot on Lennox.

  “Mr. Terraciano, my operative did exactly as I would have done,” Amos said. “We operate within the law.”

  Georgie squinted. “Hey, whaddya—”

  Vanvleet turned. “Forget it, Georgie.”

  Terraciano eased back into his chair, as if he really intended to fight for his honor.

  Lennox suppressed a smile. “I was only thinking that they might look for her body if I reported it. Otherwise, they might drag her out in St. Louis and drop her in a pauper’s grave. I’m sure you don’t want that for your girl. “

  Georgie chewed his tongue. Amos cleared his throat and looked for somewhere to spit.

  “This really doesn’t change anything,” Vanvleet said. “Georgie wants you to continue to work on the case.”

  “That’s right,” said Georgie. “Keep on the case.”

  “And what, exactly, would that be?” Amos croaked.

  “You don’t need to know nothing about it, Haddam,” the Italian said, sneering.

  “If you want us to work on it, I need to know what it is we’re to do.”

  Vanvleet sat down at the desk. “It’s simple. Instead of tailing Miss Jackson—”

  A loud explosion burst from Amos. He bent over, coughing hard, then stumbled to the door. The other three listened as he hacked down the hall, into a room. A door shut.

  “He’ll be all right in a minute. He’s got a cold,” Lennox said.

  “We’re well aware of Mr. Haddam’s condition.” Vanvleet tapped his fingers on the desktop. “And it’s you we’re interested in taking on this case anyway, Miss Lennox. We were impressed with your diligence this week.”

  Lennox couldn’t look at the old man’s face. His kind words almost wounded her. “I didn’t stop her.”

  “I don’t blame you for that. And neither does Georgie.”

  The Italian had cemented on a scowl unchanged by Vanvleet’s prompting.

  The old man continued. “I understand there are some photographs.”

  “Not developed yet.”

  “Then I can expect them tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday. But sure, I can have them tomorrow.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Miss Lennox. You’re don’t give me excuses; you just do the job. Bring them by my house and we’ll take a look at them.”

  She nodded, the anger and guilt about Iris tempered by his praise. She looked past him, at the view of the ASB Bridge and the river snaking away east, golden,
serene, the trees along the boulevards heavy with summer’s green. People going off to the country to boat and picnic, to camp in the Ozarks and the Flint Hills. She remembered the gold rocks of the Flint Hills, with her father, on horseback, some holiday. The horse’s mane, her father’s breath on her back, his arms around her, the rush of adventure, and something else, the loss of all of it.

  The office was silent. When was Amos coming back?

  “Ah, Weston, you working today?” Suddenly, Vanvleet was up again, smiling. “Come in here. I want you to meet somebody.”

  A man appeared in the doorway. Tallish, a junior partner by the look of his haircut, dressed in golf clothes, with a jaunty striped collar on his knit shirt.

  “Just picking up some briefs to review over the weekend,” Junior Partner said.

  “You know Mr. Terraciano, don’t you?” Vanvleet said. “We do all his company’s legal work.” The Italian turned a cynical eye on the plaid golf slacks. Vanvleet turned to Lennox then and she rose.

  “This is one of Amos Haddam’s operatives. Miss Lennox. You may have some business for her over the coming years, right, Weston?” Vanvleet clapped his back.

  Not junior partner. Golden boy being groomed for partnership. Weston held out his hand and she shook it. When she looked up into his face, a chill ran through her. He seemed to feel it.

  “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” Weston said. “Where did you go to school?”

  “Weston’s a Yale man,” Vanvleet puffed. “You didn’t go to Yale, did you, Miss Lennox?” The old man’s caustic chuckles were joined by Georgie’s.

  “No, it’s Atchison, isn’t it?” Weston said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Atchison.”

  Always Atchison. Whenever something bad happened, Atchison was involved. She wiped her hand on her slacks and tried to stay calm. Did this mean something bad was coming? He didn’t remember her after all. Just the face.

  “You know each other already. Wonderful.” Vanvleet grasped both their shoulders as if he were a preacher joining them. “I like my people to feel comfortable together. So whenever you need a little digging, Weston, give Miss Lennox a call.”

  Vanvleet put his arm around the young lawyer’s shoulders and guided him out the door. Weston glanced back, but she looked away, sat down. She and Georgie listened to Vanvleet yakking down the hall, lining up a golf game for Labor Day. It was only when Vanvleet sent him down the stairs and shut up that she could hear Amos still hacking in a room somewhere.

  When the lawyer returned, she stood up again. “I need to see about Amos. He’s been gone too long.”

  “Of course. And you’ll want to get started right away on Miss Jackson’s effects.”

  “Her effects?”

  “Yes, we want you to look into all aspects of her life. Her apartment, where she worked, friends, enemies, family, everything. Take pictures, names, the usual. It should be a little more interesting than just tailing her.”

  Except for last night. That had been interesting.

  Georgie put a finger to his chin, a smirk on his liver-colored lips. Vanvleet leaned back, satisfied. Iris’s death was just a wrinkle to be ironed out by some shoe leather. Amos was quiet, wherever he was. She thought about coming up here, reporting daily, seeing Weston. It went against her code to forget. She went to the door.

  “I would need more information about her. Where she’s from, her family, that sort of thing.” She doubted they had that information to offer, but it bought a little time.

  “There was something about a little sister, wasn’t there, Georgie?”

  Georgie gave the lawyer a strange look. “Right. Younger sister, needs help or a leg up in business or somethin’.”

  She looked between them. “She has a hard-up sister—that’s all you know?”

  Amos began to cough again. A sliver of panic sliced through her and she wanted to wash her hands of all of them. “I don’t think I can help you. Maybe Mr. Haddam can work on it.”

  The lawyer hardened his stare. “Miss Lennox, you and I know Mr. Haddam is a sick man. We’re counting on you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, backing out the door. She listened for Amos, but all was silent again.

  Georgie drew up his silky five-foot-eight frame. “Look, toots. This job is not done, and you will continue to do it until it is finished.”

  “She’s dead. That is as finished as anything gets. I am so sorry, again, for your pain.”

  “Miss Lennox—” Vanvleet began.

  “And don’t”—she leaned close to Georgie’s swarthy face— “call me toots.”

  She turned into the hall, then began opening doors and calling for Amos. A bumping noise came from past the reception area. She ran across the oak and rugs to a door stenciled in gold: GENTLEMEN.

  “Amos, are you all right?”

  Through the door: “I’m afraid not.”

  She opened it a crack. “Can I come in?” She could see the porcelain tile walls and the fancy pedestal sink. Reflected in the large gilt-framed mirror was an awful lot of blood. She threw the door open.

  Amos sat on the white tile floor, leaning one cheek on the wooden lid of the toilet, eyes closed. His lids fluttered briefly as she called his name.

  “What happened? Amos, are you all right?”

  “I thought you’d never come,” he croaked, eyes closed.

  “I’ll call an ambulance.” She stood up, thought how much that might cost, then kneeled beside him again. “Can you walk?”

  “Hate ambulances.” He lifted his head, his face colorless, blue veins in his forehead like roads on a map. On his lips was a crust of dried blood. “Help me up.”

  She threw his arm around her neck and wrestled him to his feet. Despite his emaciated condition, he was a good six inches taller and an unwieldy package. He rested his head heavily against hers. Dragging him out the door of the bathroom, she found his feet were pretty useless.

  “See the sofa? Lie here and I’ll get help.” She managed to flop his limp body onto the brocade divan and arrange his arms and legs. “I’ll get Georgie to help.”

  “Righty-o. Georgie’s a pal.”

  Back at Vanvleet’s office, she threw open the door. They were gone. She called for them, couldn’t believe they would just waltz away. In the reception area, Amos’s eyes were shut and he was breathing through his teeth.

  “I have to go down to the lobby. Maybe there’s a guard or a doorman,” she muttered. She leaned over him. “I’ll pay for the ambulance, Amos.”

  “Goddamn caisson hacks tried to kill me, they did. They tried; they had their chance with ol’ Haddie. Never again.”

  Lennox patted his shoulder. “Okay, okay. I’m going downstairs to find somebody to help. I’ll be right back. You stay here.”

  “I might want to dance,” he said. She glanced back at him. His eyes were closed. “She looks so pretty tonight. What is it they’re playing?”

  THREE

  Lennox burst out of the stairwell into the high-ceilinged marble lobby. She looked for a doorman, a guard, but the space was deserted. She had parked down at the corner, not too far, but a Himalayan trek for a man in Amos’s condition. She could at least move the car, maybe find someone on the street.

  She pushed out the double doors, scrounging for her car keys in her handbag. As she turned on the sidewalk, she ran right into Weston’s chest.

  “Whoa there. What’s the rush? I thought we could—”

  “Get out of my way. Amos is dying up there and I have to get him to the hospital. Please, let go—”

  “Let me help.” Weston had hold of her arm. “Dorie, please. You see? I remembered your first name. Where is he? Let me help.”

  Up close, he looked older, but then, so was she. Same blue eyes and honey gold hair, though. She hadn’t wondered often how he’d turned out. He had money, connections, and more good looks than was legal; whatever he did, it would be eggs in the coffee.

  She didn’t have time to argue. “Come on.”
>
  They ran up the four flights, breathing too hard for conversation.

  “Amos,” she cried. “I’m back. We’ll take you to the hospital.”

  He didn’t answer.

  Lennox felt his pulse; then tears stung when she felt the slow, unsteady drumming of his heartbeat on her fingertips. “He’s unconscious.”

  “I’ll carry him,” Weston said. He began to gather Amos into his arms.

  “He’s too heavy.”

  “Get the elevator.”

  “It’s locked. We’ll carry him together,” Lennox said. Weston lowered Amos to the sofa again. He took the shoulders, she the legs, and they carried him like a rag doll down the stairs. In the lobby, Weston gathered up the limp body again, carried him to the street, and deposited him in the Packard.

  Her hands shook as she put her key in the ignition. No, he couldn’t help anymore. But thanks. And she screeched away to the hospital.

  A nurse nudged her shoulder. “Dorie. He wants to see you.”

  She straightened up, blinking. The waiting room was empty, although she remembered listening to Tommy Dorsey on the radio with an old man and his granddaughter. She felt the grit on her teeth.

  “He’s awake. Not feeling too chipper yet, but he wants to see you for a minute.”

  Lennox had spent the afternoon trying to make herself useful to the nurses, which included hearing about boyfriends, mothers-in-law, and landlords. This nurse, Helen, had boyfriend problems. The details were fuzzy now. Helen was very short, and the starched cap perched on her head like a topsy crown. “Come on,” she said, holding out her hand.

  They stopped at the door to room 322 in the shadowy hallway. A janitor washed the floors with a bucket and string mop. A kitchen worker was picking up trays.

  “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Don’t tire him out.” Lennox eased into the room, passing a white-haired man with a bandaged face. On the other side of the curtain, an oxygen tent enveloped the pale figure. He looked so small inside. She wrung her hands on the iron bed railing.