Genuine Gold

by Ann Aptaker

  He doesn’t argue, just stays frighteningly relaxed. “Whatever outfit runs the flesh operation that took your girl is very slick, Cantor. They’ve hidden themselves well. But I promise you I will track them down. Sooner or later, I will track them down. You must be patient.”

  “As patient as you were in avenging Opal’s death?”

  I’ve crossed a line. I know it even as the words fall out of my mouth.

  Sig’s face goes back to stone. His eyes darken. He’s so still I’m not sure he’s even breathing. When he finally moves, the only sound I hear is the crackle of the pages as he picks up the newspaper and opens it.

  I’ve been dismissed.

  I gather my coat and cap, and head for the door.

  In back of me, I hear Sig’s rasp. “In thirty years, I have never been angry with you, Cantor. Do not make me start now.”

  Chapter Eight

  My office is more than just my base of operations. It’s also my retreat, the quiet place I go to when I need to get away from the noise of the world, think things through, figure my next moves. My office is also my hideaway when I need to lay low, stay out of sight of the Law, or babysit a treasure that’s too hot to move. Only four people in the world know about this place: Rosie, who ferries me in her cab on the sly when I’m carrying goods so the cops or other nosy types who know my car never know I’m on the move; Judson Zane, my young office guy, whose commitment to secrecy is as great as his talent for crime’s details, and who does me the great honor of checking for leads on Sophie first thing in the morning and last thing at night, but until he hears something, we just don’t talk about it; Red Drogan, the tugboater who’s my eyes, ears, and legs along the harbor; and my lawyer, a smart and polished operator with more connections into New York politics than the electric company, and who buried my name so deep in the ownership paperwork even a dredging machine wouldn’t find it. Only those four people know that the small, nondescript corner building in the shadows below the elevated West Side Highway and across the street from the midtown Hudson River docks hosts a big money smuggling racket and a room-size basement vault containing treasures people have killed for and died for, and still do.

  The only way to enter my little building is through a back door in the maze of alleyways behind the warehouses and piece-goods factories along Twelfth Avenue. After I park my Buick up the block in Louie’s garage, I make my way through the alleys, pull my cap low and the collar of my overcoat tight against the winter wind coming off the river. The icy chill seeping through me is almost as cold as Sig’s warning.

  The noise of city traffic on Twelfth Avenue echoes through the alleys; all those delivery trucks, taxicabs, and pushcarts fighting for dockside space under the highway, their horns honking, tires screeching, men yelling. Sounds of river traffic make their way back here, too. The melancholy clang of buoy bells, nearly drowned out by the bleat of ships’ horns, never fails to break my heart, their slow toll cruel reminders of Sophie kidnapped and carried out to sea.

  Rosie’s cab is parked in the alley outside my office door.

  She’s chatting with Judson when I come in, leaning against his desk. She looks tired, like she didn’t get much sleep. Judson, his eyes alert in his boyishly chiseled face behind his wire-rim glasses, his hair trim, his white shirt and dungarees crisp, looks worried. Worry never looks good on a guy under thirty, especially on Judson, who prides himself on keeping his emotions in check.

  I’m pretty sure I know why Rosie’s tired, so I skip the question I really don’t want to ask anyway. But I need to know why Judson’s worried. “What’s up? You look like you just lost your last dime.”

  “Red Drogan called,” he says. “You didn’t show up this morning with his cut of the van Zell payoff. You’ve never skipped out on Drogan, so we both figured something’s not kosher.”

  “I don’t have anyone’s cut, not Red’s, not yours, not Rosie’s, not even mine, because Miranda van Zell didn’t pay off.”

  “What? All that money in the bank,” Judson says with as much of a sneer as his steady nature allow, which isn’t much, “and she stiffed us? She’s never stiffed us.”

  “She didn’t stiff us, Judson. She never got her goods. All she got was a body winding up on her sidewalk.”

  Judson’s eyebrows rise up above his wire rims.

  “Yeah,” I say, “I guess even fancy Fifth Avenue’s going to seed.” But my deadpan joke falls flat, earning only lowered eyebrows from Judson and a tsk from Rosie. So I just bring them up to date on all the goings-on—the theft, the deaths, my meetings with Mom and Sig and Mickey—but conveniently leave out my bedtime activity with Lilah.

  As I spill my story, concern crowds the fatigue in Rosie’s eyes. She puts her hand on my cheek, says, “New bruises, I see,” and strokes the place where Bulby Nose slugged me. “No new scars this time, though.”

  Her touch is tender, caring. I don’t deserve it.

  And she doesn’t deserve the guilt that’s slowly poisoning her concern for me. I see it creep into her eyes. But it shouldn’t be there at all, because even if Rosie hadn’t driven away to meet that regular fare, she probably couldn’t have done much to stop the attack that came out of the darkness. Rosie’s not weak, and she’s no coward. But the thugs came on fast. They were brutal and ready to kill.

  And I’m a heel for enjoying Rosie’s guilt.

  Someday I’ll grow up. Someday I’ll grow up and understand just how savvy Rosie really is. She shows me some of that savvy now, as the guilt fades from her eyes, replaced by annoyance. She’s caught me in my selfish pleasure.

  Her hand drops from my cheek. She leans against Judson’s desk again, her arms crossed, her face down, anger and sadness each vying for possession of her.

  But Rosie’s feelings—and mine—will have to wait. I’ve got business to take care of, a client to satisfy, money at stake.

  I walk into my private office. In the corner of my eye, I see Rosie’s eyes follow me. I feel the chill when she looks away.

  My private office is the sanctum sanctorum of my operation. I’ve outfitted it with grade A furnishings, luxuries I’ve awarded myself for surviving my dangerous life. There’s an antique walnut desk, a pale green leather club chair smooth as flesh, and an oxblood leather couch. I’ve stocked the place with a supply of scotch, a refrigerator with plenty of food, a hotplate, a shower stall, and a closet with changes of outfits for those days and nights I sometimes spend here.

  But I’m not here to linger among my trophies. I’m here to make a quick but important phone call.

  The number’s answered at the other end. “Van Zell residence.”

  “Good morning, Charles. Please tell Mrs. van Zell, Cantor Gold needs to speak with her.”

  “Just a moment.”

  While I wait for Miranda to come on the line, I tuck the phone between my chin and my shoulder, and swing aside the painting that covers the wall safe behind my desk. The painting’s a moody arrangement of brown, green, and black fuzzy-edged rectangles and squares by Mark Rothko, one of the modern rebels blowing up all definitions of art. I like the painting, and the attitude.

  Miranda comes on the line as I open the safe. “Cantor, have you found the pyxis?”

  “Not yet, but I found who took it.”

  “I see. Well, what will it take to get it back? How much money do they want?”

  “The guy has no use for money, Miranda. He’s dead. Murdered.”

  There’s a silence while Miranda handles this twist of events. I use the time to take spare cash and extra rounds of ammunition from the safe, put the cash in my wallet and the rounds in my pants pocket. I also grab my case of lock picks, slip it into my inside jacket pocket, in case Mickey’s stashed the pyxis in a strongbox or locked room I’m lucky enough to find.

  Miranda comes back on the line. “Before he died, I guess he didn’t tell you where he has the pyxis?”

  “No, but I’m working on it.”

  “Yes, no doubt.” There’s a snide tone
to that remark that I can do without. But considering everything that’s happened, I guess Miranda’s entitled to it. “I have news, too, Cantor,” she says, her friendly attitude restored. “The police have come ’round again.”

  “Yeah? What do they want this time?”

  “They say they have a witness who saw what happened last night. Someone was coming out of the building next door and saw the whole thing, even saw the doorman’s death. But it seems you’re in luck, Cantor.”

  “If I get any luckier, I’ll need a cemetery plot.”

  “Please do not die on me until you’ve recovered the pyxis. In the meantime, according to the police, this witness said they saw a man in a gray coat and cap attacked by two other men.” Miranda’s throaty chuckle is met with my own dry laugh because, yeah, I get the joke. In fact, I’m still wearing the joke.

  Miranda says, “The police asked everyone in the building if we were expecting a gentleman guest in a gray cap and coat.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  Through another throaty laugh, this one enjoying its walk on the wild side, she says, “I told them I wasn’t expecting any gentleman. ’Bye, Cantor. Keep me informed.”

  My day just got a tiny bit better. Any day I’m not in the Law’s notepad is a better day.

  After Miranda hangs up, I turn back to the safe, ready to close it. But before I do, I take out a framed photograph, drawn to it like a magnet to metal. The photo used to sit on my desk until it became too painful to look at it every day. It’s a picture of Sophie and me, taken the morning after our first night together. The picture, and the memory of that night—Sophie’s long dark hair falling softly along her face, brushing mine, the heat of her damp skin, the feel of her on my mouth, her kiss, her love—nearly drop me.

  I hear Rosie say, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, put it back on your desk already.” I look up to see her in the doorway, zipping her cabbie’s jacket in one fast, sharp stroke. “You’re still in love with her, Cantor. You’ll never love anyone else until you find out what happened to her.”

  But I can’t put the photo on my desk, not if I want to keep my sanity. I put it back in the safe, close the door, the click of the lock followed by a tsk from Rosie as she walks away.

  I’d like nothing better than to fold up in a chair and cry my eyes out, but those days are gone. Rosie’s right; I won’t love anymore. I can’t. The loss of Sophie nearly deep-sixed me, and until she’s found, I can’t let my heart rule me. My instinct for survival rules everything now, the same instinct that guides me through my outlaw world and criminal life.

  It kicks in now. Before I leave my office, I go to my closet, take off my gray coat and cap, and put on a black coat and fedora.

  Chapter Nine

  If Coney Island lures in summer with cotton candy and sun-warmed flesh, in winter it bites with steel teeth. I’d forgotten how cold and sharp the salty wind off the ocean could be. Even now, at noon, with the sun glaring off the sea, the wind up here on the boardwalk is hungry for the uncovered flesh of my face.

  It’s warmer inside the Good Time Arcade, half empty with an off-season daytime crowd of nickel-and-dimers, but still noisy with skee ball thumps, carny music, muffled laughter of teenagers behind the curtains of twenty-five-cent photo booths, and occasional grunts from players who keep feeding coins into game machines, lured by flashing lights promising thrills.

  Eddie Janko’s in the middle of all this, still wearing last night’s green lumber jacket and brown chinos, but the jacket’s open for quick access to the coin changer hooked to his belt. He nods when he sees me walk in, and when I approach he says, “Everyone in Coney’s talkin’ about what happened to Mickey and that tattoo guy, Gus somethin’-or-other. We ain’t seen blood like that since the old Schwartz-Loreale War back in the ’20s. People wonderin’ if the war’s comin’ back.”

  “Sig says he had nothing to do with the killings.”

  “He told you personal-like?” Eddie blurts it like he can’t believe I was really in the king’s presence.

  “Yeah, personal-like, like he’s not happy about the whole damn thing and how the consequences might interfere with his business. Look, how’d it go with Lilah this morning? You got her home before the cops showed up?”

  “Yeah. I got Lilah back to the Gut maybe five minutes before the cops dropped in. Said they came lookin’ for her last night, too.”

  “Figured they would, but she wasn’t in any condition to talk. What story did you give them?”

  “Me? I didn’t tell ’em a thing. But Lilah told ’em plenty. Surprised the hell outta me, lemme tell you.”

  Eddie’s just surprised the hell outta me. “What are you talking about? What did Lilah say?”

  But there’s a sallow-faced kid of maybe ten or twelve playing hooky from school at Eddie’s elbow. The kid’s waving a grimy dollar bill in his equally grimy hand. “Hey, mistuh, gimme five dimes and ten nickels, and make it snappy.”

  Typical Coney kid. Stuffed with attitude. Nothing’s changed since my own wild childhood.

  Eddie thumbs the levers on his coin changer, gives the kid his nickels and dimes. When the kid’s gone, Eddie says, “So Lilah says she—whoa, tell ya later.” He releases a few more coins from his changer, stuffs them into my hand. “Go play some pokerino. Way in the back.”

  By Eddie’s tone, I figure cops came in, or maybe Sig’s enforcers making rounds, collecting the midday cut. Either way, folding myself into the crowd is a good idea.

  I park myself at the end of a row of pokerino machines, open my coat, get comfortable, and insert a nickel to release my five little rubber balls. When I roll the first ball along the alley, it scores a hole for a jack of diamonds. A second ball lands another jack, this one in spades. The poker pair makes a bell ring, and since the last thing I need is to ring any more of the machine’s bells and attract attention, I push the remaining balls without much zest, let them roll around aimlessly.

  So I’m not too concerned that after two more nickels and more minutes of play, I’ve only dealt myself losing hands. But I’m damned concerned about the sudden tap on my shoulder and a smooth male voice saying, “We’ve got a few questions for you.”

  Cops.

  I turn around, see two guys, one clearly in charge, the other an underling. The in-charge guy is only a little taller than I am but built like a bulldog. Under his gray fedora, his chubby olive-skinned face has fleshy lips and soft dark brown eyes that might fool you into thinking the guy is a pussycat, but his steady gaze gives him away as a predator on the hunt. The other cop, his underling, is taller, but with his long face and dull eyes he’s less imposing, except for his big ears, which seem to be holding up his hat, a stained brown fedora that’s somewhere between beat-up and dead.

  A quick glance past the cops shows me Eddie across the room, his palms up, his shoulders hunched in a couldn’t-do-anything-about-it apology.

  The bulldog says, “So you’re Cantor Gold.”

  “According to my friends. Are you one of my friends?”

  “I could be, if you play along.” In a slick move, he slides a gold shield out of his inside pocket, holds it up to my face. “Lieutenant Esposito. And this here’s Sergeant Pike.” Pike gives me an expressionless nod. “Listen, Gold,” Esposito says, sliding the shield back into his pocket, “we can all avoid a lot of aggravation if you just tell me everything you know about Mickey Day’s murder.”

  If the lieutenant and I are going to do the who-knows-what dance, I figure maybe I oughta take the lead, see where he follows me. “I heard there were two killings. What about the other guy? The ink artist?”

  The phony softness in Esposito’s eyes becomes a genuine, icy suspicion. “How do you know about Gus?”

  “Everyone knows, Lieutenant. The whole island’s talking about the killings.”

  His, “Uh-huh,” is sour as stomach acid. “Yeah, well,” he says, “I doubt Gus was the target. Who’d have it in for a cheap tattoo guy? Poor lug must’ve just been in the
way.” He says it like he’s talking about a piece of furniture someone’s merely tripped on.

  But he’s likely right. There were probably lots of reasons to knife a creep like Mickey Day, lots of people who’d want to do it, and not leave any witnesses. Good-bye, Gus.

  Sharing my thoughts with the Law, though, is not a practice I indulge in. That badge gives cops the power to decide life and death and freedom, mine and everybody else’s. I don’t count on them being merciful.

  So all I say is, “I don’t know anything about Day’s killing.”

  “Then why are you in Coney Island? You left the neighborhood years ago, or so they tell me.”

  “Who’s they?”

  He pulls out some coins from his pants pocket, gives them to Pike. “Go get us some coffee, Sergeant. How do you take yours, Gold?”

  “None for me, thanks.” I don’t accept free coffee or booze or anything else from cops. I don’t want to have to say thank you.

  When Pike’s gone, Esposito gives me a smile that could charm the panties off a virgin. Except I’m not a virgin, and panties aren’t my preferred underwear.

  “Gold, Gold,” he croons through his squishy lips, his bulldog posture still rigid but leaning in, a pretense of friendliness. “Believe me when I say I don’t want to make trouble for you. I just want to clean this case up, get it off the books, and go take my two weeks’ vacation in Florida. I mean, who needs all this cold weather, right? Look, I know you saw Mickey’s sister last night, which means you know something about what’s going on. So I ask you again: What are you doing in Coney Island?”

  “Well, Lieutenant, if you really must know, I had to attend a burial.” I throw that out as a step in the dance, a do-si-do to get information, like how he knew I saw Lilah last night, who told him.

  He gives me a doubting eye. “Uh, aren’t you a little early? Mickey’s still on a slab in the morgue.”

  “It’s not his burial I attended,” I say.