Robert's had a small lunch crowd and a slightly larger group of regular daytime drinkers parked at the bar. T.S. didn't recognize the bartender. He checked out the two waiters carefully. One looked familiar—a finely sculptured, well-built young man with a broad, handsome face and short brown hair cut closely against his head. He was leaning against one end of the bar, morosely staring out the picture window in lieu of staring at his mostly empty tables. He hardly moved when T.S. tapped him on the shoulder. But then, he was probably used to getting tapped on the shoulder by guys at bars. T.S. would set him straight. Quickly.
"Excuse me, I was in here the other night with a lady friend of mine," T.S. began.
"Congratulations," the waiter interrupted, still glumly staring out the window.
"You were here, too," T.S. continued.
The waiter shifted his stare to T.S. "What night?"
"Tuesday. A woman came in for a moment and the bartender bounced her right back out," T.S. explained patiently. "She was very tall. Dark skinned. With high-piled hair and lots of makeup. I'm interested in finding out who she was."
The waiter didn't answer and T.S. was forced to launch into a fashion forecast. "She was wearing spike heels and a silver sequined tube dress with long gloves..." His voice trailed off as embarrassment overtook him at last.
"What color?" the waiter inquired.
"What color what?"
"What color were the gloves?" He stared at T.S., waiting for an answer.
"White. What difference does it…" T.S. stopped. He was almost certain he was being teased. But in New York City, you never knew for sure. "Do you know who I'm talking about or not?" he demanded with reclaimed dignity.
"Sure, I know who you're talking about. But I'd get a different hobby if I was you."
"I just need her name. Forget the cute stuff." That sounded good. Tough. Very James Cagneyish.
The waiter looked T.S. over with amusement and held out a hand. T.S. sighed and handed him a five-dollar bill. Considering the name could be worthless to their investigation, he thought he was being generous.
"The name's Leteisha Swann," the waiter told him, smiling thinly as if he were enjoying a private joke. "Leteisha Swann is not a welcome person on these premises. She's a little too entrepreneurial for our taste. She was hiding in the bathroom one night. Damn near gave some old guy a heart attack when she jumped out of the shadows and offered to unzip his pants for him." The waiter winked at T.S. "For another ten, I'll get you her phone number."
"No thanks," T.S. replied stiffly. "I can unzip my own pants." Besides, he already knew where she lived. And that her phone number rang on a corner somewhere.
Patience exhausted, he left the sarcastic waiter behind with an overly polite bow.
Leteisha Swann… he'd lay ten to one odds that the name wasn't real. And the odds on her having known Emily were even less. He sighed and headed for St. Barnabas. No sense in letting Auntie Lil have all the fun.
The door chimes tinkled and a miniature lady stepped into the Delicious Deli. There was no other way to describe her as she was far too self-possessed to be called a child. The tiny girl wore a blue and green plaid Catholic-school jumper over a snowy white blouse with an old-fashioned Peter Pan collar. Her straight black hair was cut in a sleek cap around her face and her fine features stood out against a porcelain complexion. Irish beauty at its budding best. The girl was probably no more than six or seven years old, but she had the bearing of a fifty-year-old matriarch.
"Hi, Daddy," she called out to Billy, flipping her hair back with a practiced toss of her head. "I'll take a cappuccino, please."
"Oh, no you won't, Miss Megan Magee. Sit at that table there and I'll bring you a milk." Billy pointed out Auntie Lil and Megan dutifully sat next to her with a slight pout. But the grudge was soon forgotten, thanks to the girl's lively curiosity.
"Who are you?" she asked Auntie Lil, folding her hands primly in front of her and waiting expectantly for the answer. Auntie Lil had the uncomfortable feeling that she was at a tea party.
"I'm Auntie Lil. I'm a friend of your father's."
"You're not my aunt," Megan pointed out. "My aunt is young and beautiful and goes dancing every night."
"I go dancing every night, too," Auntie Lil replied grimly. She was suddenly reminded why she didn't like children.
"Magee, don't talk this nice lady's ear off." Billy set a glass of milk down in front of his daughter and winked at Auntie Lil. "Megan takes after her mother. Where is she, anyway?"
"Two doors down getting carrots. Yuck." Megan wrinkled her nose.
Well, Auntie Lil thought, thank goodness she still harbored some childish traits.
"What can I do for you today?" Billy asked Auntie Lil as he pulled out the chair next to his daughter and sat, wiping his hands on his deli apron. "I've got a couple of minutes before the next rush."
"I wondered if you knew these two young men." Auntie Lil produced the strip of dime store photos of the two young boys from her pocketbook, all the while keeping a close eye on her plate. Megan was staring at her cheesecake with undisguised interest and Auntie Lil wasn't about to give up the last bite without a fight.
Billy surveyed their faces. "Yeah. I've seen them. They're not allowed in here. They steal. Why are you looking for them?"
She could not think of a single plausible reply, but Megan made one unnecessary. "That's the guy that threw up," she announced proudly. She placed a small finger on the face of the white boy. "Remember, Daddy? You said it looked like he'd been eating pepperoni pizza."
"Megan!" Billy groaned and smiled an apology at Auntie Lil. "Both of these guys hang out around the neighborhood a lot. I think they work out of that run-down sleaze palace at Eighth and Forty-Fourth. They've been around here about a year or so. I give them another six months."
Auntie Lil was going to ask why, but the presence of Megan made her hesitate. Besides, she had a sad hunch that she already knew.
Billy was staring at her quietly. "Listen, I'm not quite sure why you're going around and asking a lot of questions," he said carefully. "But you seem like a nice enough lady and I just want to tell you that whatever it is you're doing, I'd stop if I were you."
When Auntie Lil said nothing, he continued. "I was born in this neighborhood. Practically on this block. I grew up here. I've seen it change again and again. I watched the Irish take over from the Puerto Ricans, who took over from the blacks, who got it from the Irish in the first place and around and around and around. Unless you know someone and you've got protection, this is a dangerous place to be messing with. The people you see on the street may seem nice enough, but it's the people you don't see that you have to worry about. I know. I know them. They're not fooling around."
"Has anyone been in here asking about me?" Auntie Lil asked quietly. She did not resent the warning, she just wished she knew whether it was sincere or an attempt to dissuade her from her task.
"No. Not yet. And like I say, I don't know what you're up to and I don't think I want to know what you're up to. Just be careful. Maybe you should find yourself a new way to pass the time." He held up both palms in apology. "Not that it's any of my business."
The door chimes tinkled again and a chubby man entered the deli. He was burly and of just below average height, with a scraggly beard that was beginning to go gray. His long, flowing hair tumbled to his shoulders in brown waves. He was dressed in a flannel shirt and baggy blue jeans. Altogether, he looked like he belonged on the outskirts of Anchorage, Alaska, rather than in the heart of New York City.
The man quickly scanned the store and his gaze settled on Auntie Lil. "Lillian Hubbert?" he asked politely.
"Yes, that's me. Who are you?"
"I'm Bob Fleming. From Homefront." He glanced at Billy, then looked away with a quick nod.
The deli owner acted swiftly. He took his daughter by the hand and pulled her away from the table toward the door.
"Where are we going?" Megan asked indignantly. "You didn't give
me my cake."
"I'm going to watch you walk down the block to meet your mother," Billy answered back grimly. "Now. And don't talk back to me, either."
The atmosphere in the deli instantly chilled. Bob Fleming sat quietly at Auntie Lil's table. They both stared at Billy's broad back as the deli owner stood in the doorway, watching his daughter's progress down the block to where her mother was shopping.
"Careful father," Bob Fleming observed.
"Around here, I guess you have to be."
The man nodded in agreement and stared directly at Auntie Lil. "I've just been by St. Barnabas, dropping off some kids. Father Stebbins said you wanted to help me out, so I thought I'd try and catch you here. We could use some help. But you look kind of old."
"You're certainly direct," Auntie Lil admitted. "But don't worry about me. I'm strong and healthy."
The man nodded. "Sometimes an old lady is good." His voice trailed off. It was plain that Bob Fleming was not a happy man. His shoulders slumped from worry and fatigue. He had not chosen to take an easy path. Runaways in midtown Manhattan could be untrusting, unforgiving and unredeemable. "Old ladies don't usually remind the kids of anyone," he continued. "Except for maybe a long-forgotten grandmother. What can you do?"
"Anything you want me to do." Auntie Lil did not like lying to this man. He worked too hard and spoke too plain to deserve anything but the truth. What she really wanted was to show him the photos of the two young boys. But after Billy's warning, she was reluctant to bring them up again in front of the deli owner. "Can we go somewhere else and talk?" she asked Bob Fleming.
"Sure. We'll go to my office. I don't think that guy likes me very much, anyway." He cocked his head Billy's way and Auntie Lil found it hard to disagree. Billy was leaning against the counter shooting barely disguised glares Bob Fleming's way. He would not meet Auntie Lil's eyes and she finally marched to the counter, money in hand.
"How much?" Auntie Lil inquired politely. She would be back to find out what the trouble was between the two men.
"Three and a quarter," Billy mumbled, taking her money without his usual cheerfulness.
As she left the deli with Bob Fleming, Auntie Lil could feel the owner's gaze following them out the door. And no wonder—Billy stared after them until they were well out of sight.
His thoughts on Leteisha Swann, T.S. was not paying full attention to the midtown traffic swirling around him. First, he was nearly plowed down by a messenger on a bike—who slowed down just enough to flip an obscene gesture T.S.'s way—and then he took a wrong turn up Ninth Avenue and had to backtrack to St. Barnabas. He was still lost in thought as he ambled up the mottled sidewalk outside the neighborhood's huge new skyscraper. Suddenly, a strong arm gripped his elbow and a body moved in close behind him. T.S. did what any sensible New Yorker would do. He yelled, jumped two feet in the air and clutched the pocket that held his wallet.
"So very sorry, Mr. Hubbert," a distressed voice cried out. "I did not mean to startle you."
"Herbert!" T.S. rubbed his elbow and glared at Herbert Wong. "Why in the world are you skulking around like that?"
"I was not skulking," the retired messenger complained, spreading his arms wide. "I make very much noise. Please accept my deepest apologies." He bowed deeply.
T.S. did not believe him for a minute. Ever since he had, however briefly, questioned Herbert's prowess at martial arts, the elderly Asian man had embarked on a subtle quest to prove T.S. wrong. He was always sneaking up behind him or showing off his strength.
"I am forgiven?" Herbert asked, his face an impassive, dignified mask.
"Of course you're forgiven. I'm just preoccupied or I would have spotted you coming from a mile away." Herbert allowed T.S. this ego-placating fabrication and they walked toward St. Barnabas together, falling into a contemplative silence.
That was another thing T.S. really liked about Herbert Wong. Unlike certain other people, Herbert was perfectly content with quiet. T.S. had discovered this rare trait in Herbert years before, when he had interviewed him for a job at Sterling & Sterling. Herbert had entered the personnel manager's enormous office without a hint of nervousness, sitting down across the desk from T.S. in dignified silence. Nodding, he had waited patiently while T.S. scoured his application with customary suspicion. Unlike most other applicants, he had not blurted out incriminating details during this silence, nor revealed any desperation for a job. At the same time, he had not been secretive and had calmly divulged under questioning that his wife had recently died after a long illness which had stripped him of all his savings. He had lost his small dry-cleaning store as a result. He had no children and the rest of his family lived in Singapore, where he had been raised until he had emigrated to the U.S. as a young man. His only hobbies, it seemed, were traveling and the study of new subjects. He did not enjoy television.
T.S. had instantly felt an affinity with him and tried to steer him toward a more challenging job than the open messenger position. But Herbert had quietly insisted that he had tired of responsibility and that the messenger job was fine. He had put in fifteen good years at Sterling & Sterling before retiring the year before T.S. In those fifteen years, Herbert had never missed a day, never even reported late and had never botched a delivery. In fact, he had once kicked a mugger in the stomach in order to protect nearly one million dollars in bearer bonds for his employer, crippling the would-be thief until police arrived. Then he had insisted on such complete anonymity, for the firm's sake, that T.S. himself, personnel manager of all of Sterling & Sterling, had not heard about it until after his own retirement. Yes, Herbert was a rare man. He’d have made an excellent friend and T.S. was a little piqued that Auntie Lil had managed to practically steal the retired messenger from him.
Of course, Auntie Lil had never been much concerned with people's official standing in life and, if T.S. were to be completely honest with himself, he'd have to admit that a full friendship between a messenger of Sterling & Sterling and the personnel manager would have been deemed unacceptable by everyone, including himself. But now that he was retired, T.S. reflected, there was no reason why they couldn't be better friends.
"That man is gesturing wildly toward you," Herbert pointed out to T.S., breaking their easy silence. They stood at the corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-Eight Street, waiting for the traffic light to change. Across the busy roadway stood Franklin, the gigantic homeless man with the Southern drawl. His big burly body was still encased in old-fashioned overalls, but he was wearing a clean shirt and a new baseball hat. He was calmly waving at T.S., an action which, in Herbert Wong's book, qualified as wild gesticulation.
"That's Franklin," T.S. explained. "He's a regular at the soup kitchen. He knows Adelle and the other old actresses quite well. I wonder what he wants with me?"
T.S. soon found out. As they approached, Franklin bent over the small laundry cart he used as a portable storage unit and produced an armful of pocketbooks. For one wild moment, T.S. thought he was trying to sell him one.
"I have her pocketbook," Franklin told T.S. "I have been looking for your aunt so that I could give it to her."
T.S. stared blankly at the jumbled assortment of plastic, leather and straw bags. What in the world was he talking about? Auntie Lil's pocketbook was as big as a Buick and even harder to handle. These were wallets compared to her suitcase-like bag.
"Miss Emily's pocketbook," Franklin explained.
"I thought The Eagle had stolen it." T.S. stared at the bags. Which one was supposed to be Emily's?
"He did," Franklin explained. "But like most pocketbook thieves, he dropped it in a trash can when he was done going through it. I have collected these over the past two days. I suspect that Miss Emily's pocketbook is among them."
"There must be seven bags," T.S. pointed out.
Franklin shrugged apologetically. "There are many pocketbooks thrown in the garbage in this neighborhood. But I have developed an eye for these things. I threw away many more than this. Some had identific
ation that made it clear it was not Miss Emily's. I whittled it down as much as I could. None of these have any identification and they are styles that Miss Emily might choose."
T.S. stared at the homeless man. "You have done a superb job," he admitted. "Auntie Lil will be delighted."
"I want to help," Franklin explained. "I have heard that you and your aunt are going to find Miss Emily's killer. I see many things out here on these streets. It is my job. I am always looking, noticing faces. I believe I could be of help."
"You can help me," Herbert Wong butted in. "I'm chief of surveillance. I could use a good pair of eyes."
Franklin nodded almost imperceptibly. "You will not be sorry," he said solemnly.
"What did you mean, it's your job to look?" T.S. wanted to know.
"I am searching for my friend who saw The Eagle breathing evil on Miss Emily. But much more important to me, I am searching for my little brother," Franklin explained. "That's why I'm here in New York City. I have promised my mamma that I will find him and bring him home to South Carolina. So, you see, I am always looking and watching anyway."
T.S. stood in silence. The man's dedication to his mother made him feel ashamed. Here was Franklin, living on the streets, eating handouts, in a city as foreign to him as Moscow, searching seven million faces in hopes of finding the one that would make his mother smile again. While T.S. could hardly stand to visit his mother once a week at the elder care facility.
On the other hand, T.S. reasoned sensibly, Franklin's mother was probably a whole hell of a lot nicer than his own.
"Excuse me, but I see many old ladies looking our way," Herbert interrupted politely. "In front of that church over there. I must surmise that the edifice is St. Barnabas."
T.S. squinted in the bright autumn sun. "You bet. And those old ladies are our other eyes. We might as well plunge in before the kitchen opens and we lose them to lunch. You come, too, Franklin. You're part of the team now."
A Cast of Killers Page 17
