Shattered Angel

by Baird Nuckolls

  The young man stepped back and straightened up. “Henry Rutledge, ma’am. I’m Mrs. Hart’s personal secretary.”

  “Really?” She wondered when that had happened. Mother hadn’t had a secretary yesterday, as far as she knew. “Where did you come from?”

  “Charleston, South Carolina, ma’am. And if you’re all right, ma’am, I need to go on my way. I have business to attend to.”

  What sort of business was her mother sending him to do? A wicked thought entered Angel’s head; she wasn’t ready to let this young man go so easily. She raised a hand to her brow.

  “Oh, I don’t feel so well.” She swayed, as if about to faint, and Mr. Rutledge leapt to her side to catch her.

  “Here, let me help you to sit down.” Rutledge looked around frantically, but there were no chairs in the foyer. The closest one was inside the hall to the dining room, but he didn’t seem to know that yet. Angel waved a limp hand in that direction and he half carried her across the marble floor and through the passage to find the chair.

  “Shall I fetch Harmon?” he suggested, hoping perhaps to escape.

  “No, please don’t leave me.” Another wicked idea presented itself. “I’m in a very delicate state, you see. But don’t tell my mother.”

  Rutledge looked even paler than he had seemed at the door. Since he hadn’t asked her name by the door, she took pity on him. “I’m Angel. Angel Eldridge.” He still looked blank. “Mrs. Hart is my mother.”

  “Oh, of course ma’am. Pleased to meet you.” He reached out to take her hand but thought better of it and pushed it into his pocket. Suddenly he began to cough terribly and pulled a large white handkerchief out of his pocket to cover his mouth. Angel sat back, aghast.

  “Excuse me, please, Miss Eldridge. I really must be going.” He looked around wildly and caught sight of Harmon crossing the foyer. “Oh, Harmon, could you please come here?” He left Angel perched on the chair and stepped down the hall. Soon he was leading Harmon back.

  “She nearly fainted,” he explained, but Angel broke in before he could add the more scandalous details.

  “I’m fine now, Harmon, no need to worry.” Angel stood and straightened her shift. Although she was looking down, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that Mr. Rutledge’s eyes went wide at the sight. She smiled at both men and walked away. Just as she reached the stairs, she turned back.

  “Do hurry Mr. Rutledge. You don’t want to keep Mother waiting.”

  Angel decided to go home to her apartment rather than talk to her mother just yet. She needed to compose herself after that little stunt in the foyer with Mr. Rutledge. Why did Mother hire a secretary? Surely Harmon was enough to help with her social calendar. Maybe there was something else going on? And she was hoping that Maggie would come and see her tonight. She could talk to her mother after that.

  ***

  Harold Tisdale arrived at the Eldridge mansion precisely at three o’clock, just as the response he had given Henry indicated. Gladys was pleased that Henry had managed his errand without difficulties. It was just the first of many, and they would probably become more challenging as time progressed. Harmon showed Harold into her study.

  “Would you like some tea, Harold,” she said, indicating the tea service laid out on a table by the window, “or shall we sit and discuss business?” She gestured toward the chair in front of her desk on which sat a decanter of Harold’s favorite scotch and a single crystal glass. He chose the chair, with a laugh.

  “You certainly know how to treat a man, Gladys.” He poured a circumspect amount of scotch and tasted it. “Yes, you do.”

  “I learned a great deal from Howard.”

  “And I imagine he learned a great deal from you, dear lady.” Harold saluted her with the glass and she smiled. “So, what can I do for you today?”

  “You can start by telling me what’s going on down at City Hall.”

  Harold looked startled. This was not at all what he’d expected. “I’m not sure what to tell you. What exactly do you want to know?”

  “Oh Harold, don’t be coy. I know that Murray Hulbert is down there, and I imagine he’s having his way with our fair city in Mayor Hylan’s absence. You know him better than most. What is he up to?”

  “Well it’s true that Hulbert has stepped in as acting mayor. And he has a different point of view than our mayor, but I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “But I am worried, Harold. What sort of changes can he make? Doesn’t he have full power as acting mayor?”

  “Not until Hylan’s been gone for more than thirty days, and then it’s still limited.”

  “I’m still concerned about what sort of damage he can do.”

  “What sort of damage do you mean?” Harold looked concerned.

  “I have plans for the bank, expansion plans and new lines of business. I’m concerned about Hulbert standing in my way, to be perfectly frank.”

  “Well, all I can say is that Hubert and the mayor have disagreed in the past about certain important aspects of port business.”

  “You mean, who has control?”

  “Essentially. The mayor has been very vocal about his dislike of the ‘interests’ in regard to city services.”

  “And his dislike encompasses the port commissioner? I thought they were Tammany allies.”

  “You know the old saying, Gladys. ‘Hold your allies close and your enemies closer.’”

  “Thank you, Harold.”

  Harold took another sip of his scotch. “Gladys, if you don’t mind me asking, what are Aaron’s political plans?

  “He would like a seat on the city council, I believe.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Does he have Tammany connections, too? Will that interfere with the expansion plans that you have for the bank?”

  “No, I don’t think it will be a conflict of interest, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And Angel? Do you and Aaron have a husband picked out for her yet?”

  “No, but the thought has been on my mind for some time. I think I need to take some action soon.”

  “You should be able to find a suitable match, even after the war.”

  “That’s what I’ve told her but she seems to have ideas that don’t involve a husband. She has been talking about working at the bank and she is spending a great deal of time with Aaron.”

  “Maybe that’s a good idea. She can learn the family business.”

  “You may be right.” Gladys remembered Aaron’s interest in her last secretary and wasn’t so sure. “I need to talk to both of them about this further.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Morelli

  Four blocks from the apartment on Downing, Morelli noticed a Chevy sedan following him. He thought he recognized the driver, a plainclothes cop he’d seen around but whose name he couldn’t remember. It paced slowly behind him, forcing the rest of the traffic to go around it. Morelli wasn’t sure who would be following him or why.

  Crossing to the east at Eighth Avenue, he looked back and the Chevy was gone. Maybe it had just been his imagination. Then he saw another cop he knew walking up the street behind him. Too much of a coincidence. The one’s name was Flarrity—a good cop but a lousy tail. He was definitely being followed.

  Morelli knew Flarrity from the old days. They weren’t friends, but they weren’t enemies either. So, what the hell did he want? Morelli wasn’t doing anything to attract the attention of the cops. He caught sight of the car again, idling at the corner of Fifth Avenue, parked illegally. Halfway up Broadway, he turned into a speak that he knew about. If Flarrity wanted to talk to him, he might as well have a glass of hooch while he was talking.

  Morelli knocked on the largest oak door on the block. There was no sign identifying the bar, but it was hard to miss, nonetheless. The building stood out for its well-kept appearance, but total anonymity. From the corner of his eye, he could see Flarrity walking slowly up from behind, but Morelli ignored him. A peephole opened in the door; a black and whi
te eyeball stared out at him. The inky-black skin around it crinkled as it took him in.

  “Morelli?” The voice was muffled by the door.

  “Yeah, who’s askin’?”

  There was a rattling on the other side of the door.

  “Why, it’s Charleston, man,” the voice continued in a lush and mellow tone.

  The big oak door swung open and Charleston Dupree stood beaming in the doorway, his gold front tooth shining to beat the band. He was almost big enough to fill the enormous doorway. Morelli smiled. When Morelli had walked a beat, Charleston was a local fighter. Morelli had broken up a crowd that had gotten out of hand once, when Charleston was fighting a young Irish boy. The crowd didn’t like to see the black boy winning. They had run into each other here and there over the years. Charleston grabbed Morelli in a bear hug and pulled him into the speak, slamming the door behind him. Laughing uproariously, he spun them both into the hall, before replacing the dead bolt and turning to face Morelli.

  “Morelli, Morelli. Long time, no see.”

  “I didn’t know you were working here, Charleston. How long’s it been?”

  “Eighteen months. I figured you’d be in here eventually.”

  This was a protected speak. The cops got paid to look the other way. Not to say that you wouldn’t find them there, taking their pay in a teacup. It was one of the fancy ones, with lots of glass and mirrors and decorations. The bar was along the back wall and there were a few customers swilling booze even though it was pretty early for this type of joint.

  Charleston pulled Morelli across the highly polished planked floor to the bar. Standing behind it, polishing glassware while waiting for something to happen, was a tall, thin, very finely-mustached bartender wearing an Edwardian shirt and celluloid collar.

  “Hank, this is my friend Morelli. Morelli, this is Hank, the best barman in town.”

  Hank’s voice was thin and reedy, just like his shape. “Another friend. You must be a cop, ‘cause you’ve got too many teeth to be a fighter. That seems to be all he knows.”

  “Ex-cop. Nice to meet you, Hank.”

  Hank stuck out his thin mitt and Morelli took it, surprised by his firm handshake.

  There was a knock at the front door and Charleston left to answer it.

  “Glad to meet you,” Hank replied.

  “Give me a shot of hooch, would you, Hank?”

  Hank poured the shot and set it on the bar. “On the house, Morelli, your first time here and all.”

  “Thanks,” Morelli said and made his way, shot in hand, to a table in the corner. He set the glass on the table, next to a fancy glass ashtray and a bowl full of unshelled peanuts. Removing his hat and coat, he put them on a chair and sat down facing the room. He wanted to see who would be coming in the door next.

  It was Flarrity, walking across the floor behind Charleston. Flarrity picked up Morelli’s hat, deposited it on the table, and sat down in the other chair, a crooked smile on his mug. His suit was neatly pressed, and the shirt and tie looked new. He looked a lot better dressed than Morelli remembered.

  “You get promoted or something?” he asked.

  Charleston laughed, clapping a meaty hand on Flarrity’s shoulder.

  “Hey, didn’t you know, this guy made Detective First-Grade a few weeks ago? We had the ball of the decade in here that night.” Chuckling, he turned and walked back to his post near the front door.

  Flarrity’s face was flushed, whether from the cold outside or embarrassment Morelli didn’t ask.

  “Never gonna change Charleston, will we, huh Morelli? He loves a good party.”

  Over Flarrity’s shoulder, Morelli watched Charleston open the door for someone else. Must be Flarrity’s partner. Morelli remembered his name, now. It was O’Neill, known as “the Bull.” He was the one driving the car. He must have parked the Chevy somewhere nearby, probably illegally.

  Charleston was standing way back from the Bull, like he was gonna catch something as the big man entered, and Morelli wondered if they’d had a run-in or two. Charleston was bigger, but the Bull was older and meaner, and had quite a reputation.

  The man wore a good toupee, but not so good that you couldn’t tell, and a cheap-looking sports coat that was straining to stretch over his broad shoulders. His shoes glinted in the reflection of the bar lights as he crossed the room. Morelli had seen O’Neill around, but had never met him. From the looks of him, that was just as well.

  Just then, Flarrity leaned forward, scooping some peanuts from the bowl, and spoke close to his ear. “You’ve really got it going, huh, Morelli?”

  Morelli ignored Flarrity’s comment. He figured the man would tell him what he was talking about when he was ready. Flarrity sat back and opened a paper he’d brought with him. He looked through it until he found a small article on an inner page and then turned it so that Morelli could read it.

  “DRIVER FOR THE MOB RELEASED FROM SING-SING!” The story was about one Mickey McElwaine, a driver for hire for the mob. The article didn’t say much, except that he’d done time for some small drug offense. Now he was on the loose.

  “So? What gives?” Morelli looked up at Flarrity.

  “Have you seen him?” Flarrity asked.

  “Wouldn’t recognize the kid if he fell dead in my lap. Why ask me?”

  “Well, you’ve been seen in the vicinity of one Maggie McElwaine, a redheaded hellion of a waitress from the Eats Café in the village. Maybe you’ve got the hots for her or you’re just following her around for fun, but she’s connected to this kid. Wife, sister, something or other. I want to talk to the kid, Morelli. I thought maybe you mighta seen him?”

  Morelli didn’t say anything. So, that’s who Hart was yelling about at the café. And it strengthened his suspicion that he’d been the one who got into the Model T outside the apartment. But if Flarrity was looking for him and knew about the apartment, why hadn’t he been there when Mickey came out? Was it just bad luck that he’d missed him and saw Morelli instead? He wasn’t going to say anything to Flarrity until he knew more about what was going on. He noticed O’Neill carrying on a short, intense conversation with Hank at the bar. Then he collected his drink and headed to an empty table. Hank picked up the house phone. After a minute of talking, he hung up and went back to wiping down the bar. Now who would Hank be calling?

  A pall seemed to fall over the room as the Bull sat down and looked around. Two other customers at a nearby table stopped laughing in the middle of some joke or other, and got up to leave. Charleston unlocked the door to let them out. He locked it behind them, went back to his chair at the end of the bar and picked up his paper, but Morelli suspected he had his eye on them.

  Morelli looked back at Flarrity, who sat with his hand on the paper, tapping the page with one fingertip, looking at him expectantly. He was going to have to tell Flarrity something.

  “I’ve got a client. I’m looking for a cheating husband. The waitress might be part of it. Doesn’t look like it to me, but I don’t get paid to think, just do.”

  Flarrity turned the paper back toward himself. “One minute you’re down and out, the next you’re spending dough in speaks. That’s nice. You must have a generous client. Who is it?”

  “I don’t think I want to say any more about that.”

  Over Flarrity’s shoulder, Morelli saw a door open behind the bar. A young fancy-dan wearing a black tuxedo, with greased hair, came out from the back office, and just stood there a minute behind the bar, looking around. He looked over at Morelli and Flarrity, and then he spied O’Neill in the darkened corner, sipping his booze.

  The fancy guy came out from behind the bar and crossed the room. He had a weaselly little smile. As he came up beside O’Neill, he pounded the big cop on the back mightily, nearly upsetting O’Neill’s toupee. The two men shook hands and sat down.

  Morelli leaned over to Flarrity and asked, “Who’s that with your partner?”

  Flarrity looked over at O’Neill and then back, raising his shoulders
in a shrug. “Morelli, don’t be a bad guy. Just don’t ask. Be smart like me.”

  “I got Charleston in my corner.”

  “Don’t depend on that, Morelli. Charleston isn’t that stupid. The Bull is too much for him anyway.”

  “Hmm,” was all Morelli said.

  “Come on, get your mind back on business. We were lookin’ for the kid, but we lost him. If you see him in your wanderings around town, will you call me?”

  “Didn’t he do his time?”

  “I just want to make contact, Morelli.” Flarrity looked hard at him. “Think of him as a bomb I want to defuse just as soon as I can, maybe before somebody else defuses him.”

  “You know something I should know?”

  “Will you just call me?”

  “Since you asked nicely, I will.”

  “That’s what I was hoping for, Morelli. You do the right thing.” Flarrity’s eyes clouded. “Now shut up about this. I don’t want to talk about it in front of the Bull.”

  “Jeez, you’re afraid of him, too.”

  “Cut the shit, Morelli,” he said furiously.

  Morelli smiled and sipped his drink. Flarrity read his paper. ‘Fancy’ and O’Neill were leaning real close together over there, being real chummy, and after a moment or two, Fancy stood up, not even trying to hide what he was doing, and handed the Bull a stiff, thick envelope.

  “Your partner just took a real big envelope away from the fancy guy.”

  “That don’t concern us, Morelli. I’m surprised you’d notice a thing like that.”

  “You mean because it isn’t healthy?”

  “I know, let’s talk about the waitress. Margaret McElwaine. She’s a doll if you like ‘em rough.”

  “Yeah, I noticed, but it’s nothing to me. I got a gig and I’m waiting for something to happen, which in my opinion is never gonna happen. I gotta eat, right?”

  “Sure. Eat. Who’s the waitress going with?”