Genuine Gold

by Ann Aptaker

  “Isn’t that still the case? I mean, his outfit still runs things.”

  “Sure, but the games are a side issue for him now. He’s even closed up some of the notch joints, if they’re sittin’ on valuable real estate. But now…” This last rides on the kind of shrug people give when life moves on without them, and they don’t give a damn anymore about old friends or remembered places.

  No wonder Mickey Day set up a joint of his own, and why Sig lets him operate—for now—or at least until Sig has other plans for Schweickerts Walk. “Mona, what can you tell me about Mickey?”

  “Why you want to know about that crumb for? It’ll only bring you trouble. Like father, like son, I say. Only he’s even lousier than his father, and that’s sayin’ something.”

  “Listen, Mickey stole something of mine,” I say. “Something I want back. The more information I have on the guy, the better. Maybe I can get some leverage.”

  Shifting her bulk away from the Chevy she’d been leaning against, Mona says, “Okay, Cantor, but let’s go inside. I want to sit with Miss Theresa the rest of the night before I take her to the veterinary doctor in the morning. I guess he’ll…” She’s sobbing again, the words stuck in her throat. “I guess he’ll put Miss Theresa to sleep. Well, okay, she’ll be at peace. And anyways, I’ll be able to contact her on the other side.” I guess Madame Mona is still a true believer.

  The hinges on the screen door to her bungalow could use an oiling, the squeak sending an eerie sound along the block. But inside, Mona’s parlor is tidy and comfortable, with floral upholstery on a sofa and two big chairs. There’s a television set in the corner, one of those consoles in a mahogany cabinet. I guess the fortune-telling racket was good to Mona, and I notice she keeps a remnant of that racket, a boxed deck of tarot cards next to a vase of flowers on the coffee table. But the little room, lit only by the soft amber light of a lamp next to the couch, is also the site of a death watch: on a bloodstained pink blanket on a pillow on the couch is little Miss Theresa, her body nearly crushed, her eyes closed, barely breathing, softly whimpering.

  Mona takes off her coat and sits down next to the dog, pets her, but even that loving touch is too painful, and the pup’s soft whimper cracks into a weak, strangled yelp, the more wretched for being barely audible. Mona takes her hand away, brings it to her eyes. She’s crying again. When she lowers her head, her stringy black hair slides along her hands like spiders’ threads. “I wish God would take her and end her suffering.”

  As tenderly as I can, I say, “Have you considered maybe helping her along?”

  “I can’t, I just can’t bring myself to—to do it. And besides, what would I do? Strangle her? I don’t think my hands even have the strength.”

  I need a drink if I’m going to get through this miserable scenario and coax Mona’s attention from her suffering pup to talk to me about Mickey Day. “Mona, do you have any whiskey in the house?”

  “There’s wine in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

  After Mickey’s mediocre scotch, I doubt the grape would mix well in my belly. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” Instead, I light a smoke and sit down in one of the chairs opposite the couch. I start to say, “Okay, tell me what you know about—”

  But Mona cuts me off. “Cantor, maybe you can do it? Maybe you can…maybe you can help Miss Theresa?”

  “Me? Mona, I—look, I don’t like killing. Even in my line of work, I try to avoid it.”

  “But it would not be a real killing! It would be una benedizione, a blessing. Please, Cantor. I remember that you always had a soul.” She looks from me to Miss Theresa, desperate to pet her, but can’t subject the miserable pup to even a light touch of pain.

  Somewhere between numbness and pity, I more or less mumble, “Do you have a pillow you’re willing to get rid of?”

  “What? You’re going to smother her? But that would take too long! It’s cruel.”

  “I’m not going to smother her.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay.” She gets up from the couch and leaves the parlor. My hand shakes when I take a deep drag on my smoke.

  Mona’s back soon, holding a limp bed pillow with no pillowcase, its striped ticking threadbare and stained. “Here, my Vito don’t need this no more.”

  My hand’s still shaking when I stick my cigarette between my teeth, take the pillow, and fold the old thing over on itself to give it more bulk. “Say your good-byes, Mona.”

  She stands over Miss Theresa, murmurs in Italian, “Dormire ora, Signorina Theresa,” then crosses herself, eyes closed, and whispers, “Nel nome del padre, e del figlio, e dello spirito santo.” I place the folded pillow over Miss Theresa’s head, take out my gun, put the barrel against the pillow to muffle the noise—the last thing I need is some nosy neighbor calling the cops at the sound of a gunshot—and pull the trigger.

  Mona opens her eyes. “Bless you, Cantor. I’ll get a shovel.”

  Digging the small grave in the bungalow’s tiny backyard helps settle my shakes. Mona places Miss Theresa in the grave, settling her on the pillow and blanket. “They were her last comforts,” she says. She crosses herself again, then nods at me, a signal to toss the dirt back into the grave.

  That’s two deaths in my lap tonight: the doorman at Miranda van Zell’s place, and Miss Theresa. Except for my tryst between the sheets with Lilah, the night is not going well.

  Back inside the bungalow, I nearly throw myself down in the chair, wishing I had a scotch, seriously contemplating Mona’s wine, but my tightening stomach talks me out of it.

  Mona sits on the couch, drying a few tears with my now balled-up handkerchief, but at peace for the first time since I found her crying in the street. “Thank you, Cantor. The Lord just made a spot for you in heaven.”

  “Tell him to keep it on ice. I’m in no hurry.”

  She actually laughs a little at that. It’s good to see her laugh. “Ooo, be careful talking about God like that, you il briccone, you—what is it?—ah, rascal! So okay, what do you want to know about Mickey Day?”

  “Well, how deep is he connected to whatever’s happening in Coney? To hear him tell it, he knows who’s who and what’s what.”

  “He’s a braggart with a big mouth,” she says with a grunt that’s part laugh and part Bronx cheer. “Someday that big mouth is gonna get him into real trouble.”

  “How you figure it?”

  “He may be a chiseler, but he’s still Solly Schwartz’s son, which means he still has loyal people. All them sons and daughters of Solly’s old gang, people worked over by Loreale when he muscled in, well, some of ’em might jump at the chance to help Mickey do vendetta. And that’s where Mickey’s big mouth is gonna get him into trouble. He’s been tellin’ everyone how he wants to take Coney back from Loreale and the real estate people. Sooner or later—”

  “Loreale will shut him up.” If Loreale wants to knock off Mickey, I hope it’s later rather than sooner, not until Mickey gives me back my Dancing Goddesses pot, and does his bit to get me information about the flesh slavers who stole Sophie. After that, it’s between him and Loreale. They can knock each other off, for all I care. “What about Mickey’s sister, Lilah? She seems like she’s an okay bill of goods.”

  Mona looks me up and down, at my suit under my open coat. A sly little smile curls at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, so you’ve met the pretty one,” she says. “You like her?”

  “Like I said, she seems okay.” I’m not about to tell tales of the sexual fantasia Lilah and I performed in my bed.

  But by the cagey glint in Mona’s eyes, it’s obvious she’s wise to me and Lilah, if not in fact, at least in assumption. Yeah, Mona Carlotti is vintage Coney, all right: adventurers of all kinds welcome, no questions asked. The glint in her eyes fades, though, and the sly smile disappears. “If you like her, Cantor, you’ll get her away from her brother. He’s no good, treats her lousy.”

  I give Mona a nod, but that’s all. My plans for L
ilah, if I even have any plans, are better kept to myself for now. I just get up, say, “Okay, Mona, I’ve got a long ride back to the city. I’d better get going.”

  “Wait. Not yet. If you’re dealing with Mickey Day, then you’re lookin’ at somethin’ rough and dangerous. You maybe oughta know what’s coming.” She takes the deck of tarot cards from their box. “Sit down, Cantor. I’ll give you a reading.”

  I’m not a believer, but after Mona’s gratitude for ending Miss Theresa’s suffering, and her obvious concern for my well-being, I’m not about to insult her by turning down the only kind of help she knows how to give. I sit down.

  She moves the vase of flowers and the ashtray to the end of the coffee table, making space for the tarot spread.

  Mona’s hands, thick and blunt, move with practiced grace as she expertly shuffles the cards. She turns one over, says with slow, quiet authority, “Ah, yes, the Queen of Wands. This is for you, Cantor. The card speaks truth: you are seeking answers, and the Queen is a seeker. See? She holds a sunflower, which always turns its face to the sun. It tries to find the light. You are trying to find the light, Cantor.”

  I have to admit, there’s definitely something uncanny about asking a guy named Day to find out information about the light of my life, my Sophie, Sophie de la Luna y Sol, Sophie of the Moon and the Sun.

  I’m not about to go down that road, though. Life and I have an understanding: no fairy tales, no guy with a beard on a throne in the clouds, no guardian angels. They probably wouldn’t give me a break, anyway.

  But I’m not about to stop Mona’s routine with the cards. She needs to do this. She needs to make sense of life and death the only way she knows how.

  She lays down another card, places it at a right angle on top of the Queen, making a cross. “The Tower,” she says. “A card of danger.”

  Considering everything that’s happened tonight, no surprise there, with or without any woo-woo power.

  Mona says, “But see the lightning bolt in the sky? Lightning is always sudden. We never know where it will flash in the sky, or when it will strike, or where it will hit the ground. The lightning is like the danger you will face, Cantor. Sudden, and unexpected.”

  I guess you could say I never expected to be robbed outside Miranda van Zell’s apartment building, or get a doorman murdered.

  Mona’s still fingering the Tower card. “And look. Look at the people falling from the burning Tower. They were arrogant, building their Tower into the sky, and now they are doomed. You cannot escape fate, Cantor. You cannot outthink it.” She looks straight at me, making sure I get her meaning, then looks down at the cards again. “These two cards, the Queen and the Tower, are your present, and they speak of danger. But a Queen is powerful and always decisive, as you must be, Cantor. So now let’s see what awaits you.”

  She deals out four more cards, placing one above the crossed center, one below, and one each to the right and left.

  Mona places a finger on the left-hand card, a scene of some blindfolded dame bound in ropes and standing in front of what looks like a fence made of swords. “Here is your past, Cantor, the Eight of Swords. This past may be long ago, or maybe more recent, but it says you are caught in falsehoods. You must cut those ropes of falseness that bind you, Cantor, if you want to find the truth you’re looking for.”

  Mona moves her finger to the card below, a picture of a moon in a night sky, with a dog and a wolf howling on the ground. “Darkness and deceit are the root of the danger you face, Cantor. It is here, in the Moon’s card. Sure, okay, there is a path ahead between these two towers here, but that path is not clear in the moonlight. The howling dog, usually so faithful—” She chokes up a little, talking about the dog so soon after the loss of her own faithful companion. But she gathers herself, wipes her eyes, and struggles to keep going. “The dog can’t find the way, but lucky for you, neither can the howling wolf, the trickster who wants to lead you astray. So it is up to you to find your own way in the darkness.”

  I’m tempted to tell Mona to hurry it up. I’m tired, I haven’t had any rest since I got back from Athens, and the cards aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know; it’s always been up to me to find my way through my dark life. But Mona’s concern for me is too real and too tender to brush aside. So I just take a deep breath to catch a second wind and listen as she reads the cards. I wish I had that scotch, though.

  She puts a finger to the card above, a scene of someone sitting up in bed, hands on their face and swords across the wall behind. “The Nine of Swords shows a goal for you. The number nine means the end of a cycle. Something is changing. You will awake from a nightmare, but you will still be haunted by that nightmare, haunted by questions from your past, your present, and about what waits for you in your future.”

  With a deep and solemn breath, Mona puts her finger on the final card, on the right, a picture of someone in a red cape walking along a rocky road, with a bunch of wine goblets stacked behind. “Your future,” she says. “The Eight of Cups. Another card of the moon and the night. You have many cards of night, Cantor. Your path will take you through much darkness. There will be challenges from inside yourself that you will need to conquer. And see? Those eight cups are your emotions. They are neatly arranged, but look, you are walking away. You must walk away to find your direction along this dangerous road if you want to find the answers you seek. And you will find them Cantor, but they will come with a cost. A terrible cost.”

  *

  It feels good to be back at Surf Avenue and finally heading for the Stillwell Avenue station. I’ve had all the fortune-telling and Coney Island nostalgia I can take for one night. All I want now is to get to the station, board the train, and grab a little shut-eye during the long ride home.

  But a scream, shrill and raw, cuts through the night. The screamer screams again, and again, her terror barreling out from Schweickerts Walk.

  I can’t ignore it. I can’t ignore the possibility that it’s Lilah.

  If Mickey’s hurting her, if he’s pushing her around…

  I run back along Schweickerts, the screams getting louder the nearer I get to the tattoo parlor. I push my way through the small crowd that’s gathered outside, shout “Lilah!” when I burst in.

  The ink artist who’d been dozing in his chair is now dead in the chair, his throat cut, his blood splattered on the drawings on the walls. The guy must’ve been sleeping when it happened. Never saw it coming.

  I run into the back room where I’d talked with Mickey Day. Lilah’s standing in the room, tears and mascara running down her face. Mickey is draped facedown over the coffee table, blood soaking his white shirt, a knife in his back.

  Chapter Six

  Lilah stands stone still over her dead brother. Even her face muscles barely move with her sobs. Her mascara-smeared tears drip onto her white coat, seeping into the cashmere.

  “Lilah?” The sound of my voice shocks her into the here and now. Her sobs catch in her throat, her eyes widen as she turns to me. “Lilah, what happened?”

  But she’s not looking at me, she’s looking over my shoulder. I turn around and see a few of the bystanders from outside now inside the room.

  One guy, a skinny, grizzled old coot in a green lumber jacket and brown chinos, and who looks like a weak breeze could blow him over, says, “Ain’t you—yeah, ain’t you Cantor Gold?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Eddie Janko. Don’t you remember me? I run th—”

  “Sure, I remember you. You ran a spook-house ride down the block.”

  “Still do, in summertime,” which in Eddie’s thick Brooklynese comes out suhmmuh-dime. “Off-season, I run the Good Time Arcade up there on the boardwalk while the owner’s in Florida. I was makin’ change for a mark losing his shirt to a pokerino machine when I heard the screams, so I came runnin’.”

  I remember Eddie as a right guy, so I say, “Do me a favor, get everybody outta here, then come back in. I could use your help.”

&n
bsp; “Sure. You’d better get Lilah outta here, too, if you catch my drift.”

  I catch it all right, give Eddie a nod to let him know. As he hustles the rubberneckers out the tattoo parlor, I say, “Make sure they understand they were never here. They never heard any screaming.” Eddie and I both know the Coney old-timers won’t talk when the cops come around, and any new people wouldn’t know what to talk about, anyway.

  I’m alone with Lilah. Softly, carefully, I say, “What happened?”

  She practically collapses against me, buries her head in my neck. “I—I found them, Mickey and Gus…”

  “Gus is the ink man?”

  She nods her head. “I went out after you left,” she says, choking on it. “I took a walk on the beach. I had to get away from Mickey for a while, away from all his—” But she can’t finish. She can barely stand up. I take hold of her, let her support herself against me.

  Eddie walks back in on us, gives us a glaring eye but says nothing about Lilah draped all over me. He says only, “You really gotta get her away from here, Cantor.”

  “Yeah. We’re going,” I say. “Look, I heard Lilah’s screams all the way to Surf Avenue, so it’s a good bet someone’s called the cops by now. When the Law comes around, tell the cops—”

  “I know what to tell ’em. That I heard screams, came down from the boardwalk, and found Gus and Mickey dead.”

  “Good. And if they ask about Lilah—”

  “Never saw her. Nobody here but them stiffs.”

  I give Eddie twenty bucks and hustle Lilah out of the tattoo joint.

  *

  By the time we’re back at Mona’s door, Lilah’s not crying anymore. Her face is blank, numb.

  Can’t blame her. Mickey Schwartz—oh, yeah, Mickey Day—might’ve been a heel, treated his sister like chattel, but he was family, her last link to her once powerful Coney Island family, and now he’s dead. Lilah’s life has been bookended by murder—first her father, now her brother, with her mother passed on somewhere in between. Poor kid’s alone.