One O'Clock Jump

by Lise McClendon

  “Now, where were we?” He squinted at her hard. “Oh, yeah, you saw her jump from the bridge. But why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why were you there? I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “That’s your problem, Talbot.” This had gone on long enough. “Where’s that waitress?”

  “Why? That’s what I was asking myself. So I did a little checking up on you.”

  “I’m going to get her.” Lennox slid to the edge of the booth.

  “You’re a snoop. A peeper. You were tailing her that night.”

  Lennox glanced at him, affecting nonchalance, as she’d seen Amos do a hundred times. He, and she, hated to be made. It changed all the rules.

  “How’d you get that bump on your noggin? Playing rough?”

  “I like to play rough.”

  He grinned. “So do I. Where and when?”

  “On the job, ace. Keep your pants on.” She let him squirm for a moment, but he seemed to be enjoying it. “Somebody jumped me in my room last night. Told me to stay out of her way. But as I see it, she was on my turf.”

  Talbot examined her face with his eyes. “I hope she looks worse than you do.”

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  He laughed. “You talk a good game, sister.”

  She stood with a buck in her hand. “Leave the tip.”

  At the cash register, Talbot slapped down two quarters for the pie and grinned at her. “Big-time reporters have expense accounts.”

  Outside, the metal siding on the diner reflected the hot sun, making the concrete a bake oven. Lennox walked toward his car, a green Chrysler, big as a boat. She was faster than he was, and she sat on the front seat, letting the heat turn her to mush, as he climbed in.

  He put the key in the ignition but didn’t turn it.

  “All right,” Talbot said, smiling still, but his words were not. “Let’s have it. You were following her. I don’t need to know why. I’ve got where and how and when. I just need to know who she was.”

  Downtown was deserted. Sunday afternoon, the last weekend of summer vacation, war jitters breaking out in a heat rash. Lennox watched a thin, mangy dog wander by a garbage can, sniff, dump it over, paw through the rotten detritus and smelly wreckage of the modern American city. She felt a kinship to that dog.

  “I can’t tell you anything, Talbot.”

  “I thought you were going to call me Harvey.”

  Always the smoothie. “Don’t you ever turn that off?”

  “Turn what off?”

  She sighed. “Look, Harvey. Just take me back to the boardinghouse. I’m turning into a fritter here.”

  Talbot started to say something, changed his mind, turned the key. The boiler roared to life. He put the pedal down, careering around corners so fast that Lennox had to hold on to the door handle to stay on the seat. In minutes, he was idling the Chrysler on Charlotte Street. Here the shadows reached deep across the narrow street and the atmosphere was cooling.

  “So, who’s the bum?”

  Luther had fallen asleep at his apple stand, stretched out on the cool pavement, the old derby over his eyes. His unshaven chin, open mouth, and filthy bare feet made him look like a true stew bum. She felt a flash of shame for him.

  “Just can’t stop asking questions, can you? His name’s Luther. He lost everything in the crash.”

  “Including his mind?”

  She nodded, biting her lip. What had gotten into him? His performance was so out of character.

  “Was he an actor?”

  “I don’t know what he was.” She climbed out of the car. leaning down, she said, “Thanks for the trip to the morgue. It was … historic.”

  The door slammed. She found him at her elbow as she climbed the concrete steps. “Look, maybe I can help you,” he said. “I’m pretty good at tracking people down. If you told me her name—”

  “It would be in your rag, front page.”

  He dropped his hand, defeat on his face for an instant. “What if I promised not to write anything until your job’s over?”

  “It’s over now. She’s dead.”

  “Then what’s the problem? Come on, Miss Lennox, you gotta help me out.”

  “If you’re so red-hot at tracking people down, track her down.”

  “Okay, sure.” He opened the door for her. Christ, was he going to follow her inside? “But if your job’s done, why can’t you tell me?”

  He did follow her, into the front hall. Smells of chicken soup and yeast rolls. In the dining room, Frankie was setting out plates and spoons. She gave Lennox a surprised smile.

  “Talbot, go home,” Lennox whispered. “Somebody’s going to make off with your bus.”

  He moved closer. When she tried to step back, he put his hand on her elbow. She really wished he wouldn’t keep touching her.

  “What about that girl’s family?” He leaned closer, his breath lemon and cigarettes. “Don’t they have a right to know? Maybe her mama’s home crying right now. Wondering what’s become of her baby girl. Looking at pictures in the album. Did you think about that?”

  “Worry about your own mama. She’s probably waiting supper for you right now.”

  He looked in her eyes. “I was right. You are a hard case. Nut-hard, through and through.”

  “That’s right,” Lennox said as he backed away. “And don’t forget it. Now breeze off home to mama.”

  Frankie had disappeared by the time Talbot stepped back outside. Lennox watched him through the screen door. He climbed into the car, slammed the door. The car jerked away. He was a dog with a bone. With reporters, there was always something to lose—information, privacy, self-respect, reputation. She would have to be more careful. The thought of his colleague—if the term was appropriate for someone as oily as Russell—made her more resolved.

  As Dorie turned to go up the stairs, Mrs. Ferazzi popped out from her rooms under the stairs, eyeing the door for a glimpse at the departing male. Mrs. F. had the widow’s love of household intrigue.

  “Miss Lennox! I spoke to the policeman down on the corner about the woman in your room. I just wanted you to know I don’t forget things like that. He said he’d look into it.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. F.”

  “I asked everyone if they saw that woman. And nobody saw a thing.”

  “Well, the police will look into it.” If the sun didn’t rise tomorrow.

  “Three messages for you.” The landlady extracted three slips of paper from the pockets of her faded flowered apron. Her plump fingers were pink and well scrubbed. She smoothed back the graying wings of her thick black hair. “This heat is jus’ awful. Is your room suffocating up there?”

  “I haven’t been up since morning,” Lennox said. “And I have that fan you lent me.”

  “Oh, keep it as long as you want. You need to use my telephone?”

  Given how jealously Mrs. F. guarded her personal telephone line, the offer surprised Lennox. Tenants had to use the pay phone on the second-floor landing. Mrs. F. must be feeling guilty about the intruder.

  Lennox stared at the notes. One from the nurse, Helen, at the hospital. Another from her uncle, inviting her to Sunday dinner at two, which she had missed. And the last from Louie Weston. No number, no message.

  “I could make a quick call.” She followed the landlady into her tiny parlor, which was crawling with doilies and china figurines. Perched on the velvet telephone bench, Lennox dialed City Hospital.

  Helen came on the line, her voice cautious. “He’s had a bit of a setback. Could you come down? It’s not urgent. He’s all right; he’s comfortable. Just sometime this evening.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “A cough set in again. The doctor wants to keep him down for a while longer.”

  Lennox set down the receiver. Mrs. Ferazzi stood in the door to her bedroom.

  “Someone in the hospital?”

  “My boss.”

  “The lunger?”

  Everyone assumed TB. �
�Mustard gas.”

  The landlady touched her neck. “Will you be at supper, then?”

  Lennox checked her watch. The Brookside Flyers reception. If Vanvleet hadn’t reminded her, she wouldn’t have gone. “Not tonight, Mrs. F. But thanks for the telephone.”

  The bathroom was deserted for once. With five other people on her floor, weekend baths were a problem. The sound of the rattling fan she’d set in the window of her stifling room faded away. The cool water eased into her ears, her hair, and made her feel human again.

  To feel human. Odd that would be good.

  She rubbed soap on her arms and chest and thought again of Iris’s gray-green body, battered by water, spoiled by the river and its creatures. Why had she done it? Did she have a mother somewhere distraught with worry? Could that brittle bar girl inspire that kind of attachment? Had there been a warm heart inside that cool, glossy exterior, the pearly skin, the flawless silk dress? Who was Iris Jackson?

  Lennox dunked her head, trying to decipher the Iris enigma. Iris Jackson, the bar girl with angel hair, pinup girl legs and a broken heart.

  She slathered on shampoo, dunked again. Underwater, the feeling of being trapped under the intruder’s boot returned: “You’re out of your league, kitten.” She was beginning to hate the woman, not for messing up her room or kicking her or taking away her knife, but for those words.

  Winkie Lambert knocked on the door. Lennox drained and rinsed the tub for Winkie, a fastidious secretary whose twice-daily baths drove Mrs. F. mad. In her room, toweling her hair, Lennox stared at her reflection in the mirror, not really seeing the wet ringlets, the hazel eyes, the pale cheeks, the bluish lump by her hairline.

  Her mind was at the Chatterbox, on Twelfth Street on a dark night, high on a bridge, deep in the slippery soft mud of the dark, unforgiving river.

  SEVEN

  THE DOORMAN AT THE KANSAS CITY COUNTRY CLUB sneered at the Packard as if he had something against cars with bullet holes. He waved Lennox toward a shrub-lined parking lot, where she nearly turned her ankle on the gravel.

  The cocktail party was in full swing when she arrived, and she let one of the lawyers from the firm press a Coke into her hand. They considered her too pure for alcohol. As if she were in training for the Olympics.

  She wandered through the crowd, trying to get the eye of enough people to give the impression she’d been there. The head coach was here, and the trainer, a chiropractor. She said hello to both. A group of kids were corralled outside by a pack of mothers, but their screaming could be heard over the clinking of cocktail ice.

  Louie Weston was across the room. She turned the other way and ran into one of the original partners, old Mr. Wintraub. The law firm sponsored the Flyers, and he’d twisted her arm to get her to help coach. Not that it needed much twisting. The kids were mostly cheerful and full of energy. The only problem was the little girl whose blue eyes looked like Tillie’s.

  A quick chat with Wintraub and she escaped to the large brick patio under the tall elms. It was cooler out here, a fountain-filled haven away from the smoky room and the crowd. The kids filed inside as she came out. Several called to her: Hi, Miss Lennox. School starts in two days, Miss Lennox.

  Over the brick wall, on the lush greens, men were hitting little white balls into holes with sticks. They seemed to be enjoying it. The evening was sticky, and she pulled her hair up off her neck. She stood there a minute, hoping for a breeze, but there wasn’t one. She let it go at a tap on her shoulder. Reggie Vanvleet stood there in a sports costume—madras pants, pink shirt, sport coat.

  “Mr. Vanvleet. We meet again.” She sipped her Coke.

  “Call me Reg. I was wondering when that momentous occasion would happen. Been trying to manage it for weeks. Just didn’t think it’d be in the old man’s foyer.” He put his hands in his pockets. He smelled like liquor.

  “Momentous occasion?”

  “When two dynamic lights meet.” He leered at her, licking his lips. She found it amusing for a moment, then looked for a diversion. Seeing none, she steeled herself to his company.

  “You and me?”

  “That’s right, sister. The two of us could turn that law firm inside out.” He leaned in. “On its can.”

  Reggie threw back his head as if to laugh, but nothing came out. Odd, like a vaudeville skit gone wrong. Maybe he would need that chiropractor, inside drinking martinis with the coach.

  “You got inside dope on some fancy-pants lawyers?”

  His smirk drooped. “I am a lawyer, Miss Lennox.” He swayed. Seemed a bit early in the day to go over the edge with the rams.

  Looking beyond Reg, she saw his old man walk across the patio with Louie Weston and old Wintraub. They clotted into a tight circle, heads together as if hatching something big. Best to keep the boy talking, she thought.

  “And a very good one, I hear.”

  Reggie squinted. “Yes, well, we could work together on the, um, Terraciano matter. “

  “Oh?”

  “I have contacts in that sphere who could help you. I know many, many people. Give me a call.” He reached into his jacket and handed her a business card. As she plucked it from the boy’s hand, old man Vanvleet bellowed with laughter. Reggie turned, stumbled left, caught a chair.

  The old man was clapping Weston on the shoulder. Louie and Wintraub were smiling. Reggie stared at them blackly and pulled a metal flask from his back pocket.

  “Let’s go get something to eat, Reg.” Lennox touched his arm, but he pulled it away angrily.

  Vanvleet and Louie Weston looked up to see Reggie advancing on them. The old man dropped his hand off Louie’s shoulder, smiled a tight smile at his son. Old Wintraub, with his speckled head and sunken cheeks, stepped up suddenly, as if he was going to stop Reggie from speaking his piece.

  “All right, there, Reginald, son,” Wintraub began. Reggie brushed him aside like a feather. Dutch Vanvleet wasn’t so easy to dismiss. He put both of his hands on Reggie’s shoulders. His voice was low, calming. Behind the old man, Louie Weston looked a little chagrined, and smug, watching the crowd watching them.

  Reggie stomped around, shouting about rights and family and honor. The old man brought Louie forward, made Reggie talk to him, as if his son were an eight-year-old on the playground.

  Lennox lowered her eyes, humiliated for Reggie and fed up with plaid pants. She should wait for the awards. She really should.

  Inside, she searched for her kids. A six-year-old boy had won the fifty-yard dash at the city meet and a girl, ten, took third in her age group. Lennox found them behind the ice sculpture, licking the mermaid’s tail. She explained she had to visit a friend in the hospital. They shrugged their shoulders and returned to the best Popsicle they’d ever had.

  Uncle Herb showed up at the hospital just as Lennox was leaving. She and Shirley Mullins had wrung hankies for an hour in Amos’s new room, watching his tortured chest rise and fall. They’d moved him, Helen said, to keep a better eye on him. He was not doing well; that much was clear. He had a fever, was mildly delirious, and went through bouts of coughing that left all of them weak.

  “We missed you at dinner,” Herb said. Her uncle was a raw-boned old bull, with little hair and hard, bright blue eyes, the only part of him that recalled his dead sister. “Your aunt says hello. She’ll be up in the morning to check on Haddie.”

  They stood awkwardly by the nurses’ station. Herb Warren had the unmistakable weight of the law on him. He made people uncomfortable, but not Lennox; she’d seen him in swim trunks, sitting in a kiddie pool, giving his dog a bath. He wasn’t her father, but he was the best she had, and that wasn’t bad.

  “I didn’t get the message until too late. Sorry.”

  He set his limp hat on the counter. “I see we found your jumper.”

  “Not my jumper.”

  “Oh?”

  Lennox looked over her shoulder at Amos in his oxygen tent. Then back at her uncle. “I was tailing her that night. I guess I can’t lie to you.”r />
  “I guess you better not,” Herb said. “Have you identified her?”

  “No one’s asked.” Talbot didn’t count.

  “All right, I’m asking.”

  Amos never shut Herb out, if there was any way. And what did it matter now to Iris? It would be better to be dead with a name, not a Jane Doe in a drawer.

  “The girlfriend of a client,” she said.

  “With a name?”

  “Iris Jackson. She lived over on Mercier, and worked at a joint downtown.”

  “Name of?”

  “The Hot Cha Cha. Where the old Tenderloin was.”

  He nodded, put his notebook away. “That all you know about her?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Except the name of the client,” he said.

  Lennox pleaded with him with her eyes. He picked up his hat. “That’ll do for now.” He squeezed her hand. “Call your aunt. She worries about you.”

  He lumbered over to the door to the patient’s room, stepped to one side to let Shirley Mullins go by, speaking to her in a low voice and giving her hands a squeeze, too.

  “Oh, Dorie, what are we going to do?” Shirley whispered. Her small face, usually a smiling Irish mug that brightened the office when she told ribald tales about her six sons, was blotched below the reddish bangs. “I have such a raw feeling, I do.”

  Lennox held her for a moment. “He’ll pull through. You’ll see.”

  They parted at the bottom of the stairs, Shirley going to the main entrance to wait for her son Sean, Lennox heading to the ambulance entrance. The unmedicated air past the hospital doors cleared her head. She couldn’t let worry about Amos drag her senseless. She’d promised him she’d work on Iris.

  The Packard was running rough. Maybe she could get it into Czmanski’s garage this week, maybe it would take only a minute to fix, if Joe kept his mind on it. She squeezed the steering wheel, steered around the corners, heading vaguely toward the tall stick of the Liberty Memorial looming up on the hill above Union Station, then turning along the park, south down Main, wandering. She knew where she was going—it wasn’t far—but forward movement through the night air was necessary for a few minutes more.