by Ann Aptaker
Celeste doesn’t say anything, either, just stares at me as she lets her arm drop, a stare so full of hurt it accuses me of being as much of a brute as the gorilla who bruised her arm. Her stare shrinks me to a mere mote of dust, and there’s no getting myself back until she walks away and into her bedroom.
I work on my glass of scotch while Celeste is dressing. The whiskey may be lousy but it clears my head, gets me out from under how crummy Celeste just made me feel. Instead, I think about my dealings tonight with Pep Green, look for anything to indicate he’d just stabbed a woman and tossed her off a bridge. All I remember is that he was his usual slick self when he greeted me, all smiles and salesmanship, but that’s no surprise. Pep can be a cool customer when it comes to killing. That’s how he climbed so high in Loreale’s outfit. Pep can slit a guy’s throat one minute and ask the guy’s widow for a date the next.
I go over everything Pep said from the time I showed up at Sig’s tower to the moment I grabbed Pep by his lapels after Sig’s gunman forced Rosie to drive away. I hear Pep say, The guy just lost his chippie! Chippie. That’s a pretty cheesy way to talk about his boss’s bride. I guess Pep didn’t like Opal. Maybe didn’t like her enough to kill her? Kill his powerful boss’s sweetie pie? He’d have to be nuts.
Unless Opal gave him a reason. Hate’s a reason. So is love or jealousy. So is money. If there’s money in the mix, for a guy like Pep Green there’s no better reason.
I’m trying to piece all this together, make it jive with Celeste’s connection to Opal and Pep, when Celeste walks back into the living room. She’s dressed like she’s on her way to a society luncheon, decked out in a classy navy-blue pinstripe suit that clings to her curves the way curves should be clung to. Below the slim skirt, a shapely set of legs flow into a pair of blue high-heeled shoes. The net veil of her little blue hat casts a tantalizing web of shadows across her face. She’s carrying a tan valise in each hand, a blue leather handbag on her wrist, and a pair of red leather gloves draped over the handbag. A mink coat is over her arm. I wonder if Pep gave her the mink before he ditched her. Then I wonder why he ditched her. A woman whose moving parts are as finely crafted as Celeste’s is not a woman I’d want to get rid of.
She puts down the valises, her handbag, and the mink, then slides her hands into the red leather gloves. That’s when she notices me looking at her, but it doesn’t stop her from doing what she’s doing; after Celeste finishes pulling on her gloves, she slides her hands slowly down her skirt, smoothing out creases that aren’t there, the red leather gloves rippling like snakes in the lamplight. The performance is the opposite of a striptease, and twice as sexy.
But the invitation’s canceled when Celeste drops the femme fatale act and picks up the valises and the mink as though she’s ready to board a train. Looking at the mink, she says, “I’ll sell the coat or hock it. Pelts this good will fetch at least a couple of grand.”
“Sure,” I say, wondering who the hell is this Celeste Copley and why is she trying to make me dizzy? “It’s too hot for mink in sunny California anyway.”
“Tell that to the movie stars,” she kids me.
“You can tell ’em yourself, by the pool.”
I put my cap on as we walk out of the apartment. The dreary yellow light in the dilapidated hallway wraps around us like a dirty shroud.
Celeste walks ahead of me toward the front door of the building. She has a smooth, sinuous stride, the sort of I-own-the-floor stride of some high-class strippers whose acts I like to catch now and then. I’m getting a nice view of the rolling rhythm of Celeste’s hips as we near the front door, but what I glimpse through the glass pane breaks the spell between me and those hips: the teenage thugs I’d seen earlier, the kid with the mashed-potato face and the rest of the gang, are loitering in front of the building.
I pull Celeste’s arm so hard I practically fling her behind me. “Go back to your apartment, now,” I say.
“But—”
“We’ve got bad company on the street. Get going.” She’s about to give me an argument, so I just shove her in the direction of her door. I shove her hard, again and again, until she finally gives up arguing and walks back to her apartment.
I follow Celeste inside, close the door, and lock it. Celeste starts in on me, “Next time you lay a hand on me—Jesus Christ, you’re no better—!”
“Keep your voice down, dammit. Those kids, you know them?”
“The Kavanagh boys and their friends? Is that who you’re worried about? They’re just a crummy bunch of neighborhood toughs. Hell, I can tell them to shoo and they’ll—”
“They’ll shoo for two minutes, then show up at our backs. They cased me when I came here. Now they’re outside your door. I don’t like the coincidence. Do you?”
She doesn’t. She looks scared again.
I say, “You think Pep might’ve sent them?”
“I…maybe…I don’t know. How would they know him?”
“They don’t have to know him. He only has to know about them. Trust me, everyone in Loreale’s outfit has a line to every street gang in town. Pep can have instructions and payoff money make their way down the line to those kids outside.” I don’t mention another bloodcurdling twist, that maybe it’s Sig who has the kids in his employ. Maybe it’s me they’re keeping an eye on, with Celeste a by-product of my activities. I wouldn’t put it past Sig to keep a tail on me, make sure I’m representing his interests and not my own. The sonuvabitch has been tagging me since Coney Island. “Listen, Celeste, is there a back door out of the building?”
“There’s a basement door that leads to a garbage area in the back. But there’s a wall around the garbage area.”
“How high a wall?”
“Eight feet, I guess, maybe ten.”
“Where’s your phone?”
“Over there, next to the breakfront.”
I dial Judson. He picks up after one ring, says, “Yeah?” fast and anxious.
“It’s me, Judson.”
“Oh. I thought you might be a sound expert pal of mine. He does surveillance jobs. Plants bugs, that sorta thing. I rang him a little while ago and played him the sounds from Rosie’s cab radio over the phone, that grinding metal sound and that watery noise. It’s dicey, having him record the sounds secondhand through the phone, but he said he’d try to pick them apart with his equipment, try to figure what they are. I’m still waiting to hear back. What’s up?”
“I need your chauffeur services again, Judson. We’re not far from the office. Pick us up on Forty-Third between Ninth and Tenth, middle of the block, right away.”
“Us?”
“I’m traveling with a lady. A well-dressed lady who needs a ride.” I look over at Celeste. Good, I’ve made her smile again. I’ve got to keep her spirits up and her trust high.
Judson says, “Copley?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, figure about ten minutes.”
I hang up. Celeste tosses the mink over her arm and picks up the valises.
“Leave ’em,” I say.
“What? They’re all I have! This coat will pay several months’ rent!”
“Take only your handbag. We’ve got a wall to scale. The mink and the luggage will slow us down.”
“You’re leaving me without clothes? What will I wear? How will I live?”
I want to laugh out loud, but I’m afraid that’ll sour Celeste’s cooperation, so I hold my amusement to a grin. “Trust me, baby, you’ll have no trouble finding someone who’ll take care of both.”
She puts the valises down but puts the mink coat on, making it clear she’s not budging without that coat. She’s putting on one helluva show of stubbornness, an alluring show, all in all, exposing a spice in her personality I’d love to get to know in, say, a hotel bedroom.
Well okay, she’s made a hit with tonight’s audience of one, so I give in about the coat. “All right, take the mink, but leave the damned valises. Judson will be on his way.”
“Who�
�s Judson?
“An associate. Let’s go.”
“You trust this Judson?”
“You ask too many questions. Questions make trouble. That’s why your danger boys always turn on you. Now c’mon, we’re getting out of here.” I grab Celeste’s hand, pull her along and walk us out the door.
Celeste leads me along the back end of the hallway to the basement stairs. She reaches up and pulls the cord on an overhead light, a naked bulb that sways on a fraying electric cord. The swaying bulb creates the dizzying effect of tossing our shadows around in several directions all at the same time while we walk down the narrow, winding stairs. I pull the brim of my cap down a little lower to block the crazy swirling of our shadows on the bare brick walls. All I see now is the back of Celeste’s mink coat. The fur has its own gentle sway, moving in rhythm with the undulating body inside it, causing my equilibrium to be as wobbly now as it was when I was surrounded by the crazy shadows.
We finally get to the basement, a below-ground pit of heat, darkness, and dust, and where I find out that hearing rats scurry is much worse than seeing them.
Celeste says, “The light’s busted down here, has been for weeks. So watch your step.”
You bet I’ll watch my step.
When she opens the back door, a welcome breeze brings relief. A shaft of light shows us the way out of the basement.
The light’s from a bulb outside, above the door. It’s helpful but dangerous, could expose us to nosy neighbors. I don’t see a light switch, but a step outside and quick look up to the bulb shows me the ragged end of a ripped-out cord, too little of it left to grab and shut the light. The bulb’s out of reach. I’ll need to get some height on it.
Moving quietly, I carry a garbage can to the door, stand up on the lid, and using my pocket handkerchief to protect my fingertips I unscrew the bulb. The light dies, the night gathers around me with tender familiarity.
But we’re not in pitch darkness; it’s never pitch dark in New York. There’s always a glow from somewhere, from headlights, streetlights, advertising signs, theaters, windows of apartments where someone’s still awake, offices where someone’s still working. The glow settles along the cement wall that encloses the entire yard. The wall is maybe eight feet high.
I jump down from the garbage can, carry it to the back end of the yard, then climb up onto the can again. The top of the wall is still about six inches or so above my head, no problem for me to pull myself up and make it over the top if I put a little spring into my knees. But I don’t think Celeste is going to have the same bounce in those high-heeled shoes.
A quick look around shows me something that could be useful. “Celeste,” I say, my voice low so I don’t provoke the neighbors, “see that milk crate? Bring it over here.”
She brings it over, then I take the crate from her, place it on top of the garbage can, and step up onto the crate. “Yeah, this oughta do it. Okay, I’ll go over, then you follow. I’ll catch you and help you down the other side.”
“Yes, okay.”
The top of the wall’s an easy pull from the crate. By the time I get a leg over I’m satisfied Celeste won’t have any trouble.
“Cantor, wait!”
“What is it?”
“I can’t climb up, not in this skirt.”
This ridiculous obstacle to our getting the hell out of here would annoy me except I remember how damn good Celeste looks in that skirt.
I unhook my leg from the top of the wall, step down to the milk crate, and extend my hand to help her up, but she’s not there.
She’s at the other side of the yard, lifting what looks like a discarded vegetable crate from the area near the garbage cans. She carries the crate in one hand and pulls a garbage can with the other as she walks back across the yard, a trash picker in a mink coat.
I like a woman who’s inventive. Celeste sure makes the grade with her bit of construction work. She puts her garbage can next to mine, puts the vegetable crate next to the can, then steps onto the crate and up to the garbage can, graceful as royalty climbing the stairs to her box at the opera. She even extends her hand for me to assist her, her red leather glove dark as smoldering embers in the night’s glow.
She says, “Well, why are you still standing there? I thought we were in a hurry.” Her breath drifts along my face. Her breath is warm and moist, like summer air promising a storm. I bet there are plenty of storms inside Celeste, wild, beautiful storms that could sweep me up in their ferocity.
I get my leg over the top of the wall again, hoist myself over to the other side, and hope I don’t land on something noisy or break an ankle when I make the drop to the ground.
Hallelujah, there’s nothing on the ground but dirt.
Garbage cans are in this yard, too. I carry one to the wall, climb up on it. Above me, the silhouette of Celeste is coming over the wall. I reach up, slide my hands along her legs as she edges down. The hem of the mink tickles my face. Her nylon stockings and satin slip are smooth along my hands. The metal loops of her garter belt are warm against her thighs. All these sensations slide into me, wriggle under my skin. If I let them bore any deeper, I’m a goner.
“I’ve got you,” I say. I guide Celeste down to the top of the garbage can, then jump to the ground and help her down from the can. “C’mon, let’s get you to that safe place,” I say and start across the yard.
“Cantor?”
“Yeah?” I turn around, thinking, For chrissake, what now?
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, sure,” tumbles out of my mouth like a couple of loose teeth. I take Celeste’s hand and lead her toward the tenement across the yard.
There’s no space between this building and its neighbors, so we’ll have to go through the back door and basement. I’ll pick the lock if I have to, but a quick turn of the knob opens the door. The lock’s busted.
What a swell neighborhood. Safe as a shooting gallery.
It’s hot in the basement, and dark as a subway tunnel. The only light is from the flame in the tiny round window of the boiler in the corner, giving a hellish blue tint to the gloom. I lead Celeste carefully through the basement, trying not to bump into stuff that’ll make noise and alert suspicious tenants. By the time I find the bottom of a stairway, my back’s streaming sweat like Niagara Falls.
The stairway’s even darker than the basement, the steps nearly invisible. I have no idea where to find the light switch, and feeling around on the walls gets me nowhere. But there’s a slit of light visible at the top of the stairs, probably the light sliding under the door from the hallway. With my left arm behind me to hold Celeste’s hand, I keep my eyes on that slit of light while my feet find the way up the stairs.
The door at the top of the stairs is locked. I let go of Celeste’s hand, whisper over my shoulder, “Give me a sec,” then take out my penknife and pick the lock. The door snaps open.
Air from the hallway hits me with a welcome change of weather. I reach behind me for Celeste’s hand. Not that I need to; there’s enough light in the hallway to see where we’re going. I just want to hold her hand. She takes it.
We walk through the hallway, then out the door to Forty-Third Street. As we walk down the front stoop, Judson is pulling up in his Chevy.
Celeste gets into the backseat, I slide in beside her. “Stay low,” I tell her, “keep your head below the window.”
“You think we’re being watched?” She sounds scared, not all the way to panic but in spitting distance. “You think anybody saw us?”
“We’ll be okay,” I tell her. “It’s just a precaution.”
Judson pulls away from the curb. Celeste grabs my hand. She holds tight all the way to Twelfth Avenue, a few blocks’ ride. Her hand is warm through her gloves, the leather supple and seductive along my fingers. I wish the ride was longer.
“Pull into Louie’s garage,” I tell Judson. I toss the key over the seat. “After you park the car, walk out the front door of the garage. I’ll take Celeste out through the
back. We’ll meet you at the office.”
We stay low in the backseat while Judson pulls into the driveway. He gets out of the Chevy, unlocks the garage’s big wooden doors, and swings them open. The whole operation’s over in seconds, but Judson’s efficiency doesn’t make a dent in Celeste’s fear. She says, “What the hell’s taking him so long?”
“Take it easy. We’ll be inside in a minute.” The words are barely out of my mouth when Judson’s back in the Chevy and driving into the garage. He parks across from my Buick. Celeste moves to get out of the car, but I pull her back, say, “Wait until he shuts the garage doors behind him.”
Judson saunters out of the garage. Celeste says, “Can’t he put a fire under it?”
“Quiet. He knows what he’s doing.” And what he’s doing is keeping the scene low-key in case anyone’s passing by. He’s just a fella parking his heap in a garage, then walking to his destination, not the sort of fella to attract anyone’s attention.
He shuts the garage doors. I say, “Okay, Celeste, we can move.”
We slide out of the Chevy. The delicate tap of Celeste’s high-heeled shoes against the cement floor echoes around the garage. The ceiling light finds the fear on her face, even as the fear tries to hide in the shadows cast by the veil of her hat. I can’t take my eyes off of her. She has the kind of beauty that wears brutal emotions like fear or ferocity as elegantly as a fashion model wears lipstick.
I slide my fingers under the veil of her hat and stroke her cheek, wondering if she’ll let me get away with it again or if she’ll push my hand away this time. She wouldn’t be the first woman to sting me for taking liberties. She could slap my face, maybe even kick me. Let me tell you how much damage a high heel can do. But she doesn’t push my hand away, slap my face or anything else. My touch seems to steady her. She unsteadies me.
Celeste looks around the garage, takes stock of her surroundings, eventually settles on my Buick convertible, a pearly yellow ’48 Roadmaster with a black top and white sidewall tires. Even in the dingy light of the garage, yesterday’s wax job shows off the body’s patina.