Whistling in the Dark

by Tamara Allen

  The shop door opened with a mad tinkling of the bell and a thunder of feet. A breathless Harry and Ox appeared and, finding Jack still in one piece, collapsed on each other in relief.

  "Of course," Ned added, "we'll have to do something about the riff-raff that keeps wandering in."

  "We ain't had any luck keeping them out," Harry wheezed.

  Ned turned away as if Harry wasn't worth the trouble to jab back. "As I was saying before, Mr. Chase here, he's interested in what you got to offer, Jackie--"

  "Who says he's offering?" Harry asked. "May I remind you Mrs. Madigan keeps Jack's rent stable out of respect for his folks? What makes you think if you take over, she won't hike it up to match the rents all over town?"

  Ned sighed. "Jack, I ain't putting you out of business. Mr. Chase and me, we want you in with us. You're sitting on a goldmine and we want to help you dig up the goods. There's plenty to go around. Ol' lady Madigan won't know the difference from sunny Fifth Avenue. It's just between you, me, and the man with the connections."

  Ned smiled sweet as milk at Chase, who chuckled. "I'm a businessman, Mr. Bailey, and your place looks like a good investment." Chase tucked the tin soldier in Jack's breast pocket. "You can pay back the loan. Or you can come in with us and I'll forgive it. I'd prefer the latter."

  "That's what I've been telling him, Mr. Chase--" Ned yelped as a scaly snout swung from under the workbench skirting and spread wide to show off needle-sharp teeth. Ned scrambled back in near panic. "I thought you guys got rid of that thing."

  "Get rid of Woodrow?" Ox looked appalled.

  Harry laughed. "Woody's our watchdog. Takes care of the riff-raff," he said, lighting up a cigar.

  Claws scraped the floor as Woodrow emerged from under the skirting. All five feet of him, yellow-brown and mud-caked, came to light, and Esther skipped back, too. "Maybe he is a million years old, Jack, but he gives me the willies."

  Marshall Chase hadn't batted a lash. He laughed and clapped Jack on the back. "You do know how to keep things interesting, Mr. Bailey. I have something of a knack for that, myself--as you've no doubt heard. You will give the possibility of an alliance your keenest consideration, won't you?"

  Jack was relieved when Chase doffed his hat to Esther and strode out. Ned had something of a problem following; namely a normally docile croc snapping at his trouser cuffs.

  Jack gave up trying to contain a grin. "I think he likes you, Captain Hook."

  Ned glared at him. "Call it off. Call it off or I'll turn it into a pair of shoes." He reached under his coat, but Ox lurched at him and grabbed his wrist. Ned tried in vain to twist free. "Jesus, all right, all right. Let me go. I ain't shooting the damned thing."

  Ox gave him a push in the direction of the door and Ned kept walking. "Crocs and gorillas. You got a goddamned zoo in here." He tugged down his rumpled vest and smoothed his sleek head with the heel of his hand. "Enjoy it while it lasts."

  The door slammed hard enough to rattle the glass. Esther burst out laughing and Ox and Harry joined in, Harry wheezing on cigar smoke. For one perfect moment, life felt honest-to-God normal again. Jack held on to the feeling, wanting to keep it. Maybe the first few months back had been bad, but Harry had looked after him with the ferocious devotion of a parent and Es was always sympathetic and Ox, who'd lost his own mother, carried a share of the grief. And then there was the damned crocodile, half-blind and older than Methuselah, that they hadn't yet found a home for. If that wasn't enough to make a fellow feel closer to sane, nothing could.

  Jack handed Ox a broom. "Here, scoot him out before any real customers show up."

  Ox obliged, tapping on Woodrow's tail to keep him moving toward the back. When they were out of sight, Esther threw up her hands in disgust. "He ain't afraid of a crocodile, oh, no. All teeth and claws, could eat him up if it took the notion, but that don't bother him at all." She muttered as she threw the leftovers into the basket, pushed a sandwich into Harry's hand, and stalked out with all the dignity of a woman fed up with being scorned.

  Harry shrugged and made himself comfortable in the armchair, propping his feet on the piano bench. "Roast beef, done to perfection. Ox must be out of his mind."

  "I'm starting to think I am, too," Jack said. "Ox--he can't really play so well, can he?"

  "He stinks," Harry said around a mouthful of sandwich.

  "Come on, Harry, reconsider, will you? Playing on the radio, it could make you famous."

  "I like my anonymity, thanks. Anyway, I don't play any better than Ox. Especially with a whole lot of people listening--" He grimaced. "You think war's bad? You ain't lived in real terror till your mother drags your eight-year-old ass to the piano to pound out something for all the neighbors at the tea party. Never again," he said, stabbing the air with his sandwich for emphasis. "Not while I can do sums, anyway. So you'd better keep Ox practicing what music we've got or your radio show's going nowhere."

  Nowhere was where the practice session went, though Ox did his best. Jack could tell by his morose face that he would rather have been uncrating deliveries or in the yard, feeding Woody chicken scraps. Another practice late in the day did no better and a frazzled Harry shut himself in the office to soothe his soul with a little bookkeeping. Jack swept out the store--not that it needed much with the lack of traffic--and turned the small handful of cash from the register over to Harry. "Any chance of that phonograph?"

  Harry brightened, but not enough to raise Jack's hopes. "Mr. Rosen's got one, all right, but it's busted."

  "Will he let me take a look at it?"

  The corners of Harry's mouth curled up. "He said if you can fix it, you can borrow it as long as you need. He's got about half a dozen records, though."

  "It's a start."

  Before closing for the night, Jack enlisted Ox to walk with him to Rosen's Second-Hand Furniture to pick up the phonograph. It was a ten-year-old machine with a familiar rattle deep in its bowels. Jack spent the evening cleaning the motor and concluded he would have to make a trip to the junk shop to salvage some parts.

  The generous sandman of the night before didn't pay him another visit. After tossing and turning an eternity, he gave up and decided to cajole an early breakfast from Esther. As he dressed, he peeked down to the street to see if she had opened. There was no sign of her, but Albright, his dark blond hair golden in the morning sun, swept the stoop below. The apron underneath his coat fluttering around his legs, he worked with methodical care from top step to bottom. Jack knew why Ida had hired him over any of the rowdy neighborhood boys. Conscientious and reliable were all but stamped on his forehead and he would live up to Ida's expectations--at least until homesickness got the better of him.

  Jack shrugged into his coat and, combing back his hair with his fingers, pushed on a hat. Perhaps he wasn't really being fair. Hell, of course he wasn't. Albright seemed like a reasonable guy, good-hearted and, above all, trusting. Maybe even the kind of guy a fellow could talk into lending the bicycle Ida kept for deliveries.

  It was a damned long walk to the junk shop.

  - Six -

  Sutton returned the broom to the cellar and went back into the cold for the newspapers. They waited on the cellar steps as Esther had said, wrapped with twine. The door closed behind him and he remembered too late Esther's warning to prop it open--otherwise, the door might stick. Finding it had, he hefted the papers in his arms to carry them around to the front.

  "'Morning, Mabel. Need some help?"

  The cheerful voice overhead nearly startled Sutton out of his skin. It was the fellow he'd met in jail, the one who had left his thuggish compatriot to pay for his breakfast--Jack, if he remembered correctly. Jack grinned over the rail at him as if they were longtime friends and produced a pocketknife, to Sutton's dismay. He'd heard of bootleggers and conmen who had no qualms about killing. That fellow in the restaurant yesterday had been up to no good and if Jack was in league with him, maybe they'd decided Sutton had overheard too much.

  Jack possessed no phy
sical advantage, but the knife persuaded Sutton that retreat would be wiser. He fumbled for the doorknob, then remembered the stuck door. "I'll summon the police," he gasped, a bit of bravado that got him a bemused stare, until abruptly Jack's face cleared, eyes brightening.

  "For the newspaper string." He made a cutting motion with the blade. "You didn't really think--oh, hell, you did." He burst out laughing.

  Sutton dropped to a crate to let his shaky legs recover. Perhaps he read too many novels. But-- "You can hardly blame me for thinking the worst, after yesterday."

  Jack sank to the step, gasping for breath. After another moment, he wiped his face with his sleeve. "I'm not in cahoots with Ned Hennessy. He's got his eye on my shop. That's why he's hanging around."

  "Your shop?" Sutton looked at the faded sign across the alley. "Bailey's Emporium?" Realization struck. "You're Bailey?"

  "I didn't introduce myself before? Jack Bailey." He stuck out a hand. "I guess you've met Ox and Harry?"

  "Yes, I have." Sutton stood, clutching the rumpled pile of newspapers along with his equally rumpled dignity. "And you owe me ten cents."

  Slim eyebrows rose. "Ned come up short for the breakfast?" Jack followed as Sutton headed around to the front of the restaurant. "Just put it on my tab--"

  "Your tab, Mr. Bailey, appears to be at its limit."

  "It's Jack. And don't worry. I'll square it in a week or two. Hi ya, Ida," he said as she appeared with a brown bag. She raked Jack over with a suspicious eye, sniffed, and turned to Sutton.

  "The address is on the receipt. I want you back here quick, so take the bicycle. And don't leave it in the street or some no-account will run off with it."

  "Bicycle?" Neither he nor his siblings had been permitted anywhere near a bicycle after a cousin he'd never met had been struck by a motorcar while riding one. He'd always regretted not learning to ride, but never more than at the moment. "Mrs. Carlisle, I have to confess--" She swung an impatient gaze on him and he faltered. "Yes, ma'am, I'll take care of it right away."

  He hung up his apron and retrieved the bicycle from behind the coat stand. Through the window, he saw Jack leaning against the lamp post, apparently interested in something besides breakfast. As Sutton brought the bicycle down the steps, Jack crossed the sidewalk toward him, a knowing light in his eyes which Sutton resolutely ignored. Jack popped open the wicker basket on the back and Sutton put the bag in and strapped it securely. "Thank you."

  "Sure. Never been on a bike in your life, have you."

  "I can manage it."

  Sutton gripped the handles and eased a leg over the seat. He got both feet on the pedals and pushed, but the front wheel turned, the whole contraption sliding under him. Before he toppled over, Jack grabbed him. "Why don't you let me help you make your delivery before it starts stinking like something even Woody wouldn't eat. What do you say? Then after your shift, I'll show you how to ride."

  "What? No, I can't let you take the bicycle," Sutton said as Jack nudged him. "Mrs. Carlisle wouldn't like it."

  "Ida's always kicking about something. Come on, we can go together. No one the wiser." Easing him off, Jack got on.

  "Together?" Sutton realized what he meant. "I don't know--"

  "You said you'd take care of it right away. I can get you there and back before she heats up her frying pan."

  Sutton didn't like it, but after letting Ida believe he could ride, it was either walk or allow Jack to give him a lift. "You're sure you can do this?"

  "Quick as the wind. Hop on and hold tight."

  The wind had nothing on the resourceful Mr. Bailey. Sidewalk or street, wherever the path was clear, Jack raced with lightning precision, sometimes missing a motorcar or lamp post by a hair's breadth. Somewhere between terror and exhilaration, Sutton held on until the ride ended, at the stoop of a derelict brownstone. Sliding off the bike, he wrapped his arms around a post while he recovered his equilibrium.

  "Soup's getting cold," Jack said cheerfully, pushing the bike up the steps.

  A boy of about twelve opened the door into a cozy front room warmed by the morning sun. "Hello, Jack!" he said. "Come and see!" He ran to a corner table cluttered with the same radio equipment Sutton had noticed in the emporium. An elderly woman dozing on the sofa sighed and a girl reading in a chair nearby jumped up with an exasperated hiss.

  "Dan, for heaven's sake. Get along to school." She smiled an apology at Jack. "Where's Esther?"

  Jack told her and she looked Sutton over with shy curiosity. "You were quick. Ida will like that." She took the bag. "I'll just see if it needs heating."

  Jack moved to the table where Dan tinkered with his radio. "Picked up anything?"

  Dan looked forlorn. "Just once. I had it fixed so's Gran could listen in. Now it won't work."

  Jack nodded. "Want me to take a look?" he said, already doing so. The young woman returned and invited them to stay for breakfast. Aware of the time, Sutton wasn't confident he could pull Jack away. He and Dan were both too absorbed to be roused. Thinking it might be in Ida's interest for him to befriend her regular customers, he gave up his coat and sat down to a cup of tea. It was nearly seven-thirty by the time he rose to go--and discovered just why Jack had been so eager to help with his delivery.

  "Five minutes. That's all. We'll be back at Ida's before eight." Jack bounced the bicycle down the last step to the sidewalk.

  Still feeling obliged to Jack for his help, Sutton reluctantly agreed. "If you're certain you won't be more than five minutes--"

  "I swear it." Jack patted the bar. Sutton grimaced and got on, closing his eyes as they started off at an all too familiar speed. When he was able to look again, residences had given way to rundown shops and factories and in their midst, a rough crowd went about its business. Jack skidded to a halt before a two-story tumbledown building with a sidewalk blocked by everything from bed frames to bicycles, none of it in a condition worth stealing, let alone purchasing. A fat black cat--well-fed on rats, no doubt--yawned at them from the interior of a doorless icebox as they passed into the shop. The bright gleam of metal and warmer gleam of enamel crowded shelves to the ceiling. Sutton leaned toward Jack to whisper, "What is this place?"

  "No junk shops in Nebraska?"

  "Kansas," Sutton said, then realized Jack had done that on purpose. His wicked smirk confirmed it. "Do you ever inquire about anything the regular way?"

  "Would you've told me?"

  "Probably."

  "You wouldn't. You already think I'm a shady character," Jack said, apparently unoffended. "You're kin to that Albright in the newspaper, then? The fellow in Topeka?"

  That damned newspaper story. "Distantly."

  Jack laughed. "Fifteen hundred miles, that's a pretty good distance."

  Sutton let the comment pass and trailed Jack to the counter at the far end of the shop, where a reed-thin man in a plaid vest and collarless striped shirt hovered over various pieces of what looked like a disassembled toaster. Though he neither lifted his head nor removed grease-blackened fingers from his work, he offered up a greeting. "Damn, it ain't even been a week. You using those tubes to read by?"

  Jack snorted. "Sutton, this asshole is Keeler. Keeler, Sutton. He gave me a ride down here."

  "Oh yeah? Where's your bike?"

  "Sold it."

  "Well, they say walking's good for you." Keeler's grin showed off crooked teeth. "Oh, you know what? Something came in you'll want a look at." He wiped his hands on a towel filthier than he was, and skittered up a ladder to a top shelf. "Some genius bought himself a beauty of a set and never figured out how to work it, so he sells it to me cheap." He came down with a cardboard box in hand. "Sold off most of the parts the first day, but take a look at what's left, see if there's anything you need."

  Jack peeked into the box. "Don't suppose you could tuck it under the counter for a couple weeks? I'm a little short--"

  "Perhaps he could put it on your tab."

  Sutton's arch suggestion won him a wary look from Keeler and
the flicker of rueful good humor from Jack.

  "I don't run tabs, I run a business," Keeler said. "I'll trade, maybe, if you got anything."

  "No--" Jack hesitated. "Yeah, wait a minute." He offered his pocketknife. "Any good?"

  Keeler ran a fingertip over the blade. "Army issue," he muttered, then looked apologetic. "Forget I said that."

  "Said what?" Jack hooked a finger over the rim of the box and drew it across the counter, Sutton leaning with him to get a better look. The contents seemed a pile of junk, but Jack's face lit up like he'd stumble on a pot of gold. "How much you want for all of it?"

  "More than this knife's worth. I'll give you a quarter."

  "Guess I'll take it. I need some parts for a Victor. Got anything?"

  "A few Vics over in the corner there. Help yourself."

  Sutton perched on the dusty edge of the shelf as Jack began to search through the row of old phonographs. "So--you were in France?"

  Jack pushed one machine out of the way to reach another. "What'd you do to these things, Keeler? Leave them out in the rain?"

  "Any rust you may find you'll have to take up with the previous owners." Keeler disappeared behind the counter.

  Sutton tried again. "I was in France, myself."

  "Good for you. Hand me a pair of pliers? The kit's behind you."

  Sutton pulled the wooden box from the shelf and dug around. "This?"

  "Are you kidding?" Jack exhumed something that was a fair approximation. "Didn't dig any trenches while you were in France?"

  "I'm well acquainted with the shovel."

  Jack's lips twitched. "That's a start." He opened the top of another phonograph machine and peered inside. "Ah. First class."