by Alice Duncan
“Nonsense. I’ll be working closely with you, and I’ll make sure nothing bad happens to you.”
Right. The man who hated me more than he hated Vicenzo Maggiori, Al Capone, Jack the Ripper, and the Kaiser combined. “Billy won’t like it if my helping you gets me injured or killed,” I pointed out.
“You won’t get injured or killed.” He sounded disgusted.
“No? I thought that’s what those guys did: kill people.”
“That’s not their primary business. Their main reason for operating illegal drinking joints is to make money.”
Made sense to me. I didn’t say so.
“And we haven’t been able to put them out of business because somehow or other, they’ve been able to anticipate every single one of our raids. Maggiori, Jenkins, and the rest of the leaders of the gang always manage to get out of the joints before we come in.”
“Poor planning on somebody’s part.” Okay, I know it was snide. It was the meanest thing I could think of to say, and I admit I shouldn’t have said it. I wasn’t in any position to make sarcasm advisable.
“Good planning, is more like it, on their part,” he said, giving me another hideous scowl. “They’re getting inside information somehow, and you’re going to find out how they’re getting it and from whom, and you’re going to tell me all about it.”
I pointed at my chest. “I am?”
“You are.”
I gulped. “How?”
“By sticking close to those guys and keeping your ears open. And telling me what you learn.”
“That’s nuts, Sam! If they don’t kill me, Billy will. I thought you were such pals with him.”
“I am, damn it! I’ll take care of Billy for you. You take care of gathering information for me.”
I wailed, “But I don’t want to!” I guess I’d learned well from Mrs. Kincaid because it was a super wail.
“Would you rather have a criminal record?”
My head drooped so low, my chin darned near bumped against my chest. He had me. I was a dead duck. I felt as I had that day when I’d caved in to Mrs. Kincaid’s request that I conduct a séance in a speakeasy, only worse. I couldn’t see any way out of the mess I’d made for myself except for the one extremely frightening—and, I’d swear, dangerous—way Sam was giving me. He was probably only doing it because he knew I’d be offed by the bad guys and then Billy wouldn’t have to put up with me any longer. It was all a big plot, and I’d stepped right smack into the middle of it like the sucker I was.
Knowing I was licked didn’t mean I had to give in without consequences to Sam Rotondo, darn him. Retrieving my self-possession, which had sunk into my once-lovely and now-scuffed black shoes, I lifted my chin and stared back at Sam with almost as much heat as he’d flung at me. “If I do this for you, you’ve got to do something for me.”
He lifted an eyebrow, which made him look even more derisive than he had before. “I should think keeping you out of the clink would be enough.”
My chin jutted out farther. “It’s not.”
His other eyebrow went up to join the first one. “Oh?”
“You have to let Harold and Flossie go. They didn’t do anything wrong. Harold only accompanied me to the speakeasy because I was afraid to go alone. And Flossie’s just a sweet kid who hangs out with the wrong kind of people. She’s really nice, Sam.” In truth, I didn’t know that for a fact, but I sensed a certain goodness about Flossie. Even as I begged for her life (so to speak) I figured I was wrong about that, too. My judgment had been really, really bad of late.
He pinched his lower lip between a thick finger and a meaty thumb. “Hmmm.”
“Please, Sam. They shouldn’t suffer because I did Harold’s mother a favor. It’s not their fault I’m a fool.” Boy, I hated saying that—the fool part—mainly because I knew Sam agreed with me.
Sam frowned. Since the frown wasn’t directed at me, I didn’t take it personally for once. “I don’t know. I’m not all that fond of floozies and faggots.”
I hated it when he called Harold a faggot. Since I wasn’t in a position to chide him, I held my tongue. “They’re less guilty than I am,” I pointed out.
“Stupidity and gullibility aren’t very good excuses for wrongdoing,” he pointed out back at me.
“They’re not stupid.” I didn’t say it with much fervor since I wasn’t sure about Flossie. And she was gullible, or she’d never have become involved with Jinx and Maggiori and their crew. Kind of like me.
“Well ...” He eyed me, squinting. “What about Miss Kincaid?”
“Who? Oh, Stacy. Shoot, I’d forgot all about her.” I shook my head, trying to clear it of irrelevancies. Since visions of prison, my bullet-riddled body, and an outraged Billy kept swirling in my head, shaking didn’t help a whole lot. I didn’t like Stacy. In fact, I disliked her and figured she was the ultimate reason for the mess I was in—and deserved to be locked up behind bars—unlike me. After all, she’d gone to the speakeasy because she’d wanted to. I’d only gone there because I was foolish and weak-willed. Still ...
“Mrs. Kincaid will be happy with me if I spring her kid from the slammer, I suppose.”
“I suppose.” Sam’s tone was extremely dry.
“Okay, let her go, too. No booking. No arraignment. No record.”
“She already has a record.”
That’s right. I darned near smiled. “No more of a record than she already has, I mean.”
He thought. And thought. And then he sighed deeply. “All right. The two Kincaids and Miss Mosser can go. And so can you, with the stipulation we agreed to—and you have to promise you won’t tell a soul about any of this. That would defeat the purpose.”
Tell anybody I was hanging out with gangsters and spying for the coppers? Who did he think I’d tell? Maggiori? Jinx? Did the man think I wanted to end up in the Pacific Ocean wearing cement overshoes? “I promise.”
“That includes Billy.”
If Sam Rotondo thought I’d ever tell Billy about this night and the results thereof, he was insane. “I promise.”
“Very well. I’ll allow the four of you to go without consequences. This time.”
“There won’t be another time,” I muttered.
“We’ll see.”
He didn’t sound the least bit confident in my declaration, the rat. Nevertheless, my heart felt infinitesimally lighter. “Do I have to sign anything? A legal document or anything?”
“No. If you don’t do what you’ve agreed to do, I’ll just lock you up. I expect you’ll cooperate.”
“Thanks heaps.”
Sam went to the door and opened it for me. Gentlemanly of him. When I joined Harold, Flossie, and Stacy, Harold and Flossie jumped to their feet and rushed over to me. Stacy remained in her chair and continued to sulk.
Somehow or other, I managed to smile at Harold and Flossie. “It’s all right. I’m fine.”
But I didn’t get to break the good news to them. Sam did that, telling them that he’d let them go this time, but if he ever caught them in an illegal situation again, he wouldn’t be so nice.
Nice? Ha! I burned to reveal all, at least to Harold. He’d have sympathized with me. But I couldn’t. The burden was mine alone to bear. Mine and Sam’s. Whoop-de-do. Somehow, that knowledge didn’t significantly lighten my load.
Harold and Flossie took taxicabs from the police station, and Sam drove both Stacy and me home after that. None of us said a single word until we got to Mrs. Kincaid’s mansion and Sam drove through the big iron gate, which was manned by Mr. Jackson, whose son had probably escaped the same raid in which I’d been snagged, and to the front of the house. Then Sam took Stacy by the hand, told me to wait in the motorcar, and led Stacy to her mother’s front door.
I watched as Featherstone, Mrs. Kincaid’s butler, opened the door. I stared hard in order to see if he showed any reaction. He didn’t. Featherstone was the most professional person I’d ever seen in my life. I tried to emulate him in my own work. Not th
at I wanted to look like a butler, but I always tried to keep my spiritualist image intact under all circumstances during which I might possibly be observed by clients or potential clients.
Although Featherstone didn’t bat an eye, I think I heard Mrs. Kincaid screech—and that was after the thick oak door closed behind Sam and Stacy. A screech from Stacy’s mother was no more than typical, and I thought morosely that I could expect a telephone call from her in the morning.
Sam didn’t spend very long in the Kincaid house, but came back to his car after no more than ten minutes. I eyed him without favor. “Have fun?”
“Oh, sure. Tons of fun.”
“Is Mrs. Kincaid hysterical?”
“What do you think?”
I couldn’t quite make myself smile. I truly did feel sorry for Mrs. Kincaid. Sort of. She might have done a better job with her daughter, although her son was a peach. I got kind of tired of her hysterics, too, having felt for some time that a swift kick to Stacy’s rear end would do more to straighten her out than tears and tantrums. On the other hand, what did I know? I didn’t have any kids and never would, thanks to the lousy, stinking Germans, so I wasn’t exactly an expert on childrearing.
“That girl’s going to get herself in real trouble one of these days,” Sam growled, punching the Hudson’s self-starter viciously.
“Probably.” And what did I care if she did? Not a thing, that’s what. In fact, I hoped she did, which goes to show what a bad mood I was in. I don’t usually wish evil upon people, even people I don’t like.
I was surprised it wasn’t later than it was, but when Sam pulled his Hudson up to the curb, it was only about eleven. There was still a light on in the house. My heart didn’t exactly sing when I saw it, mainly because it no doubt meant Billy was waiting up for me.
Now, here’s the thing: if Billy had been healthy and whole, I’d have thought it was sweet that he stayed up to greet me when I came home from a hard evening’s work conducting séances or whatever. But when my poor mangled leftover-from-the-War Billy waited up for me, it almost always meant he was in more pain than usual, angrier than usual, or had gone to sleep and been awakened by a terrible dream—and I hadn’t been there for him.
Then again, maybe he and Pa were playing cards.
Naw. My luck was never that good.
Therefore, I turned to Sam. “Let me out. I don’t want Billy to know you brought me home. He’s expecting Harold to drive me home in his Bearcat. He’ll know I’ve done something wrong if you show me to the door.”
“At least you admit it was wrong.” Ignoring my wishes, Sam opened his door, climbed out of the car, and started walking to the passenger side to open my door.
I opened my own darned door, furious with him. In a hissing whisper, I said, “Darn it, you said you wouldn’t tell Billy about the speakeasy if I did what you wanted me to do! I agreed to do it, so get back in that car and go away before Billy sees you!”
“It’s all right, Daisy. I’ll just tell him I drove by when you were leaving ... whose house? Where did you tell him you were going to be working?”
I sighed, perceiving he wasn’t going to give up. “Mrs. Kincaid’s, darn you.”
“Perfect,” said he. “I’ll just say I brought Stacy home after she was arrested, and then offered to bring you home. It’s almost the truth.”
I saw his white teeth flash against his Italian skin and wanted to kick him.
“Cheer up,” he said. “At least Billy won’t have to visit you in jail.”
True. The knowledge didn’t cheer me up one tiny little bit.
Spike announced us before we got to the door.
“Good watchdog,” Sam growled.
“Yeah.”
I held my breath, fearing the worst, as I pushed the door open and stooped to greet Billy’s dog. “Don’t eat the shoes, Spike. They didn’t cost much, but they’re one of my favorite pair.” Only then did I dare glance up to look for Billy and try to assess his mood.
By gum, something good happened then for a change. Billy and Pa sat in the living room at the card table. They’d been playing gin rummy, and Billy actually smiled at me! I was so relieved, I darned near cried again.
It soon became clear, however, that I wasn’t out of the woods yet. As soon as Billy saw Sam, he frowned—not at Sam, but at me. “What are you doing with Sam? I thought you were at Mrs. Kincaid’s place?”
I was about to answer with a lie when Sam preempted me with one of his own. Shaking Pa’s hand, he spoke to Billy. “I had to take the Kincaid daughter home from a raid at a speak tonight, and your wife was there. I offered her a ride home.”
The doubt vanished from my husband’s face instantly. It never did that when I lied to him. “That kid’s a real mess. I don’t know why her mother doesn’t send her to a nunnery or something.”
“Probably because they’re Episcopalians and not Roman Catholics,” I said, striving to sound light and frivolous, as if I’d just returned home from an evening of jollity and fun.
All three men looked at me as if I was crazy. Fine. I’d just leave them alone, then. “I’m bushed, Billy.” I went over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You going to stay up long?” It was difficult to know exactly how Billy should be treated. I didn’t want to nag, but I also knew that he needed his rest. So did Pa, with his weak heart.
Without answering, Billy quirked an eyebrow at Sam. “Want to join us in a couple of games, Sam?”
Sam eyed the table with longing. I’ve never understood how people can sit and play cards for hours at a time. I’d be bored silly. “Well ... I’ve got to work tomorrow ... Oh, what the heck.” He headed to the hall closetwhere he knew we stored the card table and folding chairs because he and Billy and Pa played cards all the time.
That answered my question, so I left the men and Spike to their game, went to our bedroom, changed into my nightgown, and fell into bed, totally exhausted. That night I slept like the dead. Maybe I was only wishing.
The following morning, dawn broke much sooner than I thought it should, and I awoke before Billy. I did what I always did on mornings when my husband couldn’t catch me at it: checked the level of morphine syrup in the bottle he kept in our birds-eye maple dresser across the room from our bed.
My heart always hurt when I saw how much of the medicine he’d had to drink the day before—and I wasn’t even sure that was his only bottle. I suspected him of stashing that one bottle in the dresser because he knew I checked up on him. I had a feeling he took even more morphine than I was aware of and that he hid his other bottles because he didn’t want me to worry about him. As if I’d ever not worry about him.
The bottle was half-empty. It had been full the day before. I sighed and put it back, wondering why I bothered. Dr. Benjamin was right about addiction being better than pain. I told myself so over and over and over again, and I worried anyhow.
After tiptoeing back to the bed and kissing Billy’s ruffled hair—he had beautiful hair; it was the one thing that hadn’t changed since the war—I put on my robe and slippers and shuffled out to the kitchen, which connected to our bedroom.
Ma and Aunt Vi were eating breakfast and chatting softly. It always touched me that they took such pains not to awaken Billy and me in the morning. Both women smiled when I joined them, and Aunt Vi said softly, “I made waffles, Daisy.”
God bless my aunt. My mouth started watering instantly. “Thanks, Vi.”
“There’s bacon, too,” said Ma.
Better and better. “Yum.” Glancing around in search of the missing members of the family, I said, “Where are Pa and Spike?”
“Joe took the dog for a walk,” said Ma, smiling. “He said Spike is getting fat and needs the exercise.”
“Ha. Pa should talk.”
“It’s good for the both of them.” With a sigh, Ma stood, picked up the hat she’d laid aside, and put it on, stabbing a pin in it haphazardly. “The auditors are going to be at the hotel today. I’m not looking forward to it.”
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“Bank auditors?”
“Yes. They audit the accounts every year about this time. I’m not worried, but they take so much of my time. They don’t usually come on a Saturday. I’m afraid I may be late coming home from work today.
Ma was head bookkeeper at the Hotel Marengo. It was a responsible position for a woman in 1921—or any other time, for that matter—and I was proud of her. She normally worked half-days on Saturdays, and I hoped she wouldn’t have to work much longer than that. She deserved her time off.
Pa had worked as a chauffeur for rich movie people until his first heart attack four years before. Now he socialized. And took Spike for walks.
Golly, but I loved my family. Impulsively I gave Ma a hug. She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, but I only grinned at her. “You’ll triumph over those auditors, Ma. I have faith in you.”
“Go along with you, Daisy Majesty,” she said, borrowing one of Aunt Vi’s favorite sayings. By gum if she wasn’t blushing when she exited through the side door to walk to work.
“Daisy, you’re a caution,” Vi said, springing a new saying on me. I’d heard it before, but not from my aunt’s lips, and I wondered what a caution was, as related to persons. I didn’t ask. Vi didn’t take things quite as literally as Ma did, but I didn’t want to confuse her so early in the morning. She tapped her upper lip with her forefinger. “We need onions and potatoes.”
“I’ll stop by the store on my way to work,” I offered.
“Thank you, dear. That would be very nice of you.”
“You sure you trust me?”
Vi chuckled. “I trust you to pick them out, just not to cook them.”
I chuckled, too, although I rued my lack of cooking skills. “Thanks for the great breakfast, Vi. Any special occasion?”
“No. I just felt like making waffles.”
Boy, I wished I felt like cooking every once in a while. Or maybe it was better that I didn’t since I could burn water.
Vi set a plate before me, and I slathered butter on the piping-hot waffle. My father’s sister, my aunt Madeline, sent us a big can of Vermont maple syrup every Christmas, and I was about to pour some of the delicious stuff, heated in a saucepan on our lovely self-regulating gas range, on my buttered waffle when Vi interrupted me.
