“Sergeant Lawrence will be able to fill you in on anything you want to know, but for now, I think it would be best if you got him to the hospital. He’s inhaled a lot of smoke and he needs his legs looked at. It will raise too many questions if I take him in – I shouldn’t even be here. Would you mind?”
“Of course not, Ma’am. Can you wait with him while I find a car?”
“Of course.” Parker left them.
“What on earth are you wearing?” Jacob coughed, once they were alone.
“Oh, do you like it?” Betty replied, beaming. She turned, showing off her dark blue collared coveralls, buttoned up across her chest, her blue eyes bright with amusement. Her face was smudged with soot, her dark hair pinned into rolls under a red scarf tied in a top knot. “I got the idea from the girls in the munitions factory, you know. They look like absolute dolls, even though they’re building bombers and trucks, elbow deep in grease. A vision of female empowerment – it really tickled my fancy! Practical and fashionable.” Betty winked. “Besides, it’s so easy to fight in trousers – I wonder I’d never considered it before. Still, I don’t think I’ll be hanging up my skirts just yet. For starters, there’s nowhere here to hide knives.”
“A unique problem, I’m sure,” Jacob shook his head.
Betty gave him a wry look. “You weren’t complaining when I high-kicked a gat from Shady Sean O’Grady earlier and saved your life.”
“I didn’t know you did.”
“Well, you can thank my fabulous coveralls then, for letting me blend in with all the men fighting around me,” Betty winked. “That and the smashed-out streetlights.”
“You could have been killed,” he said, straight-faced.
“You nearly were Jacob.” Betty softened her voice. “Do you honestly think I could have taken that chance?”
Betty sat down and picked up a silver spoon. It glittered as she stirred her porcelain teacup, catching the sunlight streaming in from the kitchen window. The radio in the sitting room played out a lovesick melody and Sinatra’s voice drifted into her heart. Betty drifted along with it for a while, letting the words take her away.
Be careful out there sweetheart,
My heart would break with yours,
Lost and lonely wand’ring,
Until you return to my door.
Her thoughts nudged the busyness that was about to fill her day but kept returning to George. The house felt lonelier without him in it. Colorless. It was as if her good humor had been caught in a butterfly net and couldn’t quite find its way out.
Betty sighed. I must darn those curtains, she thought idly, as a small tear in the lace caught her eye for the second time in as many days. Make Do and Mend.
Sinatra found her again, with a voice as soft as cashmere.
Be careful out there sweetheart,
Hold my hand so you don’t fall,
I’m here if you should need me,
I’ll come tumblin’ when you call.
The teaspoon tinkled on her saucer as she set it down. Betty picked up her tea and took a sip. The nasty business at the Bowery had been predictable, but unfortunate. Betty unfolded the newspaper that lay on the table and scanned the front page.
Gangs of New York at War, the headline shouted. Fifteen dead and dozens injured as The Bowery burns. She shook her head and folded it back up. The Tin Man had more than succeeded in his quest to stir up trouble. With the exception of Hellcat Harry’s crew, who had heeded her warning, New York City’s most notorious criminal gangs were at each other’s throats.
Betty sighed again. She took another sip of tea. Her fingers played with the handle of the teacup and her brow furrowed. Officer Parker had seen her brute strength in action. He had already suspected Betty’s fighting skill. Now, he knew the truth. Betty could only ignore the warning growl in her gut and hope she had put her faith in the right person. Layers of her past were unravelling and far too many people knew the truth. The perfect double-life she’d so fastidiously created over the last decade was falling apart.
Donald Pinzolo knew everything about her, of course.
And he’d bought his freedom by selling her secrets to the FBI.
The Boudoir Butcher knew, and had threatened to do far worse than expose her.
Madam Trixie and Tilly from Kitty’s Kat House knew far more than they should.
Betty had been forced to confess her terrible crimes to George.
Images of his wife committing murder now muddied his idealistic world.
Nancy was grappling with the overwhelming reality of their shared abilities.
Now, Officer Malcolm Parker had had his suspicions about Betty confirmed.
Far too many people know my secrets.
A sharp rat-tat-tat broke Betty from her reverie. She jumped to her feet and hastened to the front door, smoothing her apron on the way. She opened the door to reveal a portly man in a postal worker’s uniform. His Ford delivery truck was humming at the end of the driveway.
“Hello Cliff, what a lovely surprise!”
“Thought you might like this one straight away, Betty,” the man said, tipping his driver’s hat with one hand, as he passed a small envelope with the other. “I know you’re waiting for news.”
“You’re an absolute dear,” Betty beamed. On the front of the envelope, her name was written in George’s hand. “Will you come in for a coffee?”
“Not today,” Cliff replied. He bounced on his feet and settled his hat back over his thinning hair. “Still en-route, lots of stops to go. I’ll take you up on the offer next time though, shall I?” He turned and waved as he ducked back down the porch steps. “Best wishes to George and the children.” In a few moments he was gone.
Betty turned back inside and shut the door. She carried the letter back to the kitchen and quickly slipped it open.
My dearest Jitterbug,
The boys rag on me for sending home my behavior report, as they say, so often, but I cannot let a week pass without needing to hear back. Tell Georgie I got his letter and thought it was swell. As soon as I make it home for good, we’ll take the poles to Central Park Lake for some bluegill and boating – he’ll earn his rowing badge yet! I haven’t heard from Nancy, perhaps you can have a word? She seemed down in the mouth at Christmas. It’s a jolly shame - she was so happy to be starting eighth grade to begin with. Is it that Bobby lad from the barbershop she’s upset about? She’s too young to be so twitterpated and tied in knots, but what do I know of thirteen-year-old girls? You’ll manage her as you always do so well. I suppose I hate to imagine my little girl growing up so fast.
It was swell to be home for Christmas, even if it was fleeting. Of what we spoke about, and all I know now, it doesn’t change a thing for me. I’ve had plenty of time to think. My heart beats for you, Jitterbug, and for the life we’ve built together. Please keep me in your heart while I’m gone.
I have news - I’ve been transferred to the 991st Field Battalion unit. I guess my enthusiasm for mechanics got this old flat tire into ship-shape, after all! I’ll be under General Doyle, who by all accounts is a sharp and congenial man with all stars blazing. The operation and repair of the Motor Gun Carriage is my main task and I’m biting at the bit to begin. It’s a mighty swell tank, Jitterbug. To see me in it would curl your hair.
Nearly one thousand have filled the prison buildings of the Camp now. They’ve been put to work in the orchards and dairies around, to cover for the farmers gone to arms. There’s no secret about it. Yesterday we were given special duty to accompany some of the fellows to Watertown for a day out, on account of their co-operation. Jolly pleased, they were, to be free of the stockades and guards for a spell. We had to skip the bars and dance halls, but I think they enjoyed their time out, nonetheless. If it weren’t for the arm bands, they’d be taken as any other soldier, rather than the POW’s they were brought in as. For this lot, suspicion is turning to comradery. The armistice has changed things for them her
e.
There will be no plowing fields where they send me though, but now I’m ready, willing and able. I have perhaps a month or so before deployment. The young ones are getting edgy. I hope we get weekend leave before we ship out. I’ll shine my dancing shoes and we’ll zip out to Lennox Avenue the way we used to. Kick up our heels. One more jitterbug with my Jitterbug to see me through, hey. That’ll keep me warm in the trenches.
I’m off to hit the bunk, it’s lights out and I’m beat. Give my love to the children. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to kiss you goodnight.
Always yours,
George.
Betty wiped away a tear. She held the letter to her chest. Though he appeared in as good spirits as always, she knew her husband was hiding his fear. Betty filled him with cheer in her replies, reciting the latest gossip from the Marigold Church Social Committee and highlighting the capers little Georgie and his orphanage friends got up to when Adina took him to visit them, but really, her own confidence was shaken.
Once again, the secrets between her and George were growing. War had taken him away, and she had been left to hold everything together. He now knew of her horrific past. Her bloody revenge. Her terrible gifts. But there was so much happening at home that he didn’t know. And even if she could have written it, Betty didn’t have the heart to tell him. After all, he was facing something far worse.
How could Betty admit that she was floundering in Nancy’s rebellion? That for every step she took to mend their rift, the girl seemed to edge further toward trouble?
How could she disclose that a government spy was trailing her? Betty knew she was considered a human weapon. Thanks to Donny, the mysterious person that kept her file at the Governor’s Room in City Hall, now had the full dossier. War criminal or secret agent – whichever way their suspicions swayed – Betty’s every move was under a microscope. It was only a matter of time before she was brought to account. Would they try to take Nancy and George Junior? Test them? Imprison her? Arrest her husband as a conspirator and traitor? Was George safer fighting Nazi’s than staying in his own home?
And how could Betty confess that when she had nearly lost Jacob in the fire, she had almost lost herself? That the thick smoke had hidden her fear as he prepared to die? That her heart had screamed, while her voice only trembled?
And what of her inability to do the thing Jacob had asked?
How could Betty concede that she was failing to catch the city’s notorious serial killer?
The Tin Man was inciting inter-gang violence like a brutal puppeteer.
The Boudoir Butcher was controlling minds and violating bodies.
He was a ghost.
She was a vixen.
Together, they were master manipulators of murder.
And finally, how could Betty admit, that time was running out?
Because every day that passed, brought Donald Pinzolo one step closer to freedom.
With a swish of peacock blue, a young woman with long dark hair approached the enquiry desk at the Orphan Asylum of New York. It was an old brownstone building that rose into the winter sky, functional and somber. Beyond the reception desk, a few closed doors gave the administrators privacy as they tended to their busy business of receiving homeless children, and very occasionally, adopting them back out.
Behind the reception desk, a secretary was tapping away on her Underwood Portable Typewriter, taking particular satisfaction with the ding of the bell at the end of each line and the mechanical whizz as she tugged on the carriage return lever and sent it zipping back to begin again.
“Excuse me,” the visitor said. The secretary raised an eyebrow but kept typing.
“Excuse me,” the young woman repeated. “I have an appointment.”
With a flourish, the secretary finished typing her sentence and gave the lever a pull. The carriage whizzed back to start a new line.
“Your name?”
“Is my own business.” The young woman’s voice was quiet, reserved. She stared at the secretary with bright, piercing blue eyes and the woman behind the typewriter scowled. “Please,” the young woman added, with a pointed smile. Despite her striking façade, no part of her demeanor suggested she was seeking attention.
The secretary looked up at the visitor through the top of horn-rimmed glasses.
“Take a seat.”
The young woman settled on an old sofa near the door and waited. Before long, one of the doors behind the reception desk opened, and a middle-aged woman appeared. She was smartly dressed, with a kind face framed by a pile of blonde hair.
“Come in, please,” she announced.
She waited until the young woman had entered the office, then shut the door gently behind her. The office was neat, with a wooden writing desk and numerous filing cabinets.
“My name is Mrs. Briknell. I’m the asylum administrator.” She sat behind the desk and looked expectantly at her visitor.
“I’m here to enquire about a child,” the young woman said.
“I think that’s clear,” Mrs. Briknell smiled. “Though I don’t seem to have any notes here about your appointment request. You didn’t say which child – or even your own name, Mrs. –?”
“Miss. And I’d prefer not to say, if you don’t mind.”
“I see.” Mrs. Briknell leaned back in her chair. She frowned. “Are you enquiring about a specific child, then?”
The young woman opened her purse and took out a small, folded piece of paper. She passed it across the desk. The orphanage administrator took the paper and read it.
“Birth certificate for an infant boy. A relative?” she asked, already guessing the truth.
“My son.” The words were delivered perfunctorily, but a flash of vulnerability betrayed the young woman’s startling blue eyes. “I gave birth to him in California at a Magdalen home for unmarried mothers. I’ve been led to believe I might find him here in New York City.”
“You signed him over yourself?”
“The nuns signed him over.” The young woman’s jaw was set. “They held me down and took him. I was too weak from the birth to resist it.” She paused, took a breath, and continued, her voice even and calm. Too calm. “I’m not the only one, I realize that now. It’s what they do in those places to unmarried women with no prospects. They said I was a fallen woman, Mrs. Briknell. A moral danger to myself and others. I don’t believe that to be the case.” She set her shoulders, lifted her chin. “I have found my strength and I intend to find my child.”
“I see.”
A moment passed. A small desk clock ticked in time with the staccato typewriter behind the closed office door. The administrator leaned forward. She seemed to be choosing her words delicately.
“We have had numerous mothers over the years in your situation. It’s always a distressing tale. They are searching for a baby that was given up, usually at the insistence of their own parent or partner, and sometimes, like you, after being forced. Perhaps the woman was too young and unmarried or had no means of supporting the child at the time and the decision was made for her. When circumstances change, and the mother wants the child back, well, it usually doesn’t come to pass.” Mrs. Bricknell frowned. “Sometimes the child has already been adopted to new parents or is unable to be located. Sometimes the child’s name was changed on the certificate, or the birthdate was recorded incorrectly. Far too often, we have no identification at all. I don’t mean to seem harsh, my dear, but you should prepare yourself for disappointment in this search. This is a big city, a big country. There are thousands of orphans in New York institutions. With the war touching our homes, and child refugees flooding in from Europe for their own safety as well, we are becoming a city of lost children. A changed mind, a changed circumstance, or even, as in your case, a mother’s right to choose, doesn’t necessarily lead to a miracle.”
“I understand that,” the young woman said. “But my life and my prospects are changing. Until I have searched every poss
ibility, I will not give up on finding him. There is no miracle required.”
“And have you a home to offer a child?” Mrs. Briknell asked. “Have you the security and comfort a small child requires? I see you are still unmarried. We don’t make a habit of allowing unmarried women to adopt, you know. Are you engaged to be married, then?”
“No.” The young woman seemed to prickle with resentment. “My current relationship is – mutually beneficial. I don’t seek marriage from the man.”
Mrs. Bricknell looked at her curiously. “Well, where do you live?”
At this, her visitor stumbled. She swallowed, then straightened her back, looked the administrator straight in the eye.
“I have no fixed address. The man I keep company with travels around a lot. It suits him to keep moving.”
“And you travel with him?”
“I’m his assistant, of sorts, so I must,” the young woman replied. “He’s an important man, in his own circles. If he needs something attended to, I see it done. He pays me for my help.”
“And if you find your child?”
“I’ll be leaving the man,” she replied without a moment’s hesitation. “I’ve saved quite a bit of money, enough to start again. I plan to move far away. Just myself and my boy.” She gave a guarded smile, then nodded curtly to the birth certificate. “I mean to find him, Mrs. Bricknell. Whatever it takes.”
The administrator sighed and offered a resigned smile.
“Then I shall see what I can do to help you.” She studied the birth certificate for a few moments, then passed it back to the young woman. She stood up, walked behind her desk, flicked out the drawer of a large filing cabinet and began expertly leafing through the files inside. She shut the cabinet. Opened another. After perusing more than half the cabinets in this manner, she finally gave her visitor a sad smile.
Lady Vigilante (Episodes 16 – 18) (Lady Vigilante Crime Compilations) Page 12