Too Darn Hot

by Sandra Scoppettone

  I didn’t know what to do about telling Marty the kidnapping stuff. But he’d never forgive me if he found out I’d known and didn’t tell him.

  “Marty. About Ladd. I got some news but ya gotta swear ya won’t tell anybody.”

  “I swear on my mother’s grave.”

  “Yer mother’s still alive.”

  “I was talkin about the grave she’s gonna have someday.”

  “Don’t be a saucebox or I won’t tell ya.”

  “Okay. I won’t tell nobody. Ya know that, Faye.”

  “Not yer tootsie or anybody else.”

  There was a deadly quiet on the line. I’d never in so many words let slip that I knew about his girlfriend.

  “That’s a low blow, Faye.”

  “I’m not judgin ya. I don’t care what ya do.” It was a lie. I did care that he cheated on his wife. I thought he was a heel to do it. But in all other ways he was solid gold and most of the time I could put his double-crossing Bridgett to the side.

  “So why’d ya mention it?”

  “I guess I’m afraid a pillow talk.”

  “I don’t tell Bette nothin.”

  First time I heard her name. “Good.”

  “So what were ya gonna tell me?”

  I filled him in on the call to Claire, the kidnapping, and the Ladds, who were ready to pony up with the dough.

  “Ya didn’t tell Powell?”

  “No. And don’t you, either. Ya know it could get Charlie killed just as much as I do.”

  “Yeah. Okay. But don’t ever let on I knew.”

  “Promise.”

  I pulled out the drawer in the phone table and scrabbled around until I found an old half pack of Camels. I shook one out. Some matches were in the drawer, too. I jammed the receiver between my shoulder and ear and lit up. That was better.

  “So who killed Cooper?” I said.

  “How do I know who killed him?”

  “I was talkin to myself.”

  “As long as ya don’t answer yerself that’s okay.”

  I listened to him laughing like some hyena. “That’s a good one, Marty. When yer through pattin yerself on yer back at how witty ya are, I got another favor to ask.”

  He snorted once, then said, “Spill.”

  “You know anybody with a car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know them well enough to ask to borrow it?”

  “For you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’d ya learn to drive, Faye?”

  “In New Jersey. My uncle taught me. Said it might come in handy one day.”

  “Thing is, the person I’m thinkin of wouldn’t want a dame drivin his jalopy.”

  That burned me up. All this malarkey about women drivers. I couldn’t ask Marty to pretend he’d be at the wheel, so I wrapped up the conversation.

  As I was pouring water in my coffeepot I remembered that I knew someone with a car. Jim Duryea. I dialed his number.

  We said our hellos, but I didn’t beat around the bush. I asked him right out if he was willing to let me have his buggy for the day. He asked me where I’d learned to drive and if I had a license. I felt like hanging up on him but I needed the car. So I made nice. He told me to come up for the keys when I was ready.

  I called Birdie.

  “Why?” she said.

  “Why what?”

  “Why’re ya goin to New Jersey?”

  “That’s where Lucille Turner lives and works.”

  “Why would she live in New Jersey?”

  “Careful, you’re speakin of my home state.”

  “Yeah, and a place ya love like I love Iowa.”

  “I never knew you’d been to Iowa.”

  “I haven’t. That’s my point.”

  We said goodbye and then I fed the cat, took a shower, and slipped into a casual polka-dot dress and a pair of open-toed shoes. I didn’t have a single pair of stockings left and didn’t feel like putting on leg makeup and drawing the damn line down the back of my gams. I went bare-legged instead.

  I grabbed my pocketbook, left The Human Comedy cause I wouldn’t be reading while driving—no matter what all those mugs thought. In the hall Dolores was doing her usual sweeping. She was wearing a striped blouse with a checked skirt and her wig was hanging low over her right ear. Par for the course.

  I said hello while starting toward the stairs.

  “Ho ho,” she said.

  I stopped. “What ho ho?”

  “Yer goin up instead of out.”

  “And?”

  “Who has the pleasure of yer company?”

  She was the nosiest woman I’d ever met. But I couldn’t get mad at her. “Jim Duryea. Make somethin outta that.”

  “Me? Me make something outta a visit to Mr. Duryea? Why would I do that?”

  “Ya got me there, Dolores.”

  “It’s early for a visit. Ya having breakfast together? A nosh maybe?”

  Telling her the reason would only lead to more questions so I just said no and continued walking up.

  When Jim opened his door, there was a smile on his puss, as usual. He was dressed in a blue summer suit and a lightweight striped tie.

  Being inside his apartment was like being in a museum’s storage space. Every inch was crammed with artifacts. Jim owned an antiques store but couldn’t help bringing home pieces he liked.

  He offered me a seat and a cup a coffee. I accepted cause I couldn’t just snatch the keys to the car and run. Besides, I’d only had time for one cup and I needed another jolt.

  The java he brought me was tops. Jim always had the best of everything.

  “May I ask where you’re going, Faye?”

  “I gotta go to New Jersey.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Business.” I couldn’t imagine anyone going to New Jersey for pleasure. But my attitude was colored by the fact that my ma and pop were there.

  “And, of course, I can’t ask why.”

  “You’re finally catchin on, Jim.”

  “I’ve always understood, but I thought it worth a try.”

  I took a cig from my bag and Jim lit it with an odd table lighter.

  “I see that you’re looking at this.”

  “Yeah.”

  He handed me the lighter. It was a metal Scottie dog, black with white eyes and a little red nose. Now that I saw it up close it gave me the jimjams.

  “Very nice,” I said.

  He flashed me a satisfied smile.

  “So, New Jersey, hmmm?”

  I nodded.

  “Isn’t that where you’re from, Faye?”

  “It is. Newark.”

  “Are you going to visit your folks while you’re there?”

  Gloom settled over me like a foggy day just thinking about doing that. “I don’t think so.” I took a swallow of coffee.

  “So it has something to do with the missing soldier case.”

  “You’re impossible, Jim.” I stood up. “Can I have the keys?”

  “You haven’t finished your coffee.”

  “It’s very good and I hate to leave it, but I have to go.”

  He actually sniffed. “All right.” He walked over to a serious-looking antique desk, opened a tiny drawer, and took out the keys. “I was able to get a B sticker because I said I drove back and forth from my shop.”

  “Aren’t ya afraid ya might get caught?”

  “No. I can’t imagine who would care about my comings and goings. Take my ration book, just in case you need gas.”

  “I hadn’t even thought about using up yer gas. You sure ya don’t mind?”

  “For you, Faye, anything.”

  “Thanks, Jim.” I didn’t like the sound of that at all.

  “I’m parked on Charles near Seventh. You know what the car looks like, don’t you?”

  “Who could forget? Burgundy roadster, right?”

  “A LaSalle. And it has a rumble seat.”

  “Well, I won’t be needin that.”
<
br />   “I know it’s nine years old but I like it. Be very careful when you put the top down, and I’m sure you’ll want to on a day like this.”

  “I promise I’ll return it as I found it, Jim. I’m really a good driver.”

  “If you say so.”

  I could feel the slow burn making its way up from my toes. “I do say so.”

  He handed me the keys and the ration book. “When do you think you’ll be back?”

  “Sometime in the afternoon.”

  “You can slide the keys under my door if I’m not home.”

  “I can’t thank ya enough.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  When I got downstairs, Dolores was still sweeping. I was sure she was clocking me.

  “That was a short visit.”

  “Yeah? How long was it?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Just wonderin.”

  “About twenty minutes.”

  I went out into the sunshiny, hellish day. First thing I had to do was pick up a fresh pack of cigs from my local store.

  Village Cigars was at the intersection of Christopher, West Fourth Street, and Seventh Avenue. The shop was shaped like a triangle and run by Nick Jaffe, a funny little guy who always wore a cap. Some people thought it was because he was Jewish but didn’t want to wear a yarmulke. I knew he wanted to cover his bald head. But maybe he had religious reasons, too. Who could say?

  The store was empty. Unusual. “Hiya, Nick.”

  “Faye, my darling. Pack of Camels?”

  “And the papers.” I hoped I’d have time to read them later.

  Nick leaned toward me over the counter. “It’s getting worse, Faye.”

  I knew what he was talking about cause he told me every time I went into the store. I always humored him.

  “Worse? How could it be worse?”

  “They think they’re going to the showers but it’s gas comes out of the sprinklers. Poisoned gas.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. They say it’s hundreds at a time. Women and children, too. Ya gotta get the word out, Faye.”

  “I’m tryin, Nick.” I didn’t tell a soul cause I was afraid they’d take him off to the funny farm. I hated lying to Nick, but I felt I was protecting him. “Ya tell anybody else about this?”

  “Only the ones I trust. Which ain’t many.”

  I thought the others felt like me but kept mum or Nick woulda been picked up by now.

  I paid him for the Camels and the papers.

  “Don’t let the information get in the wrong ears, Faye. Ya know what they say: ‘Loose lips sink ships.’ ”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell the wrong people.” I felt like a rat. “I’ll see ya, Nick.”

  Walking up Seventh, I wondered why Nick made up this stuff. He seemed normal in every other way.

  I crossed Seventh and on the other side, at the corner of Charles, there it was. It was swell looking, a red dazzler. I wished someday I could sit in the rumble seat. I slipped the key into the driver’s door, stepped up on the running board, and got in. The dashboard had dials trimmed in shiny chrome, and the steering wheel had a big chrome horn in the center with the initials LAS across it. The seats were soft tan leather, the color matching the top, which I woulda put down, except for the time I’d lose, so I gave it skips.

  I threw my papers on the passenger seat, turned the key, pulled out the choke, and put my left foot on the clutch. I shifted into first, and put my right foot on the gas pedal, and pushed it down while I let the other pedal up. I pulled out a bit and waited at the corner until I could turn down Seventh Avenue toward the Holland Tunnel to New Jersey. Whenever I went through the tunnel, which wasn’t often, I thought of my mother’s story about the day it opened.

  My grandfather had insisted that his son, Humphrey, take the whole family in their car and drive them through the tunnel, each way. My mother said it was quite an experience, but it wasn’t fun cause her mother was terrified that the walls would crumble and they’d all drown in the water that would come gushing in from the Hudson River.

  I wasn’t nuts for going through the tunnel myself. Maybe I inherited my grandma’s fears cause it didn’t take much to make me think I heard crumbling or rushing water.

  At the booth I paid the toll. Soon I passed the sign on the tunnel wall that said NEW YORK/NEW JERSEY. It gave me the same feeling as sitting in the house in a wet bathing suit.

  Before long I saw some light and then I was out of the tunnel. I was in New Jersey. Always a thrill. I wasn’t far from my family’s house. It was closer than the bookstore where Lucille worked. I guess I’d known all along that I couldn’t be in NJ without dropping in at 1240 Seymour Avenue. The question was, before or after the bookstore? I figured I’d have a better chance of catching my mother a little sane in the morning than later in the day.

  So I headed to Seymour Avenue.

  TWELVE

  Seymour Avenue wasn’t the ritzy part of Newark but it was nearby. Two blocks over was Van Ness Place, which once had gates at either end. The gates were gone but the houses were still the biggest around.

  Our house, their house, was small. I’d only lived in it my last two years of high school. Soon as I graduated from Newark High I amscrayed out of there PDQ. I’d spent my whole life wanting to get away from my family. When I was little, I daydreamed of having a magic pogo stick that would take me far and wide, almost like flying. Up, up, and away.

  I sat in the car and stared at the house. It needed paint. But it had always needed paint. The small front yard wasn’t mowed. Had it ever been?

  I’d left the motor running and I reached for the shift to put it into first and skedaddle. But the front door opened and my pop stood there eyeing the car. He was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of gray trousers, and brown oxfords.

  I coulda left. I knew he didn’t know who was in the car. But like somebody else was running the show, I turned off the motor and got out.

  When I came around the car to the sidewalk, his face lit up and he came down the three front steps.

  “Faye. I can’t believe it.”

  “It’s me, Pop.”

  “A sight for sore eyes.”

  He put his arms around me and gave me a big hug. It felt nice.

  “What’re ya doin here, toots?”

  “I’m seein you.”

  “C’mon in.”

  My heart was pounding cause I knew my mother was inside. And even though it was still early in the day, I didn’t honestly know what condition she’d be in.

  Pop and I walked up the steps together, his arm around my shoulder, mine around his waist, and we crossed the narrow porch to the front door.

  “That’s some snazzy car ya got there, Faye.”

  “Not mine. I borrowed it.”

  “Well then, ya got snazzy friends.”

  He gently pushed me in front of him and we went through the doorway. Once inside the blue funk settled over me. There seemed to be too much furniture in the living room, and all of it was dark. I hadn’t remembered that.

  “Let me get your ma,” he said.

  I grabbed his sleeve. “How is she?”

  He shrugged. “She’ll be okay this time a day. I know she’ll want to see ya.”

  I wasn’t so sure. He left the room and I froze, unable to sit down, like maybe I’d catch something if I did. There was a Reader’s Digest on the coffee table and a racing form stuffed down between the seat cushion and arm of a chair. Not much had changed.

  Then I heard them coming down the stairs. They were moving slowly. She was setting the pace. They reached the bottom and walked slowly to the living room. When I felt them in the doorway I turned around to face them.

  Pop had an arm around her waist as he guided her in. I knew she wouldn’t look good; she hadn’t as long as I could remember. But this was a whole new dimension and it knocked me for a loop.

  Mostly the Bowery was peppered with men, but sometimes you’d catch si
ght of a lady on the street, too. That’s where my ma looked like she belonged. Her salt-and-pepper hair was now totally white. It hung down the sides of her face, lifeless and dull. Her skin had a yellow cast to it, and under her vacant eyes were dark patches like smears of tar.

  “Here’s Faye, Helen.”

  “Hello, Ma.”

  She stared at me like I was a stranger, or a ghost.

  “Let’s sit down. Over here, Helen.”

  He steered her away from the chair with the racing sheet.

  “Take the load off yer feet, Faye.”

  I sat on the edge of the sagging couch so I could bolt if I had to.

  “How are ya, Ma?” Stupid question.

  “Just grand.”

  What could I say to that? “I had to be over this way so I thought I’d pop in.”

  “Pop in,” she said.

  I felt myself shrinking. I was about fourteen now.

  “Ya want some coffee or somethin, Faye?” he said.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Pop in,” she said again. “Sort of the way ya popped out.”

  I didn’t like how this was going or what I felt. Twelve now. I didn’t have an angle on what to say, what to ask her. It was like a minefield.

  “Faye’s a private investigator, Helen.”

  I was stunned Pop knew what I did. “How’d ya know that?”

  He smiled, making his dimple show, but he didn’t answer me. Not that my line of work was top secret. Easy to find out, if you wanted to know. And that’s what got me. I wouldna thought he’d care enough to know.

  “What do you investigate?” she asked.

  “Different things. Depends on the case I get.”

  “Like missing persons?”

  “Yeah, exactly like that.”

  “Missing people.”

  I nodded.

  “Missing children?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Missing babies?”

  Oh, no.

  “I haven’t had a case like that.”

  “Sure you have.”

  “Helen, don’t.”

  “Why don’t you look for your brother.”

  I stood. “I gotta go. I’m meetin somebody.” I started toward the door and she grabbed my wrist.

  “Your brother’s missing, you know.”

  Her grip was tight, like she’d clamped my wrist in a vise. “Ma, he’s not missing. He’s dead. Ya know that.”