by Koko Brown
“Mr. Percy, your two-thirty appointment is here.” The solicitor’s secretary smiled, while hanging up the receiver. “You can go on in, he’s expecting you.”
Upon entering his office, Mr. Early Percy stood up from behind his desk and motioned for her to take a seat. Attired in a three-piece, navy pinstripe suit he looked as immaculate as his office.
“Sit, sit,” Percy insisted. “We have plenty to discuss.”
“We do?” Celeste asked somewhat surprised as she sat in one of the leather arm chairs he’d indicated. In all honesty, she’d simply come out of common courtesy, not expecting to inherit a dime from her father’s estate.
Mr. Percy regarded her over a pair of oval reading glasses. “You look surprised.”
“If you knew the nature of the relationship I had with my father, you wouldn’t have wasted a business card.”
The attorney reached over and picked up a leather-bound portfolio. “Well, he’s made up for it in the afterlife. Before you leave my office you might have a different opinion of your father.”
And I have a bridge overlooking the East River I want to sell you! It would take more than a few tokens to completely whitewash a decades–long estrangement.
“Were the preparations for your father’s funeral satisfactory?”
“It was lovely.” Celeste looked down at her hands. In truth, her father’s funeral had been a blur. She’d made sure of it by getting just drunk enough to sit through it without any assistance, but too sloshed to remember the details.
“Good. I followed your father’s direction to the letter. As I will with the reading of his will.”
Although she knew she had nothing to look forward to, Celeste felt on edge. This could be some king of bad joke, her father’s last hoorah to get back at her for defying him.
“As you know, your father’s estate entails a brownstone located in Forte Green, a mixed-commercial building and a four-family walk up in Bedford-Stuyvesant.”
Percy slid two sets of keys across the desk. One a small ring containing two keys, the other a large one filled with too many to count. “Go on take them,” he coaxed.
Celeste eyed them as if they were vipers. “Why?”
“You’re now the proprietress of all three properties. Although I will say that there is an interested party whom inquired about the building just yesterday.” Percy shuffled through the papers. “HmmI’ve somehow misplaced his calling card. If you’re interested, I can forward you his information.”
“I would appreciate that,” Celeste murmured overwhelmed by her sudden change in fortunes. Far from poor, she’d socked away a tidy nest egg, but she never owned property. Never wanted to since it required a level of commitment. “And if you can find a buyer for the tenement, I’ll be over the moon.”
Smiling, Mr. Percy steepled his fingers. “Not very business minded, I see.”
Celeste shook her head. “More of a free spirit.”
“Your father warned me.” Imagining the dreadful, wayward–daughter stories her father burned his solicitor’s ear with, Celeste inexperienced a wave of unease. “He said you might not want anything to do with your inheritance, but considering your father left you very little in the form of cash and the insurance policy has become forfeit due to your father’s suicide I was hoping you might be more amenable.”
Interest piqued, Celeste sat forward. Mr. Percy didn’t seem to notice because he fell into a dull diatribe about the depression, dust bowls out west and how her father’s charitable deeds drained most of his liquid assets.
Most if not all of it practically fell on deaf ears.
“Mr. Percy,” Celeste broke in, “did you say my father’s death was a suicide?”
Seemingly startled by her question, Mr. Percy’s eyes widened. “No one told you?”
* * *
An hour later and armed with a one-page police report provided by her father’s solicitor, Celeste walked into the eight-eighth precinct. Housed in a Romanesque revival hunkered on the corner of Casson and Dekalb Avenues, the station resembled the red brick mansions dotting the historic Clinton Hill district.
Celeste remained rooted to the spot. Like brown and white liqueur, she and police officers didn’t mix.
“May I help you?” Although the officer asked, Celeste guessed it was only out of sheer habit than actual altruism since he barely looked up from his evening newspaper.
Celeste glanced down at the police report. “I’d like to speak with Detective Charles Dwyer, please?”
With a drawn out sigh, the officer picked up a phone receiver. “I’ll see if he’s free.” As he dialed, he finally glanced up. “May I tell him who’s callin’?” he asked, his gaze slowly raking over her.
Refusing to meet her father’s attorney looking like a poor relation, she’d taken extra care with her appearance. Dressed in all beige from a cloche hat that covered her finger waves to a knit biased cut day dress, silk stockings and Mary Janes, she’d tried her best to look like a society woman. Depending on the company, that could be a good or bad thing like now it seemed to be the latter.
Still, Celeste held her ground under the detective’s perusal as she gave him her name.
“Hey Charlie, there’s a Miss Celeste Newsome, here to see ya.” The copper’s gaze swept over her again. This time Celeste smiled. As her grandmother would say, you caught more bees with sugar than vinegar.
“You can go on up,” he said, hanging up the phone. “Third floor, turn right at the top of the landing, you can’t miss it.”
Celeste blew out a steadying breath as she turned toward the stairs. One just never knew when it came to the cops. According to popular public opinion, half of the force was on the take and in collusion with the mob or Tammany Hall.
Upon reaching the third landing, she followed the officer’s directions and found herself standing outside a large room filled with dozens of desks and more plain-clothes cops than one could shake a leg at. Just as she summoned the courage to breach the entrance, a detective near the entrance whistled at her.
“Hey, lady, you gotta take a number first,” he said nodding at the wall directly in front of him.
Dressed in red shirt sleeves and a charcoal vest, he looked a lot like the officer in Kalamazoo who’d processed her fingerprints after she’d been picked up for disorderly conduct.
Celeste glanced around for a ticket dispenser, but didn’t find one except for a half-filled water cooler and a corkboard containing a map of Brooklyn.
“Detective Bristol’s pulling your leg, Miss.”
A cop sitting adjacent to Bristol stood up. “Detective Morrissey,” he offered along with his hand for a handshake, “how can I help you?”
Thankful for his timely assistance, Celeste clasped his hand. “I’m here to see Detective Charles Dwyer.”
As if someone had switched off the lights, the detective’s smile faded. “You’re in luck,” he paused to glance over his shoulder. “Dwyer just came in. If you want I can walk you over.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Celeste gushed and then stepping in line as he led the way. Any more wise guys like Bristol and she’d be here all day. And there was no way she was going to miss her date.
“Hey Dwyer, this young lady’s here to see you.” Detective Morrissey pulled out a chair for her.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Dwyer said, barely looking up from several stacks of paper littering his desk. Narrow shouldered and petite the other detective was a direct foil to Morrissey’s tall lankiness. “Green buzzed her through about five minutes ago.”
To Celeste’s surprise, Morrissey perched himself on the edge of Dwyer’s desk.
“Don’t you have a half-a-dozen cases to crack?”
“Hmm, oh yeah! Sorry, Charlie.” Morrissey slapped his thigh as he stood up. “Not every day we get such a good-looking lady up here. It’s a nice break from all you mullet heads.”
“Yeah, yeah now go back to twiddling your thumbs.” Dwyer waited for his colleague
to move out of earshot, before he gave her his full attention. “The name’s Newsome, right?”
“Celeste Newsome,” she clarified, enunciating every syllable as if hearing every vowel would jog the detective’s memory.
Obviously, she’d hoped for the moon because not even a flicker of recognition affected his body language or his impassive expression. Somewhat deflated, Celeste sat back. She tried rationalizing the detective’s inability to connect her name to one of his most recent victims to a heavy caseload. Still, the excuse didn’t temper a wave of inexplicable sadness.
“Why’d you wanna see me?” Dwyer asked, yanking her out of the past.
“You handled my father’s case.” Celeste placed the police report on his the desk. “I wanted to ask you a couple questions regarding how my father died.”
Detective Dwyer leaned back with his hands clasped on his black suspenders running the length of his torso. “What’s to know?” he asked. “We found your father with a gunshot wound to the head and a revolver in his hands. End of story.”
Celeste blinked back tears. There was absolutely no way her father would take his own life. He considered it a moral sin. She ought to know, he drilled all of the commandments into her before she reached puberty.
“That’s not possible. My father was a God-fearing man. He would never take his own life.”
Eyes narrowed, Dwyer righted himself. “If I had a dime for every ‘God-fearing person’ who ended themselves during the onset of the Depression, I’d be rich as J.D. Rockafella.”
“My father isn’t…I mean my father wasn’t like most people,” Celeste insisted. “You see—”
Dwyer slammed his arm down on the desk, fist upright. “No, you see here. Your father committed suicide.” His thumb shot out from his enclosed fist. “For starter, there was no forced entry.” His index and middle fingers followed. “Your father didn’t have any enemies…he was cash poor.” His ringer shadowed the other three. “And we only found his fingerprints on the gun.”
Despite being slammed with the cold hard facts, Celeste wasn’t ready to give up. Even if she had to revisit her horrible childhood, the detective needed to know he’d erred in his investigation.
Celeste leaned forward, a steady stream of questions she’d prepared earlier on her lips. But she was forestalled when Dwyer picked up the police report and shoved it toward her.
“If there isn’t anything else,” he said rather matter-of-fact, “I gotta write up reports for a dozen other cases before I find my tail in a sling.”
Celeste blinked. Was he sending her packing? But she had too many questions, which needed answering! A seasoned performer since the age of fifteen, she possessed a skin rivaling an alligator’s and a stubbornness inherited from her father. And no taciturn, shady copper would dispel her doubts or prevent her from discovering the truth.
“You have to under—”
Dwyer cut her off, “Good day, Miss Newsome.”
Dismissed not once, but twice Celeste choked. As she struggled to regroup, he continued, “I hope you can find your way out.”
Even though Dwyer had forgotten his manners, she had not, “Thank you for your time, detective.”
Feeling as if in a fog, and suddenly parched, Celeste pushed to her feet. With shaking fingers, she picked up her father’s police report and placed it in her purse.
Barely cognizant of her surroundings, Celeste retraced her path down three flights of stairs through memory alone. But by the time her feet hit the sidewalk, she wavered. Sweat beaded her upper lip and her hands were shaking violently.
Celeste glanced up Gold Street and the twenty-block walk south back to Fort Green suddenly turned into an insurmountable exodus without reinforcements. Of course, she could hail a cab, but by the time she got back to Trudy’s apartment she would probably be a wreck.
She stood on the curb and deliberated a few seconds more then turned about and headed in the opposite direction. If she walked to the end of the block, turned east, she’d run into Young Turks, a seedy cocktail lounge located on the cusp of Fort Green. The bar had been a favorite dive of Armand Illy, a French Algerian trumpeter who’d dragged her there more times than she cared to remember because the place reminded him of home.
Celeste didn’t particularly care for the place’s red lighting, wood-paneled walls and furniture. The latter was hell on the behind after a long bender. But the bartender was liberal with the sauce. And right now she needed a stiff one.
What about her date with Shane? Celeste flipped her wrist and noted the time. Only half past two, she still had time to spare.
Celeste put her feet in motion. One drink couldn’t hurt.
CHAPTER Nine
Shane refused to pace.
Even in street clothes, he always followed the fighter’s cardinal rule: never let your opponent see you sweat.
Shane rolled his shoulders, self-directed anger coursing through him. He had no one to blame, but himself. What he’d done had been ungentlemanly. He’d forced her hand and manipulated her just so he could see her again. And now he was warming a city corner alone and suffering from guilt.
The guilt wasn’t anything new, Shane conceded.
Ever since that night it had become a constant companion, gnawing at his conscience.
It was also the primary reason he’d wanted to meet Celeste outside his gym instead of her father’s store.
Shane felt the familiar kick in the gut. He’d practically been a regular at Newsome’s Sugar Sweets. He’d often pitched in as soda jerk when things got too busy for the Reverend. Shane figured he’d spent just as many hours behind the counter as he did at the Navy Yard Athletic Club.
Now he avoided the former like the plague.
Shane’s balled his fist. He deserved to burn in hell for what he’d done. Correction…for what he didn’t do. And now he was only adding to his sin by courting the Reverend’s daughter.
So why take the low road now? What was it about that broad? Why couldn’t he be the better man and leave her alone? Because ever since he laid eyes on her all he could think about was sucking on those luscious lips of hers, caressing her skin and licking from her delicate ear lobes to her toes.
With a muttered curse, Shane threw in the towel. Not only the round but the entire card belonged to her. Obviously, he and she weren’t meant to be.
They were from two different worlds. She was too refined for him, a famous showgirl who probably had egg and butter men vying for her attentions at every corner. Shane had money—he’d socked all of his prize money away over the years—but he didn’t have the class that came with it. Right now he wouldn’t be surprised if she found dirt under his nails.
“Face it kid, she ain’t going to get off that pedestal for you.” Not completely, he mused. Oh, she might have fun slumming it, but broads like that always remembered their place. And it wasn’t with him.
Shane scratched the back of his head. In all honesty he’d wished the circumstances were different. This one had done a number on him.
Giving up his illusions and cursing a mad blue streak a mile wide, Shane turned north toward home and the Navy Yards. At the corner, he waited for the light to change.
As the north south bound signal turned yellow, a black on black Lincoln Zephyr convertible coupe whizzed into the intersection, turned left, executed a quick U-turn and slipped into the parking space in front of Newsome’s Sugar Sweets.
Recognizing the car, Shane froze. What the hell was he doing here? He quickly backtracked and met up with the car as Gould helped a woman out of the passenger side.
“What are you doing here?”
In a purely defensive move, Gould placed his companion behind him as he spun around. Recognizing him, the other man seemed to relax. Still, he didn’t remove his hand from his jacket pocket.
Smart move, Shane conceded because right now he wanted nothing more than to ram his fist down the smaller man’s throat.
“Even though it’s nunna ya business, I brough
t Myrna down so she could at the place. I heard it was up for sale.”
Shane blanched. The news felt like a bucket of ice thrown in his face. “You don’t want this place.”
A crooked smile curved Gould’s thin lips. “You’re right, Shaney. I don’t want this place.” He stepped aside, arm held out for his companion. Auburn-haired and petite, she wore a full-length white fur coat. “I’m gettin’ it for my gal as a birthday gift.”
Gould flung his arms open. “Surprise, baby!”
Hearing the news, the woman squealed and wrapped her arms around Gould’s neck. As she planted kisses all over his chin and lips, Shane looked away in disgust.
“Only the best for my doll,” Gould said between what sounded like wet, sloppy kisses. “I always keep my end of the bargain.”
The woman pushed away from Gould, “Big daddy, you treat me so good,” she purred, sauntering up to the storefront window and peering inside. While she was preoccupied, Gould turned to Shane.
“Whatta you doing here? Keeping guard?” Gould glanced down at his fingernails. When he finally looked back up, he wore a shit-eating smirk. “Sorta behind the ball don’t cha think?”
Akin to suicide, Shane took a step forward, his hands tightly fisted.
“Hey, what’s with all the broken glass…is that blood?”
Gould whirled around and slipped his arm around the woman’s waist, turning her away from the window. “There was a little accident in there that’s all.”
Gould glared at Shane as if daring him to say otherwise.
Myrna’s dark brown eyes widened as she stepped back, peering at the sign overhead. “Hey…I know this place. I read about it in the Amsterdam. This is Celeste Newsome’s old man’s place.”
The blood seemed to drain out of Gould’s cheeks. Not a good look since he was already white as milk. “You know these people?”
“Not her old man, but I know Celeste. I know all the big names on the circuit.”