She carried a basket of odd socks downstairs into the laundry room and tipped them out onto the folding table. In a blur of color and fingers, Betty expertly paired and rolled them. She flung each ball into one of four piles, like a master card player dealing a deck. She held up the orphaned sock remaining. It was one of little Georgie’s knee socks, sporting a new hole in the toe. She smiled and tucked it into her apron pocket, to keep for darning later.
Trap! Her hand flicked as quick-as-a-flash, caging a moth that flew out from behind the washer. Betty carried it, caged in her fingers, to the small window, opened it and leaned out, opening her hand. The moth flew away. When Betty closed the window again and turned back to her washing, the man hiding in the garden bed underneath the windowsill, breathed a sigh of relief.
Betty took each family member’s pile of laundered socks to the correct bedroom and tucked them neatly away. Back downstairs, she almost felt guilty as she vacuumed the sitting room rug with her Hoover. It was very modern - a model 305 that George had bought her before the war. They’d paid it off in a year at a dollar a week and donated her old carpet sweeper to a family from church. In Betty’s mind, her new Hoover was worth every penny and she felt decidedly lucky to have it. In the midst of the war, it was luxury to have any appliance in her hands at all. The Hoover company, in fact, had stopped production entirely for the time being, converting their factory to support the war effort instead. Once a week, Betty carried the vacuum next door to help old Mrs. Parsons with her cleaning. But this morning, she danced around her own sitting room pushing and pulling the long black handle with inflatable gray bag attached, spinning it in her arms as she sang.
“Throw me a dime and kiss me goodnight,
I’ve got a dream to go dancing tonight -”
She unlocked the converter under the bottom plate to pull out the brush and suction tools, whisking her way across the drapes until they were spotless. She didn’t notice the fabric of the curtain catch against a standing lamp, leaving a gap open at the bottom.
With a quick glance over her shoulder toward the kitchen (old habits were hard to break), Betty effortlessly lifted the end of the heavy couch with one hand, holding it up high so she could vacuum, underneath. She gently lowered it back down. George had insisted on keeping the heavy couches left to him by a great aunt, despite their needing numerous men to deliver. They were cumbersome, old and a dead weight, but Betty kept them in good condition with a regular polishing of saddle soap. She turned and lifted George’s matching, leather-bound armchair with a single hand, pushing the Hoover underneath. A voice suddenly broke into her mind over the music.
“Fuck -!”
Betty dropped the armchair to the floor with a thud and ran to the window. She pulled the drape aside. If someone had seen her – She cursed her own carelessness.
The garden bed was empty. Betty pushed the window open and stuck out her head. An empty Chrysler was parked across the road. A few teenage boys were lounging nearby, playing hooky from school, smoking and flicking knives into a wooden mailbox.
“I swear, she had a puss like an angry boil,” one boy was saying. “There was no way I’d take her dancing!” The others laughed.
Betty frowned, shaking her head at their dirty language. Still, from that distance, at least there was no way they could have seen her.
Back in the kitchen, Betty assembled the ingredients for dinner. Taking care to pull the curtains across tight to avoid unwanted peepers, she turned up the wireless and soon forgot about the truant boys. Artie Shaw’s Orchestra lit her heart with the Back Bay Shuffle and soon her feet were twirling as her hands were whirring. She chopped cabbage at super-speed with her sharpest kitchen knife (Betty was careful never to mix work utensils with culinary duties), flinging the cabbage strips over her shoulder into the sautéing saucepan with perfect aim. The kitchen was a flight of carrots and diced tomatoes, smashed garlic and pinches of curry powder. Raisins, chicken and almonds were sauced together in a blur of skillets and spoons. Betty’s hips wiggled, and her shoulders bobbed in time with the music as time ticked by.
She dipped her finger into the batter of her chocolate cream pie and licked the sweet meringue off her finger. It was a new recipe, with milk instead of cream and only two ounces of chocolate to accommodate rationing, but she was delighted with result. She pushed the pie into the fridge to set and stored the Panned Curried Cabbage and Chicken with Almonds in the oven to reheat later. Betty sang a merry tune as she washed her dishes. Finally, she sat down at the kitchen table with a well-deserved cup of tea.
Tea towel in hand, Betty dried the wet cutlery one by one as she sipped her tea, making a game of flinging the clean knives into the drawer across the room. Cling! Shing! Clang! Betty smiled. Her aim was better than ever. Flick! Her carving knife landed neatly in the chopping block, dead-center.
“She’s unnatural -” A voice hissed, unbidden into her mind. Not her own.
Someone was watching!
Betty sprang to her feet. The kitchen was empty, the curtain still closed.
The back door!
She stumbled over a kitchen chair as she raced for the laundry room, just moments too late. A man had already dashed through, knocking over the iron which had been cooling on its stand. Piles of clean washing were strewn and trampled all over the floor in his wake. He looked over his shoulder as he ran out the door, saw Betty storming after and sped up with a yelp. He was missing half an ear. He saw everything, she thought. And he ruined my clean washing!
Betty’s lips were white with rage. She raced through the mess he had made. On the street ahead, her voyeur was racing for the blue Chrysler parked by the side of the road. The teenagers were still standing around.
“You there! Stop!” Betty shouted as she raced across the road.
The boys scattered as the man dashed through them and jumped into his car. The engine roared to life. Betty sped across the road, her skirt and apron swishing at her knees. She yanked a flick knife that she’d seen the boys playing with earlier, from the mailbox.
“Hey!” a boy yelled.
Rip! She tore a strip of fabric from the bottom of her apron as she ran and spun it quickly around the shaft. Betty threw it with all her might.
Thud! As the man sped off, the padded knife shaft buried deep inside his tail pipe. He wouldn’t get far. Betty kept running.
Bang!
On cue, the car screeched to a halt and stopped dead, smoke billowing from the engine. The door opened, and the man fell out, scrambling to his feet, and took off. Not fast enough.
“No, you don’t,” Betty hissed. She grabbed him with both hands and pushed him back onto the hood. With every ounce of restraint in her body to not kill him where he stood, Betty held him tight. She recognized this man. It was the gunsel she’d seen in the basement of St. Augustine’s. Felix. The one who’d hit young Sam over the head as he forced the children to work. No doubt, one of Donny’s closest. Cruel. Cold. A killer many times over. The web of scars on his face were nothing to the monster that lay within.
Betty’s mind raked through his thoughts, grappling for any information she could use. She shuddered. He knows it was me in the basement. He’s seen my skills.
How on earth did he find me? Betty had been critically vigilant not to give the Mayor’s office her home address. All the Gala Ball arrangements were managed through the church social committee.
“I know what you are,” Felix whispered, watching her with narrowing eyes. “Freak.”
Betty tightened her fist around his collar. Her body screamed for release. It would be so easy to kill him. Right now. Right here. One step closer to Donny.
The man glanced back to the boys up the street, who were watching wide eyed. “Better be careful, love. You’ve got an audience.” Betty followed his gaze and caught her breath. Delicately, with the utmost resentment, she let him go and straightened up. The scarred man pulled himself off the hood, and stood, eye to eye in front of the stalled car.
“I
’ve been watching you,” he said, slowly, with a grin. “Mrs. Betty Jones.”
“Mr. Pinzolo sent you.”
“That’s right.” His right hand reflexively covered his left, which was still bandaged.
She peeled strips from his mind, desperate for more direction.
“Donny is not a nice man, you know,” Betty said, gesturing to his injured hand.
The man grimaced and lifted his chin. “Neither am I.”
Threads pulled together. Madam Trixie had mentioned him at the Bordello on the night she went after Vince. Felix was the new landlord. “He’s not a man to be trifled with,” she’d said. And Trixie was right. Dark, brooding thoughts swirled inside him. Betty was used to Donny’s goons, but this one was different. He was opportunistic and clever and underhanded. Donny’s man alright, but deep down, under layers of self-preservation and resentment, he answered to no one. Except, perhaps -”
One woman. “Tilly’s the only one that can stand that awful man.” The memory of Madam Trixie’s words now chilled Betty to the bone. That poor, naïve girl had no idea whose heart she had captured. Donny wouldn’t hesitate to use her. Surely, Felix knew that – yes. He knew. He’d underestimated Donny. And indeed, Tilly was now a pawn in his game.
“She’s in danger you know,” Betty said aloud. “Tilly.”
Felix stiffened. “What did you say?”
“Tilly,” Betty said. Her voice was casual, as if they were simply friends having a chat over the fence. “Lovely girl. Gorgeous bangs. I met her not long ago.”
“How did you know about - met her where?” he growled.
“Oh, I had some business to attend to at Kitties last week. Didn’t you hear?” Betty’s teeth shone with glee.
Felix studied her, critically, then finally made the connection. “You chilled ‘em all, didn’t you? I thought it might have just been Dimo at the orphanage. That you were working for somebody else. Maybe running with some trouble boys. But it was just you, all along.” The words came to him like a revelation. “A crazy little skirt with a big chip on her shoulder.” He laughed, a callous sounding bark. “Donny’s gonna roast you alive, lady.”
“I hardly think so,” Betty said, her eyes glinting. “Donny’s never cooked a day in his life. And I’m an expert with cooking utensils.” She nodded toward the back of the car. “As you’ve just discovered. It’s Tilly you should be concerned about, Mr. Felix.”
“Smarmy bitch, aren’t ya?” he growled. “You don’t know anything about Tilly.”
“I know that Donny will hurt her to control you. And it will never end. That’s what Donny does. She doesn’t deserve the life you’re drawing her into.”
Felix stepped forward, threateningly. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, Mrs. Jones. I can look after my own. All I have to do is give him you, and she’s safe.”
“I see,” Betty looked around. “And does she know you’re a murderer? Perhaps she ought to.”
“Tut, tut,” Felix grinned, nastily. “Glass houses, Mrs. Jones. I’m sure Mr. Jones would love to know what his perfect little whore does every day while he’s at work.”
“He already knows what I can do,” Betty lied. “My abilities, as it were. We have no secrets.”
“That sap?” Felix laughed. “I don’t think so. I’ve been watching you for days. The only thing your husband knows, is how to wipe his own ass. You’ve got nice kids, by the way. Pigtails and all.” At the look of fury on Betty’s face, he added, “Like I said, I’ve been watching you.”
“How dare you!” She growled, a low warning. In her peripheral vision, Betty saw drapes peeling aside. The curious eyes of her neighbors had found them. Betty forced herself back a step, clenching her fists. Perfectly manicured fingernails bit into her palms. Every inch of her skin craved to leap into battle. To twist his neck, to slice his throat. To rid her family of the threat he presented. Nearby, a front door opened. A woman’s head popped out for a better look.
What am I thinking? To murder him – here?!
She was standing in her home street, in its quiet, leafy, suburban paradise, surrounded by neighbors and boys with shiny, clean faces and mothers that naively believed them to be at school as they should be. This was no place for murder. Betty covered her mouth. Her hand was shaking. She looked down at it, like the something strange that it was - an impotent weapon. She gathered her wits and squeezed her fist still. Weakness, of any kind, was unacceptable.
No. She couldn’t kill Felix today. But she would kill him.
For now, there was only one other option. Betty pulled herself up tall, took a deep breath and presented her most intoxicating weapon.
She smiled. That cold, cruel smile that she wore like a crown. The harbinger of death. Avon Lady style.
“Well,” Betty said, pleasantly. “It seems we have a stale-mate, doesn’t it? I can’t snap your neck on the street and you can’t use that Colt Vest Pocket in your pants to shoot me.”
Felix looked down, amused. His hand moved self-consciously to his trouser pocket.
“Far too many witnesses,” she said.
Felix raised an eyebrow. “At least we can agree on that.”
“So instead, you can give Donny a message for me.”
“Yeah? And what’s that?”
“The Gala Ball that’s being held in his honor; tell him, that I hope he enjoys the party.” Betty flashed him a wicked grin, then turned boldly away, yanking the knife from his exhaust as she left.
It took every ounce of will power to let him drive away.
And one thing was abundantly clear. She had just run out of time.
“You alright, lady?” one of the teenagers asked Betty as she stood, staring at where the Chrysler had just been. “Did he rob ‘ya?”
Betty spun around. She’d almost forgotten they were there. “Goodness,” she said, patting her hair. “No – no, it was just a misunderstanding, that’s all,” she offered, absently, her mind a hive of worry. She unwrapped the flick knife, folded it and handed it him.
“You’re a pretty good shot, missus,” the boy said.
“Just luck,” Betty lied, forcing a smile.
“You need to tell the brass about him! We’ll tell ‘em what happened, that he was snooping around your house.”
Betty put on her sternest ‘mother’ face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Don’t you think the police will ask you why you weren’t in school to start with?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I really am fine, boys. Thank you. Now get home, all of you. I know your mothers, you know. If I see you here again, I’ll have to tell them you’ve been shirking.”
Betty walked back across the road to begin her washing day all over again.
I need a stiff cup of tea.
It was late afternoon, when Sergeant Jacob Lawrence parked outside a handsome double story house in a quiet, leafy street. His notebook was heavy with dead leads – almost every Avon representative in New York City now bore a line crossed through her name. He’d been offered endless cups of tea and cakes, questioned on his bachelorhood (he supposed in the hopes of securing a new customer in his non-existent wife), scolded for impolite inferences regarding the bordello, slapped and propositioned. He’d found samples of aftershave and toiletries slipped into his pockets (after the insistence that Joe DiMaggio was an avid fan) and he’d even had one lady burst into tears at the sight of him. He was thoroughly fed up.
Not long before Jacob began his morning rounds, he’d sent Parker off to finish the paperwork on the latest stash of drugs they’d found. The usual ‘sample’ box of heroin and Benzedrine pills along with an Avon Calling! card with handwritten note to an obscure address, had turned up on the station steps at noon one day not long after they’d pulled Vince Carelli out of the junkyard. A sizable stash of heisted crates had been left for him in the unused rail shed which turned out to be the place where the heist itself had taken place, confirming Jacob’s suspicions. Someone was clearly trying to
make his job easy for him. The crates had since been identified as the same ones that had been stolen, though, strangely, only half of the convoy had been recovered. Going on past experience, Jacob fully expected the other half would turn up soon enough, but what preceded that recovery was what he was now trying so desperately to prevent. Another grisly underground homicide was the last thing he needed. Every day seemed to drag longer in overtime and he still felt no closer to cracking this case. He’d questioned bookies and bordello’s, snowed up snitches and the skids that filled the cracks of pavement on the streets at night, all in the hopes that someone had seen something unusual. Heck, he’d almost been tempted to put the screws on every hobo in Central Park. Surely, no-one could transport dozens of crates from one side of the city to the other without leaving some sort of trail.
Guilt and disappointment weighed heavy on his heart. Over the past fortnight, he’d canceled every date with Adina that they’d set. She was such a breath of fresh air, smart and witty, always a step ahead of him. But, just as he’d predicted on their first date, his job had already taken a heavy toll on their burgeoning relationship. She said she understood, as busy as she was with her own work, but he knew she’d been disappointed. Worse yet, Adina had arrived at his office in a professional capacity only the day before, shadowing the footsteps of her boss, General Brandway, who was the Deputy Port Commander of the Transportation and Overseas Supply Divisions for the biggest New York Embarkation Camp. Any military cargo needed by the front line, was sourced, stocked and shipped through his books. Including the trucks of cargo that were being hijacked under Jacob’s watch. Brandway had a hard-boiled reputation for running a tight ship, with frequent fits of temper that sent lesser men scrambling for cover.
The meeting hadn’t gone well.
“What in blazes is the meaning of this fiasco, Lawrence?” Brandway had yelled as he stepped in the door, causing the entire station to stop and stare. “It’s been months! Months of me losing my best GI’s, losing resources that our boys depend on at the front line and here you are – sitting on your cracker in a cushy office pushing papers around the desk. I’ve had it up to here!” His hand hit Jacob’s desk, hard. His oiled gray hair sprung against his pink-face with the vibration and his weathered features darkened like a raging storm.
Avon Calling! Season One Page 20