Tasting the Apple

by Sherilyn Decter

  “It’s a small success, but I’m not satisfied. The scope of the corruption is astounding. It’s damned difficult to pick off the big fish, and it does go all the way to the top. What we need is a way to hook the small fish, who will then give up bigger fish, all the way up the food chain until we catch the whales.”

  “What’s the plan, sir? To catch the small fish?”

  “I’ve been mulling this over, and I’m thinking I need civilian undercover operatives, posing as sellers of illegal liquor, to snare our street cops. That’s the most fundamental level of policing. The beat cop on the street. From there we can work our way up the food chain. To the whales.”

  “It’s a sound idea, sir. And would you be trying to get the cops to buy booze?”

  “Oh no, Kelly, that’s too minor. What we want them to do is shake down our plants for a piece of the action. Those cops are nothing but bag men for kickbacks. They’re the bottom level of a whole racket of protection money, from those working the street right through to the Ritz.”

  Joe nods, working it out as Colonel Butler speaks. “Why civilians, sir?”

  “Because they’re not known. They would appear like any other man working a thirst-relief station. So, we would also need to assign a gink to every civilian. To make the arrest,” Butler explains.

  “Police to watch the police, like at the breweries, you mean, sir?”

  “One and the same. We’ve gotten stellar results from that effort. Truly outstanding. I think we can replicate those same results at street level.” Butler shifts in his seat. “My primary challenge is to recruit civilians discretely. I’m thinking of bringing in retired Marines, men I can count on.”

  “Will they be paid, sir?”

  “Of course, Kelly. Although they won’t appear on any police officer personnel listing. No, it will be an under-the-table expense for the campaign. I’m thinking of calling it Operation Minnow.”

  “Operation Minnow? That doesn’t sound very glamorous.”

  “Well, I was going to call it Operation Plankton, as whales eat plankton, but my wife assures me that plankton wasn’t a good name, either.”

  “What about trout, sir? Or sea bass? Those are bigger fish.”

  “I’m thinking the corrupt officers are the bass in this analogy.”

  “Ah,” nods Joe. “Then minnow it is.”

  The men wait silently again, contemplating various species of fish.

  “Men unknown to police would be fine operatives, sir. But, would you consider a woman as part of Operation Minnow?”

  “A woman? Well, there is no danger involved, and a woman would never be suspected. Yes, I suppose if there were women who we could rely on for discretion, who remain calm under pressure, I might consider that. Do you have someone in mind?”

  “I do, sir.”

  Chapter 13

  “ Have you got everything you need, Mr. Sessions?” Maggie hovers in the doorway to the small bedroom off her kitchen. “I know it’s a small room—”

  “Now don’t you fret none, ma’am. I won’t be here long enough to turn around.” Clive Sessions’ deep-south drawl leaves Maggie breathless, all twitterpated.

  “Wonderful. Not the part of not staying long. I mean, please feel free to stay as long as you need to. I meant wonderful that you don’t find the room too small.” Maggie clamps her mouth tight. Oh, goodness. And that smile. Wait until I tell Edith. “I’ll leave you to get settled then. Supper will be on the table in half an hour. You can wash upstairs or at the kitchen sink.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, and much obliged.” Maggie blushes as he tips an imaginary hat.

  By suppertime, Clive and Archie are standing and chatting in the dining room as Maggie enters with a tureen of chicken stew. Clive moves across the room and pulls out her chair.

  “My goodness, Mr. Sessions. Please don’t stand and wait on my account. Although while you’re up, could I get you to fetch the plate of biscuits from the kitchen?” Maggie’s heard that it’s good to give a new, possibly awkward, guest something to do.

  Tommy comes downstairs and slides into his spot at the table.

  “I’m glad that you can join us tonight, young man,” Archie says.

  “Tommy’s worked up quite an appetite, I imagine, what with all his hard work today. He tilled the garden for me this morning, and this afternoon he moved all the dressers and the couch so that I could clean behind. And tomorrow, after he gets his homework done, he’s going to string up a new wash line out back.”

  “He was sure a help to me, hauling in all my boxes,” Clive Sessions says. He centers the plate of biscuits on the table.

  Joe saunters in, having been upstairs changing out of his uniform. “Hello. I’m Joe Kelly. You must be Mr. Sessions.”

  Everyone settles in, the smell of the stew a magnet. Clive hesitates until he sees the empty chair next to Archie, and slides in. “Now, you-all must call me Clive. Everybody does. Except for my darlin’ wife, of course, she just calls me late for breakfast.” It’s an old joke that causes Maggie to blush, and sails over Tommy’s head.

  “This does smell delicious, ma’am. And I’m as tickled as a short dog in tall grass to be sitting here with y’all.”

  “So, what line of work are you in, Clive?”

  “I look after the paperwork for the Atlantic Refining Co. ARC has a lot of projects on the go in my neck of the woods, and they brought me in to head office to acquaint myself with how things are done up here. I tell you, Yankee ways will take some getting used to.”

  “Like what, Clive?” Joe asks.

  “Oh, there’s lots of differences. You-all like to travel in straight lines while we Southerners tend to amble where we’re going. Maybe it’s the sound of bumble bees in the orange blossoms, or the sun shining on a cold jug of lemonade, but, sure enough, we don’t like to hurry none. It’s a different pace in the South.”

  “That sounds appealing. We could maybe learn to slow down around here, too,” says Maggie.

  Joe nabs a biscuit. “How about you, Archie? What’s new in the world of chalkboards and recess?”

  Maggie smiles; cherishes her lodgers and the business she’s built. That she might lose the house because of that darned loan makes this all the more precious. Not only has she come to enjoy the company of her long-time tenants, Joe and Archie, but she relishes her success as a landlady. And to lose it? Not if she can help it.

  “We’re very excited at Boys’. We’re opening an observatory for the Science program. They’ve just started construction on the roof of the school. It will be quite a draw, being able to gaze at the heavens,” Archie says.

  “Wow, Mr. Mansfield. Can you see the moon? Is it possible to see planets?” Tommy is suddenly engaged and enthused.

  “Say, Archie, will the general public be able to come and look through the telescope?” Maggie asks. What? Tommy enthusiastic about something at Boys’? I’ll be following up with Archie on this one, no matter what.

  “I’ll check and see. Certainly, I’ll be able to arrange a private tour. How about that, Tommy? Would you like to look through a big telescope?”

  “Oh, would I? That would be swell.”

  “Then it’s a date. I’ll chat with the chair of the department and see when it might be ready,” says Archie.

  “But before we have any more talk about seeing the stars, we have a journey much closer to home. I’ll carry these through to the kitchen and do a quick wash up and, Tommy, you gather your math books together. Jimmy dropped books and homework assignments off for you earlier,” Maggie says, bringing Tommy back to earth.

  “Aw, Mother. Why didn’t you call me? I wanted to talk to Jimmy.”

  “Because you’re being punished, Tommy. And visiting with your friend is not punishment. Now, go grab those books, and you and Mr. Mansfield can start tutoring tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Archie and Tommy say in unison.

  “Yes, tonight. Now, Tommy, scoot. Give me twenty minutes, and the kitchen table is yours, Mr. M
ansfield.”

  Chapter 14

  A cross town, Green’s Hotel ballroom is full of Philadelphia’s finest. More accurately, the room has overflowed with be-feathered and bejeweled women courted by tuxedoed men. Guests crowd the lobby and hallways. Champagne flows freely; everyone has a glass as they make their way from group to group, kissing cheeks and slapping backs. Inside the ballroom, the orchestra is playing great dance numbers, although the floor is perhaps a little too crowded for a good foxtrot. It’s the Zonta Club’s annual Spring Fling Ball—a great shindig, full of posh, self-satisfied, well-heeled people looking to see and be seen.

  The major fundraiser supports underprivileged girls and women in the area. Edith, whose name is listed in the program as part of the Decorating Committee, has been a Zonta for several years, but always on a committee, never on the Board. Zonta Board members are a prickly bunch of territorial women, well aware of the invisible caste system that Edith will never be able to escape from. She’s on the “husband has money, but is of questionable character” rung; tolerated but never truly accepted. Tonight’s success, though, elevates her. Things could be looking up.

  She was thrilled when, years ago, she’d been invited to join. Edith had seen first-hand the impact the Zonta programs had on women she knew, and their families. She also relished it for its acknowledgment of Mickey’s rise to prominence. But decades of social training at the knee of tightly corseted mothers did not give Zonta Club members the same egalitarian outlook as their programming goals. Executive members were definitely cut from the ‘Lady Bountiful’ cloth, and it seemed to Edith that she would toil in the shadows on decorating committees and program review committees forever. And Edith was a gal with ambitions. After all, she knew how much she and Mickey had accomplished in such a short time—five years—even if the Zonta executive didn’t recognize that.

  Tonight, her reason for Zonta inclusion is center stage. At a fundraiser, wallet size matters. There are not many donors in attendance tonight with deeper pockets than Mickey Duffy’s. Edith’s husband, looking suave in his tuxedo, stands chatting amiably with dignitaries and VIPs. Edith is breathtaking in a chiffon gown of soft pastels, weighted with strings of iridescent green beads. Complete with orchids in her hair and her corsage, she looks like a flapper garden fairy. Mickey also has a small orchid tucked into his lapel. They are a couple on-point with the Spring Fling event theme.

  “Mickey, what do you think…” “Hey Mickey, I hear that….”

  Edith laps it up, loving the attention. Tonight, she’s playing consort to Mickey’s King of the Bootleggers title. She can feel the cobwebs that have been gathering around her and Mickey the last few months shake free. Throwing back her head, she laughs at someone’s joke. Mickey steps closer, slides an arm around her waist.

  One of her fellow Zontas, another ‘wife of’, leans in and whispers, “That dress is the cat’s pajamas, and you look fabulous in it.” Edith smiles graciously, accepting the tribute. It is that kind of night; everything going her way.

  Mrs. Burgess, President of the Zontas and Chair of the Fundraising Committee, glides over. “Edith, my dear. You and your ladies have done an exemplary job decorating. Green’s has never looked as lovely. This may be the best year yet. Let’s chat after our next meeting. There may be a place for you on the Fall Frolic Committee. I know Alice is looking for help at the co-chair position and you come highly recommended. Tah-tah.” Tiny air kisses all round, careful not to disturb hours of effort in front of the dressing table’s mirror.

  Co-chair. Yes, the evening is perfect in every way. It really couldn’t get any better.

  A dashing fellow deliberately slides into a small space next to her. Mickey’s arm around her waist instinctively tightens, although he doesn’t break stride in his conversation with the bank president.

  “Congrats, doll. This is some party you’ve put together.”

  “Thank you. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. We had a lot of hands helping tonight, Mr….?”

  “Tony. Tony Giordano.”

  “And you’re a friend of my husband, Mr. Giordano?”

  “Nah, we’re more like bread and butter. Colonel Butler, the Chief of Police over there, is my boss,” Tony says. He nods in the direction of a tall, thin man in full dress uniform, complete with scarlet cape.

  “Oh, a policeman.” Edith stiffens, causing Mickey to glance at her and her companion before returning to the banker.

  “Detective.”

  “Not on official business tonight, I hope.”

  Tony laughs. “Nah, I’m off-duty tonight, unless, of course, someone should steal a heart or two. Are you a thief, Mrs. Duffy?”

  Edith glows under the rays of his repartee. “And you’re having a good time, Detective Giordano?”

  “I’m like a bee at this here Spring Fling, going from beautiful flower to beautiful flower gathering the nectar.” Tony leans down and kisses her hand. Then he turns it over and kisses the inside of her wrist.

  “Oh, my. You are sure of yourself, aren’t you? Say, you must meet my husband. Mickey, sweetie?”

  Mickey, still holding Edith, turns, a small frown at the interruption. His eyes examine Tony.

  “Mickey, this is Detective Tony Giordano.”

  Mickey reaches with his free hand to firmly shake that of the detective. “Detective Giordano. We may have met before.”

  “Really? Can’t recall that, Mr. Duffy.”

  “Yeah, we have. Maybe the mayor’s election party? Or the Policemen’s Benevolent Ball? Or maybe it was on the street somewheres. I never forget a face, Detective.” Mickey finally releases Tony’s hand, his mouth forming just the slightest sneer. Leaving his arm around Edith, he turns back to the banker.

  “Well, like I was saying, Mrs. Duffy, a swell party. Your husband must be very proud,” says Tony, not missing the arm around Edith or the cold shoulder from Mickey.

  “You’d think, wouldn’t ya?”

  Edith relaxes against Mickey’s arm, enjoying her own observations; the handsome man, the satin lapels of his tuxedo, the small mustache just like Rudy Valentino, the bad-boy grin that makes her tummy flip.

  “And are you from Philly, Detective Giordano?”

  “Tony. You must call me Tony.”

  Edith gives him a small smile.

  “Go on, I want to hear you say it,” Tony says, the undercurrents stirring.

  “All right then,” says Edith. “Tony.”

  Mickey’s arm is all that tethers her at this moment. “You’re bold as brass. Are you from Philadelphia?” she asks.

  “Nah, the Big Apple. New York. I’ve been here a few years now and like it well enough.”

  “You don’t miss the bright lights?”

  “Broadway can’t compete with the sparkle in your eyes, Edie.” He gives her a slow, lazy grin that makes Edith blush.

  “I bet you like Valentino movies, Detective.”

  Tony takes hold of Edith’s hand. “Damsels in distress are my specialty.”

  Flustered, Edith withdraws her hand.

  “Until next time, Edie.” Tony gives her a small bow and Mickey a long, measured look, and then disappears into the social swirl.

  Edith has a hard time catching her breath, watching his broad shoulders as he walks away.

  “Evening, Mickey. Edith. Swell party.” Broadcasting a megawatt smile in their direction, the mayor of Philadelphia joins their little group.

  “Mayor Kendrick.”

  “Now, you call me Freddy, Edith. All my friends do.”

  “All right then, Freddy. How are things at City Hall?”

  “We’re getting ready to announce new plans for next year’s Sesquicentennial. Celebrating the hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence is going to be an important event in Philadelphia, for America. Really showcase the city. I understand that you had a hand in arranging tonight’s festivities. I’d love to get your opinion on our Opening Ceremony plans, Edith. Maybe tap into som
e of that expertise. Tonight is amazing.”

  “Freddy, I’d be—”

  Mickey leans in and interrupts. “Thanks for the offer, Kendrick, but Edith’s kinda busy these days. She don’t have time for fripperies like that. Maybe next time.”

  “It is the Sesquicentennial, Mickey. It only comes round every century-and-a-half. It would be a boon to the city if Edith can maybe fit it into her schedule?”

  Edith puts a hand on the Mayor’s arm. “I’d love to help, Freddy.”

  “No way. She’s not interested. Now, what’s this I hear about the City expropriating some land west of town?”