Come at the King

by Sherilyn Decter

  “Converting? Congratulations to you both,” Maggie says. “Mazel tov?”

  “Yes, mazel tov. We’re joining Keneseth Israel Synagogue. The Rabbi has agreed.”

  “And the Rabbi has also agreed to come with us to talk to my parents,” says Sadie.

  “It sounds perfect. Congratulations again. I’m so happy everything worked out.”

  “Maggie, look,” Frank says, pointing to the baby.

  Henry Junior’s eyes are open and are staring at Frank. The baby smiles.

  “He’s smiling at me,” he says to Maggie, a huge smile on his face.

  “Look, Harry is smiling,” Henry says.

  “No it’s too soon. Babies don’t smile until they’re two months old. It’s just gas,” Sadie says. “You’re just a gassy ol’ baby boy, aren’t you, sweetums?”

  Frank reaches out and waves his fingers in front of the baby’s face. The baby keeps smiling at his fingers.

  “Are you sure? He looks like he’s smiling,” Henry says.

  Maggie leans over and kisses the top of Harry’s downy head. “Maybe he’s looking at an angel.”

  Chapter 60

  T he dog days of August—still enough sun that she needn’t turn on her car headlights, even though she’s home late. Edith pulls into the driveway and starts hauling her packages out of the back seat of the car. She’d been shopping for baby things for Sadie, and found some must-have can’t-live-without items for herself. Afterwards, she’d treated herself to a lovely dinner, alone. I’ll start being frugal tomorrow.

  Burdened with packages, she approaches the front door of the house and stops. It’s open, the glass panel next to the door shattered. She puts her packages down and looks around. Should I wait and get Henry? Stepping over the glass, she enters cautiously. Is it the Baileys? She peers forward toward the kitchen and into the living room. Nothing. A few pillows disturbed, but otherwise untouched. Robbers? She hears a noise upstairs. She grabs the umbrella by the door and hefts it. She puts it back, instead picking up a walking stick Mickey had used after he’d come home from the hospital. Better.

  Carefully, quietly, she creeps up the staircase, pausing and listening every few steps. She can hear that someone is there. Standing at the top of the stairs, walking stick ready, she goes forward. Sounds are coming from her bedroom. Inching down the hall, heart pounding, she pauses in front of the door. Muffled noises. She listens closely. Moans?

  That bastard. She raises the walking stick and flings open her bedroom door.

  There, in her bed, Mickey is busy with some dame, an empty bottle of whiskey lying on the floor.

  “You bastard,” she screams, bringing the walking stick down on Mickey’s back again and again. The woman screams and tries to roll away. Mickey half turns, “What the…” Edith takes another swing, narrowly missing his head, and smashes the stick against his shoulder.

  “Oww, you bitch. Stop.” He holds up his hand and grabs the stick, wrenching it out of Edith’s hand. Edith launches herself at Mickey, her fingers racking his face, shouting abuse. The woman scrambles out of the way, screaming while she grabs the clothes on the floor to cover herself.

  Mickey slaps Edith, who starts pounding him. Both are yelling. The woman takes the clothing and dashes from the room.

  Mickey’s got hold of both of Edith’s hands. The two glare at each other, panting.

  “How could you?” she cries.

  “My house. This is my house,” he says, glaring back. “I can do what I want in my own house.”

  “This is my house. Get out!” Edith is screaming. Mickey twists, and throws her off the bed.

  “This is my house. I pay for it,” Mickey yells back. He grabs his clothes that have been scattered across the floor.

  “You bastard. Get out,” Edith screams again, crouched on the floor.

  Pants on, and pushing his arms into the sleeves of his shirt, he retreats from her. “I’ll do what I want, when I want, with whoever I want. And you can’t stop me.”

  Edith gropes behind her to find something to throw. The whiskey bottle.

  Mickey makes for the door.

  The bottle smashes against the doorframe, inches from his head.

  “You bastard, I’ll kill you for this,” Edith screams, as he heads down the stairs and out the door.

  Chapter 61

  M aggie is holding the telephone away from her ear. Frank, sitting in the other room, can hear the the sobbing, if not the words. Edith is hysterical. Maggie can barely make out what has happened.

  “Come here, Edith, so you’ll be safe,” Maggie says.

  “I’ll not let that bastard chase me out of my own home,” Edith sobs.

  Back and forth they go before Edith abruptly hangs up. Maggie puts down the telephone. She turns to Frank who has been waiting to resume their evening report.

  “Inspector, can you find Mickey? I’ve got to go over to Edith’s. She’s beside herself. Apparently, he broke in, with a woman, and Edith found them upstairs in her bedroom.”

  “That cad. I knew that his mind was slipping, but this is beyond the pale. It’s good that you go. She needs someone to comfort her.”

  “No, you misunderstand me. You don’t know Edith. She’s not looking for a knight, she’s looking for a sword.”

  “What?” Frank asks, startled.

  “She’s out for revenge, and I want to make sure she stays put and doesn’t do anything stupid,” Maggie says, reaching for her handbag.

  “Of course. I’ll go find Mickey. I’ll go to the Ritz first. If he’s there, what do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know, but he sounds crazy enough to do something stupid like shoot somebody again. We should at least watch him.”

  “Do you want to call Joe?”

  “Find Mickey first, then we can decide.”

  “When I find him, I’ll let you know.”

  * * * *

  Frank discovers Mickey in his hotel suite. The door is wide open, and there are no guards in the hallway. Did he send them away? Did they run away? Frank can hear yelling and crashing from inside the suite. He’s raving. I’ve never seen him so bad. Maggie is right to be concerned. Frank goes inside, automatically ducking when a bottle from the liquor cart goes flying past his head and smashes against the wall.

  Mickey’s striding around the hotel room, screaming Polish curses, throwing lamps, and tossing tables. The place is littered with empty whiskey bottles. A forgotten cigar smoulders in the ashtray.

  There’s a tentative knock at the open doorway by a hotel staff person. “Mr. Duffy, sir? We’re getting complaints, sir.”

  Mickey whirls, gun drawn, and the staff person runs away. He doubles over, laughing. He slams the door, attempting to holster the gun, but it falls to the floor. He bends to pick it up—keeps missing as his dangling hand sweeps the floor. Frustrated, Mickey kicks the gun away.

  Standing in the middle of the dark room, chest heaving, Mickey squints, attempting to survey the mayhem. “What the hell happened in here?” He scratches his head. “Not good, pal. Not good at all.” He sinks to the couch. “Somebody turn on a light, will ya?” he shouts into the darkness. “What if Edith’s right?” he says, running his hand over his head. “Maybe I do need those damn drops.”

  Mickey gets up and, flicking on the overhead light in the bedroom, rummages through the dresser drawers. Cursing, he slams them shut, and marches into the bathroom. “What if I’m crazy? Maybe I got the same thing that Capone’s got. He went nuts. Where are those drops?”

  Finding them in the medicine cabinet above the sink, he opens the chloral hydrate bottle and fills the eye dropper. Closing his eyes, he squeezes a few drops onto his tongue, and swallows. Then he waits a few minutes. “I don’t feel a thing. It’s pretty bad. Maybe I should take more? Fix me up faster.”

  Mickey tips the half-empty bottle into his mouth and drains it. Leaning forward, he clutches the sink, staring at his reflection. He can feel the medicine hit his stomach. He gags and swallows. “
That’s got a kick to it,” he mutters. Blinking, he shakes his head, trying to clear it.

  Frank moves toward the open bathroom door, curious. Mickey looks up, startled. He’s staring right at Frank.

  “Who the hell are you?” Mickey snarls.

  Frank freezes.

  “You heard me. Who are you and how did you get in here?” Mickey turns around, glaring. He’s pawing at the empty shoulder holster he’s wearing.

  Frank takes a deep breath. Play along. “You let me in.” How is this happening?

  Mickey stops and stares. “I did?”

  “Yes, I’m Frank, and you invited me up here. You let me in.”

  “I did? I musta forgot. Wanna drink, Frank?”

  “Sure.” Is Mickey hallucinating? Am I hallucinating? Can he really see me? Is it the drops?

  “Well, plant yourself over there,” Mickey says, gesturing to the couch. The lights from the bathroom and bedroom cast shadows around the main room of the suite. Outside, the bright marquee lights on Broad shine brightly in the window.

  “Whiskey?” he asks Frank, holding up the bottle. “Sorry it’s so dark in here, Frank. I guess I broke the lamp,” Mickey says, shrugging.

  Frank nods and sits. “That’s okay, Mickey. I can see you just fine.”

  Mickey turns and makes his way through the long shadows to the couch with the liquor bottle and two glasses. He takes a step and sways. He takes another step, staggering.

  “Whoa. I don’t feel so good, Frank. Kinda woozy.” Mickey’s eyes roll to the top of his head and he falls to his knees, and then face forward onto the floor. Still clutching bottle and glasses, he’s caught in the yellow spotlight from the bathroom.

  Frank gets up and comes over. “Mickey? Shall I call someone?”

  “Nah, just let me lie here for a bit. Kinda dizzy. Musta had too much to drink. Who are you again?” Mickey asks, letting go of the glasses and bottle and rolling over onto his back. “Whoa. My head’s spinning.”

  Frank groans as he sits down on the floor beside him. Not an easy thing for an older gentleman to do.

  “I’m Frank. Frank Geyer. You know me, Mickey.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. I believe we’re related. On your mother’s side.”

  “Oh.” Mickey blinks, trying to focus. “My ma’s dead.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “You here to vis’ me?”

  “Yes, I think I am.”

  “Thash nice.” Mickey says. His eyes roll back in his head. He coughs and squints, trying to focus on Frank.

  “I think I need to get you some help, Mickey.”

  “No. Don’t go. I’m cold, Frank. Can you give me a hand? Get me into bed?” Mickey’s limp hand flutters toward the bedroom door.

  “I wish I could, Mickey.”

  “Ha. You old codger. Too old to lif’ me?” Mickey tries to laugh, but triggers more coughing.

  “Yes, I am.”

  Mickey lies there, eyes closed, breathing shallowly. He opens his eyes, looking at Frank again.

  “My ma always hated that I turn’ out this way... She tell you that?”

  “No, she didn’t. But mothers forgive a lot. You need to tell her how sorry you are.”

  “Too late for me…to do that… She’s gone.”

  “It’s never too late, Mickey. My brother was a lot like you. And he made our mother cry, too. Now he’ll get a chance to make amends.”

  “Well, thash good… Gray’s Ferry not eashy place…to grow up. …Made bad choices. …Not a lot options. You ever been to Gray’s Ferry, Frank?”

  “Yes. I grew up close to there. My brother is buried there.”

  “In Bandits’? Ha, cough, you don’t look like bandit.” Mickey peers up at Frank. “You look like cop.”

  “Not anymore. Those days are done.”

  Mickey closes his eyes. “I know cops like tha’.” Cough. Cough.

  “Try to breathe, Mickey.”

  Mickey coughs and sighs. “Somethin’ wrong with me, Frank. …I don’t feel so good.”

  “You took too much chloral hydrate, Mickey.”

  “Edith wants me to take med’cin. Only way she’ll let me come back. Mad at me.”

  “So I understand.”

  Cough. Cough. Mickey struggles for breath. “Didn’t do right by Edith. I need to tell her sorry.”

  “It’s all right, son.”

  “She believed in me. Need her. Still love her, you know. Cough. Cough. Always will.” Mickey’s hand flops onto his chest. “Can’t breathe so good, Frank.”

  “I know, Mickey. Shush now.”

  “Let everybody down. What a jerk. Didn’t do right by Henry, neither. Like a brother. Deserved better. Glad to know he’s out. Cough. And safe.”

  “Just breathe, Mickey. Just breathe.”

  The door opens and Frank looks up. A silhouette in the doorway. What?

  Instinct. “Mickey! No!” Frank throws himself over Mickey, covering his body with his own, trying to shield him.

  “Frank?” Mickey’s voice is muffled against Frank’s chest.

  With Frank’s body covering Mickey’s, the shooter fires into Mickey’s chest. Mickey jerks. The shooter turns and flees.

  After the noise of the gunshot, the room’s silence is immense. It echoes.

  Frank can feel a warm stickiness spread beneath him. He lifts himself off Mickey and kneels.

  “Mickey? Can you hear me, son?” Frank asks, leaning close to Mickey’s face.

  Mickey’s hand gropes, reaching for Frank’s. He grabs it. Sitting back, Frank looks at their two clasped hands with wonder.

  Mickey coughs, and a small trail of blood dribbles from his mouth. “Hurts.” He lays silent, eyes closed, the blood pumping from his chest. “Frank? You still here, Frank?” Blood burbles out of Mickey’s mouth. He chokes. “Don’ go, Frank. Don’ go.”

  “I’m right here, son. You’re not alone. I’m here.” Frank holds tight to Mickey’s hand. He can feel it tremble.

  “Lost. Somewhere along the way. I got lost, Frank. ‘Fraid. Don’ wan’ to be alone.”

  “Not to worry, son. I’m here. I’ll show you the way.” Frank gives Mickey’s shoulder a pat, holding his hand tightly. He feels Mickey squeeze back. Frank grips Mickeys hand harder.

  The blood slows. Minutes pass. Time suspended.

  Mickey opens his eyes. Panicked, he searches Frank’s face. In it, he finds what he is looking for, and smiles. He relaxes his grip. With one final sigh, Mickey closes his eyes again and is still.

  Looking down on the now peaceful face of his great-great-grandson, Frank is filled with tremendous awareness, with awe. Now it is Frank’s hand that trembles as he grips Mickey’s harder, hanging on.

  I can’t leave yet. I won’t. I have to say goodbye to Maggie.

  In time, Frank releases Mickey’s hand, no longer needing the anchor. He sits on Mickey’s couch, waiting. He watches the hotel staff discover the body. The police arrive. The medics arrive, too late. There’s a flurry of activity that he views as if underwater. The images distorted, the sound garbled.

  Ironic, is it not? Me, having spent a century trying to unveil the truth, will spend my last remaining time here disguising it. Yes, I could tell Maggie what happened tonight, but to what purpose?

  Deliverer of justice; after all these years, I can surrender that role. It’s said that judgement should not be meted out without compassion. And what is compassion but understanding, empathy?

  Frank’s vision begins to clear.

  Maggie, my dear, darling Maggie.

  I think I have earned the right to trust my instincts. The only judgement I will make tonight, this one last time, is the one my heart tells me to make; it has not betrayed me yet. I have no doubt that justice will eventually be dispatched, but not by me, nor by her. My last gift to Maggie will be to spare her the burden that knowledge brings. She can never know the truth of what happened here tonight.

  Frank stands, head bowed, as the medics load Mickey�
�s body onto the gurney and wheel him out of the suite. I should have asked him to pass along my regards to Billy. Ah well, I’ll soon have the opportunity to do that in person.

  A ghost of a smile flickers on Frank’s face. How apropos. Wasn’t it Philadelphia’s great thinker, Ben Franklin himself, that said three people may keep a secret, but only if two of them are dead?