A Cast of Killers

by Gallagher Gray

  Billy looked up and his old smile returned. He nodded toward her table and lifted his eyebrows, signaling her to sit. He was well versed in the across-the-room sign language of New York delis.

  "Be right there," he promised out loud. "Megan here is our resident whipped cream artist and I promised she could do the pudding today."

  Auntie Lil saw that much of the whipped cream was going into the artist's mouth and onto the artist's Catholic school uniform, but uncharacteristically said nothing. She was too busy trying to decide how to approach Billy about the bad feelings he displayed toward Bob Fleming. But she need not have bothered. Billy brought it up himself as soon as he had shooed his daughter into the bathroom to wash the goo off her hands and change her clothes.

  "What were you doing with that guy from Homefront" he asked Auntie Lil, setting a cup of cappuccino in front of her without being asked. "I've been hearing things about him. Things I don't like to hear."

  She looked at him, mystified. "He runs a program for young runaways."

  "Huh." Billy stared into her coffee, avoiding her face. "Word is he's just as bad as the men he's helping those runaways to escape."

  That couldn't be true. She'd had a good feeling about Bob Fleming and she was usually so right about people. "Where did you hear that?" she asked sharply.

  "It's going around the streets." Billy shrugged and wiped his hands on his apron, keeping an eye on the bathroom door. He did not want his young daughter overhearing.

  "How reliable is street talk?" Auntie Lil asked.

  "It's usually pretty good." He stared at her unhappily. "I hate guys like that," he added for good measure. "I think they should be publicly killed."

  She shook her head no, unwilling to believe him.

  "How's the investigation going?" Billy asked casually.

  Auntie Lil looked up at him, surprised. Had she ever said she was investigating… perhaps she had.

  "I know you're poking into that old lady's death," Billy pointed out. "There are no secrets in Hell's Kitchen. Street talk is pretty accurate, like I say."

  Auntie Lil felt there were a good many secrets in Hell's Kitchen. Too many, in fact. And some of them were probably pretty essential to discovering the truth that she sought. She would use an old trick, one that was quite effective when she didn't feel like answering questions: she'd ask the questions instead.

  "I know you don't like those young boys in your store," she told Billy. "But I'm trying to talk to one of them. If he shows up here to meet me, will you let him in?"

  Billy stared at her again before finally answering, "If you're with him every second and keep him away from the potato-chip rack and the bottles of soda in back."

  "That bad?" Auntie Lil asked.

  "That bad," he confirmed, then added: "And keep him away from my daughter, too."

  "Of course I'll join you," Lilah said with enthusiasm. "Who are you going to be? I do hope you gave that awful money-grubbing creature a false name. Otherwise, you'll have to put up with endless annoying phone calls. They're really such a nuisance, these investing types. Never leave you alone until they hear you've gone bankrupt, I suspect. You really have no idea."

  He gulped in the silence that followed, then finally admitted in a strangled voice, "Actually, I gave him my real name… and your real name, too."

  He expected her to shriek in dismay but she laughed instead. "You should be sneakier if you're going to go undercover," she pointed out. "You mean to tell me that after this is over, we're going to have to dodge this producer begging us for money?"

  "But you do that already with dozens and dozens of people. I'm sure you've had more experience than me," he pointed out weakly.

  "So I have. Well, I suppose the old Cheswick name is essential for hooking our fish," she admitted without a hint of rancor.

  "I'm afraid it is," T.S. confessed. "And I hope you'll forgive me one day."

  "Well," said Lilah, "that depends."

  "Depends on what?"

  "Depends on what one day brings."

  T.S. was too tongue-tied to manage a reply. She rang off quickly, after promising to pick him up in the limo just before eight.

  T.S. sat by the phone enjoying the wave of relief that washed through him. He had actually made a mistake and nothing horrible had happened to him. She had not slammed down the phone. The ceiling had not fallen. The sky had not parted nor had lightning split him in two. True, he had been mildly embarrassed. But that had gone away in an instant. Perhaps he was too hard on himself, he thought vaguely. Perhaps there was such a thing as being too correct. And though he hated to admit it, maybe Auntie Lil was right. He could afford to loosen up a little.

  Billy Finnegan need not have worried about his daughter coming in contact with Little Pete. By the time Little Pete showed up at the Delicious Deli, Auntie Lil had run through two cups of coffee, another cappuccino and a large slice of cheesecake. And Megan had long since been collected by her mother, fed a large meal, scrubbed in a clean bathtub, and dressed in fresh pajamas.

  The little boy who stood outside the windows of the deli, peering in through the oncoming twilight, would have found such caring treatment by a mother completely foreign.

  He was small, even for his young age, and his skinny frame could not have been even five feet tall. His face was twisted in a hardened imitation of a cynical adult, but a small tremor of fear made his chin wobble a little as he stood beside the door, staring in at Auntie Lil. She knew that, despite his toughness, he was afraid to come inside and risk the rancor of the owner who had no doubt thrown him out many times before. She stared back at him, trying to decide what would be the best thing to do to win his trust. Wait until he gathered his courage and came inside? Or wave him in enthusiastically, as if he really were just a normal little boy coming to meet his grandmother.

  But Little Pete was not a normal little boy. That much was clear even in shadow. He stood, pelvis thrust forward, hands curled in fists and arms bent slightly in a menacing pose that belied his familiarity with the streets.

  Maybe Auntie Lil had been wrong when she told T.S. not to worry, that she had seen it all. Because she wasn't sure she had seen this exactly before—this defiant posturing and aggressive adult manner in such a small body. He did not seem to use his small size to his advantage at all. And he could have. It would have provoked pity even in the street. No, this child did not want pity in any form, that much was immediately apparent.

  "Think he's coming in?" Billy asked idly. He was leaning against the counter picking his teeth and staring out into the twilight. The deli was quiet and would remain so for much of the night.

  "I think he might be afraid of you," Auntie Lil told him, wondering if Little Pete had reasons of his own that she did not know about.

  "I can take care of that," Billy decided. He tossed his toothpick into the trash can and flipped up part of the countertop, advancing on the door with a wide smile on his face.

  Little Pete coiled, waiting for the verbal lashing that was sure to come. When, instead, Billy motioned him inside, the young boy refused to act surprised. Suspicion had long since replaced surprise in his repertoire of emotions. Instead, he strutted arrogantly past the deli owner as if he owned the place. But he watched Billy out of the corners of his eyes.

  "Hello, young man," Auntie Lil called out cheerfully. "I'm the old lady Bob Fleming told you about. My goodness, I've been waiting for hours. I'm starving. Will you join me for dinner?"

  Keeping one eye on Billy, Little Pete inched sideways toward Auntie Lil's table. Reluctantly giving up his scrutiny of Billy—who had resumed his stance behind the counter—Little Pete silently gripped the back of a wrought-iron chair at Auntie Lil's table while he looked her over closely.

  "You buying me dinner? What for?" he asked in a high voice that tried hard to be gruff, but failed.

  Heavens, she realized, his voice had not even changed yet. What kind of family would just let him wander away? And what kind of family was so horrible that t
he streets of New York seemed a preferable environment? But she could not afford to think about such things now. What she needed was information. And treating him like a child was not the way to go about it.

  "I want to ask you some questions," she explained evenly. "That takes up your time. I thought dinner would be a fair payment." She pointed toward the chair he gripped and, slowly, Little Pete pulled it out and perched on the edge of the seat, still half-turned to the door as if he might bolt at any moment.

  "Questions about who?" he asked sullenly. His pronunciation was extremely precise, especially for a child who lived on the streets. It told Auntie Lil that he had gone to school at one time, and probably studied hard. And that someone at home had once cared enough about him to provide a good example.

  "A friend of yours. Her name was Emily." Auntie Lil answered. "She was an old lady who lived on Forty-Sixth Street. She died just a few days ago." Auntie Lil spoke gently but firmly, having decided that the prim schoolteacher mode might serve her best in this situation, so long as she made it clear that she was no sucker and that Little Pete was wasting his time if he thought he could con her.

  "Don't know no old lady," he said sullenly. His eyes inched back toward the steam table of hot food at the far end of the deli counter. Billy stood near it, watching his two customers carefully.

  "Don't know any old lady," she corrected the boy. "And I know that you do." She wagged a playful finger at him. "But why don't we eat first?"

  If some sugar daddy was taking care of Little Pete on the streets, he wasn't doing a very good job of feeding him. The child ate two large double cheeseburgers, a mountain of French fries and even a bowl of overcooked green beans when Auntie Lil insisted. To her surprise, while Little Pete was obviously hungry, he did not gobble. In fact, he had nice table manners and kept his napkin nearby so he could frequently scrub his mouth. He even ordered milk, which amused Auntie Lil. That hard outer crust concealed a little gentleman inside.

  By the time his plate was empty, some of the hard angles of Little Pete's face had smoothed and he no longer perched on the edge of his chair. He sat back in contentment and the slightly sleepy look that crossed his face made him seem, for just a moment, like the little boy that he was.

  "Why you think I know this lady?" he asked Auntie Lil slowly. "I never seen you before. You her sister or something?"

  "You've never seen me, but I've seen you," Auntie Lil lied, not answering his other question. Let him think she was Emily's sister. Perhaps he would talk more. "I saw you one night near the twenty-four-hour photo store," she lied. "You were running away. I know why you ran. It was the photos of Emily, wasn't it? The photos of her dead that upset you."

  "She was nice lady," he protested. For the briefest of seconds, his lower lip trembled. "I ran because I had to find Timmy. I knew he'd want to know."

  "Is Timmy your friend?' she asked gently. "Was Emily a friend of Timmy's, too?"

  "Sure, Timmy's my friend. We're buddies." He stared at her defiantly, as if he expected her to challenge his contention that he had a friend. "And that lady was his grandma."

  "His grandmother?" Auntie Lil repeated. "You mean, they were related?"

  "Don't know about that." He stared down at his hands, saw they were fists, and self-consciously uncurled them. His fingers began to drum nervously on top of the small glass table. "But he called her grandma," he admitted. "And she was as good as a real one. She let us watch TV at her house when we could sneak away from… "He stopped, looked outside as if he were being watched, then continued. "Once she baked us a pineapple upside-down cake and let me and Timmy eat the whole thing."

  "You've been in her apartment on Forty-Sixth Street? Next to the Jamaican restaurant?"

  He nodded and told her more. "Once she brought Timmy to see a play. And she said she could help him, that he wouldn't have to do… some things anymore. That maybe she could get him a job somewhere. And then she promised to help me, too. She was going to give us tickets to Los Angeles, she said. We wanted to go where it was warm. She said it was a nice town."

  "Los Angeles?" Auntie Lil asked. "Was that your idea or hers?"

  "Hers. Timmy kept telling her he was scared because the winter was coming. He hated the cold weather. She said she'd send us to L.A."

  "What happened to her?" Auntie Lil asked softly. "Do you know who killed her?"

  His lower lip trembled and he shook his head furiously. "Don't know. First time I knew she was dead was when I saw those photos. We was supposed to see her the next day. It was my birthday and she had a present for me. Like she had one for Timmy on his birthday. But I never got the present." He stared into the tabletop. "She was nice to me. Said she could be my grandma, too. That it was okay to call her 'Grandma' like Timmy did. It was out on the streets that she'd been poisoned or something. But I don't know who'd do a thing like that."

  "Did she ever tell you anything about herself?" Auntie Lil asked. "Where she was from? How she knew Timmy? Why she was being so nice?"

  "Like what? Why you want to know?" He stared at Auntie Lil. The hard, suspicious expression flickered into view and disappeared. "She was nice to us 'cause she liked us."

  "Don't you realize that she was murdered?" Auntie Lil asked gently. "Don't you want to find out who did it?"

  The hard look came back for good. "I find out who, I'm gonna bust him," Little Pete said angrily. He jabbed with a fist for emphasis, imitating his television heroes and their cartoon courage.

  "She never told you about herself?" Auntie Lil persisted. The little boy shook his head. "What about Timmy? Did he talk to her more? Can you get him to talk to me?"

  Little Pete considered this. "I don't know. Timmy's scared. First I seen her dead in the photos. And then he seen an old lady coming out of her apartment and this man was with her, he thinks it was a cop. He ran away. Says he's real scared. And he's sad about Grandma dying. Real sad. He says something's going on and he don't understand it. But he won't even tell me what it is, so he ain't gonna talk to you none."

  "Isn't going to talk to me at all," Auntie Lil corrected automatically, but her heart wasn't really in it. Little Pete tried on bad grammar like he tried on his street accent—sporadically and not very well. It was posturing and nothing more. Besides, her mind was on more important things. "What do you know about Timmy?" she asked. "Where is he from?"

  Little Pete shrugged. He wasn't interested in people's pasts. He had run away to start a new life, not dwell on the old one. And so had his friend, Timmy. "I think he's from Texas," he finally offered. "That's all I know. Says his daddy was mean to him and his momma wouldn't stop it. Ran away. Came here. That's all I know."

  "You can't tell me anything else about him?" Auntie Lil demanded.

  "Well, he's kind of weird," Little Pete admitted. "Do I get dessert?" he added hopefully.

  "Of course you do." She waved Billy over and soon Little Pete was digging into an enormous ice cream sundae, the treat bringing back the little boy in him. "What else do you know about Timmy?" Auntie Lil persisted.

  Little Pete shrugged. "He's kind of spooky about religion and stuff like that. He likes to hang out near that church. But he never goes in, he says. Just kind of hangs around outside and looks in when they're praying."

  "What church?" Auntie Lil demanded. "You mean the one on Forty-Eighth Street?"

  The boy nodded, his mouth crammed with chocolate syrup and ice cream. "The big one," he muttered through his dessert.

  "St. Barnabas? With the soup kitchen? Where Bob Fleming sometimes takes people to eat?"

  Little Pete nodded again. "But not Timmy. He won't go inside. Like I say, he just watches through the door sometimes."

  Now it was Auntie Lil's turn to drum the glass tabletop with her fingers. "Who would want to kill Emily?" she asked sharply.

  Little Pete looked up in mid-bite, startled. "Don't know," he protested. "She was a nice lady. She was gonna give me a present."

  Auntie Lil sighed and her mind wandered over what she
had learned. Emily had cared about this young boy, Timmy, enough to let him call her "Grandma." And he had hung around St. Barnabas. But, according to Little Pete, never went in.

  "How old are you?" she asked Little Pete.

  "Now I'm twelve," he answered proudly.

  "How old is Timmy?" she continued.

  "Timmy's older. He turned fourteen last July. He was born on the fourth of July," he added helpfully.

  Auntie Lil sighed. She would have to talk to Timmy herself. "Can you get him to talk to me?" she asked again, letting warmth creep into her voice for the very first time. In fact, she was trying her best to plead—which was distinctly against her nature.

  Little Pete shrugged and shook his head. "I can try, but I don't think he'll do it." The boy shrugged again. "Says he's cursed."

  "Cursed?"

  Little Pete scooped up the rest of his sundae and carefully finished every drop. "Says everyone that tries to be good to him ends up dead." Little Pete looked her right in the eye. "I wouldn't want to help him if I was you."

  "What about you?" Auntie Lil pointed out. "You're his friend and you're not dead."

  "Me? I'm too little for no one to bother about. Besides, I'm too smart." The little boy finished licking his spoon and let it fall into the dish with a clatter. He winced and looked sideways at Billy, then slowly rose before freezing in indecision.

  "It's okay. He knows I'm paying," Auntie Lil assured the boy. "You can go now if you want."

  "Man don't like me," Little Pete confided.

  "I guess not. You steal his things." Auntie Lil spoke calmly and without judgment. Little Pete shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot and ducked his head. Either he was ashamed or he was trying to say something that was difficult for him to say.

  "About the dinner," he finally said in a voice so soft that, even leaning forward, Auntie Lil caught only part of it. "Thanks. But I got to go."

  He dashed out the door, blending into the new evening's shadows and reappearing clearly in the illuminated harshness of the occasional streetlight that lit Eighth Avenue at night. Auntie Lil stood in the window, following his small figure through the clusters of theater patrons hurrying toward their shows. The boy walked quickly, head down, minding his own business—the very first rule of life on the street. Halfway down the block, something caught his attention. Perhaps he heard a shouted greeting, or a warning whistle. His head jerked up and he looked furtively around, then turned and raised an arm in greeting. Another small figure hurried across the avenue to Little Pete. They met beneath a streetlight and Auntie Lil saw the glow of a head of nearly white hair. Timmy. Had he been standing on the far corner, waiting for Little Pete? Waiting for a report back on her? The two boys gave each other a high-five hand slap, then turned down Forty-Sixth Street and quickly disappeared from view. Just as Auntie Lil was about to return to the table and settle the bill, she saw a by now familiar figure hurrying down the block, right behind the two boys. Or was it simply a coincidence that all were heading down Forty-Sixth Street? Whatever the reason, Leteisha Swann, woman of the night, disappeared into the very same darkness that had swallowed Timmy and Little Pete only a few seconds before.