by Ann Aptaker
“Yeah, yeah, help you save that other dame’s skin, Loreale’s hostage. Well, I’m not interested in saving her skin, either.”
“You’re all heart, Celeste. All right, get out. See if you can outrun Loreale on your own.”
“Maybe I should. So far, your protection hasn’t protected me all that much.”
“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” I take her chin in my hand and turn her to face me, lift her hat veil so nothing can shield her from me while I hold her pretty little chin tighter than she’d like. “Didn’t Pep or Opal ever tell you anything about Loreale? About how he always, always connects the dots? He’ll be coming after you, Celeste. He’ll be coming after both of us because you and I are the only dots connecting Opal’s fall from the bridge and Pep’s head exploding.”
“You’re sure Loreale already knows about Pep?”
“Yeah, he knows because I called the cops from Pep’s place, gave ’em an anonymous tip about where to find the body. You can bet the word got back to Sig the minute I hung up the phone. He owns eyes and ears in every precinct in town.”
If looks could kill, I’d be dead from the poisonous stare Celeste gives me. “Why don’t you just leave a trail of breadcrumbs behind us for Loreale to follow? Why don’t you just shine a light on them, too? Oh God, how the hell did I wind up with you? Let go of me, dammit!”
I don’t let go. I take her face between both my hands and hold even tighter. “Shut up and listen. Sig is the only guy who can clean up the mess in that poultry basement and cut the cops out of the action. There’ll be no police investigation, no questions at all. Pep’s body will be taken out of that basement without anyone ever hearing a footstep or seeing a shadow. It wouldn’t surprise me if Sig even gives Pep a nice funeral.”
That line about Pep’s funeral knocks Celeste back. Her anger and fear are sandbagged by her sadness over her dead gangster. She whispers his name, though it’s nothing more than a weak breath. “He…he was proud of being Sig Loreale’s lieutenant. Made him feel like a big man.” A sigh seeps through her like a slow breeze through tattered curtains, and when she speaks she sounds just as ragged. “With Pep dead, I guess Loreale will want vengeance.”
“You think Sig will give a damn about Pep’s death? Pep was Loreale’s right-hand guy, sure, but there’ll be plenty of talented triggermen lining up to take his place. As far as Loreale is concerned, Pep’s killing is just the cost of doing business, and Sig’s business tonight is all about what happened to Opal. So, yeah, he’ll connect the dots, and we’re the dots. Us. The only two dots between Opal and Pep. But Sig knows I didn’t kill Opal, which makes you the only dot he’ll be interested in. You get what I’m saying?”
She doesn’t answer but I know I’m getting to her. I see it in the way she’s clutching her handbag, holding tight to one of the few safe and familiar things she can still hold on to in a night that’s taking everything else away.
“If you try to run, Celeste, Sig will find you. He has ways of finding people. And when he finds you, you’re done for. Even if he buys your story that Opal’s death was an accident, he’ll kill you. Even if you sink that story and try to sell him another one, he’ll kill you. One way or another you’re part of Opal’s death, so he’ll kill you. You begged me to keep you safe and help you get away, get out of Sig’s reach, and that’s what I’m breaking my neck to do. But you have to pay for it, Celeste. You have to pay.”
She’s been knocked around a lot tonight, and I just knocked her around again. “It seems that’s all I ever do, pay for other people’s plans,” she says. She may be black-and-blue inside and out, but she’s not ready to go down for the count. She’s crying a little but frowning a lot, the stubborn, beautiful defiance inside her rising like a fist raised against me and a world that’s kicked her around. The defiance makes its stand as a barely perceptible but brassy little smile that pulls slightly to the corner of her mouth. Celeste may be keeping warm in my overcoat, but she’s busy storing tricks up the sleeves.
I slide my hands from her face. She turns away from me and looks out the window at Esther Sheinbaum’s brownstone. “Tell me why we’re here.”
“It’s simple. We stand a better chance of Mrs. Sheinbaum buying your story that Opal’s death was an accident th—”
“Don’t you believe it?” She turns back around to face me, throwing me not just a question but a plea.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. It only matters what we can make old lady Sheinbaum believe, because if she believes it, she’s the only one who can convince Sig to believe it. And if Sig believes it—”
“He’ll release that girlfriend of yours, the one you’re not in love with but who you’re putting your life on the line for.”
“Don’t be cute. I don’t have to be in love with someone to want to save their life.”
“You’re not that decent.”
“Fine. I’m just the hooligan who’s trying to save your life, so lose the tough act, Celeste. It won’t get you anywhere with Mrs. Sheinbaum.”
My scolding hits its mark. Celeste shrinks away from me and softens her attitude.
“That’s better,” I say. “Now listen, that old lady’s whole life was wrapped around Opal, so you have to milk a mother’s heartbreak. You’re going to spill your guts, understand? Tell her everything. Tell her you used to be Pep’s girl. Tell her he resented the percentage Sig was cutting her in for, resented it so bad he’d do anything to kill the wedding and kill the deal. You can even tell her about the dough Pep promised you to lure Opal to Brooklyn, but make sure she understands that you didn’t have a choice, that you were scared of Pep, scared for your life.”
“But I was scared for my life!”
“And that’s how you’ll sell it. She’ll buy it because she knows how Sig’s thugs operate. Tell her the whole rotten story.”
“Why don’t I just tell her Pep killed Opal when he threw her off the bridge? He threatened to kill her anyway. He even said so. You heard him.”
“Because Opal was already dead when she went off the bridge, and Mrs. Sheinbaum knows it. That’s right, they found the stab wound at the funeral parlor. And Pep didn’t kill Opal, so if you try to push that phony story, you’d have to weave a bunch of lies that could tangle you up. You’re a damn good liar, Celeste, a pro, but even a pro would have a hard time fooling Esther Sheinbaum. She’s been outsmarting the Law and big-shot politicians since New York read its papers by gaslight, and politicians are the best liars in the business. So just stick to the facts. It’s the only story you can get away with.”
“You make me sound like a cheap piece of goods,” she says, more hurt than angry.
“I never said you were cheap. You’re not cheap. Don’t think of yourself as cheap.”
“I—well, thanks.” She gives me what I guess is supposed to be a shy smile, sweet with gratitude and humility, but on Celeste humility is about as natural as the wrong shade of lipstick, and she wipes it away fast. “Okay,” she says, looking out the car window to the brownstone, “let’s get this over with. Maybe it’s time the old bat heard about all the sleazy stuff her darling daughter Opal could do, like spreading her legs for my guy while her lover boy Loreale was cooling his heels in Sing Sing.”
“Hey, put your claws back in. We’ll only use that if we have to. The wire recording is in the trunk of the car. The safe-deposit box key for the Havana copy is in my pocket. If I need a crowbar to pry the old lady open, I’ve got it.”
“Wow, you really don’t like her.”
“What?” It’s a stupid reply, but your mouth gets stupid when your brain’s been stunned.
“You sound like you want to hit her over the head with a real crowbar. You have a beef with Opal’s mother?”
Too late to sidestep the shiv Celeste just plunged into me. The best I can do is ignore the wound. “I have a beef with you asking so many questions,” I say. “Haven’t you learned yet? Now pay attention. You’ve got to win over old lady Sheinbaum, understand? Turn on the waterwork
s when you tell your story. Turn ’em on like a rainstorm flooding your soul. Win the old lady’s sympathy, and you might win your life. Tell a story different than the one you told me, and I’ll throw you to the wolves. Remember, I’m the only one who can back your story.”
“What if I’m not a good enough actress?”
“I’m not asking you to be an actress. You’re fighting for life. That’s as real as it gets.”
She opens her mouth but no words come out. Whatever gripe she wants to throw back at me won’t survive out in the air anymore, and she knows it.
I say, “You ready?”
She opens her handbag and takes out her lipstick. For some women, dolling up calms their nerves, and Celeste is that kind of woman. She uses the mirror on the window visor to apply the fresh red to her mouth. When she’s done, she’s herself again, the knockout dame I met at her apartment door, damn sure that her good looks and her know-how to use them will get her what she wants. She puts the lipstick away, gathers her handbag, and opens the car door.
I get out of the car and come around fast to Celeste, take her arm as we go up the front stoop. It’s not just chivalry on my part; I’m still not sure she won’t bolt. I don’t trust Celeste any more than I’d trust any cornered animal.
But she’s in my marrow. She seeped in when I held her, when I kissed her. The taste of her mouth, sweet and intoxicating as an exotic drug, is still on my tongue. No amount of her fear or my anger or the bitter residue of gunfire from Pep’s .45 will take the taste of her away. In fact, they season it.
She’s a liar, though, and liars have venom in their veins instead of blood. But is she a murderer? A killer whose jealousy craved Opal’s life? I don’t know.
I don’t know and it’s twisting me up. There’s as much about Celeste that’s delicious as there is that’s rotten. I bounce between her guilt and innocence like a punch-drunk fighter bouncing off the ropes. I don’t know whether to feel sorry for her or be scared to death of her, so I’m both. The combination hooks me. Celeste Copley hooks me.
She glances back at my Buick when we’re at the top of the stoop and I ring the doorbell. “You didn’t bring the recorder,” she says.
“I’ll save it until I need it.”
Celeste gives me a grin so sly, a fox would slink away with envy. “I was right,” she says. “You really don’t like the old lady. That wire recording’s an ace in the hole you’ll play when you’re good and ready.”
I’d like to wipe that sly grin off her face, but I don’t get the chance because a light goes on next to the doorpost and shines across Celeste’s hat, and what the light picks out makes my skin go prickly: there’s a splatter of Pep’s blood near the top of the hat. Esther Sheinbaum mustn’t see that blood. If Celeste appears like an Angel of Death, it could kill her chances of putting over her sob story. But before I can tell her to take the hat off and stow it or toss it, the door opens.
“Yeah?” It’s Ida Blick. Her dull pink housedress makes her look even more like a cut-rate version of her sister than she did when she and her husband arrived in the cab.
She remembers me, all right. She looks me over like maybe she should call a pest control outfit.
I say, “Tell Mom—uh, tell Mrs. Sheinbaum that Cantor Gold is here.”
Ida recognizes my name—Mom must’ve told her to expect me or a phone call from me—but she’s not any happier at my present arrival than she was at my earlier departure. Sour as old boiled cabbage, she calls over her shoulder, “Morris! Go on upstairs and tell Esther this Cantor Gold person is here.” She steps aside and with a sharp toss of her head motions us to come in.
“We’ll wait in the dining room,” I tell Ida as we step inside. I take my cap off, hoping my gesture will prompt Celeste to remove her hat, too. When she doesn’t, I figure I’ll mention it on our way to the dining room, but Ida stays with us like a case of indigestion, so I keep my mouth shut.
Ida turns lamps on as we enter the dining room. The old-fashioned room glows again with that patina I love, or used to. The truth of Mom Sheinbaum’s less-than-warm feelings for me poisons my memories. But the polished coziness of the place isn’t lost on Celeste. She eyes the room and its old-world antiques, envying the security she imagines this place must’ve given Opal as a little girl.
I won’t be the one to kill Celeste’s daydream and tell her that Opal rarely spent time here. Let Celeste have her swoony delusion. It could put her in the right mood to sell her story.
I say to Ida, “We’ll be fine here while we wait,” but she doesn’t leave the dining room. With the gracelessness of a beached whale and the determination of prison guard, Ida sits down at the far end of the dining table.
No sense wasting my breath; she’s not going to leave us alone, so I can’t tell Celeste to get rid of that hat.
I pull a chair out for Celeste, then start to help her off with my overcoat, but she pulls it more tightly around her as she sits down. The gesture’s her way of reminding me to keep my promise and protect her.
“So, Cantor,” I hear Mom say behind me. She walks into the dining room with her brother-in-law Morris in tow, a lump of a guy in his wrinkled white shirt and brown pants. He takes a seat at the end of the table, next to his wife. Both of them stare at Celeste like she’s merchandise of uncertain quality. I want to spit in their faces, smear their low-rent smugness. These two meat racks wouldn’t know quality if it wore a gold crown.
Mom’s still wearing that frilly black robe, only now it looks wrinkled and knotted, like she’s tossed and turned in it. She sits down next to Celeste, looks at her through her narrowed, red-ringed eyes. She says, “So who is this person?” Mom’s looking at Celeste’s face, not her hat. I notice that the blood spatter’s less visible in the dim glow of lamplight. But less visible isn’t the same as not visible, and Mom Sheinbaum isn’t one to miss a trick.
Before this party starts, though, I try a play that might scratch the need for it altogether. “First things first,” I say to Mom. “Tell me if you’ve found out where Sig’s got Rosie. Did you make those phone calls?”
“Sure, I made phone calls,” she says, but she’s not looking at me. She’s still looking at Celeste. “Why is this girl wearing such a coat? A man’s overcoat?”
“It’s my coat,” I say. “She was cold. Now what about those phone calls?”
“Now nothing,” Mom says with a shrug. “I called, but got nothing. What, you think Sig told Mr. Walter Winchell to announce on the radio about where he’s stashed your cabbie girl so everybody should know? Listen, mommaleh, Sig didn’t even tell me, so why should he make announcements?”
“You have other sources. Use ’em.”
“Hey!” comes from Morris Blick. “You can’t talk to Mrs. Sheinbaum like that.”
His wife growls, “Be quiet, Morris.” I don’t usually feel sorry for husbands. I could almost make an exception for Morris.
Mom says, “Cantor, I swear, I swear I called everybody, called the big shots, even woke up a judge who owes me but good. But nobody’s making a sound, not a peep. Everybody’s sha-shtill, nobody knows anything, and no sane person would cross Sig even if they do know something, which nobody knows anyhow, so I got no information to give you. Listen, even once since you were a little savage, have I ever lied to you?”
A part of me rages to answer her, expose her years of phony chumminess. But it would be the worst play I could make. The old woman’s already peeled raw from the death of her daughter. If I peel away more of her skin, she could soothe that wound by shutting me out completely, and I’d lose the power she wields to get Rosie back. So I keep quiet and find a bit of pleasure in thinking I’ll save the skinning for another time, just like Celeste said I would.
“So, Cantor,” Mom says to my silence, “tell me already. Who is this person?”
Celeste grabs the moment. “My name is Celeste Copley.” She sounds shaky and scared, her voice barely above a whisper. “I…I know how Opal died, Mrs. Sheinbaum. I was there. I tri
ed to save her life. Please, I need your help.” That last bit, asking for Mom’s help, is as good as it gets, as good as any leading lady on Broadway.
I must’ve been loco to doubt Celeste. She’s gone right for the tear-jerk play. Her instincts are right on the money, and as she keeps talking, laying out Pep’s resentment and deadly schemes, I start to think she just might get her piece of the old mother’s broken heart after all.
With Mom and the Blicks hanging on Celeste’s every dramatic word, I slip out to the hall to phone Judson.
I dial my office, then brace the receiver between my chin and shoulder while I pull out my smokes and light one up. When I get Judson on the line, he blurts at me, “Dammit! What took you so long to call?”
“Settle down. I called a little while ago but got a busy signal.”
“Oh yeah. I was on the phone with my sound guy. Cantor, he thinks he cracked the sounds coming through Rosie’s radio. The water, the grinding metal noise—”
“What’s he got? Where does he say they’ve got Rosie?” This could end the nightmare. This could give me the pleasure of telling Loreale and old lady Sheinbaum to go drown their sorrows without me.
Judson says, “It’s someplace near water where trains go by. My guy’s pretty sure that’s what that grinding noise is that comes and goes, literally comes and goes. Trains passing by, but rolling slowly. And that lapping water-in-a-drain sound is maybe a river lapping under something and around something, like around pylons under a pier. Cantor, there are dozens of places like that all around the harbor, but—”
The line goes dead because a thick finger, Morris Blick’s finger, comes down on the cradle and kills the connection. “It ain’t polite to use a person’s telephone without askin’ permission,” he says, but his hard stare makes it clear he’s not talking about my lack of etiquette.
I stub out my smoke in the ashtray next to the phone, then give Blick a stare of my own, look right into his dull-witted gray eyes, and say as politely as I can muster, “I beg your pardon.” I start to put my cap on but take it down again and say, “Oh. Sorry. It’s not polite to wear a hat in the house. Where are my manners?” Then I put my cap on anyway and push past Blick.