New York Nocturne

by Walter Satterthwait

  I blinked. No adult had ever used that word in front of me before.

  She stood aside. With his derby, Mr. Lipkind gestured for me to proceed.

  I went in. A miniature black-and-white Boston terrier capered around me on the carpet, panting elaborately, its stubby tail frantically twitching.

  I was in the living room of a brightly lighted expensive suite furnished with overstuffed chairs and a big overstuffed sofa. The long drapes at the window were drawn together. A large upright radio was softly playing Chopin. And opposite me, beyond a coffee table, pushing herself up from the sofa with a black Malacca walking stick, its crook held in both hands, was a woman I had not seen in three years. Wearing a long, black silk dress identical to the dresses I remembered her wearing back then, back when all those appalling things had happened at the shore, back when my stepmother had been murdered, was my good friend Miss Lizzie Borden.

  BOOK TWO

  Chapter Eight

  As we embraced, I inhaled the sweet scent of cinnamon and oranges and cloves that, all at once, I remembered with astonishing clarity. It was as though no time, not a single second of it, had passed since I had seen her last.

  “Amanda,” she said. “How are you?”

  I stepped back. “I’m okay. I’m fine, Miss Lizzie. How are you?”

  In truth, looking at her more closely, I could see that the three years had changed her. Her hair was still silver-white, and it was still drawn back behind her small ears, but she was thinner now, and her face seemed strained. The gold pince-nez that had once looked like an afterthought, an ornament to set off her large, luminous gray eyes, now looked like what they were: an optical device.

  And back then, she had never used a walking stick.

  But the three years had changed me, as well. I was now a full head taller than she.

  The Boston terrier was still at my feet, sniffing frantically at my shoes—intoxicated, possibly, by the police headquarters bouquet.

  “I’m quite well, thank you,” Miss Lizzie said. “It’s very good to see you, dear. You look lovely. And, goodness, you must have grown at least a foot taller.”

  “It’s great to see you, Miss Lizzie. But how did you get here? How did—”

  “All in good time,” she said. “First, the introductions. You’ve already met Mr. Lipkind. This is Mrs. Parker, a friend. I met her last year, here at the hotel.”

  Mrs. Parker stepped forward and held out her delicate white hand, as casually as a man might. I shook it. “A pleasure,” she said and then smiled as she released me.

  The terrier romped around the room, paws pattering at the carpet, its eager head swiveling back and forth.

  Miss Lizzie glanced down at the dog, smiled vaguely, and then looked back at me. “It was Mrs. Parker,” she said, “who suggested that I engage Mr. Lipkind.”

  “The best damned shyster in the city,” said Mrs. Parker, in that languorous drawl.

  “The country,” said Mr. Lipkind.

  “But how—” I started to say to Miss Lizzie.

  “Have a seat, dear,” she said and glanced around the room. “Let’s all sit, shall we?”

  She lowered herself, right hand on the arm of the sofa, left hand using the walking stick to help her. I came around the coffee table and sat at the other end of the sofa. Mr. Lipkind and Mrs. Parker each took one of the chairs. On the small end table beside Mrs. Parker’s chair was an ashtray in which a cigarette burned, pale white smoke slowly spiraling toward the ceiling.

  As soon as Mrs. Parker sat down, the dog scampered across the carpet and leaped onto her lap. Mrs. Parker bent forward, wrapped her tiny hands around its tiny head, and kissed it on the nose.

  Watching this, Miss Lizzie blinked. Then she turned to me. “Are you hungry, dear? Mrs. Parker brought a sandwich. It’s there on the end table.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Thank you.” I turned to Mrs. Parker. “Thank you.”

  She smiled. “It was Lizbeth’s idea.”

  I had thought of my friend for so long as “Miss Lizzie,” hearing her real name came almost as a jolt.

  I ignored it, however. I was ravenous. On the table to my left were two paper napkins, a bottle of Coca-Cola, and a sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil. I put the napkins on my lap and then laid the sandwich atop them.

  “Here,” said Mr. Lipkind. He stood up, reached into his pocket, pulled out a Churchkey opener, stepped across the carpet, lifted the bottle of cola, opened it, and set it back down. “There you go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You bet.” Slipping the opener back into his pocket, he went back to his chair.

  I unfolded the aluminum foil. Inside was a fat sandwich of roast beef on dark rye bread. I raised it to my mouth and took a demure bite—I was in public. The meat was rare and tender, spread with pungent mustard; the bread was dense and chewy. Apart from a fresh swordfish steak that I shared, many years later, with my second husband on the island of Lamu, off the coast of Kenya, this was the best meal I ever ate in all of my life.

  Miss Lizzie waited for me to swallow and then said, “It was very clever of you to call your brother.”

  That had been the other telephone call I made this morning, after I spoke with the police.

  “I couldn’t think of anyone else. But I thought that if William could talk to Mr. Slocum, then Mr. Slocum might be able to help,” I explained.

  Darryl Slocum was the lawyer who had represented Miss Lizzie and me during the investigation of my stepmother’s death. Except for Mr. Lipkind, tonight, Mr. Slocum was the only lawyer I had ever met. I think I had some notion that if my brother got in touch with him, Mr. Slocum would swirl on a cape and come dashing to my rescue. Back then, during the investigation, I had had a terrible crush on the man—one from which, perhaps, I had not yet fully recovered.

  “And he was able to help,” said Miss Lizzie. “He’s very busy just now, and he knows no one here in New York, but he knows that I do.”

  “How did he know that?” I asked. “Have you seen him since . . . that time at the shore?” I took another bite of the sandwich. My stomach gurgled. I wondered if everyone had heard.

  “Once or twice,” she said. “He’s helped me with a few minor things.” She fluttered her fingers to show how minor they were. “In any event, he telephoned me. I told him that I’d take care of it. I telephoned Mrs. Parker and then went to the station and purchased a ticket for the first available train.”

  I pushed aside the thought that Mr. Slocum had been too busy to purchase a ticket for the first available train, and I swallowed some more roast beef.

  “Meanwhile,” said Mrs. Parker, inhaling her cigarette, then exhaling smoke with her words, “back at the ranch, I was going through my list of ambulance chasers. Clarence Darrow was busy, so I called Lipkind here.” Lightly, with her left hand, she stroked the dog, which was now lying across her thighs.

  “Darrow’s a piker,” said Mr. Lipkind, and he stroked his luxuriant mustache.

  I took a sip of Coca-Cola. It was warm but absolutely delicious.

  “Mr. Lipkind, Mrs. Parker, and I,” continued Miss Lizzie, “met at the Plaza Hotel for . . . well, I suppose you could call it a council of war. Mr. Lipkind has friends in the police department—”

  “Friends is putting it kind of strong,” said Mr. Lipkind.

  “Lawyers don’t have friends,” Mrs. Parker explained to me, stubbing out her cigarette. “They have torts.” She turned to Mr. Lipkind. “Or is that tarts?”

  Miss Lizzie smiled brightly at them both. “May I finish, please?”

  I had once seen her lose her temper, and she had been terrifying. Even now, with only that bright, controlled smile, she was formidable.

  “Sorry about that,” said Mrs. Parker. “Sometimes I get carried away.” She smiled wryly. “Sometimes I think I should be.”

  Miss Lizzie
looked at Mr. Lipkind.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “You got it.”

  She turned back to me. “Mr. Lipkind’s acquaintances,” she said, “were able to determine where you were being held. Mr. Lipkind knew of a judge who was able to provide the papers necessary to secure your release. Once he had them, Mr. Lipkind proceeded to police headquarters. He has done, I think, an excellent job.” She turned to him. “For which I sincerely thank him.”

  “Hey,” said Mr. Lipkind. “It’s what I do.”

  I swallowed the last bite of sandwich and asked Miss Lizzie, “Why didn’t you come down there yourself?”

  “Mrs. Parker suggested that, all things considered, it might be best for me to remain in the background. I believe she was right.”

  I looked at Mrs. Parker, who was bending forward, whispering to the dog. She looked up at me and again she smiled that dazzling smile.

  Miss Lizzie said to me, “Knowing something of how the police operate, I imagine that you’ve explained several thousand times what happened today. But perhaps, if you’re able, you could explain it one more time, for us.”

  “Okay.” I dabbed at my mouth with a paper napkin, took another sip of the Coca-Cola.

  Slowly, I explained it one more time.

  Now and then Mr. Lipkind asked questions.

  “Daphne Dale?” he said. “The writer?”

  Mrs. Parker’s dog was following all this closely, his small, square head turning from one speaker to the next.

  “That’s what John told me,” I said. “He said she put him in her book.”

  “Really?” said Mrs. Parker. “The Flesh Seekers? He was Jerry Brandon? Well, of course he was. John Burton, Jerry Brandon.” She turned to Miss Lizzie. “She calls herself Sophie Hill in the book. Daphne doesn’t go very far for her names.” She smiled. “Just over the hill and down the dale.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I haven’t read the book.”

  “Consider yourself lucky,” she said. “But if you want a copy, I can lend you mine. It’s propping up a bookcase in my apartment.”

  “Okay,” said Mr. Lipkind. “What next?”

  I continued on to El Fay.

  “Larry Fay,” said Mr. Lipkind. “And your uncle went off with him?”

  “Yes. For about fifteen minutes.”

  “Interesting.”

  “In what way?” Miss Lizzie asked him.

  “He’s a hoodlum. A rumrunner.” He turned back to me. “How is it your uncle knew him? Did he say?”

  “No.”

  Still stroking the dog, Mrs. Parker asked me, “Did you get to see George Raft?”

  The dog looked up at her, its tiny tongue lolling.

  “Yes,” I said. “He was amazing.”

  She smiled. “Amazing in a way that makes you wonder how amazing he might be in other ways.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Lizzie. “All right, Amanda. What happened next?”

  “We went to the Cotton Club,” I said. “In Harlem.” I mentioned the man in the white dinner jacket.

  “Good-looking guy?” Mr. Lipkind asked me. “English accent?”

  “He was good-looking, yes. But I don’t know about the accent. I didn’t talk to him.”

  “Black hair, brown eyes, smokes cigarettes? Stands real straight?”

  “That’s him, yes.”

  “Owney Madden.”

  “And who might he be?” Miss Lizzie asked.

  “He owns the place. Also a couple of breweries. Another hood. A Brit. Got sent up for killing a guy about seven years ago. He got sprung last year. Smooth as silk these days, but very definitely a hood.”

  Miss Lizzie turned to me. “Your uncle, it seems, knew some rather colorful characters.”

  “But he was a stockbroker,” I said. “Maybe they had investments.”

  “Guys like Owney and Larry,” said Mr. Lipkind, “they don’t need investments. They are investments.”

  “You’re on a first-name basis?” Mrs. Parker asked him.

  “I get around.” He shrugged. “Part of the job.”

  “Go ahead, Amanda,” said Miss Lizzie. “What happened next?”

  I told them about coming home, going to sleep, and finding John’s body.

  “Yes, dear,” said Miss Lizzie—wishing, I believe, to hurry me past that horror. “I know it must have been dreadful. So you called the police?”

  I continued with the story. When I came to Lieutenant Becker, Miss Lizzie turned to Mr. Lipkind and asked him, “Who is he, this Becker person?”

  “A big deal at headquarters. Got a lot of juice.”

  “By ‘juice’ you mean power? Influence?”

  “Right. Word is, he’s the bagman between the mob and the cops.”

  “Bagman?”

  “According to the grapevine, Becker’s the guy who carries cash from your criminal element—folks like Madden and Fay and Arnold Rothstein—to the department. Down at headquarters, it’s divvied up among the troops.”

  “Arnold Rothstein?”

  “Big gambler. Runs the richest floating crap game in the city.”

  “The name is familiar. Isn’t he somehow connected to the sports world?”

  Mr. Lipkind smiled. “Kind of. He’s the man who fixed the World Series back in 1919.”

  She nodded. “We are talking, then, about bribes.”

  “Contributions, the police like to call them.”

  “And the police can get away with this?”

  Mr. Lipkind shrugged. “New York City. They can get away with whatever they want.”

  “The New York City cops,” said Mrs. Parker, “are notorious assholes.”

  The word, coming out of that tiny frame, spoken in that elegant accent, startled me. I glanced at Miss Lizzie. If she were startled, she didn’t show it. She simply nodded and then turned to Mr. Lipkind.

  “But if Mr. Becker is such a powerful figure,” she asked, “why should he involve himself in this particular investigation?”

  “Good question,” said Mr. Lipkind. He shrugged. “I dunno. Unless maybe the cops want to keep Madden and Fay out of it.”

  “But Mr. Becker couldn’t have known, before he arrived at John Burton’s, what Amanda’s testimony might be. He couldn’t have known that she’d mention Mr. Madden and Mr. Fay.”

  “Maybe Madden or Fay heard that Burton got nailed, and they decided to be included out. All it would take is a call to Becker.”

  “Why should they care?”

  “Dunno. Something we’ve got to find out, I guess.”

  She turned to me. “All right, Amanda. Mr. Becker brought you down to police headquarters. What then?”

  I told them about Vandervalk and Becker.

  Once again Miss Lizzie turned to Mr. Lipkind. “They can’t really believe that Amanda’s uncle tried to . . . harm her?”

  “Nah. Like I told the kid—”

  “Amanda,” corrected Miss Lizzie.

  “Right. Like I told her, they’re up against it. They got no one else. She’s handy, right? An out-of-towner. No family, no friends, no connections. They tie the can to her; they can close out the case.”

  “That’s despicable.”

  “Yeah. Cossacks. They had her in a little holding cell they got downstairs. Wanted to spook her. Even brought in some bull—” Lightly, he covered his mouth with his fist and cleared his throat. “They even brought in some hard-nosed babe from the streets, stuck her in there with her.”

  He grinned. “Turns out the babe got decked.” He turned to me. “What’d you hit her with? The sink?”

  “The wall,” I said. “Sort of.” I turned to Miss Lizzie. “She was going to—”

  “I’m sure you did exactly what needed to be done,” she said.

  I looked over at the lawyer. “Mr. Lipkind
?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The room I was in, with Becker and Vandervalk. There was a big drain in the floor. What was that for?”

  “For when they rinse the room down. Afterward.” He turned to Miss Lizzie. “Sometimes, the cops, they get a little carried away when they ask people questions.”

  “Charming,” she said. “All right. Where, exactly, do we go from here?”

  Before he could answer, someone knocked at the door to the suite.

  Miss Lizzie said, “Who on Earth . . .”

  Mrs. Parker set the dog on the carpet and stood. The dog looked up at her, expectant. “Let’s find out,” said Mrs. Parker.

  His tail twitching, the dog followed her to the door.

  Chapter Nine

  It was Mr. Lipkind’s chauffeur, Robert. He strode into the room, holding his cap in his left hand and carrying a suitcase in his right. I recognized the suitcase as my own.

  Panting, the Boston terrier danced around him.

  Mr. Lipkind rose from his chair. “Okay, Robert, thanks. You can just set that down.”

  Robert lowered the suitcase, placed it against the wall, and stood straight up, waiting. Taller than he had seemed in the car, he was broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted. And still very handsome in his well-cut gray uniform.

  Mr. Lipkind turned to Miss Lizzie. “This is my right-hand guy, Robert Jenkins. Robert, this is Miss Borden.”

  Miss Lizzie smiled. “How do you do?”

  “Ma’am,” said Robert in his smooth, rolling baritone, and he nodded politely.

  “And this is Mrs. Parker,” said Mr. Lipkind.

  “Dorothy,” said Mrs. Parker.

  “Ma’am,” said Robert.

  “Dorothy,” said Mrs. Parker and smiled.

  “Grab a seat, Robert,” said Mr. Lipkind. He looked to Miss Lizzie. “That okay?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  Only one more seat was available, a small upholstered chair pushed up against the wall. With a dancer’s grace, Robert lifted it, swung it out into the room, set it back on the floor, and sat down in it. He held himself upright, holding his cap in his lap with both hands, the terrier sniffing and snuffling at his shiny black brogues. Robert leaned forward and used his right hand to scratch the dog behind the ear. The terrier jumped up into his lap. Robert grinned and scratched it some more.