by Ann Aptaker
But Pike evidently doesn’t want to share a lovers’ fantasy with me. He simply puts his hat back on. He’s not leaving, he’s freeing up his hands, getting ready to pull his gun. But my hands are already free, and my gun comes out before his hand even gets inside his coat.
He only smiles. It’s a foul, toothy smile, the sort that scared you as a kid, made you pull your blankets over your head as protection against the grinning monsters lurking in the corners of your bedroom.
“Are you gonna be stupid enough to kill a cop, Gold?”
“No more stupid than you,” I say.
“You mean Esposito? I never laid a hand on the guy. And they’ll never find him anyway.”
I give him a grin that’s icy cold in my mouth, but refreshing to my mood. “Yeah, but they’ll find you, Pike, dead, here in Mickey’s joint, a place you have no business being at—What is it now? Nearly five o’clock in the morning? And as far as the other cops in the precinct are concerned, I was never here. Isn’t that right, Lilah?”
“Yes, that’s right. You were with me, at my house.” Smart girl. Catches on fast.
I say, “So the Law will look elsewhere for your killer, Pike. And Sig Loreale will tell them exactly where to look. He probably has several people in mind he’d like to get out of his way.”
Lilah, with a sudden flash of worry, says, “But Loreale had no interest in Mickey’s death. That’s what you said.”
“He had no interest in killing him,” I say. “He knew it would make noise, which it did, and noise is bad for Sig’s business. But Sig knows an opportunity when he sees one, and with Mickey dead anyway, and him in the clear of any part in it, he has the opportunity to get rid of the last of Solly Schwartz’s loyalists.”
Lilah’s face goes pale. “Al Berg, and Frankie O’Byrne, and me.” She says the names like she’s reciting a roster of the dead.
“No. Not you,” I say. “Mickey’s business is destroyed, and very soon his henchmen will be gone. Berg and O’Byrne and our cop friend here don’t know it, but they’re on their last breath. I don’t give them more than twenty-four hours, if they’re lucky. But you’re no threat to Sig anymore, Lilah. Sig doesn’t kill for pleasure. He only kills for business, or revenge.” The color comes back into Lilah’s cheeks.
I’m not finished with Pike. “So, Sergeant, here’s the deal I’m offering you. I don’t kill you now, I let you live—”
“But leave me to take my chances against Loreale? Some deal.”
“You could always pack your bags and leave town. The subway is just up the street. You could be at Pennsylvania Station in an hour, take that trip out west maybe you’ve always dreamed about. But that’s up to you. Meantime, I’d love to say it’s been nice chatting with you, but I save my lies for better occasions. Come on, Lilah. Let’s get out of here.”
“You’re letting him live? He killed my brother!”
“Then you kill him. Here, take my gun.”
But she shrinks back from that.
“Murder’s not so easy, is it,” I say.
My gun stays on Pike as Lilah takes my arm like it’s a lifeline and we walk around the coffee table to the door. But Pike blocks our way, doesn’t budge. “You’re gonna have to shoot me, Gold. You got the stomach for it?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Lilah’s grip on my arm tightens, a brittle grip of fear. “Please, Tom, just let us go. If you care for me at all, you’ll just let us go.”
His big ears, like cranes holding up his hat, grow red again. And there’s a look in his narrowing eyes I don’t like, a hardness that seems to devour their usual dullness. “And let you walk out with this—this pree-vert?” he says. “Or are you a sicko, too, Miss Day?”
I say, “Watch your mouth, Pike. Or maybe you’ve forgotten I have a gun pointed at your belly?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” he says, and pulls a move I hadn’t counted on, a gutsy move that leaves me gasping when his fist rams into my stomach.
Doubled over, my breath out of me, I manage a raspy, “Run, Lilah!” Her grip slides from my arm. From the corner of my eye, I see her make a run for the door.
But Pike’s more covetous than smart. He chases after her, shouts, “Get back here! I’m talking to you! Get back here!” and makes a grab for her. But he’s left me to catch my breath, and left me with my gun.
I get back upright and run after him in one motion. He’s got his arm around Lilah’s waist while she struggles like a fish on a hook. I’d shoot, but she’s wiggling so hard, she’s shaking Pike, too, and I’m afraid I’d hit her in the bedlam. So I use the butt of the .38 as a club, crack him a good one on the back of his skull.
He lets Lilah loose with a bellow of anger and pain.
I grab Lilah’s arm, pull her out the door.
Chapter Twenty
Pike’s outside, nearly on us, before I can open the door of my car. So I grab Lilah’s hand, shout, “Come on!” and run toward the boardwalk. I don’t take us up the stairs, but run underneath instead. In the predawn darkness, we’ll be shadows in the sandy murk, not easy for Pike to spot us.
Lilah’s behind me, crying, running, grasping my hand as I pull her along. I hear Pike roar, “Get back here, you tramp!” and, “You’re dead, Gold! Dead!”
I pull her harder, run us faster, though it’s tough going with two of us in the sand, one of us in high heels. I’m tempted to run us all the way past Coney to Brighton Beach, lose us in the streets and alleys of that residential neighborhood, but I’m afraid Pike will catch up to us before we get there. But another idea presents itself, a better idea: let Coney’s own thrills and chills hide us.
I pull us off at Jones Walk, run under the girders of the giant Wonder Wheel, a steel-and-air confection tall as a skyscraper, famous for its double set of cars, some stationary, while others slide along rails to the center and back to the edge again as the wheel turns. I open the door of a stationary car at the wheel’s far edge. “Get in and get down as far as you can under a bench,” I tell Lilah, keeping my voice low. I follow her in, close the door, and crouch on the floor, each of us hidden as much as we can under the car’s two wooden benches. Only the upper half of the car is steel mesh. The car’s solid lower half can help hide us.
I can see just enough of Lilah’s face in the near-dawn gloom to know she’s tense and terrified, her face rigid, like she’s holding her breath. I’m holding my breath, too, while my hand’s inside my jacket, holding my gun.
I know Pike’s looking around. I hear his footsteps, stopping, starting, back and forth near the Wonder Wheel and away from it. But not far away from it. And then he’s back again.
I haven’t taken or exhaled a breath since I heard Pike’s first steps near the wheel. I doubt Lilah has either, though I can still just barely see her face, even in the first weak purple-gray light of dawn. But what little I see of her is stiff and pale, as if death has already staked its claim and is just waiting to make it official.
My heart’s beating so loud I’m surprised it’s not echoing through Coney’s streets, bouncing off the steel ribs of its thrill rides. But maybe it is, maybe Pike hears it, which may be why he’s almost near our hiding place.
Lilah’s even more terrified than she was barely a minute ago. Her eyes are wide now, glassy in the thin dawn light, staring at me, staring at nothing. And she’s not stiff anymore, she’s trembling, her hands and body shaking, not a lot, but just enough to betray us: the car squeaks on its axle, gently sways, leading Pike to our door.
I hear the click of his gun. Then the door’s pulled open. “Get out!” That nasal yell eats into my flesh right down to my bones.
Lilah’s too scared to move, which is perfect, keeps her out of my way when I crawl out from under my bench. With my hand still inside my coat, I start to get out of the car, then pull my gun and lunge at Pike, slamming him across the face with the barrel of my .38. My move surprises him, the hard steel hurts him, and he lets out a grunt more animal than human. But my move doesn�
�t stop him, and I’m barely away before he makes a grab for me. He misses, tries for another grab, but I roll away on the ground. I’m still rolling when Pike shoots and misses, the bullet striking the ground, sending bits of concrete in my face. Lilah screams, distracting Pike’s attention from me to her. He runs back to the car, shouting, “I was loyal, damn you, Miss Day! I won’t let you choose that pree-vert!”
When I get up from the ground, I’m too far away to make a grab for Pike, get him away from Lilah, but I’m near a contraption that will get Lilah away from him: I slam my hand down on the operator’s button, and the giant wheel starts turning, the car with Lilah rising up and away from Pike. He’ll have to wait until the wheel makes a full turn in order to catch her, but the huge wheel turns slow, the better to give the summer customers a sky-high view of Coney Island and all across Brooklyn, the towers of Manhattan, like Oz, in the shimmering distance.
Plenty of time for me to deal with Pike.
But Pike’s not a patient man, and his anger is making him crazy to boot, crazy enough to grab a steel girder and start climbing the wheel!
I can’t let him reach Lilah, can’t take the chance that he’ll either shoot her or grab her, forcing her out of the car and into a miserable lover’s leap. I aim and take a shot, but the wheel’s taking Pike farther upward, and my shot does no better than ricochet off one of the wheel’s steel ribs. Pike’s hat flies off, floats in the wind.
I have to get closer to the action. I have to climb the wheel, too.
So I grab on, remind myself that I’ve swung from ships on a rope ladder high over New York Harbor. The Wonder Wheel, my childhood friend, couldn’t be scarier than that.
The wind grows stronger, louder, the higher the wheel takes me, the higher I climb. It’s tough to hang on, but I figure it’s tough for Pike to hang on, too. But a crazed person is often a strangely strong person. Pike’s crazed; I’m not. I grip each girder with every ounce of strength I’ve got.
“Cantor!” It’s Lilah. I look up, see her frantic in the car as Pike grabs the door. She’s holding it closed from inside, screaming. She’s no match for his strength. It won’t be long until he rips the door open.
Unless I get there first. But I’m too far away to reach her in time. I try another shot at Pike, but the shot goes astray when I take my gun hand off the wheel, and nearly lose my grip on the steel girder.
I’ll never get to Pike or Lilah by just climbing.
But maybe—again—Coney’s thrills and chills, the excitement of my childhood, can save the day.
I climb a few feet more, press against the wind that wants to kill me as sure as Pike does, and make my way to one of the sliding cars, yank the door open and climb inside just as the car slides toward the center axle of the wheel as it turns. I can hear Lilah screaming, her screams more desperate as she uses all of her strength to keep Pike from ripping open her door. I lean out of my car. It swings and slides back and forth as the wheel turns, taking me higher but keeping me wobbly, the sky, the sea, and the Earth swaying above, below, and around me in a dizzying whirl. But I’m closer to Pike than I was, maybe close enough. I aim and fire.
The wildly swaying car sends my aim off, and the bullet hits only a girder, but the girder’s in front of Pike’s face. The smashing bullet must’ve sent sparks into his eyes, blinding him, disorienting him, and he falls from the wheel, flailing in the wind, until he smashes to the ground.
*
Lilah’s calmed down by the time I get her back to her bungalow, make us both a cup of coffee and spike it with some rye I found in the kitchen. I sit her down at the kitchen table, seat myself near her at the end. She’s wiped her mascara-streaked tears from her face, but her eyes are still red, her hand still trembling as she takes a sip of coffee and then puts her cup down on the table. “What’ll they do to me, Cantor?” she says, her voice shaky. “The cops, I mean. Someone must’ve found Pike’s body by now.”
“Nothing will happen to you,” I say. “No one’s around the Wonder Wheel or any of the rides at dawn this time of year. No one saw us or what went on or they would’ve called the cops, or even called Sig, who might’ve sent Eddie or any of the badges on Sig’s payroll to see what was up. But no one showed up, no one saw you, no one can put you there, so nothing will happen to you. And since Pike was Mickey’s guy, Sig has no interest in finding out why he died and who made it happen. He’ll make sure the whole business is buried. No cops, no questions. It’s just one less Schwartz-Day ally for him to take care of.” I take a hefty gulp of the coffee, let the caffeine wake me up for the long drive home while the whiskey puts my nerve ends back in place after the thrill ride on the Wonder Wheel. Lighting a smoke, and offering one to Lilah, I say, “You’re free to do whatever you want, Lilah. But whatever you decide, I’d forget about doing it with Berg and O’Byrne. They’re dead men any minute. Sig will see to that.”
She takes a long pull on her smoke as I light it, her hands cupping mine, the flame bright in her green eyes. Through a haze of exhaled smoke that curls around her face like lace curtains, she says, “And you’re sure Loreale won’t come after me?”
“He has no reason to,” I say. “Like I told you, he doesn’t kill for pleasure, only business. Couple of loose canons like Berg and O’Byrne, they’re bad for Sig’s business. But unless you’re standing in his way, unless you’re in the way of some business deal, he’ll ignore you. So don’t stand in his way,” I add with a shrug. “Sooner or later, he’ll want your real estate. Sell it to him.”
That sits her up. She looks at me like I’ve just told a dirty joke. A slit of a smile slides across her mouth, with a bitter laugh escaping through that knife-slice smile. “He won’t just take it? Like he took everything from my father?”
“Get rid of that grudge, Lilah,” I say. “It didn’t do Mickey any good, and it won’t do you any good, either. Look, times have changed. Sig knows that muscle is the last thing on the menu now, not the first, like in the old gangland days. Sig stays at the top of the heap because he uses brains first, fists last.”
“How can you be so sure? A leopard can’t change its spots, they say.”
“You’re right. Sig hasn’t changed, but the rackets have, and Sig’s smart enough to play the modern game. His transactions have to be legit now, with bills of sale and all the other paperwork that will keep his other rackets out of sight and keep him out of the tax man’s eye. So Sig won’t muscle you unless you hold out on him. And if he muscles you, he’ll do it so carefully, so quietly, you won’t know you’re dead until you’re in your coffin.”
She buys it just enough to lean back in her chair, relax again. Her bitter smile disappears, turns into a pert smile that hints at something up her sleeve. “What if I sold him this shack and the tattoo parlor now?”
“You could try,” I say, “but he might not want them now. He’ll want things on his schedule, not yours. But maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe he’ll say yes, and you’ll have a few bucks in your purse. What will you do with it? Leave Coney? Start over somewhere else?”
“That depends.”
“Yeah? On what?”
“Not on what. On who. It depends on you, Cantor.” She’s got her cigarette between the fingers of one hand, while the fingers of her other hand stroke my cheek as she leans in close to me. “So many scars,” she whispers. “So much life. Let me taste some of that life, Cantor.” And then she kisses me.
Being kissed by Lilah Schwartz Day is like having darkness and light spread through you at the same time, chilling you and heating you at the same time, until your body can’t tell the difference between pleasure and pain, and you want more. I want more.
And then she takes the kiss away, because the only way she’ll give me more is on her own terms. Still leaning close to me, she says, “I want to know your life, Cantor. I want to know that life in the bigger world.”
“Then live it,” I say. “But not with me. And not through me.”
It wasn’t quite a slap in the face,
but it stings her enough to make her sit back from me.
“You have to find your own way in that bigger world, Lilah. Everyone does.” I stub out my smoke, lean in to her and kiss her cheek before I get up from the table. “You know where I live, and my number’s in the book. I’ll show you around that world, Lilah, but I can’t live it for you, or with you.”
She doesn’t look at me again, just sits at the table smoking, as I leave the kitchen and walk out the front door.
*
I’ve got one last bit of business before I leave Coney Island.
I pull over at a corner of Neptune Avenue, get out of my car, walk into a phone booth, page through the book until I find the number, then drop my dime in the slot and dial.
The number rings six, seven, eight, nine times before a gruff sleep-interrupted voice says, “Yeah?”
“Wake up, Eddie. And listen carefully.”
“Who’s this?
“Cantor Gold,” I say.
“Cantor? What the hell you doin’, callin’ a person at this hour? What time is it, anyway?”
“It’s almost seven o’clock in the morning and I’m calling to threaten you, Eddie. Yeah, you heard me, not warn you, threaten you. If you ever lay a hand on Lilah again, if you even go near her, you’re a dead man. I’ll kill you. Or maybe Sig might send someone to kill you. He doesn’t like his operatives getting out of line, beating up anyone without his say-so. And beating up women is way out of line, Eddie. Sig might even let me be the one to kill you. You don’t want to die, do you, Eddie?”
He doesn’t speak, just breathes shallow, raspy breaths that come through the phone more pathetically than any pleading.
“Good-bye, Eddie.”
*
The Belt Parkway leads me out of Coney Island, a modern highway taking me away from old memories, away from the history that caught up with me. The highway takes me past all the new housing ex-GIs and their wives are grabbing up since the war, modest two-family brick jobs along Shore Road with a nice view of New York Bay and Staten Island. For a little money down, and a little cash on loan from the US government, a fella and his sweetheart can cut their ties to their cramped, immigrant ancestral past and replace it with a shiny American future of backyards, barbecue grills, and television sets with shows full of blond children.
