The Gold Pawn

by L. A. Chandlar

  He wasn’t prepared to run into his younger brother, Sean, Gwen’s husband. It had been nine years since he’d seen him last. Sean had masterfully manipulated their parents for years, Finn only realizing the evil intent and cruel twisting of the truth after it was too late. Sean had successfully turned everyone in his life against him. Right when he needed them most.

  Everyone, that is, except Grandma Vivian. He hadn’t realized that she had been a constant ally his whole life. Even his own parents had been duped by Sean, and they had cut Finn out of their will and out of their lives.

  Finn had scrimped and saved his entire life, not being one to purchase little and inconsequential trinkets, so being cut off financially from his parents wasn’t that heavy of a financial burden. He had always lived independently anyway. It was the intent behind it that had stung. Eventually, when Grandma Viv was no longer able to take care of herself in her own home, Finn had her moved to the Belmont Nursing Home. She seemed happy. He had tried to convince her to come to America to be closer to him, but she wanted to stay in her home country.

  They had spent a lot of time together during his weeks on assignment in London. He had told her almost instantly about Lane. She took one good look at him when he came to visit the first time and said, “By golly, Finn, you’re in love!” He had turned bright red convincing her of that truth more than any words could have done. She asked question after question about Lane, about the last couple of months, their limited time together and, most of all, about Lane herself. What she was like, what she looked like, what kind of job she had, what she loved to do, etc.... It had surprised him how he knew all the answers. She had insisted that he must bring Lane to visit her within the next year. He promised he would.

  After leaving the warm and cozy side of his grandmother, he found himself walking toward a darker end of town. Tonight, the fog stayed away, but now that it was the end of November, the winter chill started to make a more stalwart and frequent appearance. His breath huffed in the cold darkness as he turned the corner, going down closer to the Thames.

  He squinted in the night and ah . . . there it was. The little hole-in-the-wall pub that was downstairs from the apartment he secured for Miles. He had met him two times since their first meeting and Miles began to look more and more like a human being. He was cleaner and smelled better, that was for sure, although it would have proven difficult to be grimier than at that first meeting. Finn had been stunned that underneath all that dirt had been pink skin and black hair only graying at the temples, despite Miles’s many years. His darting eyes hadn’t changed, but the intelligence that had been covered over by years of terrible anxiety, paranoia, and purposelessness started to make its brave way to the foreground.

  Finn was anxious to get to this next meeting; he had received Lane’s telegram about her findings at the bridge. He had no idea what the pawns meant, but he was certain that the date on the seventh one, being the date of her parents’ deaths, was not a particularly good sign. Something happened that day that involved the mark of the scroll—the scarlet scroll on the silver gun and that same scroll on the bridge. He was getting the feeling that this was much bigger than any of them had suspected. Well, at least bigger than he had suspected. Fiorello, not to mention FDR, must have had their suspicions. They had sent him on this errand after all.

  He pushed open the thick brown wooden door that had probably stood there for over a century. Inside, the pub was warm and the amber light flickered from the fireplace casting homey shadows on the masculine occupants. The familiar smell of beer spilled on wood flooring made him think of the hundreds of times he spent with mates in just such a pub. It was a pleasing little tavern and he spotted Miles sitting in an inconspicuous corner. Finn had picked this out-of-the-way place himself and he told only one person about it besides Miles.

  Finn crunched over scattered hay and peanut shells to the stool awaiting him at the small table. He greeted Miles and they chatted awhile as they ordered their pints and a couple of pasties.

  “Miles,” Finn began as they got down to business, “I heard from my contact in New York. We found a scroll on the railing of a bridge in Central Park that was an exact replica of that red scroll on the gun I told you about.”

  “Sounds just like something Rex would do, yeah,” rasped Miles as he brought the frothy pint to his lips for a long draught.

  “After they took a closer look, they realized that the railing was made up of figures that looked just like pawns. Pawns from a chess game.”

  Finn saw recognition in Miles, that he knew what those pawns meant, but he only replied, “Go on. Did they find anything else?”

  Finn nodded. “Well, first, when Rex was killed, they found two gold pawns on him that are identical in shape to those on the bridge. On that railing, there were ten larger pawns in the middle of the bridge. After close inspection, seven of them had an X marked near the bottom, on the side of the pawn. Three were blank. Lastly, on that seventh one that had the X, there was a 1-22-23 marked on the back.”

  “Sounds like a date,” remarked Miles, with his quickly returning cleverness.

  “Mm hm,” agreed Finn. “My contact’s parents were killed on that date.”

  Miles’s head moved back in surprise. “Really,” he said with his brow furrowed. “Are there any more links with this contact of yours?”

  “More than I like to admit and growing every day,” said Finn with grave apprehension.

  “Is it possible that those parents were part of this?” asked Miles, thinking hard, but enjoying his pasty. Then something obviously dawned on him and he put his pasty down and placed both hands on the table. “Hold on a minute,” he said quietly, but sharply, which made Finn dart his eyes to Miles’s face with an intense stare. “Those parents. You don’t mean Matthew and Charlotte Lorian, do you?”

  “Well, wait, do you mean Matthew and Charlotte Sanders?” he asked, confused. How many Matthews and Charlottes could there be?

  “Yeah, yeah. But their real name is Lorian. You know their child?” Miles asked.

  “Yes,” said Finn. “She’s the contact. Their real name was Lorian?”

  Miles shook his head in concern and said, “I knew that they died, but I had heard it was an accident. Knowing them, I always did have a doubt that it was truly accidental. The Lorians became very well-known in the underground crime networks. So, later on they decided to change their name. Yeah, yeah. Let me think about this, let me think about this . . .” He tapped his finger on his chin, then took a deep draught of his pint.

  Finn took another drink, trying to be patient, wishing for something stronger.

  Miles went on as he reflected on the problem. “Okay, yeah. So, I knew Matthew and Charlotte, they were part of our team. There is no way that they were with Rex. No way. So it has to mean something else. I have a thought. Let me do some checking around and we’ll talk more.” Finn nodded, thinking through the elusive bits and clues.

  Miles took a bite of the piping hot pasty that was placed before him, ruminating on the case. He wiped his mouth with a napkin then continued. “But I do know about those pawns. Not many do, I can tell ya that. But what I know is, they were Rex’s calling card. Whenever he made a hit, he would leave a small gold pawn on the body. It was perfectly fitting for him, too, yeah. He used everyone. Everyone was a pawn to him.” Miles munched on his dinner thoughtfully, still carefully thinking and considering.

  “Anything else to add?” Finn asked. He noticed Miles’s original Cockney got more and more pronounced as he thought deeply about all of this.

  “Well . . . those pawns. See, they were his calling card, yeah. But they were more than that. Rex always had one in his hands. At all times. Rolling it around, passing it between his fingers, tossing it about when he was thinking. And after people realized it was his death card, it was a threat, too. He knew that. He liked having it in his hands to play with, just like he toyed with people.

  “I only laid eyes on Rex once. I had been sent out on surv
eillance, hoping I could get a chance to see his face. He was at a restaurant, meeting with one other man. I can still see that cold face of his, rolling that pawn around and around in his fingertips and on the table, the light from the restaurant glinting off the pawn and his ruby ring. Once in a while, he’d catch that the poor sod in front of him was almost hypnotized by that damn pawn and he’d grin from ear to ear, teasing and testing. Like a cobra teasing a mouse. Sure as hell scared the living daylights out of me, and he wasn’t even talkin’ to me.”

  Finn took it all in, more pieces clicking into place. He asked, “So do you know much about Rex’s son?”

  “Well, not much. He wasn’t a big player. In fact, rumor had it that Rex was highly disappointed in him. Didn’t have that same drive that Rex had. Rex ended up seeing the writing on the wall and handpicked a young apprentice of sorts. Figured his son would never cut it, so he wanted someone else to invest in. After a while, the son just disappeared and I think he died along the way somewhere. But his son had a kid, or a few or something. I’ll check on that, too. I had heard at one point that even though Rex had given up on his son, he had been thrilled with the prospect of grandkids. I have no idea if amends were made with that son or not.”

  “Okay, you check on those things, Miles. Same time, same place Friday?” asked Finn as he shrugged into his coat.

  “Sounds good, mate. And, uh . . . thanks.”

  Finn caught Miles’s deep eyes piercing his own, the light from the candle glinting off them, and knew that the thanks meant a lot more than just the pint and the pasty.

  CHAPTER 24

  “Certain agents I found to have the power to shake and pluck back that fleshly vestment, even as a wind might toss the curtains . . .”

  The train pulled into Detroit right on time. I got a cab from Michigan Central Station to the Statler, then dropped my bags at the hotel and decided to do a little Christmas shopping. I left a quick message for Tucker at the front desk in case he was in town. I walked along bustling Jefferson and Woodward and went into Kern’s. I bought beautiful silver-plated compacts for Valerie and Evelyn. Valerie’s had several delicately carved violets on the top. Evelyn’s had lovely lilies of the valley sprinkled over a dark blue cover. I of course hit the Sanders soda shop and splurged on a hot fudge crème puff. Vanilla ice cream was tucked inside a large profiterole, laden with the famous and ridiculously delicious hot fudge.

  I also stopped and inquired about taking a train out to Rochester instead of asking Tabitha to retrieve me. Later, as I walked back to the hotel, I stopped at the front desk and there was a message waiting for me from Tucker. He was in town and was delighted that I contacted him. He said that he would be having dinner at an Italian place near the hotel and that if I was available, to just meet him there at eight. Sounded great. I went up to my room and rested for an hour, easing my sore feet.

  The phone jangled obnoxiously, startling me out of a deep slumber, my heart racing. Sure, I had asked for the wake-up call, but I still luxuriated in a daydream of chucking the offending piece of equipment out the window. I took a quick shower, reapplied my makeup, and swept my hair to the back of my neck. The restaurant wasn’t as chic as Carl’s, but I wanted to wear something that was dressy enough to go dancing. I put on a favorite black dress that I spiffed up with sparkling jewelry. And of course, my red high heels that matched my little hat with sparkling jet beads on the netting.

  I had done all my ablutions in record time and it was only seven thirty. I decided to go to the restaurant a little early and get a drink at the bar while I waited for Tucker. The restaurant was only a couple of doors down from the hotel, so I walked. It was chilly and I was glad to have my black and red wrap around my shoulders.

  As I sipped my sidecar, I enjoyed the atmosphere. It was very different from my favorite place back in Little Italy, Copioli’s. Here there were high ceilings that were softened just a bit with fabric draped in great sweeps and large potted plants stood in the corners. The walls were a natural stone color that gave the place a European feel. A few jazzy Christmas songs played lightly from a phonograph.

  I caught a glimpse of Tucker at the other end of the restaurant in a meeting with three other men. The candlelight and chandeliers shone off his strawberry blond hair. He looked handsome in his black suit and black tie. He was deeply intent on his discussion. Just then, as he put out his cigarette and was about to take something from his inner jacket pocket, he looked up abruptly like he had felt my gaze. I smiled at him and his face faltered with surprise. He took his hand out of his pocket with a quick pull and I saw a flash of red as he patted the red pocket kerchief in his jacket. He nodded and smiled in my direction, telling me with his eyes that he’d be over in a minute.

  There had been something familiar about that look on his face when he caught me looking at him. What was it? I had seen it before. . .

  I took another sip of my drink and turned back to the bar so that he didn’t feel rushed. The sidecar cocktail, very popular right now, was made with brandy, Cointreau, and lemon. Cocktails were all the rage. I usually preferred wine, I guess with Aunt Evelyn’s European influence that came naturally. But in New York? It was all about cocktails, cocktail parties, and more cocktails. Burke’s cocktail guide had just come out and I bought myself a copy so I could look through the massive selection. But I was still a little nervous about drinking absinthe too regularly. It wasn’t outlawed anymore and they said that the psychotic effects of it were fabricated and greatly exaggerated; it was just another spirit. But still . . . that green fairy business.

  I looked at the bar with its Christmas decorations and little fairy lights woven in and out of the glossy bottles of liquors and spirits. It was a pleasing sight and eased a smile to my lips. But then my mind went to the train ride tomorrow and the house. My feelings were riding on a swing, greatly lilting from side to side. One moment I was feeling confident and even happy, sitting here, enjoying the aromas of the meals being cooked, the chatter of the crowd, the warm taste of the brandy . . . Then the thought of that train ride. A prickle of fear ran up my spine, an unexpected shadow of apprehension that quickened my pulse.

  What would I find in Rochester? I was plagued with a daunting list of questions. Where did the power of the silver gun come from? What was the meaning behind the gold pawn that twisted and twirled through my dreams? Rex Ruby was integrally involved; I needed to find out more. And what about Uncle Louie? He kept making an appearance. It didn’t really make sense, but he was involved somehow. He wasn’t involved with Donagan, they seemed more like enemies. So what was he doing? Again, he was helping me, hell, even saved my life. Twice now. But he was not a nice guy, to put it mildly.

  I set my glass down with a firm clink.

  “That sounds like you’ve come to a decision, Lane,” said Tucker, suddenly at my side.

  I laughed. “I didn’t see you come up. I hope I didn’t make you rush your meeting. I just finished getting ready quicker than expected and thought I’d come early for a cocktail.”

  He smilingly searched my face. Coming to his own decision about something, he replied, “Oh no, not at all. I was surprised to see you across the room, but quite glad to see your familiar and quite lovely face.” I felt a blush creep up my cheeks as he quickly continued, “Come on, our table is ready.”

  He took my hand and led me to where he’d been sitting; now a small table for two was set with crisp napkins and bright silverware. We ordered chicken parmigiana and penne with vegetables and garlic with great, creamy lumps of mozzarella cheese.

  We had a nice evening, but we were both somewhat distracted, our minds elsewhere. However, once again, it was good to have an evening with a friend before I opened doors that could be hard to close. It was a pleasant change being in a different city, with new and exciting things to discover, but I felt like a tourist. New York had become a large friend. Even though it was always changing and moving in a rhythm all its own, it was a rhythm I knew and understood. So it was a special f
eeling to have the comfort of a New York friend here in Detroit. Someone who spoke my language.

  I told Tucker about my plan to take the train tomorrow to Rochester. Unexpectedly, he chimed in, “Well, Lane, if you’d like a little company, I have a couple of days to myself. A meeting got moved to next week. I used to do business with some people who live out in Rochester now, they bought up the woolen mill there. I could ride out with you and then meet up with my friends, leaving you to your exploration.”

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I was already feeling awkward about being there without Finn, yet I also felt exposed and vulnerable, like I was going in without backup or something. It would be nice to have a friend along. But Tucker?

  “Lane, I don’t have to come, I can go on my own another time if it makes you feel uncomfortable,” said Tucker with an earnest crinkle to his eyebrows. I didn’t want my adolescent fears to get the best of me. It already felt like something outside of me was taking advantage and it made me feel hapless. I detested that feeling. It even sounded stupid. Hapless.

  “Well, you know? I think it would be good to have you along, if you don’t mind. I need some time on my own, but I would love the company on the train ride. I don’t know how long I’ll be in town, and I have to admit I don’t really know anyone there.”

  “Great!” he said. “It’s settled then.”

  * * *

  The next day, we got to the train station and had an enjoyable ride out through the countryside. The large mansions of Grosse Pointe, home of Detroit’s wealthy socialites, were left behind along with the many closely situated smaller homes that made up the outskirts of the sprawling city. Clean white wooden siding mixed with red bricks and picket fences dotted the landscape here and there.

  I spent most of the time holding my Book in my hands, looking out the window. Waiting. Tucker had tried to start up a conversation a few times, but I wasn’t cooperating. I was in a quiet mood. As the train chugged over the sure and solid tracks, it was taking me closer and closer to my fate. I was a willing passenger, but it was a somber journey. I knew there would be familiar and loving things to be found. But there was also that image of the diving board front and center in my mind—that courage needed to climb up, the decision to walk to the end, the profound finality of jumping.