By midnight Artie had opened the back door and was scooping up jewels left and right when his cell phone rang. He almost didn’t answer it. Somehow, it didn’t seem right while burglarizing a place. It quit after four rings, but immediately started up again.
“Yeah, whatdayawant?” he asked as he dropped a pearl necklace into his bag.
“Artie, you gotta help me,” a voice whispered.
“Who is this?” Artie asked, although he thought he knew.
“Maria.”
He groaned. “How’d you get my number? I’m busy!”
“Please, Artie. Come by the alley and pick me up. Pretty please?”
He imagined those eyes pleading with him. He imagined it was Josie. How could he refuse? He had to refuse! Lopresti would kill him. He groaned again, the jewels in front of him forgotten.
A scream came over the line, and then it went dead. “Hello? Hello?” Artie shouted into the phone. Then he realized where he was and what he was doing. Was he crazy? The cops would be here any minute at this rate. He gathered up his stuff and left the way he’d come, running to the bus stop. He always used the buses. Figured the cops wouldn’t think a burglar would.
He arrived at the alley within fifteen minutes, wishing he didn’t have his bag. But he had no place to drop it quickly. The alley looked deserted. Now what? He could neither go knocking on one of the doors nor go busting in.
Well, he was a burglar, wasn’t he? He could pick the lock and get inside, take it from there.
What are you doing, he kept asking himself as he worked at the lock. It was too easy. Lopresti must not worry much about being burglarized. He crept inside and saw he’d entered a kitchen, all gleaming stainless steel and copper. Not a soul in sight—probably all in bed. He tiptoed to the door and peeked out. Dining room, of course. Huge—looked as if twenty people could sit down to eat. Sweat began to slide down his back as he made his way across the dining room and found himself in an enormous foyer. Red-carpeted stairs rose majestically upwards onto a large landing. Not even the sound of a ticking clock disturbed the silence.
Gripping his bag tighter, he inched his way up the stairs, pausing every few steps to listen. The house was as quiet as a cemetery, not a comforting thought. At the landing, he took a deep breath. Right or left?
A door down the hall opened suddenly, and Artie’s heart did a jig in his chest. Lopresti stood staring at him, a look of awe slowly spreading across his face.
“Artie? What are you doing here? And how did you get in?”
Lopresti pulled his green silk robe tightly across his paunch and tied the belt.
Artie’s brain screamed at him to run. His feet seemed to itch, and his body almost turned around.
“I came to see your wife,” Artie said, his sweaty grip on the bag loosening. He grasped it tighter so it wouldn’t fall to the floor.
“Maria?” Lopresti asked. Then he shouted, “Maria!” He didn’t at all look like a man who beat his wife and held her captive.
The two bodyguards who had been with Lopresti at the Waldorf came running down the hall. They were fully clothed.
“What’s goin’ on, boss?” one asked while the other glared at Artie.
Seeing the three of them together again reminded Artie of their first encounter. Lopresti’s words: “You get one warning, Artie. Stay out of my business.” And his reaction when Maria accused him of hitting her.
“She played me for a sucker, just as Josie said,” Artie muttered.
Lopresti must have had good hearing. “Josie, your wife? Always thought she was an astute female.”
Astute? She was downright brilliant.
“What’s Josie say about Maria?” Lopresti asked.
“Said she was a liar,” Artie replied, then held his breath as he realized the crime boss might not like having his wife called a liar.
Maria came staggering out of the bedroom, her hair a mess, one of her low-cut nightgown’s straps hanging off her shoulder. The bruise on her face had faded to a dull yellow, but Artie noticed new ones on her ankles and wrists.
“Artie!” she yelled. She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck, making him drop his bag.
Artie disentangled her, thrusting her towards her husband.
“You lied to me, and to Lop, um, Mr. Lopresti, all along,” Artie said. “He never hit you. You weren’t just running away from your husband. You were running to Jetso.”
“No, no,” Maria shouted, flinging herself at Lopresti now.
He held her at arm’s length. “Go on, Artie.”
Artie focused his attention onto the crime boss. “She suckered me in from the beginning, hoping I’d get mad enough to kill you, Mr. Lopresti. First she made sure I saw her as Jetso dragged her down the street. Then Jetso pretended to be working for you when he beat me up as a warning. A beating that was way too mild. But when you showed up at the Waldorf, you said you were giving me one warning. And tonight I got a phone call that ended in a scream.”
Maria struggled in Lopresti’s arms. When he wouldn’t let go, she screamed, long and loud. Artie saw the bodyguards cringe, and he wanted to put his hands over his ears.
Lopresti shook her. “Stop it. Stop it right now, or I’ll give you to Mutt.” One of the bodyguards took a step forward. Must be Mutt, Artie thought.
The scream died in Maria’s throat as she stared at the huge, scar-faced man. He had one ear missing, and hands as big as hams. Maria huddled into Lopresti’s arms, further proof to Artie that her husband had never hit her.
“So, that’s why you left the bedroom awhile ago. Go on, Artie.”
“Um, she knew you would never take me seriously as a threat. And she knew how lax you are about security. Why no alarm?”
“I have one all right. It’s hidden. Must have been turned off tonight. Now I wonder why? No, I know why!” He shook Maria again. “Maria!”
She glared at Artie. “He’s wrong, Roberto. I was trying to get him to protect me from Jetso!”
“Cut the crap, Maria,” Lopresti growled. “Explain yourself.”
Maria’s eyes flashed fire, but then she slumped, and Lopresti had to tighten his hold on her so she wouldn’t fall.
“You treat me like one of your possessions, Roberto,” she whispered. “You order me around like a servant. I got tired of it. Jetso treats me like a woman. A person.”
“By beating you?” Artie said. He couldn’t help it; he felt shocked. Why would a beautiful woman like Maria put up with that?
Maria’s fiery eyes turned to Artie. “He cares for me,” she said, her voice suddenly stronger. “He gets angry when I don’t do as he wants. This one,” she pointed at Lopresti, “he does nothing. He just says, ‘Now, Maria,’ when I displease him.”
“Now, Maria,” Lopresti said, then clamped his mouth shut.
“You set me up,” Artie said, looking into those beautiful brown eyes. And at that moment he saw their emptiness. Their hopelessness. Not like Josie’s, after all.
“Mr. Lopresti,” he said, “with all due respect, I’d give her a pile of money and let her go. She’s not worth the trouble. Maria, I don’t know what you expected of me. I don’t even carry a gun. Your husband knows that.”
Maria’s lips turned up in a sneer. “You’re not even man enough to carry a gun?”
“He’s more man than your Jetso,” Lopresti said. “He figured out what you were up to, and he doesn’t beat his wife.”
Brown eyes look at both of them with scorn.
Lopresti let go of her. “Take her to the Waldorf,” he said to Mutt. “I never want to see her again. Artie, thank you. I’m in your debt.”
They shook hands, and Artie picked up his bag and turned to leave.
One last look at those eyes. A tear—regret, real sorrow?—slid down Maria’s cheek. Artie left them then, thinking of Josie at home, waiting for him, brown eyes full of love.
Artie and the Red-Headed Woman
The bus bucked and came to a stop in the middle of the stree
t. The woman driver cursed softly, then spoke into the radio attached to her shoulder. From his curbside bench seat along the front, Artie glanced around at the other passengers. His feet tightened against the athletic bag between his legs. It held his stash of watches and fine jewelry, and his first impulse was to dash from the bus and catch a taxi home.
He forced himself to sit still, to relax.
As he looked around, he noticed a young woman a few seats away. She was the only one who wasn’t sharing space with another passenger. Her eyes welled with tears as she stared out the window. Not a great time of year to be crying, Artie thought. The Saturday after Thanksgiving and already Christmas lights twinkled from the stores along the street. Santa stood on the corner, breathing out a white plume of cold air, ringing a bell Artie couldn’t hear. All he wanted to do was get home to Josie, but he forced himself to sit still as he watched the red-headed woman take a tissue from her shoulder bag and dab at her eyes.
When she looked up, their eyes met. Oh, no. He recognized her. Wondered if she realized who he was. He couldn’t get involved in her problems. He pulled his eyes away and tried to catch what the driver was saying to dispatch. Car horns yelped behind them.
“What good will the cops do?” the driver asked. She was stout with crinkly gray hair and a round face. “Send a mechanic.” The radio crackled. “What do you mean none are available?” More crackle. Artie wondered how she could understand what was being said. “I know what day it is, dammit. Again, what can a cop do? Well, send another bus so these folks can get where they’re going.” After listening again, she raised her eyes to heaven and pushed a button on the radio. Then she stood up and faced the passengers.
“Sorry for the inconvenience, folks. You can either get off the bus or wait in warm comfort for another one to arrive to take over the route.”
Before anyone could move, someone banged on the door. The driver glanced at it, then sat back down to lever it open.
A cop stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Move this bus,” he growled. Artie looked around for a hidden camera. Were they part of a reality show? That would be swell.
“Sorry, Officer. The engine quit.”
The cop cursed, then climbed inside. Artie’s gut tightened, and he glanced over at the red-headed woman. Her large blue eyes widened, and looking frightened, she quickly turned her head away.
“Let me try,” the man in blue said.
Giving him a disgusted look, the driver stood up and stepped aside. While the cop settled into her seat, she looked around for a place to sit. Artie stood quickly and offered his spot on the bench, then moved to the only other empty space and sat down next to the red-headed woman, telling himself the whole time he was being a fool. Curiosity gnawed at him.
She looked startled as he put his bag carefully between his feet. Then she turned her head to continue staring out the window. He could see her reflection in the glass. He’d never seen anyone look so sad in all his life.
“What’s wrong?” he murmured.
Her head jerked around, and she stared at him. Her red hair glowed as if lit from within. It tumbled outside her green winter coat down almost to the middle of her back in flowing waves. She had tried to tame it with a scarf, but it couldn’t be contained easily, so some had escaped and covered part of her face. He squelched the impulse to reach out and smooth those flying strands away. When he’d last seen her, her hair had been very short. He looked at the floor to avoid her eyes and saw a small suitcase at her feet. Running away?
“Something’s wrong,” he said.
“Why do you care?” Her tone was bitter.
He looked into her eyes again. Tears gone, and the blue had turned to ice.
He shrugged. “I’ve always cared.”
She studied him for a moment. He was vaguely aware of the police officer trying to start the engine.
“You’re Artie Applegate?”
She hadn’t grown much, if at all, since he’d seen her last. Probably not yet even five feet. He attempted a smile. “And you’re a Santa’s elf, right? You have Christmas presents in that suitcase?”
She shook her head, and her hair shimmered and caught the light both from inside the bus and from all the Christmas lights outside. “You and my father were good friends a long time ago. I was just a little girl then.”
And hadn’t gotten much bigger since. “Regina MacIntosh. Little Gina.”
She smiled. “You remember me.”
He’d tried to forget her father and the bad times back then. He never could forget Gina entirely, though. She’d changed from a cute kid with freckles into a stunning woman. And seeing her on a stranded bus after all these years made him want to know what had happened to her and why she was so sad.
The cop banged the steering wheel with his fist and stood up. Both Artie and Gina looked forward, then at each other’s alarmed faces.
The officer faced the passengers. “We’re going to have to clear the bus. It needs a tow. So, off you go.”
Artie muttered, “Poet and doesn’t know it,” and picked up his bag. The cop stood outside watching people struggle with bulky shopping bags and gaily wrapped packages. Only Artie and Gina carried athletic bag and suitcase. Artie averted his face as he climbed down the steps, but turned to be sure Gina got down okay.
The officer stared at them long enough to make Artie uncomfortable, but then the cop was distracted by another one who came over to ask what was going on.
Artie took Gina’s arm and steered her down the street. He had to bend down to hear when she spoke.
“I need to get as far as away from here as I can.”
He pulled her into an alley and turned her to face him. “What’s going on? You’re running away, right?” He was vaguely aware of the stench of rotting garbage and the red eyes of a rat watching them.
She nodded, her lips trembling. “I can’t do it anymore, Artie. I can’t live that way. But I don’t have much money, and I have nowhere to go. I figured I’d get on the Staten Island ferry and find someplace over there to crash. He wouldn’t think I’d go to Staten Island, would he?”
“You’ve been living with Darrin all this time?”
“Yes.” Tears glistened against her eyelashes.
Artie swallowed hard. “And he and you have been doing the same thing?”
She nodded, then kept her head down. Artie shuddered. He raised up Gina’s chin and looked into those sad eyes. “I should have stuck around. Should have made him stop. We argued, and I didn’t know what to do. I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“If I’d reported him, they would have taken you away, put you in foster care. I just couldn’t do it.”
Gina moved her head down, pulled his glove aside and kissed his palm. “I know you cared. And you’re right. I loved my dad. It would have torn me apart to be separated from him back then.”
“But now?”
She took a step back. “Now I want something better for myself. I can’t persuade him to change. So I had to leave.” She squared her shoulders. “I need to get going. I’m sure he has people out looking for me.”
Yes, he would, Artie knew. Darrin had a wide network of friends, some of them even cops who didn’t know what he really did during the late night hours when he wasn’t manning his liquor store. People who knew the city inside and out. And who knew what Gina looked like.
“Let’s go,” Artie said. He checked the alley entrance, saw no one of interest, and took Gina’s arm again.
“Where?”
“For now, I’m taking you home with me.” They began walking rapidly toward a taxi stand.
A shout from behind stopped them. “Gina! Artie!”
They hustled to the nearest taxi and jumped inside. Artie gave the driver the name of the street corner two blocks away from his apartment. He never took any public transportation to his door and always made sure he wasn’t followed home.
“Hurry. An extra twenty if you can get us there in less than ten minute
s.”
Without a word, the driver stomped on the gas, throwing Gina against Artie. She gasped, and he put his arm around her. He looked out the back window to see if anyone was following them. It was hard to tell—too many cars. When they arrived at the corner, brakes squealing as the driver pulled over, Artie pushed some bills through the opening in the partition. He and Gina scrambled out of the taxi, Artie’s head on a swivel, looking for any familiar faces or anyone paying attention.
He pulled her along toward his apartment. Running footsteps sounded behind them. Artie looked back and saw Finian O’Malley close behind. “Stop,” Finian yelled. “I just want to talk to you.”
Artie and Gina started running. It was hard, she with her suitcase and the purse sliding down her arm, he with his athletic bag full of watches and fine jewelry. They held hands, and after only a few steps, Gina stumbled. Artie pulled her toward him, but Finian grabbed Artie by the shoulder, and his and Gina’s hands tore away from each other. Gina fell to her knees, her suitcase thudding to the ground, spewing open. She glared up at Finian.
“Look what you did,” Artie shouted. “Get away from us. This is none of your business.” He shook the other man’s hand off his shoulder.
“Darrin’s a good friend of mine. That makes it my business.” Finian squinted as he watched Gina get up and start to put her belongings back into the suitcase.
Pathetic belongings, Artie thought. A small cosmetic case and a brush. Tiny little bras and panties, some blouses, tops, skirts and slacks. One extra pair of shoes. Pink nightgown and robe. All looking as if they were bought years ago, when she was a child. He realized she wasn’t yet much more than a child as he returned Finian’s glare. And no bigger than many.
“Look what you made her do.” Artie shoved Finian on the shoulder, which surprised them both. Artie hardly ever got physical.
“What’s going on here?” They all turned to see a cop approaching. “Oh, it’s you, Finian. Gina? Your dad’s looking for you.”
“So what?” she spat. “I’m of age. Go away, both of you. You can’t make me go back to him.”
The Artie Crimes Page 4
