Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd.

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  Chapter 2 4

  I’m a firm believer in communication. After all, actors are communicators, right? And I was a teacher for years. More communication. Aside from the professional aspect of the art and science of communications, it always seemed to me that if people communicated with one another there would be less war and less divorce. Sadly, there'd also be less romantic fiction in novels and on the TV chick channels since misunderstandings wouldn’t arise as often.

  Communication hadn’t worked at all in my marriage, but that could have been because I was the only one ever telling the truth. Communication had seemed to work pretty well with Howard Krempowsky. He was never going to be on my best friends forever short list but at least we’d established that if he ever determined once and for all time that Babs and I had murdered his sister, he’d be out for revenge. Not pleasant but somewhat honest—albeit damned scary—on his part.

  I decided that was the way to go with the Lionel, our young stalker who had to be working for Joey Carmichael’s dad. Communication.

  I opened the front door of Jingles, casually sauntered inside then motioned to Babs to join me. She looked surprised but rose and came with me to the corner table. We didn’t ask for an invitation from our boy. We sat.

  Southern politeness had been instilled in me by the time I was three years old. Seemed to me now that I might as well just continue to be lovely and charming and sweet unless Lionel pulled a weapon. His coffee was in front of him. It looked hot. Another way to go if courtesy didn’t work. A little scalding java in the eyes could make someone put down the illegally concealed firearm I was sure he was illegally concealing. And after all—he’d flirted with me at the party and I was pretty sure he’d been wangling for an invitation into my drawers although I really had been too drunk to tell. At any rate, how dangerous could he be in a nice diner in midtown Manhattan?

  “Hi!”

  “Uh. Hi.”

  “So, Lionel, did Giuseppe Carmosina send you?’

  His jaw dropped. “Howdja know that?”

  I smiled. “I did share a drink or two with you at the party and I do remember you mentioning you were— loyal to Mr. C.” True. I did not add, ‘and really, Hon, you need to get a new wardrobe because you look like you’re ready to audition for the next low-budget gangster flick that comes out of Hollywood, although I do love the hat.’ I mean, there’s communication and then there’s aggressive snarling. No point in the latter unless it became necessary.

  Babs inhaled but took my lead in sweet and charming. And she honestly didn’t know the answer when she asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Uh. Lionel.”

  Babs blinked. “Like the train? Wow! How cool is that!”

  “What train?’

  I sighed. “Been there. Done that. Never mind. Look. Will you just go ahead and explain why you’ve been tailing us for the last few days?”

  He didn’t deny it but he didn’t answer immediately. He had to mull that over. It occurred to me he had no orders from the top man. Simply—”follow them.” Good. That meant he didn’t have orders to shoot if confronted.

  “It’s okay. You haven’t done anything—nasty—but we’re just curious. It’s fine to tell us why.”

  He looked at me. He looked at Babs. Finally back to me. “Not you, Bootsie. Her.”

  Babs' eyes widened. “Me?”

  He nodded.

  I quickly asked, “Why?”

  “Mr. Carmosina. He’s worried about Joey, ya know? Wanted to know what’s up with the broad— uh—no offense—and if she’s a snitch because she got herself arrested by the cops and drags Joey in on it and so Mr. Carmosina and Mr. Valentine, they say’ She could be working for them. Trying to use Joey to get to me. Find out if she really whacked those people or if this is her way in with the cops to get something on the Carmosinas. And find out why Joey’s with her ‘cause less face it, she ain’t the type a’ woman a Carmosina usually goes for.’ That’s what he said. Of course he also said that you guys might be contract hitters and he might have a job for you once he figures out if you’re legit or you’re some cop's ticket to the mayor’s office for grabbin’ up Mr. C. Uh. That’s direct from Mr. C. I didn’ say that. I like Bootsie. I don’t believe she’s a snitch.”

  Babs and I stared at each other. Lionel continued drinking his coffee, while he obviously worried about what his admission meant to either of us.

  My head was doing pirouettes with all the twists Lionel had sent spinning. “Let me see if I've got this straight. Mr. C believes that Babs deliberately hooked up with Joey Carmichael, whom she just happened to meet at an audition where she had no idea he existed, and got him to fall for her so that when she gets arrested for bumping off three people she can bring Joey down to the police precinct so the cops can then get to know him so they can use him to find out if Giuseppe Carmosina is doing something that might encourage the cops to haul him down to another police precinct in a different borough of New York so that Babs can then snitch to the cops that Mr. C indeed is the father of Joey Carmichael. Does that about cover it, Lionel?”

  “Uh.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I turned to Babs. “Either Giuseppe Carmosina is much dumber than any—boss—has any right to be—or didn’t tell Lionel the real reason to follow Ms. Babs which is to find out whether or not she’s going to be a bad influence on his baby boy.”

  Babs reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. “I’m calling him. This is just ridiculous. I had no idea dating the man would lead to being tracked around the city like I’m a damned stolen car with a GPS in my butt or something.”

  Lionel’s eyes opened wide. “Don’t do that!”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because if Joey finds out then I’m in real trouble! Mr. Carmosina wouldn’t be pleased if he knew I was talkin’ to you two and he really wouldn’t be pleased if Joey knows ‘cause Joey is already not in great with his dad, ya know? They don’t always get along, uh cause Joey didn’t join the family business.”

  “Because Joey didn’t want to end up in the East River or Sing-Sing,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing," I stated brightly. “So, look, Lionel. We get it. Our little chat today should be kept secret from Joey, from Mr. C and from any and all members of New York’s finest, right?”

  Lionel might not be the most finely honed tool in the scissor drawer but he got it too. “Can we strike a deal or sumpun’?”

  I smiled at Babs who was gripping her cell in her hand, ready to hit number one on speed dial which led to Joey who would doubtless go charging out to Staten Island to start a small war with his father over that father setting a hound named Lionel out to hunt down his girlfriend.

  “I’m sure we can. We shall not tell Joey about your less than adequate attempts to follow us and—you will gush to Mr. Carmosina that Babs is the salt of the earth and is most definitely not a snitch and that she would like to maintain friendly relations with the family and that if Mr. Carmosina sends someone else to follow us, we will post that person’s picture in every tabloid from here to California and begin to wonder what Mr. Carmosina has to hide from the police in the first place.”

  Lionel was quaking in terror. “I can’t say that! I’ll end up. . ."

  He would too.

  “Okay. How about this then? You report back to Mr. Carmosina what Babs and I tell you to say about our comings and goings? Come by my building and talk to Rodrigo the doorman. We’ll keep him informed about every little thing we’ve been doing and every place we’ve gone. He’ll tell you. Meantime, you can use your days in the city to take a class and learn a real trade or go to the library and read something useful.”

  He thought about this. “So this doorman dude? You’ll tell him what you want me to tell Mr. Carmosina?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “But what if you’re lying about what you’re doing?”

  I sighed. “Then we’ll be sent to our rooms wit
hout supper. It’s not up to you to decide if what Rodrigo tells you about our doins’ is a lie or not. You simply make your reports the same way you’ve been tattling for the last week.”

  “But . . .”

  Babs interrupted “No buts, Lionel. Or I’m on the phone to Joey. Joey’s on the ferry to Staten Island and there’s a family feud that will not be seen in prime time or the soaps. And it’ll be your fault.”

  “Oh. Okay. So, like how long we talkin’ about here?”

  Good question. Babs looked at me and I looked at her and we shrugged with our eyes. We didn’t have a clue. The only answer swirling in my head was, ‘until we figure out how the hell to deal with cops accusing us of three murders and a mob boss who thinks my best friend is not good enough to keep company with his son.’ We might be in for a long winter.

  Out loud I simply said, “Until we get things straightened out with Joey and his dad. Shouldn’t be long. Now, Lionel. You've finished your coffee. It’s time for you to go. You can truthfully say that Babs and I had lunch at Jingles on 8th Avenue and then went back to the apartment where she’s staying with me until the heat gets restored to her own building. Got it?”

  “Yeah. I can do that. I’ll just hang out for awhile in the city ‘til it’s my normal time to get back home and report.”

  “You do whatever. Now take your gorgeous little self away and let us eat in peace. You can come by the building tomorrow at five and Rodrigo will give you the news of the day. Oh. Go online and look up Lionel and HO trains so you won’t be ignorant the next time someone mentions them in connection with your name.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He stood, tossed a five on the table, then left. He seemed a bit shell-shocked which was nothing compared to how Babs and were feeling.

  “At least he paid for his coffee,” I smiled.

  “And a nice tip. Good kid,” she snorted. “He is cute, though. Brains of gnat but the body is Chippendale material.”

  We sipped our own coffee in silence for a few moments. “Bootsie? What are we going to do? What the hell have I gotten us into with Joey?”

  Before I had a chance to answer, her cell rang. She glanced down at the phone in horror.

  “It’s him.”

  “Him who?”

  “It’s Joey. What do I tell him?”

  “That we’re having a sandwich and coffee at Jingles and he’s welcome to join us. Dammit, woman! Answer the bloody phone!”

  Babs hit ‘talk’ and tentatively said, “Yeah?’”

  She nodded. She told him we were having sandwiches and coffee at Jingles. I waited. Suddenly her face lit up. She clicked off and waved at the waitress.

  “What?”

  “I’m springing for brownie sundaes!"

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re celebrating!”

  I stared at her. “What are we celebrating? The fact that the cops suspect us of every murder of anyone we’ve ever known? That the mob is either going to hire us to some contract killing or knock us into the East River if you’re deemed unworthy?”

  She shook her head. “No, no! Two things. First, Joey said my commercial is up!”

  “Which one?”

  “For the Hollywood FX museum. He says it’s wonderful. Came on during the half hour break of Two Days Until Sunset, believe it or not. I'm so glad they've delayed axing that show.”

  “Me too. And yay! No scene stealing by the little acting tots you were supposed to be grand-mothering?”

  “Nope. He said all of us come across as a very lovely family taking in the very fun museum. And no mention of later activities by the shark cage that same evening.”

  “Again, yay! So, commercial girl, what’s the other thing?”

  “Well, maybe less celebration because it’s not done deal but Joey said he was just chatting with the tech manager for the museum—apparently he and Joey are buds—anyway the guy told Joey that the museum is still looking for actresses to be guides. They want storytellers to tell tales that go along with certain exhibits. They’re having auditions. Fred should be getting info very soon and you need to call Fred because you can get in and audition and become a wonderful guide!”

  “What about you?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. I’m great telling stories into a camera or onstage. Terrible one on one or even one on two.”

  That was true. It was one reason she always kept silent when being questioned by the cops. “Well, you’ll be making some nice change from the commercial so you won’t have to worry about telling tourists about how the Empire State Building blew up or the Statue of Liberty was covered with water in Day After Tomorrow.”

  “Ah, I didn’t mention the fun part.”

  “There’s more?”

  “The museum has a separate wing. Not movies. Murder.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yep. I think it’s actually going to be called something like Scene of the Crime. Not necessarily murder but real live crimes nonetheless. Just imagine! If you get the gig, you not only get to watch the Empire State Building blow up a few times a day, you’d get to regale folks about murders in Manhattan. And the fact that you also teach is great. You’re used to keeping things interesting for the public so they don’t fall asleep.”

  “I’m calling Fred. This sounds like a great job for me,” I grabbed my own phone out of my bag.

  Babs winked at me. “I love it. Apart from the perk of earning a moderately decent paycheck, you might be able to pick up some pointers for Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd.” Her features darkened. “Perhaps a few tips on getting rid of mobsters who want to have too much input in their children’s lives?”

  Chapter 2 5

  Life was going far too smoothly. This had me extremely worried and I'd consequently taken to ducking my head every time I went outside as I waited for the proverbial shoe to drop from someplace up above. I’d gotten the job as a tour guide in the Hollywood FX museum and I loved it. Not only was it a regular paycheck, but also the corporate muckety-mucks behind Hollywood FX were smart, savvy and understanding. They’d hired actors as guides because actors can speak clearly and add some zest and excitement to a tour that was already pretty wild. Actors have crazy schedules and Hollywood FX “got” it. Actors need time off to audition. Actors need a couple of hours for those days when they have to pop in and do a commercial shoot for yogurt over in a Brooklyn factory or a couple of days to film a tiny part in a New York based crime show. So our bosses worked out a system where one actor filled for someone who needed time off for something like a nightly showcase down in the Village that didn’t pay but might just make it to Broadway if enough of the right people saw it. I’m sure the folks in the Human Resources department had grown bald from pulling their hair out trying to keep up with hours and with who was filling in for whom, but it seemed that the system of actors understudying actors was working remarkably well. Actors were happy that they didn’t have to lie and pretend to be sick in order to go to an audition and they were also happy to fill in for someone else. A happy actor is a responsible actor. Plus, all the guides agreed it was far better than temp work because it was secure. It was also fun and close to ‘real’ acting since the majority of our time spent in the museum involved story telling.

  Added to a decent job was the perk that Babs and I now also had a place to call home that wasn’t a housesitting gig or a constant battle with a lousy landlord. Babs had been on the waiting list for the last seven years to move to the Actors residence over on West 43rd and 10th Avenue. She'd finally gotten a call from the rental office of what we’d nicknamed Equity Central for Homeless Actors and they’d told her a junior one-bedroom was up for grabs and she was next on the list. She grabbed. For non New Yorkers who are curious—a junior one-bedroom really means a two-bedroom, except that one of those bedrooms is the size of a closet. Babs got out of her lease at her current apartment by threatening to take the landlord to court over all the violations—like no heat or hot water—she’d had to endure for the last month. She may ha
ve also dropped broad hints to her landlord that he held a prominent place on our hit list and if he didn’t back off and let her leave—with her full deposit—he’d find himself at the bottom of the East River swimming with enemies of the Carmosinas from sixty years ago. In all honesty, though, I think the true reason she was allowed out without a fight (and with her deposit) was that the scumbag wanted her apartment so he could install a new fridge, call it renovated and charge double or triple to the next tenant.

  Babs took the larger bedroom. I got the closet. I didn’t care. I was thrilled to have an address that wasn’t a post office box and a place where I could move more of my things than fit into two suitcases.

  It was a cute apartment. We were up on the tenth floor, so if the power ever went out we could handle a climb but we were additionally treated to a phenomenal view outside the windows in both the living room and my bedroom. Hudson River. If I hadn’t had to work, I’d’ve spent my days watching boats sailing, steaming and motoring to—wherever.

  I had a job. I had a place to live. I hadn’t had an audition in three weeks, which was probably just as well since I’d needed to settle into that job and the place to live. Lionel the cute mobster wannabe was checking in with Rodrigo for the daily report on Babs and me, which was ridiculous if one stopped to think about it but at least Babs hadn’t told Joey about his dad’s snooping and started a holy war between Carmichael and Carmosina. After Babs and I had vacated Leo’s apartment, I’d kept in touch with Rodrigo by cell phone. We figured that Joey might have innocently told his father that the love of his life had moved but we hadn’t seen Lionel anywhere near Forty-third street so we also figured Mr. C still believed his trusted sleuth was busily engaged in following Babs around the city which meant Lionel had kept his word to leave us alone. Either that or Lionel had gotten much better at stalking.

  It couldn’t last.

  And it didn’t.

  I was finishing my last tour for the day, standing in front of a sleigh and a finely crafted fake well giving my spiel. “And this, ladies and gentlemen, is a representation of the well where, on January 2, 1800, twenty-one year old Guilelma Sands, also known as Elma, was found two days after she supposedly eloped with Levi Weeks, a carpenter and architect. Witnesses reported seeing Ms. Sands driving a one-horse sleigh through the snow on December 22, 1799. And why is this well, which was located in an area called Lispenard’s Meadows in Soho, close to Greenwich Avenue and Spring Street—why is this well included in our murder tour? To begin with, because this was indeed a murder in Manhattan. Young women do not generally beat themselves up and then toss themselves and a fur muff borrowed from a neighbor into a well. But this case was also sensational because two of the lawyers for Mr. Weeks were none other than Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton. Together. And doing one spiffy job too. Word around Manhattan was that Levi Weeks was guilty, guilty and guilty. But Burr and Hamilton were able to convince a jury to acquit, using what has become a staple in courtroom tactics ever since that time—namely, blaming the victim, otherwise known on television shows as Plan B. After he was found not guilty, Levi Weeks moved to Natchez, Mississippi. According to records from Natchez, he became an architect and created buildings that are currently on the tour of historic houses. If you go to Natchez, you can check ‘em out. Unfortunately, Burr and Hamilton didn’t fare as well in life. Only four years after Weeks’ release, these two lawyers and politicians met up in Weehawken, New Jersey and took pot shots at each other with pistols. Alexander Hamilton died. Aaron Burr was charged with murder but never went to trial and later was tried for treason, but never convicted.” I smiled. “He also never got his face on any American currency, unlike Mr. Hamilton, who, in my opinion, was far better looking.”