High Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  Probably. Some people don’t care how they make money, as long as they make it. Look at me, for Pete’s sake.

  “Do you see Stacy anywhere?”

  I squinted into the swirling smoke. “Not yet. Did you tell her we were coming?”

  “Mother did. Stacy and I don’t chat on a regular basis.”

  Perfectly understandable. I didn’t say so because the monster came back. “Follow me,” he rasped.

  So we did.

  Chapter Three

  Although I hadn’t believed it to be possible, I became even more uncomfortable as Harold and I approached a knot of people on the far side of the main room. The knot contained Stacy (oh, joy), another woman, and two chaps who didn’t look as if they believed in brotherhood and tolerance toward their fellow men. One was an oily specimen with his curly brown hair slicked back, and the other was Italian. I could tell because he looked a lot like Sam Rotondo.

  From what Mrs. Kincaid had wailed at me, I presumed the woman who wasn’t Stacy to be Flossie, the oily man to be Jinx, and the Italian to be either Jinx’s boss, whose name I didn’t know, or another gangster whose name I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know them. In fact, I didn’t want to meet any of those people. Neither did Rolly.

  “Harold!” Stacy screeched. She ignored me, which was okay by me. She rushed to her brother and made a show of being pleased to see him. I knew better. Stacy and Harold got along like lions and lambs before Christmas was invented, although I couldn’t honestly have told you which one was the lion. Probably Stacy.

  “Stacy,” Harold mumbled, trying to avoid her hug. He couldn’t do it, but he didn’t hug her back.

  I suppose Stacy could be called a good-looking girl. She had a pretty face with delicate features, and she dressed in the latest modes. Well, I did, too, but Stacy favored the most radical of modern fashions, the ones that bring to mind the phrases, “flaming youth” and “flappers.” Her skirts were always too short, her accessories too jangly, her lipstick too flashy, her hair too short (and too blond), and her voice too loud. Invariably, too, she held a cigarette in a long, shiny black holder and blew smoke in everyone’s faces. Her total air was that of a brat of a girl who was trying too hard to be something she wasn’t: the heroine in This Side of Paradise. That goal would have been impossible for any of us. Stacy was too stupid to know it.

  “Jinx! Jinx!” she shouted, hauling Harold over to the group. “This is my brother Harold! And this”—her enthusiasm chilled, although mine was equally frigid—“is Daisy Majesty.” She flapped a hand in my direction.

  “Mrs. Desdemona Majesty,” Harold corrected. He was such a pal.

  Stacy sniffed and said, “Desdemona Majesty.”

  I probably ought to explain that “Desdemona” thing. It wasn’t really part of my name at all. When I was ten years old and first introduced to the Ouija board, I decided Daisy was too pedestrian a name for a spiritualist, so I opted to become Desdemona. I wouldn’t be forced to read Othello until I was in the ninth grade, or I probably would have borrowed some other literary character’s name, preferably one who wasn’t murdered by her husband.

  Jinx looked me up and down as if he were assessing me for the tax collector. “So,” he said, “dis is da medium, eh?” He stuck out his hand.

  Honest to goodness, I didn’t know people really talked like that until I met James Leroy Jenkins, “Jinx” to his friends—and probably his enemies, too. I didn’t figure among either of those select groups, thank God. The closest to his accent I’d heard up till then was that of Mrs. Barrow, our nosy party-line neighbor who hailed from Brooklyn. And Sam Rotondo, but his accent wasn’t like this. Although it pains me to give Sam credit for anything, his New York accent had more class than Jinx’s or Mrs. Barrow’s.

  “How do you do?” I muttered, keeping my chin high and my hand at my side. That was probably a foolish thing to do given the violent predilections of Jinx and his cronies, but I didn’t fancy shaking hands with a bootlegger who might well be a killer. I mean, they all were, weren’t they?

  I never did find out if Jinx would have taken my unwillingness to shake hands amiss because Harold grabbed the hand hanging there in the air and shook it, making me feel small and petty—until I remembered the killer part of this equation, and then my sense of self-righteousness kicked in again. That was absurd since I was there in the speakeasy and was, therefore, just as bad as Jinx was, except for the killer part.

  Stacy noticed, however, and huffed in my direction. Jinx either didn’t take offense or didn’t pay attention to me. He greeted Harold, took his arm, grinned at me, and said, “Lemme take youse guys to da boss.”

  “Da boss,” I presumed, was the one whose godfather had died. Been murdered. Oh, Lord.

  My heart started battering against my ribcage in fright. I didn’t want to meet any more gangsters. Jinx was plenty enough. Nobody had introduced me to the blond woman or the Italian man. I glanced at the woman and gave her a small smile, but she was studying her bright red fingernails, so I don’t think she noticed.

  “It’ll be fine, Daisy,” Harold whispered in my ear.

  I doubted that. Stacy had latched on to Jinx’s arm. Jinx didn’t seem particularly ecstatic about this sign of affection, although he didn’t shake her off. He knocked on the door, using the time-honored if trite rhythm of “shave and a haircut, six bits.”

  A voice from beyond the door said, “Yo!” and the door was yanked open so fast, I jumped. Harold patted my shoulder. Another bruiser, not quite as large as the monster but every bit as scary, said, “C’m in, youse two. Da boss is waitin’.”

  I was too terrified to apologize for my jumpiness, which was okay, since we weren’t late or anything. Gee, but those people frightened me! I wasn’t sure Rolly would be able to show up even if he was me, if you know what I mean. I’m no prima donna, but shoot, I need to have some kind of peace of mind and freedom from panic when I work. Then the door closed behind us, and absolute silence filled the space in which we stood.

  Shocked by the sudden stillness, I turned to stare at the door. It looked just like any other door in the world. A chuckle at my back startled me, and I spun around.

  “Da doors and walls is soundproofed, Mrs. Majesty.” The words came from the mouth of a large man standing at the other side of the room. In spite of his accent and grammar, he looked as if he’d just stepped out of a gentleman’s fashion magazine. His smile made my stomach hurt, probably because it didn’t go with his eyes, which were cold, and black, and small, and reminded me of the eyes on a cobra I’d seen at the Griffith Park Zoo the previous November.

  “Oh.”

  “Dis,” said Jinx with a smirk of pride, “is da medium, boss.”

  “You should oughta interduce me to da lady, Jinx, not da lady to me,” the boss said.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” I said in a rush. “I don’t mind. Really. It’s fine. Truly. I—”

  Harold took my arm, and I realized I’d started babbling. I swallowed, and Harold said, “It’s okay, Daisy.” After clearing his throat, he said, “Mrs. Desdemona Majesty, please allow me to introduce you to …” His voice trailed off, I guess because he didn’t know “da boss’s” name.

  “Da name’s Vicenzo Maggiori, Mrs. Majesty. Pleased ta meetcha.” His voice was deep and oily and kind of reminded me of the olive oil Aunt Vi used when she fixed spaghetti.

  The feeling wasn’t mutual. I said, “H-how do you do?”

  “Don’t pay no attention to Jinx. He ain’t got no manners.”

  None of these people had no grammar either, apparently. Or maybe that should be neither. Unable to speak because my throat was dry and my tongue had stuck to the roof of my mouth, I nodded and attempted one of my gracious smiles. Gracious smiles were my stock in trade, along with gentle murmurs and Rolly, but I couldn’t find one in me to save myself. I hoped the nod would suffice.

  It seemed to. Maggiori swept out a well-manicured hand and said, “Please, Mrs. Majesty, sit here.” He looked at
Jinx. “Tell George to bring refreshments, Jinx. Da lady prolly wants somethin’ to drink.”

  The notion of being served an alcoholic beverage jarred me out of my fear-induced stupor. “No!” I swallowed. “I mean, I don’t need anything, thank you.”

  “Nuts,” said Maggiori. “Get da lady a ginger ale, Jinx.”

  “Sure ting, boss.”

  “Bring me another drink, too, Jinxy,” said Stacy, acting flirty.

  “You’ve had enough,” Jinx said with noticeable coolness.

  Stacy pouted.

  The bottle-blonde I’d assumed to be Flossie sidled up. Actually, it wasn’t really a sidle. In fact, she seemed kind of shy. A gangster’s moll who was bashful was such a surprising concept, I forgot my nervousness and smiled at her. What the heck. Since we were the only two people present with enough sense to be ill at ease in that environment, we might as well support each other. My friendliness must have given her courage because she moved a little closer.

  “Hi,” she said, whispering. “I’m Flossie. Flossie Mosser.”

  Mercy sakes. The poor thing. I stuck out my hand. Why not? Of course, I was only assuming she hadn’t killed anybody. What did I know? “Happy to meet you, Miss Mosser. I’m Desdemona Majesty.”

  “Oh, just call me Flossie. Love your name.” She gave me a small smile but still looked nervous. “Desdemona. It’s got such class.”

  “Move it, Floss,” Jinx growled. Poor Flossie leaped back as if he’d struck her.

  I frowned at him as he handed me my ginger ale but was too intimidated to scold him for being rude to Flossie. In fact, I said, “Thank you.” I tried to make it sound cold but knew I was being cowardly.

  “Let me know when youse guys is ready, Mrs. Majesty. After you wet your whistle and all.”

  Maggiori smiled at me, and I felt cold all over. Lord, but the man was terrifying—and all he’d done so far was be polite and smile. I shuddered and hoped he didn’t notice. “Thank you,” I said again, this time to Maggiori. “I’m ready when you are.”

  “Good.” He rubbed his hands together and looked happy, which made one of us. “Stacy here says you want da room dark with just a red lamp with one candle on da table. Dat right?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” I told myself to stop thanking the guy every three seconds, but even as I did so I knew the admonition wouldn’t work. I was scared spitless and would do darned near anything to keep him from getting mad at me. I stared hard, trying to identify bulges that might signify guns but didn’t see any. Well, why should Maggiori carry a gun? He had a herd of goons to shoot people for him.

  Egad. I was scaring myself.

  “Can you really talk to dead guys?” The question was a whisper, and it came from Flossie, whom I’d forgotten all about in my panic.

  Stacy had come closer. I hadn’t noticed her do it, or I’d have moved farther away. “So she says,” she whined in a snotty tone.

  Harold growled softly, “Give it up, Stacy.”

  His voice sounded fiercer than usual. I glanced over to find him looking more uneasy than he had before. About time, if you ask me. Past it, maybe.

  I answered Flossie. “It’s my job.” I wished I could keep her beside me because I sensed that she felt almost as out of place in that environment as I did. Although I also knew the feeling to be irrational since she was evidently one of these gangsters’ lady friends.

  “I think that’s swell,” Flossie said.

  “C’mere, Flossie, and leave da lady alone.”

  Flossie jumped and trotted over to Jinx, who shoved her into a chair. “Keep yer fat mouth shut, too. None of your blabbin’, y’hear?”

  “Sure Jinx,” Flossie said in a tiny voice.

  I felt almost as sorry for her as I did for myself, so I rounded up a gracious smile and flung it at her. It probably wasn’t a very good one since I was petrified with terror, but it seemed to make her feel better.

  “I’ll sit here,” Stacy said, plopping herself into a chair one person removed from me. I was grateful for that until Jinx sat down between her and me and Vicenzo Maggiori sat next to me on my other side. Harold sat beside him.

  Oh, sweet Lord, have mercy, as Aunt Vi sometimes says, I was sandwiched between two murdering hoodlums. I scolded myself for allowing Mrs. Kincaid to talk me into doing this. I should have held firm against her entreaties, no matter what, but by then it was far too late to back out.

  I always try to weave a mystical spell during the first few minutes of any séance. That night I was so anxious that it took me longer than usual to relax enough to play my part.

  Acting on a nod from Maggiori, the bruiser (as opposed to the monster, who I guess manned only the front door) turned out the electrical lights. The room went dark. It was a few seconds before people began focusing on the feeble light emanating from the cranberry candle lamp in the middle of the table.

  Deciding what the heck and that the sooner I got it over with the better, I cleared my throat and spoke in my best, most velvety spiritualistic voice. “Everyone please join hands.”

  Thus it was that I found myself holding hands with two of the most evil men I’d ever met. Jinx’s hands were rough and sweaty. Maggiori’s were as soft as a woman’s. I suppressed a shudder as I imagined him as a big black spider in the center of a web, directing people to do his malevolent wishes without ever dirtying his own hands.

  In an attempt to shake off my sense of impending doom, I began my usual banter. “In order for the spirits to break through from the Other Side and communicate with us, we must maintain absolute silence. No one must speak.”

  What hogwash. But it worked really well that evening. For the first time in my entire eleven-year career as a medium, honest-to-goodness silence descended upon one of my séances. Gee, those people were much more obedient than most of my clients. I suppose the threat of being shot to death does that to a person, you know, makes him behave.

  That thought took some of my satisfaction out of the success of my command. I tried not to let it bother me.

  I’d been told, via Stacy through her mother, that Vicenzo Maggiori wanted to get in touch with his dead uncle who’d been a big gangster in New York City. The man’s name was Carmine “The Hand” Bennadutto. I don’t know why they called him “The Hand,” and, frankly, I don’t want to. I figured the nickname had something to do with his criminous career.

  Therefore, I’d gone to the Pasadena Public Library and looked through old issues of the New York Times in search of information relating to Mr. Bennadutto. After all, if I aimed to trick a vicious gangster (Maggiori) into believing I’d called another vicious gangster (Bennadutto) from the dead, I’d better know what Rolly was talking about.

  Carmine Bennadutto had been born in Sicily in 1879, had moved to the U.S.A. in 1908, and had risen to a position of great celebrity in certain New York circles—not the kinds of circles in which I personally whirled. His gang was known to supply a section of New York City with liquor. He’d been gunned down in an Italian Restaurant on Mulberry Street in New York City in October of 1920, apparently the victim of a rival gang faction that wanted to take over his territory. There had been a picture of the murder scene, which I regretted looking at afterwards.

  So then I read about the rival gang faction. During my research, I gleaned a whole lot of interesting information about the different gangs extant in New York City at the time, and none of it made me view Maggiori’s séance with sanguinity. Or maybe sanguinity isn’t the right word since it makes me think of blood.

  At any rate, I didn’t want to conduct the darned séance, but I, stupid to a fault, had agreed to it. So I was stuck, and I aimed to do as good a job as I could, if only not to irritate Vicenzo Maggiori, whose reaction to irritation might prove painful, or worse, to my humble self.

  Approximately ten minutes into my act (it usually only takes about five minutes, but I was really nervous), I began to exhibit symptoms of falling into a trance. I’d started moaning and groaning a trifle, and allowing my head
to droop, and that sort of thing.

  In case you’ve wondered, I never had any truck with ectoplasm, which I consider merely disgusting. I mean, who wants to have some kind of slimy junk all over his table, or the floor? I know some people thought that producing ectoplasm was a great way to prove you were in communication with the dead, but not me. Ick. However, I digress.

  After another few minutes Rolly appeared, God bless him. I love Rolly, and not merely because he’d served me well for so many years. The story between Rolly and me, you see, is that we had been soul mates approximately a thousand years ago in Scotland. His spirit had stayed with me through all my incarnations ever since. You’ve got to love a guy with that much sticking power. Besides, given the state of my own marriage, it was comforting to think that some man, even if he was a figment of my own imagination and dead for a millennium, would love me through time and all eternity. It sure didn’t look as though that sort of love would be mine in this life. Not only that but Rolly, who was ostensibly a Scotsman, had an accent all his own, which I’d pretty much mastered. Because of his built-in accent, I didn’t have to fiddle with other types of accents. I wasn’t sure how I’d handle an Italian mobster, for example.

  Anyhow, Rolly had showed up, and we were just getting into the meat of the séance, during which Carmine “The Hand” Bennadutto was going to speak through Rolly to his godson, Vicenzo Maggiori, when a door opened, completely shattering the mood.

  Maggiori said, “Huh!”

  Totally disconcerted, I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there, sagging. It was a most uncomfortable position. Until that evening, none of the séances I’d ever conducted had been interrupted at just that point—the point at which everything’s going to begin to happen but hasn’t yet.

  A man silently slithered over and bent to whisper in Maggiori’s ear. I felt the big boss stiffen and wondered what the heck was going on and when it would stop. And then something happened that totally floored me. Maggiori released my hand, which flopped onto the table, and stood up.