by David Wind
“No, he wouldn’t. Save Them will go on just as it has. He named me as his successor.”
“As I imagined he would.”
Her reaction caught me off-guard. “You aren’t surprised?”
“Why should I be?” she asked, the triple lines of her forehead deepening.
“You don’t know much about me, do you?”
“You don’t give yourself a lot credit do you? There isn’t much about you, I don’t know. I learned a lot from Scotty and from Amanda Bolt. As I asked, why should I be surprised?”
I felt as though I’d been transported into sixth grade and was being faced down by my teacher. “Why not name Chris or Amanda Bolt? They would have been a better fit as Chairman.”
“One of the things Scotty did best was thinking in the abstract. Chris Bolt is a logical man; his wife is very similar. You, however, are not too logical, in the basic meaning of the word; rather, you’re more like Scotty in that you function best in the abstract.”
I stifled a grunt. “And that makes me better for Save Them?”
“Oh yes, infinitely. But you’ll learn that. Is there anything else I need to know about the will?”
“No, Scotty left a straight bequest of one million dollars to Save Them, and directed another five million be set up for future use.”
Her eyes widened. She blinked several times. “We’ll make sure the money is well invested so it can keep funding the organization.”
“We will. I think a meeting of the board should be set up soon. If you want to start the arrangements, please do. We’ll work out a day.”
“Of course. Have you made any progress on the girl you saw last Sunday, Margaret Ann?”
“No, the pimp who was running her disappeared.”
“Well, perhaps we’ll get lucky.”
“Have you learned anything more?”
“No. She came from a small town in upstate New York. Her family life wasn’t the best. Her father was abusive and her mother…well, her mother is weak and abused herself.” She paused, exhaling lightly. “Her story is like a hundred others I’ve seen. Margaret had been a good student in elementary school, but as she grew up, she started getting into trouble. She ran with the wrong crowd, an older crowd. I believe she was trying to escape her home situation.
“How did you learn that?”
“We work with the local police in these matters. There’s a department in the sheriff’s office, upstate, specializing in Internet and sexual predators. The detective I deal with is Sam Cohen. When Margaret disappeared, they did a thorough investigation into her home life and her family. There were reports filed on the husband hitting the wife, and there were the school’s guidance counselor’s reports on Margaret and the suspected abuse.”
“Sexual?”
“They thought so. They discovered she’d been meeting someone in an online chat room, before her disappearance… but they haven’t been able to find out anything else. At twelve, Margaret was vulnerable and impressionable. If she was abused at home, it would have made her ripe for the picking, and believe me, Gabe, these people know how to work an unhappy pre-teen in that situation.”
The ease with which these degenerates could prey on children bothered me. “The question then becomes, how did she get onto the street as a hooker?”
Samantha Collins shook her head. “We disagree there—I think it’s more important to learn who put her onto the streets rather than how she got there.”
Although I was a financial supporter of Save Them, I found myself wondering why I knew so little about the children they helped and how much I needed to learn. “You have a lot of these cases—these girls who go missing and turn up on the streets?”
“A lot,” She agreed, her voice sad.
I gathered the file and stood. “Let me know when you have the meeting set-up.”
“I will. Please keep me posted.”
Outside, I took Ninth Avenue uptown. A half dozen blocks later, I was in the maze of life that had moved from Broadway to the side streets. A few hookers plied their trade, and the peek shows and men’s clubs were doing a brisk business.
At Forty-ninth Street, I spotted Danny Herman, the cop who’d helped me out with the pimp, talking to a young streetwalker. When the girl left, I walked over.
“Busy night? I thought you had the graveyard shift?”
“Yeah, I got called in for a double: we’ve got a couple of guys out sick.”
“Any luck on spotting the girl?”
“No, and since Streeter and his boy made bail, they can’t be found.”
“Hiding out?”
“Or gone. I mean they can’t be found. No word on the street and that’s unusual. I’ve never known Streeter to be off the street for more than a night or two. And his girls aren’t around either.”
“Does Santucchi run Streeter?”
“No. Santucchi runs the clubs for the Canterinos, but I haven’t heard of a business connection between Santucchi and Streeter. Why?”
“Just a thought. If you get any word on Streeter, let me know, will you?”
The cop gave me an intense look-over. “I don’t know if that would be the smartest thing for me.”
I pulled out a card from my wallet and handed it to him. “I’m not going to go vigilante on him: I’m looking for the girl. My cell number is on the card.”
He took it and made it disappear. “If I get word.”
I thanked him and started walking uptown. My stomach growled and my legs started to feel heavy. It had been a long day and it was time to end it. Heading home, I puzzled over the reason for Streeter’s disappearance.
Chapter 18
The low clicking woke me. Light from the outside cast a dull glow within. I made out three large and hulking figures moving toward me. I lay still, keeping my breathing steady even as I tensed every muscle in my body.
The first shadow reached me and, as he bent over me, I shot my arm straight up. My fist connected with his jaw and I heard his teeth snap together. He went down like a felled ox.
I kicked the blankets off just as the other two dove at me. I moved fast, but not fast enough. They caught me and held me tight. I struggled, arching my body and kicking my legs until one pair of hands began to slip. I kicked twice more, my leg came free and my foot connected with something soft—a stomach. There was a loud grunt. Then the hulking figure above me released his grip and drew his arm back. The instant he did, I twisted, rolled off the bed and onto my feet and took a wild swing at him. The one I had hit first was on his feet, lunging at me. He caught me around the waist and slammed me onto my bed.
Waking up with a start and swinging my fist at empty air, I shook away the dream and took a couple of seconds to calm down. I hated this nightmare the most: it reminded me of how vulnerable I’d been.
The dream was from my third night at Sing-Sing, when three cons came in to teach me what a ‘boy’ was. I would have learned, too, except Tarz was my cellmate, and had stepped in at the last minute, for some unknown reason of his own.
After my breathing settled, I laid back and waited for the fog to clear from my head while wondering when these nightmares would end. Ten years was a long time.
The phone chose then to interrupt my thoughts. “Yeah,” I croaked.
“Breakfast in a half hour. The coffee shop by my place,” Gina Torrelli said and hung up before I could respond.
Twenty minutes later, I was showered, shaved and dressed. I was only a few minutes late when I got to the coffee shop on the corner of Seventy-first Street and Second Avenue, because I’d decided to copy Scotty’s journal onto a flash drive to bring to the office.
Gina was seated in a booth, a cup of coffee in front of her. Her dark hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Her large Mediterranean brown eyes were clear and her face was as beautiful as ever.
Curbing a sudden urge to kiss her, I sat across from her and laid my seldom-used attaché case next to me. Inside were the pages for scene two, the flash drive and the i
nformation Samantha Collins had given me yesterday.
Gina lifted a brown envelope from the seat beside her and handed it to me. “More information on the show’s backers. I ordered breakfast too.”
“Tell me.” I took the envelope and placed it on the table.
“Ham and cheese omelets-“
“About the backers, wise ass.”
Her smile almost devastated me. The waitress appeared and set down identical twin omelets. Mine had an English muffin: hers had whole-wheat toast.
When the waitress left, she picked up her fork, sliced off the end the omelet and placed it into her mouth. After she swallowed, she asked, “Are you okay?”
I didn’t ask her what she was talking about because we both knew. “Yes. Saying goodbye to him yesterday helped me.”
“Good,” she whispered. “But Gabe, you need to grieve too….”
Her words burrowed into my mind. “I’ll do that after I find out who killed Scotty.”
She pointed to the envelope. “That’s a complete list of all backers. The smaller ones have nothing important. There’s not much more than what I faxed you about Albright, but he and his firm are on shaky ground.”
I took a bite of the omelet and a chunk out of the muffin. “I’d like to know where he got the money to invest in the show—that bothers me. Why would he take the risk of investing in a show when he’s in trouble?”
Gina cocked her head to one side. “My guess is it was a Scotty Granger play, and he felt he had a lock on making a lot of money. And Gabe, Scotty’s record is good.”
“But who in the hell would loan him a mil and a half to invest in a show?”
“That may be one of those unanswerable questions, unless he tells us himself. It was a private loan. That’s all we know.” She turned her attention back to her breakfast. A moment later, she favored me with a curious gaze and I knew she was going to drop something hard.
“The interesting stuff is about Lia Thornton.”
I stayed silent and waited until she was ready.
“Our merry widow invested in one play before this, but not as heavily as she did for this. Her money comes from her husband, as you know. She’s a sharp businesswoman herself, sits on the board of her husband’s bank, the Hamilton National, and receives a large salary from them. She is wealthy and powerful.”
"But there’s some interesting history there….” Gina paused for some coffee. “According to the records, Lia Thornton, was born Jane McPherson in New Orleans. She was married to a lowlife street hustler and addict at 17, and became an exotic dancer at 18. A year later, a week after her husband died of a drug overdose, she moved from New Orleans to New York City. She changed her name to Lia Ross when she made the move. She worked strip clubs for two years, until she ended up in a chorus line on Broadway. She never got past the chorus line, but she was a looker and men were never in shortage for her.”
“She dated Sal Mangi for a couple years. You remember Mangi?”
When I shook my head, she nodded. “Before your time—mine too actually. Mangi was a Capo in the Conte family. He was a made man and in line to take over the family—at the right time. But he ran out of patience and tried a take-over. It didn’t work out for him.”
I pulled up a memory of the newspaper headline and nodded.
“But before his death, Jane McPherson, now Lia Ross, and he were a couple. They were together five years. Somewhere during her time with Mangi, she met Jeremy Thornton and left Mangi for the banker. The rest is society history.”
“She did well for a stripper.”
“There’s more, and by then she was in A Chorus Line on Broadway, not stripping,” Gina corrected me smugly. “Thomas Albright was Jeremy Thornton’s investment broker.”
“Now that’s interesting, isn’t it? Almost incestuous wouldn’t you say?”
“Almost, which puts a different angle to things, doesn’t it?” She did a little up and down shrug, moving other well-formed sections of her anatomy as well. My eyes moved with them.
“Gabe,” Gina chided.
I smiled. “Sorry, old habits.”
She started to say something but stopped. I reached across the table and covered her hand with mine. “Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome. I hope it helps.”
“It will.”
Her pager went off. She looked at it; a frown tugged the corners of her mouth. “I have to call in.”
“And I need to go. We’ll talk later.”
“You still owe me dinner.”
“And you’ll get it. One more thing… how well do you know Carlo Santucchi?"
“As well as I know anyone else my office is investigating. He works the clubs and the girls for the Canterinos. He used to deal money and handle strong-arm stuff before he turned New York’s lap dancing business into a big buck profit making machine, but that’s just part of what he brings in with the girls and the loan sharking.”
“Any thoughts on why he would be involved with Scotty?”
“It makes no sense. I’m really puzzled about what happened yesterday: Running the organization’s clubs, girls and money is what he does.”
“There’s something there.”
“Maybe… Gabe, you’ll keep me in the loop, right?”
“I will.”
“Before or after?”
I gave a nice smile, one with a little mystery.
<><><>
Fifteen minutes after breakfast with Gina, I got out of the taxi at the rehearsal studio, having used the cab time to make phone calls and get my day lined up. From the theatre, I would go to the office, drop off my attaché case and then head downtown to see how Rabbit was doing.
Inside, I headed toward the rehearsal room. To my left, the door to the men’s room opened and Tarz stepped out. He stopped short when he saw me.
“Morning Teach.”
“Tarz… How’re you holding up?”
“I’m cool. I saw Rabbit this morning. He seemed okay. He’s in a lot of pain.”
“As long as he’s okay: I’m headed there after I get done here. Is there anything else going on?”
The tall man’s eyes clouded. “Teach, I… I want to help. Whatever you need, I’m available.” The need in his voice was strong, but not strong enough to hide the pain in his words. Scotty had meant a lot to him.
“When I need you, I’ll call.” I said and stepped through the double doors. A couple of actors were on the stage, going over their lines. The majority of the people were seated and waiting for something. I hazarded a guess they were waiting for me.
As it had been the other day, everyone was seated in their own sections; Angels, however, were scarce this morning. Neither Albright nor Lia Thornton was there. There were a few others, including the man who’d come to my office yesterday.
I spotted Mal Linnet, the play’s director sitting in the third row, which made him my first stop. When I reached him, I opened the attaché case and pulled out scene two. I handed him the pages, and without a word, closed the attaché case and went to the stage.
Setting down the case, I hitched myself up to face the seats. “Will everyone please move up to the front three rows.”
When they were seated, I looked out at their expectant faces. “For those of you who don’t know yet, I am taking over for Scotty as the producer of the show.”
When I got no response, I said, “Nothing will change. Scotty’s vision for this play will be followed and there will be no argument on this. I expect the play to open on the originally scheduled date. Mal Linnet has the scene two pages Scotty finished before… before his death.”
No one spoke. Every eye was on me. I was glad this would be my only appearance on stage.
"On another note, if anyone knows something that might help me find out what happened to Scotty, please talk to me.”
I let the uncomfortable silence drag on before saying, “If there are any problems with the play, I want to know about it immediately. And now it’s time to go ba
ck to work and make Scotty proud.” With that, I hopped off the stage and started out.
I made it ten feet before the director stepped in front of me. He took my arm and pulled me into a row of empty seats. “How do you want me to proceed?”
There was a ton of tension vibrating in his words. I asked myself the same question—one which I hadn’t given any thought to. “Mal, I’m not here to tell you your job - just do what you do best and make the play everything Scotty wanted it to be: I expect the reviews to be the best that’s ever come out of a Broadway play.”
The tension drained from him like water into sand. "So do I."
"Let me know if you need anything. If the production manager needs anything, have him call as well.” As my words faded, two people entered the theatre. The man in the lead was Sonny Marks; the second was his partner, whom I didn’t know. They stopped when they reached me.
Marks, his wide mouth scowling, looked over my shoulder at Tarz and said, “I need to speak to you.”
Before Tarz could move, I took a half step between them. “About what?”
Marks gave me a quick glance before again locking eyes with Tarz. “Jonathan Mondale, we need you to come with us.”
Tarz met the detectives stare. “Why?”
“Suspicion of the murder of Scotty Granger.”
Chapter 19
Tarz paled. “Is this necessary?” I cut in.
With a tired, give me a break slide of his eyes, Marks said, “Has to be done.”
I met Tarz’s nervous eyes with calm ones. “Go with him. I’ll meet you there,” which got more of Marks’s attention.
“What’s up with you, Storm, becoming a shyster now?”
“No, but if I think he needs a lawyer, I know who to call.”
Marks snorted but stayed quiet as the four of us walked out, ignoring the stunned faces of the cast and crew. Behind us, a cast member shouted for Tarz to call if he needed help. Tarz stood tall; his large shoulders squared. While Marks put him in the squad car, I flagged down a cab and gave him the address of the precinct on Thirty-sixth Street.
