A Cast of Killers

by Gallagher Gray

  "Now?" Auntie Lil asked in surprise.

  Fleming shrugged. "There's nothing more I can do here and I might as well volunteer for questions before they come and drag me down there. This way, it will look a whole lot better. I'm sure I'm the number one suspect in their book."

  "I can certainly vouch for your whereabouts when this happened," Fran spoke up. Her voice was firm and calm; she remained in complete control. Father Stebbins, on the other hand, appeared not to have heard. He was still lost in prayer and worry.

  Fleming nodded his thanks. "Good. You'll have to. But it's still better this way. Annie will be out in a minute with a progress report. They say he's not as bad as he looked, but..." He shrugged and headed for the door, leaving them to the same, dismal shared thought: the boy had looked dead. "Better" could still mean pretty awful.

  They sat in silence, staring at the double doors, until a sudden moan from Father Stebbins made them all jump. "My fault," he said distinctly, before lapsing back into prayer. Fran patted his arm.

  The others were not reassured. Auntie Lil met Herbert's gaze, their look interrupted by a quiet hiss from Adelle. The elderly actress rolled her eyes with exaggerated drama and motioned for them to join her in a far corner, where they were forced to evict a nearly incoherent homeless man in order to preserve their privacy. The odor he left behind mingled with the strong smell of hospital ammonia. Auntie Lil felt faint and wavered.

  "You okay?" Herbert asked solicitously as he gripped her elbow tightly, ready to steady her in case of a fall.

  She shook him off with a dignity and strength that she did not, in truth, feel. "Of course. It's just that… things seem to have gotten out of hand."

  Adelle and her followers put their heads together closely, exchanging a private look. "One of my girls saw Father Stebbins with Timmy this morning," Adelle whispered ominously. "And look at him now, blubbering into his rosary."

  They turned as one and stared at the distraught priest. Fran stared back at them without emotion.

  "Discreet, discreet," Herbert muttered with a sigh. "Please, ladies. We must be more discreet."

  "I saw him with Timmy the other morning, too," Auntie Lil admitted. "But he is a priest. Perhaps he was hearing his confession or offering guidance."

  Auntie Lil and Adelle exchanged an even glance. Both had noticed that Father Stebbins had disappeared for long stretches of time. "Not enough time to run up Tenth Avenue and beat up a small boy and get back in time to pass the lemon sauce," Adelle finally admitted aloud, somewhat dejectedly.

  "But enough time to tell someone else to do it," Auntie Lil pointed out. Despite Herbert's warning, they turned again as one and stared at the priest.

  "Ladies, please." Herbert was clearly annoyed at their lack of self-control. "You cannot be good at this unless you can control your curiosity." He steered Auntie Lil firmly back to her seat.

  "How much longer do we have to wait?" Auntie Lil complained, settling back into the uncomfortable hard plastic. It was just like the chairs at St. Barnabas.

  A few minutes later, the swinging doors opened and Annie O'Day appeared. Blood had dried all over the front of her gray sweat suit, but her face and hands had been scrubbed clean. Even exhausted, her pink cheeks glowed with health.

  "How is he?" they asked in near unison.

  "His condition has stabilized. They're admitting him now. We're in luck. One of their better doctors took an interest." She pushed her short hair off her face with a weary gesture.

  "I must see the boy," Father Stebbins insisted in an abruptly commanding voice. He stood and rushed for the door.

  "You can't." Annie blocked him with one quick movement, her shoulder bouncing him into a nearby wall.

  The priest stared at her, dazed, and rubbed his shoulder almost petulantly. "I have to talk to him alone," he contended. "Please. I'm his priest."

  Auntie Lil popped up from her chair in a sudden burst of panic and stared between Father Stebbins and Annie. "No one sees him alone," she blurted out.

  Annie nodded her agreement, crossing her arms firmly as she barricaded the swinging doors. Their eyes met and both Auntie Lil and Annie O'Day nodded: they understood exactly what the other was thinking.

  St. Barnabas was dark and barren, the basement darkest of all. It looked as if no one had set foot inside for years. Both safety gates were firmly padlocked. Clearly, Auntie Lil was not inside.

  T.S. stood on the sidewalk, his light coat wrapped tightly against the early autumn chill. He was wondering what he should do next. It was nearly nine o'clock. He would be secure with Herbert backing him up, but—on the off chance that Worthington was somehow involved with Emily's death—if something happened to both him and Herbert, no one would ever know who was responsible. He ought to get word to Auntie Lil. Or he'd end up like Emily.

  He tried Auntie Lil again at home without success, dialed again out of pure stubbornness and listened to fifteen empty shrill rings before finally relinquishing the phone to an impatient teenager. The gaunt young man was hopping lightly from foot to foot as he tried to intimidate T.S. with a stern stare. T.S. ignored it, though he was shocked to see that the kid wore an electronic beeper strapped to his belt. Great, thought T.S. grimly, as he headed uptown one block, we're making progress with our young after all. We've introduced them to the miracles of science. A new age of technologically-advanced drug dealing is dawning.

  T.S. was stalling for time and he knew it. He was heading uptown because he had a vague idea that his great-grandparents had once lived on the site of the old Madison Square Garden. The lot where the towering new skyscraper now stood. He felt alone and he felt abandoned. He needed their comfort before embarking on his uncertain task.

  The streets of Hell's Kitchen were curiously deserted in the post-twilight hours between curtain rise and curtain fall on nearby Broadway. It was not late enough for the sleaze merchants to be peddling their wares; it was too early for the nightcrawlers to have yet emerged. There was an uneasy peace about the neighborhood, giving it more of an air of a destination, rather than just a stop along the way. Gradually, T.S. became aware that the sensation was not unpleasant. He felt at home.

  He reached his block and stood in the shadows of the huge skyscraper at Forty-Ninth and Eighth, looking up at the sky. The big building was nearly dark at this time of night, only the lower residential towers displayed the occasional light. But across the street, a long row of older apartment houses bravely fighting dilapidation blazed defiantly at the steel and concrete intruder. The shabby exteriors proudly housed vibrant interiors: the street twinkled with the lights of many filled rooms.

  This was the real heart of Hell's Kitchen, T.S. thought. He had been mistaken when he believed the neighborhood was losing its fight against change. It knew just what it was doing. The lifeline of Hell's Kitchen had not changed one iota since the days of his great-grandfather. It still drew its extraordinary energy from the thousands of lives hidden behind worn doors and thin walls. And not even the drug dealers or prostitutes could vanquish the spirit of the families and people who hung on here. They were tough, he realized, much tougher than he was. They avoided disappointment by not expecting too much of their neighborhood. And they had learned to recognize what was most important to them: a safe place called home, never mind the surrounding streets. Plus a job. Friends and family. Neighbors to nod to on the street. They had no patience or time for anything else. He would do well to remember their lessons.

  His first stop was the Delicious Deli. He saw by the clock in the brightly lit but nearly empty restaurant that he would be a few minutes late for his appointment at Emily's building. No matter. He was mere seconds away.

  "Help you with anything?" the proprietor asked. T.S. could not remember his name, it was something fairly common. Phil… Willy? No—Bill. Or, rather, Billy.

  "I want to leave a message for my aunt," T.S. told him. Perhaps Auntie Lil would stop by here before she went home.

  "That's real considerate of you. But t
his ain't a post office," Billy replied good-naturedly. "I can't guarantee she'll get it."

  "It's my Aunt Lil. An elderly lady."

  "Oh, her." Billy's eyes rolled back in his head and he sighed. "What's the message? She'll no doubt be snooping back around here soon enough."

  "Tell her I went to the building. That I was invited."

  Billy stared at T.S. "You went to the building invited," he repeated.

  "No. The building."

  This time Billy got the inflection right.

  As T.S. stepped out again into the night, Billy watched him for a few seconds, then reached for the telephone.

  T.S. had expected to see a few of the older actresses disguised as bag ladies scattered around, but Forty-Sixth Street was nearly empty. The long row of restaurants stretched in front of him quietly, seeming to breathe deeply in the break between pre-theater drinks and post-theater suppers. There was one old man parked in a lawn chair on the corner. T.S. checked out his enormous nose surreptitiously. Good heavens. What had happened to the poor fellow? He looked like he'd lost a fight with a meat grinder. T.S. continued down the block, still surprised at the lack of activity. Where was Herbert? Where was Adelle? Or even Franklin? What was this about a blanket of surveillance?

  He walked all the way to the end of the block, passing the Jamaican restaurant where they had first discovered a clue about Emily. He reached Ninth Avenue without seeing anyone he knew. No one. Just a few strangers brushing past. He went back up the block and this time drew a curious glance from Nellie, the proprietor of the Jamaican restaurant. She was perched on her customary table, staring blankly out into the night and bobbing her many braids to some unheard rhythm. Her eyes took in T.S.'s returning figure without emotion, but T.S. had no doubt that she had recognized who he was.

  One door down, he reached Emily's apartment house again. Still no sign of the ever-vigilant Herbert Wong. He stood at the front door, holding the key. Quite frankly, he was afraid to go in. He did not know if he was being foolish or brave.

  A figure was hurrying up the block toward him. At last, he thought, one of the bag ladies. Probably Adelle. She was that tall. But he was very much mistaken. The willowy figure passed through a pool of light and he saw that it was Leteisha Swann, ubiquitous woman of the night. He remembered the morning she had stumbled into this very building and passed out in the closet. Oh, dear, she was no doubt headed home for a breather. And he was in no mood for witnesses. He was about to turn his back to the door when she breezed right past the building, her steady gait showing no sign of inebriation. She was heading quickly toward Eighth Avenue, her tall figure squeezed into a long-sleeved silver dress. She negotiated the spike heels like the pro that she was. Within a half-minute, she had disappeared into the shadows at the upper end of the block.

  T.S. still lingered at the front door. He wondered briefly what Auntie Lil would do in such a situation, found his answer, and quickly inserted one of the keys. It fit. The tiny downstairs hall was deserted and smelled of sour cooking oil with a faint undercurrent of cheap wine. He hurried into the elevator and pushed the sixth-floor button, looking nervously around to see if he was being observed. He felt slightly ridiculous, huddled in the tiny elevator, his hands clutched tightly in the pockets of his trench coat. Who was he expecting, anyway? Peter Lorre?

  The elevator car creaked and groaned its way to the top floor. That hallway, too, was deserted. He would use his wits well, he decided firmly. If he was taking a big chance, he'd best eliminate as many little ones as he could. He checked the stairway door. It opened easily, onto winding stairs and landings that, as far as he could see, were deserted and, thankfully, well lit. He inspected every corner of the hall and tried Emily's door. It was securely locked. That left only one thing to do.

  He put an ear to the door of the apartment next to Emily's. There was a faint sound inside. A vacant hiss of static and garbled voices. Someone was watching television. Surely, murderers didn't sit and watch television while they waited for their victims? He inserted the key in the lock and turned it lightly. The bolts opened with a loud click. Immediately the television went silent. T.S. took a deep breath and slowly swung the door open all the way to the wall. If someone was hiding behind it, he wanted to know.

  The inside of the one-room apartment was dimly lit by a single lamp that cast a pool of light across a cheap rug. In the center of the room stood a small black boy, hands jammed in his pockets. His head was ducked slightly and he stared up at the door with a furtive unease that exploded into fright once he recognized T.S. "You!" the boy shouted, dashing for the door.

  T.S. responded automatically. He slammed the door shut behind him and stood against it, preventing the boy's escape. "What about me?" T.S. shouted back. This did nothing for the young boy's panic.

  The kid backed away, eyes wide and voice trembling. "Stay away from me," he ordered in a trembling voice. A small hand darted into a jacket pocket and he pulled out a knife. It clicked open and gleamed in the dull light. It was a ridiculously small blade. On the other hand, no blade was ridiculous, T.S. reminded himself.

  "Look, son, I'm not here to hurt you," he reassured the boy in as calm a voice as he could manage. "You have no reason to be frightened of me. No reason at all. Who do you think I am? I'm as confused as you are about this."

  "I'm not confused. I know who you are," the boy spit back angrily. He took a step backwards and looked behind him. He was checking out the fire escape, T.S. realized.

  "It won't do you any good," T.S. lied. "I have a friend on the fire escape." Sure, some friend. Herbert was probably at home in bed asleep, leaving T.S. to deal with this pint-sized homicidal maniac.

  "Don't come near me," the boy warned T.S., moving back and forth in a semicircle with the blade extended in front of him.

  "Son, please." T.S. held a hand up. "You've seen West Side Story one too many times. Put the knife away and tell me who you think I am."

  The boy did not put the knife away, but he did lower it. He eyed T.S. suspiciously. "You're the man who had dead pictures of Timmy's grandmother," he said bitterly. "I saw you pick them up from the photo store. You were practically drooling over them. You're the man who killed her."

  "Me?" T.S. stared at him incredulously, remembering the frightened child who had darted toward him before veering off into the shadows. He certainly looked a hell of a lot more grown up standing four feet away with a knife in his hand. "No, no, no, no," T.S. told him. "A thousand times no. I am definitely not the person who killed Emily. I took those pictures of her at the morgue, after she was dead. I'm trying to find out who killed her. Don't you remember the background of those photos? White? Like a hospital?"

  The boy's eyes narrowed. He was, at least, considering believing T.S. "How do I know you're not lying?" he finally allowed.

  T.S. remembered that the boy had talked to Auntie Lil. "Look, I'll prove it to you. Your name is Little Pete, right?"

  The boy stared at him. "Maybe. So what?"

  "I know all about you. You're Timmy's friend. You called Emily 'Grandmother,' too. She bought you presents on your birthday. You have nice table manners. You eat your green beans last. How am I doing?"

  "How do you know those things?" Little Pete asked sullenly.

  "You had dinner with my aunt. Auntie Lil. The old lady who bought you dinner at the Delicious Deli a couple nights ago."

  "You're lying," Little Pete said. "That was Emily's sister."

  "No, no. She was just a friend of Emily's. And she is my aunt. Here, look." He thrust his face into the light and Little Pete stared at it blankly. "See," T.S. said. "We've got the same nose. Big. Look at this." He turned his head so Little Pete could see his profile. "And check out these cheeks. They're exactly the same. And the hair. Face it. We're practically twins." He was desperate and sounded like a babbling fool, but it was better than grappling with a knife-wielding teenager.

  Besides, it worked. Little Pete relaxed and folded the knife away. "You sure do look like her,"
he admitted grudgingly. "What are you doing here? You'd better leave. I'm waiting for somebody."

  "You're waiting for me," T.S. explained. The look this statement inspired in Little Pete instantly shamed him. "But not for the reason you think," T.S. added quickly.

  "The man is not going to like this at all," Little Pete answered. He moved to a large, sagging bed that dominated the bare room and sat on it dejectedly. "He'll beat me to death like Timmy."

  "What?" T.S. moved toward him. "What did you say?" He knelt beside the boy and Little Pete buried his face in his hands. T.S. patted his back and the fatherly gesture summoned what was left of the little boy in Little Pete. The child began to sob and talk at the same time, his garbled explanation discernible only in bits and pieces. It took ten minutes for T.S. to figure out what had happened. And he finally had an idea of where Auntie Lil might be.

  Timmy had been beaten up, Little Pete explained. On the orders of a man who used to be nice to Timmy and Little Pete. Because Timmy had done something wrong. At first, everything had been going well. The man had gotten them customers, clean ones. And paid them plenty of money. Given them clothes and shoes. Food. Then, a couple of days ago he told Timmy he had to do him a favor. Timmy never told Little Pete what the favor was, but it had something to do with a priest. Timmy didn't want to talk about it. He'd done what the man asked, but then he'd started to feel bad about it. So Timmy had changed his mind, Little Pete explained, and the man had sent someone after him. Little Pete was sure that Timmy had been beaten up to teach them both a lesson about crossing the man. They'd come and taken Timmy to the hospital and Little Pete didn't even know if he was still alive or not. Little Pete figured he'd been spared his own beating only because he had this job to do tonight. The man in charge had told him to come here and take Timmy's place. But now Little Pete was frightened. He'd been thinking about it. He was sure that once tonight's job was over, the man would send Rodney after him, too.

  "Rodney?" T.S. asked, "Who's this Rodney guy?"