A Cast of Killers

by Gallagher Gray

  They approached the long line waiting patiently in front of St. Barnabas. T.S. had not wanted to go inside and face questions from Fran or Father Stebbins, so he was perfectly content to plot outside on the sidewalk. He gathered Adelle and the other old actresses together after they had extracted promises that they would be let back in line at their regular spots. Together, he and Herbert Wong explained their task: for lack of a better plan, they were going to watch Emily's building and take turns following everyone who entered or left. Herbert had the master notebook—descriptions and destination addresses would be given to him. In this way, they hoped to determine who was a regular tenant, who was suspicious and who might be able to tell them more about Emily.

  "You said you wanted to help," T.S. told the ladies when he and Herbert had finished explaining their plan. "Here's your chance. Can you handle it?"

  "Of course! But we must disguise ourselves," Adelle declared.

  "Oh, yes!" the other old ladies agreed and began to twitter among themselves. They were smelling the greasepaint and hearing the roar of the crowd once again.

  "It's so no one will make us," Adelle insisted when she saw the look that crossed T.S.'s face. She turned to her group and explained, "That means no one will be able to recognize us if we're following them." Her superior air was met with an indignant murmur. Clearly the other actresses knew what "make" meant and who was she to lord it over them? Oh, dear, they had to have a clear leader to nip any mutiny in the bud, T.S. realized.

  "Herbert will be the head of operations," T.S. emphasized. Another buzz ran through the crowd: how would Adelle deal with this usurping of her power?

  She started with a ladylike cough. "I have a great deal of experience handling large group efforts," she began. "I've done some directing, you know."

  Herbert watched her quietly. Only his eyes flickered lightly as he surveyed the faces of the assembled group. He was gauging their reactions and loyalty to Adelle. And he was probably doing a damn fine job of it. "I am sure you would make a fine leader," Herbert assured her in a courtly fashion, throwing in a short bow for effect. "And I am a great admirer of your work. But I find it hard to believe that a superior craftsman such as yourself should be asked to undertake the menial task of mere organization. No, you should be allowed to freely ply your craft, without any administrative cares."

  "Franklin has offered to help us, as well," T.S. announced quickly, before Adelle could argue. "Herbert has assigned him to night surveillance. I cannot ask you ladies to roam these streets after midnight. It would put you in too much danger. So Franklin will detail the comings and goings between midnight and seven. He won't be able to follow anyone, but we'll still be able to keep an eye on the building's traffic pattern. Fair enough?"

  They all agreed it was a workable plan and began to inch back toward their places in line. Sensing that hunger was taking priority over justice, Herbert and T.S. quickly emphasized the need for discretion, collected the assortment of pocketbooks from Franklin and beat a hasty retreat.

  "You are in a hurry?" Herbert asked politely, scurrying to keep pace with T.S.

  "You don't want to meet Father Stebbins," T.S. assured his friend. "So far, I have found your English impeccable and cultured. One conversation with Father Stebbins and you'll turn into a walking cliché factory."

  Herbert was staring at T.S. strangely.

  "What is it?" T.S. demanded, drawing to a stop at the street corner.

  The retired messenger bowed deeply and reached for one of the pocketbooks slung over T.S.'s arm. "You must allow me to carry the brown one," he insisted, unsuccessfully hiding the twinkle in his eye. "It clashes with your shoes."

  8

  Homefront turned out to be a storefront on Tenth Avenue near the Port Authority bus terminal. Bob Fleming unlocked the door and led Auntie Lil inside. The place was deserted and just this side of clean. A circle of empty chairs stood in the front picture window, and there were neatly folded piles of clothing on a table that ran along one side wall. Donated sneakers and shoes of all styles and sizes were heaped beneath the same table. There was a counter running across the front third of the room. It was cluttered with a large coffee urn, soft drinks in a Styrofoam cooler, a plate of stale-looking doughnuts and stacks of brochures featuring cover photos of smiling youths. Beyond the counter, a battered wooden desk dominated one corner of the room. Three army cots were lined up neatly against the back wall, beside a stack of extra folding chairs. A number of telephones were mounted against the remaining side wall and penciled numbers were scrawled across the paint above each instrument.

  "Home sweet home," Bob Fleming said as he guided Auntie Lil to the rear of the store. "Used to be a dry cleaner's. I kept the twenty-four-hour-service sign in the window. It seemed appropriate."

  "You sleep here?" Auntie Lil asked. Army cots were narrow and uncomfortable.

  "No. I have a small apartment over on Tenth. This is just for the kids who are too tired to go any further. They can rest here for a couple of hours while I find a place for them in one of the regular city or private facilities. We haven't got enough money to open a bed facility of our own. Yet. Right now, I'm just an outreach and referral program. But that was more than they had. Plenty of people are willing to help runaways, but no one is willing to stand in the open and offer it. It's easy to burn out."

  "Why so many telephones?" Auntie Lil nodded toward the row of instruments as she settled into a plastic chair across from his enormous desk.

  "That's the one thing I can offer them. A free phone call home. Sometimes that's all it takes. But not very often. We're part of a corporate-sponsored program that pays for toll-free calls anywhere in the U.S. I encourage them to at least touch base with their parents and let them know they're okay."

  "What about getting them to go home?" Auntie Lil suggested.

  "Home is not such a great place for some of these kids to be." He folded his hands and stared at her. "Frankly, many are better off on their own."

  Auntie Lil did not ask him to elaborate. She'd been around the world dozens of times and seen many, many different kinds of homes, including what modern psychologists liked to call dysfunctional ones. She'd seen and heard enough horror stories to last until the day she died.

  "So you want to help out?" He was gazing at her strangely.

  "Not exactly," she confessed, finding it impossible to lie. Which was a switch. She was usually an outrageous and prolific liar, untouched by pangs of conscience. "Why are you looking at me that way?" she asked defensively.

  "Because I knew you were lying earlier when you said you wanted to volunteer," he told her calmly. "Believe me, I've met every kind of liar there is in this world and I can usually spot even the good ones. You're a pretty good one, you know. I bet the little old lady act throws everyone off."

  "That's true," Auntie Lil confessed. "Obviously, not you."

  "Yes. But you've redeemed yourself by immediately telling me that you are a liar. Why, and what is it that you really want?"

  "I'm looking for someone. Three people actually. Do you know them?" She rummaged around in her bag and produced two photographs. The first, of Emily, received only a cursory glance from Bob Fleming.

  "Can't help you," he said quietly, handing it back to Auntie Lil. He did not ask how she had obtained the gruesome photo. He stared more closely at the dime store strip showing two young boys. His eyes flickered across the series of small photos, but his expression was unreadable. "Why do you want to know?" he asked. "Are you a relative?

  "No. Not exactly." She hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. With one woman dead, how could she afford to trust someone she didn't even know?

  "You don't want to tell me," he answered his own question. "Have they done something to you? Snatched your pocketbook? Broken into your apartment? Do you work for the police?"

  "The police! Good heavens, no. I'm far too old."

  "They used a seventy-nine-year-old woman two years ago to expose nursing home fraud," he pointed out
. "And you look just like the type who could handle it."

  "You're a very suspicious man." Auntie Lil couldn't decide whether to feel complimented or insulted. "But for your information, there is no love lost between me and the New York Police Department."

  "Me, either." He was silent. They stared at one another and just as it looked like it would be a dead end, Bob Fleming sighed and combed his beard absently with roughened fingers. "How about if I lay my cards on the table, then you lay yours beside them?"

  She considered his proposition. "All right," she agreed. "But you go first."

  "Something funny is going on and I think it has to do with me." His voice was level, but his eyes had narrowed to hard slits. "People who used to talk to me won't talk to me anymore. People I don't even know are giving me the cold shoulder. You saw how that deli owner treated me." He stared at Auntie Lil. "Some woman has been snooping around and asking the kids questions about me. She's middle-aged. Small. Dark hair worn to the shoulders. Who is she? What does she want?"

  "I assure you I have no idea," Auntie Lil replied. "I'm here on an entirely different matter. If I wasn't already up to my elbows in a different mystery, I'd try to find out for you."

  "Why? Are you a private investigator?" His eyes narrowed even more. He did not like private investigators any more than the public kind.

  "No. Sometimes I get involved with… puzzles. But I'm not affiliated with any sort of investigative company or bureau at all."

  Bob Fleming's eyes darted to the street and he automatically scanned the sidewalks.

  "Looks like business is slow," Auntie Lil offered.

  "I wish it was. But it's always like this in the middle of the day. But they'll be here. Like vampires. When night falls. That's when they have to face what they've become. That's when they start remembering that they're only twelve or thirteen or ten years old. Night is when they have to stop playing video games and start making money. It's when childhood starts to look pretty damn good as an alternative to the streets."

  "You take it hard," Auntie Lil observed. "You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders."

  Bob Fleming nodded. "I have a lot of weight on my shoulders. And then some. So I don't need any more. It's your turn. Why do you want to find these boys?"

  Having no choice, Auntie Lil told Bob Fleming the story of Emily's death. She omitted the part about breaking into her apartment and simply said that she'd found the strip of photos among her personal belongings. "I just want to find the boys and ask them what they knew about her. Maybe they know her real name. We have to find out who she is before we can find out why she was killed."

  "And the police don't care." He was not asking a question. He was stating a fact.

  "They don't seem to care very much. I guess she isn't very important in the grand scheme of things." Her tone made it clear that Emily was, at least, important to Auntie Lil's grand scheme of things.

  Bob Fleming sighed again. He scrutinized Auntie Lil, seemed to decide she was harmless, then ran a calloused finger down the images. "The white kid is Timmy," he told her. "Only his hair's not black anymore. It's blond. Almost white. He's been working out of this neighborhood for about a year, I think. Been on the streets for around two in all, I'd say. He hangs out with the black kid a lot. That's Little Pete. Timmy's from somewhere in the Midwest or maybe the Southwest. I think Little Pete is from around here. I've gotten them to talk to me a couple of times, but it's no use. They're not ready to give up the game."

  Auntie Lil didn't have to ask what game. Despite T.S.'s belief that she be kept innocent, Auntie Lil was well aware of the darker side of life. When you've seen six-year-old prostitutes in Thailand being pushed upon strangers by their mothers, the thirteen-year-old ones in New York can seem pretty tame. "Why is it no use talking to them?" she asked.

  "They've got someone taking care of them. A pimp, maybe. A sugar daddy, your generation may have called them. I don't know for sure. But he gives them money. New sneakers. Quarters for the video games. Dollars for the cheap double features. Feeds them junk food, like they like. Forget about broccoli or eating your peas. In return, they keep their mouths shut and do what he wants. They won't give up the game until he pulls the rug out from under them."

  "What if he doesn't?"

  Bob Fleming laughed bitterly. "The one thing I can absolutely guarantee you is that Big Daddy will pull the rug out from under them. I'm surprised they've lasted this long. They've hardened and it shows on the outside. Look at them—you can see the cracks. Any day now they'll start stealing or figuring out how they can up their score. They'll start doing drugs, if they're not already. And then they won't be of use to this guy—whoever he is—or any of his friends."

  "You don't know who he is?"

  Bob Fleming shook his head. "If I did, he wouldn't still be around. I have a policy about people like him. Take them out any way that you can."

  "You don't mean that," Auntie Lil protested. "That would make you as bad as them."

  Bob Fleming shrugged. "My conscience is clear. And it would still be clear if I personally rid this neighborhood of another scumbag. I have no confidence in the court system to deal with these slime. And I have no trouble helping to hasten their demise."

  He was a hard man, but Auntie Lil wasn't going to argue with his position. It probably took a lot more than desire to keep on trying to clean up the streets. Obsession and a fair amount of hatred would be essential, too. "Do you know how I can get in touch with them?" she asked him. "I just want to ask them a few questions about Emily."

  He stared at their photos. "I might be able to get Little Pete to talk to you. I doubt Timmy will bite, though. He's cagey and suspicious. Something's going on with him. I don't know what. He got real friendly and now he's been avoiding me. Like a lot of other people I know." He slid the photos back across the desk to Auntie Lil. "I'll see what I can do about Little Pete. How do I get in touch with you?"

  Auntie Lil gave him her name and phone number, then T.S.'s number as a back-up. "In a pinch, you can always get word to me through Father Stebbins or some of the soup kitchen regulars," she added.

  He nodded. It was early afternoon and he already looked exhausted. "If you really want to volunteer," he said with just the tiniest spark of hope, "I could use some help."

  Auntie Lil nodded her head. She didn't like to promise what she couldn't deliver, but she knew the man needed something to go on. "When all this is over," she said, "I'll see what I can do. I assume you'll take either money or time."

  "Lady, I will take whatever I can get."

  He accompanied Auntie Lil to the door and they shook hands farewell. As she was leaving, she noticed a young girl not more than twelve years old waiting in the shadows of a nearby doorway. Her blonde hair was greasy and limp, and her tiny midriff top barely covered a childish chest and an even more childlike rounded tummy. Her hot pants were a wrinkled and grimy lime green. She wore high heels and watched Auntie Lil pass by from under a curtain of dirty bangs. Her eyes were not childish at all.

  Auntie Lil walked slowly to the corner before turning around for a peek. The young girl was shyly knocking on the front door of Homefront. Bob Fleming stuck his head out and, for the first time, Auntie Lil saw him smile. His face was transformed, exhaustion giving way to hope. He nodded and gestured for her to come on inside.

  Auntie Lil wondered if the young girl would be one of the few who decided to call home.

  Like lemmings, they converged across the street from Emily's building: Auntie Lil, Herbert Wong and T.S. The team of volunteer tails was still at St. Barnabas, consuming their meal of the day. "Any luck?" T.S. asked Auntie Lil.

  "I've got names for the two young boys." She stared at the collection of pocketbooks held by both men. "Not very chic," she admonished them. "One well-matched accessory is usually more than enough."

  "Very funny," T.S. acknowledged. "Your pal, Franklin, found these. He thinks one of them might be Emily's."

  Auntie Lil
's face lit up. "Excellent. I must remember to thank him."

  "You'll have plenty of opportunities," T.S. assured her. "Haven't you heard? He's joined the team. Adelle has consented to let him have a bit part."

  His little dig at Adelle was lost on Auntie Lil. She had caught sight of Herbert Wong's new tie pin and was busy oohing and aahing over the craftsmanship. T.S., who was not in the mood to hear from what exotic port the pin had hailed, suggested firmly that they adjourn to a more private spot before they began rummaging through the pocketbooks. "Otherwise, we'll look like a gang of thieves," he warned them. "And lord knows Lieutenant Abromowitz would seize on any chance to give us trouble."

  The mention of the lieutenant reminded Auntie Lil of her need to talk with Det. George Santos. "Let's go to the Westsider and examine them," she decided for them all. "Detective Santos hangs out there and I need to have a word with him."

  She led the way confidently westward, as if she frequently paraded down to the waterfront for a visit to the friendly neighborhood dive bars. Along the way, she explained the mystery of Emily's apartment. Neither T.S. or Herbert could figure it out.

  "A young actress said she'd been there for over three years?" T.S. asked.

  "According to my reliable source," Auntie Lil confirmed.

  T.S. sighed. Auntie Lil never gave away a name when the chance to show off a "reliable source" arose. She had seen All the President's Men once too often. But he had no doubt that her source probably was reliable. Which wasn't the same as being infallible. "Maybe they made a mistake," he warned her. "The police might have gone to the wrong apartment."

  "That's what I want to check out." She was scanning the signs of the decrepit handful of bars that dotted the Westside Highway. Most were carved out of abandoned warehouses or deserted terminals. "What a colorful neighborhood!" she cried out gaily, but her attempt fell flat. Both T.S. and Herbert were distinctly uneasy. It was as if Hell's Kitchen had abruptly given up its fight for respectability. Only danger, dirt and drunken dreams could be found along this particular stretch of lonely sidewalk.