The woman frowned. The bell on the door tinkled as Lennox left. The doomsdayer had set up under the awning.
“Got a smoke?” Jenny asked.
Lennox opened the foil and shook out two cigarettes for her. Jenny’s ragged dress and shawl smelled like the swamp and sweat. Anna stuck her head out the door. “Go on, old woman. Don’t bother the customers.”
The old woman hissed at Mrs. Steiner, then picked up her sandwich board. “Don’t own the sidewalk, does she?”
Jenny grabbed her board and shuffled across the cobblestoned street. On the boardinghouse steps, eating the prune pastries, Lennox read the Star. More about Poland, bombs, tanks, war. And an article—Russell’s?—inside the first section.
Blue Valley Track Denies Pendergast Tie
Owners of KC’s newest horse track are quick to disavow rumors of Pendergast backing, the Star has learned.
Talk about the Blue Valley Racetrack has been building since it was revealed by Star reporters that a colored man was listed on corporation papers as one of the owners. Floyd Wilson and Palmer Eustace, corporate owners, deny that this is true. They also deny ties to the Democratic Party boss.
When asked about finances for the facility, they are mum. Last year, Jackson County floated $250,000 in industrial revenue bonds for the racetrack.
The Star has determined the first-year profit on the racetrack tops half a million dollars. The new track competes with Pendergast’s own North KC park, said to be suffering with the Boss’s incarceration this July, in the Federal Penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas.
Lennox hadn’t gotten a chance to tell Amos about the track last night; he was too sick. She wondered again what he’d been looking into there. Next, she read a summary of Roosevelt’s radio talk—“let partisanship and selfishness be adjourned.” He offered “assurance that every effort of our government will be directed to keeping out of this war.” Why didn’t she feel reassured?
She read another story about mob boss Freddie “The Mink” Salvatore, indicted for attempted bribery, gambling, and tax evasion. She looked up, over the paper. Two men sat in the shadows across the street near Czmanski’s garage. Luther, sitting on his apple crate, and another man.
She shielded her eyes from the sun. What was Harvey Talbot doing here? She squinted at him as a big black car glided to a stop in front of the boardinghouse, disgorging one burly gentleman, then another. They moved fast for big fellas. She felt her pockets for the switchblade. Then remembered it sat,, useless, on her dresser.
Lennox stood up and stood her ground on the top step. Better to keep this—whatever it was—outside. She’d caused enough grief for Mrs. F. this week. The goons had heavy, round shoulders, long arms, and sturdy legs, obvious under the ill-fitting gray suit on the older one and the sleeker blue suit on the college-boy blond.
“Good morning, gents,” Lennox said, tucking her paper under her arm. “Looking for someone?”
The older one, with a boxer’s twisted nose, looked over his shoulder at someone in the black car. Then he said, “You Doria Lennox?”
Lennox squinted at the car. “Who wants to know?”
“Come on.” The blond caught her arm. “Somebody wants to talk to you.”
She tried to shake the hand, but he had clamped his mitt on hard. The other thug took her left arm. “Hey!”
“Let’s go,” the blond said as she kicked him hard in the kneecap. She wrenched her arm free as he bent with pain, then socked the older one in the chin. The pain shot up her arm to her shoulder and the thug blinked, surprised.
“Nice try, toots.” He grabbed her free arm. She brought up her knee and caught him in the groin. As he let out an “Oof,” the blond grabbed her from the back, pinning her arms, picked her up, and carried her kicking and screaming to the car. The door opened and she was tossed inside.
Lennox righted herself and went for the door handle. Locked. Next to her on the red velveteen seat, a woman watched her silently, dressed in a black hat with a veil, a powder blue dress, and gloves.
Lennox straightened her blouse, put her shoe right. The presence of the woman compressed her rage. She hated being thrown around. But a woman won’t hurt me, she thought, even as a memory of Lucille at Beloit told her to be careful.
The car pulled away. Talbot and Luther stood stock-still on the sidewalk, dumb shock on their faces. She leaned forward, watching them as if she’d never see them again, until the car sped to the corner.
The woman began to talk.
NINE
“YOU KNOW WHO I AM.”
Lennox crossed her arms. She felt like herself again, despite missing her blade and the rough treatment. “Someone whose manners could use a good brushing up.” She had handled ol’ Lucille back then; she could handle this plump broad.
They had turned down Broadway and were crossing the bridge. Again. The woman rolled down her window. The wind caught the black veil and she raised it, her eyes squinting against the glare off the water, the air in her face.
“I am sorry about that. But I had no way of knowing, of being sure that…”
The woman reached into her bag for a handkerchief to dab her nose. She looked married; full-figured, with short, wavy black hair that looked fake. Heavy makeup made it hard to pin her age, anywhere from twenty-five to forty. “You’d think I’d know about things like this. But… well, he’s always been good.”
Lennox examined her. Rock of a diamond ring, the smell of expensive perfume, tasteful powder blue sheath with matching jacket and shoes. “Your husband?”
She nodded. “You know who we’re talking about? We don’t have to get—”
“Personal?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t know you, ma’am. I take it kinda personal when I get tossed into cars. And I’ve got a telephone; most people make appointments.”
The woman teared up again.
“But I’m willing to make an exception, because I can see that you had some kind of urgent matter on your mind.”
“Yes, and I am sorry, again.” She dabbed her nose. “Let’s start over.” She offered a white-gloved hand. “Marilyn Terraciano. Mrs. George Terraciano.”
Lennox gave her hand a quick shake, suppressed a smile of interest. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs.—”
“Please, call me Marilyn. It’s such a long name. My maiden name was Smith, and even after all these years, the married name is still too long for me.” She looked up. “I suppose that sounds hateful.”
“Not at all. It is long.” And then there was the man himself. Who had somehow never mentioned a wife.
“You know my husband. He’s your client.”
Lennox crossed her arms.
“You don’t have to answer. I know he is. I overheard him on the phone last week, and I’ve been so upset ever since. I can’t sleep. I forget to kiss my children good night. I have no appetite. It’s just—” She began to cry in earnest.
The two goons in the front seat muttered between themselves. They were now off the bridge, into North Kansas City, and caught in a stream of traffic heading for the Pendergast track. The trafficway was the best in town, four lanes of Pendergast cement, spanking new five years ago, and still far too special for a drive to see the ponies run. Low green junipers and cottonwoods dotted the dun-colored hills to the north, silhouetted against the hard prairie sky.
Marilyn Terraciano collected herself. “Please, Miss Lennox, you can’t tell Georgie you saw me, or that we talked. Please.”
“I don’t speak to Georgie very often,” she said.
“I can count on you?”
Lennox watched the woman. Something was battering the inside of her heart. “You can count on me.”
“Okay.” Marilyn took a deep breath. When she spoke again, she kept her voice low. “I don’t need to go into details of what I heard. But the important part is, I know about her. “
Lennox waited, unwilling to help the woman, as vulnerable and hurt as she seemed to be.
“Plea
se, Miss Lennox.”
“What is it you want from me?”
She rolled her bloodshot blue eyes. “Can’t you see?” she hissed. “I know my husband has a girl on the side. I found out last week. I also found out you’ve been following her. You know all about her. You must… you must tell me everything.” She batted her damp lashes. “I’ll pay you, of course.”
She began to open her purse. Lennox put out a hand. “Please, Mrs.—Marilyn. Don’t.” The woman looked up. “I can’t tell you anything. Even if I knew anything, which I don’t.”
“But you’ve been following her—you must know.”
Lennox shook her head. “Only the very basics. And I can’t tell you because, you know, it wouldn’t be right.”
“It’s certainly not right that he’s … he’s catting around!”
“That’s not my business.”
“It seems like it is. You follow them on their … their clandestine adventures, see how they dance, how they hold each other.” She was making herself sick.
“I never saw them together. It was only a week.”
Marilyn put her hankie to her forehead now, squeezing her eyes shut. “But he went out almost every night. And then she … she called last night.”
A crowd in a ragtop drove up next to them, a bottle of wine passed around, laughing, music on the radio, hair in the wind.
“She called?”
“Her voice sounded so familiar, so smooth, the way she said his name, I knew it was her. He was out. God knows where.” Mrs. Terraciano looked up at Lennox, squinting again.
“Did she say who she was?”
“Well, she made up a name, I could tell it wasn’t hers. Said something like, ‘Miss Jackson from Armour Packing.’ “
“Jackson?”
“No girlfriend uses her real name when she calls up at home. This may never have happened to me before, Miss Lennox, but I know about these things.”
They came to the gate of the large unpaved parking lot by the racetrack, pulled through, and parked in a spot near a dozen other dusty cars. The wind was blustery out here in the country, blowing dirt in five directions. The ragtop they’d passed on the trafficway pulled in next to them, full of squeals and laughter.
“Did you tell Georgie?”
‘T couldn’t. I was so upset. To think she had the nerve, the gall to call up the family home. Where his children eat and sleep.” Marilyn clenched her fists and threw herself back against the seat. “That man! What am I going to do? You have to help me, Miss Lennox. What is her name? Where does she live? I have to know.”
“This call was last night?”
“Yes. Sometime after seven. That’s when he went out.” Marilyn leaned forward again, touching Lennox on the knee with a gloved finger. “I’ll hire you. You find out all you can about her. What’s your daily rate? Ten dollars a day? Twelve? Make it fifteen a day for the rest of the week. Report to me on Friday.”
She would have made a swell general. But these troops weren’t going to fight. But if Lennox wouldn’t hop to, some detective would. As the woman wronged, she would find somebody. She was what they called “a motivated client.” Keeping her dangling might be what Georgie wanted.
“I’ll think about it, Marilyn. I know how you feel and—”
The car door Lennox was leaning on opened suddenly, letting in a rush of wind and grit. She caught herself with the strap on the back of the driver’s seat. Harvey Talbot stood in the open door, grabbing for her. His eyes were frantic, his face red.
“Talbot!”
“Come on, before these goons get into the act.” He had one foot against the driver’s door, and Luther was pressing the other side door closed with both hands.
“It’s all right. My business is done.” She tugged back her arm. “I’ll see what I can do, Marilyn. No promises.” She climbed out of the car and gave a merry wave to the thugs in the front. She smoothed her blouse. “Nice to see you, too, Talbot.”
“Go, Luther!”
Harvey clasped Lennox’s arm and dragged her around the car, down the aisle of autos, between a school bus and a Buick and two Plymouths, by an open-topped Willys, and down the next aisle. He threw her into his green Chrysler. Thrown into another car. Just my luck. But the look of triumph on Harvey’s face made it worthwhile. My hero.
“Lock the doors! Quick!” Harvey spat as Luther hurdled inside. He turned to Lennox. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” She tried to collect herself. The fear, then the rage, were still bottled up inside her, making her hysterical. “You looked so hell-bent.” She put her hand over her mouth, forced her face serious. “Thank you for rescuing me, Harvey. Luther, thank you.”
“We followed you all the way from t-t-town,” Luther said. “Like in the p-p-pictures.”
“Must have been thrilling,” Lennox said. A chuckle exploded out of her.
Talbot turned back to the steering wheel, a black look on his face. Lennox leaned forward. “You must have thought the worst when you saw me get thrown into that car. I did, too, until I saw the lady.”
“Lady?”
“Wife of a client. Wanted to know all. But, you know me, I didn’t squawk.”
Talbot’s nostrils flared. He peered up at the stands of the racetrack, the white-painted boards bright in the noontime sun. Outside, the wind died down and the sounds from passersby were muffled. He said, “Anybody want to place a bet?”
Lennox looked back to where Marilyn’s car had been. A dark red sedan was pulling into the spot. What did the call to Georgie mean? Was someone playing a prank? How sly had Georgie been? Sly enough that his wife had just found out. Was someone blackmailing him? Had Iris been his girlfriend? Amos didn’t think so, and, judging from Georgie’s reaction to her death, neither did Lennox. Iris was dead, so who called for Georgie using her name?
The two men were staring at her when she looked up.
“What?”
Luther said, “The races.”
“What about them?”
“Do you want to go?” Harvey said. He’d slumped low in the seat.
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“No money,” Luther said.
A stream of women dressed in summer halter dresses and sun hats, accompanied by men in seersucker suits and straw hats, walked behind the car toward the track. Harvey started the car, pulled out, spun gravel, and turned toward the city.
Lennox was quiet—they all were—as they headed back to the bridge and the city. Did Marilyn know Iris was dead? Obviously not; the threat was still real to her. What had Georgie wanted with Iris? What connected them? The first question, and now the last. She smiled to herself. Probably not her very last question.
“This is a very nice car, Harve,” Luther said in the silence.
“Thanks, fella,” Talbot replied, then jerked his head to look at the unshaven face. Lennox looked at him, too. His voice was calm, smooth, like his street recital.
Lennox wanted to hear him talk. “Luther, did you like that book I lent you?”
“Some of it,” he said. He turned in the seat to face her, dirty fingers over the seat back. “It was sad, Miss Lennox. Very sad.”
“Yes, I guess it was. I’m sorry it made you sad,” she said.
“Sad and happy don’t mean that much to me anymore. Maybe they did once.” He smiled a toothy, melancholy smile. “The book reminded me of a man I knew once. I’d forgotten about him, but reading that book, it was like he was back.”
Harvey looked at her, then said to the bum: “It’s a great-looking day, isn’t it? So sunny and clear.”
They turned onto the Hannibal Bridge, its girders flashing shadows across the windows, light/dark, light/dark. Luther looked up at the sky. “A perfect day for a picnic at the beach.”
Talbot caught her eye again. “Yes, isn’t it, Miss Lennox?”
The river below them shimmered, full of antediluvian life. The number from Talbot’s article tolled: forty-two jumpers. Yet the muddy water could be as thri
lling as counting ants at a Labor Day picnic.
A plan was hatched to take a basket of fruit and cold cuts down to a sandy bank of the Missouri. Lennox talked about apples as if she’d only heard their taste described in fairy tales. Luther mentioned a creamy golden cheese he’d eaten once. Talbot waxed musical about ice-cold bottles of beer.
Then the spell broke, a spun-sugar dream. As soon as the Chrysler stopped on Charlotte Street, the hobo looked at them as if they’d kidnapped him, then jumped from the car and ran around the corner, out of sight.
Harvey sat with both hands on the steering wheel, staring after him. Finally, he said, “What was that?”
“How did the two of you get—”
He put his forehead against the wheel. “I thought he was an interesting character. I thought maybe if he opened up to me, I could write a piece on him.”
“He certainly opened up.”
“Not really.”
“Well, something happened in this car.” Lennox climbed out of the backseat. She looked at the reporter, who was still holding his forehead against the big steering wheel, as if it contained the answers to life’s questions.
“I can give you her name now.”
He turned his head. “Huh?”
“The jumper,” Lennox said. “I can give you her name. The cops should be checking out her place today.”
His mood changed, right there on his face, and he jumped from the car. “Okay, shoot,” he said, drawing out his notebook and pencil. His transformation was almost as complete as Luther’s.
“You just want her name?”
“Anything you can give me, Miss Lennox. That’d be swell.” His eagerness was impossible to hate. So hopeful, so childlike.
“Since we’re not going on that picnic, I’ve got somewhere else in mind. No apples or cheese.”
Lennox had given him Iris’s name and address by the time they drove the short distance to the Hot Cha Cha Club. He took a moment to scribble them down before looking at the street, nearly deserted on a holiday afternoon. He followed her down the cracked sidewalk, around the dried-up orange peels and rusted bean cans, by the alley with garbage bins and trash and heaps of rags. More pleasant with nighttime shadows. The odor of rotten fruit followed them from the alley.
One O'Clock Jump Page 9
