The Silver Gun

by L. A. Chandlar

  I put my fork down and took a sip of crisp white wine. “Suspicious circumstances? It was an accident while we were ice skating.”

  “Well, I asked Evelyn about it, and she told me that it seemed like an accident, but at the time, there were rumors and innuendos that suggested foul play.”

  “What? Foul play? How could someone engineer a hole opening up in the skating rink of a lake, exactly when we were skating by?” I exclaimed, with extreme skepticism.

  “I agree, but there it is. I wanted to know more of the story and why you were being targeted. So, I went to Rochester, Lane. But first, I went to Detroit.”

  “Detroit? What did you find there?”

  “First, I found great shopping and restaurants.” He laughed again. “There’s this great department store called Hudson’s; the Fox Theatre is incredible. A lot of fun. Lots of life, with people pouring in to be part of the auto industry, you know? Then I found an old contact of mine who had moved to Detroit a few years ago. And I had one question for him: Did the gangsters in Detroit have any links to Uncle Louie?”

  I stopped chewing and murmured, “We’re going to need another bottle of wine.”

  “Mm hm.” Roarke nodded. “This is the deal. He said that there was one young guy who came to mind who used to live there, but moved to New York several years back. He was a cousin or something of Uncle Louie’s; had a big mouth and bigger ego. Kept mouthing off about his connections that would make him powerful. Most guys thought he was getting too big for his britches. But he did, in fact, move to New York City. And he does work for Uncle Louie,” he said, in tantalizing tones.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Danny?”

  “Yes. Danny Fazzalari used to live in Michigan. But it gets even juicer. I then went to Rochester and got a haircut. Worst cut of my life, by the way. You owe me!” I laughed; he hadn’t quite looked his normal self. Definitely the cut.

  “But, as you know, the best place to check out the scoop on rumors and gossip is at the barbershop. I made up some story about a distant cousin who used to live there, trying to get in touch with her, her name is Lane. . . .”

  “Nice.”

  “Thank you. I got a lot of silence at first. But I put on my puppy dog face, told them funny family stories, and eventually they cracked. Well, they cracked after we left the barbershop and I bought the guys a couple rounds at the pub.”

  Our entrées arrived, and we took a few moments to inhale the aromas that were making my mouth water: the butter, lemon, and parsley over the delicate fish; Roarke’s steak, medium rare with spices over the top and dripping in juices. Oh, man. We both had wide, goofy grins on our faces despite the heavy topic of conversation. Another sure sign of our fatigue and the copious amount of wine.

  “So, after we had a few rounds of beers, the guys started talking. They told me about the skating incident. It was tragic, but nothing more than a horrible winter accident until two things happened that started a rumor. One, there were a couple of interesting characters who came around the neighborhood asking questions and saying that they were there to help your Aunt Evelyn go through the house and get things in order.”

  “What do you mean by interesting?”

  “Oh, very interesting characters with trench coats, unsmiling faces, and broad shoulders.”

  “But Roarke, that sounds like federal agent–type people or . . . gangsters.”

  He nodded in agreement. “And they were asking the townspeople questions about enemies that your parents might have had, any mysterious things that might have suggested foul play. Most people thought it was routine questioning, but it was enough for people to start wondering about it. The only thing the police ever found of interest was a light coating of black dust around the part of the rink on the lake where the crack opened up. But nothing else.” Roarke took another sip of his wine without taking his eyes off mine before he went on.

  “Then the second thing. Do you know anything about that other person who died in the accident?” he asked.

  “No. Not a thing. I don’t even remember hearing the name, and if I did, I didn’t know it. I knew most of the people in the town, but not everyone. I was only ten.”

  “His name was Rutherford Franco. He had a wife and a daughter. The wife, Daphne, was a big Hollywood dreamer and the Twenties had absolutely fed into her desire for fame and fortune. She stood out in Rochester because she’d prance around that small town with fur stoles and long gowns, making up stories about her friends in Hollywood and how she was about to get her big break.

  “When her husband died, she went completely off the deep end. She blamed the whole town for his death, was a nut case about being disgraced. The townspeople tried to talk with her, to help her see that they weren’t looking at her any differently and that she wasn’t disgraced, but she’d have none of it. One day, she just up and left. Left her house, took her daughter, Louise, and disappeared.”

  I took a drink of water and let that news sink in. I had never known anything about the other tragic loss that happened that day. Another girl had lost a father.

  “So, what does this mean,” I said, trying to summarize. “Let’s see. Danny has a history with Detroit, and he has been targeting me along with Fiorello. There is something probably fishy about the death of my parents and something definitely fishy about that other family and where they disappeared to. We need to find out where they went and what was going on with those suspicious characters who were asking questions.”

  “Lane, why don’t you talk with Evelyn about it and see what she says about your parents? I’ll tackle some connections who might know more about Danny. How can we find out about that woman and daughter who left? It might not be anything, but it feels like there is something here that links everything together. We just have to keep digging.”

  “So, when we were heading to Randall’s Island, what made you feel the situation was so urgent?”

  Roarke put a sugar into his coffee and stirred it, looking at me with somber eyes.

  “There were a lot of questions raised in Michigan, enough that I wanted to warn Fio to be careful. The Randall’s Island opening has been widely publicized, so it seemed like a good target. But on top of that, when you told me about your mother’s picture with Uncle Louie nearby, and knowing his penchant for using explosives, plus that strange note from Roxy about a major threat, I just had to get there and see with my own eyes.”

  “Yeah, I was thinking along those lines myself. What exactly did you find in Michigan, Roarke?”

  “Before I got into journalism, I worked with a construction company out in Pittsburgh. We used explosives to take down old buildings or just make bigger holes in less time.” He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “When it’s extremely cold out, explosives can leave traces of fine black dust. Like they found at the lake. Lane, I don’t think it was an accident. I think your mother and father were murdered.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Paintings have a life of their own that derives from the painter’s soul.

  —ML

  Roarke’s declaration had made me question everything I thought I knew about my parents. In the days following the incident at Randall’s Island, I resumed my normal routine, but something was missing. What had my parents been involved with prior to Rochester, Michigan? The photos in my journal took them all over the world. I’d assumed that they were just having fun while collecting the books that my father would sell in his bookstore one day.

  But just like that photograph at The Casino, now that I was looking more closely, every once in a while I’d spot a photo that would have a prestigious character in the background. Like Uncle Louie. There were a couple of millionaire bigwigs, a few high-profile politicians, and a movie star or two. It didn’t make sense. What on earth were my parents doing? I had no one to ask except Aunt Evelyn. I had a sneaking suspicion that she knew more than she was telling me. Even though I needed to talk with her, I found it difficult to bring up that subject. It was never the right
time or right place. And, to be honest, there was a part of me that didn’t know if I really wanted the answers.

  One evening, I walked in the door and heard Aunt Evelyn upstairs in her studio. But the music was extremely loud, and I heard a lot of stamping around. I laughed to myself. What was she doing?

  I went up the stairs into the loft at the top. There was Aunt Evelyn, dancing around in front of a huge canvas. Some Chopin was playing so loudly I almost had to plug my ears. I hated to interrupt her, but I also didn’t want to scare her. I cleared my throat very loudly and gave a stomp to get her attention.

  She turned to me in delighted surprise. Today her hair was down, cascading down her back, making her look more like she was in her thirties instead of in her fifties. She looked like a fortune-teller from the circus, with a long, flowing skirt that went down to her ankles and a top with short sleeves, and all of it was spattered with colorful speckles of paint. Her smile lit up the room.

  “Lane! I’m so glad you’re here! I was hoping you’d come home early. I want to show you something.” After she carefully lifted the needle off the record on the Victrola gramophone, she came over and took me by the hand. We walked over to the giant canvas. “It’s something new I’m trying. Painting to music,” she said, in a rapturous voice. “I was just talking about it with Diego and Juan. I’m not sure what they thought about it; they weren’t very chatty, but you know men. . . .”

  Diego Rivera was a close friend of Evelyn’s. He was one of the elite artists whom Evelyn knew; he’d had a magnificent exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art five years ago. He also did an enormous mural at the Detroit Institute of Arts that I was dying to see. The Rockefellers commissioned him to do a mural in the RCA building in ‘33, but being a revolutionary at heart, he put in a picture of Lenin, and that did not go over well. The mural was destroyed when he refused to change it. However, because he depicted American life so well, he was the first inspiration for President Roosevelt’s WPA program, which gave hundreds of artists the ability to find work. His friend Juan DeFelipe wasn’t as well-known as Diego, but was clearly talented, and they formed the delightfully blind-to-status bookends of Evelyn’s typical friends. Diego was from a wealthy Mexican family and enjoying great success. Juan was from a low-rent neighborhood up in Washington Heights, he and his wife eking out a living as two young artists.

  I loved the art that was so popular right now: the mixture of the human form standing alongside machinery, yet proportionally bigger than the machinery. A visual reminder that technology was nothing without humanity. And the materials and colors? Luscious. From the elevator doors and the Cloud Club in the Chrysler Building to the lobby at Radio City Music Hall, we didn’t just look at art, we got to walk through works of art on a daily basis.

  After Aunt Evelyn rubbed her paint-flecked hands on a rag, she said, “So, this is what you do: You listen with all of your being to the music, feel it as deeply as you can, here in your soul.” She clasped a hand to her heart. “Then you look at the colors on your palette and you just let go! Painting what you feel, not worrying about the form or the design, just what the music is telling you to do, letting the music move your body as well as the paint.” She turned her bright face abruptly to me. “I want you to try!”

  My response was feeble. “Oh . . . Aunt Evelyn, you’re the painter. I’m more of a writer . . . I like to read. . . .”

  “Don’t be silly, Lane, this has nothing to do with painting ability, it has to do with passion and enjoying a new experience. And . . . I already bought you a canvas!” She ushered me to the opposite side of the room to an enormous, six-foot-by-four-foot white canvas. I took a good look at it, and I had to admit, it was very tempting. I was most definitely not a painter, but I was an expert at enjoying new things.

  “Let’s do it!” I exclaimed.

  “Wonderful.” She practically squealed with delight, clapping her hands. She looked like a little girl. “Go and change into something you can get paint all over. But make sure you feel good in it.”

  I ran down to my bedroom and found exactly what I wanted. I had an old skirt of my mother’s that was shorter than Aunt Evelyn’s, coming to my shins, but flowing and bohemian with reds and oranges. I threw on a tight, black cotton camisole that had a couple tiny holes in it and raced back upstairs.

  Aunt Evelyn was putting on a new album. “All right, Lane, first, we’re listening to one of my favorite nocturnes by Chopin, No. 12 in G. Now, take a few deep breaths and let go of everything from the day, the last few weeks . . . everything.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, I put out a whole slew of colors for you on a few palettes, and I kept out a few big jars of paint, too. There are several brushes, but I also think you should feel free to use your hands. This is an experiment for all your senses. While we’re painting, I have a new piece of Chopin’s—well, not new to the world, of course, but new for me. I’ve only heard it once, but it’s powerful. Are you ready?” I nodded, very excited about the whole thing. “It’s his Polonaise in A-flat major, and I’ll let it play over and over until we’re done.”

  She put the thick, shiny record on the Victrola. The piano opened up and was bold, rich. I took a deep breath and just listened for a few moments. I took the midnight blue and mingled and swirled it with white, took the biggest brush and painted a huge swath across the large canvas. I took more deep blue and moved and swayed the deeper color on, remembering my dream with the blue night and the misty clouds. I used a rich black and painted the bottom with large strokes. The marchy, quick notes of the music entered in, and it felt like bright yellow.

  The music was loud, all-encompassing, filling the room and making me feel like I was on a lone cloud, just me and my colors. The slower parts of the music rolled in; I took a bluish purple color and let my hand dip into it slowly, feeling the coolness ebb up and over my fingertips, my fingers . . . and I laid my hand on the canvas and moved it in a languid, fluid motion, feeling the canvas and letting my hand go where it wanted.

  More marchy, strong tones came, but they were underscored by a softness I couldn’t describe, and at times it was almost heartbreaking. I dipped all my fingertips into a soft yellow, buttery color, raised up on my tiptoes, and let my fingertips dot and sprinkle the top portions of the canvas, back and forth all over. I dipped my fingers back into a light aqua, raised up again, and repeated the process over and over, my fingertips dotting and sprinkling the canvas with bits of color.

  Then deep scarlet, midnight blue, black. Drips flecked my bare toes and my face. A last, slow dip of my hands into the black. The cool, smooth paint coming up and over my fingertips, my fingers, my knuckles, over my palms . . . Back to the canvas.

  I let everything I’d been feeling for the past weeks and years overflow onto the canvas. With one final stroke of black mixed with crimson, I was done.

  I was smiling broadly, exhilarated and refreshed. It was utterly amazing. One of the best experiments of my life. I spun around to Aunt Evelyn, having completely forgotten she was there.

  She was sitting on the floor, looking at me with an intense stare, smiling with closed lips and deep eyes. After a few moments of silence, she said, “You know, Lane, I picked this piece by Chopin on purpose. He was from Poland, a country constantly at war, fighting people who wanted to oppress them for centuries. His nocturnes are velvety and divine. But some of his music, like this polonaise, can be militant and strong. Yet there is this profound beauty and joy that pervades his pieces. It’s rich, complicated, and ultimately victorious. My dear, you have a similar fight in your life. It will take hard work, faith, and passion to overcome.”

  I sat down on the floor next to her as I wiped my hands on a piece of cloth. “Hmm. You may be right,” I said, with a great, weary, but satisfied exhale.

  She brought her hand under my chin and up, patting the side of my head, then gently bringing my head down to her shoulder. “You will be victorious, Lane. Without a doubt. My friend ML told me once, ‘Great things ar
e not done by impulse, little Evelyn, but by a series of small things brought together.’ That is how your journey will work out, Lane.”

  I sat up, crossed my legs, and faced her. This was the moment I’d been looking for. “Aunt Evelyn. I think it’s time you talked with me about my parents.”

  She slowly nodded. Then she sat up and crossed her legs, facing me head-on. “All right, Lane. Your parents did own a small bookstore in Rochester. But before that . . . they were intelligence agents in the war.”

  “I . . . What?”

  “Yes. They were both very intelligent; languages had come easy for your mother. She was a rarity, as she had gone to college. Most women didn’t. They were both recruited, and met on the job.”

  “Well, what does that mean? How many people know? What were they involved in? Who—”

  “Hold on, hold on,” she said, in calm voice. “I don’t have a lot of answers for you. They didn’t fill me in on all their doings—they weren’t allowed to. I was aware of their work, and that made it all the more imperative that I help them as much as I could. But what I do know is this: They were your parents, first and foremost. They loved you so much, Lane.”

  “I do know I was loved. I remember that clearly,” I said, with a smile. “But I’ve always struggled with feeling like I wasn’t part of their story, a bigger story. And now that they had this other life on top of everything I did know, a life based on deception . . .” I shook my head pensively, unsure about this new knowledge. It reminded me of a time I walked across a rope bridge at the park. It was unstable, swaying in the breeze, and it was easy for a foot to slip through the holes.

  “Lane, they were good people who loved you like nothing else in their lives. Their career was important even though it was also deceptive. Their life with you . . . That was real. That was true.”

  I let that sink in. I wanted to believe that. Of course I loved them. But . . . did I trust them?