The Ledger

by Dorothy Uhnak

  Christie hung her wet coat on the rack, kicked her feet free of her boots. “I don’t think I can talk about it, okay?”

  “Okay. But the hot chocolate’s hot.”

  Christie sat in the kitchen, her fingers playing with a cigarette. “God, Nora, it was awful. Those poor women. And on top of everything else, poor old Jimmy Giaconna had a heart attack. My God, he suddenly just crumpled up. I never thought of him as an old man. He was always so chipper, so fast-moving. He just ... they took him away in an ambulance. He looked ... blue.” Christie rubbed her arm, then, curious, pulled up the sleeve of her sweater. There was a long red welt. She fingered it absently.

  “How did that happen?”

  “The boy’s mother. I was the one who told her. She went wild. She kept saying everyone blames John for everything just because he’s a little slow. She grabbed at me and ... she just ... Boy, Nora, this is a rotten job. There are times when ...”

  Nora knew about “the job.” She had been widowed by the job and had lost her only son, Christie’s husband, to the job. Her smooth, pleasant face revealed pain when in repose, unaware.

  “Mickey has a new girl friend,” she said. “Your son has an absolute talent for picking real characters. You know little Vera Mason?”

  Christie forced her mind to respond. “You mean that pudgy little girl?”

  “Pudgy, hell. That kid is a human stomach on legs. Well, it seems that Vera is the champion spitter of the second grade. It has something to do with the way her braces are set. She can spit farther than anyone Mickey ever knew before in his whole life. Imagine, nearly seven years of searching and finally he’s found this treasure. We had a very pleasant dinner, my grandson and I, if you care for that kind of table conversation.”

  Christie stirred the hot chocolate.

  “Honey, you look like the devil.”

  “I’m okay. This cold has got me down. And tonight was pretty awful. I’d better get to bed. Have to be in the office at nine.” Christie gulped the hot chocolate, regretted it instantly. It seemed to hit the bottom of her stomach in a rush, gurgle around and surge back up her throat. She leaped to the sink, ran the water to cover her retching, then rinsed her mouth. “I’m all right, Nora, really. This has just been one bitch of a day. Poor old Jimmy. And those women. And that boy, John. It was rough.”

  “Christie, why don’t you call in sick tomorrow? Your eyes are glassy and you have temperature.”

  Christie shook her head. “Reports tomorrow. God bless the endless reports. I have to get them up to date for the Homicide Squad. When I finish that, I’ll take a few days off. I promise. Come on, Nora. Bedtime.”

  Christie took a fast hot shower, wrapped herself into a warm flannel nightgown, pulled the heavy quilt around her shoulders. She felt a surge of sickness but forced her teeth together and held it back. Then she opened her mouth and breathed in short, shallow gasps until she felt under control again. She opened her eyes wide in the darkness and followed imaginary spirals of blackness round and round into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  2

  ELENA VARGAS SAT MOTIONLESS, her feet curled under her, her arms folded one over the other, her hands hidden. She looked like a beautiful, tiny, dark doll, waiting patiently, helpless to move from where she had been placed. But the circle of calm detachment around her was a deliberate reality, and from within that circle she watched the men as they moved in and out of the hotel room. She missed nothing.

  The detectives amused her. It was so easy to arouse the usual male reaction. She merely fastened her eyes on them, each in turn, as they approached. They fell into two categories: those who treated her with an elaborate, unnatural courtesy and those who blatantly stared at her body. All of them indicated an awareness of her sexuality.

  Except the redhead. Casey Reardon.

  Elena hugged her body tighter and wondered about Reardon. She watched him through the doorway to the outer room where he apparently had set up working headquarters for his squad. His hand rested lightly on the shoulder of the Negro detective, Stoner Martin. The contrast between the two men held Elena’s attention. The black man was taller by several inches, narrow-hipped, carefully tailored. He had an elegance of movement and his face, in profile, very dark, even-featured, betrayed a hard pride and intelligence. He stood without commenting, almost as though he was not listening, while the redhead spoke rapidly and emphasized certain points with a quick jabbing motion of his hand. Reardon’s face was almost boyish: a short nose, square chin, stubby red lashes over his eyes. His fingers raked through his thick, dark red hair. It seemed to be a mannerism. They lingered at the back of his neck where the hair was lighter and flecked with bright orange. Elena could not hear the words, but it was obvious Reardon was not happy. Things had not gone his way. Elena wondered what Reardon had expected. He turned toward her, but her stare was lost, destroyed by his preoccupation. To amuse herself, Elena examined him carefully; he was a solidly built man in his early forties, not handsome but interesting. There was a certain force surrounding him, an electric quality. Elena smiled, settled deeper into the confines of the chair.

  Reardon looked into the room without seeing Elena. “Stoney, did someone call Opara yet?”

  Detective Stoner Martin didn’t have to check with anyone. He had notified a resentful, tired Christie Opara that her presence was required. “I called her about five minutes ago, Casey.”

  “She on her way or what?”

  “She’ll be here. You know, Christie is pretty beat up. It was a rough deal last night. And she worked a full tour today.”

  Reardon turned a glassy stare at Stoner. “She’ll be on overtime like everyone else.”

  For a moment Elena thought Reardon was coming into the room, but he turned away, apparently for a telephone call. She felt mildly disappointed. She turned her gaze to the policewoman who had been assigned to stay in the room with her. The policewoman held up the heavy wooden knitting needles she had been manipulating for the last hour and displayed a tremendous mass of red mohair. She stood up, held the knitting in front of her and looked down in concentration.

  “This stuff knits up fast. Look how much I’ve got finished already. Do you knit?”

  Elena moved her head to one side and smiled. “Do I look like I spend my nights knitting?”

  The policewoman rolled up the knitting and stuffed it into a tremendous leather shoulder bag. Her voice was disinterested. “Well, maybe if you spent your nights knitting you wouldn’t have ended up here.”

  Elena laughed. “But you spend your nights knitting and here you are.”

  The policewoman shrugged, pulled at the sleeve of her navy-blue uniform, then began brushing the light coating of red fluff. “Only trouble with mohair is that it gets all over everything.”

  Elena stood up, stretched her small body, then held the position: head to one side, hip thrust forward, back slightly arched. The detective with the white hair stopped abruptly. He adjusted his glasses and looked ready to retreat. Elena bit her lower lip then slowly relaxed her body.

  Bill Ferranti swallowed; the words stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I’m calling room service. For coffee. Or—or anything else. I mean, would you like something? Something to eat? Kathleen? Or ... or Miss Vargas?”

  He was one of the elaborately polite ones. Elena’s eyes rested on his lips. “Thank you so much. I’d like some coffee.”

  The policewoman covered the end of a yawn and shook her head. “Not me, Bill, thanks. I’ve had it. I hope my relief comes soon.”

  Elena put the half-empty cup of coffee on the table beside her. She was tired and she was bored. But she was not worried. Enzo Giardino would have her released when he decided it was necessary. He probably had a few problems of his own; of course, nothing he couldn’t handle. She didn’t realize how bored she was until she heard the tough, take-charge voice in the next room, and then she felt some interest stirring. Casey Reardon, followed by Detectives Martin and Ferranti, approached her. This time, Reardon looked direc
tly at her.

  “Elena, Johnnie Brendan just died.” Reardon held a paper in front of her face. “Your status has changed. You’re now a material witness to a homicide and we’re holding you in protective custody.”

  The girl shrugged. “That’s my lawyer’s problem, not mine.” She let her eyes move slowly over him. Aware of what she was doing, Reardon acknowledged her with a slight smile, then turned abruptly to speak with the two detectives.

  He likes to touch, to make physical contact, Elena noted. His hands were in constant motion, on an arm, a shoulder, through his own thick hair, at his collar, his tie. His hands looked strong, somewhat bony, rough and freckled. The two detectives were sent out on instructions which had been given so discreetly that they were still a mystery to Elena. When he turned to face her again, she saw some pale freckles across the bridge of his nose, but the hard lines across his forehead and at the corners of his squinting eyes took away the boyishness. He sat on the coffee table directly in front of her.

  “Okay, Elena, to keep everything legal and aboveboard, check this out with me, right? You were informed of your rights at ...” Reardon consulted a slip of paper in the palm of his hand, “at approximately eight P.M. this evening by Detective Stoner Martin on the premises of 812 East 55th Street. Detective Martin, in the presence of Detectives Ginsburg, Farrell and O’Hanlon, informed you that you were being taken into custody as a witness to the shooting of John Brendan, in the apartment of Enzo Giardino.”

  Reardon stopped speaking, ran his hand roughly over his face. This girl was literally using nothing but her eyes. They moved slowly over his face, along his lips, then back to his eyes. Not even her mouth moved. Reardon leaned forward.

  “Listen, kid, if this was another time and place ... but right now, well, you have nothing but trouble. And you are looking at the guy who can make it fall one way or the other. Giardino will be charged with homicide and he’s worrying strictly about number one. He might even make bail on a manslaughter rap. In fact, I’m pretty sure he will. But we can hold you in protective custody for an indefinite period of time. So if you want to play games with me, make sure you play the right ones. Appropriate to the situation.”

  Elena ran her tongue over her lower lip. “I was not in the room when Johnnie Brendan was shot.” She shrugged; it was a small, but eloquent gesture. “I was in the bedroom, baby, and I heard noise. A truck? A firecracker? Who knows? This town is full of loud noises. And then, bang-bang-bang,” she pointed her index finger at Reardon and pumped her thumb, “your detectives are racing through the place, like gangbusters. Now, what can I tell you? I know nothing whatever. And I am very tired. And this room bores me. And these men of yours, coming in and out of here, they bore me, too.” Elena leaned back, extended her legs so that her small, stockinged feet came to rest beside Reardon on the table. “Except for Detective Martin. He has a certain elegance. A quality.”

  Reardon said, “I’ll tell him you said so. It’ll make his day.”

  One small foot moved against Reardon’s thigh. “And you, redhead. You make it all move around here, don’t you?”

  “You better believe it.”

  Again, the small shrug. “I wish I could help you. One way or another. But, you talk to Enzo Giardino. If Enzo says it was an accident, then it must have been an accident. Even Johnnie Brendan would have told you that, if he hadn’t died. Me, I don’t know anything. About that.”

  Reardon’s hand rested on Elena’s foot, closed and opened and closed with an easy familiarity. “Okay, Elena. Not about the shooting tonight. But other things. About Enzo Giardino, and his businesses. And who comes to see him at his apartment and what they talk about and ...”

  She pulled her feet from the table, pushed back against the chair. The words came from her in a singsong. “I have the right to an attorney; I have the right to remain silent; I have the right to refuse to answer any questions anywhere along the line.” Her mouth pulled into a pout. “I don’t want to talk anymore, Mr. Reardon.” She studied a small fragment of red mohair which clung to her sleeve. Carefully, she lifted the fiber, leaned forward and placed the tiny, glistening piece of yarn on the lapel of Reardon’s jacket. “You are smart to wear dark brown,” she said. “It goes well with your hair.”

  Reardon brushed his jacket and smiled. “Okay, Elena. You do something to me. Now do something for me. More importantly, do something for yourself. It’s easy enough. Just talk to me.”

  “I’d talk to you, baby, for a long, long time. But not with words.” The short jersey dress clung to the rounded contours of her body, barely covering her thighs. As she shifted in the chair, her hands skimmed her waist, then her hips, then rested in her lap, palms up in a questioning gesture.

  Reardon’s voice was hoarse. “See you later, Elena.”

  Christie Opara tapped lightly on the door marked 16A. The drabness of the hallway gave no indication that the rooms behind the door would be fresh and bright and furnished in excellent taste. The only staleness in the room was caused by a heavy haze of smoke: cigarette, pipe and, vaguely, the acrid fragrance of a cigar.

  Bill Ferranti stood back for Christie to enter. She scanned the room, flexed numb fingers. “Where’s Mr. Reardon?”

  “He left about ten minutes ago, Christie. He said to tell you that he’d see you later.”

  “Swell.”

  The furniture had obviously been rearranged for working purposes. A long table had been pushed against one wall and large sheets of lined paper, filled with small figures and notations, covered the surface.

  Ferranti steered Christie. “Lieutenant Andrews, this is Detective Christie Opara.”

  Lieutenant Andrews did not look like a policeman. He was a very tall man who did not give the impression of height until he stood up, which he did now. He was slightly overweight with an accumulation of flesh around his waistline; slightly bald; slightly nearsighted. He removed his eyeglasses, which were midway down his long nose, extended his hand, stopped, transferred his ballpoint pen to his left hand, then made a rapid, damp, limp contact with Christie’s hand.

  “How do you do, Detective Opara. Mr. Reardon has spoken very highly of you.”

  “Lieutenant Andrews is with the State Commission on Organized Crime, Christie.”

  The lieutenant carefully replaced his glasses on his nose. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said and hunched over the large sheets of paper.

  Bill Ferranti took Christie’s coat and motioned toward the door leading to the second room of the suite. “Do you know who’s in there, Christie?”

  “I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” Christie said irritably.

  Ferranti’s face was slightly flushed. His breath, as he leaned close to Christie, was minty. “Have you ever heard of Elena Vargas?”

  “Elena Vargas? The name is ... isn’t she connected with what’s his name? Enzo somebody? The gangster?”

  Ferranti nodded. “Christie, she is really something. I mean, in the newspaper pictures I’ve seen, you know. But in the flesh.” He pulled off his glasses, polished them briefly. “I beg your pardon Christie, but what I mean is, she is really a very beautiful girl.”

  The woolen sweater felt soggy around Christie’s neck. It was too warm in the room and she was overdressed. She rubbed at her nose which was sore and tender. “Bill, I worked an eight-to-four today. Do you have any idea why I’m here? I was planning to go on sick leave for a few days.”

  Bill looked concerned. “Christie, I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Come to think of it, you don’t look too good.” There was a quick staccato of taps on the door. “That’s probably Stoney. Maybe he can tell you more about all of this.”

  Stoner Martin placed four large, blue cloth-bound notebooks on the lieutenant’s table. “This will keep us busy for a while, Lieutenant.”

  Andrews glanced at the books, then at Stoner Martin. He looked slightly alarmed. “But how did you get these? I mean, at this time of night?”

  Stoner ran his hand lightly
over the top book. “Don’t worry about it, Loo. It’s all legal.” He turned to Christie. His dark face was alert and excited. “Well, Christie, what do you think about all this?”

  “About all what? Why am I here, Stoney? What’s going on?”

  “The Man will be here soon, kid. You go relieve that policewoman in there before she knits them into a cocoon.” Absently, he asked, “Do you knit, Christie?”

  “Do I knit? Am I supposed to know how to knit? Does that have anything to do with ...”

  Stoner focused on her now, then slowly shook his head. “Hey, little one, you look terrible. Why are you all bundled up? You better get out of that heavy sweater or you’ll suffocate. It’s pretty warm in here.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.” She pulled the sweater down over her narrow hips.

  Stoner Martin prodded her lightly toward the second room. “You better take a couple of aspirins or something, Christie. Going to be a long night. Now don’t go making your faces at me. Nothing here”—his hand swept the table filled with paperwork—“will make much sense to you at this point. Hell, it doesn’t make much sense to any of us right now. Except that the figures on those sheets of paper are adding up and up and up.” Deftly, he turned her back toward the open door. “Come on, little one, move, move.”

  “You are getting more like Casey Reardon every day.”

  He winked. “Why, thank you for the compliment, Christie.” Then, serious, he instructed her, “Just go in and meet our prize package. Keep cool until the boss gets here.”

  Policewoman Kathleen Taylor and Detective Christie Opara greeted each other coldly but politely. Out of all the personnel in the New York City Police Department, on this particular night, it just had to happen that Christie would run into the only policewoman she had ever had difficulty with: years ago, some stupid forgotten incident, only the hostility remaining.