New York Nocturne

by Walter Satterthwait

  “How did she and John get along?”

  Mrs. Norman shrugged. “They get along just fine. All lovey-dovey, mostly. Except at the end there. Then they have themselves a big ole argument.”

  “When was this?”

  “A year past. No, more than that. Two years, almost.”

  “Do you know what they were arguing over?”

  “Not the particulars.”

  “How did the argument come about?”

  “The two of them, they in the library. Someone come knockin’ at the door, and I be in the hallway there, sweepin’ up, so I go to the door and I open it. Be a little man out there, say his name is Walters. Joe Walters. Say he need to talk to Mr. Burton. I say for him to wait, and I go to the library and tell Mr. Burton. He say for me to show the man in.”

  “You have an impressive memory, Mrs. Norman,” said Mr. Liebowitz. “This happened nearly two years ago?”

  “Near-abouts.” She shrugged. “Don’t know ’bout impressive. Got me a cousin married to a man name of Joe Walters. Same name exactly. That how come it stick in my mind.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Go ahead.”

  “Mr. Walters, he come in, and he go into the library, but he don’t stay long, only a couple minutes. He come out, and he turn around back to the library, and he say, ‘Okay. Tomorrow, at the Spyglass. Two o’clock.’ He call it out, like. That how come I hear it.”

  “The Spyglass?” said Miss Lizzie.

  “A bar downtown,” said Mr. Liebowitz. “Near the Fulton Fish Market.” He turned to Mrs. Norman. “You remember him saying that? The Spyglass?”

  “The Spyglass.” She smiled faintly. “Guess my memory, it pretty impressive after all.”

  Mr. Liebowitz grinned. “I guess so.”

  “What did Mr. Walters look like?” asked Miss Lizzie.

  “He short. He be wearing real good clothes, real nice cut to ’em. He real clean.”

  Miss Lizzie nodded. “And what happened then?”

  “Then is when they have the big ole argument. That Miss Dale, she gits real upset. Like I say, I be standing just outside the door, cleaning up, and I hear her, clear as a bell. Can’t help but hear her. She be shoutin’. She be tellin’ Mr. Burton that Mr. Walters, he no good. He work for that Rothstein man.”

  “Rothstein?” said Miss Lizzie.

  “That Arnold Rothstein,” said Mrs. Norman. “The gamblin’ man.”

  “You’re certain,” said Miss Lizzie, “that she said Rothstein?”

  “I be right there, standin’ just outside the door. Like I say, couldn’t help but hear her.”

  “Did she say just Rothstein, or did she say Arnold as well?”

  “Just the Rothstein. But I know who she mean. Only one Rothstein be famous in New York.”

  “But it could have been some other Rothstein,” said Mr. Liebowitz.

  Mrs. Norman shrugged. “Maybe. But from the way she say it, she be talkin’ ’bout the gamblin’ man.”

  “What else did they say?” asked Miss Lizzie.

  “Don’t know. Just then, Mr. Burton, he come to the door, and he see me out there. He give me a little smile, embarrassed-like, and then he shut the door.”

  “And Miss Dale and John ended their relationship shortly after that?”

  “Never saw her again. One time—this a few months later—I ask him, I say, ‘What happen to that nice Miss Dale?’” She leaned a fraction of an inch toward Miss Lizzie. “I say nice because that the polite thing to say.” She sat back. “Mr. Burton, he just smile and he say, ‘We agree to disagree.’”

  Miss Lizzie nodded. “Did Mr. Walters ever come to the apartment again?”

  “Not when I be there.”

  “What about Mr. Rothstein?”

  “Never saw him. Read about him. He famous. He fix that World Series back in 1919.”

  “Do you know Owney Madden?”

  “He own the Cotton Club over on Lenox. Big gangster.”

  “Did he ever come to the apartment?”

  “Only person I ever saw in the apartment was that Miss Dale. And that Joe Walters. And Mr. Cooper a few times. Mr. Albert. Mr. Albert, though, usually he not there. Mr. Burton, he tell me he got him a girlfriend over in Queens.” She turned to me. “Mr. Albert, he the one call me on Saturday, tell me about Mr. Burton. I ask him about you. I worried, you know. Young girl all on her own. He say you with the police, he tryin’ to find you.” She nodded. “Glad you okay.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Mrs. Norman,” said Mr. Liebowitz, “did Mr. Burton ever mention Arnold Rothstein to you?”

  “No.”

  “Owney Madden?”

  “No.”

  “Larry Fay?”

  “No.”

  He turned to Miss Lizzie. “Is there anything else?”

  “I don’t believe so.” She looked at Mrs. Norman. “If you think of anything that might be helpful, could you telephone me? I am at the Algonquin Hotel. Shall I write that down?”

  Again, Mrs. Norman faintly smiled. “I reckon I kin remember.”

  Miss Lizzie nodded. “I thank you very much for your time.”

  “You welcome. I think of somethin’, I give you a call.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “So we come across Mr. Rothstein again,” said Miss Lizzie.

  We were in the Cadillac, south of 135th Street, heading toward Central Park on Lenox Avenue.

  “Perhaps Mrs. Norman misheard the name,” said Mr. Liebowitz.

  “I think it very unlikely that Mrs. Norman ever misheard anything in her life. Did you notice the books in her bookshelf?”

  “Yes. Spengler. DuBois. Freud. Translations of Baudelaire and Chekhov. She’s obviously well-read.”

  “She was also most entertained when you doubted her memory,” said Miss Lizzie, and I could hear the smile in her voice.

  “Yes,” he said. “She’s smart. I’m surprised, really, that she doesn’t speak better English.”

  “I suspect that she can speak it as well as any of us. Or better. I think she was doing us a kindness.”

  “What kindness?”

  “Providing us with what we were expecting to hear.”

  “You think she lied?”

  “No, no. I think she told us the truth. But she was presenting it, and herself, in a way that she believed we could understand.”

  “Simple old woman, fresh from the country.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “You’d make a good lawyer, Miss Borden.”

  “Miss Cabot.”

  “What will we do now?” I asked her.

  “Now?” she said. “I think that now we should all get some sleep. But tomorrow morning, I think that we should talk to Daphne Dale again.”

  “Miss Dale never mentioned Arnold Rothstein,” Mr. Liebowitz pointed out.

  “But neither did we. The next time, we shall.”

  “Mr. Liebowitz,” Robert said from behind the steering wheel. His deep bass voice was soft.

  “Yes?”

  “I think we’re being followed.”

  Beside Robert, Mrs. Parker’s head swiveled around to face the rear of the car. I turned around and looked out the window.

  “Are you sure?” said Mr. Liebowitz.

  “Behind us. Two cars back. The Ford. It pulled out the same we did, on One Hundred and Thirty-Fifth Street, and it’s been staying back there.”

  Mr. Liebowitz was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Go left on One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth.”

  When we reached 125th Street, the traffic light was red, so we stopped and waited. No one spoke. The light went green. Some cars passed us, heading north. Robert made the turn.

  A moment passed. Mrs. Parker, still looking back through the rear window, said, “It’s still there.”


  Mr. Liebowitz told Robert, “Make a right at Fifth.”

  We drove silently for a few moments. Then Robert turned onto Fifth Avenue. We waited.

  “The bastard is still there,” said Mrs. Parker.

  Mr. Liebowitz turned to Miss Lizzie. “We have three choices: We can stop right now and see what they do, we can try to outrun them, or we can ignore them and see if they follow us all the way back.”

  “No,” said Miss Lizzie. “I see no reason to let them know where Amanda and I are staying. And I don’t like the idea of stopping. I think we ought to outrun them. Robert, can we do that?”

  “Out in the country, ma’am, it’d be easy,” he said. “No Model T can keep up with this car. But here in the city, it’s a different story.”

  Mr. Liebowitz said, “Then let’s go to the country.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Central Park. Take One Hundred and Tenth west, and head into the park opposite Lenox Avenue.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Robert.

  At 110th, with the traffic light green, Robert swerved the big car to the right. All of us in the car swung toward the left. I looked at Miss Lizzie. Silhouetted against the light from the streetlamps, she sat slightly forward, her walking stick upright between her knees, her hands wrapped around its crook. She turned to me, and I think she smiled.

  “Maybe the bastard won’t follow us,” said Mrs. Parker, still swiveled around in her seat and peering out the rear windshield. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence that—”

  I turned to look and saw the Ford making the same turn onto 110th, about a hundred yards behind.

  “Shit,” said Mrs. Parker.

  “The park entrance is coming up,” said Mr. Liebowitz.

  “Yes,” said Robert.

  “Don’t signal the turn.”

  “No.”

  We were lucky. When we arrived at the entrance to the park, no cars were approaching from the other direction. Robert whipped the wheel to the left, and the Cadillac’s tires chirped as the car shot across the road. We went racing into the darkness of the park.

  “Now stay left up here,” said Mr. Liebowitz.

  “No offense, Mr. Liebowitz,” said Robert, “but it’d be best now if you just let me drive.”

  “Right. You drive, Robert.”

  And drive Robert did. The big car roared south, picking up speed, its tires drumming along the pavement. To our left was the Harlem Meer, a flat black expanse of water, glossy in the moonlight.

  “They’ve done something to that car,” Robert said. “That’s not a standard Ford.”

  The headlights of the Ford were now only seventy-five yards behind us and getting closer.

  We made a long sweeping turn to our left, toward the east, tires squealing. I swayed against Miss Lizzie. Then came another squealing turn, this one to the right, and we went shooting south.

  “Damn,” said Robert.

  I looked back. The Ford had moved closer.

  It occurred to me that we had perhaps made a serious mistake by entering the park.

  Possibly the same thought had occurred to Mr. Liebowitz, for he reached into his jacket and slipped out his pistol. “Robert,” he said, “turn right up here.” He yanked back the pistol’s slide and let it snap forward.

  The car shot off to the right, tires squealing once more. Again, we all swayed to the left.

  “That Colt of yours, Robert,” said Mr. Liebowitz, “is it cocked and locked?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay.”

  Miss Lizzie said, “Are we absolutely certain that this is the right response?”

  “If we’re going to confront them,” said Mr. Liebowitz, “I’d rather that we be the ones who pick the place and time.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

  I felt her hand squeeze my knee. I took the hand in mine.

  Mr. Liebowitz said, “Robert, take the next right—”

  “West Drive,” said Robert.

  “Right. As soon as you make the turn, pull over and stop the car. I’ll get out on this side. You get out on that side and come around behind the car with me. The rest of you, all of you, get down on the floor and stay there. Miss Borden, can you do that?”

  “With great dispatch,” she said.

  “Amanda?”

  Miss Lizzie’s hand tightened briefly around mine.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Mrs. Parker? Can you get onto the floor?”

  “I can dig through the damn thing if I need to.”

  “Turn’s coming up, sir,” Robert said.

  “Everyone hang on,” said Mr. Liebowitz.

  We swerved to the right and kept swerving, and then we roared down the road for a moment. The tires hissed and sputtered. For a moment, the Cadillac lumbered forward, its wheels bumping along the grass now, and then it jerked to a skidding stop. All of us lurched forward, and Miss Lizzie’s hand was wrenched from mine.

  Mr. Liebowitz threw open his door and darted out, slamming it shut behind him. From behind the steering wheel, Robert did the same, his big body moving with astonishing speed.

  “Get down, Amanda,” said Miss Lizzie and moved to her right, taking up Mr. Liebowitz’s space. Awkwardly, she began to lower herself to the floor. I leaned forward to help her, and then the gunshots began—quick, loud pops, a rapid scattering of them, behind me.

  I spun around and looked out the window.

  In the moonlight, across the roadway, the Ford had stopped, and men were tumbling from open doors on the car’s far side. In their fists, fire flashed. The blasts of their pistols blended into one long, ragged clatter—the sound of paper tearing but magnified a thousand times.

  More pops behind me, Mr. Liebowitz and his .25, and then two loud booms from Robert’s big pistol. One of the men went down, clutching at his side.

  “Amanda,” said Miss Lizzie.

  I shifted over and lowered my body, but I kept peering over the bottom of the window.

  The men were gathered behind the Ford now, four or five of them. More flashes, more pops from behind the Ford. More gunfire from behind me.

  Suddenly, the side window on the Cadillac’s front seat exploded inward, scattering ragged chunks of glass into the car. I flinched.

  “Shit,” said Mrs. Parker. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”

  “Amanda!” said Miss Lizzie, and her hand wrapped around my calf.

  I let myself be forced back a bit, and I lowered my head slightly, but still I kept watching, mesmerized.

  We will never know, of course, why they decided to attack just then, why they did not remain in the relative safety of the Ford’s far side. Perhaps they simply wanted to end this before the police arrived. Whatever their reason, suddenly they were swarming around the Ford on both sides, their guns flashing and crashing. One of them crumpled to the street almost at once.

  And then, for only an instant, they were all brilliantly lit up, as though by a spotlight. They froze into a tableau, faces white, mouths open, stiff arms extended, and then they were hurled aside as a huge gray Lincoln swept in from the left and smashed into them with a loud and sickening whump. I saw bodies go spinning crazily off to the right and others go flying over the car’s long hood, arms and legs outstretched, empty hands grasping at nothing. Something slammed against the front end of the Cadillac, and the car wobbled once.

  I heard the squeal of brakes, off to my right, farther up the road, and then the heavy slam of a car door. A gun was fired closeup by the Ford and then another farther off. Then silence.

  And then footsteps.

  Mr. Liebowitz came into view from the left side of the car, Robert from the right. They stood there for a moment in the hazy moonlit darkness, their pistols held down at their sides.

  From beyond Robert, a third man came
down the road. He was tall, dressed entirely in black, only his hands and head visible, his face a ghostly white blur.

  The three of them spoke softly among themselves. Behind me, I could hear Miss Lizzie trying to get up from the floor. I turned and helped her back onto the seat. In the front, Mrs. Parker was arranging herself, wiping at her dress. “Shit,” she said.

  “Amanda,” said Miss Lizzie, adjusting her pince-nez, “I am very disappointed in you.”

  “I wanted to see,” I said. I was panting, and I realized that my heart was pounding like a fist against my chest.

  “But you could have been hurt. You could have been—”

  “I’m okay. Really I am.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Someone tapped at the window behind me. I wheeled around.

  Mr. Liebowitz, bending down toward us, said, “Stay in there.”

  He walked away. Robert and the third man were moving across the road toward the Ford.

  “Who is that?” said Mrs. Parker.

  “That, I expect,” said Miss Lizzie, “is Mr. Cutter.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Miss Lizzie opened her door. “I shall be back,” she said and began to step from the car.

  Up front, Mrs. Parker said, “Me, too.” She opened her door and swung her legs out.

  I opened my own door, stepped out, closed the door, and looked around me.

  In the moonlight, I could see bodies everywhere, lying like bags of trash in the wide ribbon of road and along the black velvet expanse of grass. One man was slumped against the front fender of the Cadillac, his neck twisted at an impossible, sickening angle.

  Mr. Liebowitz, Robert, and the third man were examining the bodies by the Ford.

  The third man said something in a voice that was almost a whisper. I could not make out the words.

  The air was threaded with the bitter stink of gun smoke. All at once, Miss Lizzie was beside me. She put her arm around me, and I slumped toward her, breathing in her scent of citrus, cinnamon, and cloves.

  A retching noise came from my right, and then a whiff of sickness. I turned. Mrs. Parker had come around the car, and now she was bent forward, her hands on her thighs, very sick.

  Mr. Liebowitz and Robert walked toward us. Both of them had returned their pistols to their holsters. The third man followed behind.