Tears of the Dragon

by Holly Baxter

  Marie ran hot water into the sink. “Probably you should ask who is hushing it up. Didn’t you say that mob lawyer Arnold Ryan was there? And Mr. Lee is very rich, isn’t he? He knows a lot of people, I expect. People who will do what he wishes.”

  Elodie sighed. “I suppose so. But I’m beginning to think it was all a nightmare after all.” She stood up. “I tried to call Bernice, but her mother said she wasn’t home all day yesterday. I don’t know what to think.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” Elodie was pulling on her jacket.

  “Don’t think about it,” Marie said. She was the oldest of the Browne sisters, with softly curling hair and a wonderful posture. She looked like a duchess who was pretending to be a kitchen maid, and enjoying the experience. She scrubbed at the frying pan. “Just put your mind to your new job, and forget all about everything else. There are people to sort out things like that.”

  “The police,” Elodie said, settling her hat, using her reflection in the glass of the cupboard door. It was one Maybelle had passed on to her the day before—an Angel-face cloche in pale grey that matched her coat, with a darker grey ribbon and a small jet decoration in the center of the turned-back brim. Maybelle was right—it gave her confidence.

  “Of course the police.”

  “I didn’t think much of them.” Elodie picked up her handbag and her father’s old briefcase in which she had placed all the ideas she had scribbled down. “Especially that Lieutenant Deacon. He seemed to think it was all a big joke.”

  “I doubt that,” said Marie. “You must have misunderstood.”

  “He winked at me. Twice.” She paused in the kitchen door. “But he was the one who figured out about the men shouting in Chinese,” she said, slowly. “So maybe he has a brain. I’m not so sure about Captain Brett, though.”

  ***

  It was the usual Monday morning meeting. Capone and Nitti sat at the head and foot of the table respectively, and the various lieutenants made their reports on the weekend takings. All were up, particularly prostitution, no doubt because spring was in the air. A good end to the week, and all were satisfied.

  Except Capone, who was never satisfied.

  “That mick bastard Moran is trying to move in on us again, Ryan. What do you say about that?”

  “I haven’t heard anything specific, Mr. Capone. I’ll give my usual sources a check.”

  “You do that. Only advantage to having a mick lawyer is he knows the micks, right?”

  “I do my best.” Ryan’s modesty was patently insincere. “But they know I work for you, so it’s not easy.”

  “Moran doesn’t seem to learn very fast, does he?” Nitti growled. “Maybe he needs another lesson in manners.”

  “I’ll leave that to you, Frank.” Capone’s thick eyebrows drew together as he looked around the table. “All I got to say to you lunkheads is—do better.”

  One by one they slunk away, leaving only Arnold Ryan and Nitti. Capone stared down the table, his black eyes suspicious as always, his mouth a loose red slash in his pudgy face. “Arnold. I hear you were at a party on Saturday night, is that right?”

  Ryan shifted in his chair slightly. “Why, yes.”

  “At some Chink’s house out by the Lake?”

  “Yes. How did you know that?”

  Capone waved a hand. “It don’t matter how I know, the point is, what were you doing there?”

  Ryan smiled easily. “As you know I collect oriental art objects. Mr. Lee is an importer and he had something to show his special customers.”

  “You’re a ‘special customer’?”

  “I like to think so.”

  “And what did you see?”

  “Nothing, as it happens. I had been told it would be jade, but no more than that. I was hoping there would be something small that I could afford.” Ryan looked down at the table and then back up. “As you know, I am not a wealthy man.”

  Nitti grunted and Capone barked a laugh, extracting a fresh cigar from an inner pocket and turning it around in his fat fingers. “You lawyers are all alike. You got plenty of money, you Irish bastard.”

  Ryan smiled. “I have enough.”

  Capone’s laugh had been brief. Now he leaned forward and stabbed the air with his unlit cigar. “I know what happened out there, Arnold. I know a guy was bumped off, I know some fancy people were there who maybe shouldn’t have been there. I know it’s a mess and so do you. It’s been kept out of the papers, but it won’t stay quiet forever. I don’t want you doing business with no Chinks from now on. Is that clear?”

  “But why?” Ryan was confused. Capone had a great many prejudices but he had never heard him speak against the Chinese before.

  “I got my reasons and maybe one day they’ll be your reasons, but for now, stay away from Chinks.”

  “Even Mr. Lee?”

  “Even your goddamn Chink laundryman if you got one.” It was now apparent that Capone was very angry indeed, his famous temper catching fire behind the flame as he lit his cigar. “Do I make myself clear, Mr. Art Collector Ryan?”

  Arnold Ryan managed a smile. “Of course.”

  Capone leaned back and looked down the table at Nitti, who looked back imperturbably. “He understands, Frank. Mr. Art Collector Ryan is a smart man.”

  “You wouldn’t employ him otherwise, Al,” was Nitti’s reply.

  “Damn right.” He looked back at Ryan. “Despite he’s a goddamn mick.” He took a long drag on the cigar and blew smoke down the length of the table. As always it was a cheap cigar but Ryan managed not to wince as the stink of it reached him.

  “Is there anything else, Mr. Capone?”

  “Naw—you got them papers I signed, so that’s all.” As Ryan stood Capone jabbed with his cigar again. “And no Chinks.”

  “No Chinks,” Ryan agreed, dutifully, and left the room.

  Capone looked at Nitti and grinned. “Did he buy it? Did I scare him?”

  Nitti smiled narrowly. “You scare everybody, Al.”

  Capone looked pleased. “Yeah. I do, don’t I? Only way to do business.”

  “With Ryan?”

  “With anybody. Including Chinks.”

  ***

  Elodie stood across the street from the Gower Building and looked up at its strong perpendicular lines. Built in the shape of the letter C, its rows of windows glittered, reflecting the light from the Lake which lay before it. She had been coming here every morning for over a year and riding up to the fifteenth floor to work on bunion ads for Adcock and Ashe, but suddenly the building had a new glamour about it. She knew it was firmly anchored to the ground, but somehow it had acquired a glowing halo of wonderful possibilities, a new kind of promise. The carved white marble trim seemed to glow in the sun, and the elaborate brass work around the entrance shimmered like gold. Diamond reflections glinted off the glass in the revolving doors as the many workers entered the high, airy entrance hall. She had always been glad to work there, but now it seemed like an entry to another world. Stepping into the lobby this morning, she would be a different person from the little copywriter who had walked out of it the Friday before.

  Between her and the entrance flowed a river of cars, shiny black, with the occasional flash of color from some sports model or other. On bumper after bumper she saw the orange and blue stickers that read REPEAL THE EIGHTEENTH AMENDMENT. More and more of them every day. Ordinary people were getting so fed up with Prohibition and the crime that had grown from it. Against them were ranged all the evil men who profited from it, many seemingly respectable, and many with the kind of authority that could keep the staus quo, no matter how many bumper stickers appeared.

  She was not going to worry about that anymore. When the light changed, she walked across the boulevard with her head high and her step light, all flags flying.

  But when the elevator door opened onto the tenth floor, she felt her stomach lurch. Now the lobby was entirely different. Bright
with morning light, there were people passing through, and a pretty girl at the reception desk. I’ll be fine, Elodie told herself. Then she realized the girl at the reception desk was Betty Ann, and the memory of Saturday night’s events momentarily eclipsed everything else. How strange, she thought, to cover one upsetting thing with another and feel better about it.

  One disaster at a time, she told herself, and turned toward the left-hand hall, before Betty Ann could catch her eye. Mr. Herschel’s secretary had written the number of her new office down—1054. Well, that was something. On Mumma’s next birthday she would be fifty-four, and her birthday was in October. Rather thin comfort, but it was all she had. Her heels clacked on the cold marble floor, as she counted off the odd-numbered offices on the left hand side.

  1054 was just a number on a door, no name of any kind. The glass in the door was pebbled, and soft light lay beyond with no movement or anything to indicate there was anyone inside.

  Elodie tried the knob and found the door was unlocked. It swung wide and she saw her new home. It was not like any office she had ever worked in before.

  For a start, there were no desks. Just a couple of couches, a couple of armchairs, and a low table in the center of the room. Another long narrow table stood against the far wall with a typewriter at one end and cups, plates, an electric hot plate, and a baker’s box, half-open, at the other. On the windowsill sat a bottle of milk and a tin of Red Circle coffee. That was encouraging—Marie would only buy Eight O’Clock brand, because it was the cheapest.

  Otherwise the room was empty.

  Elodie went over to the window and looked out. Not much of a view—just the opposite arm of the building, and below the little figures of people hurrying in and out of the building like so many beetles. If she leaned forward and pressed her forehead against the glass, she could just glimpse the glitter of the Lake, an expanse of blue blending into the sky.

  She heard the door open, and turned to see who was coming in.

  It was a man of about forty or so, carrying the bottom half of the coffee pot, slopping water over the edge. He looked haggard and hungry. He was pale, with straw-colored hair, and wore quite thick wire framed glasses, under which his nose was very red, as if he had a cold. His suit was rumpled, and his tie was askew below a loosened collar.

  “Yes?” he asked, closing the door behind him. He didn’t wait for an answer but slouched across the room, slammed the pot onto the table, and threw himself onto one of the couches. “Well?” he demanded.

  “I’m Elodie Browne,” she said.

  “Oh.” He closed his eyes. “The idea girl.”

  “Yes.” She stood there waiting. He seemed to be falling asleep. Then his eyes opened again. “Coat and hat over there—” he indicated a hatrack in the corner which was already occupied by what was obviously his own hat and coat. She put hers on the other side of the rack. “Sit down. Tell me all about it.”

  Elodie did as he said, but had no idea what he wanted her to say. “All about what?” she finally asked. The couch was of leather, and she could feel her legs sticking to the front of it. It also squeaked every time she moved.

  “‘Imperial Hotel,’” came the answer. Again his eyes were closed.

  “Are you Mr. Wilson?” Elodie was pretty certain he was.

  “No, I’m Fu Manchu,” came the growled answer. “Of course I’m Drew Wilson. Why the devil would I be here, otherwise?”

  She felt like crossing the room and kicking him. He was rude and he was trying to make her feel stupid. People often made that mistake.

  “Well, that’s nice,” she said. “Because I’m Mary Pickford, and I’ve always wanted to meet you, Mr. Fu.”

  His eyes opened. “You know about the Chinese name business.”

  “I know about a lot of things.” Elodie put her briefcase down beside her.

  “I didn’t think much of your last picture, Miss Pickford.”

  “The director was an idiot,” Elodie snapped.

  He nodded, his eyes closing again. “Same old excuse.”

  “Would it bother you if I screamed?” Elodie asked, sweetly.

  “Feel free, I often scream myself,” Wilson said. “I find it clears the lungs remarkably well. One hates to have clogged lungs.”

  “One does.”

  The office door swung inward and a woman stood in the opening—middle-aged, plump, wearing a purple dress that was obviously expensive but far too young for her. The band around the hips was already wrinkled and taut, and the short full sleeves fluttered around husky upper arms. Pale orange hair sprang out from around a small furry angora beret, and her face was pink with exertion. In one hand she clutched a huge leather bag so stuffed that it looked in danger of exploding, and a red coat was folded over her elbow. She glanced from Elodie to the sprawled form of Wilson on the couch opposite, and sighed.

  “Is he hung over?”

  “I have no idea,” Elodie said. “I have never seen him before, drunk or sober. He says his name is Wilson.”

  The woman came in and slammed the door behind her, then dumped her coat and satchel onto the low table. “If he claims his name is Wilson, then he’s hung over. I’ve never seen him any other way. He claims it’s insomnia and lots of reading, but I know differently. Good morning, Drew, dear.” Wilson mumbled something under his breath. The woman turned to Elodie and approached, holding out one hand and pulling off the fuzzy beret with the other. “I’m Sal Schultz,” she said. “You must be Elodie Browne. Welcome.”

  Elodie smiled at her. “Thanks.” Miss Schultz seemed much nicer than the disagreeable Drew Wilson.

  “Anybody started the coffee yet?” Sal wanted to know. Freed from the confines of the fuzzy beret, her hair seemed more like an orange dandelion clock than actual hair. She tried to pat it down, but it sprang back out again, and she gave up the unequal struggle. “No?”

  “I’m sorry,” Elodie said, starting to rise. “I didn’t realize—”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Sal said, going over to the table and hefting the pot. She glanced at Wilson. “I see you managed to get the water.”

  “And the doughnuts,” Wilson said. “You do the rest.”

  “Such a kind man, such a sweet man.” Sal opened the tin of coffee and spooned some into the basket, then put all the parts together and placed it on the hot plate, which she flicked on. “No wonder I love working with you so much.”

  “And you do.” Wilson still didn’t open his eyes. “You know you do. It’s my sparkling mind and witty repartee.”

  “No,” Sal disagreed. “It’s your filthy temper, your whiskey breath, and the fact that you know more words than I do.” She glanced at Elodie. “Do you know a lot of words? We’re going to need a hell of a lot of words every week to fill an hour.”

  “I own a dictionary,” Elodie offered. “I could bring it in with me tomorrow.”

  Sal regarded her for a moment, then chuckled. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She checked the coffeepot then came over to sit beside Elodie on the couch. “I loved your idea,” she said, settling herself down and holding her feet out before her like a little child. Her shoes were also purple, but the flesh bulged up around the strap that went over her instep. “I think we’re going to have a good time writing it. Have you written anything for radio before?”

  “No.”

  “But you listen a lot, right?” Sal sighed.

  “Same old excuse,” muttered Wilson.

  “I’ve been writing advertising copy for almost two years, now,” Elodie said, in her own defense. “I finished two years of college before the money ran out, and I read all the time. I am perfectly willing to steal anybody’s ideas, including Shakespeare’s, and I speak French so we could always throw in a few words to confuse everyone and make them think we’re smarter than we really are.”

  Sal looked at her with fresh respect, and laughed out loud. She had a rich, loud laugh that made her large bosom bounce freely. “Okay,” she
said again, with approval. “Here’s how we work.”

  “Oh, God,” moaned Wilson. “Not before the coffee.”

  ***

  Writing for radio seemed to be mainly about talking, Elodie found. She was glad Maybelle had taught her shorthand for taking notes at college. Now she used it to write down what each of them said. She was pretty sure she would be the one who had to type everything up.

  “You want to start every program with a set-up statement,” Wilson said, after he had three cups of coffee and two doughnuts, and was able to keep his eyes open continuously. “Every week you’ll get new listeners—”

  “We hope,” put in Sal. “But even so, it’s for establishing the setting. I thought of something like this—” Her voice changed immediately to that of a rather pompous announcer. “Welcome to Imperial Hotel, New York’s finest hostelry.”

  “Hostelry?” Wilson asked.

  “Whatever,” Sal said, in her normal voice, then resumed her “radio” tones. “This is where only the best people stay, and are served by the most highly trained staff in the world. At the Imperial Hotel, there is a story behind every door.” She turned to Elodie and was herself again. “Or something like that. It needs work.” Wilson snorted.

  Sal ignored him. “You say you thought of two themes running side by side?”

  “Yes,” said Elodie. “We gradually get to know the staff of the hotel—they’ll be leading their own lives behind the scenes—but every week there will be a main story about one of the guests.”

  “Too complicated,” Wilson objected.

  Elodie stiffened. “I don’t think so. I think it can be done.”

  “So do I,” said Sal. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since we chose the idea. Seems to me the first one or two episodes should be all about the staff, then we gradually cut that back and introduce the single stories.”

  “Who cares about bellboys and maids?” Wilson was full of objections.