The Silver Gun

by L. A. Chandlar

  Hey mambo, mambo Italiano . . .

  Years later Rosemary Clooney would sing a similar song, but I would be forever convinced this one was even better. Maybe it was the wine. We turned one last time, and as I breathed in, deeply savoring the moment, the song ended. We stopped dancing. The next song started up, but we were motionless, still very, very close, our eyes and arms locked tight. My right hand clasped his hand a little more tightly, and my left pressed up against his chest, feeling the warmth underneath. His face was intent and serious, and something in me wanted to make him smile.

  Concern suddenly etched a crease on his brow, and he bent to whisper in my ear, “I . . . I’m sorry.” And he left. I let out a breath. He made his way easily through the crowd, gathering his hat and heading toward the door. He placed his fedora on his head at a slight angle and looked back at me. A smile pulled up one side of his mouth, making me smile back like we shared a good secret.

  I got back to the table, sank into my seat, and took a long swig of my wine. Roarke finished his dance with a blonde on the other side of the room just as Val came back and sat down.

  “This place . . . it’s the best!” exclaimed Roarke. Val was grinning ear to ear.

  Val took a closer look at me and said, “Hey, Roarke, I think Lane and I are going to go freshen up, right, Lane?”

  “What?”

  “Let’s go, girly,” she said, and she took my hand, leading me down the rickety stairs to the basement.

  When we got to the ladies’ room, Val turned to me. “So who was that?” she said, with her hands on her hips.

  “You saw him, too? I was just beginning to think he was a figment of my imagination,” I said, a little breathlessly.

  “I thought you knew each other. You sure looked like you knew each other, danced like you knew each other,” she said, with a smile mixed with a furrowed brow. Val liked to keep tabs on me, but a lot had happened the last two days.

  “Well . . . I saw him, actually ran into him, coming out of Fio’s office yesterday. He smelled so good.... Did I say that part out loud?” I said, with a smirk.

  “So . . . did he smell good tonight?” Val the inquisition officer was replaced with the giddy best friend who wanted to get the scoop.

  “Oh, yes. Really . . . really, really good. I couldn’t even talk, it was . . . ho, boy,” I said as I plopped down onto the tiny pink couch in the lounge.

  “Wow, you’re not usually so lost for words.”

  “I know. Shocking, isn’t it?”

  “So, what’s his name?”

  “I have no idea. We didn’t get to names.”

  “Maybe you can ask Fio. Did he say anything? Did you make any plans to see each other again?”

  “No. We really didn’t say anything. Just danced. And then he left. Just like that,” I said as I snapped my fingers. I wanted that dance again. It was like a hunger, and I wanted to replay it over and over again.

  “Well, if he found you tonight, he’ll find you again,” said Val.

  “What makes you say that? It was just one dance.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, with conviction. “It was more than just a dance.” Back upstairs we found Roarke talking to the guys next to our table and enjoying a cannoli.

  “So, are you going to ask her to dance again?” one of the guys asked Roarke.

  “Yeah, I think I will,” said Roarke as he took one last sip of his dark espresso and then walked over to the blonde’s table.

  “Hey, he didn’t even finish his cannoli,” I mumbled as I finished his cannoli.

  After our fill of dancing and dessert, we headed home. I went up the steep steps and discovered music floating down from Aunt Evelyn’s studio upstairs. I climbed all those stairs to the attic, singing softly to my new favorite song. During the day, the attic skylights gave the perfect light for an artist, but at night, Aunt Evelyn painted by lamplight. She liked to see how her pieces looked in shadow and the warmer lighting. The room was golden, accompanied by the soft sounds of Rachmaninoff.

  “How was your night, dear? Did you have a good time?” she asked while dabbing her pinky lightly on some soft, white patches of clouds she’d been painting. She wasn’t upset, but I could tell something was up by the look on her face.

  “It was a great day, a great evening. I’ll tell you all about it, but what’s going on? I can tell you’re waiting to tell me something. Everything all right?”

  “Oh, yes, Lane, just fine,” she said wearily. “But Fio has been ringing the phone off the hook! Literally! It rang so hard once, the receiver fell off the hook in the hallway. What am I going to do with that man?”

  All of the day’s earlier events came flooding back to me at once. I had forgotten about Roxy’s little tattle; it seemed a world away. It turned out that Fio was out of the city for the weekend, and instead of running over to our house, he had opted for calling every few minutes to talk to me—at me. Aunt Evelyn had talked with him and told him the details, but apparently, that wasn’t good enough.

  “Did you tell him what that man said?” I asked.

  “Yes, I decided it was better to tell him, and also, you wouldn’t have to face the full wrath on your own. Don’t worry. You know Fio, darling, all the fire dies out after a while, and then a different fire comes along to consume him. I hope you feel that telling him was the right thing to do.”

  “Of course. Thanks. And did you hear about how he found out?” I told her about Roxy, and she clucked her disapproval.

  “What is it with her and that Lizzie girl? And how did she even know about that incident? I believe you said that man pulled you into the shadows,” said Aunt Evelyn, with her usual acumen.

  “I said the same thing to Roarke. He’s not convinced anything is amiss; she’s just silly and immature, in his mind.”

  “Maybe,” mused Aunt Evelyn. “But something makes me think there is more beneath her demeanor than she lets on.”

  “What do you mean? You’ve only met Roxy and Lizzie a couple of times.”

  “Just a feeling; there’s a look in her eye that says she is not weak-minded. I’d keep my eye on both of them, if I were you.”

  “I think I’ll be keeping my eye on a lot of people. . . .”

  “Hmm, yes, I think that would be prudent. Good night, dear. I’ll see you in the morning.” She turned to her canvas like it was speaking to her and she was excited to listen.

  I went to bed, a cool breeze floating into my third-floor window. I heard Aunt Evelyn’s occasional step or two above me and the soft sounds of traffic, the hum of the city. It had been a humid day even though it hadn’t been very hot. But the night air had blown all the heaviness away, leaving the city cool and comfortable. There was a lot to think about, but my mind was, of course, dancing again. That thrill that ran up my spine as he pulled me close; breathing in the scent of his cologne; that enticing jawline, neck, and collarbone; moving to the spellbinding rhythm of the music. Was he thinking of me right now? And, most importantly, who was he, and what would make him say, “I’m sorry?”

  CHAPTER 4

  Monday morning came with a bang. Literally. Fio had thrown open the door with his usual gusto.

  We were eating breakfast at the dining room table, and between us, we had worked out our plan on how to handle Fiorello. “Come in, Fio, darling, come in!” said Aunt Evelyn, with a gracious sweep of her arm as she stood up and bustled Fio over to the table, handing him a steaming cup of coffee and a freshly baked muffin with crumbles on top and blueberries peeking out. She “helped” him sit down with a ladylike shove as I broke into a commanding lecture about the events of Friday night. Between Fio’s favorite food by Mr. Kirkland, hot coffee, and Aunt Evelyn and myself, the poor guy didn’t have a chance. All his outrage just melted off as easily as he took off his bowler hat.

  After finishing her part of the thorough recount, Evelyn stopped and daintily sipped her tea. Fio took a deep, steadying breath, narrowed his eyes, and looked from one of us to the other without moving his
head.

  “All right. Seems like you two have covered all the pertinent details. But next time, and I’m sure there will be a next time, Lane . . .” he said, with a meaningful, piercing look, “I want you to come directly to me. TO ME.” He emphasized the important words with a fist on the table, rattling the cups.

  “Deal, Chief. I know it sounds like backpedaling, but I was going to discuss it with you today, after I got my head around it. I don’t know what it means, what that guy meant . . . exactly.”

  “Hmmm, yes. Exactly is the key word. I’ve irritated many, many people.” That was putting it catastrophically mildly. “But I’ve also made some powerful friends. It probably doesn’t mean anything; maybe someone trying to get our attention, maybe just a weirdo getting high off threatening people. Anyway! We’ve got work to do!” With an effortless flick of a switch, Fio moved on to more pressing issues, suddenly bawling out his workday mantra.

  I promptly said good-bye to Aunt Evelyn and Mr. Kirkland. We hopped into the awaiting car out front, and as the driver picked his way through the neighborhood, Fio recited the long list of things to do for the day. Anytime we drove to work or the LaGuardias went home from an event, the driver would take a unique route. Former mayors and political leaders had had well-known and not-so-well-known assassination attempts. Most mayors had two detectives along for protection. To save the city money, so he said, Fio got rid of the detectives and had two pistol compartments added to his car: one for the driver and one for him. Both he and his driver had gun permits. Good Lord.

  We arrived at work, and his first meeting of the day was with Mr. Thomas Dewey, special prosecutor for New York City. With these two, I was going to have to add whole new chapters to my list of people who had a gripe against Fio.

  The city, the whole country, actually, was going through an era of the gangster. Everyone was obsessed. Gangsters filled books, movies, theater, and real life. But let me tell you, for someone actually living in New York and not vicariously through the romantic movies, it wasn’t glamorous. It was terrifying and excruciatingly frustrating. And those damn machine guns that were all the rage—they took out just as many innocent bystanders as gangsters.

  Organized crime syndicates had a hold on just about every market you can imagine. Fio made it his business to try to take down every stronghold. Last year, he’d made a lethal strike against the Artichoke King, Ciro Terranova. Yes, there was a stranglehold even on artichokes. Fio rustled up the mayoral car and good-sized police escort to add to the spectacle and paraded up to the Bronx Terminal Market, the Artichoke King’s command central. Happily surrounded by a grinning audience of policemen, Fiorello regally declared, from an ancient law he had discovered, that in an emergency, the mayor could ban the distribution of food. With trumpets blaring (he really did bring in two trumpets), he actually unrolled a kingly scroll and pronounced that the Artichoke King was shut down. While the lawyers were scrambling to find a judge to overrule this proclamation, Fio had West Coast dealers flood the market with artichokes. Reporters wrote that prices dropped thirty percent within just a few days. This was absolutely a publicity stunt, but damn, did it have pizzazz.

  “Good morning, Mr. Dewey,” I said, greeting the slender, thirty-four-year-old special prosecutor.

  “Good morning, Miss Sanders. Fiorello? I have a thought about that Parker guy and his crew. . . .” His voice faded off as the crime-fighting duo started to make their plans.

  I typed up my morning notes for the day and decided to go get a cup of coffee. I waved at Valerie as I passed by. I poured a cup and started to add the sugar, when I heard a quiet, “Ahem.” I turned around expecting Val, but saw Lizzie. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, and she looked like she might be coming down with a cold.

  “You okay, Lizzie?” I asked.

  “Oh, ah, I just didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all. Um, I have a favor to ask,” she said while taking a quick glance out the door of the break room. “Ah . . . could we go get a cup of coffee or take a walk later or something?” She’d never been this nice.

  “Well . . . sure. Do you want to do lunch?”

  “Oh, I can’t do lunch, I’m having lunch with Roxy.” She took another look out the door.

  “All right, when? After work?” I asked, looking out the door myself to see what she was looking at. Nothing there.

  “Great, let’s walk to the station together. Thanks. See you then.” And she ran out the door. I mentally shrugged my shoulders and went about my day.

  I tried to pin down Fio several times to find out more about my dance partner from Saturday night, but it never worked out. The workday finally came to a close, and I met Lizzie by the café outside in the nearby park. We each bought a Coca-Cola and walked around the path.

  “So, what’s up, Lizzie? You don’t usually like to go for walks with me,” I said, deciding to cut to the chase.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. I know this is really out of the ordinary.” She took a thick strand of her glorious red hair by her ear and started to twirl it with her fingers. The gesture made her look self-conscious and unsure. It was like a veneer had been lifted.

  “It’s okay, Lizzie. No big deal. What did you want to talk about?”

  “Well . . . it’s kind of hard to say. I mean . . . Well, I know you and Roxy don’t get along. Well, for that matter, I know we’re not exactly friends, either, but . . .” She tripped over her words, trying to find the right thing to say. “Well, anyway, I’m getting worried about Roxy. I am worried about her. She’s just not herself lately.” Lizzie started to talk fast, unloading her thoughts as quickly as she could. “I mean, she’s not talking to me as much, I find her just staring at you and Val. She says she’s going to do one thing over the weekend, but then I find out she’s been doing other things. . . .”

  “Whoa, whoa. Wait a minute. Go back. She’s staring at me and Val?” Of course that was the main thing I zeroed in on.

  “Well, she’s never liked you guys. I don’t know, maybe she’s just envious of your job. I mean, I’m not that crazy about the fact that you get to be Mr. LaGuardia’s aide, either, but . . . it’s just normal fun office stuff, you know?”

  “I guess,” I said hesitantly, not sure how to respond to her sense of what just normal fun meant.

  “But I mean, she’s been quiet and so aloof lately. I don’t know. Maybe I’m worried over nothing. I feel a little silly for bringing it up.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe she’s got some big work deadline or something with her family that’s just occupying her mind. But why talk to me about it? Do you want me to do something?”

  “I don’t think so, I just wanted to say something to you or Val. I don’t want you to think that there’s something more than just office banter going on. You know, I wanted to clear the air.”

  “Sure, any time. And don’t worry, this city takes a toll on everyone at some point. Maybe Roxy just needs some time off.”

  “Maybe so,” she replied, with a small smile and a shrug. “Thanks, Lane. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as she walked away, sipping her Coke. I had to find Val and tell her about this bizarre conversation. Roxy was indeed behaving strangely, and maybe there was something big behind it. But then again, Lizzie was acting even stranger.

  Later on, Val and I met up on my side of town. We decided to go to my place and get something to eat. I got us a couple of sandwiches and two bottles of root beer, and we sat down at the small, scrubbed pine table in the kitchen. It was cozy in its small alcove, which jutted out into the patio area—the perfect place for a tête-à-tête. I recounted my entire conversation with Lizzie.

  “That’s really hard to believe, Lane.”

  “I know. I’m not sure what to do about Roxy. If I should talk to her, follow her . . .”

  “No, no! I mean Lizzie! Whenever we’ve even tried to talk with her in the past, it always looked like she found it difficult to even be in the same room with us, let alone have a heart-to-heart with you.” />
  “I know what you mean,” I said, taking a sip of my frothy root beer. “I kept thinking that she’d end up making a joke of it or something. But you should have seen her! She was hesitant, and even . . . sweet. I’m not sure I liked it,” I said, with a curl to my lip.

  Val let out a laugh and said, with her chin in her hand, “Well, I think we should just keep watching the situation. We still don’t know what’s going on here, what your incident with the threat to Fio really means. Things with Roxy are tough to put a finger on, but it can’t hurt to be careful. Do we know much about her background?” Val asked as she finished off her sandwich and crumpled up her napkin, then thoughtfully put her elbows on the table.

  “I don’t know anything about Roxy or Lizzie. Maybe I can ask Fio about them,” I said.

  “Well, the main guy who hired them was Ralph, let’s ask him.”

  “Ralph? He worked with management to hire the secretary pool?”

  “Yep. His boss was supposed to handle it, but he let Ralph take over. Much to Ralph’s surprise and pleasure.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll chat with him tomorrow.”

  * * *

  The next morning, I headed to work on my own, since Fio was going in early to start working out the plans for the new housing being developed on the Lower East Side. I took the train down to Grand Central to drop something off for Fio at the main post office. I made a point of walking through Grand Central Station whenever I could; it was my favorite building. The enormous main hall was captivating with its giant curved windows at the top and the sea green ceiling painted with constellations and pinpoints of glittering, starry lights—made me wish I could fly. The energy was palpable, with thousands of people going to work or going on some vacation or other, and hundreds of tourists standing around with their jaws hanging open.