Come at the King

by Sherilyn Decter

  “Good. Drop them in the usual spot in the park. I’ll pick them up on my way home.”

  Mike nods.

  “Can you pass me the salt and pepper?” Joe asks in a normal voice, and then adds quietly, “Everything else okay?”

  “The Black Prince is up to no good. And King Lear himself hasn’t been in much,” Mike says to the mirror.

  Who knew that Mike would turn out to be a Shakespeare fan? Joe had had to go to the library and take out a summary of the Bard’s plays to keep up. King Lear seems apt for Mickey, the madness and betrayal and all, but he still hasn’t figured out why Mike had picked the Black Prince for Eddie Regan’s nickname. Eddie’s been Mickey’s driver, bodyguard, and ‘friend’ for some time now.

  “I imagine there are all kinds of shenanigans going on while he’s gone.”

  “Oh yeah, the Black Prince and the Italians are mixed up in some stuff. Trouble ahead, my friend.” Mike begins to spread jam thinly on the newly arrived toast.

  Joe nods. The Italians are the Lanzetta brothers, a rival gangster group whose mother had perversely named these spawns of Satan after popes. There were six brothers in the family, and all were gangsters: Leo was the oldest and the leader, Pius was known as ‘the Brain’, Ignatius had a reputation as a snappy dresser, Lucien had an explosive temper, Willie was the quiet one, and Teo was the youngest. ‘Baby’ Lanzetta made women swoon because of his good looks. They were also vicious rivals of Boo-Boo Hoff back in the day when Hoff was a ‘somebody’ before, a couple of years back, the Grand Jury ruined the man.

  Joe stirs his refill. He isn’t happy to hear that the Duffy gang was getting mixed up with the mob. Cosa Nostra connections were deadly.

  Sliding off his stool, Joe nods casually to Mike and a few of the other regulars, throws some money on the counter to pay for his breakfast, and heads back to the precinct. His regular Saturday routine, after seeing Mike, is to meet with a couple of federal treasury agents.

  Waiting for Joe in the duty room back at the precinct are the two federal agents. Jim Williams is bald, short, and stocky. His partner, Jay Reynolds, is tall and thin. A regular Mutt and Jeff? Or maybe a pencil and an eraser? Joe smiles as he sits down, a cup of the precinct’s vile coffee in his hand. He spends the next hour filling in Reynolds and Williams on his ‘breakfast’ with Mike the accountant.

  “What the heck is Eddie Regan cozying up to the Lanzettas for? I thought they were rivals of Duffy’s,” growls Agent Williams.

  Joe sized up the agent. He would make a great boxer. “Enemies of my enemy are my friends, maybe? Who knows, but I don’t think Duffy’s going to start running drugs anytime soon,” Joe answers. Over the past year, he’s become familiar with the pair—they’re all on the same team.

  “Duffy may not be planning it, but what if Eddie Regan has ideas? You were saying that he’s been making take-over moves with Duffy being outta commission so much of the time,” Agent Reynolds says.

  “That’s true,” Joe says, nodding.

  “You’re doing a good job keeping an eye on things, Joe. See if Mike can find out anything else about this Lanzetta hook-up. That bears watching,” Agent Reynolds says, putting his notes into his briefcase.

  “Will do, Reynolds. I’m picking up December’s financial statements later this afternoon. The real ones, not the ones the IRS sees.”

  The trio stand and shake hands. The agents have to get back to their weekend.

  “Good. There’s always some good information there. You were sharp to spot the skimming scheme that the accountant was pulling, Joe. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders,” Agent Williams says.

  Or Maggie does. “Thanks, Agent Williams. But like I’ve said before, it was a team effort.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Kelly. Every good team has a leader. Look, we gotta go. But we’ll see you next Saturday, right?”

  Joe walks them to the stairs. “You bet. And I’ll get those statements to you first thing Monday morning.”

  Chapter 5

  D ays pass vaguely for Edith and Mickey. She’s taken to writing things down on the calendar, not because she has so much to do, but rather because she has so little. Wrapped in their dressing gowns and slippers, they are enjoying a late breakfast. It’s become a habit, Mickey sleeping late and then maybe heading to the Ritz to meet up with the men that work for him, or maybe not.

  Edith was initially concerned with his lack of motivation, but Dr. Schnitke assures her that it is a common side effect of the chloral hydrate drops he is taking to keep him calm. He also said that the volatile mood swings that they had barely survived two years ago were probably related to the type of syphilis Mickey had when he was much younger. It’s come back and with a vengeance. Edith carefully measures his dosage into his morning orange juice, and into his wine at dinner.

  “Are you going into town today, Mickey?” Edith addresses her comments to the front page of the Philadelphia Inquirer. She presumes that Mickey is behind the paper.

  “Not sure, Kitten.”

  “Well, don’t forget that Maggie is coming for dinner.”

  “Hmm, what was that, dear?” Mickey doesn’t glance up from his newspaper.

  The doorbell rings and Hilda comes into the dining room to announce that the movers have arrived with the pool table. Mickey jumps up and heads to the front door.

  “Pool table? What pool table? Who ordered it? Where are we going to put a pool table?” Edith asks, trailing behind.

  “I thought we could take the desk out of the room with the bookshelves and put it in there.”

  “It’s called a study. How big is it?” Edith asks the man standing at the front door, clipboard in hand.

  “Four by eight, ma’am,” he answers, his eyes traveling up and down her silk-draped frame.

  She turns and screeches at Mickey. “What? You could have at least told me. You’ll never get it into the study. It will take up the whole room. It will have to go down to the basement.”

  “Okay, you heard the lady. Let’s take it downstairs. I’ll show you the way,” Mickey says, waving at the deliverymen and shuffling off toward the basement in his bathrobe and slippers.

  Edith fumes upstairs while the men start carrying the slate and the wooden pieces of the pool table to the basement. Once assembled, it will have to have the felt installed by an expert. Mickey, delighted with his purchase, comes upstairs after the movers have left.

  “Come on, Edith. Come and see. You’ve done the whole house and I didn’t say squat. Let me have this.” He grabs her hand and starts leading her to the basement.

  There, amidst the boxes, the washing machine, the racks for drying clothes, the shelves of preserves and other staples, is the pool table.

  “It could have been six by twelve, you know. I thought I was being discrete.”

  Edith shakes her head, a wry smile on her face. “Whatever makes you happy, Bunny. But wouldn’t it have been easier just to go over to Henry’s?”

  * * * *

  In the Northern Liberties neighborhood, Maggie Barnes also accepted a delivery. A box with a cover letter. Sitting at the dining room table, Maggie stares at the open cardboard box. Inside are papers, bundles of letters, and old photographs. She picks up the cover letter again.

  My dear Mrs. Barnes;

  Well, old age has finally caught up with me. My family is forcing me to sell the house, which means that I’m having to sort through a lifetime of memories and acquisitions. No easy task for a packrat like myself.

  I did so much enjoy our visits. My own family don’t seem to care much for dusty ancestors, so it has been delightful to talk with you. You have such enthusiasm for dear Frank. I think you may have as many stories about the man as I have.

  Please excuse my wandering. Not being able to stay on topic seems to be one of the curses of my advancing years. As I was saying, I was going through my things and came across this box of memorabilia that I showed you on your first visit. No one wants it, and I can’t take it with me, (a
nd please pardon my presumption) but I was hoping that you might want it.

  I’d love to visit with you again, my dear. You can find me at my great niece’s. Just give me a few weeks to settle in. I hope to see you in the spring.

  All the best, Muriel Duffy

  Maggie lifts out the photographs. Mary Geyer, Frank’s wife, stares back at her in the stiff, formal pose of the era; the ornate background, the vase of ostrich feathers. She studies the face, trying to discern the woman behind the grim visage. The long exposure times that were needed to create those early photographs meant no smiling. Laying Mary aside, she picks up one of Frank in his police uniform. Muriel had suggested that it was his retirement from the force, but Maggie thinks it was taken to commemorate the capture of the notorious J.J. Holmes, America’s first serial killer. What an exciting career he’s had.

  There are packets of letters, tied with a faded ribbon. She returns them to the box. They are private correspondence and she won’t intrude. Also in the box are citations for bravery, commendations from the mayor, and newspaper clippings from the day he opened his own detective agency.

  Maggie had begun the project of trying to track down Frank’s family as a kindness. There was such an undercurrent of loneliness about the man. She had also hoped that, by understanding who his people were, she might find an answer to the riddle of what the purpose for remaining in Philadelphia in his current spectral state was. Unfortunately, meeting and getting to know Muriel Duffy raised more questions than it answered.

  Adding to the dilemma was the uncomfortable fact that she had still not shared her discovery of living Geyer family members with Frank. And now this box has arrived. I must mention it to him soon. I hope he’s not put out by it. He never speaks about Mary, or his family, and is such a private man. I may have overstepped and made a terrible mistake.

  Maggie carefully repacks the box, frowning. She’s going to dinner at the Duffys’ tonight, so won’t see the Inspector at their usual time for Evening Report. Justice delayed, but not denied.

  * * * *

  Walking up the broad walkway to the Duffy house, Black Palms, Maggie is once again impressed with what Edith has accomplished with the renovations. The house has been transformed into a Mediterranean villa, complete with the namesake palms that adorn the side of the house.

  “Where’s Mickey? Is he joining us tonight?” Maggie asks Edith as she hands her coat and hat to Hilda.

  “He’s downstairs admiring his pool table. He got a couple of the men to carry down some armchairs, a table, and a carpet. I think he’s building a little nest down there.” Edith links her arm through Maggie’s and leads her into the living rom. “Cocktail?”

  “Mmm, yes please.” Maggie takes in the room while Edith shakes the martinis at a mirrored drinks cabinet. Light from wall sconces and floor lamps sparkle off its faceted surfaces. Glamorous mirrors, glossy woods, slick metal finishes, lush whites, turquoise-colored leather furniture adorned with velvet and fur toss cushions: it’s a gorgeous and unique room. Parlor palms cast tropical shadows on the walls, reinforcing the Mediterranean theme.

  Cocktail in hand, Maggie perches on the turquoise couch. “This room is really incredible, Edith. You’ve done yourself proud. I love all the angles and mirrors. Really stunning.”

  “Thanks, Mags. It’s exactly like I hoped it would be. I’m still looking for something fabulous for that wall over there,” Edith says, waving behind her. “How’s your father, by the way?”

  “Not well. He got through Christmas, but it was hard on us all to see him suffering like that. The cancer is eating him up, Edith. He’s only been in the office a few hours since the holidays, which just isn’t like him.”

  “And your mother? How is Cordelia coping?”

  “Much better than I expected. Father has been her whole life, and now she is rallying for him. Caring for him has given her a real sense of purpose: something practical for her to direct her energy to, besides garden club intrigue. I think she’s found her calling in nursing father.”

  “That’s a calling I’ll never have. Call me selfish, but I can’t imagine submerging myself like that.”

  “Maybe it’s different when you’ve been together as long as they have. They’re dedicated to each other, and it’s a final way that they can express their devotion.”

  Maggie’s not sure what she’s said, but something was wrong. Edith’s normally vivacious face had gone cold and hard.

  “Honey, what did I say? What’s wrong?”

  Edith grips her martini glass, splashing a few drops of gin on her sequined dress. “Oh damn, look what I’ve done.” She pats at the spots with a handkerchief Maggie has fished out of her purse. The pats turn into jabs, and suddenly she’s pounding away on the dress. Maggie gets up and comes to sit beside her, putting her arm around her.

  “Sweetie? Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Oh Mags. What’s wrong? My life, I guess. Mickey shuffles around in slippers all day, the house is finished and I have nothing left to do. I’m stuck out here with the neighbors, who are worse than those charity club members for looking down their noses at me. It’s awful, Maggie.”

  “Shh, sweetie. It can’t be that bad. Don’t cry. You’ll make your mascara run. There, there,” Maggie says, cooing and hugging her friend. “You have this beautiful home. And a car. Why don’t you get into the city more? Find something to do?”

  “Easy for you to say. You’ve got your office downtown, clients, and business clothes to wear. I trail around after Mickey in any old house dress. I’ll be wearing slippers next, just you wait and see,” Edith says, trying to smile through her tears.

  Maggie forces a chuckle. “That’ll be the day. So, besides this gorgeous home, what else have you been up to? Did you have parties over the holidays? Go somewhere grand for New Year’s Eve?”

  “No, we didn’t have people in and we didn’t go out. Mickey wasn’t up for a party, and I couldn’t go alone. Not at New Year’s. All ‘couples and kissing’ at midnight. How sad would it be not to have someone to celebrate with?” Edith pats her hair and dabs at her face to fix her make-up. She forces a bright smile. “How did you bring in 1931?”

  “You mean, speaking of being alone?” Maggie says, a teasing lilt to her voice. She’s been a widow for twelve years, and wears it comfortably. “Tommy and I celebrated with a marathon board game competition. You know that new one that’s just come out? Scrabble? Everyone’s playing it. Archie and Dick were home as well and had found some champagne. They had some great programs on the radio, and we made a night of it.”

  “Tommy. I can’t believe how tall he’s getting. He’s almost fifteen, now?”

  “Yes, and it’s so cute, Edith. His voice cracks when he talks. And he’s looking more and more like Jack.”

  “And school? How’s he doing at the infamous Boys’ Central High School?”

  “He made it through Christmas exams. And if you can believe it, did a book report last week on the economist John Maynard Keynes.”

  “What a kid. He’s a smart one, all right. Takes after his mother. Does he have a girlfriend yet?”

  “Not that I’ve heard, but you know boys that age. I’ll be the last to know.” Maggie waits for the customary inquiry into her own love life, but Edith, now recovered, is prattling on about exotic woods and the various merits of Violetwood, Ambonyna burl, Macassar ebony, and Cuban mahogany. Maggie makes appropriate noises. Still no sign of Mickey.

  “How’s Mickey?” Maggie asks, interrupting the lecture on lacquer.

  Edith gets up to refresh her cocktail. “Oh, you know. Much the same. He doesn’t leave the house much. As long as he takes his medicine, he’s calm. A couple of times he’s thrown his orange juice at me. Those are bad days.”

  Hilda comes in and lets them know dinner is ready.

  “How about I go downstairs and get him for dinner? That way I can see the pool table,” Maggie says.

  “Thanks, doll. It’ll save me screeching down the stairs. You
know the way?”

  Maggie makes her way down the basement stairs, watching her head on the joists that support the floor above. The basement hasn’t received the benefit of Edith’s magic wand and is a typical basement: musty, dark, damp. “Mickey?”

  “Over here,” calls a voice from the gloom.

  Maggie’s eyes adjust, and she sees a shape sitting in the dark, alone. “You’re going to need to get some lamps down here, Mickey. Unless you can play pool in the dark.”

  “The felt man won’t be here until Friday. So I can’t play, anyway.”

  “Hilda’s called dinner.”

  “You gals go ahead. Tell Edith I’m not hungry. I think I’ll just stay down here.”