Dames Fight Harder

by M. Ruth Myers

  Clark. Jones. Lamont. My money stayed on Lamont as the primary suspect. He’d enjoyed an unexplained increase in contracts awarded him, followed by what almost certainly had been blackmail. Grabbing at the most obvious explanation wasn’t always smart, though.

  Time to burn haystacks.

  Where to start was the question. Shingles, lumber or pipe?

  I called Phil Clark first. His secretary must have gone to powder her nose. He answered the phone.

  “Mr. Clark? Maggie Sullivan.”

  “Miss Sullivan?” he repeated after several seconds. “Yes. Sorry. Good to hear from you.”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No. No, I just had someone in my office. They’re gone now. What can I do for you?”

  His voice was returning to normal, but I hadn’t imagined that initial note of... what? Strain? Disorientation? Abruptly I changed my mind about asking what I’d intended.

  “You told me you’d run into Foster and his girlfriend once at a club. Which girlfriend?”

  “Pardon?”

  “He had another girlfriend before the one he promoted to mistress.”

  “He what? That sly dog. No. I’m afraid I don’t know which it was.”

  “You didn’t get a name?”

  “No.”

  “Remember what she looked like?”

  “No. Blonde perhaps?” His outward breath held mild impatience. “Is it important?”

  “Possibly. What about the club? Do you remember the name?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you there either. Was there anything else?”

  “Would you happen to know where Foster bought the pipe for his buildings?”

  “Pipe? The plumber he subcontracted to would supply it. That would be in his paperwork.”

  He didn’t ask why I wanted to know, and since his answer led me to think I could scratch pipe off the list of things Gloria had mentioned, I saw no benefit in prolonging our conversation.

  ***

  “You and Rachel are the only women in the family who drive?” I asked Mo when the two of them arrived.

  “It practically makes her a fallen woman,” said Rachel.

  “Rache, that’s not fair. You know Joel tried his best to get Judith to learn.” Mo was looking around my office with an expression I couldn’t quite read. I thought there was interest somewhere in it.

  “I brought a book.” She produced it. “I can take a chair into the hall if you’d like privacy.”

  “We’re not going to talk about anything salacious, unless there’s a side to the construction business I haven’t come across yet.”

  “In that case I’m glad I brought the book.”

  Mo showed promise.

  I sat down at my desk, but Rachel moved restlessly around the room.

  “How are you feeling, by the way?”

  “Not perky, but holding my own.”

  I told her what Gloria had said about a bill or invoice. When I’d finished, she came to rest in the client’s chair in front of my desk. Her crossed leg swung, an outlet for the rapid turning of her mind.

  “You’re thinking it’s proof of a swindle of some sort Lamont had going.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which fits with Foster blackmailing him if he found out.”

  “Also with Lamont’s sudden increase in successful bids.”

  I slid Heebs’ handiwork across the desk for her to examine. As its import sank in, her mouth hardened.

  “He was getting a break on materials somewhere. A crooked one by the sound of it. I’d bet a hundred dollars Foster not only blackmailed Lamont, but cut himself in on the swindle. That would explain how the s.o.b. managed such a low bid on that contract I spouted off about, and why Lamont looked so mad that day.”

  “It would also mean you were close to the truth when you accused Foster of cutting corners to keep down his cost. Close enough to make the killer think you had the proof, so he knew it existed.”

  “And tore up my office hunting it.”

  “And framed you for Foster’s death.”

  “Lamont?”

  “Or whoever was working the swindle with him. The supplier. Or someone who, like Foster, caught wind of it and wanted to cut himself in. Is that a possibility? Would enough be at stake?”

  Rachel slumped into the chair, pigeon-toed with her hands between her knees. She was thirty-one, three years older than me, but right now resembled a forlorn kid of twelve.

  “Yes, depending on the swindle, it could be enough. With business uncertain as it is now, it would very well be worth someone’s time — or the blackmail alone could, making for a much bigger field.”

  “Not necessarily. We’ve got an end to pull at now that we know more or less what the invoice covered.”

  “Lumber, shingles, pipe — which it wouldn’t be, by the way, because—”

  “The plumbing subcontractor would supply it. I’ve already learned that.”

  “If we assume the girl’s even remotely right, there could be half a dozen other construction materials it might have involved. Gravel, concrete, steel beams — those would be the expensive ones.”

  Her low spirits were palpable. She got up and walked to the window.

  “I need a cigarette.”

  She opened the window and smoked. I sat at my desk. Mo appeared to be reading.

  “All right.” Rachel made a good show of strutting back with her old verve. “Let’s look at the biggest costs in a project first.”

  She talked. I listened and questioned. In terms of materials, the three most expensive were lumber, steel joists and beams, and concrete. The first two had gone up in price since the war started, and were increasingly hard to get for civilian construction.

  “Black market?” I asked.

  “Not yet, and not likely ever. Firms like mine will have to switch to military projects, new buildings at Patterson Field for example, or to much smaller ones like four-plexes where we might be able to get enough of what trickles out in the way of materials.”

  “Let’s rule that out, then, since Lamont began getting more contracts a good two years ago. That means the swindle would probably be along the lines of billing Lamont the full amount for beams, say, but selling them to him for less and getting a cut of that difference? Is that how it works?”

  “Yes. Or charging for a certain number but delivering fewer.” Her mouth gave a sideways twist. “There are probably ways I’ve never heard of, and it could involve all the other supplies we’ve talked about, not just the top three. There are dozens, no, scores of people who could be Lamont’s partner. We’re back to square one.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Despite my show of optimism for Rachel, I didn’t have the least idea what to do next. I’d already burned down the Phil Clark haystack with nothing to show for it. My next option was to confront Lamont without so much as a decent bluff about knowing the particulars of his swindling, which I didn’t want to do. Apart from that, I’d have to pick through a lot of straw.

  I did have one germ of an idea but my recent dunking had robbed me of stamina. A couple of phones calls, a spot of typing, and I went back to Mrs. Z’s where I slept away most of the afternoon. When I woke up, there was just enough of it left to call Joel Minsky’s office.

  “Mr. Minsky got the envelope you left,” reported his receptionist. “He said if you called to tell you he’d gone to talk to the witness you found and will call you tomorrow if anything new comes to light.”

  The grandfather clock ticking away in the downstairs hall by Mrs. Z’s phone stand told me the smartest thing I could do with what remained of the day was go to Finn’s so people would know I was still among the living.

  ***

  “Saw you come in, love.” Rose slid a freshly pulled Guinness to me as I neared my usual spot at the bar’s far end. “We heard you were sick.”

  “Yeah, but the devil didn’t want me. Thought I’d better come in and let ever
ybody know I’m okay.”

  All stools in the area where I ordinarily found a spot were occupied. Only a few faces at the bar were familiar.

  “We get more and more in who’ve arrived to do factory work,” Rose murmured noting my gaze. She set another Guinness next to the tap while its foam settled. Farther along the bar, an unfamiliar customer clinked his empty grass impatiently. Rose filled her hands with drinks to deliver. “Mick’s back by the wall,” she called over her shoulder.

  Connelly sat alone at a table next to the back partition. He looked up when I was halfway there.

  “This seat saved for anyone?” I asked pulling the chair across from him out.

  “Just my hat. You’re a sight better company.”

  He put his patrolman’s hat on the table. The sight of him there across from me, solid and reassuring, brought flooding memories of the fear I’d felt there alone in the river. Guinness didn’t still them.

  “You okay?” Connelly was frowning.

  “Just tired. I’ve been under the weather.”

  “Yeah, Rose said.”

  The dark, cold current rushing through my head wouldn’t stop. With the same desperation I’d clung to the log in the river, my eyes now clung to the familiar sight of the man across from me. The steel blue eyes that could tease; the hard yet mobile mouth with its perfect masculine shape; the last face I’d thought of alone in the water.

  I could take care of myself.

  I’d managed to ever since my dad died. Even before.

  I could take care of myself.

  I’d escaped the river. I was sitting here. Why, then, did I feel so desperately glad for Connelly’s presence? For the resonant baritone of his voice and the faint, faint scent of his morning shaving cream? The feel of his leg against mine was proof of my safety.

  “When I first came in, I thought I might have turned into the wrong pub,” I chattered. “How’d I miss Wee Willie?”

  “Don’t know about Willie. Seamus has night rotation. Maggie...” Connelly’s frown had deepened into a mask of concern. “Maggie, you’re acting strange.” He chose words carefully. “You’re not worse sick than you’re letting on, are you? On my way home after Rose told me why you hadn’t been in, I stopped by Mrs. Z’s to see if I could bring you anything. She said a friend was looking after you. I thought you might be in hospital.”

  At the worry pinching his features, the tenderness in his voice, I started to tremble. I tried to take a sip of stout. It sloshed to the rim, almost spilling. Setting the glass down, I fought to discipline my shaking lips into shaping words.

  “I wasn’t sick. Someone threw me into the river.”

  “Maggie!”

  The word he breathed was so filled with anguish that tears started in my eyes. I willed them away. I hadn’t cried since my dad’s funeral. I wasn’t going to sit here and bawl where people could see.

  “I washed ashore and a bum found me. Jenkins and Ione took me to their place.” Tears kept squeezing out. My trembling progressed to full-blown shaking. “I almost drowned, Mick! I don’t know how I made it out. I... almost... drowned!”

  Connelly enveloped my hand with his, warming my fingers and holding them tightly. His free hand reached across and his thumb wiped a tear away, its touch warm and strong and so infinitely caring.

  “Let’s have a walk, shall we? Get a breath of fresh air?”

  Unable to speak, I nodded. We left my pint barely touched and his half finished. By the time we reached the sidewalk my breath was coming in tiny gulps, silent sobs I couldn’t control. Connelly’s arm slid around me, holding me close.

  “There, Maggie, it’s all right. It’s all right.” He kissed my hair. “You’re safe, love.”

  Three doors down from Finn’s was the kind of alley Connelly called a ‘close.’ A few steps into it was the entrance to a shop that made picture frames. Connelly steered me into the arch of the shop, away from the curious gazes of passersby. Wrapping his arms around me, he tucked me under his chin. He stroked my hair, soothing and petting me as if I were a child, while my silent sobs spilled out tears. When at last they diminished, his soft cotton handkerchief dried my face.

  “Better?”

  I nodded.

  “You hadn’t told anyone, had you? How truly scared you were?”

  “Stupid of me going on about it now. It’s over. I made it out.”

  “And I’m glad, mavourneen. So glad. I don’t think I could bear it if anything happened to you.”

  His voice throbbed with emotion. He kissed my swollen eyelids gently. For several minutes we simply stood there with his arms around me while I leaned against him listening to traffic and footsteps and murmurs of conversation as the city headed home from the workday.

  Tipping my face up, Connelly brushed my lips with his. The tenderness softened memories of being alone in the river. It hadn’t been so much the fear of dying. It had been the loneliness, my insignificance. Fierce hunger, need, an urgency to seize what I had almost lost surged inside me. I drew back far enough to see his familiar face.

  “Is that invitation to come up to your place still good?”

  ***

  His room was as quiet and unassuming as the man himself. There was a three-quarter bed against one wall, a wardrobe, an armchair and reading lamp. That was all I noticed.

  Like two who had gone too long without food we wound together.

  “I thought this day would never come, Maggie. Christ but I love you.”

  His Sam Browne belt with its service revolver dropped onto the chair. With one accord our clothes came off. After all these years, it seemed both natural and dreamlike. We moved to the tune we’d been waiting for since we met, and one as ancient as the hills.

  FORTY-TWO

  “I always knew you’d have freckles.”

  “And bragged you’d see them one day, as I recall.”

  Connelly chuckled. Not fully awake but far from drowsing, he traced the place where the freckles resided, the inner curve of my breast.

  It was four in the morning. We’d explored each other, talked, slept for an hour or two, then done it all over again. Now we lay with my head on his shoulder. I’d never been so content in my life.

  “This feels like it might have come from a bullet.” My open palm slid over a patch of satiny skin on his chest.

  “Mmm. Nicked a lung. Another reason why the Army didn’t want me, I think.”

  We drifted, each with our own thoughts. Dawn would arrive soon.

  “You know anything about construction?” I asked.

  “I can mend a gate, put up a lean-to, replace rotting stairs on a porch. That’s about the extent of it.” Rolling over, hands braced on either side of me, he smiled. “Why? Have I flunked my first test?”

  “There’s always the chance you could get an A elsewhere.”

  He did.

  When I awoke again, it was to his whistling. He was dressing for duty. For a while I watched him, enjoying the neat economy of his movements. Finally I stirred.

  “Guess I’d better get going too so your landlady doesn’t see me and throw you out for having a woman up here.”

  “Do you always wake up worrying, Sunshine? The dear woman’s deaf as a post.” He sat on the edge of the bed, blocking my exit. “Anyway, she’s away for the week visiting her nephew. And if she did throw me out...” He dropped a light kiss on me. “...it would be worth it.”

  He resumed dressing, donning his puttees.

  “Why did you ask about carpentry? Does something at Mrs. Z’s need fixing?”

  “No, I want an opinion on something at a construction project. It wouldn’t be smart to involve you in it anyway.”

  “It wouldn’t help Lt. Freeze’s opinion of you if he thought you had me wrapped around his finger like you have him.”

  I laughed.

  “That’s a different gun than you had before.” He nodded at where it lay on the table.

  “You took it out of my purse?”

  “You pu
t it there when you got up to visit the loo. Don’t you remember?”

  “It wasn’t exactly topmost in my mind, and yes, it’s new. I had to ditch the one I had to stay afloat. Someone left that for me. I think it must have been Pearlie.”

  Connelly turned abruptly.

  “Pearlie Gibbons. The man who drives for your friend Rachel and used to be a junior gunman for Two-Finger Louie in Cleveland?”

  I didn’t like what I was hearing, or the sound of it. I sat up, wrapping the sheet around me.

  “I don’t know his last name, and I don’t know anything about his previous employment, but yes, I’m talking about the man who drives for Rachel. Or did. He left town.” But had he? “Why?”

  After a minute the stiffness melted from Connelly’s manner. He drew a breath, then shook his head.

  “When push comes to shove, anybody who looks out for you is okay by me. Just be careful, will you, mavourneen? A man like that can be a magnet for the same kind of men. And he doesn’t always change his spots completely.”

  “But sometimes he does.”

  Connelly had killed at least one man in Ireland, caught in bitter conflict between Republicans and Free Staters that tangled the lives of so many. Whether or not he knew what was on my mind, he smiled faintly.

  “Yah, sometimes they do. I’d better be off. Day shift’s hoping to nab a pair of purse-snatchers who’ve been after women cashing their factory checks. See you at Finn’s?”

  I stepped up into the kiss he was bending to give me.

  “Can’t. I need to talk to someone who does know about construction when he gets done for the day. Then I plan on doing something you’re better off not knowing about.”

  “Maggie—”

  “It’s not dangerous, just something a respectable policeman shouldn’t be expected to ignore. And at half-past eight I need to take a bus ride.”

  “A bus ride.”

  The day before I’d left word for Lulu Sollers that I’d been detained the previous week but intended to have a crack at catching up with the kids on the bus tonight.

  “Come over after that then?”