A Cast of Killers

by Gallagher Gray

  "Thank you, governor. Most kind of you," the old hag cackled in a Cockney accent. "Care for a quick tickle in return?"

  T.S. was shocked. He turned to her and prepared to launch into a lecture, but the old bag lady surprised him by bursting into a merry laugh.

  "Got you," she said. She lifted the matted hair off of her forehead, rearranged her face and straightened up, grinning at T.S.

  "Adelle!" T.S. was not amused. He was appalled. She had looked exactly like a crazy old woman lost on the streets. A little too much like one, in fact. It frightened him. Where they all that close to the edge?

  "Don't let it bother you, guv'," she told him with a bawdy nudge. "I can fool anyone when I put my mind to it." She cackled again and moved down the sidewalk, adding over her shoulder: "You're not the only eyes watching that building, you know."

  The encounter was still bothering him when the blonde emerged from the corner store holding a pack of cigarettes and a small brown paper bag. The door to the back seat of the silver car opened and she climbed inside. Just then, the outer door to Emily's building swung open with a bang and a young boy ran down the steps. His blond hair gleamed harshly in the autumn sun and he wore a tight black T-shirt, equally tight black jeans, and brand new tennis shoes worth about a third of T.S.'s monthly pension check. The boy followed the blonde into the silver car and it pulled swiftly away.

  Timmy. The boy in Emily's photos and, most definitely, the boy he'd seen in the apartment next to hers, two days ago with a middle-aged man. Seeing him in person confirmed it and he realized that he should have made the connection before. And he was probably the kid that Herbert had spotted leaving the building the night before.

  So Timmy knew Lance Worthington. But what did that mean? And Lance Worthington knew, but did not necessarily like, Leteisha Swann. And none of them looked much like Mother Teresa from T.S.'s vantage point.

  He hurried down the block toward his rendezvous with Auntie Lil. As he passed by a large potted fir tree in front of a Brazilian restaurant, he could have sworn he heard his name called out. It was as faint as the wind and just as fleeting.

  He stopped abruptly. "What?" he said. A woman passing by glanced at him, stepped up her speed, stared back at him again and accelerated some more.

  "What?" T.S. said again.

  "Give my regards to Lillian," a muffled voice replied. "The Eagle has not yet flown the coop."

  "For God's sake, Herbert." T.S. straightened the hem of his sweater and moved resolutely forward. "Now you're just showing off."

  Auntie Lil had not waited for him to begin lunch. The last slurp of Bloody Mary had suddenly convinced her that she needed food—and fast. By the time T.S. arrived, she was halfway through a pork chop practically the size of a manhole. A small pile of bones on her plate signified the recent demise of another, equally enormous chop.

  "I'll have what she just vacuumed up," he told the waiter automatically.

  "Wise choice," Auntie Lil affirmed, her mouth full of food. "What did you find out?"

  He told her the particulars about Lance Worthington and his actions earlier that day, then outlined his plan to find out more about the producer. Her eyes twinkled. Either she approved or she'd had a whopping big drink before he got there. Speaking of which—he ordered himself a Dewars and soda.

  "You just want an excuse to see Lilah," she said once she'd swallowed her last chunk of meat. "But I approve heartily. You can get right beside him and see if it's all smoke or a little bit of fire, too. What would he be doing with a street kid?"

  "He could be one of Timmy's customers. Or, he could just be there in the building collecting the rent."

  They stared at one another, neither of them believing the last theory. "How do we explain the blonde on his arm if Worthington is one of Timmy's customers?" Auntie Lil asked. There went the first theory, too.

  "I have even more interesting news," T.S. told her, abandoning their dilemma and savoring the chance to surprise her for a change.

  "What?" she demanded. "You're holding back on me."

  He told her about Fran not speaking to Father Stebbins. Her reaction was swift and surprised.

  "What could have happened to cause such a thing?" she wondered out loud.

  "I don't know." His drink arrived and he refreshed himself, realizing that his encounter with Adelle still rankled. He told Auntie Lil about it. "She was very proud of her disguise, but I was upset."

  Auntie Lil reached over and patted his hand. "I know. They live very close to that life and it's frightening to see them go over to the other side. Yet, you have to admire their verve at taking it on, if only as a temporary disguise."

  "She said she could fool anyone," T.S. repeated. "And I bet she could."

  Auntie Lil was quiet, considering his words. T.S. caught on and fell silent as well.

  "She could fool anyone," Auntie Lil admitted. "Perhaps we would do well to remember that."

  "Did you get Santos?" he asked. The thought of one little old lady murdering another was depressing, but did nothing to squelch his appetite. His plate arrived and he dived right in. He was hungry. Watching Auntie Lil eat often had that effect.

  "He's going to send some men to canvass the apartment building again. This time they'll check every apartment, not just the one we think is Emily's. If The Eagle's there, they'll find him. But I heard something else that's intriguing."

  "What?" he asked, hurrying through his pork chops before Auntie Lil decided she was hungry again.

  "Bob Fleming of Homefront has obtained information that a sinister, wealthy man in a black limousine was riding around the neighborhood three nights ago, flashing photographs of Emily dead. Where did he get those photos? What is he doing with them? The young black boy in Emily's photos, Little Pete, saw the man. He was frightened and ran away."

  T.S. stared at her, mouth open and pork chops forgotten.

  "For heaven's sake, Theodore. Close your mouth when you chew."

  "Auntie Lil," T.S. said, horrified. "He's talking about me." Unwillingly, a flush crept up his neck and across his face. "When I stopped to get the photos developed, I had to do it at Times Square. It was the only place open. A young black kid was in the crowd. He saw me and ran away."

  Auntie Lil stared at him. "You might have told me this earlier. Didn't you recognize the child when you saw the photos in Emily's apartment?"

  "No, I did not. Remember, I did say I thought I had seen him before."

  He cut into his pork chop with defensive energy. "Besides, the kid I saw on the street looked a hell of a lot older and wiser than the kid in the photograph."

  "It's the same one. I hope to meet and talk with him today."

  "Well, then, you'd better keep an eye out," T.S. warned. "So far as I'm concerned neither of these kids is much of a kid. Either one of them, or both of them, might have set Emily up. So watch your step."

  It was the most depressing theory yet.

  10

  It felt strange to be back in his apartment in the middle of the afternoon. The television stood, dark and cold, in one corner of his living room—now nothing more than a reminder of his past boredom. He passed by it without so much as a glance. It was the telephone he was after. Maybe it was just an excuse to get to see her—and maybe it was a wild goose chase—but if it was a choice between spending time with Lilah and being ordered around by Auntie Lil, he had no trouble reaching a decision.

  He reached Lilah on his first attempt and she quickly agreed to clear her schedule and be a part of his plans to learn more about Lance Worthington.

  "You are much more than a prop," he assured her formally. "I don't want you to think I'm just using you and your money. Your presence will be essential to my morale."

  She laughed merrily, although he had not intended to be funny. He was vaguely embarrassed, but relief took its place when she promised, "I'll be there if you need me."

  The next phone call would be harder as it required a host of lies and, despite his Peter Pan perfor
mance earlier, T.S. was basically scrupulously honest and thus not a good liar at all.

  He located the number easily enough, took a deep breath, told himself he was as good a fabricator as Auntie Lil any day, and dialed.

  The breathy redhead answered on the first ring. She had been expecting a call from one of her many admirers. "Broadway Backers," she cooed. "Home of tomorrow's hits. How may I help you?"

  "Lance Worthington," T.S. demanded in a deep executive voice. "And hurry. I'm returning his call and I've got another appointment on tap."

  "Certainly, sir," she replied promptly. "Whom may I tell him is calling?"

  T.S. winced at her affectation. Correct grammar did not excuse an improper voice. But even worse, whom the hell could she say was calling? He had failed to prepare a cover in advance. So much for being as good a liar as Auntie Lil. He patted his sweater nervously… well, what did it matter? No one knew him from Adam and, unlike Auntie Lil, he did not relish skulking around in disguises and playing those types of games. He would give his real name. Besides, he had to use Lilah's real name.

  "This is Mr. T.S. Hubbert," he told the receptionist. "Private investor."

  "Private investigator?" she asked in sudden alarm.

  "In-vest-or." he repeated imperiously. "And I'm a very busy man."

  "Right away, sir," she promised but followed it up by putting him on hold. Less than twenty seconds later, however, a male voice came on the line.

  "Lance Worthington here." The producer's tone managed to be unctuous, impatient and suspicious all at the same time.

  "T.S. Hubbert," T.S. barked. "I heard you were looking for investors."

  Lance Worthington's voice smoothed into a mellow purr. He sounded as if someone had poured a quart of honey down his throat. "We only have a very few spots left," he said. "The new show's getting excellent word-of-mouth. If you want in, the minimum may be a bit steep."

  "I can handle it," T.S. assured him. "The main thing is, I want in."

  "How did you hear about our new venture?" Worthington asked and T.S. could detect a small note of suspicion creeping back in. Perhaps he was making it too easy.

  "My girlfriend told me about it. Lilah Cheswick. Know her? Wealthy widow? Well-built dame. Used to be married to Wall Street's Robert Cheswick." Well-built dame? T.S. almost choked on the words. But it was essential to establish man-to-man contact, and he had a rather heavy-handed idea of what this man-to-man business meant.

  As expected, Worthington knew the name Cheswick immediately. Anyone who'd spent time digging around for money couldn't help but know the name. And it did the trick. All suspicion disappeared, to be replaced by ingratiating greed. "Is she interested in investing as well?" Worthington asked. "Like I say, we have a few spots left."

  "We'll both have to reserve final judgment until we hear more about the show," T.S. told him. No sense in being too easy to hook. The man's true character would be better revealed if he saw him in full action.

  "Let me meet the two of you tonight," the producer suggested. "I don't want to rush you, but we really do need to wrap up the financing and get on with the creative. Timing is everything, you know."

  Yeah, T.S. knew that quite well. And timing was particularly important when you thought you had a couple of rich suckers on the line and wanted to reel them in quickly so they could sign on the dotted line.

  "I don't know about tonight," T.S. said reluctantly. "I had a business dinner..."

  "I hate to pressure you," Worthington said smoothly. "But I'm out the rest of the week and I have a couple of other potential investors to talk to who are all very anxious to get a piece of this pie." He let his voice trail off in a small sigh of warning: you're about to lose a big share of profits, it implied.

  "Oh, all right." T.S. pretended to suddenly make up his mind. "I'll have my secretary rearrange things. You can't let a good thing go without giving it a chance. Am I right?"

  "You're absolutely right. And I'll even make up the lost dinner to you. I'll take you and… uh, Ms. Cheswick to dinner while we talk."

  Lance Worthington was a particularly greedy man and so, in a flash of perverse justice, particularly easy to gull. Whether or not this got T.S. anywhere was another story. But at least he and Lilah would get a fancy dinner out of their charade.

  But even that was not to be. Lance Worthington was not just greedy, he was cheap. He suggested dinner at Sam's, a neighborhood theater bar. It was to give them a flavor of the theatrical life, he said, though T.S. knew the attraction was more likely Sam's low prices. Nonetheless, he agreed to meet the producer there at eight o'clock. The time was perfect, Worthington insisted in an insider voice, explaining that "the annoying pre-theater tourist crowd will have left."

  Too bad, T.S. thought to himself. If they decided to stick around, they'd be in for quite a show.

  Auntie Lil was perched on a small plastic chair in the outer room of Homefront. She was waiting for Little Pete to show. Bob Fleming sat at his battered desk in the rear, arguing with someone over the phone about receiving a larger share of a city grant. Just as his shouting rose to an angry roar, the front door of the runaway shelter opened and an Irish amazon stepped through.

  She was a large woman whose height approached six feet and whose weight looked composed entirely of muscle. She wore a pair of tight black leggings, a gray sweatshirt that hung to mid-thigh, thick white socks and sturdy athletic shoes. The no-nonsense outfit only highlighted the woman's incredible physical strength even more. Her leg and thigh muscles were taut and highly developed; her forearms were muscular and firm. But she was not bulky at all. She was sleek and streamlined, moving with the grace of a stalking panther. Her face was broad and burnished by the sun, glowing with a tan the color of honey. Her round cheeks were flushed red in almost comical good health. When she noticed Auntie Lil, the woman's immediate smile was startling—the wide mouth pulled back to reveal large, very white teeth. Above the smile, her eyes glittered with an icy blue that seemed to bore right through Auntie Lil. She stood in the doorway, looking around while she bounced on her insteps and ran impatient fingers through a wavy crop of short brown hair.

  Bob Fleming's reaction was enthusiastic. He slammed the phone down the instant he saw her and his scowl was transformed into an unexpected and unabashed grin. He met the enormous woman at the front counter and gave her a quick hug.

  "Meet Annie O'Day," he said to Auntie Lil. "Angel of the streets."

  "Angel?" the woman repeated in an incredulous voice. She thumped Bob solidly on his biceps with a coiled fist and the burly man cringed in mock pain.

  "I'm Lillian Hubbert," Auntie Lil replied, timidly offering a white-gloved hand and fervently hoping it would be returned with all ten fingers intact.

  But her hand was not crushed at all. Instead, Annie O'Day tenderly held it between her own massive hands and gently squeezed. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Hubbert," she said in a soft and calming voice. She continued to hold Auntie Lil's hand while she quietly looked her over, as if absorbing secret signals through the somewhat frail appendage. Auntie Lil changed her mind at once. This was no wrestling champion at all. This was a nurse, or maybe a doctor.

  "Annie is a nurse practitioner," Bob Fleming explained. "She has a mobile medical van and drives around helping out homeless and street people in need of care."

  "Oh, my," Auntie Lil replied. She did not know what else to say. A job like that had to be dangerous, tiring and frustrating. There would be an endless supply of ungrateful and uncooperative patients who were in real need of medical care but lacked the mental self-awareness to recognize their own ailments.

  "Oh, my, is right," Annie O'Day agreed cheerfully. "That's why I have to look like this." She curled one arm up and one arm down in a mock body builder pose. "You can call me Mrs. T," she added.

  Auntie Lil laughed, but her eyes were busy inspecting Bob Fleming's unconscious reaction to Annie. His attention was brightly focused on her and his mouth hovered in a perpetual smile. Yes, it was
clear. Bob Fleming had at least one interest outside of runaways. Auntie Lil was glad to see that he had chosen his interest well.

  "I must be going," she said tactfully. She was not one to stand in the way of love. Besides, she was wasting her time. "I don't think Little Pete is coming."

  "Little Pete?" Annie looked at Bob. "Is she a relative?" she asked skeptically. Auntie Lil was definitely the wrong color.

  "I'll explain later," Bob promised, showing Auntie Lil to the door. "What if Little Pete turns up later?" he asked in a voice much more helpful than it had ever been before. Annie O'Day certainly had a positive effect on him.

  "I'll probably be at the Delicious Deli," Auntie Lil told him. The man's broad shoulders sagged. She had not meant to remind him of his own troubles. "I could use a coffee or two after my large lunch." The largest thing, of course, being the Bloody Mary.

  "I'll send him there if he shows," Bob promised, waving a quick goodbye.

  Auntie Lil did not mind being politely hustled out of Homefront. If Bob Fleming and Annie O'Day were as busy as their jobs implied, she did not begrudge them a few minutes alone together in the middle of a quiet afternoon.

  She walked toward the Delicious Deli and slowed in front of the Jamaican restaurant. Nellie was inside serving steaming plates of chicken and gravy to a pair of customers. Auntie Lil peered in the spacious window, wondering if she should go inside. She was positive that Nellie knew more than she was saying. What had she seen staring out of her window to make her clam up so thoroughly? Why had she grown so frightened at the sight of Emily?

  Nellie noticed her observer right away, and the look she returned was enough to convince Auntie Lil that, perhaps, her time would be better spent somewhere else. Nellie's eyes had narrowed to small, hard orbs, their former openness replaced by tight beams of suspicion.

  Auntie Lil quickly hurried on and passed by Emily's building without incident, but had no doubt that Herbert was lurking somewhere nearby. The Delicious Deli was deserted except for Billy and his young daughter, Megan. The two of them were busy piping whipped cream on top of a large pan of rice pudding when Auntie Lil entered.