by Warren Court
Armour sat back from the grave and stared at the body. He heard someone coming towards him. He turned and looked up at Chambers. He was holding a shotgun.
“Get up,” Chambers said.
Armour bounced to his feet. The vision was gone now. All vestiges of the nausea had vanished. He advanced on Chambers, still clutching Holt’s billfold.
Chambers cocked the barrel of the gun. “Hold it.”
Armour kept coming.
“I said hold it.”
“You going to bury me next to him?”
Chambers pointed the gun at Armour’s head.
“You can’t get away with it. It’s over. Put the gun down.”
“No,” Chambers said.
“I thought you did it for the money.”
“Honey?” a voice called from inside the house.
“But now I know why you killed him. You’re going to spend the rest of your days in the Kingston Pen, not too far from where Foley got it.”
It was then that Armour noticed the gold ring Chambers wore. It was a masonic ring with the set square and dividers and, in the middle, the all-seeing eye.
“No,” Chambers whispered one more time, and he withdrew back into the house.
“Honey,” the woman’s voice called again, and Armour saw a woman in a white dress pass briefly in front of the rear entrance to the house. It was Chambers’ beautiful wife with the perfectly formed calves and curly blonde hair and a black eye.
Then there was the blast of the shotgun and screaming that went on forever.
Chapter 49
Armour waited outside for Tomkins and his men to arrive. They took an hour. The sound of the shotgun’s blast and the screams of Chambers’ wife had brought the neighbours out. They stood on the road but kept a respectful distance, not sure who Armour was. Not sure what had transpired. Armour stood there, Holt’s mouldy wallet in his hand.
Uniformed officers kept the crowd at bay. Now that the police had arrived, the neighbours seemed to tighten around the scene.
Armour said nothing to Tomkins, just held up the wallet. When the inspector had looked through it, Armour led him around back to the grave. A reporter had materialized on a neighbour’s lawn between the hedges. He had a camera and when he tried to snap a photo, Tomkins ordered his men to get him out of there.
They’d gone into the house next. Once Tomkins had seen Chambers, obviously done in by his own hand, he had had some pointed questions for Armour. Armour had not gone into how he had known Holt’s body was buried in Chambers’ garden; he had simply told him that the earth had looked fresh enough and he’d just had a hunch.
Then he laid out the evidence that he did have. He told Tomkins about the missing dory he’d found stashed under the dock at the RCYC. How it was still there for his boys to retrieve. The blood-stained floor and the damaged baseball; he suspected there might be blood in the trunk of Chambers’ car. Finally, Armour had handed Tomkins the Holt photos. He said nothing about those, and Tomkins looked at them once and slid them back into their envelope.
The vision, now brought to fruition, was gone, of course. Armour was sure it always happened that way.
On his way off the Chambers property, he saw the reporter arguing with one of the constables who had taken his camera away. The journalist saw Armour leaving and disengaged from the cop to come after him. Armour stopped to talk to him.
“When’s your late edition go out?” Armour asked.
“We don’t have one, not on Saturdays. Unless it’s a big story.”
“It is,” Armour said. “I’ll give you the scoop.” Armour laid the whole thing out for him. The man went away to phone his editor from a neighbour’s house.
Armour saw the special edition when he returned to his office. Billy had read it, seen Armour’s name in it and handed him a souvenir copy. Armour said nothing and took the paper back to his office.
He called Roscoe’s number, but it was disconnected. He had no idea how to contact Pappanillo. Now that it was confirmed that he had found Holt’s body, he would be entitled to the reward. That money would go straight to Pappanillo, and that would square it with him. He had to get the hit on Melanie called off; today was their last day. If they were going to get to her, it would be tonight.
It was an hour from curtain call; he suspected she would already be at the theatre, probably in makeup. Armour tucked the paper inside his jacket as he walked; stinging drizzle had picked up off the lake. It was attacking him at the precise angle needed to get up under his bowler.
The front doors were open, letting the customers for the first show in. The line was longer than ever; they were all trying to get in to see Melanie one last time before she went on tour. That made him proud. It might mean she had some chance at further success when she moved on down the road.
Armour suspected he would never see her again. Saving her from Pappanillo’s goons would be his little secret he would cherish for ever. She would never know how close she’d come to catching a bullet, or worse.
Armour paid for a ticket, and instead of heading up to the rafters he made his way down to the front. Those seats were already filled up, and the patrons eyed Armour suspiciously as he came down the aisle. But he was not looking for a single; he needed to get backstage.
A quick scan of the audience had not shown any signs of Pappanillo’s crew. Armour went to the usher down near the right corner of the stage.
The young man, wearing a pillbox hat and a tight-fitting red uniform, recognized him. Armour had five bucks folded in his hand. He slipped it into the usher’s hand and whispered that he needed to get backstage, that Melanie was expecting him. The boy looked around and then stepped aside, letting Armour through.
There was a narrow black door, almost invisible in the black paint of the stage works. He climbed a short flight of stairs to the main hall where the dressing rooms were. The door to Melanie’s dressing room was open. A woman was in there alone, getting things ready. She ignored Armour when he poked his head in. He heard the manager cussing somewhere down the hall about the girls being late on their last night.
Armour heard the slam of car doors and then the side door to the theatre opening. He left the dressing room, thinking that Melanie and the rest of the troupe had arrived. Instead, he saw a group of men in dark suits and fedoras. James Roscoe was leading the way. He saw Armour and came at him fast. No gun drawn, at least. Armour put his hands up.
“I don’t want a fight,” Armour said.
“Too bad.” Roscoe’s fists were ready to swing.
Armour took a bladed stance. “I got the money,” he said.
Roscoe grabbed Armour by the lapels of his overcoat but did not punch him. Armour was confident he could take the man down with a haymaker to the jaw if it progressed. But he didn’t want to escalate it; that pretty much guaranteed things would turn ugly.
“I got the money,” Armour said again.
“Jimmy, let him go,” Pappanillo said, appearing by his subordinate’s side. Roscoe ignored him; he pulled Armour in tighter and gritted his teeth.
“Jimmy, I said let the man go,” Pappanillo said again. His other men fanned out in a protective shell around their leader, as much as the narrow hallway would allow. James Roscoe released his grip and backed up.
“I got the money,” Armour said.
“That’s good. We were coming to collect tonight, one way or the other.” Pappanillo grinned that evil-looking grin, showing glistening white teeth behind pale, thin lips. “So,” he said, and raised his thick eyebrows. “Let’s have it.”
Armour reached into his overcoat and all the men tensed.
“Easy, fellas,” Pappanillo said.
Armour waited till they relaxed and pulled out the newspaper. He handed it to Pappanillo, who took it and flipped through the pages, clearly thinking the money was concealed in it. When nothing came out, he looked at Armour with a mixture of puzzlement and anger.
“What’s this?”
“Read the first pag
e. See right there?” Armour pointed at the article about the finding of the harbour commissioner. “That’s me. I found Holt.”
“This some kind of joke?”
“His wife put up a reward. I found the body; I get the reward. I should have it by tomorrow. I have an appointment with her at the bank. You can wait outside if you like. I’ll give it all to you.”
Pappanillo read the article, then looked back up at Armour. Armour could see a tinge of respect in the old man’s smirk.
“Okay. Tomorrow at the bank. You give Jimmy here the details. But son, if you’re trying to double-cross me…”
“. . .I’m dead, and so is Melanie.”
“What?” Armour heard Melanie say from behind the group of men. She had finally arrived. She pushed through the men to Armour. “What’s this about me being dead?”
“Forget it, Melanie. It’s nothing.”
Pappanillo handed the paper to one of his associates.
“Melanie, this is Carlos Pappanillo.”
She turned, and a look of recognition came over her face. Pappanillo took her hand, kissed it and laid on the old-world charm.
“Miss Fabes. Good to see you again. We are saddened that this is your final performance.”
“You’ll be in the audience?” Armour asked.
“Of course. I love the follies. Let’s go, fellas.”
The gangsters departed, and the showgirls went into their respective dressing rooms. Melanie pulled Armour into hers and, after ushering her assistant out, closed the door.
“Armour, what is going on?”
“It was just a business arrangement between me and the Pappanillos. Everything is fine.”
“What’s this about you finding Colin’s body?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. He is dead. I found him...”
Melanie slumped in a chair, then roused herself, spun around to face her mirror and began putting on her makeup. “I knew it. Poor bugger,” she said at last. “At least he can now get a decent burial. You sticking around for the show?”
“I wasn’t going to.”
She stood up and put her arms around Armour. “You know we won’t be gone that long. Once the tour is over…”
“You’re not coming back.”
“The show is booked through the whole west coast, down to San Diego. That’s why we’re pulling out of here sooner.”
She sat back down and went back to the makeup.
“I aim to make it, you know? Hollywood. I’m headed for bigger things. I can just feel it.”
“I know you will, Melanie.”
“Why don’t you come with me? You could look after me while I shake my tush on the silver screen.”
He shook his head and kissed her on the forehead.
Chapter 50
Armour took his seat up in the rafters, high above everyone. He could see the Pappanillo crew down in the front two rows; they must have kicked out paying customers. It made Armour uneasy knowing that there were half a dozen heavily armed men sitting twenty feet from Melanie and her colleagues.
The gaslight next to Armour hissed and sputtered and re-caught. The show was forty-five minutes long, then there was a half-hour break to flush out the crowd and bring in a fresh one. Then another forty-five and then she’d be out of here for good. And he could breathe again.
The lights went down, and the hoots and catcalls started. The band had taken their places to the left of the stage and the tried-and-true songs of the show started up. The girls came out, dressed in full flapper regalia. Melanie came on last, her star power burning brighter than ever before.
Her performance was amazing; she kicked higher than Armour had ever known her to. A true professional, she was giving this last show here her all. Maybe the prospects of a cross-country tour and a shot at Hollywood had given her an extra boost.
Halfway through the first number, Armour could see several dark shapes making their way down the left-hand aisle toward the stage. There were four of them, but the seats were all taken down there. They were out of luck. The stage lights flashed as they spun around the performers, and then one of the spotlight operators missed his mark. His cone of light snaked up the side of the auditorium for a split second, long enough for Armour to see the four men in profile. It was Reagan and his men.
Armour jumped up and ran down the balcony aisle. There was no time to take the stairs; he swung himself over the railing and dropped the twelve feet to the aisle below. He was now fifty feet behind the gang of Irish gunmen descending on Pappanillo, ready to take their revenge for the hit earlier that day in Cabbagetown.
He saw it all happening so slowly. The heads of the Italian gangster were not turning; they were oblivious to what was coming their way. Everyone else was riveted on the show. To the sound of the climax of the number, Armour moved behind Reagan’s men and pulled his gun. Reagan’s coat fluttered, and Armour saw the distinctive barrel and foregrip of a Tommy gun silhouetted in the stage lights. My god.
“Reagan!” Armour shouted. A few members of the audience turned. Armour raised his gun. The Irish hit squad turned. The Italians heard it now; they were rising out of their chairs. Pulling their guns. Reagan turned to Armour and fired a short burst.
Armour saw the Tommy gun bark at him and felt the thud of rounds go past him. He heard screams, shouts. Pandemonium. The band stopped. Pappanillo’s gang fired at the men who had come to destroy them. Most of the shots hit the wall. The Fenian thugs had huddled down. One of them fired at Pappanillo’s entourage, hitting not the Mafiosos but innocent theatre patrons sitting behind them. One man lurched up, his back arched, arms flung out.
People were up and running for the exits now. The show had stopped completely, but the dancers stood paralyzed on the stage. Melanie was locked in position. Then, as the pandemonium reached fever pitch, the dancers snapped out of it and fled the stage, one of them physically dragging a shocked Melanie by the arm.
Armour, from a crouching position, fired again and saw one of Reagan’s men go down. He couldn’t tell if it was the kid he’d saved from the strike breakers or not. The Irish were caught in a crossfire now; they let loose all around them with their machine guns. Armour was pushed to the ground by the stampeding audience. He tried to yell, but the breath was trampled out of him. There was a burst of gunfire and a man screamed in pain and fell on top of him. Armour pushed the man off and struggled to his feet.
He crawled to the safety of the now-vacated seats and peered over the top of them. Reagan and his mob were moving toward the band pit, trading fire with the Pappanillos, who were firing and moving away to the opposite side of the theatre and one of the exits.
Then he saw the flames. One of the gaslights nearest to the stage, only a few feet from the thick curtain, had been hit by stray fire, its wick and protective glass cover blown away. It was now a fiery torch, and its foot-high flames licked the wall. Thick black smoke curled up and along the ceiling. Then the curtain caught.
All Armour could think of was Melanie: he had to get to her. There was a slight problem, though: there was a gunfight in between him and backstage. Armour turned his gun on the remaining IRA thugs. He could see Reagan changing a magazine on his Tommy gun. Armour screamed at him again.
“Reagan!”
The kid flinched but kept firing at the Pappanillos.
Armour fired his remaining rounds at Reagan, saw him go down, his Tommy gun blazing up at the smoke-filled ceiling.
One whole side of the curtain was engulfed in flames now, and the side opposite it had just caught, dropping wreaths of fire-soaked cloth down onto the stage. The remaining Irishmen disappeared over the band pit railing and through a back door. Pappanillo’s crew were gone too.
Armour tried to make it to the stage, but the whole thing was engulfed now. She must have gotten out. He could not get through that inferno to check. Coughing, he turned and ran back up the aisle to the front door.
Outside, he crossed the street. There were people huddled on the ground trying to catc
h their breath. One or two showed signs of gunshot wounds; there were bright red splashes of blood on the glistening pavement. He heard the wail of police sirens. Firefighters were already struggling to get hoses out of a tanker truck.
Armour began searching for Melanie. He saw some of her colleagues, clutching themselves, still scantily clad in their glittering costumes. Strangers were handed them blankets and overcoats.
One of the girls was screaming at the top of her lungs. “Melanie – where is she? Melanie!”
One of them started crying.
“What?” Armour shouted and he grabbed the girl. “Where is Melanie?”
The girl said, “She went back to her dressing room for a picture.”
Armour’s face drained of colour and he stopped coughing. He started to cross the street. A policeman standing beside him grabbed his arm.
“No, you don’t,” the policeman said. “You’re not going back in. Look!” The upper story of the theatre exploded, and evil tongues of flame licked out the windows. There was the sound of wood cracking and glass shattering.
Armour hung his head. Then he raised it and, in a burst of strength, broke free of the policeman. To the horrified shouts of “Come back, you fool! Don’t do it,” Armour sprinted across the street to the Pegasus.
Without hesitation, he ran through the front doors, straight into the inferno.
Chapter 51
Armour sipped his coffee while Melanie texted on her iPhone. They’d been in the coffee shop for two hours. The waitress had given them the stink-eye more than once for loitering. Melanie had eaten; Armour hadn’t, and since then it had just been a couple of coffees, enough for them to secure their seats.
Melanie tried to explain to Armour that they would have been better off in a Starbucks, you could sit there all day, but Armour had picked this place without saying why. He couldn’t explain it himself. Just that a spot across the street, where the old Pegasus Theatre had stood, held some meaning to him.