The Yankee Club

by Michael Murphy

  “Makes sense. You’re trying to get her drunk so she’ll spill the beans about her old man.”

  “Not drunk, just … what kind of guy do you think I am?”

  “A regular Joe like the rest of us.” He crushed his cigarette into an ashtray. “You know what else loosens a dame’s lips? Pillow talk. Bring her back to your hotel and get her to spend the night.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Nah, I guess you wouldn’t. You might consider bringing in a pinch hitter. Sometimes it takes a bigger bat in the lineup.”

  “A bigger bat.”

  “Not to imply there’s something lacking in the size of your equipment.”

  When the song ended, the band took up a slow bluesy number. Bridgette, the blond singer, sounded like the real thing when she sang Billy Hills’s “Have You Ever Been Lonely.” I looked past Laura and Dalrymple as they danced and watched Friedman escort Dorothy to the ladies’ room next to the lobby. To my shock and disgust, he remained outside the door.

  The German’s behavior appeared to baffle Gino, too. I shrugged. “It might be a European custom, like here when women accompany each other to freshen up.”

  Gino rolled his eyes. “Do you always have to look for the good in people? If you’re not going to go punch him in the nose, I will.”

  I left the table, headed for the restrooms, and stood beside my German friend. “You’re a guest in our country, so I’ll cut you some slack.”

  “What is slack?”

  I lacked the patience to explain American slang. “Dorothy is my date this evening, Baron, so why don’t you head back to the table and finish your scotch?” With Gino’s cigarette ash.

  He cocked his head and scowled. “So America isn’t always the land of the free.”

  I wasn’t about to get into a political debate with a damn Nazi.

  “You Americans.” He spit out the words. “Arrogant fools.”

  In the lobby, Danny climbed off his stool. I held up one hand and tried to control my anger. “I don’t like the way you look at women or the way you treat people. As a matter of fact, I don’t like you at all.”

  His face puffed up like a bowling ball. He thumped my chest with his finger. “Why don’t you go back to Florida, you hypocritical hack.”

  The man passed himself off as a baron, some kind of aristocrat. I suspected Karl Friedman was nothing but a common criminal who enjoyed intimidating people, the kind of thug the papers said brought Hitler to power.

  I slapped his hand away. At that moment I didn’t care whether he was a guest of Spencer Dalrymple. He balled his hands into fists. I shoved him against the wall and pressed my hand against the base of his throat.

  Danny hurried to my side. “You want I should give him the bum’s rush, Jake?”

  “Thanks, but if anyone’s going to throw this bastard into the street, it’ll be me.” I let go of Friedman and took a deep breath.

  The red-faced Nazi straightened his suit. “This is the way you treat a German diplomat?”

  I smiled, certain he hadn’t intended to reveal that he worked for the German government. My suspicions had been correct, and the man had just confirmed it. Karl Friedman really was a stinking Nazi, and I suspected Dalrymple knew it all along.

  “You’ll regret this, Donovan, as long as you live.” He turned on his heel and marched across the lobby. He gave me a threatening glare then disappeared outside.

  Dorothy came from the restroom and froze. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine, but Karl Friedman left rather abruptly.”

  “Wonderful. Now perhaps you and I can dance.” Dorothy took my arm, and I led her back to our table. I held the chair for her as Laura and Dalrymple returned to the table.

  As the band began another number, Laura remained standing and held out her hand. “How about a dance, Jake, for old times’ sake? Do you mind, Spencer?”

  “Of course not, darling.” Dalrymple sat and glanced around the room. “Where’s the baron?”

  “He left unexpectedly,” Dorothy explained.

  I followed Laura to the dance floor. “I’m not as fond of your date as you apparently are.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.” I took her in my arms and tried not to show how her touch brought back so many old memories. I had no desire to talk about our efforts to save the republic. Thoughts of Blackshirts, the Golden Legion, and plots against Roosevelt vanished. For a moment we weren’t playing roles for the benefit of Spencer and Dorothy. We danced like old times.

  “You’re staring at me, Jake. I want Spencer to trust you. Bringing Dorothy Greenwoody couldn’t have been better if I’d planned it myself. She’s in love with you, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “She’s in love with Blackie Doyle.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Laura laughed as if I’d just said the funniest thing, for her fiancé’s benefit, no doubt. “I asked you to dance to find out what you’ve learned. What actually happened to the baron?”

  “He’s not a baron. Karl Friedman, if that’s his real name, is a German diplomat.”

  “That means he’s a Nazi. Stoddard will be pleased.”

  “Then he should be positively giddy that Oliver Greenwoody is an admirer of Mussolini, and that the Blackshirts hang out at Al’s Pool Hall in Hoboken.”

  “Impressive. You should be a detective.”

  “Sounds like the Golden Legion has considerable fascist support. The feeling is probably mutual. Maybe that will be enough for us to step aside and let the Secret Service or FBI do their job.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  I couldn’t help it. I spun her slowly, and we moved like old times. I was still in love with Laura and wanted her to know it. “I never should’ve run off to Florida.”

  For a moment she blinked away tears shimmering in her eyes and managed a smile. “Don’t do this to me, especially while everyone at the table is looking.”

  “The country’s future is important, but so is ours.”

  She dropped my hand and waved to her fiancé. “This is the hardest role I’ve ever played.”

  I turned her back so no one at our table would notice the emotion in her eyes. I whispered, “How did you get involved in this? It’s dangerous. You’re an actress with your whole life ahead of you.”

  Laura regained her poise. She brushed imaginary lint from my shoulder. “A few months ago I had lunch with Mickey. He was in over his head, okay? I talked him into letting me help. Now he’s dead, and it’s my fault. I can’t walk away from this, so … so I have to see this through.” She fought back tears. “I can’t … Say something, Jake, for their benefit.”

  “We’ll see this through.” I smiled for Dorothy who didn’t smile back. “After the funeral tomorrow, Gino’s holding a wake here. You’ll be there, right?”

  “Of course, but Spencer won’t. He’s hosting a two-day get-together at his hunting lodge in Connecticut for some of his business associates, including your date’s father. Looks like the whole Golden Legion. Spencer says it’s a skeet-shooting tournament. He’s invited Friedman along.”

  When the song ended, Laura cocked her head. “Ask Dorothy to dance. Right now she’s not happy with you.”

  Laura was right. At the table I held a hand out to Dorothy. “Would you dance with me?”

  For a moment she ignored me then headed for the dance floor without taking my hand.

  Dorothy kept her distance as we danced. “After this dance is over, I’d like to return to the hotel. It’s obvious you’re still in love with Laura Wilson.”

  “I … I realize it’s not fair to you. I’m still not over her.” I managed a smile. “I am working on it.”

  She appeared satisfied with my response and moved closer. “I’m not the only one who noticed. While you danced with your ex, Spencer Dalrymple asked all about our relationship.”

  “What did you say?”

  Dorothy cocked her head. “Jake, we don’t have a relationship. I’m not
even sure if you like me.”

  “Of course I like you.” If I couldn’t convince her, how could I convince Dalrymple? I ignored my earlier condemnation of Friedman’s boorish treatment of American women and swallowed my guilt over using her to keep Laura safe. In the middle of the dance floor I kissed Dorothy.

  After the kiss she glanced at the other couples on the dance floor, clearly embarrassed. “You are a scoundrel, Jake Donovan.”

  I was.

  Smiling, she leaned her head against my shoulder and closed her eyes. “Just like Blackie Doyle.”

  Chapter 12

  A Dozen White Roses for My Funeral

  With Dorothy’s head resting against my shoulder, I grew increasingly uneasy as our cab neared the Plaza Hotel. Just a kid, at twenty-three, she deserved someone who’d treat her better than I had. I paid the cabbie from my dwindling cash supply and slipped him extra to wait so I’d have an excuse not to enter her hotel room.

  She opened her purse in the corridor and handed me her room key. “Would you like to come in?”

  I swallowed hard, nearly choking on guilt. I needed to gain Dorothy’s trust, but I wouldn’t cross a line of intimacy. I hoped Laura felt the same way about her sham fiancé.

  I took the key and unlocked the door. “I’d like nothing better, but your father’s probably finished cleaning his shotgun.” I handed the key back.

  Dorothy kissed me. She pressed her body against me and parted her lips to let me know what I’d miss. I let her, like a good actor should. She brushed lipstick from my face after the kiss. “Some other time, perhaps.” She and her coquettish pout entered the room.

  At the Carlyle, a bored-looking clerk waved me over to the front desk. He stifled a yawn and handed me a message labeled URGENT. Belle wanted to meet right away. The wall clock read just after one, but urgent meant urgent. What could be so important?

  A portly elevator operator greeted me with a familiar nod. “Three, Mr. Donovan?”

  “Two, please.”

  I ignored his knowing smile and rode the elevator to Belle’s floor. I hesitated outside her room. A radio played from behind her door so I knocked.

  Belle greeted me in a white terry-cloth Carlyle robe. She smiled, stepped back, and let me inside.

  I ignored the red satin nightgown lying on her bed. “What’s up?”

  She folded her arms in front of her. “I turned in early. A second after I dozed off, I sat up in bed wide awake. I remembered something about the guy who brought the tommy gun. Maybe it’s important. Maybe not. He wore this big gold ring on his right hand. Had three letters, N, Y, and something else.”

  “NYU?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. I didn’t dream the ring, Jake. Honest. He wore it on his right hand the night he shot you and your friend.”

  I’d seen an NYU ring recently and sucked in a gulp of air over the implications. My mind raced back to my interrogation. Hawkins had an irritating habit of rapping his NYU ring on the table. I don’t think he even realized it. Still, thousands of guys in the city wore rings like that. “Anything else?”

  Belle cocked her head and stared into the distance. “He tapped the ring on the hood of the car, like he was nervous, you know?”

  Could Hawkins really be Mickey’s killer? I searched my memory of that night. The only vivid recollections were the barrel of the tommy gun sticking out of the car window, shouting for Mickey to get down, and diving to the sidewalk. “Tell me again what he looked like.”

  “Your height.” Six foot. Same as Hawkins. “Thin Ronald Colman mustache, dark hair, dressed to the nines.”

  Hawkins—Belle could ID him as the shooter. Son of a bitch! He killed Mickey and Jimmy Vales and tried to frame me for Jimmy’s murder. Belle was in serious danger.

  Her quivering hand covered her mouth. “What’s wrong?”

  “I need to get you out of town.”

  “You’re scaring me.” She had a right to be scared.

  “I know the guy you’re describing. He’s a cop.”

  Belle dropped to the bed beside her negligee. “Holy shit.”

  I sat beside Belle and tried to comfort her by slipping an arm around her shoulders. I ignored her rose-scented fragrance. “Do you have friends, family, someone outside of New York?”

  Her lower lip trembled. “My old lady decided I was old enough to live on my own when I was twelve. Cops found her in an alley with a needle in her arm and a spoon beside her. Only friends I got are hookers and johns.” She set her hand on my leg and rubbed my thigh. “And you.”

  I jumped to my feet and knocked the nightgown to the floor. I backpedaled toward the door.

  Belle grinned. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

  Yes I could. “I have a train ticket for tomorrow at nine.”

  “Where to?”

  Did it matter? Her life was in danger if she stayed in the city. “Tampa. You can stay in my apartment until this blows over.”

  “It’s a thousand miles away. I don’t know anyone in Florida. What will I do in Tampa?”

  “You can play cards with my senior poker buddies every Monday, Wednesday, and Sunday at ten.”

  “Or,” a smile swept over her face, “I can go back to work.”

  At the end of the corridor I pushed the elevator button with my cane. I tried to decide how to handle Hawkins. He wasn’t just an ambitious cop intent on arresting me to further his career. He was Mickey’s killer, and I’d see to it he fried in the chair, but who ordered the hit on Mickey? Dalrymple and the Golden Legion? I had to let Landon Stoddard know what Belle had told me.

  The elevator door opened. What about Inspector Stone? He and Hawkins were as dissimilar as partners got. I trusted him enough to mention the Golden Legion, but was he dirty as well?

  “Going up?” Same elevator, different operator. This one wore a hat tugged over his brow. His gold uniform jacket hung on a bony frame and thin shoulders.

  “Three.”

  The man smiled with a familiar gap in his teeth. The flower vendor at Central Park! Before I could twist the handle of the cane and remove the dagger, he drew a .38 from his jacket. He pulled the emergency stop lever. The elevator jerked to a halt. “We ain’t been properly introduced, but I’ve seen you at The Yankee Club.”

  Apparently we’d met before Central Park. I searched my past. “Tony?”

  “You’ve got a good memory, Donovan. Tony Vales, Jimmy’s brother. I’m sure you remember Jimmy. You shot him and left him in the alley.”

  His face reflected more than vengeance. Red puffy eyes told me he hadn’t slept much. Experience on New York’s streets taught me exhaustion and revenge could be a deadly combination.

  I squeezed the handle of the cane and chose my words carefully. “I didn’t kill your brother.”

  “A denial. Imagine that. We’re going to quietly head down to the lobby. This time of night there shouldn’t be anyone except the desk clerk.” He kept the gun aimed at me and started the elevator.

  As we descended, he slid the gun into his jacket and kept his hand inside. “You make a move and I’ll blow your brains all over that fancy marble tile.”

  I assumed he intended to kill me anyway, but now I knew Hawkins murdered his brother, there was an outside chance I could convince him I didn’t kill Jimmy. If I couldn’t talk my way out of trouble, I’d have to use the cane.

  The door opened. Tony nodded toward the lobby. “Leave the cane.”

  “But—”

  “I said leave it, Donovan.”

  Reluctantly, I dropped the cane and stepped off the elevator. Tony followed me.

  The desk clerk stood with his back to us sorting room keys. Why did he have to pick now to work?

  “Make a sound and I’ll shoot you both.” Tony stood between me and the desk clerk as we crossed the lobby.

  Outside, a white delivery truck with a red rose on the door sat at the curb. The blue lettering read VALES, THE HAPPY FLORIST.

  The Happy Florist glanced up and down the sidewa
lk then stuck the gun against my spine and shoved me toward the back of the van. “Open the back door.”

  I yanked the door open. On the floor was a rope and a two-foot length of white cloth, perfect for a gag. I climbed inside hoping this wouldn’t be my final ride. “You don’t have to tie me up.”

  Tony followed me into the van. “Yes I do.”

  An hour later, I sat in the back room of The Happy Florist with my hands tied in a wooden chair. Rough thin rope bit into my wrists bound behind me.

  Shelves of vases and ribbons covered one wall. Tony Vales stood in front of a wooden table with a sink at one end. Before him lay several sizes of shears and knives and his gun. In spite of a glass cooler behind him with buckets full of flowers, the room smelled of ammonia and bleach.

  Tony picked up a pair of shears with steel blades that looked like they could slice through bone. “What’s your favorite flower?”

  I shrugged, trying to hide my struggle to untie my hands.

  He glared at me through bloodshot eyes. “Everyone has a favorite flower.”

  I didn’t, but Laura did. “Roses. White roses.”

  Tony slipped on a pair of rubber gloves then opened the cooler and removed a dozen long-stem white roses. He laid them on the table. He filled a black vase with water and set it beside his gun. Treating me like a valued customer, he snipped a two-foot piece of white ribbon and tied a bow around the vase. “Most people think during a Depression folks don’t buy flowers. I do weddings, bar mitzvahs, funerals … lots of funerals.”

  “I didn’t kill your brother, but I know who did.”

  “Of course you do. Now shut up.”

  “A homicide detective shot Jimmy. Name’s Hawkins.”

  “I said shut up.” He pointed with pruning shears. “You don’t pipe down, the gag goes back on.”

  So much for talking my way out of danger.

  Tony snipped thorns from one stem and trimmed away several leaves near the petals. He finished the trim and set the rose in front of him. With a slender knife he sliced off the bottom inch of the stem. “You don’t use the shears ’cause you’ll pinch the stem, cutting the water flow to the petals.”