by Alice Duncan
Anyhow, Flossie must have been pretty unhappy in the first place to take up with a guy like Jinx. Heck, I’d never have met a gangster, ever, if not for Stacy Kincaid and her deplorable tendencies. The fact that Flossie had found Jinx even without an intermediary like Mrs. Kincaid or Stacy must mean that her life had been far rougher than mine from the beginning. At least that’s my theory.
Nevertheless, my words seemed to make an impression on her. She stared at me as if I’d just told her I was the queen of the world and was going to turn her into a fairy princess. After several moments of stunned silence, she said, “You think?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Gee.”
Mrs. McKenna brought a tray laden with china teacups, a pot of tea, and cream and sugar. I knew, because the Tea Cup Inn ladies and my family were friendly, that they bought their pretty flowered teacups and pots at estate sales and the Salvation Army Thrift Store on Green Street, but nobody else knew it. Mrs. McKenna and Mrs. Fincher put on a great show of refinement and gentility, and the ladies of Pasadena loved it. The two women figured—and I agreed with them—that nobody had to know they were only trying to make a living, even though that should have been obvious to the thickest-headed of Pasadena’s elite. I mean, what did they think? That people operated teashops for their health?
Which made me think of a brilliant suggestion. I hoped it was brilliant, anyhow. “Say, Flossie, have you ever thought about acting?”
“Acting?” If she hadn’t been wearing a veil, I’m sure I would have seen her eyes grow large.
“Yeah. I think it might be a good idea for you to act like you’re worth something for a change and see if the behavior won’t stick. Jinx is going to kill you one of these days if you don’t skedaddle out of that situation.”
She lifted her crumpled hankie to her nose, and I saw her shudder. “He’s threatened to kill me if I ever leave him.”
It was time for my own eyes to bug out. “He what?”
She nodded unhappily. “I love him, see, but he’s so mean to me, and I’d like to get away from him, but he said he’d kill me if I did.”
Good Lord. My mind boggled again. Why in the name of all that’s holy would a woman remain in the clutches of a man who not only beat her when she was there, but threatened to kill her if she went away? And how could Flossie stand living the way she did? I didn’t understand, which didn’t make it the first time an aspect of life had baffled me.
Our lunches arrived and I dug in, not merely because I was hungry, but because I needed to think. I wished there was something I could do for Flossie, but I didn’t know what it could be. It was true Flossie might be of help to me in the task Sam had set for me—curse the man—but I judged that relying on her might be perilous. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t trust her, but she seemed an awfully leaky vessel in which to place my trust. Shoot, if Jinx had threatened to kill her, a woman who, one supposed, meant something to him, he’d smash me like a pesky fly if I interfered with him.
I noticed that Flossie wasn’t eating. I swallowed some tomato aspic and questioned her. “What’s the matter? Does your mouth hurt?”
She shook her head. “Not much.” She stuck her spoon into the soup and took a small sip, then bit off a tiny point of her crustless sandwich. After she downed it, she put her spoon down and gazed pleadingly at me.
“Mrs. Majesty?”
My insides sank like a rock in the ocean. “Please,” I said, “call me Daisy.”
She cocked her head to one side. “I thought you was Desdemona.”
“Daisy’s short for Desdemona,” I lied.
“Oh.” Pause. “Well ... um ... I wondered ...”
Uh-oh. I sensed trouble brewing. More trouble, I mean. What I wanted to do was run away and hide, but that option was out. “Yes?” My voice was small. I berated myself as a coward.
“Well ...” She swallowed hard. “Oh, never mind.”
Oh, brother. Attempting a bracing tone, I said, “Nonsense. Something’s bothering you. Please tell me what it is. Maybe I can help.”
Idiot, idiot, idiot! What I really didn’t need at that point in time was to shoulder Flossie’s burdens. But I couldn’t help myself. I felt so sorry for the poor woman, and I knew she needed at least one friend of the female persuasion. Clearly she wasn’t getting anything but grief from her beloved.
“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Flossie assured me. Famous last words. “But ... well ...”
I hope I suppressed my sigh.
“Well, maybe could you help me look more like you?”
I stared at her over a spoonful of mushroom soup. “Look more like me?”
Now here’s the thing. I’m not bad looking. In fact, sometimes when I’m in full spiritualist regalia, with a little help from dark clothing and extremely light powder, I look pretty darned good in an ethereal, wafting-around-like-a-ghost sort of way. But I couldn’t imagine Flossie, whose vividness of dress and makeup were at the opposite spectrum from my demure demeanor, wanting to look like me.
I said, “Um ...” And my imagination dried up.
She reached across the table, touched my wrist, which had helped the attached hand lay the spoon back on the plate, and instantly withdrew it. The gesture was so spontaneous and so immediately regretted, that my heart twanged. Again. Blast my sensitive innards, anyhow.
“You see, I look like what I am,” said Flossie, “and that’s no good.”
I felt like a priest in a confessional. Not that I’ve ever been in a confessional, mind you, since I’m an upstanding Methodist, but that’s what I felt like anyway. “Oh, Flossie, you don’t ...” But the lie wouldn’t come. She did look like what she was: a gangster’s moll. Oh, dear.
She was shaking her head. “Yes, I do. You know it. I wear these clothes ...” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “And I wear too much makeup, and ... well, I wish I looked more like you.” She sucked in a deep breath and finished lamely, “But I don’t know how.”
It seemed to me that it would be a simple thing for a lady to wear less makeup and more sober clothing, but perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps, if one were accustomed to putting one face on for the world, it took some courage to change that face.
“Um,” I said again. Big help. Taking myself firmly in hand and telling myself I was doing a good deed, not unlike Pudge Wilson, I tried once more. “I’ll be happy to help you, Flossie.” My head did an instant nose-dive into my shoes. I would.
“Would you?” I could see that she beamed under that silly veil. “Thanks so much.” She dipped her spoon into her bowl and took a careful sip of soup.
She seemed so happy, I hated to burst her hopeful bubble, but a salient point had just reared its big, ugly, and probably lethal, head. “You’re welcome. But ... well ... um, what will Jinx think of it if you started dressing differently and wearing ... um, more discreet makeup?”
Her head snapped up. “Jinx? Oh, he’ll love it. He’s always telling me I look like a—”
She stopped speaking so abruptly that I jerked as if I’d bumped into a brick wall. “Like a what?” I had a sinking feeling that old Jinx was going to spur me on to great heights of helpfulness, blast him.
Bowing her head, Flossie whispered, “He always says I look like a ... whore.”
I barely heard the final word, but it was enough. “Well, he’s wrong,” I said stoutly. “And I’ll help you as much as I can.”
Another salient point whacked me between the eyes. “Say, Flossie, do you have a place to stay?” If I had to take her home, I’d bite the bullet and do it, but God alone knew what that would do to my already-tarnished (in my husband’s eye) reputation.
She looked up from the sandwich she was about to nibble. “Oh, I gotta go back to Jinx. He’ll kill me if I don’t.”
Mental images of ribbons of machine-gun holes marring the tidy exterior of our home on Marengo Avenue barged into my brain and wouldn’t go away. “But ...”
Again she shook her head. “No. I got
to. Honest, it’ll be okay. He won’t hurt me no more for a while.”
He won’t hurt me no more for a while? My resolve to help the woman strengthened. I did ask a question of her. I couldn’t help myself. “Why did you take up with him in the first place, Flossie? He’s obviously a very bad man.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t have no choice. My old man kicked me out after my ma died. He was on the booze anyways, and life was pretty ugly at home.”
Good Lord. I endeavored to keep my mouth from dropping open. “Um ... where did you grow up?”
“New York.”
Aha. Same as Sam Rotondo. I’d always read that New York was a slightly unsavory place—unless, of course, you were rich. But that could be said of everywhere, I guess.
“Hell’s Kitchen,” she elaborated, then said confidingly, “I don’t just call it that. It’s what everybody calls it.” She hesitated for a moment. “And they’re all right. It’s hell. At least the part I lived in.”
“I’m sorry.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Yeah, well, Jinx, he took me outta that place, and it’s prettier here. But he’s still him.”
I knew what she meant. Once more it crossed my mind to ask Flossie to help me with the case Sam had forced me to undertake, but again I didn’t. Poor Flossie’s heart seemed to be in the right place, but her physical self was definitely vulnerable, and I wasn’t altogether certain of her moral character—she was with Jinx Jenkins, wasn’t she? Besides, I’m sure I’d crack if somebody tortured me, and I didn’t want to be the cause of any more torturing of Flossie on Jinx’s part. Not, I’m sure, that he needed a reason to beat up on the poor woman.
“But Jinx says Mr. Maggiori will be setting up another séance, so I’ll see you there, right?” She sounded positively happy for the first time since I’d met her.
“Right,” said I, wishing it weren’t so.
And then Flossie grabbed my hand, burst into tears, and said, “Nobody’s never tried to help me before. You’re so nice to me!”
Oh, Lord, another weeping woman. Depending on me. I figured that I was not only done for, but that things couldn’t get any worse. Boy, was I wrong.
Chapter Seven
Flossie Mosser and I parted soon after that. Because I felt so sorry for her—and because I’m such a sucker—I asked her to meet me at Nash’s Department Store the next morning at eleven. I figured we could have an hour to shop and, maybe, tone down her makeup, have lunch, and I could then escape.
Occasionally I ask myself when I’ll learn to butt out of other people’s business, but I seldom pursue the issue since I’m pretty sure the answer is “never.”
At any rate, I offered to drive Flossie somewhere, but she said she’d catch the red car, which ran on tracks down Colorado to, I presume, wherever she was going. In a way I hated to see her go. Not that I wanted to offer her housing or anything. In truth, and I know it sounds mean, but I wished I’d never met her. But I knew she was going back to a vicious man who took out his anger on a helpless woman, and I hated to see her do it. Flossie was an okay kid, for a trollop.
Lest anyone accuse me of denigrating my own sex, let me say that I don’t consider females helpless as a rule. It is absolutely true, however, that we have fewer rights than do males, and, therefore, have to maneuver considerably more agilely if we want to make a living. Look at me, if you don’t believe me. And there’s also no denying that we’re generally weaker physically than men, which makes Jinx’s predilection for beating up on poor Flossie even more despicable.
It was, therefore, with a heavy heart that I drove the Chevrolet to our neat little bungalow on Marengo. I noticed Pudge sweeping Mrs. Ballard’s sidewalk and guessed he was piling up good deeds so he could take a couple of days off or something. I gave him a jaunty wave, even though I was feeling far from jaunty at that moment. However, it never does to disappoint one’s public. Anyhow, I figured the worst of my day was over, and I could relax and enjoy the evening with my family.
Wrong.
As soon as I opened the front door, Spike attacked the brand-new pumps with crossover straps that I’d got at Nash’s for a song when they held their annual sale. That wasn’t the bad part. I adored Spike and found his enthusiastic greetings always cheered me up when I needed cheering, which I did then.
No. What negated Spike’s joyful salutation was the sight of Billy, Pa, and Sam Rotondo sitting at the card table playing gin rummy. They all turned and smiled at me. I suspected Sam’s smile of being of a sardonic nature, but perhaps I was projecting my overall sense of abuse onto him. I doubt it.
“Hey, Daisy,” said Billy, looking happy for a change. “Aunt Vi’s cooking a pork roast for supper.”
That, at least, was happy news indeed. “Wonderful,” said I, thinking I should really count my blessings instead of dwelling on the unpleasant aspects of my life.
“And she asked me to stay,” said Sam, reminding me forcefully of said unpleasant aspects. Nuts.
“Great.”
I know my voice conveyed my weariness because Pa said, “Rough day, sweetheart?”
Stooping to pick up Spike, who obligingly licked my chin for me, I said, “You have no idea.”
“Well, Vi’s dinner will perk you up,” Billy said.
Couldn’t hurt, I suppose. “Right,” I said, and carried Spike through the kitchen, where wonderful aromas floated, and on into the bedroom Billy and I shared. There I flung my hat and handbag on the dresser, plopped Spike on the bed and flopped down next to him, heedless of his little puppy paws on my black-and-white checks. What I wanted to do right then was go to sleep and never wake up. Preferably with Spike in my arms.
Such a happy fate was not to be mine. I knew it even before Vi knocked at the door a half-hour or so later and said, “You asleep in there, Daisy?”
Well, I had been, but no matter. “No, Vi. Just resting for a few minutes.”
“Can you help me put dinner on the table, Daisy? We’ve got a guest tonight.”
A guest. Right. Sam Rotondo was at our house so often that I sometimes, in my more cynical moments, thought to ask Pa if he’d adopted him. “Sure, Vi. Just have to change clothes, and I’ll be right out.”
“You haven’t changed yet?”
Did I detect a censorious note in my aunt’s voice, or was it my imagination? Lately I’d been suspecting everything anyone said to me as having more than one meaning. Probably my guilty conscience shading my perspective.
“Almost,” I said. “It’ll just take me another minute.”
“Your mother telephoned from the hotel. She said she might be a little late getting home, but not to wait dinner for her.”
And if anything could remind me that I wasn’t the only one in the world with problems, it was the mention of my hard-working, selfless mother. “Poor Ma. I’ll be right there, Vi.”
So, much to Spike’s disappointment, not to mention my own, I scrambled out of my nice checked suit and into a faded housedress with once-green flowers adorning it. Thanks to my short, shingled hair, all I had to do was fluff it a little after I rose from the bed, and I was almost ready to face the world when Spike and I exited my sanctuary. I kept telling myself I wasn’t the only person who faced distasteful realities on a daily basis, but when I saw Sam Rotondo’s broad back hunched over the card table, my internal pep talk fizzled significantly.
“I’ll set a place for Ma,” I told Vi.
“That’s fine. I know she’ll be here if those auditors finish up early.”
“Glad nobody audits me,” I muttered.
Aunt Vi sniffed. “I should say so.”
I guess she hadn’t forgiven me for upsetting Mrs. Kincaid. Yet one more thing to feel guilty about. If I hadn’t already laid out several plates, my sigh might have blown the tablecloth off the table. I was happy to see Ma walk in right before we all sat down to eat.
Dinner was great and went a long way toward soothing my ragged nerves. There’s nothing quite as wonderful as Aunt V
i’s pork roast, which she serves with roasted potatoes, green beans, and Harvard beets. To top it all off, we had one of Vi’s delectable apple pies, with which she served vanilla ice cream. After I’d eaten far more than I should have, I decided the world might be worth living in for one more day, if not even a little bit longer.
And then, as if he couldn’t allow me even one evening of peace, Sam asked if he could speak to me outdoors for a minute or two. I glanced at Billy, who nodded his approval. He would.
Nevertheless, I stepped out onto the front porch with Sam. It was cold out there, and I’d forgotten to put on a sweater, so I hugged myself and said snappishly, “Make it fast. I’m cold.”
“Want to go get a wrap?”
Oh, brother. If there was one thing I didn’t need, it was a solicitous Sam Rotondo. “No!” I sounded positively waspish that time. “What I want is for you to leave me alone.”
He frowned down at me. “We made a deal, Daisy.”
I muttered, “Some deal. For the benefit of not getting arrested, I run the risk of getting myself killed and leaving my family bereft. And Billy with only his pension to support him. And I was only trying to do a good deed!” Can you tell I felt very abused and mistreated?
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he snarled. “You’re not going to get killed. Just listen to me.”
“I’m listening. Hurry up.” Sullen. Very sullen.
“We got word today that Maggiori is setting up shop in Lamanda Park.”
Lamanda Park was a nice little area east of Pasadena that had just been annexed and was now a part of the city. I was kind of surprised since Maggiori’s last place of operation was outside the city limits, in the County of Los Angeles. “Really? Boy, that was fast.”
“Yeah. Now listen up. We want you to set up another of those séances as soon as you can.”
“I can’t just call him up on the telephone and ask him if he’d like me to conduct another séance for him!” I protested hotly. “For one thing, I don’t have his number. And for another thing, he’d probably think it was really odd.”
