by Blake Pierce
He had, of course, never gotten the chance to kill that nurse. In fact, it was shortly after he truly started to think about it that his head shrinker had deemed him fit to be discharged. And just like that, about five months after he’d been admitted into the psychiatric hospital, he was back on the same streets he’d been discovered in. He was still very hazy on how he’d even ended up there. He could recall being on the street, lost in the sounds of the women’s political march, and then waking up with a headache as a cop looked down at him.
None of that mattered now, though. Now, he could only think of acting out. He had not killed the nurse, so his hands and heart ached for the death of something else. He wished it could be his nagging mother again, but regrettably, she was already gone. And there had been the woman yesterday, in the alley behind those deplorable jazz clubs, but that had barely scratched the itch.
He’d been walking the streets aimlessly for about a day or so. Some parts of it were little more than a blur, while others were crystal clear. He remembered wandering by jazz clubs and nightclubs just as dusk had fallen. He could recall a feeling of absolute sorrow in that he had been dealt a life that would not afford him such luxuries.
And that’s when he spotted her. A woman, slightly taller than him, and probably about five years older. She was an absolute tomato, but she seemed to know it. She was much prettier than the woman in the alley yesterday. Even the way she clung to the arm of her fella screamed it. She was in charge…not linking arms with the man because she wanted it to be known that they were together, but because she was leading him along like a puppy on a leash. Her dress was white, a slit along the leg going all the way up past her knee. He thought of the treasures hidden slightly north of that slit in the dress and he’d become both aroused and enraged.
She was headed into one of the respectable clubs—the ballroom sort rather than the ones hidden in musty cellars to allow liquor and spirits to be passed about. Prohibition had really done a number on how the folks of New York partied after hours. Honestly, he thought it was all very stupid.
He walked back and forth along the block the nightclub was located on. He pretended to window-shop in front of a jewelry store. He went inside a candy shop and got a dime’s worth of lemon drops. After grabbing a discarded newspaper, he pretended to read it on a bench just within view of the club. It was almost time for it to open, night having fallen and the crowd around the entrance getting thicker.
He saw her bob and weave in the crowd, laughing, clutching her gloved hand to her ample breast. Her black hair bobbing, her eyes cutting into everyone she saw as if she had already estimated them and knew he was so much better.
As the fine, spoiled people began to enter the club, he began to wonder how he might slip inside. He could get a second-rate suit, but he knew the folks inside the club would automatically look down on him.
It’s because you’re a joke, his mother spoke up in his head. You’re nothing but a failure, and that’s all you’ll ever be.
“I put you in the damn ground, now didn’t I?” he said from behind his newsprint.
He smiled as he recalled killing her—the way the blood sprayed, the way her eyes were so shocked that he’d had it in him in her last living moments, Only, when he replayed it in his head, it was not his mother’s face he saw but that of the elegant, confident woman he’d spied earlier—the woman who had just entered the club. He saw her pretty eyes, wide and pleading, and it sparked a restlessness within him that he knew could not be stopped until she was dead.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ava walked Jeffrey to school the following morning, a nice walk of about four blocks—and, she supposed, a good way to warm up for walking her patrol. And while she enjoyed the time with her son, her mind was also on what she was going to do when she got to the precinct. She had already decided she was going to go straight to Minard but she had not decided how to handle the rejection she’d surely get. He would tell her no; she was sure of that. He’d tell her no if for no other reason than to discourage her and get her to quit.
She shook those thoughts away as she stopped half a block shy, giving Jeffrey the little bit of freedom he’d asked for when it came to school. She stood under the awning of a butcher shop and watched him walk through the gates. He was talking with friends within a few seconds, heading into the school building. She was a little uneasy with him walking from school to the boxing club later on, but Jeffrey was a smart kid. He knew the areas to stay away from and had a good head on him. She figured she had to start trusting him completely at some point—especially now that there wasn’t a father figure to help teach him the ropes. Deep down, she wondered if that was one of the reasons she’d wanted a job at the precinct—to fill the shoes that Jeffrey needed to be filled whether he knew it or not.
It had started spitting rain by the time she got to the precinct—not even a drizzle, really, just enough to dampen things a bit. As she walked toward the doors, images from yesterday’s murder scene popped up in her head. She saw the gouges in the woman’s head so clearly that it was almost as if she were lying right there in front of the precinct door. She shook it off, knowing that the case would be well on its way to being solved by the time she started today’s patrol. Even if her only contribution was the discovery of the body, that would be enough. It would have to be.
She headed straight to Captain Minard’s office, walking sternly, as if she was not nervous at all. When she reached his office at the end of the primary hallway, she found the door closed. She knocked, but got no answer. She figured he hadn’t gotten into the office yet or was already out on police business. She stared at the door for a moment, determined not to let this little setback change her mind about confronting him.
It felt like defeat, though, and she wasn’t quite ready to venture into the WB office in such a mood. She decided she’d go to the rather small women’s locker room to fix up her hair, maybe wash the smell of dish soap from the morning’s chores from her hand. She did not mind the job of being mother at all, but she did not see the point in bringing the scents and cornerstones of it to work. It had been a good morning. She’d played jazz, starting with Jelly Roll Morton but switching it to something more acceptable, like Louis Armstrong, when Jeffrey had come into the kitchen, complaining. She’d told him a bit about her days as a singer over a breakfast of eggs and toast and for a moment, she’d gotten a good feel for what life was going to be like without Clarence. It was going to be very hard, but she thought they’d be okay.
She went to the little downstairs locker room and washed her hands with the very strong lye soap on the sink. As she looked herself over in the mirror, she saw two things: one, that her hair looked just fine, though a bit damp from the misting rain outside; second, there were two men standing back in the entrance to the locker room. Having been spotted, the first one grinned at her and came forward. When he did, she saw that there were actually three of them. They were all wearing police uniforms but this did very little to ease her mind. The looks on their faces were filled with spite and some sort of sport—particularly the one in front.
“Fitting in well here?” the guy in front said. He was a younger guy, maybe Ava’s own age. Behind him, she recognized one of the faces. The man in back had showed up at the murder scene yesterday.
“As well as can be expected,” Ava answered honestly.
“Good,” the lead cop said. He kept walking forward, making no sign of slowing. Ava backed up a bit until her lower back connected with the sink. The man came closer still, no less than six inches between them now.
“You know, Clarence spoke highly of you,” he said. “Always going on and on about his pretty wife. And now that you’re here…damn if he wasn’t right.”
He reached out and placed his hand on her hip. He pulled her closer and brought his hand up higher, just below her breast. “One of these days, I may just have to find out what you’re like outside of work,” he said.
One of the men behind him chuckled. Ava was g
rowing scared, but she wasn’t sure how scared to be. How far would these men take this? She decided she had no interest in finding out. As the man in front of her leaned even closer, pressing his chest against her, Ava drew her right hand back and delivered a hard jab to the man’s ribs. He doubled over and when he did, she tossed out another jab that clipped his jaw. He went falling backward, but that wasn’t good enough for Ava.
As he staggered, she came around with a surprise left that caught him in the face. It was the sort of punch that would leave a blackened eye and a hell of a lot of swelling. The cop went to the floor in a heap, but Ava did not give herself time to enjoy the sight. She looked instantly to the other two, fully expecting them to come charging at her.
They did nothing of the sort, though. In fact, the one in the back turned away instantly and made his exit. The other one looked at the fallen cop with something very close to awe on his face. When he did look back at Ava, there was no malice on his face. My God, Ava thought. Is that respect I see?
She stepped away from the sinks, around the fallen cop, and to the door. The third cop did not move, and he said nothing. Flexing her wrist a bit from the slight pain of that last punch, Ava left the locker room. She knew the instance would not be reported. There was no way a male cop—especially a young one with everything to prove—would admit that a dame had cooled him so easily.
She felt taken advantage of and slightly embarrassed but she also could not deny the little spark of pleasure that bounced around within her as she made her way to the WB office, ready for her third day on the job.
She barely had time to sit down at her desk before Frances was calling over to her. “You ready to head out, Gold?”
“Already?”
Frances nodded, frowning. “He’s trying hard to get under your skin, it seems.”
Ava thought of that closed door, wondering if Minard had been in there all along but simply had no interest in anything she had to say.
Well, screw him, she thought. He’s not going to win this easily.
“Sure. Let’s head out.”
As she and Frances made their way out of the office, she noticed the looks some of the other WB officers were giving her. Some, like Lottie, gave her encouraging glances, obviously rooting for her. Others frowned and barely met her gaze, as if they were certain she’d eventually break under the pressure.
When they were out of the office and heading up the stairs to the main floor Frances looked at her and asked, “Are you okay, Gold?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You look upset about something. Sort of…I don’t know…stern.”
It killed her not to tell Frances about the altercation in the locker room. She figured telling anyone would draw attention to it and there would be a chance that rumors and gossip would get to the higher-ups such as Captain Minard. So as far as Ava was concerned, it would be an event that would never be spoken about…and she thought that might be to her benefit.
“No, I’m good.”
Frances let it rest at that as they made their way out onto the streets. It continued to rain softly as they were out on their patrol. They both carried department-issued umbrellas, but they opted not to use them. The slight pattering of rain simply didn’t warrant it.
Now on her third patrol, Ava started to notice a few things. First of all, there was no need for her and Frances to fill the silence with talking. Whenever Ava had a question—for instance, what the hard and fast rules were on loitering—Frances was happy to answer it. But other than a few instances of this, they walked their patrol mostly in silence.
It allowed Ava to get a better feel for her city—for how it continued to grow and expand. She could swear there was a heartbeat to the place beneath the bustling businesses, the streets that still catered to horse-drawn carriages but were already evolving to adapt to the Model Ts and other scant automobiles. It was certainly a growing city, a city she felt would never stop shifting and changing. Clarence had often told her he sometimes felt like New York City was a living, breathing thing that would never be fed enough. He’d even said something in that regard on their first date, after he’d seen her singing at one of the jazz clubs just outside of Harlem.
She was pulled out of her thoughts of Clarence as male voice called out, high and shrill. “Come on over here, sweetie! I’ll let you arrest me. Maybe even let you slap those handcuffs on me!”
She looked over to a construction site and saw two men standing on scaffolding, looking down at her. Her face flushed with anger but she kept her comments to herself. It wasn’t like it was the first time she’d been hollered at by a jobbie during her three patrols.
“Charming, huh?” Frances said. “I never understood it…the way men just holler stuff like that at ladies. They expecting to get lucky with comments like that? Ask Lottie all about that when you get the chance. Not too long ago, a man yelled at her that he wanted to eat lunch off of her backside. When she told him she’d consider it if he did the cooking, I thought the guy was going to fall right off his ladder.”
Ava heard her, but the smile on her face was only obligatory. She realized, having been so rudely pulled out of her thoughts, that they were now only two blocks away from the alley where they’d discovered the woman yesterday. She heard the light thrum of a bass from a soundcheck somewhere ahead, but even that was muted.
It was even harder because she had once sung as a back-up singer at the club next door. It was a small place, smoky and a little questionable, to be honest. Somehow, the murder seemed to have struck her as a personal attack because of this. She realized just how selfish this was, which was why she’d said nothing to Frances about it yesterday—the reason, in fact, she had done her very best to push the thought all the way back to the furthest cobwebbed corners of her mind.
“Yeah, it can give you the willies,” Frances said.
“What’s that?”
“Returning to the scene of a crime so soon. Especially one like yesterday. You need to go a few blocks over?”
“No, I’m good.”
Frances hesitated a moment and then decided she was apparently telling the truth. They walked on a few more blocks and passed by the alley. Ava barely looked down it, somehow certain another body would be there. And beyond that body, another man lurking in the shadows, anxious to assault any woman dumb enough to go traipsing around in the shadows.
But even then, the club just ahead grabbed her concentration. She’d managed to avoid looking at it yesterday, not wanting to mar her fond memories of the place. It truly was a little hole-in-the-wall dive, a small club overshadowed by some of the larger ones. But the crowds had always been appreciative of the talent and even after prohibition had made it harder to get booze. Moods had always been lively. Called the Key Factory, it was where Ava truly got her start in singing for jazz bands—where she’d truly started to entertain her dream of one day being a jazz singer.
“You know,” she said, on the verge of telling Frances about that certain part of her history. But before she got it out, she saw something rather odd.
Ahead of them, a detective walked into the Key Factory. He did so quickly, as if not wanting to be seen by anyone. If he noticed Ava and Frances, he made no indication.
“I know what?” Frances asked.
“Nothing. Did you see that? The detective that just went in that club?”
“Yeah. And good for him. He’s likely been assigned to the case from yesterday.”
“Likely…” Ava said.
Before she knew it, her legs were carrying her in that direction. Frances followed, confused. “What are you doing?”
“I want to go inside. I know this place.”
“No, Ava. You can’t interfere in the case.”
“It’s not interfering if I’m helping, right?”
“I wish. Look, I know it seems unjust, but we’re women. We can’t just—”
But Ava was already reaching for the door. As she opened it, a wave of familiarity washed over her, dr
owning out Frances’s curses and objections from behind.
CHAPTER NINE
The familiarity of the place rocked her harder than she expected. She was dizzy for a moment, realizing that this place, in a small way, had once been a part of her life.
Frances wasted no time in voicing her displeasure. “Gold, you need to come back out on the street with me,” Frances said. “Being here is going to do nothing but get us in trouble. And you’re okay in my book, but I’m not going to lose my job for you.”
“Then go back outside,” Ava said, not realizing how rude it sounded until it was out of her mouth. “This place feels almost like home to me. I feel…safe here.”
Ava allowed herself a moment to appreciate the familiarity of the Key Factory. It had been nearly two years since she last stepped foot in here, to sing on the stage with some very talented up-and-coming jazz musicians. Even now, before the night crowd seeped in, the place smelled of cigarette and reefer smoke, of sweat and cheap cologne and perfume. In the presence of it all, it was hard to remember why she’d stopped singing. The bare board floors, the little tables that looked like they might fall apart at any moment, the harsh overhead lights…it was all calling her back. But life had evolved: Jeffrey had gotten older and needed help with school, and Clarence’s work schedule was hectic and unpredictable. It had just not worked out for a singer who needed to be in places like this past midnight.
She shook the impending sense of regret away when she spotted the detective over at one of the tables near the center of the room. She recognized the man he was speaking to. He was a co-owner of the Key Factory, a gaunt-looking bruno named Jack Dooley. He wore eyeglasses that made him look refined, and he kept his moustache neat and tidy. But it was all just a ruse, as he was one of the crudest businessmen Ava had ever met. But he knew good music and had never had a cross word with Ava or any of her supporting musicians.
