Roarke dashed around a corner and I could still hear our pursuer’s footsteps clacking down the marble hallway, but at least they weren’t right behind us.
“Roarke, here! I have an idea.” His dimples came out as his golden-brown eyes darted to the doors I was trying one at a time.
The third door finally opened. We quickly went in and softly closed the door behind us, but the lock wouldn’t slide. We looked around at the small room as I tucked my blouse back in. I stared daggers at Roarke; he hadn’t even broken a sweat. I was probably red as a beet.
“What?” he whispered.
“Nothing,” I whispered back with an annoyed grunt.
Steps click-clacked down the hall. We both stepped backward, then turned around. There just wasn’t anywhere to hide and nothing to use as a weapon. The oval window was about six feet tall. I noticed that it tipped out from the bottom as the steps sounded just outside our door.
“Oh no,” whispered Roarke.
I shook my head disgustedly; I couldn’t believe it was coming to this. Of course it’s coming to this. I grasped the pearl dagger I had in the wide belt of my black skirt and used the point to tip out the window.
“I didn’t think it’d get this far,” said Roarke.
“It always gets this far,” I groused as I carefully put the dagger back in my scabbard and crawled out the window onto the carved ledge, shifting to the far side. I curled up in a tight knot, bringing my knees to my chest. Roarke mirrored my cautious motions, shuffling to the opposite side to get out of the view of the window. I tipped the window back down as far as it would go, keeping a hand in a small crevice to be able to open it again. We were curled up on a ten-foot-deep, sturdy ledge up against the frigid outside wall of Grand Central Terminal. But when the other side of the deep ledge was over a several-hundred-foot drop to the streets of New York City, it seemed very insubstantial indeed.
“Don’t look down,” he said.
“I always look down.”
Far below us was Vanderbilt Avenue and 42nd Street. The lights of the cars snaked along the busy dark streets. The ever-present horns honked with the occasional siren in the distance and the hum of thousands of conversations were all part of the invigorating sounds of a city that never sleeps. At least in the darkness of that early night in January, no one would see us from below and start a scene. Hopefully. My breath made puffs of air in the cold black night. My teeth started to chatter.
A crack of light pierced the dark room. The door inside opened; neither of us moved, holding our breath. With the camouflage of the night, and the fact that we had both gone as far as possible to the edges on either side of the window, not to mention you’d have to be crazy to crawl outside, I hoped we would be invisible.
A beam of light flashed around the window.
“I think they got away,” said Roarke’s informant.
“Yeah. They’re not in here, we scared them off,” said the tinny voice of the Crusher. “We have the plan to get the mitney, let’s go.”
The bright light moved slowly around the oval, double-checking the window, and then the door closed with a loud click.
We finally let out that breath.
We waited just a few moments longer, but we couldn’t take much more of the cold nor the height. I slowly tipped the window back up and scooted over, climbing carefully back into the warm room. Roarke joined me and put a hand on my arm.
He asked softly, “You okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yes, but I could handle an outing with you that didn’t end in us dangling from a deadly height.”
I was so indignant at his remark that smacked of the pot calling the kettle black that I sputtered indignantly, making his dimples appear.
I finally managed, “Shut up, Roarke.”
“That was a close one.”
“Ahhh . . . let’s keep the dangling out the window part on the down-low to Finn. And Fio. And Valerie,” I said as we walked down several flights of stairs then toward a long ramp leading to an exit.
“Definitely.” Roarke lit up a cigarette as we cautiously left Grand Central Station at a corner doorway along Vanderbilt and 42nd. I looked up to see if I could view the window we’d just been crouching in, way up near the roofline. I spotted it and shivered.
I sized up that cigarette of Roarke’s even though I hardly ever smoke. “Hand me that.” I took a small drag. Just seemed necessary. My hand only shook a tiny bit.
As we walked, I ducked my chin down into my coat. The air was frosty, making us pick up the pace, trying to warm ourselves. “So, what did we learn?”
Roarke finished the cigarette and flicked it to the sidewalk. “Well? My informant was right. He gave the message to the one we recognized: the Crusher. On that thought, why do all the gangsters have nicknames? Machine Gun Kelly, Pretty Boy Floyd, Bumpy Johnson . . .”
“Yeah, why’s he called the Crusher?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know. I asked. I wish I hadn’t. Just know that the name suits him, despite the fact that he’s teeny tiny.”
I shivered again. “Got it. By the way, what’s the name of your informant?”
“Punchy.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.
“Nope. You saw his face,” he said with a sardonic laugh.
I gave it some thought. “Yeah. There’s something about him that makes you want to punch him right off the bat.”
Roarke nodded and said, “Exactly. He confirmed that there are rumblings with considerably dangerous people. And if Crusher is involved, he definitely has the ability to carry out the threat against Fio. And what or who is a mitney? I’ve never heard that term before.”
I shook my head as I answered, “I’m not sure, either. And you’re right. Punchy confirmed Crusher is behind it so we have to take it seriously. Which is strange, considering how silly that sentence just sounded.” He took my arm and gently pulled me back a few feet at the curb as a car took the corner fast.
“Yeah. He doesn’t mess around. But I can’t believe what started all this!” he exclaimed exasperatedly.
I grinned as I said, “I know. Pinball. Talk about a deadly game.”
CHAPTER 2
The next morning, Fio arrived at our house for his almost-daily breakfast with Aunt Evelyn, Mr. Kirkland, and myself. He never entered anywhere without a lot of hubbub. Ripley, our German shepherd, was sent into delirious barking when one of his favorite people barged in the front door bellowing, “Good morning!”
I quickly ran a red lipstick around my lips and secured a little red pillbox hat into place. It matched my red, Mary Jane high heels and I stopped to admire my ensemble in the long mirror by my bedroom door. I loved the brass buttons that ran up the back of my black dress, and my thin red belt matched my hat, shoes, and lips.
“Laney Lane, my girl!” bellowed my boss, the ninety-ninth mayor of New York City.
Grrrrrr, I thought. I went by Lane, just Lane. But that was our morning ritual, so I yelled happily down the stairs, “Coming!”
I ran to the dining table greeting my aunt, Evelyn Thorne, and our family friend, Mr. Kirkland. I stole a glance at Mr. Kirkland, who looked like a deep-sea fisherman but happened to be our household cook, butler, and gardener. Not to mention resident bodyguard and grandfather figure. He had also been a spy in the war, which made him wonderfully complicated. I shook my head as I thought to myself that he’d never been treated like a servant, really. But in my eccentric home, with my artistic aunt as the head, typical roles and assumptions went out the window. And she didn’t care one tiny bit when tongues wagged about the actual relationship between her and Kirkland.
He’d made buttery biscuits this morning that we covered in honey he’d collected last summer from the beehives he kept on our roof. It was divine as it went perfectly with a hot cup of coffee.
Fiorello La Guardia was New York City’s firecracker mayor and I was his trusted aide. I had secretarial duties, but I also handled press releas
es, organized events, and attended meetings that he wanted my thoughts on or needed me to transcribe.
While we ate, I filled them in on our news from Grand Central. I conveniently left out the part about running for our lives.
Fio said, “So you witnessed Roarke’s informant—Punchy, you said?”
I nodded as I took a bite of biscuit.
He continued, “Okay. So Punchy had seen the note that said something about getting me out of the way, and he handed it to the Crusher. Then what, you just walked away?”
Aunt Evelyn narrowed her eyes at me. I knew he was going to ask that, so I crammed another large bite of biscuit in my mouth, giving me more time to prevaricate.
Kirkland chuckled, knowing how Roarke and I work, and came to my rescue. “Lane, any other important information about Punchy and Crusher? We need to get this information to Finn.”
I quickly answered, hoping to divert more questions about what happened next. “I sent a quick message to Finn last night that I have information for him. I’ll fill him in when I see him.”
Fio nodded and said with a wry smirk, “Oh yeah. You can bet he’ll be waiting for you at the office. I’m kind of surprised he’s not already here.”
Finn was a New York City detective and recent boyfriend. But that title didn’t quite do him justice. We’d shared many intense times over the past several months, which brought us closer together, faster than I’d ever expected. He’d been attractive to me right away, with his gray-green eyes and dark brown hair, a smile that pulled to one side. Not to mention arms that had the power to drop a bad guy yet with the grace that spun me effortlessly across the dancefloor.
I chanced a glance at Aunt Evelyn and she had a cocked eyebrow with a look that said she still wasn’t convinced that we hadn’t gotten into trouble, and that I’d better divulge everything as soon as possible.
We quickly ate the last crumbs of the final biscuit and Fio declared, “All right. Let’s go, Lane! We’ve got work to do!”
We gathered our coats and hats, then walked down Lexington in the chill winter air. The city was coming alive and sparks of heart-warming sunshine glinted off the windows in pink and orange. I always loved the good scents of the city in the crisp morning air, but in the cold weather, the homey scent of bread baking when the doors of Butterfield Market opened and closed was even more cheering. The paperboys and dog walkers and little kids were all starting their day right alongside the Wall Street men with their three-piece suits and top hats, and the working men and women sporting their factory jumpsuits. We all hopped onto the downtown subway to City Hall with Fiorello greeting many of the people by name since he was a familiar figure on this route.
Mayor Fiorello La Guardia was five feet, two inches tall, a minority on both sides, his father Italian, his mother Jewish. He was New York. And I suppose all that he’d endured with his rather small frame, not to mention his years defending his minority status, was a significant reason why he’d always fought for the little guy. He fully understood the plight of the underdog.
We arrived at work. With a cup of coffee in hand, and a wave to my friends and cohorts Val and Roxy, I dove into my many tasks. Finn had not, in fact, shown up at work. But with a quick phone call he let me know he’d catch up with me that night.
As was typical of every day, a long line of petitioners had queued up. Fio listened to every single person and actually did something about their problem. A vendor having trouble with the red tape of renewing his license? Fio got it done. A low-income housing need? Fio got them in touch with the right person, and so on. We had our heads down, working hard for about an hour and a half until every person had been taken care of.
After the lull lasted approximately sixty seconds, Fio yelled out, “Lane!” I jumped up from my desk to his bark about a hundred times a day. But with this particular tone, I knew something especially vexing had gotten under his skin. “Grab your coat!”
“Right, boss!” We ran out the door, down the staircase, and jumped into his waiting car.
“Ray! Get over to the Lower East Side Relief Station. On the double!”
“What’s up with the relief station?” I asked, hanging on to the handle just above the door as Ray the driver took a corner with the speed of a ’37 Streamliner.
He growled, “They’re not doing their jobs. They’re not helping the people. I have a plan.” Oh boy.
We got to the station, and knowing my boss had a talent for the spectacular, I was a little stunned when he calmly and quietly went to the back of the long line of people. With a flap of his arm, he motioned for me to keep quiet and blend in. He wanted to witness for himself what was really going on at a place meant to serve the citizens. The place was packed with people wholly consumed by their day and the task at hand, fingering little slips of paper between cracked and overworked hands, worrying the rim of a scrubby hat, anticipating rejection yet hoping for the best.... With Fio’s atypical silence and the fact that the people were so consumed, no one recognized him yet.
I looked around. They were all in deep, deep trouble. No one was working except one stenographer interviewing an applicant, despite the long line of people in need. Everyone was lounging about; even the policeman on duty was carelessly tipping back in his chair, his cap tipped over his eyes so he could catch a few winks. I could practically feel Fio’s blood pressure rising. We waited a few more tenuous moments, still unrecognized.
Then he was done. Fio tipped down his slouch hat like it was his rakish fedora and barged his way to the front.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” barked a mean-looking worker. Fio always had storm superlatives applied to him, but at the moment he truly was like a cyclone. He took the guy by the shoulders and sent him spinning into the crowd. Another employee rushed up and he, too, was sent careening away. Then an even meaner-looking, cigar-smoking, derby-hatted guy came up, ready to pounce on the Little Flower.
I squeaked in alarm as Fio knocked the cigar right out of the guy’s mouth with one hand, and his derby hat with the other. He growled, “Take off your hat when you speak to a citizen!”
The penny dropped. This surly little man was the mayor.
The entire room went silent. The slothful policeman uttered, “My wife is gonna kill me.”
In a spurt of Olympic-worthy style, Fio suddenly hurdled the railing separating the inner office from the crowd. Fio went right to the director’s office and discovered he wasn’t even there.
“Lane! Call Welfare Commissioner Hodson. NOW.”
I ran to the nearest phone as a stunned secretary sat there wide-eyed. “You better move it, honey,” I said, nodding to Fio as I quickly dialed the number. “Commissioner William Hodson, this is Lane Sanders with Mayor La Guardia. You’d better get to the Lower East Side Relief Station on the double. Hello?” The commissioner forgot to hang up the phone; I think he ran right out the door.
During my little phone call I watched Fio scold the policeman as he hurriedly got himself in tip-top shape. Then Fio grabbed a high stool just inside the railing he’d vaulted—I’d never forget that moment of gymnastic exuberance as long as I lived—and said as he took out his pocketwatch, “Let me see how fast you can clear out this crowd of applicants. Go!”
I guarantee that office never worked as fast as they did that morning. The boss had flown into action at 9:16 a.m. and by 9:37 a.m. on the dot, the entire crowd-now-turned-audience had been interviewed and ushered out the door. It was moments like this that reminded me Fio was a product of growing up on the Arizona frontier. I could easily envision him on a white stallion with his cowboy-at-heart swagger.
Fio brushed his hands together and said, “My work here is done.” The commissioner arrived and Fio notified him that if the absent director didn’t have a good excuse—meaning he was bleeding or comatose—he’d be fired. As we swept past that mean, derby-hatted fellow, Fio said, “And there’s another S of a B that has no job!”
We exited the building as I wished with all my
being that Roarke had been here so he could write up this story, and then I saw it. The roomful of people that had been treated by the relief station like they didn’t matter, didn’t deserve respect . . . had not gone home. They had lined up outside and as Fio banged out the door, a collective cheer erupted. Fio shook hands with a few people, listened to their stories, and talked with them in their own language. Fio was fluent in several languages, speaking easily with the people in Yiddish, German, Italian, Croatian, and even Hungarian. I recognized that language, since I lived up in Yorkville in Manhattan where a large group of Hungarians had congregated. After the last woman left, letting go of Fio’s hand, which she’d been holding in warm appreciation, we headed back to City Hall in triumphant fashion.
My boss was rude, abrasive, brash . . . and yet his heart was kind and passionate. As we drove back to the office, he gazed at the city he loved as it passed swiftly by. And sure, he manhandled two ruffians, fired a couple of people, and called a guy an S of a B, but I also saw a tender smile grace his lips in that contemplative moment.
Later in the day, it was that same compassionate heart that had us speeding up to Harlem.
Having only gulped down two bites of my sandwich at my desk—we were having quite the busy day—I leaped from my dearly desired lunch and once again flew down the steps after my boss, who was dashing out of the building. This was life in the mayor’s office. We zoomed up to the West 100th Street police station. Besides storm superlatives, Fio inspired many action verbs. The press couldn’t find enough adjectives that adequately expressed his vigor. I’d never forget during Fio’s first week in office, Lowell Limpus wrote, “He had the nation’s biggest city dizzy. Brigades of bewildered reporters were unable to keep up with his chameleon mind.” Tell me about it!
Ever since he became an attorney back before the war, Fiorello was known as the People’s Lawyer. Always fighting for the people who were up against corrupt city government and didn’t stand a chance on their own, many who were immigrants facing deportation. He had a ten-dollar fee, and if he took the case but they couldn’t pay, they still got his best service.
The Pearl Dagger Page 2
