Dames Fight Harder

by M. Ruth Myers

  “Do the best you can,” he told whoever had called, and hung up. “Now where were we?”

  “Gabriel Foster. Rachel Minsky made the second best bid for work on that project. With her out of the running until her name is cleared, it looks like you’d be next in line to take it over.”

  “I suppose I would.” He preened for an instant, then deflated again.

  “I can’t though. Couldn’t possibly. I don’t have men enough for another project.”

  “What about using the men who are already there?”

  “Using... Oh, now there’s an idea. I don’t know. I’d have to think about that one.”

  I started to wonder how he’d gotten as far as he had.

  “Tell me about Mr. Foster and Miss Minsky. I understand there was bad blood between them.”

  “Well, yes.” He chuckled uncomfortably. “I suppose there was. They had a set-to after a meeting. Over his bid. She all but accused him flat out of being crooked.”

  “And the other?”

  He squirmed.

  “A woman would have every right to be angry over something like that. A man telling other men she was... easy. He didn’t tell me that, mind you. I don’t pal around over drinks like some of them do, but I heard them snickering about it after. For several weeks.

  “Gabriel Foster was a-a cad, if you ask me. Of course he wasn’t a very pleasant man in general. A terrible needler. I suppose I have to go to the funeral, though.”

  TWENTY

  I went back to my office and looked over all the notes I’d made in hopes something new would occur to me. It didn’t. Restless, and increasingly vexed at my lack of progress, I bought a sandwich at the Arcade and walked a couple of blocks to eat on a bench overlooking the river.

  The sun was bright. The Great Miami sparkled and twisted. It was running high just now as spring runoff from the Stillwater River to the north and the Mad River to the east fed into it. A stiff breeze sent strands of hair whipping across my mouth between bites of cold pork on dill bread. The day was perfect for flying kites, as my dad and I had come here to do on countless occasions.

  Usually on a day like this, in the course of a sandwich, I’d get to watch at least one kid and father or grandfather tugging a kite string. Today there weren’t any. I wondered if it was because dads were away now, and old men stepping up to fill vacancies or even work on assembly lines. Compared to places like London, we were lucky here. We hadn’t dodged bombs yet. Still, in countless tiny ways, it seemed the war was silently nibbling bits of everyday joy.

  Around two o’clock, after more wasted time at my desk, I went to buy a paper from Heebs. From half a block away I realized it was a bad idea, but he’d already spotted me. I couldn’t retreat.

  “Hey, sis!” he sang in greeting. “I’ve been hoping you’d come by. This here’s Marcie I’ve been telling you about. Marcie, this is Maggie.”

  “Hiya,” she said without interest. She picked at the ends of her hair. “You never told me she was so old,” she said to Heebs.

  He looked slightly abashed.

  I smiled determinedly. The girl Heebs claimed reminded him of me was a pouty little blonde who on close inspection couldn’t be more than fifteen but probably passed for older. Battleships would be hard pressed to match the way she thrust her modest prow before her.

  “School let out early?” I asked.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Just making conversation.”

  Heebs was looking awkwardly at his shoes. As usual, they were starting to come apart on the sides from wear.

  “Lend me a dime so I can go get a phosphate, Heebsie. That little bottle of Coca Cola you bought us wasn’t near enough to get rid of my thirst.”

  “Nice meeting you,” I said to her back.

  She didn’t respond.

  “She’s usually nicer,” Heebs mumbled. “I think maybe she was nervous.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I have that effect on people.”

  ***

  Winfred Lamont, who had come in one slot from the bottom in the bidding that the murdered man had won, had an office farther to the east of downtown than the other two builders I’d talked to. Like Rachel’s, it had fencing to one side where some supplies were stacked. Except for a large pickup truck whose bed could handle long boards and heavy loads, no equipment was parked inside the fence. It fit with what Rachel had told me about having an edge because she had machines capable of moving earth around.

  Lamont, a compact man with carrot red hair and freckles, was polite as they came and nervous as a cat. He came to the front to meet me and led me back to an office with a host of framed photographs on the wall behind him. A fishing rod and two fish caught on taxidermy plaques decorated the wall he viewed when at his desk.

  “Looks like you’re a fisherman. Where do you go?” I’d never baited a hook in my life, but I’d heard men talk about such things.

  “Oh, uh, locally, mostly. Michigan if I get lucky.” He plopped into his seat and laced his fingers behind his head. “My girl said you had some sort of questions about Gabe Foster?”

  “I’m talking to people who knew him. Trying to get a line on who might have had differences with him.”

  “Differences?” He paled. “Surely you don’t think—” He swallowed. “I didn’t. Have differences with him, that is. I didn’t like him. A terrible braggart and a needler, to tell the truth.”

  Needler. Colorless little Oscar Jones had used the same term. It gave me a good idea the sort of man Foster had been.

  “Good to his wife, though. Brought her to the Christmas party some of us go to every year.”

  And kept a girlfriend on the side.

  “I always say you can tell a lot about a man by how he treats his family,” Lamont babbled.

  Lamont was clearly big on family. The photographs on the wall above his left shoulder included a formal one of an older couple and their freckled offspring, including the man I was talking to and a girl a bit younger. Others showed Lamont with a woman and two wee tots, no doubt his wife and kiddies. The picture where people appeared to be having the best time showed Lamont and his wife, the girl I presumed to be Lamont’s sister, and a bug-eyed man with straw boater several sizes too small perched on his head like a clown’s hat mashing his hair out. They all sat on a blanket laughing, enjoying a picnic.

  “The only one I can think of who might have felt some animosity toward him was Miss Minsky,” Lamont was saying. “The woman they’ve charged. But I guess you know that. She’s the one you’re working for. I guess you probably know about the argument they had, too.”

  While I hadn’t specifically said I was working in Rachel’s behalf, it didn’t take a huge amount of logic to reach that conclusion. What itched my curiosity was how he’d known I was already aware of the argument between Foster and Rachel. Grapevine, probably. The murder of one of their own was bound to be a topic of conversation. Clark or Jones or one of the two developers might have alerted him, and since scheduling had put him last on my list of appointments, he’d had twenty-four hours to worry and stew.

  Some people were naturally nervous when they were asked about crimes, even when they were innocent and had nothing to hide. I took Lamont for that kind.

  “I understand she was upset about Foster’s bid being so much lower than everyone else’s, and that you seemed upset too.”

  “I don’t... oh... possibly. Startled, more than upset.” He gave a weak laugh.

  “Why do you think it was so much lower?” I was struggling for patience.

  “Oh, uh, just tugged at his belt like the rest of us, I imagine. Or—” He warmed to what he was saying. “—or he was willing to take a loss on that project because he thought it would pay off somewhere down the pike.”

  “How?”

  “Oh, no idea,” he said breezily, “but he was a clever one, Foster was. Always hunting an angle.” Nodding, he leaned forward as if imparting a confidence. “I always suspected he might be a bit underhanded
. Not that I know anything, or ever heard anything to justify that, mind you.”

  It was the most interesting thing I’d heard about Foster so far, and definitely worth pursuing, though not at the moment.

  “What about the story he spread about Miss Minsky?”

  His pale face pinked up nicely.

  “I expect it was just his idea of a joke. One of those crude things men say when they’ve had too much to drink. I tried not to pay attention when I heard it mentioned, to tell you the truth.”

  The fact I’d had two confirmations now of another grudge Rachel must have had against Foster didn’t cheer me any.

  “Since Miss Minsky’s out of the running, you’d be one of the ones in line to take over Foster’s project if the owner wants to go that route, wouldn’t you?” I said to change direction.

  The man across from me jumped as if I’d stuck a pin in his toe.

  “Oh, I couldn’t. Still have a ways to go on what we’re working on now. I don’t have manpower enough for another project.”

  “The men on Foster’s crew will need jobs, won’t they?”

  “Well, I-I-I suppose. But I couldn’t manage more men on payroll. I’d get myself in a pickle. I’m stretched thin as it is.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Getting derailed can give you a new perspective. You spot different things when you’re upside down.

  Monday morning I got derailed bright and early.

  Most weekdays I got my paper from Heebs before I went to McCrory’s for breakfast. Lost in thought about how long it might take Cecilia to compile the information I’d requested, and where to dig around in the interim, I crossed the street to the corner where Heebs hawked headlines. My steps slowed abruptly.

  Heebs wasn’t there.

  In his place was an older kid, taller by at least three inches. He had a thin mouth and a rooster strut in every move.

  “Where’s Heebs?” I asked, my nickel in hand.

  “Do you see him around?”

  “Would I ask if I did?”

  “Beats me, sweetheart. You dames are kinda dim sometimes. Paper, mister?”

  His arm nearly smacked me across the breast as he swung it out. A man in a suit took the paper and paid, then went on his way. I fought an urge to scrub the smart aleck smirk off the newsie’s face.

  “Look. I just want to know why Heebs isn’t around. Did he get hurt?”

  “Guess he got tired of this spot, moved to another corner.”

  My mental lie detector spiked. Newsboys defended their corners fiercely, especially if they had a good one. I’d witnessed one incident where they came to blows. Heebs had been selling papers in this exact spot for five years, maybe longer. He hadn’t grown tired of the place, and he wouldn’t have moved to another spot without telling me.

  The interloper was glaring now. Assuming he was concluding a sale with me, hurried customers were passing him by.

  “You going to buy a paper or not, toots?”

  “Not from you, I’m not.”

  I walked five blocks in hopes another boy Heebs had traded places with a time or two in order to help me with something still was yelling out headlines there. The kid was only ten or so and his voice didn’t carry very far, but he was there.

  “I’m a friend of Heebs,” I said, buying a paper. I dropped the change back into his hand. “He’s not where he usually is, and the kid who’s there just smarted off when I asked where Heebs was. Do you know?”

  The flow of foot traffic here was a trickle compared with Heebs’ spot. I made sure to stand back out of the way so I didn’t interfere with sales. The boy nodded, solemn eyed.

  “Got beat up, is what I heard. Hurt bad.”

  My heart stuck in my throat. “By that punk that’s in his spot today?”

  “Nuh-uh, I don’t think so.”

  He stopped to sell a paper, then twisted his toe back and forth.

  “The way I heard it, there was a bunch of them. Well, two or three anyway, and they weren’t newsies. They’re just kids who go around making trouble. Jumped Heebs while he was sleeping. Guys were whispering about it when we got our papers this morning. Said after awhile this big white car that’s been going around drove up, and a man jumped out and put Heebs into it.”

  He paused to sell another paper. I asked more questions, but he didn’t have any answers. He’d told me all he knew.

  I went to McCrory’s and made a pretense of reading my paper and eating my oatmeal. Inside I felt numb. It wasn’t as if I had any connection to Heebs. He was just a kid I’d watched grow up on the streets and happened to like; a smart kid who seldom ran short of optimism or fresh remarks. Now, suddenly, he’d been beaten up and shoved into a car. It didn’t make sense. More than that, it worried me considerably.

  ***

  I needed to focus on Rachel. That’s what I ought to be thinking about. Instead I vacated my stool at the lunch counter with my bowl of oatmeal half finished. I went to the office. I didn’t intend to be there long enough to remove my hat.

  In the front of my phone book I kept a handwritten list of people I needed to contact from time to time. I dialed the one for Lulu Sollers, head of Dayton’s Bureau of Policewomen. She and the women who worked with her were full-fledged sworn police officers. Their badges were scaled smaller than those worn by their larger male counterparts, but the women who wore them were street-smart. When a situation required it, they could be downright tough without throwing punches. They saw plenty and dealt with plenty: prostitutes, drunks, dancehall girls. And juvenile crime.

  “Well, aren’t you calling bright and early,” Lulu said. “What’s up?”

  “Are you hearing anything about kids getting snatched from the streets? Older kids, twelve, fourteen.”

  I heard her indrawn breath.

  “No, why?”

  “A kid I know, a paperboy who beds down in doorways most of the time, got beaten pretty good last night. Some of the other newsies claim a white car came along and he got shoved into it.”

  On the other end, she murmured something that sounded like ‘white.’ I knew she was making notes about the car.

  “Has this boy been in trouble?” Her question was brisk.

  “Not as far as I know. I’ve trusted him with several things to do with my work and he’s never let me down.”

  “Could the white car they were talking about have been the ambulance?”

  I considered. “I don’t think so. These are street kids. They know what the ambulance looks like. Although as often as Sally’s in the garage for repairs they may only have seen Black Mariah.”

  She laughed. The newer and fancier of the city’s two ambulances was notorious for being out of service. Mostly it was the back-up ambulance, a converted paddy wagon that arrived when called. Critical injuries often were rushed to the hospital in the back of a police cruiser.

  “Could you ask around?” I asked. “See if anyone’s heard anything?”

  “Not now. Have to get to a meeting.”

  “I’ll check back this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon I’ll be trying to locate a hound who deserted his toddler and pregnant wife.”

  “Sandwich when you get off work then? We’ve both got to eat.”

  “That’ll do it. Does this kid who got hustled into a car have a name?”

  “Heebs. That’s the only thing I’ve heard him called. Heebs.”

  ***

  I was locking my office door when I heard the phone I’d hung up not two minutes before start to ring. It was Cecilia.

  “I have the information you wanted typed up,” she said. “If you decide later you want something more, I’ll do an addendum.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  Usually the two men who worked with Cecilia stayed fairly busy ordering supplies, coordinating deliveries, and otherwise meeting the needs of the building crews. When I got there, one was leaning a hip on the other man’s desk and they were talking lazily.

  “Not much to do just n
ow, with only one job site and Rachel out,” Cecilia whispered. Inviting me behind the long counter, she spread out the sheets she’d typed so we could both look at them in case I had questions.

  There were eight of them, two for each year. Within each year, the projects Rachel had submitted bids on were listed chronologically. Next to the project, she’d noted square footage and number of stories. Beneath each project, indented, she’d listed the company or individual inviting bids on the project, followed by the names of contractors who had submitted bids. Each name was on a separate line. The dollar amount of Rachel’s bid followed her name. Sometimes numbers followed other names as well, often followed by a question mark.

  “I’ve put an asterisk next to the name of the contractor who won each bid.” Cecilia pointed with the tip of her pencil. “It’s usually the lowest bid, but there were two that weren’t, and it just seemed easier for you to keep track of things.”

  I nodded gratitude. As it was, I saw a mammoth task staring back at me.

  “Why would someone other than the lowest bidder get a project?”

  “Well, on this one, I think it was something about not meeting the deadlines on a couple of projects they’d done before.” Her pencil tapped. “And this one...” She frowned. “Something to do with their estimate on materials? Sorry, it was when I’d just started here. I think I heard something, but I can’t recall.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  For three solid hours I pored over the neatly typed pages supplied by Cecilia. It took only the first five minutes for me to realize I would have drowned if I’d stuck to my original idea of going through the files themselves to extract information. Even with the secretary simplifying my task, what I learned came down to three things:

  1) Neither of the builders who’d been passed over despite having low bids was anyone I’d talked to or even heard of so far.

  2) Rachel had come in second to Foster one other time with no casualties.

  3) Every contractor who had bid on the project Foster was heading at the time of his death, or on Rachel’s, also had competed on others in the four years covered. So had plenty of people whose names weren’t familiar to me.

  I needed to spend some time in more familiar territory. Digging into people’s backgrounds. Following them. Sitting in my DeSoto while my backside developed calluses as I waited for someone interesting to turn up on their doorstep. Punching someone in the nose, or getting my own punched, also qualified as familiar territory, but I wasn’t quite desperate enough to go hunting either of those.