A Cast of Killers

by Gallagher Gray

  "Find out anything?" Billy asked from behind. She jumped in alarm and he steadied her with a very strong arm. "Sorry. Didn't mean to spook you."

  Flustered, she fussed over to her table and hauled her pocketbook onto a chair. "How much do I owe you?" she asked.

  "Nothing at all." He began to clear the dishes from the table and ignored her protests. "Listen, lady, whatever it is you're really doing, you got that little monster to act like a human being. So maybe you're not all bad. Forget about the bill. I mean it."

  "No, I insist." She held out some bills.

  Billy pushed her hand away and sat down across from her. "What you owe me is to listen to what I have to say," he told her quietly.

  She stiffened, but remained silent.

  "Around here," he said softly, "people have two faces. The faces everyone in the neighborhood sees. Those are the happy, smiling 'I'm a great guy, let me buy you a drink' faces. And then you have the faces that tell the true story. The faces that come out the second a door is shut and it's okay to let down your guard."

  "What do you mean?" Auntie Lil asked, suddenly frightened.

  "What I mean is that I can tell you were feeling sorry for that kid. And I got to admit, he acted okay in here tonight. But I've seen him punch old ladies in the stomach for their pocketbooks. I've seen him wave over greasy old men with one hand and pick their pockets with the other. He's an animal and he'll turn on you like one. And he's like just about everyone else in this neighborhood. I know because I grew up here. And the name of the game is survival."

  "Even for you?" she asked softly.

  "Even for me. If someone or something ever threatened my family, for instance, this nice guy you see here would disappear. Like that." He snapped his fingers and Auntie Lil jumped at the sharp crack. When he saw she had not yet been cowed, he continued. "I'll tell you another story," he said. "Last week a couple of guys came in. They looked kind of familiar to me. We stared at each other for a few seconds—and then we all remembered. We'd gone to Sacred Heart together twenty, twenty-five years ago. Played stickball, ran in the streets when we were bored. Stood around looking at girls walking by. Tried to get beers out of old man Flanagan. Those guys had been my best friends in third and fourth grade. And I'd known them all through high school. And here they were, back bigger than life. Both of them decked out in gold chains and floor-length fur coats. Italian loafers. Hundred-dollar haircuts. Thousand-dollar suits. A tan BMW parked out front. And a wad of cash that would choke one of those horses over in Central Park."

  "Mafia?" Auntie Lil asked.

  "Doubt it. They're Irish boys. Mafia don't trust them." He leaned forward again. "The point is, after they'd been here about fifteen minutes, they ask me if I'm interested in something very, very special. I say, 'Sure. Why not?' One of the guys goes out to the car, brings back a box, says I'm not going to believe this. 'You'll really get off, Billy,' he tells me and pulls out a stack of magazines."

  Billy stopped and his mouth turned down in pain and disgust. "I can't tell you what was in those magazines because it would make you sick. But it could have been my Megan on those pages. Or my son. And it damn sure was somebody's kid. And those guys, those smiling buddies who had been my best friends at one time, had grown up and grown fat and rich on that filth. Those magazines sold for twenty-five dollars apiece. When they saw I wasn't interested, they acted a little hurt that I didn't appreciate the favor, but hey, there were no hard feelings. The Fifty-Second Street gang faces came back in an instant. They were the boys again—joking with me, slapping my hands, everything was buddy this, buddy that. Like they'd pulled out Sports Illustrated instead. And you know what? I was buddy, buddy back to them."

  He looked down at the table, as if ashamed of himself. He shook his head sadly. "Everyone is out for themselves, Miss Hubbert. So be careful. I'm just asking you to be very, very careful. I liked that old lady, Emily. She was a sweetheart. But she obviously put her nose where it didn't belong and now she's lying on a slab in the morgue." He looked up and stared at Auntie Lil.

  He had succeeded in thoroughly frightening her, yet she could not quite understand why. She thanked him profusely, assured him she understood and, flustered, hurried out the door. She needed a friend just then and Herbert Wong was the closest one she could definitely trust. This time, he was easy to find along Forty-Sixth Street. He was now disguised as a parking attendant and sat on a folding chair in front of a lot that was located a few doors away on the opposite side of the street from Emily's. She mustn't risk blowing his cover.

  "Has The Eagle flown the nest?" she asked instead, out of the side of her mouth as she walked briskly past.

  "Not yet," came the brief reply.

  T.S. was startled to see that Lance Worthington had also brought along company. And cheap company at that, not exactly the type of window dressing that T.S. would recommend if he were trying to impress wealthy folk. The producer was ensconced at a table, firmly wedged between a pair of blonde bookends. They perched on each side of him, both staring into their drinks and dragging on cigarettes. The women were thin to the point of emaciation, at least in T.S.'s opinion, and the lack of flesh gave their faces a hard, unpleasant look. The tallest blonde had hair that tumbled wildly down her back in a style far too young for her face and wore a red sequined dress that fit her like a sausage skin. The other blonde, whose hair was cropped short in Louise Brooks-style fashion, wore an equally tight green sheath that shimmered in the restaurant's discreet lighting. Both the red and the green dress were held up by thin straps that threatened to break at any moment.

  If Worthington had been dressed in a Santa Claus suit, the scene would have looked a lot like the opening of a poorly plotted porno movie.

  "That's him with the oversexed elves," T.S. murmured as he helped Lilah through the entrance.

  "I seem to be a bit overdressed," Lilah worried as she and T.S. feigned confused looks and pretended not to know who Lance Worthington was. It was a good effort, but probably not necessary. There were only two other tables with patrons in the entire joint.

  "Perhaps you should take off your dress along with your coat and act like you intended to wear your slip all along," T.S. suggested. He was rewarded with a stifled giggle. They stood beside the bar, giving Worthington time to spot them and evaluate his prey. Meanwhile, T.S. was quietly returning the scrutiny.

  Up close, he decided, the producer was even more repellent than he had suspected. It wasn't so much the way he looked, it was more the way he moved. His tongue unconsciously licked at his thin lips in greedy, lizardlike darts. His eyes were narrow and glittered unnaturally as they automatically zeroed in on Lilah's large diamond ring, then shifted to her expensive coat and on to her heavy gold necklace. T.S. could practically hear the producer calculating Lilah's net worth. Finished with Lilah, Worthington moved on to evaluate T.S. and it was all he could do to ignore the blatant scrutiny. The whole time he thought he was being subtle, Worthington was tugging unconsciously on his tiny right ear, sometimes stroking it as if for good luck.

  T.S. had no desire to get close to the man, but duty called. He might know something about Emily's death. Or why every trace of her had disappeared from one of his apartments. He led Lilah to the edge of the producer's table and the blondes looked up in bored obedience.

  "Worthington?" T.S. asked. "I'm T.S. Hubbert. You know Lilah Cheswick, I believe?"

  The producer's mouth cracked in a smile that oozed sincerity and he leapt to his feet in fevered gallantry. "I've never actually had the pleasure of meeting Miss Cheswick," he admitted smoothly. "I've heard so much about you, however. What a great pleasure."

  He extended a hand to Lilah and she bravely took it, pasting on a smile that was as phony as it was fitting for the bored society matron she had decided to be for the night. It was the first inkling that Lilah was actually going to enjoy their charade and it inspired T.S. himself to new heights. He extended a hand to Worthington and was rewarded with an appropriately manly handshake.<
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  "And who are these charming young ladies?" T.S. asked, injecting an appropriately lascivious tone into his voice. More of that man-to-man stuff.

  "This is my good friend, Miss Sally St. Claire," Worthington said enthusiastically. "You may recognize her from the movies." The tall blonde with too much hair nodded primly, then noisily slurped from her drink. T.S. didn't recognize her, but then she did have her clothes on—and he suspected that her movies were hardly late show fare.

  "This other beautiful young thing is her good friend, Molly." Molly nodded dully and glanced at the clock above the bar. Her eyes were slightly glazed and T.S. was not at all sure that Molly even knew where she was. Or, possibly, who she was.

  "Sit down. Do please sit down. Where are my manners?" Worthington actually hurried around the table and escorted Lilah to a seat by his side, booting his "good friend" Sally over one chair. He must really be desperate for money, T.S. thought. Even for a toadying moneygrubber, his obsequiousness was excessive.

  "Please excuse me," the blonde named Molly announced suddenly. She stood abruptly and walked toward the back, disappearing inside the ladies' room.

  "I'll just be a teensy minute myself," Sally St. Claire added, snatching a small gold pocketbook from the tabletop before hurrying after her friend.

  Worthington chuckled as if they had just told a particularly amusing joke. "Girls. What do they do in there? Always got to go in pairs. Makes you kind of wonder, huh?" The guffaw that followed was so incredibly crass and forced that both Lilah and T.S. were thrown for a loop. How were they supposed to behave? Should they laugh along or be above it all? Better get a grip on your character, T.S. told himself. Remember, you've got money. Lots and lots of it.

  T.S. compromised and smiled politely. He would be slightly above it all. After all, he was rolling in the dough.

  It was the right choice. Within seconds, Worthington was expertly pumping both of them—under the guise of friendly questions—for information on where they lived, how many houses they owned, had they ever been to a particular restaurant in the Hamptons and wasn't the Virginia squire country marvelous in the spring? Didn't they think that the best available property bargains today could be found in the Caribbean? None of his questions were innocuous. They were economic land mines carefully laid in an attempt to strip their net worth bare. T.S. quickly found himself in over his head. He detested name-dropping, whether it was a person or place being dropped, and could not follow the rapid-fire probing. Lilah was good, though, very good. All of the hours spent listening to her boring friends chat on endlessly now paid handsome dividends. By the time the girls returned from the bathroom, Lance Worthington was convinced that both Lilah and T.S. were eager to share their wealth.

  What followed was dinner and a painfully detailed description of a musical based on Davy Crockett's life. And damned if Lilah didn't actually convey enthusiasm about such monstrosities as a chorus line of dancing Indians paying homage to the great white pioneer.

  During the producer's tedious recounting of the plot, the blondes excused themselves frequently, shunned food of any kind, and spent most of their time in the ladies' room, only to return and sit together giggling inanely over whispered comments that T.S. could not hear. Once they erupted in loud laughter and Worthington leaned over to mutter sharply in Sally St. Claire's ear. She immediately straightened up and her mouth clamped down in a thin line. She shrugged a small apology toward Lilah and T.S., then cast a quick, darting glance at her girlfriend.

  Fortunately, the dinner was not quite as bad as the show's concept and T.S. was able to find some solace in the sole almandine. He had just worked his way over to the turnip puree when, to his total astonishment, he felt a small foot begin to probe his own. It could not have been Lilah, she was seated across the table next to Worthington, so it had to be the blonde named Molly. It was all T.S. could do to keep from choking and sending flecks of turnip spraying across the tabletop. The small foot had on a remarkably sharp-toed shoe and the hard tip pressed gently on his instep then insinuated its way up his leg. Without even glancing at her, T.S. flushed a deep scarlet and removed his leg from her vicinity. This necessitated sitting practically sideways in his chair, but he had no other ideas on how to repel the attack.

  Worthington turned his attention back to a chattering Lilah, who was glibly holding forth on how hard it was to find an investment that gave her a good return on her money these days and how she just hated having everything parked in municipal bonds. She was really pulling out the stops and the level of greed this inspired in Worthington was nearly palpable. T.S. forgot his embarrassment in his admiration for Lilah. By God, now that was a woman who had real nerve. She knew how to take on a challenge.

  "I've got a great idea," Worthington announced at the next lull in conversation. "I'm having a little get-together tomorrow. For some of the backers and potential investors, the ones who have passed preliminary muster, of course." Good grief, the man had nerve. He actually wanted them to believe that he could afford to be picky about who invested in his show and who was left out in the cold.

  "It's at my place," Worthington continued. "I've got a great view of the river. Cocktails, munchies, a little entertainment. What do you say? It's better than those boring charity dinners, I can tell you that." He raised his eyebrows flirtatiously at Lilah and she managed a genteel smile back. T.S. would have rushed to her rescue but the pedicured probe was back at work and he was once again busy defending his personal space at ankle level.

  "We'd love to come," Lilah was saying. She smiled sweetly at T.S. but her eyes were full of questions. She was wondering why T.S. was giving her so little help.

  "Yes, we'd love to," T.S. quickly agreed. He casually moved his chair a few inches to the left and it scraped across the floor with a piercing shriek. The small foot only inched its way a little closer.

  Lilah suddenly looked at the clock, feigning surprise. She must have sensed that something was wrong. "Theodore, darling, shouldn't we be going? You have that appointment with the sultan of … " She let her voice trail off discreetly.

  "Oh, yes. Of course. I had completely forgotten about the sultan." T.S. leapt to his feet and hurried to help Lilah from her chair, wondering if there even was such a thing as a sultan these days. Apparently, there were plenty of them since no one at the table thought it unusual that they should hurry away. There were no questions about coffee or dessert, and Worthington did not seem concerned. They had promised to attend his party the next night and he was content with what he had accomplished.

  After a few halfhearted murmurings about who would pick up the check, Lilah and T.S. managed to escape out the door with all of their jewelry and valuables intact.

  Lilah gulped at the fresh air. "My God. The way he was looking at my ring I felt compelled to check every three minutes to make sure I still had it on."

  "That, that cheap…" T.S. struggled for words. "That awful creature next to me was harassing me under the table!" He spotted the limousine parked a few doors down and frantically waved for Grady to hurry. He wanted out of there and away from that anorexic ankle assaulter as soon as he could.

  Lilah suppressed a smile. "Whatever do you mean, Theodore?"

  "That woman was trying to play footsies with me. Right there. Under the table. With you right there!"

  "Really, Theodore. Don't take it so hard. What do you think that man was doing to me? I could practically tell you his brand of footwear by now. Why do you think I got us out of there? We'll just have to pump him for information tomorrow. The man was halfway up my shins and I just couldn't take it anymore."

  T.S. was incensed. "How utterly despicable. How completely crass. What do they do? Get together and agree on a game plan? Draw straws? Sharpen their toe points? Are they some sort of particularly active foot fetish group? Who did that other blonde get to play footsies with? Maybe the waiter. Did you happen to notice if he was standing next to her a lot?"

  "Theodore, Theodore." She stopped his tirade with
an upheld hand and ushered him into the limousine's back seat. "Do you think Worthington is harmless?" she asked.

  "I think he's a snake," he answered promptly.

  "Of course. But I meant, harmless in Emily's death."

  "Probably. Why would he bother? But he's certainly up to no good somewhere. I wonder what Auntie Lil found out today."

  "In that case," Lilah announced grandly, "let's give her a call." She winked at T.S. and pushed a button on the hand rest. A small panel whirred back in the passenger seat door, revealing a compact cellular telephone.

  "Good heavens," T.S. said, inexplicably annoyed. "It's a good thing they didn't have those contraptions when I was still working. I'd never have gotten any peace or quiet."

  "Isn't it just too much?" Lilah agreed. "I've only used it once, to order some Chinese food from the curbside. And that was just for fun. Fun that cost me about three dollars."