Murder and Gold

by Ann Aptaker

  “No doubt. And so will her donations to the Police Department’s widows and orphans collection plate and any number of city and state pols’ reelection coffers. Respectability and protection don’t come cheap.” I don’t mention that there’s one guy Mrs. Atchley can’t buy off, and that he won’t give a damn about her money or status if Dierdre Atchley, her husband, or her son turn out to be responsible for Eve Garraway’s murder. Sig will dispose of the Garraway problem by disposing of the Atchleys, and the cops and pols he owns won’t notice, or pretend not to. City Hall will be silently grateful. The Social Register crowd will simply rearrange the seating at the next ball to cover the absence of the no longer available Atchleys.

  I don’t mention Sig’s plan because it might be too much for Vivienne to stomach. I don’t know that I can stomach it, either. But if it comes down to Huber making me a gift to the electric chair or Sig exacting his own ruthless justice, I’ll make my peace with whatever Sig has in mind. I’d rather stay alive with a knotted stomach than have my stomach and the rest of me burn to death.

  Vivienne sits down on the sofa, sipping her martini. “Do you think she did it? Do you really think Dierdre had Eve Garraway killed?”

  “She certainly has reason. But it sounds like so do a lot of other people in her crowd. Maybe I should buy a copy of the Social Register.”

  “Don’t bother; I’ll lend you mine. Drop by my office. I keep it there as a source to tap for museum donations.”

  “I assume you’re in it?”

  Laughing, she says, “I am. So according to Dierdre, I might be a suspect in the murder of Eve Garraway, too.”

  “I won’t mention it to Lieutenant Huber,” I joke. “What can you tell me about James Atchley? He strike you as the murdering type?”

  “Well, he’s certainly arrogant enough,” Vivienne says with a thoughtful shrug. “But does he have the spine? Good question. He came along with an upstate hunting group I was part of last season. He managed to bag a deer, but when it came to dressing it”— meaning skinning and gutting it—”he went green as a houseplant. So, knifing Eve at close quarters? I don’t know.”

  “You’d be surprised at what people can do if they’re angry enough or scared enough or hate someone enough.”

  Just yesterday, I saw Vivienne look at me as if I scare her. Over the years, I’ve also seen her look at me as if I make her sad. Right now both are in her eyes, a combination I’ve never seen in her before. The confident, brilliant, sometimes haughty Vivienne I’ve known seems lost somewhere inside herself, in a place maybe she didn’t even know she has. “I guess you’d know about all that, what people filled with hate can do,” she says slowly, as if trying to understand her own words. “Sometimes I forget everything you have to face, everything the world throws at you.”

  “I can take care of myself,” I say.

  “Yes, you can. But for how much longer, Cantor? How much more damage can your face and body take?”

  It’s a question I try not to think about. I do what I have to do to survive. I can’t worry about the damage. “Thanks for the drinks,” I say, “and for setting me up with Mrs. Atchley. I’d better get going. Bye, Vivienne.”

  I’m at the living room door when Vivienne calls out, “Cantor? Was it helpful? Talking to Dierdre, was it helpful?”

  “Yeah,” I say, over my shoulder, “it was. Thanks again, Vivienne.”

  “Cantor?” she calls again when I’m in the doorway.

  I turn around, see Vivienne standing at the sofa.

  She has that troubled, frightened look again, but it dissolves into the sweet smile I haven’t seen on Vivienne in a long while, not since our night of carnal knowledge four years ago. Whatever’s behind it, it’s suddenly giving her the fidgets, and her smile changes again into the slightly imperious one I’m more familiar with. “Oh, nothing,” she says, taking a sip of the martini. “Just be careful out there.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I used to enjoy driving in New York. I still do, I guess, but not as much. Since the end of the Second World War back in ’45, the city, in fact the whole country, freed from the two knockout blows of the Depression and the war, has gone on a buying binge: television sets, washing machines, kitchen appliances to turn every meal into a quick and easy banquet, and a lot of cars. Out in the suburbs, even in the city’s boroughs, every new house comes equipped with a two-car garage, and every ex-GI and his wife have the latest sedan for him and station wagon for her. They add to the clog in New York’s streets every time they drive into town. Today’s crunch slows me down on my way to check in with Red Drogan, to see if he can fill me in about James Atchley’s activities on the water. But the evening is young, the city’s trees are silhouetted against a purple-gray sky, and people are going about their business. New York’s rhythm keeps going, even if the rhythm of traffic is more syncopated than flowing these days.

  There’s nothing to do except wait my turn to inch up to the traffic light at the corner of Thirtieth and Lexington. I use the time to think. I think about Dierdre Atchley trying to snow me, think about how deep the vengeance against Eve Garraway might be lodged in the Atchley family’s snooty little hearts. And I think about Vivienne and her snooty heart, though her heart also has a more plebeian side that keeps her connected to the rest of humanity. I’m thinking about all these things, rolling my Buick slowly toward the traffic light, halfheartedly listening to a news program on the dashboard radio, when a news story almost causes me to crash the car: “Former showgirl Alice Lamarr was found dead in her room at the Collier Hotel at 6:05 this evening, just under an hour ago. The cause of death, according to the authorities, is an apparent suicide. A gun was found lying by Miss Lamarr’s hand, the small caliber matching the shot to her temple. It is believed Miss Lamarr was distraught over the arrest of her husband, gangster Johnny Tenzi. The body was found by a room service waiter delivering Miss Lamarr’s dinner.”

  I dodge traffic to pull over to the curb, setting off honking horns by angry drivers, the glare from their cars’ headlights crisscrossing into the Buick as I lurch across Lexington Avenue.

  The only thing stopping me from screaming with rage is the numbness taking over my whole body. My mind, though, is wild, a tangle of thoughts like snakes hissing in my head. But one thought comes through clear as a clanging bell: Alice asked me to kiss her good-bye, and I didn’t.

  I didn’t kiss her, but I saw the look on her face. It was sexy, the best kind of sexy, the kind that has love in it, and hope, and desire, and the promise to show me every shape and shadow of that desire. The kiss Alice asked for wasn’t meant as a toodle-oo from this Earth. It was a toodle-oo until later. Alice was counting on there being a later with me, maybe a lot of laters. People don’t do themselves in when they’ve got plans for later. And they don’t order a room service dinner and do themselves in before it gets there.

  The hissing thoughts start to loosen and untangle. What was that the news guy said? That Alice was distraught over Tap Tenzi’s arrest? Who is he kidding? Alice was no more distraught over her soon-to-be ex-husband’s arrest than I’d be over the death of a bug under my shoe. She was tickled pink that Tenzi was out of her life, and she’d shed no tears when he’d fry in the electric chair.

  The suicide story’s a plant, spoon fed to the press by someone with the power to make them swallow it. Someone like police brass who don’t want to muddy up the Tenzi case, or someone who doesn’t like loose ends. Someone like Sig Loreale.

  Alice Lamarr was murdered.

  I get out of the Buick, head for the phone booth at the corner, its blue-and-white enamel Bell Tel sign flickering in the blinking neon light of a nearby liquor store. Inside the booth, I flip through the pages of the phone book, hoping the party I’m looking for has a home listing. He does.

  I drop a dime in the slot, get the guy on the line. “Otis? It’s Cantor Gold. Have you heard the news about Alice?”

  “No. I’m in the middle of dinner. What about Alice?”

 
“She’s dead. They’re trying to pass it off as a suicide, but that story’s not worth the dime it cost me to make this phone call. Someone’s cleaning up loose ends on the Quinn and Tenzi cases. If I were you—”

  “I’ll pack a bag.” He hangs up.

  I’m tempted to call Huber, tell him to put a protective detail around Tap Tenzi’s cell in the city lockup. But if Huber turns out to be smarter than I’ve ever given him credit for, he’s already taken care of it, because Alice’s suicide story has likely been rammed down his throat.

  I make another call instead, this time to Judson’s apartment. It takes him several rings to answer, and when he finally does, his “Hello,” is thick, though it’s too early for sleep. It’s not too early, though, for a different bedtime activity.

  “Give my apologies to the lovely lass beside you, Judson, but I need you to look into something. Alice Lamarr is dead. You’ll see a phony story in the paper or hear it on the news broadcasts about it being a suicide. It’s baloney.”

  “You want me to look into possible killers?”

  “No. I want you to find out if anyone’s made any funeral arrangements, maybe arranged by her family back in Nebraska, if she still has anybody there. If no one’s claimed the body or no funeral’s been planned yet, make the arrangements. Get her a nice coffin. It’s on me.”

  I get back into the Buick after the call, just sit for a while, get a handle on my rage, calm it down so my thoughts won’t tangle up again. Every bone in my body wants to drive over to Sig’s and have it out with him. I want to throw it in his face that I know he had Alice killed.

  But that little daydream gets me nowhere except as dead as Alice. Either Mike Mulroney or one of Sig’s other thugs will put a bullet in me before I even make it across the lobby, or Sig will do it himself if I manage to get to his penthouse. I wouldn’t get any justice for Alice Lamarr.

  There will never be any justice for Alice Lamarr.

  I start the Buick, pull away from the curb. There’s still the matter of justice for Eve Garraway.

  • • •

  Pauline, the barmaid at Oyster Charlie’s, told me that Red Drogan’s gone to his berth in Brooklyn for the night, which is why I’m back in the Buick, headed across the Brooklyn Bridge. This gorgeous Gothic stretch of steel and stone has tough memories for me. It’s where Mom Sheinbaum’s daughter Opal, Sig’s fiancée, met her death, tossed off the bridge by a jealous hoodlum. It was the night Sig had Rosie kidnapped, her life threatened, his way of forcing me to find Opal’s killer. And now he’s doing it again. Through his threats and his power, he’s forcing me to find the killer of Eve Garraway. Last time, his stake was personal. Now it’s just dirty business.

  • • •

  Red’s berth isn’t the usual waterfront tie-up, with rows of tugs and barges lining the piers. Red likes his privacy, and I like it that Red likes his privacy. It’s conducive to our racket.

  He berths his tug at the wilder edge of Brooklyn. This clump of the borough is so desolate even rats would find available prey slim pickings, and so marshy a less skillful tug pilot would get his rudder tangled up in this boggy inlet of tall reeds and swampy grasses. But Red Drogan’s not just any tugman. He can slip his boat through a chain link fence if he has to and never scratch the sides.

  I park the Buick well back from the bog’s edge, find the planks Red’s laid among the mud and grasses as a path to his berth.

  He’s sitting on a barrel on the deck of his tug, enjoying a bottle of bourbon by the light of a lantern. He gets up when he sees me, says, “I’ll get yer bottle,” and disappears into the cabin.

  He’s out a minute later with the bottle of Chivas I keep on his boat for my visits.

  I prop myself onto a barrel facing Red, take a swig of the Chivas. I need it after the soul-crushing news about Alice.

  Red says, “Y’look like someone just ran over yer dog, only I know y’ain’t got no dog, so what’s wrong?” In the light of the lantern, the lines in Red’s face carve deeper, his stubble is grittier, his salt-and-pepper hair craggy as stone. But his eyes betray him. Behind the toughness is an honorable soul, trusted by all the salts up and down the waterfront.

  “Another woman’s been murdered,” I say, “and there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t get justice for her.”

  “This woman, y’cared fer her?”

  Another swig of whiskey helps me say, “As much as I could.”

  Red gives that a nod but no more. He knows not to probe too far into the state of my heart, and he knows why. He just takes a draw on his bottle of whiskey, wipes his mouth with his hand, the calluses scratching across his stubble. “What brings you around?” he says.

  “You know anything about a yachtsman named James Atchley? I know you harbor guys keep an eye on the pleasure boat crowd, don’t let them tie up the waterways.”

  Red gives that a hard tsk of disgust that twists the lines of his face. “Some of them guys think they own every drop of water around all five boroughs of New York. But a lot of the yacht fellas are good sailors, though, so as a waterman I gotta respect that.”

  “Is Atchley a good sailor?”

  “Damn good, I hear. Really knows how to work the wind and the water.”

  “What kind of a guy is he? Ever met him?”

  “Nah, never met him, only seen him around the water, but I heard stuff. They say he don’t like to lose.”

  “Nobody likes to lose, Red,” I say with a laugh, toast it with a draw on the Chivas.

  “Sure, but some people won’t let a winner win, if you catch my meanin’.”

  “You mean they’ll poison the victory somehow.”

  “Yup, that’s what I mean. I hear yer boy Atchley is one of those.”

  “Ever hear of him getting violent?”

  Another pull of bourbon and a scratch of his cheek helps Red think that over. “Never pulled a weapon on anyone as far as I know, but they say he gave a guy a good punch over somethin’ that happened durin’ a race. Never did get the whole story, but the guy wound up with a broken nose. Look, if you want, I can run y’over to Atchley’s slip. Maybe y’can catch him, talk to him y’self.” He volunteers this without asking what my business is with James Atchley. I’d tell him if he asked, but he won’t. He never does. After our years together working the smuggling racket, he figures I’ll tell him what he needs to know. Anything else is my business.

  I say, “Yeah, I hear Atchley lives on his yacht.”

  “He’s a real sea dog, or so they say.”

  “Start your engine, Red.”

  • • •

  The stars in the night sky shouldn’t even bother to compete with the lights of New York for sheer wattage. Seen from the harbor, the city’s skyscrapers blaze with millions of diamond eyes, greeting arriving travelers with the lure of everything money can buy and greeting immigrants with the hope of dreams come true. The streets might not be paved with gold, but those dreams are, and they’re all here, rising as high and bright as your imagination, your will, and your guts can take you.

  For some people, though, the riches of New York come without the need of courage to compete for them but a simple birth certificate to claim them. James Westerton Atchley is twice over the recipient of New York’s trove of diamonds and golden dreams: by Westerton birth and Atchley marriage. His boat, the Ambrosia, is a sleek two-masted schooner that stretches about sixty feet from stem to stern. She’s docked at the mouth of the Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin on the Hudson, her sails furled and tied to her masts in port. The boat basin’s got a great view of the fashionable apartment buildings on Riverside Drive on one side and across the river to the Jersey shoreline on the other.

  Light glows in the Ambrosia’s shaded cabin windows, so I guess the master of the seas is home. Red pulls the tug alongside.

  I know better than to break the code of the waterways and board the vessel without permission, so I tell Red to nudge the Ambrosia to get Atchley’s attention while I call out, “James Atchley, you
have company!”

  A shadow moves across a window shade. Its owner emerges onto the deck a moment later. In the glow of Drogan’s mast light I can see that even in his heavy wool jacket the guy’s as sleek as his boat: trim in the waist, broad at the shoulders, blond as a Viking prince. His cheekbones are so chiseled and his jaw so square he could pass for a marble statue in the park. “Who wants me?” he calls across to the tug.

  “Cantor Gold. I had cocktails with your mother this afternoon. I’d like to talk to you, get your side of things. Permission to board?”

  “Permission denied. Neither my mother nor I have anything more to say to you. Shove off.” He turns to go back inside the cabin, his crepe-soled shoes squeaking on the teak deck.

  “Have it your way, Atchley. I got what I came for.”

  He laughs at that, a tight-jawed condescending cackle, but he doesn’t go into the cabin. “Don’t try the bluff with me, Gold. I play for very high stakes every day.”

  “I bet you do. Maybe life and death stakes, too. You look like you could handle it. You’re young and strong. You’ve got a sportsman’s build. You’ve got the strength to overpower someone, and the agility to sneak into their house quietly. The only question is, do you have a killer instinct.”

  “If I ever see you in a dark alley some night, Gold, maybe you’ll find out. Now shove off.” He turns to go back into the cabin.

  I say, “The talk around the waterfront says you have the killer instinct when you race this boat. And you don’t like to lose. Eve Garraway was setting your family up to lose.” He turns around again. “Yeah, lose big,” I say. “Getting rid of her would mean you’d win the game she was playing. That’s more your style, isn’t it? Winning? And by the way, where were you yesterday morning?”

  He walks to the edge of the boat. The mast light of Red’s tug pins his face, reveals his sneer. A braggart’s sneer. “If I were you, Gold, I’d leave off that line. My mother told me all about you, about your shady dealings. You and your gangster pals think power comes through the barrel of a gun. You don’t know what real power is, the kind that can ruin you, clean out your bank account, run you out of town, even get you sent to prison. I don’t need to do violence to win, Gold.” He turns to go back to the cabin again.