Murder at the Flamingo

by Rachel McMillan

  The North End, he surmised. Maybe he’d find Luca’s office before his first formal introduction.

  He pedaled to Hanover Street, keeping the tall steeple in his sight. Skidding over the uneven bumps of the cobblestones, he swerved to avoid heavy pedestrian traffic. Flags spliced in the colors of his heritage adorned storefronts, awnings, and signs in an eruption of Italian. Hamish smiled at an exhale of something so familiar meeting him in a place so far away and trained his mind not to think about home. His parents. His note.

  Around him, people spilled from indoor cafés. Banners announcing summer festivals draped between tenement-style buildings. Hamish dismounted his bicycle and walked it to sidestep children dashing through the road and around carts and cars, their mothers shrieking at them in a variety of languages. Men languorously puffed at cigars. Through windows sheltered by candy cane awnings, beefy arms threw dough in the air while women with straggles of hair escaping from loosely tied buns bagged pastries with tight-lipped precision.

  The atmosphere was a carousel of natural music and color, rotating through the magic of an ordinary morning. Hamish smiled as he rolled his bike away from a girl with pudgy pigtails, sticky ice cream streaming from her cone down her chin and over her forearm.

  He turned through a slight alleyway: fire escapes laddering up russet brick, window boxes displaying all manner of pinks and purples between laundry strung across and drooping. On the other side of the alley, he turned again, his wheels catching in the ridges of the stones, his eyes darting around the new neighborhood, so like Toronto in its Babel-like explosion of dialects, yet so new. The rims of some roads were turned inside and out, construction churning. And then he found it: the church with the compass steeple. He edged near it, rolling his bike across the street and dodging a gray automobile in pursuit.

  Hamish monitored the lugubrious sky, moody with a few fickle drops of rain, before following his nose into an open door boasting the neighborhood’s best cannoli.

  CHAPTER 7

  I am putting Aaron Leibowitz in his place,” Nate explained when Reggie showed up at his office door wondering why he was shouting so loudly. He held up the Jewish Advocate. “This is the incriminating evidence. Reggie, we have never once seen eye to eye on an issue, and this is the last straw. And you know my mother—my mother actually suggested we invite Leibowitz to Shabbat dinner this weekend to bury the hatchet.” He adjusted his voice femininely on that last phrase. “As if I could stand being in the same room as a man who clearly thinks the Mishnah is just a plaything for his primitive ideas.”

  Reggie smiled. She had just met Nate, had just learned about his rivalry with Leibowitz, and though she knew little about the specifics, she couldn’t help but be on Nate’s side. “Sounds intense.”

  “It’s life or death. We will battle an eternity.”

  “You’re quite passionate.”

  He grinned. “How should I put this? Sometimes you can’t verbally die on the hills on which you want to die.” He reached out to the open door. “My community. My home. We are uprooting and making it something new. But it is changing and people are being forced in and out. Tugged rather like the tide that pulled them in here from all corners of the world in the first place. And I will die on this hill for people from all corners . . .”

  Reggie enjoyed watching his eyes light up with his indignation. “From everywhere.”

  “Mostly the Irish,” Nate continued, “then they moved out. Then my people. Then the Italians. Now we are a bit like my Bubbe’s patchwork quilt. And—” Nate’s phone jangled. He excused himself and answered it. Reggie studied her cuticles. Years of professional treatment had given way to small little slices of skin at the ends and uneven nails. She would just buy a kit like Olive down the hall of the boarding house had and do her own.

  Nate’s voice was quiet and steady as he assured the talker on the other end of the line he was doing everything he could. “Does your son have a trade?” he was saying. “What kind? Electrician. Carpentry. Ah! Your daughter. She is educated in music.” Nate opened a file on his desk and scribbled something with a pencil. “That is just what we need. No, no. There is an opening. My absolute pleasure, Mrs. Corcoran.”

  He clicked the receiver, then exhaled and scribbled a few notes. Reggie wanted to ask what music lessons had to do with North End development, but she didn’t want to be rude.

  “Sorry, Reggie,” he said, looking up at her.

  “This is your actual business, Nate. I am just in the way.” She shut the door behind her after flashing him a wide smile. He was so open and friendly. And happy too. So different from the men back home. Men who would never allow themselves to speak with unbridled passion unless it was for something acceptable: boats, regatta day, football clubs, automobiles. If she could but bottle one tiny ounce of the passion Nate had when speaking about Aaron Leibowitz! If she could care but a margin he did when he wrote incisive editorial letters contradicting Leibowitz day after day—

  When was the last time she had done anything of significance? Other than running away, which, of course, only benefited herself. She stalled outside of Nate’s office. On the staircase and landing below, people were lined up for Mildred Rue’s assistance. The days stretched on and the lines never ended. She answered a phone call, listened to an angry voice, then hung up. She sometimes wondered if she was working at an actual office or merely a placeholder for calls never to be returned by their intended receiver. What use was she here?

  She turned on the wireless and fiddled with the knob, trying to find some soothing music. Or something to distract her from thinking of that long line. How hopeless. It sometimes stretched out the building’s main door. Reggie reached for her handbag and counted out several bills. So used to putting things on her parents’ credit back home, she was still unsure how much cash a person needed to carry. What a rare problem that was. Reggie grabbed her hat and tucked her handbag under her arm and locked the office door behind her. She passed several men and women leaning and shifting tiredly outside the Temporary Agency. Then Mrs. Leoni’s beckoned from under its yellow awning, wedged in the rectangle of brick buildings, interrupted by the green-tinted copper of ornamented windows.

  “Mrs. Leoni,” she called just as raindrops hurried their pace and the sky exploded.

  She swerved around a bicycle leaning against the wall and ducked inside, nearly bumping into the store’s sole other customer. Mrs. Leoni’s kerchiefed head disappeared into the back room.

  Reggie shook out her hair and smiled at the other shopper. The smile in return was a small half-moon one. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and shifted down the side of the display case to give her more room. He was wearing suspenders and a bow tie and his pant legs were rolled up a little over his two-toned shoes. A book was peeking out of his pocket.

  “It’s raining now.” She smiled. “Your book will get wet.”

  He nodded and pulled out a battered paperback of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.

  Reggie surveyed the labels in front of the carefully arranged cookies. She’d make her way to cannoli after Reginele, little oblongs dotted with sesames; Pignole, soft, chewy almond cookies shrouded in pine nuts; and assorted tri-color butter cookies and meringues.

  Mrs. Leoni returned a moment later with a steaming fresh tray. “Here you are, young man. The batch was just ready.” Then she burst into Italian, which the young man matched, animation lighting his face. Barricaded from the conversation, Reggie leaned in for a closer look at the arrangement on the tray. Lumpy, wrinkled-looking cookies with brownish chopped nuts filled the tray haphazardly, countering the uniformity of the other displays.

  The stranger was following her gaze. “Bruttiboni.” His voice stalled a little on the first syllable.

  “I don’t speak Italian.” She shrugged.

  “Ugly but pretty.” His smile, like a little thumbnail of moon, creased into a dimple on his right cheek. Reggie looked for its match on the left side, not finding one, deciding she liked the irre
gularity. He was handsome. But also a bit like a puppy dog with black hair tumbling over his forehead and wide eyes. He leaned toward the display case again and spoke in Italian, pointing at several options, Mrs. Leoni smiling intently in response. The young man rocked a little on his two-tones. He was lanky but his arm muscles were outlined by his cotton shirt. She wondered if the bicycle leaning outside was his.

  “Ugly but pretty,” she laughed.

  “V-very pretty,” he stammered, adjusting black-rimmed glasses over large blue eyes, illuminated under the overhead light.

  “For your book.” Mrs. Leoni handed him a bag. “And for you, Miss Regina?” Mrs. Leoni asked.

  “Cannoli. And these cookies. Whatever he said and enough to take back at least . . .” She checked the money in her wallet then handed the wad to Mrs. Leoni. “Whatever this will buy.”

  “Having a party?”

  “It’s raining. It’s drafty in the office building, and I am having a crisis of conscience for sitting there answering phone calls while people stand around the Temporary Employment Agency waiting for appointments they might never get.” Reggie exhaled.

  Mrs. Leoni smiled. Reggie shifted her gaze to her shoes then slowly looked up at the young man beside her. Something in his expression had changed. She couldn’t say what—just that the moment their eyes met, he turned quickly away.

  “I have lots of pistachio,” Mrs. Leoni said.

  “Yes, please. And whatever you bring me at the office.”

  Mrs. Leoni lit like a lightbulb and turned her bulk toward the kitchen.

  Reggie smiled. Mrs. Leoni spread wax paper into a box and carefully arranged her assorted order.

  Reggie looked outside. “It’s pouring now. I should run back.”

  Mrs. Leoni didn’t turn from her work. “You need an umbrella, Regina?”

  “I’ll make it quick. Easier with these packages.”

  “And you, young man?”

  “I have my bicycle. It’ll be a bit of a squeaky ride.” He was looking at Reggie slightly from under long lashes. “The wonderful thing about being caught in the rain is how good you feel when you are finally dry at home. It’s almost worth it—getting soaked—for that first feel of a dry shirt.” His smile flattened. “You need help with those?”

  Reggie finagled the pastries. “It’s a short walk.” She smiled and the bell over the door chimed with her departure. She stopped under the awning a moment to tighten the twine on one of the boxes, sneaking a peek at a deformed brown meringue. She thought of the man’s voice. The man’s blue eyes. Bruttiboni, she remembered. “Ugly but pretty.” She’d think of him every time she saw this cookie, she decided. His unexpected coloring: black hair and bright blue eyes. No, that wouldn’t work. He wasn’t ugly at all.

  Reggie shook the rain from her hair, enjoying its cool sensation against her legs as she handed off the boxes of sweets to a man she had seen almost every day, trusting him to see the bounty well distributed. He looked at her appraisingly, from damp hair to squeaking shoes. Doubtless he noticed she wasn’t wearing stockings. Her mother would likely throw a tantrum. She was surely condemned to a special circle of hell reserved for women who showed bare legs.

  Back in her own office, she unwrapped a sandwich from wax paper. Deciding she wasn’t hungry, she watched the rain awhile before pulling a paperback novel from her bag. She had just begun reading when the telephone rang. “I’m sorry, may I take a message?” But the line was fuzzy. She returned it to its cradle.

  She sat back and stared at her cuticles until voices from outside drew her attention.

  One clearly belonged to Schultze, Luca’s accountant who often dropped by the office even though her employer was rarely there. The other was of a higher pitch.

  Reggie had watched enough movies to determine the dynamic between them. He was the older one—probably married with a family at home. She was the younger, prettier one who kept him on a leash. Used his money. Was draped in his diamonds. More than one Winchester Molloy serial painted this scene.

  The voices drew nearer. Reggie erected her spine and pretended to reach for the phone just as the door opened.

  “Miss Van Buren.”

  “Mr. Valari is not here,” Reggie said plainly, looking beyond Schultze’s shoulder to the pretty piece of fluff behind him. She was more Jean Harlow than Greta Garbo, exaggerated lips, heavily lidded eyes. “I would assume, as an investor, you would know when and where to find him. And he doesn’t frequent this place.”

  Schultze approached the desk. His companion’s silhouette darkened the doorway, but she didn’t move forward. Reggie focused on Schultze. “Maybe I came to check on you.” He leaned forward, and Reggie straightened.

  “To see I am shuffling his papers and answering his telephone?”

  “Is that all you’re doing?”

  “Secretarial work? My job?”

  Schultze’s gaze narrowed, his eyes locked on hers, scanning for something. He obviously didn’t find it because he broke their gaze and shifted. “Very well. You keep shuffling papers and answering telephones.”

  “And you keep patronizing me,” Reggie muttered under her breath.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Van Buren?”

  “I said and you have a nice day, Mr. Schultze.” She enunciated each word.

  “I will.” He swerved on his heel. “Mary!” He called after her as one might a canine companion. What else could Luca possibly expect her to be doing? Watching Schultze eye Mary as he walked behind her, she had a pretty good idea. She thought back to the man at Leoni’s. The smiles through the employment agency line welcoming the distribution of the pastries had nothing on the shy one that curved his mouth up into a dimple. Imagine him strolling in as brash as Schultze. She couldn’t! But then again, the man at Leoni’s would probably never be found in the same vicinity as a nightclub owner. There was something . . . she searched the lexicon of her mind . . . genuine about him. Yes, genuine. That was more than she could say for Schultze! She fingered the phone wire. Or herself.

  CHAPTER 8

  Hamish couldn’t stop thinking about the girl from the bakery counter. No, not girl. Woman. The woman from the bakery counter. If ever a person was worthy of the word woman, it was she. The universe of her face, the galaxy of stars freckling over her nose, the brightness of her eyes. He thought about her as he wove his way back from the North End. He thought of her as a turning automobile and a jut of a pothole resulted in a sheet of water over his left side. He thought of her as he discarded his bike and entered the apartment, shaking water droplets from his hair. Luca was draped over the dining table in a red silk dressing gown, downing a cup of coffee and pouring another from a carafe so shiny Hamish could make out Luca’s face in it.

  “Ah, Cic. Rest up. And dry off. We’ve the Stardust tonight. And the Ivy tomorrow.”

  Hamish rolled his eyes. “I am beginning to think your work is just drinking and flirting with women. What would my father say?”

  “That’s why you’re here. So you don’t have to find out. What I am accomplishing is part of my work,” Luca said without looking up from his newspaper. He exchanged the sports section for the society pages.

  “How?” Hamish asked.

  “Making sure I am seen and people want to be seen with me. I will sup with them. Dance with them. Drink with them and slyly ensure they will follow me like bees to honey.”

  “So this is part of your plan?” Hamish cleared the tone of incredulousness from his throat with a strangled cough.

  Luca shrugged. “And I’ll snatch the best people and transfer them to my club.”

  Hamish cocked an eyebrow. “And can you do something for them?”

  “Besides providing the best drinks and the best dancing with the best band and making sure they enjoy the experience immensely?”

  “Mary Finn and that club owner seemed to think you had . . .” Hamish stalled to choose his words carefully as Luca’s eyes intensified on him. “Had some sort of influence. Something beyond just
a club.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Hamish thought about pressing further, then stopped himself. “Well, one of the things I didn’t account for when I stupidly hopped on a train was how many days I would spend being idle on your couch.”

  Luca chuckled. “Maybe I can rustle up some contracts for you to look over. I technically have a lawyer on retainer. But I trust you more.”

  Hamish lightened. “Really? I would love that. I’m not as experienced as one of the lawyers you are used to working with. But I would really love to be useful.”

  “Hamish, you need to have a little more confidence in yourself. See yourself the way I do.”

  “Which is how?”

  “Kind of remarkable. It’s in your name, isn’t it? With a name like Hamish DeLuca, you’re destined to do something memorable.”

  Memorable? Hamish rolled the word over in his mind as he retreated to the guest room.

  Most men didn’t reach a quarter century barricaded in the pages of a book, still unsure of the moment when their careful armor would fall away and a member of the opposite sex would catch them unawares. Men like Luca Valari could teach school on it. Hamish aired out the soggy pages of Notre-Dame that the paper bag didn’t protect and flopped back on his bed. He was starting to shiver through his wet clothes but convinced himself he didn’t deserve dry ones. Not after his pathetic attempt at talking to the pretty young woman at the counter. He should have said something suave or startling or smart. Hamish planted his palm over his eyes. He didn’t come from a lineage of shyness. His mother had proposed to his father. She’d told him a million and one times about how she had fallen in love with him at first sight.