Goodnight Irene

by James Scott Byrnside

  Rowan nodded.

  I am desperate enough.

  “Close your eyes and breathe.” Ling took deep noisy breaths to demonstrate. He inflected a purr at the end of every statement. “Good. Now, past your chest. Breathe into your knees.”

  “You want me to breathe into my knees?”

  “Don’t interpret everything in a literal sense. Breathe so deeply that the breath goes to your knees. I want you to imagine the room where it happened: the details of the furniture and the air and the people. Can you see?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Don’t forget to keep breathing. Tell me what you see.”

  Rowan told him everything he could remember about that horrible day in March: the curtains, the angels, Tommy’s hair, and little Danny. He told Ling about the thrill of solving the case. Finally, he spoke about Agatha’s eyes. He would never forget the sight of them.

  “It was my job to protect her. I was so ecstatic to have solved the case that I did not think about the danger.”

  “What happens next?”

  The sound of a backfiring car blasted from outside Rowan's office. His vision dimmed and mottled patches of black covered the image of Agatha and the baby.

  Ling’s voice began to echo. “You do not look so good, Manory. Is it happening now?”

  The smell of the bakery vanished and was replaced by the horrible scent of copper. A paralyzing pain gripped Rowan’s chest and the pounding of his heart battered his sense of hearing. He tried to speak, but the airless feeling inside his throat made it seem as if he could not produce any sound. Agatha’s house vanished and Rowan found himself in a narrow darkened passage. The membranous walls pulsated closer and closer until they pressed against his body.

  In the distance, Doctor Ling’s voice bubbled as if it were submerged. “I think it is happening now, correct? Nod if this is true.”

  Rowan could not tell if his body was obeying his mind. He did his best to command a nod.

  “Good. Detective, I want you to picture your heart. See your heart in your mind.”

  The diseased sack of red, bulbous flesh rattled after every beat as if it were about to explode in his chest. Blood leaked from a series of fissures.

  “Now, picture black ink pouring all over your heart. It covers everything. Fill up the chamber with black ink.”

  Thick, black ooze drenched his imaginary organ until only the barest shape could be seen. He tried to nod again.

  “Super. Now let it drain. The ink drains from your heart and all the pain and poison and infection are clinging to the ink as it separates. Can you see it, detective?”

  Rowan managed to utter a breathless word. “Yes.”

  His heart appeared as a pristine pink.

  “This is the last part. Imagine a spinning top.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s the toy that children play with. Picture it on your heart. It spins clockwise. Put your finger on the top and stop it.”

  Rowan lifted his hand feebly.

  “Not on your stomach, on your heart. Higher.”

  The detective visualized the top slowing and then coming to a halt under his fingertip.

  “You’re doing fabulous work. Spin it in the opposite direction.”

  Rowan’s finger rotated over his chest. The top spun counterclockwise. As it picked up speed, the pressure lifted and his breath returned. Calm warmth emanated from his breast and spread through his limbs.

  “Open your eyes.”

  Rowan tried to stand, but his legs wobbled. “What is wrong with me?”

  “It’s very simple. You have shell shock like a soldier after war.”

  “How do I cure it?”

  “You don’t cure it. You deal. Also, you are no longer a detective. You are officially retired.”

  “The treatment you gave me—”

  “It wasn’t treatment, Mr. Manory. It was a parlor trick. How you deal with your illness is up to you. I’m simply your guide, your Sherpa, your cicerone—”

  “I know what guide means.”

  “To stop being a prisoner of the past, one must face the past and master it. That is the goal. In the meantime you suffer. Shall we meet again next week?”

  Rowan collapsed into his chair with limp limbs. “I will think it over.”

  “I’ll send you the bill. Good day.”

  Ling left without closing the office door. Rowan could hear him speaking with Walter in the hall. He tugged at his collar and it bent with sweat.

  Walter entered as if he was visiting his grandmother. “I brought you a sardolive.” He shoved aside the pile of old newspapers on Rowan’s desk and swept scattered ash into the trashcan. “They make them downstairs.”

  “You know I have no appetite.” Rowan sat up and pulled off his tie. “This weather is unbearable.”

  “Yeah, it’s a corker. You have to start eating, though.” Walter put a brown paper bag on the desk and laid the sandwich on top. Next to it, he laid down a stack of envelopes. “Come now. You have to try.”

  Rowan lifted the top slice of rye bread. A pile of sardines and diced olives lay bathed in creamy egg yolk. His stomach gurgled into a knot and his unshaven face began to itch.

  “It’s very tasty,” said Walter.

  “I will take you at your word.” Rowan rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, cracked his knuckles, and grabbed the envelopes. He read the return addresses of the first three and threw them into the trash. He stopped at the fourth.

  Walter asked, “Someone we know?”

  “The sender is Robert Lasciva from Vicksburg, Mississippi.” Rowan laid a paper on his desk and spread tobacco over it. He licked one end and, with a single motion, twirled it into a cigarette. “Lasciva. Lasciva. I have heard the name but cannot recall where.” He tossed it to Walter. “Open it.”

  “How do you know it’s not more hate mail?”

  “There are no temper strokes. When a writer is angry, he begins the first letters from underneath the baseline.”

  “It could be passive aggressive. Are there condescension strokes?”

  “Very funny. Read me the letter.”

  “Are you going to eat the sandwich I bought you?”

  “Williams!”

  Walter ripped open the envelope and read aloud.

  Dear Mr. Rowan Manory,

  My name is Robert Lasciva and I am in need of your services. I’ll cut right to the chase. Recently, I received a death threat in the mail. This threat promises that I will be murdered during the weekend of my fifty-fifth birthday and that the murderer will be a guest at my party. My birthday is on the seventh of August and I’m having a small, tight-knit celebration lasting from the fifth to the eighth.

  I’d like to hire you to attend the party and mingle with the guests to see if any of them might be planning something dramatic. I would not inform anyone, even my bodyguard, that you are a detective. I live in Vicksburg, Mississippi, which is far from your base of operations in Chicago. Because of this, I would be willing to pay you the sum of three thousand dollars for the weekend. This figure is guaranteed regardless of outcome and will be paid in cash on the eighth. I’m sure your license doesn’t exceed the Illinois border, but the government needn’t know anything. Uncle Sam has more important things to worry about.

  If you accept, there will be a Model T waiting for you at the local Saunders in the town of Olive Branch. It’s in the north of Mississippi. You can use it to drive the rest of your journey to Vicksburg. We are currently in the middle of a particularly nasty flood. My estate is located high upon a ridge between the Bayou Pierre Mounds and Fort Hill. There is a road about 400 feet above the valley that will get you here safely. I have included a map showing the route.

  There are only three guests I have invited to the party along with my staff and business associates. The list:

  Bernice Lasciva – my aunt

  Charles Lasciva – my nephew

  Margaret Lasciva – his wife

  Jack Tellum – my bodygua
rd

  Paul Daniels – my lawyer

  Ruth Martice – my secretary

  Willie Aikes – my butler and driver

  I can’t imagine any of these people wanting to do me any harm but I’d like you here to see if I am mistaken. Please let me know your decision post haste.

  Regards,

  Robert Lasciva

  Rowan stared past the wall. An inch-long piece of ash hung from his cigarette. “How very peculiar.”

  Walter gawped. “Holy…” He mouthed the second word. “Three thousand rubes. That’s—” He looked at Rowan. “Of course, you’re not taking the job?”

  “No, I… No.” Rowan folded the letter and pocketed it. “You are quite correct, my friend. Even my despondency cannot compel me to take such an extreme risk. The name is familiar, though.”

  “I will say this.” Walter took a bite of the sardolive and wiped a bit of yolk off his mouth. “Going to a new city might not be a bad idea. I don’t mean setting up the same operation. We could retire from murder and focus on infidelity. California’s nice this time of year. In fact, it’s nice every time of the year.”

  Rowan stared daggers. “I do not care what the Chinese quack says.”

  “Manory, we haven’t had a client in four months.”

  “One bit of good press and that problem will be solved. The public has no collective memory.”

  “What about your heart?”

  Rowan mimicked Ling’s voice. “I deal.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “Stop tagging your questions. Just ask.”

  “Does your despondency compel you to come with me to the pharmacist?”

  An hour later, the detectives walked into the Brown Bear and sidled up to the bar.

  Before prohibition, the Brown Bear had been a popular destination for casual and chronic drinker alike. Like many bars in Chicago, its survival during the dry hysteria depended on ingenuity. Those with bribable doctors could procure a ten-ounce weekly prescription. Alcohol became a cure-all. Studies were commissioned to prove that vodka cured syphilis, gin was good for arthritis, and beer stopped the flu dead in its tracks.

  Dave Bowen, the bartender, polished two glasses and slid them over the red wood. He leaned on the copper beer pump. “What can I get you?”

  Walter pulled out his wallet. “I’ll have a whiskey and a brandy for my friend.”

  “Let’s see ‘em.”

  Walter and Rowan took out their prescriptions and placed them on the bar.

  Dave slid a pen from his breast pocket and wrote down the ounces and the date. He looked at Walter. “How are the migraines?”

  “They get better with every visit.”

  Dave turned to Rowan. His face scrunched up. “Gout? Is that French?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  The bartender sighed. “All right boys, let’s see. Mr. Williams, you have eight ounces left. Mr. Manory, you only have two. Looks like you’ll have to go back to the doctor.”

  “I will return with a more romantic illness.”

  Dave poured the drinks.

  Walter said, “Does anyone ever come in with alcoholism?”

  “Funnily enough, no. You see that guy at the end of the bar.” He motioned toward a burly man with bushy sideburns. “His doc gave him scurvy. I had a bit of fun and told him I had to put a lime in all of his drinks. He nearly shit himself.”

  They took their glasses and walked to their usual table, next to the eponymous stuffed brown bear in the center of the room.

  They patted the leg for good luck.

  Walter leaned back in his chair and began to pour out his thoughts, as was his custom. Rowan was quiet. He seemed distracted.

  “You have to be flexible, Manory. We can do anything we want. There’s no reason to stay. Chicago must be the most miserable city in the world. The weather is deadly and the people are even worse. There’s no beauty here.”

  Where have I heard the name?

  Walter twirled his finger round the rim of his glass. “Maybe there’s a little beauty. You know who I can’t get out of my head?”

  Robert Lasciva.

  “Miss Amanda Green. I think about her at least once a week. Isn’t it strange how that happens? One little moment gets into your head and then it comes back again and again. I have an obsession. That’s what I’ve got.”

  Was he from the Cockrill case?

  “I’m not sure you noticed, but when you were questioning her, she kept looking at me. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes said volumes. It’s like you always tell me, the eyes say much more than the mouth.”

  No, it was a different case. Which one?

  “Do you think she was vamping with me? I think she was. I’m a single man who is young, not terribly young, but younger than you. You’re not old, but in contrast… You know what I mean.”

  Your brain is broken. You never forgot anything before…before… You cannot even say his name.

  “I know she’s in prison, but she could be out in five to ten. Women get far more lenient treatment from the penal system. She’ll be in her mid-thirties, perhaps a bit haggard, but still easy on the eyes.”

  Before Tommy Brent. You never forgot anything before Tommy Brent.

  “There’s the nasty business about murdering her husband, but if she was with the right man, I think she could be passionately rehabilitated.” Walter swirled his glass. “I hope she doesn’t get attacked in prison.”

  The name Lasciva is from a case. I know that. But which one?

  “Are there knife fights in female prisons?”

  Rowan came out of his stupor. “What?”

  “Shanks or razors? Do female inmates cut each other like men do?”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “Do you think Amanda Green could be attacked in prison with a sharp object? I’m specifically thinking about her face.”

  “How would I know?”

  “Your mother was a member of the police force and she dealt with female prisoners. Did she tell you anything about the prisons?”

  “My mother?”

  It came to him all at once. The creases on his forehead and temples smoothed out. A look of astonishment flashed onto his face.

  Walter panicked. “Is this another episode? Shall I fetch Dr. Ling?”

  “Williams!”

  “What is it, old man?”

  Rowan shoved his hand inside his pocket and ripped out the letter. He slammed it on the table and his index finger tapped it maniacally. “Robert Lasciva.”

  “You know him.”

  “I have never met the man, but he has a certain reputation. Do we have contacts in Mississippi?”

  “Yeah, I can call a few people.”

  “Find out everything you can. I want to know what he is doing there and with whom he is doing it. Do it now. Do not delay.” Rowan slammed back his brandy and stood up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I must talk to my last friend on the police force.”

  chapter 3

  Digging up the Dorothy Roberts Case

  “Extraordinary.” Rowan flipped the police report back and forth in an attempt to make sense of it all. His head came up. He simply repeated, “Extraordinary.”

  “Yeah, it’s a dilly of a quagmire.” Inspector Grady glanced over his shoulder at the café door. He sat with his side leaning on the back of the chair. “Ten more minutes, champ. Then I have to go.”

  “Robert Lasciva and Jack Tellum were seen leaving the apartment building by multiple witnesses. Irene Roberts had bitten Tellum and the teeth marks were verified. When they were picked up that evening, both Lasciva and Tellum had her blood on their goddamned shirts. The mother, Dorothy Roberts, ended up dead on the street below. And yet, no charges were ever filed. The newspapers never even mentioned that Irene was in the room. What am I missing?”

  Grady glowered. “You’re not that dense.”

  “Hold my hand, please.”

>   The waitress brought two lemonades to the table. Grady waited for her to leave and leaned his head toward Rowan. “We were told the case was finished. I wasn’t in charge and there were plenty of other things to work on. Your mother, God rest her soul, she made the biggest stink about it. Look what happened. Ellen was demoted.”

  “What was Lasciva’s hold on the department?”

  “He had a lawyer. What was his name?” Grady looked around at the empty tables for help.

  Rowan pulled the letter from his pocket. “Paul Daniels?”

  He snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Daniels. He was a real squirrelly fella, never kept still. He talked like a swish, but from what I hear it wasn’t the case. Anyway, he had the superintendent’s ear. You didn’t hear it from me, but he also had a direct line to his bank account.”

  Rowan kept his gaze on Grady.

  “Don’t be a boy scout; you know how things work. Besides, Irene Roberts never fingered Lasciva or Tellum for the crime. It’s hard to put somebody away if the only witness won’t talk. As far as I know, she never told anybody what happened in that room. She just kept saying that nursery rhyme, over and over again. Her mental state was described as catatonic.” He pointed to the report. “It was decided that we shouldn’t reveal anything to the public about her. Woman kills herself. Two men questioned and released. It’s a lot cleaner.”

  “If he had nothing to fear from the police, why did Lasciva leave Chicago?”

  Grady cackled and coughed out his words. “That was your mother’s doing.”

  Rowan shook his head dumbly.

  “Ellen Manory was the sweetest thing I ever met, but you didn’t want to get on her bad side. She told them.”

  “She told whom?”

  “She told them. She told Mont Tennes, Mickey Finn, she told every gang leader in town, sent them all anonymous letters with all the perversity intact.”

  Rowan pictured his mother’s sweet comforting visage.

  Grady gulped half his lemonade. “It’s twisted when you think about it. Last week a bomb went off in Dukes, the speakeasy on Wabash. One of Capone’s guys planted a bomb in a little boy’s schoolbag and told him to go in there and wait ten minutes. These bastards will kill a child without a moment’s hesitation. But, if you do what Lasciva did to Irene Roberts…” He shook his head. “It’s some kind of morality, I suppose.”