As I stood on the platform, I was surprised to hear a violin suddenly begin a lovely melody. I turned to see a trio with a small drum, an upright bass—I couldn’t imagine how they’d managed to get that down here on a day like today—and the violin. It was a strange sensation to be on a dark and dank subway platform, with wintry weather as a backdrop, listening to live music that was simply beautiful. This surprising moment of awareness was what I loved most about the city. Events just happened. I didn’t plan on coming across magic, I just stumbled upon it.
Other than the snow, the day was a typical Friday at work. In anticipation of a fun night ahead, it flew by. I asked Fiorello about his thoughts on Venetti’s relative silence, and he said he’d get his people on it, too.
Around six, I closed up shop and headed downstairs to meet Finn outside. But instead of him meeting me in person, I heard a quick three honks from a nearby car. I looked over at a green police car with its black fenders and running boards, and the recent idea of a repurposed taillight mounted on the front right fender. Finn waved me over.
I walked toward him as he rolled down the window and I rested my elbows on the windowsill. “Hey there. What are you doing, Finn?”
“I figured with the snow, I’d pick you up in an RMP. It will be a little easier getting around.”
“I’ve never seen you drive one of these,” I said, opening the door and getting in. “I really need to learn how to drive. Maybe this summer.”
I’d graduated early from high school and jumped right into college. It had been hard finding the time to learn how to drive, and besides, you didn’t really need to drive to get around the city just fine. But I knew I’d like to drive. It looked like a lot of fun.
We headed uptown and I asked, “So what’s the plan? I know we’ll end up at the Savoy, but you said you had a surprise?”
“I do!” he said in a tone that made it clear he would not be sharing that information. I just laughed and sat back to enjoy the ride. The city had gotten back to normal pretty quick. Most of the shop owners had shoveled their walks and more pedestrians were out and about. I saw one young mother slugging it out with her baby carriage, trying to navigate the slushy, slippery sidewalks and street.
Suddenly, a deep blue, fabulous car zipped right by us.
“What on earth was that?” I said.
“He’s going way too fast. Hold on, Lane.” With a smirk of delight, Finn hit the gas. I noticed he’d also hit the button that lit that red light on the front of his car. We zoomed up Madison, Finn honking the horn to get the racecar driver’s attention.
Finally, the guy caught us in the rearview mirror and pulled over. We carefully pulled in behind him. “Be right back,” said Finn.
He got out of the car, checking his gun just in case, and walked slowly to the driver. But then I noticed the driver was on the right side of the car. “What the hell?” I whispered to myself.
After a few minutes of conversation, Finn at last returned to the car. “What was that all about? Did you give him a citation?” I asked.
“Nah. Turns out he was a British bloke. He and that divine car of his—a Riley Imp—came over on the Queen Mary, if you can believe it. I’d noticed the right-hand drive, but was still surprised when I heard the British accent. John Barnard. I let him off with a warning. Couldn’t blame him, I’d be driving fast in that beaut, too.”
“Me, too,” I sighed. Boy, I loved great cars.
We at last arrived at our destination. We pulled over on 81st near Fifth Avenue. I took Finn’s hand in mine as we walked over to the steps of the Met. The Metropolitan Museum of Art is one of my favorite places in the world. But at night? It becomes magical.
The front steps and fountains were lit in bright yellow lights, the mist creating shimmering clouds in the frosty air. When we swept in the front doors, I was delighted to hear an unexpected violin for the second time that day. On the upper floor that surrounded the entryway, there was a small band playing classical music with patrons at tiny tables sipping wine and coffee. The enormous flower arrangement at the front desk smelled of roses and lavender. We gave our coats to coat check, bought our tickets, and began to slowly stroll around, enjoying the scenery.
The funny thing about the Met at night is that I always got a whole new appreciation for the art. The many skylights and windows in the museum were not that noticeable during the day. But at night, all of those windows became a glossy black, and the warm lighting made the statues and the paintings come alive.
We ambled through the ancient Greek and Roman statues, a favorite of ours. Then I had to go upstairs to visit Madame X. I loved that painting by John Singer Sargent. He had painted an unconventional beauty in Paris society where originally the right shoulder strap of her elegant black dress was missing, clearly undone, which whispered improper intentions and thoughts. There had been such scandal with the model, who’d been a banker’s wife, that Sargent felt he had to redo the painting with the strap securely in place—the version I was currently admiring—and then he moved to another country altogether. His original strapless painting was at the Tate in London. That the portrait was so beautiful and interesting yet only successful after much time had gone by moved me. But I also loved that whole room. There was just something remarkable about the way those large portraits were hung, all of their eyes watching as if they might be interested in my story.
I walked toward Madame, the click of my high heels on the floor echoing throughout the long room. I looked at the lift of her chin, her elegance, and the emotion evoked in her posture. I imagined the thoughts that might be running through her mind and felt that in another world, we would be close friends. I had changed at work and I wore my favorite dancing dress, a strapless black satin with sheer black sleeves that hugged my arms and silhouetted my shoulders. The full skirt would twirl nicely. Finn came up behind me; I could smell the woodsy and verbena scent of his aftershave. He came close and gently pulled my hair to the side and kissed just beneath my ear, sending shivers through me.
“We should have visited her at the Tate while we were there,” he whispered. That he knew her history, and more than that, he said “visited her,” not “gone to see it,” made me love him even more.
“Next time,” I whispered back. I turned toward him and planted a good kiss on his receptive lips.
He took my hand and led me toward the front of the Met again. We lingered a moment on that second floor, overlooking the entryway. The music, the scent of flowers and perfumes, the rustle of conversation, the energy of people. I fondly remembered a few months ago having leaned up against the very same pillar beside me, watching Finn give me a wolfish smile, then retreat down the steps and out of the museum.
“All right, love. On to the Savoy.”
CHAPTER 41
Even outside the place, the Savoy was hopping. The energy of the excited guests mingled with the muffled music that floated out to us through the icy air made me feel alert and alive. I wanted to soak it all in. Since we’d taken Finn’s cruiser, we didn’t have far to walk. Which was a good thing, because icy sidewalks and high heels don’t mix.
We were almost to the door when Finn spotted Big Sam, as well as Florence, a bit farther behind us. Sam was hard to miss.
“Oi! Sam!” yelled Finn over the crowd as he trotted over to them.
Sam waved and took Florence by the hand, walking a few steps closer to Finn as they greeted each other. Then I was abruptly and rudely reminded that the harmony on the inside of the first integrated dance hall did not always mirror the sentiments outside.
A man in a black coat came up to them and sneered as he went by. I was still a ways off, but the guy said something to them and by the thunderous look of all three of them, I was guessing that he didn’t approve of our friendship that crossed racial barriers. My eyes darted to Finn, knowing exactly what he was about to do.
He yanked the guy from behind and spun him around, pointing out the police car and presumably clarifying that he’d insul
ted two police officers. I started to make my way over.
That guy must’ve been one of the dumbest guys on the planet. Both Finn and Sam loomed over him. But his hatred overcame whatever cranial capacity he’d had as I saw him spit out some final insult.
Whump. Finn leveled him. Then yelled for a couple of passing cops on duty to come and take the guy in to the nearest precinct.
Sam and Finn handed him to the two large black cops who were biting back a grin, hauling in the dumb bastard.
I came up next to Florence and grabbed her hand. I kept holding it as I looked at Sam closely. He was embarrassed.
Sam turned to Finn and said fiercely, “Look, you didn’t have to do that, Finn. I can take care of myself.”
Finn turned just as fiercely toward him. “I know, Sam! But you’re my friend. And just what would you have done if someone called me a WIC?”
That stopped Sam in his tracks. After a long pause, a corner of his mouth twitched, then he said, “Well. That’s better than SID.”
Finn’s face made a funny little quirk from the surprise of Sam’s comment. Then he broke down laughing, right along with Sam, who now had tears of mirth running down his large, kind face. I turned to Florence and she must’ve had the same look on her face as me: one eyebrow raised and a disgusted pull to her lips.
Florence patted my hand, then wrapped her arm around mine and said, “C’mon, Lane. Let me buy you a glass of wine. It’s going to take these two idiots a few minutes to pull themselves together.”
I snorted and said, “Thanks! I’d love one.”
Later on, Finn joined me at the bar, a large smile stretched across his handsome face. “Having fun?” I asked sardonically.
“Oh yeah,” he said with relish. Finn didn’t mind a bit of a tussle from time to time. I shook my head in amusement. “But get ready for this. You didn’t recognize him, did you?”
“No, why? Did you?” I asked.
“Not at first. He cleaned up better than I thought. It was Wulf. Mean derby hat guy, minus the derby hat. I didn’t catch his name until we looked at his driver’s license.”
“You were right, he does keep showing up,” I said. “That’s very interesting . . .” I took another drink and asked, “So what does ‘WIC’ mean anyway?”
“White Irish Catholic. And it’s not meant to be a kind description.”
“What about ‘SID’? What does that one mean?”
“Small Irish d—” He cut off that last word, suddenly remembering who he was talking to.
“Oh!” I said, eyes wide in understanding. I nodded with appreciation. “Yeah. I can see why you would not take kindly to that. At least it wasn’t ‘frotch.’ ”
“Lane! How do you know that word?”
“It just means ‘fire cr—’ ”
“Don’t say it! I know what it means!”
We were joking and laughing, but I could see the anger smoldering beneath both Finn’s and Sam’s eyes. Certain that the incident reminded Finn of his own dreams of Scotland Yard being snuffed out because of being Irish, I thought about all that Finn had faced over the last month. He’d been through so much, right from the get-go, from envy that rotted into hatred within his own family, then obstacle after obstacle because he was Irish. I knew that was why he was so passionate about standing up for his friends. No one had for him.
After all that, the night went along like any other. The bands were great, sweating up a storm, thoroughly enjoying the exuberant crowd. Tunes by Bing Crosby, Benny Goodman, Fats Waller, and Billie Holiday filled the cavernous place with a bursting love of life. Finn and I were getting a cold beer at the bar when Sam came over and ordered one, too.
“You know, Finn,” said Sam. “With all the commotion early on, we didn’t get to chat about my contacts for you. I have a couple of names you should check out. Also, I was talking with a buddy of mine who had seen our little scrape we got into earlier with that Wulf guy.”
“Oh yeah?” asked Finn, finishing off his beer.
“Yeah. Turns out, that buddy of mine thinks that guy might have some information for us on Murk. My guy has seen him, you know, not a big leader but a lower-management type. He works at the deli where the shooting went down.”
That raised Finn’s eyebrows and he said decisively, “Well now. We knew Wulf was working with Murk, but we didn’t know he was such a regular presence at the deli. We have him in custody, what do you say you and I just pay him a little visit, Sam?”
Sam clinked Finn’s beer glass with his and said, “I’d say that sounds like a lot of fun.”
CHAPTER 42
Finn and Sam went to interrogate that unwise individual who kept turning up like a bad penny. Wulf seemed much more intimidated at the police precinct than he had out in public, but he remained reticent to give information. Until, that is, he was neatly threatened with a couple of nights in the Tombs, the nickname for City Prison downtown. The original Tombs had been replaced about thirty-five years ago with an eight-story building complete with a castle and tower design that was reminiscent of the infamous Hall of Justice in Paris and, along with it, the sad and disturbing story of Quasimodo. The Bridge of Sighs was aptly named as it connected the Tombs to the Criminal Courts Building. Everyone was nervous about a threat of the Tombs. One time I’d witnessed Fiorello threaten a violent, hardened criminal with a night there. On the spot, he broke out into a sweat and started begging for leniency.
Finn’s face had been quite animated at the retelling of the interrogation. I’m certain Mr. Wulf regretted his hateful remarks. In the end, he begrudgingly gave them some information on what they hoped would reveal Murk’s efforts and motives. Finn had multiple cops running down the details. What concerned them most was Wulf’s apparent loathing of the mayor.
Wulf could only be detained a few more hours, then they’d put a tail on him. Meanwhile, the mayor would have to deal with extra police presence in his life, something he greeted with derision. We decided we needed a council of war.
We set the meeting for the next day, at our usual spot: my place. Everyone was called in, and I had to say, we were a pretty intimidating crew.
Morgan arrived early and brought her second in command, Eric Spry. Roxy and Val came right after and everyone chipped in to help Mr. Kirkland, Evelyn, and me prepare dinner. We decided on one of Fiorello’s favorites that was always the perfect crowd pleaser: spaghetti. The aroma of simmering marinara with both beef and Italian pork sausage made my mouth water all day long.
Finn, Big Sam, and Roarke arrived, toting with them several large loaves of fresh bread from the local market. Lastly, in came Storm Fiorello with an excitingly large, white box tied with string.
“Are these what I think they are?” I gasped as I took the box from him. I sniffed the box and grinned from ear to ear.
“Of course, Laney Lane my girl! We can’t have spaghetti without some cannoli!” he exclaimed heartily, putting his overcoat in our closet as if he owned the place. He looked at me, then said, “You do know you have to share, right?”
I harrumphed as I took my delicious parcel out to the kitchen.
“I see you trying to hide that, Lane,” said Finn. I whipped around to see him, Roarke, and Valerie smirking at me.
“I’m not hiding it . . .” I shifted uncomfortably. “This fern was in the way a bit. It looks better this way.” I moved the box from behind the fern and winked at my friends.
Eric and Morgan had just finished up cleaning some of the preparation dishes and Roxy, Sam, and Aunt Evelyn were drinking a little red wine in the corner, chatting up a storm. I took down more wineglasses and another bottle of Chianti. As I poured the velvety red wine, I looked around at my group of favorite people. They were an eclectic mix, which made them all the more enjoyable. I liked how Sam had assimilated into our sarcastic, artful, and boisterous group with ease. I wished Florence could be here, I missed her easy smile, but we had work to do. It was a business meeting, after all.
We gathered around our la
rge dining room table and clasped hands as Fiorello said grace. There were two mounds of spaghetti with meat sauce on oval platters at each end of the table, steam swirling up from the piping-hot meal. There were also two large wooden bowls full of salad and two long baskets filled to the brim with hot garlic bread. I spotted Eric licking his lips in eager anticipation.
Everyone dished up their plates and we ate the delicious meal with the golden camaraderie of old friends, as if we’d all known each other for years. There was something special about sharing a meal at home that inspired more laughter, more earnest conversation and companionship than at a restaurant.
As we were all soaking up the last drops of marinara with the end pieces of crusty bread, Morgan dove into our business meeting with a cheeky grin. “So, Wulf is in the Tombs?”
Finn returned the grin and said, “Nah, we just threatened him with that. We had to let him go. Other than being a horrible human being, he hadn’t committed any crime.”
“That’s a shame. He sounds awful,” said Eric with a disgusted look.
“You can say that again, kid,” said Sam, clinking glasses with Eric in solidarity.
“So, let’s officially bring this meeting to order,” declared Aunt Evelyn, clasping her hands together like a professor about to lecture. “Let me see if I have it straight.
“The pinball and slot machine racket escalated when they murdered Peter. It was an intentional act, not an accidental shooting, and it sounds like Murk is trying to use that to force the city into compliance.”
Finn nodded as he took up the thread. “And when Lane and I went to London, we confirmed as much as humanly possible that Daphne and the Red Scroll Network are not up and running in Europe at this time. We could still use proof that she’s not behind these crimes here in the U.S., though . . .”
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