Murder and Gold

by Ann Aptaker

  After the usual routine of handing my gun to the thug at the door— it’s my old pal Mike Mulroney— and traipsing behind him across the lobby to Sig’s private elevator, Mulroney calls up to the penthouse and tells the upstairs thug that Cantor Gold is here to see the boss.

  We wait the usual minute until the upstairs thug gets back on the line; then Mulroney says, “Okay,” hangs up, and unlocks the elevator.

  Five minutes later I’m in Sig’s living room, where a big surprise is seated on a sofa: Mom Sheinbaum, a hefty empress in a sensible brown dress. She’s drinking a cup of tea.

  Sig’s standing in the middle of the living room. His white shirt is crisp as frozen snow; his red and brown tie is neatly knotted. The libation in his glass is a lot stronger than tea.

  I feel like I’ve walked into Nostalgia Night at the home for criminal old folks. Handling these two separately is tough enough. Being in the same room with both of them is like an endless scolding by a family who never thought much of you in the first place.

  Sig says, “Come in, Cantor.” His words emerge slowly, as his words always do, giving the greeting the rhythm of a dirge. “I was about to send the boys out to find you.”

  “Well, I guess I saved them the trouble,” I say. “Hello, Mom. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Her tiny eyes are hard and flat as buttons. “I came here, Cantor, because you have been causing trouble again, and I’ve come to see if maybe Sig can fix things. Maybe Sig can control you. Somebody’s got to.” Her Lower East Side lilt does nothing to soften her ever present disappointment with me.

  “What’s the trouble this time,” I say.

  “Policemen came to my house,” she says as if the idea is as unbelievable as pastrami on white bread. “Policemen! With their questions about you and the killing of that mamzer, Lieutenant Huber. Not that I’m sorry he’s dead. But I don’t allow those Cossacks to cross my doorstep— okay, so maybe the police commissioner. He sometimes stops by for a glass of wine and a bissel honey cake. But no other policemen would dare enter my house, not since the night—” she grabs her chest, the memory of that painful night choking her—”the night my precious daughter died. And you, Cantor, you were also there that night. And so was that Huber. What do you do, bring those mamzerim police with you?”

  Sig says, “I warned you, Cantor, about Lieutenant Huber. You wanted him out of the way, and now he’s been shot in the back.”

  “And you think I did it?”

  “I think you caused it.”

  I can’t argue with that, at least not entirely.

  Sig’s not through with me. “You have fumbled the simple task I gave you, to bring Miss Garraway’s killer to me so that the police would not be involved, City Hall would not be disturbed, and the business could be taken care of quietly. Instead, you’ve gotten a policeman killed. The police do not look the other way when one of their own is murdered, Cantor. They are like rabid dogs let out of their cage.”

  I’ve had about as much of their scolding as I can stand. “I didn’t send the cops to your door, Mom, and I didn’t fumble the Garraway business, Sig. I’ve been trying to get out from under the murders of three women: Lorraine Quinn, Eve Garraway, and Alice Lamarr.” I give Alice’s name a little zing, and look straight at Sig.

  The cold son of a bitch doesn’t even blink, just says, “You are mistaken, Cantor. The police have determined Miss Lamarr’s death was not murder, but a suicide. You should not pursue it any further.” He sips his whiskey. The look he gives me over the rim of his glass hovers somewhere between advice and warning.

  “Yeah, sure, suicide,” I snarl almost under my breath. “Meantime, while you were busy doing favors for the city’s higher-ups, arranging to keep the cops quiet and keep Huber off the Garraway case, those higher-ups were busy trying to stick the murders on me. If I didn’t have a good lawyer, I’d still be in the slammer. Now, listen you two,” I say, sliding a look from Sig to Mom, “don’t you even want to know why I came over here?”

  I take off my coat and cap, toss them on the sofa opposite Mom, light a smoke with a silver lighter on a side table, and sit down. I look at Sig, then at Mom, then at Sig again. Neither of them have softened toward me, but both of them look curious.

  “All right,” I say. “Here it is: I was at the Atchleys’ Park Avenue place this afternoon, and what I saw turned my stomach. Underneath their shiny veneer they’re as vicious as rats fighting over garbage. I think any one of the Atchleys is good for the Garraway and Huber killings. They had motive by the bucketload, and enough vengeance in their greedy souls to push them over the edge.”

  Sig says, “You have proof of this?”

  “Well, there’s the wrinkle,” I say. “There’s two things I still can’t tie up: which of them actually did the killings, and how did Eve’s killer get into her house without being seen. But there’s no doubt in my mind that any one of them could commit murder. Hell, I saw Brooks Atchley nearly kill James today.”

  Mom gives that a disgusted tsk and wave of her hand. “What kind of parent is that? To kill their own child. A monster, that’s what.”

  I say, “James is Dierdre Atchley’s son from her first marriage. He’s only Brooks’s stepson. Brooks allows him to use the Atchley name to keep the dynasty going. He blames James for failing to protect the family from Eve’s plan to force them out of their own bank. If Vivienne and I hadn’t gotten there when we did and stopped Brooks, James Atchley would be a pile of pulp and broken bones on the sidewalk.”

  Sig says, “I don’t think Miss Parkhurst Trent’s involvement is wise, Cantor.” It’s not a statement. It’s another warning.

  “She held her own,” I say, swatting his warning away. “Now, here’s the rest of it. Remember that chat you had with Dierdre Atchley last night, Sig? She was the loyal mother, right? The loving matron protecting her family? Well, from what I saw today, Dierdre Atchley’s attachment to her son goes somewhere beyond motherly. And she’s so full of revenge over his arrest, and so convinced her high social position enables her to get away with anything, I wouldn’t put it past her to take revenge on Huber with a bullet in his back. Did you know she almost killed me? Yeah, arrived at my door last night with a gun in my face because she blames me for James’s arrest.”

  Mom slides a fast look at Sig, then looks away before he notices. “Sure,” she says, “it’s a mother’s job to protect her child.” She’s not talking about Dierdre protecting James from the cops. She’s talking about her failure to protect her daughter from Sig.

  I’ll feel bad for Mom’s loss until the day I die, but tonight’s not a good time to hold Mom’s hand. Not that she’d let me.

  I keep to business. “But then there’s Brooks Atchley. The guy almost committed murder today, so he’s got it in him to kill. He was out of town for the Garraway killing, but came back late last night, so it could’ve been Brooks who decided to avenge the family’s name by killing Huber. Look, what I’m saying, Sig, is go ahead and take them all down. They deserve it, the whole bunch. But be smart about it. Feed them to the cops. Let the cops have the glory. It will settle them down, get them back in their cages. You own the cages, anyway.”

  My speech is met with silence. Sig’s silence is hard and cold. Mom’s is more thoughtful, as if she’s considering what to do about the unruly upstart who just lectured the city’s royalty of crime.

  But then Sig says, “I have misjudged you, Cantor. You have done well.”

  I never thought I’d live to see the day. I pick up my coat and cap, get up from the sofa. I can’t get out of here fast enough, away from these two suitcases full of our shared pasts. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my life now.”

  Sig says, “That is a good idea, Cantor. Live your life. Keep your eye on your business. And by the way, it was very thoughtful of you to arrange Miss Lamarr’s funeral and to attend this morning. I understand you were close at one time.”

  If there’s anything in this town, in this world, that
Sig Loreale doesn’t know about, then it simply doesn’t exist.

  Mom says, “Cantor, you came here in your car, yes? Good, you can drive me home.”

  • • •

  Even in the safety of the passenger seat of my Buick, Mom clutches her mink coat around her and keeps her handbag tight to her lap as if someone might reach in and rip them from her. A hard life will do that, and back in the gaslight days Mom’s immigrant life was as tough as they come. Cramped and crowded tenement hovels freezing in winter, stifling in summer. Rats in the hallways. Sweatshop work that paid pennies by the piece, and never enough to eat. So now, even after she’s made millions, Mom’s fist remains tight. Her fist is her way to hold fast to her gains, and a weapon to smash anyone who tries to cheat her out of so much as a dime.

  She looks out the window as I drive through midtown. “I don’t get above Fourteenth Street much anymore,” she says. “So many new buildings now they have in this neighborhood. So what was wrong with the old ones?”

  “Progress,” I say. “There’s a lot of money in the city’s real estate since the end of the war. Even Sig’s put money in.”

  “I don’t like that kind of money,” Mom says. “You can’t look a building in the eye and see if it’s going to cheat you. So listen, Cantor, when are we going to do business? You haven’t brought me any goods in a while.”

  “If I get anything that needs to move outside of my own clients, I’ll let you know. Haven’t I always?”

  She answers that with a shrug, then goes quiet again, looks out the window, watching the city change from midtown’s skyscrapers to downtown’s walk-ups. She seems to relax a little. I guess the older neighborhood suits her better than midtown’s modern buildings. Unlike Sig, who mastered the modern methods of power even back in Coney Island, Mom holds onto the gutter power of the old ways. Maybe that’s another reason why she disapproves of me. The old ways nearly smothered me, so I said the hell with them and put on a suit.

  After another silence, she says, “So tell me, what’s the story with all those Garraway tchotchkes now that she’s dead? Any chance you can get your hands on them and move them through me? We could make a bundle, Cantor.”

  “Eve’s only been dead a few days,” I say. “The estate hasn’t been settled yet. And I’m sure she made plans for her collection in the event of her death. In the meantime, Desmond Mallory’s still at the house serving as caretaker until the lawyers and the courts get things settled.”

  “Maybe he’s hoping the Garraway woman threw some things his way.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “He was certainly loyal all those years.”

  Mom’s “Hah!” is sharp and cunning. “Loyal shmoyal. Where else was the broken-down grifter gonna go? Okay, we’re here.”

  I pull up in front of Mom’s brownstone, get out of the car to open the passenger door for her. She takes my hand to help pull her bulk out of the seat. Before going up the front stairs of her house, she says, “You were smart tonight, mommeleh. You gave Sig what he wants. You’ll live a little longer.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  There’s a lot in my life I want to get back to. My business is one; good times are another. I wouldn’t mind a drink and a twirl around the dance floor at the Green Door Club with a sweet somebody to ease me away from all the death and vengeance of these last few days.

  It’s a little past eight, according to the Buick’s dashboard clock. The crowd at the Green Door Club will be just starting to get comfortably juiced. I put the Buick in gear.

  But there’s an itch that I haven’t been able to scratch ever since this whole Garraway business started, an itch that just keeps crawling along my skin.

  That drink and dance will have to wait. I drive to Gramercy Park.

  I’m in luck. Lights are on in the Garraway house. Desmond’s in.

  He answers the door, says, “Hiya, Cantor,” with as much enthusiasm as his thin, feathery voice can handle. “C’mon in. Have a drink with me.”

  I follow him into the living room. In the glow of shaded lamps, the overstuffed room has even more of the feel of a bygone lair of power than it did when Vivienne and I were here yesterday.

  I toss my cap and coat over a chair while Desmond pours a Chivas for me and a Jameson’s Irish for himself. His yellow shirt and dark red cardigan spiff up his skinny frame, throw a little color on his hollow cheeks and hard gray hair.

  He hands me my drink, says, “So what brings you around, Cantor?” and sits down in the same spot on the sofa he sat in yesterday.

  I take a seat in the big chair across from him. “It looks like the cops might make their case against James Atchley for Eve’s murder after all.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” he says and takes a swig.

  I join his toast, take a pull on the Chivas. “And now that one of their own took a bullet in the back, the cops are really on the warpath.”

  “Sure, I saw the story in the paper. The television people made a big deal about it, too. It was that Huber fella,” Desmond says as if Huber’s name is acid on his tongue. “He was the cop who was here when Miss Garraway was killed. Any idea who did the deed? Tell you the truth, I’d like to shake their hand. Never did like cops. Bet you have no love for ’em either, Cantor.”

  “Can’t say that I do. But getting it in the back, that’s not the work of an honorable killer.”

  Desmond nods, says, “True. People like you and me, we respect the code,” warming to a subject that puts him back in his outlaw glory days. “How much you wanna bet the shooter was civilian. My money says it was an amateur with a grudge.”

  “Very likely,” I say, and just leave it there. I don’t want the conversation to get sidetracked with my latest suspicions about the Atchleys. I’m here to try to scratch the damned itch that’s driving me crazy. “Listen, Desmond, have the cops been around anymore since yesterday? Maybe have a look around the house, figure how James got inside without being seen?”

  “As a matter of fact they did. Left about an hour ago. A guy named Adair.”

  That sits me up. I guess I ought to give Adair a little credit. He sure didn’t let grass grow under his feet after he turned me loose this afternoon. “And?”

  “And I showed him the tunnel.”

  What’s that they say about a light appearing in the darkness? This one glares so damn bright it zaps my brain, and I can only blurt out, “There’s a tunnel?”

  Desmond says, “Sure. Miss Garraway never mentioned it? Well, maybe she wouldn’t. The Garraways loved their secrets, y’know.”

  A grin spreads across my face, the kind of satisfied grin that comes from finally soothing an itch you couldn’t reach no matter how far you stretched. Gotcha, James Atchley. You’ve just hit the cops’ trifecta. Your motive: revenge. Means: a knife you admitted was yours. And opportunity: a secret tunnel into the house. My life’s my own again. I just might get that dance at the Green Door Club tonight.

  Desmond, caught up in reminiscing, says, “Oh, Miss Garraway loved the tunnel when she was a tot. She’d giggle and tease her Dad to find her, then swear me to secrecy with her sweet smile.” Desmond’s face almost glows with the memory. You’d think he’s witnessing a beatification. Tears even well up in his eyes.

  “Why did John Garraway put a tunnel in the house?” I ask.

  Desmond wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, then takes a swallow of whiskey. “It wasn’t Mr. Garraway who dug the tunnel,” he says. “He told me it was Mr. Aloysius Sloan, the first owner of the house, who’d put it in. Mr. Garraway told me all about it. Quite a lusty tale, too. It seems Mr. Sloan liked certain types of ladies, the kind you pay, if you get my meanin’. He liked ’em even more than he liked his wife. But he didn’t want to patronize the bawdy houses. A gentleman could have his pockets emptied by the house’s thieves while he was, y’know, attending to business. So the tunnel was how the ladies came in to see Mr. Sloan. They’d come at night, after the missus had gone to bed.”

  “Does the tunnel go up to Ev
e’s office?”

  “Sure. It wasn’t an office in Mr. Sloan’s day,” he says with a wink. “It was where the fella would have his trysts with the ladies. C’mon, I’ll show you. Take your coat. We have to go outside for a bit.”

  Desmond takes his overcoat and hat from a rack by the front door. Outside, he leads me down the front stairs.

  At the side of the stairs, left of the below-stairs windows I couldn’t get into last night, he wrestles with the tall, heavy shrubbery. “Give me a hand with this,” he says. “These shrubs have gotten real thick over the years, and I’m not as hefty as I used to be.”

  I help Desmond press the shrubbery aside. It’s sturdy stuff, but not much of a struggle for me, probably not for Sergeant Adair, either, and certainly not for the athletic James Atchley.

  With the shrubbery cleared, all I see is a wall of brownstone blocks with carvings of vines and flowers, topped by the edges of the front stairs to the house.

  Desmond, chuckling at the puzzled look on my face, says, “That Sergeant Adair didn’t see nothin’ either until I showed him. That’s because it wasn’t supposed to be seen, especially not by Mr. Sloan’s wife. But look here.” He’s pointing to a large carved flower just below my eye level. “See that petal on the flower? Give it a push.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me to say ‘Open Sesame,’” I say, and press the flower petal. Yeah, it gives, and a section of brownstone blocks swings slowly back. I don’t know whether to applaud Aloysius Sloan’s ingenuity or be annoyed at the guy for cheating on his wife right under her nose, or under her bed, it turns out.

  I follow Desmond through the opening. Inside, he turns on a light switch at the side of the entrance. “Old Man Garraway had the tunnel electrified. He used the tunnel, too, for what you might call sensitive meetings with political people or people he didn’t want to be seen with. But there’s still a few of the old gaslights.” He points out a couple of small curlicued bronze sconces on the walls, their glass shades, etched with flowery designs, dusty but still intact. One of the sconces has fallen to the floor, its shade shattered. Desmond picks it up, puts it in his coat pocket. “I should probably get this repaired,” he says, “in case the lawyers want an inventory of everything. Sooner or later they’ll find out about the tunnel, and it won’t do for them to think I didn’t take care of the place. Could make me look bad.”