“That’s it,” I said. “You’re buying me dinner tonight. And not a hot dog with piccalilli or relish. And you need to give Zeke a couple of bucks as a thank-you.”
“I see you don’t mind my gambling when I win.”
“That’s right. But I’ll be there to pick you up when it all goes south. Remember that.”
He turned white. “Jesus, don’t say that. You’ll jinx me. Take it back and spit on the ground.”
“I’ll do no such thing.”
But after a five-minute harangue on superstition and Lady Luck, my three-hundred-something-pound bodyguard and best chum had me recanting my statement and expectorating on the dirt, mere steps from the refreshment stand and a crowd of people enjoying their snacks. I only hoped none of Freddie’s friends had witnessed my performance.
As we passed through the gate on our way to Fadge’s car, which he’d parked directly across Union Avenue on the most expensive lawn in Saratoga, he grabbed a copy of the New Holland Republic that someone had discarded on a bench. He stopped to show me the front page, which was dominated by my two stories, the one linking Johnny Dornan, né Sprague, to downstate gamblers, and the other describing the plight of the missing Micheline Charbonneau.
“You’re getting good at this,” said Fadge. “But are you sure you want to be writing about organized crime and gambling? You’ll start attracting the wrong kind of attention.”
“Thanks for the reminder. But I didn’t name any names.”
“All the same, be careful, will you? These sound like a rough crowd. That Jimmy Burgh, for one.”
“Who do you think told me Johnny’s real name?”
He folded the secondhand newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and we set off for his car. Once inside he remembered something.
“By the way, I spoke to a couple of my clockers and asked them if they knew anything about Johnny Sprague.”
“And?”
“They definitely remembered something about a scandal eight or ten years ago. Didn’t realize that Dornan was Sprague, though.” He threw the car into gear and inched toward the makeshift parking lot’s exit, following a long line of cars. “Anyway, it seems Johnny Sprague tried to throw a race with a couple of other jockeys down in Maryland. My guys thought it might have been at Laurel Park or Hagerstown.”
“That narrows it down somewhat.”
“And I asked them if they’d ever heard of anyone named Robinson. No luck.”
“That helps,” I said. “I can ask Norma to start looking into those racetracks. Of course there’s a two-year period to cover, and it was a long time ago. Still, this gives her a fighting chance. Thanks.”
“A mere bagatelle,” he said with characteristic magnanimity.
Fadge’s promise of dinner didn’t exactly pan out. In truth, he hadn’t promised anything; I’d demanded. But Friday nights at Fiorello’s were busy ones, especially in summer when the weather was hot. Not only did the locals turn out in droves for ice cream, but the high school kids descended upon Lincoln Avenue, which was the place to meet and greet. They hung out on street corners, making noise and creating mischief. From time to time, the residents would grow tired of the inconvenience and call the police to keep the teenagers moving. But however the authorities harassed them and chased them into the ball fields a few blocks away, the kids still piled into the booths and filled the counter at Fadge’s place from eight to eleven every Friday and Saturday night. He complained that they hardly bought anything. Cherry Cokes, egg creams, or the occasional song on the jukebox. But by dint of their sheer numbers, the teen population of New Holland accounted for a significant slice of Fadge’s business.
So instead of tying on the feedbag in a fancy Saratoga eatery, Fadge tied on a fudge-spattered apron at the store and, along with poor Zeke, who was pressed into a double shift of soda-jerking duty, held off the marauding hordes of teenagers that night. I waited at my place across the street for him to finish. Another in a series of late-night pizzas would have to suffice for my special dinner.
I phoned Norma Geary at home, regretting the interruption of her evening. She was a widow with a retarded son named Toby and had her hands full without much help. Her aged mother did what she could, pitching in afternoons when Toby returned from school. But mostly Norma was on her own.
“Are you busy?” I asked straightaway.
She insisted she wasn’t. Toby was fast asleep at 8:30 p.m. I filled her in on the new information Fadge had provided. Johnny Dornan/Sprague had been involved in some kind of betting scandal eight or ten years earlier at one of two tracks in Maryland. I gave her the names, and she said she’d start digging first thing in the morning.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday, Norma. This can wait till Monday morning.”
“It’s all right, Miss Stone. Toby can come sit with me at the paper. I don’t mind taking him along when the place is empty. There’s no one for him to disturb on a Saturday.”
I felt like a wretch, knowing that I would be enjoying myself at the racetrack the following afternoon, while Norma toiled away and made excuses for her poor child. I tried to convince myself that the story required me to visit the track, but I knew I was getting the better end of the deal.
At eleven thirty, Fadge buzzed, and I skipped down the stairs to join him. I waited till he’d stuffed himself into the driver’s seat from the passenger’s side door before I climbed in.
“Scafitti’s or Tedesco’s?” he asked.
I was about to say Tedesco’s, since we’d been to Scafitti’s two nights before. But before I could cast my vote, a voice from the backseat called out, “Scafitti’s.”
I reeled around, half expecting to find my erstwhile car snatcher, Joey Figlio, sitting there with a knife in his hand. But it wasn’t crazy Joey, at all. It was Zeke, Fadge’s newest employee. And next to him in the seat slouched Bill, the dishwasher, Fadge’s oldest.
“Tedesco’s,” said Bill.
I said hello to the two, then turned back around to face front. “What happens if it’s a tie vote?” I asked.
“I’m driving,” said Fadge. “I decide.”
And he chose Scafitti’s. This time, though, we had the pleasure of two new companions. Bill wasn’t a big talker, but when he said something, it was usually memorable. Somewhere in his forties, with a crew cut and thick glasses, he was an idiot savant. A whiz at math, he particularly enjoyed adding up the prices of groceries in his head and calculating the current balance of his passbook account, which on that particular night was $37,496. And thirty-two cents. Bill, you see, was the older son of the late Thomas Goossens, whose Goossens Broom Company had once been a successful manufacturer on the city’s South Side. Bill and his younger brother, Stephen, had inherited whopping sums when their father died. Stephen had long since moved away, while Bill lived with his elderly mother on Wilson Avenue, a few blocks away from the store.
“Hey, Bill,” said Fadge, throwing a wink at me. “Why don’t you tell Ellie what you had for supper before work?”
Bill nudged his glasses farther up his nose with his right forefinger then recited the menu. “Three kielbasa, stuffed cabbage, baked beans, and four ears of corn.”
“That’s it?” asked Fadge.
Bill thought it over a moment then added, “Peas. And three beers.”
“Nothing else?”
A grin spread over his lips. “Two Slim Jims.”
I poked Fadge in the ribs for making fun of poor Bill, who chose that moment to unleash a rumbling belch that confirmed, at least approximately so, the composition of his supper. Bill, for all his money and mathematical talents, suffered from some form of mental retardation. People could tell he was a little off on sight, but he managed quite well living with his mother. He rarely spent a penny of his own money for goods, always having the correct combination of coupons or Green Stamps to exchange for dented canned goods or old cigars and cigarettes with his daytime employer, Lou Martello, of Louie’s Market on the East End.
After gulping so
me fresh air from my window, I turned my attention to the second passenger in the backseat, Jeff “Zeke” Zeitner. He was a nice brown-haired fourteen-year-old kid, always hanging around the store asking Fadge for a job. It appeared that his performance of the past couple of days had earned him a permanent spot in the rotation. And that privilege included the occasional late-night pizza excursion.
“Isn’t it a bit late for you to be out, Zeke?” I asked. “Don’t your parents mind?”
“No, they trust Fadge.”
“Then that’s their first mistake. How are you enjoying jerking sodas?”
He flashed a brilliant smile at me. “It’s great. I get to wait on all the pretty girls, and they have to pay attention to me.”
“So you should be willing to work for free,” said Fadge.
“How much is he paying you?” I asked Zeke.
“Plenty. Fifty cents an hour.”
Again I poked Fadge in the ribs.
“Hey, cut it out, El. That hurts.”
“How can you pay him fifty cents?” I hissed. “Minimum wage is a dollar fifteen.”
“First of all, don’t go trying to unionize my workers. Second, it’s not even legal for him to be working for me in the first place. He’s only fourteen. And, third, he can eat all the ice cream he wants, plus I take him out for pizza after work on the weekends.”
“Yeah,” said Zeke from the backseat. “You gotta admit, Ellie, it’s a pretty good deal.”
It was fun getting to know Zeke and Bill a little better, even if the topics of discussion never surpassed a ninth-grade level. At one point between the hors d’oeuvres and finger bowls, Bill jumped out of his seat and began dancing a kind of jig in rhythm to the song playing on the jukebox. We asked him what the heck he was doing, and he responded through his teeth, “Leg cramp.” Zeke spent an inordinate amount of time chatting with me, asking questions about my favorite singers, my boyfriends, and other such nonsense. He was cute, but the cow eyes set off alarms in my head. I’d had my fill of teenage boys falling in love with me. Fadge enjoyed the role of ringmaster of his own little circus, and, all told, it was a nice time. But I looked forward to Saturday evening’s gala fundraiser at the casino and a chance for some adult conversation. Fadge, of course, insisted on picking up the tab.
It was past twelve thirty as we sped up Market Hill. Fadge would drop off Zeke first, then Bill, then me. He turned onto Howard Street from Arnold Avenue.
“Hey, Fadge,” said Zeke from the backseat. “That car back there has been following us since we left Scafitti’s.”
We turned as one to look through the window. All except Fadge, who squinted into the rearview mirror. In the dark, it was impossible to distinguish any identifying characteristics of the car except that there were two headlamps shining at us.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yeah. I’ve been watching it for a while now.”
“Let’s try this,” said Fadge, turning sharply onto Victor Street.
We drove on for thirty seconds, nearly reaching the next corner, when the car swung into view some fifty yards behind us.
“No one lives on this little street,” said Fadge. “Whoever that is must be following us.”
“Maybe it’s a cop,” I said.
“No, I saw it,” said Zeke. “Just a regular car. A sedan of some kind. I couldn’t tell the model because it’s pretty old.”
Fadge turned again, this time right onto Grant Avenue. He eased his speed, glancing into the rearview mirror every couple of seconds, until the car appeared again, now barely thirty yards behind us. Fadge made two more right turns, daring the car to follow. Having made a complete circle, we were back on Victor Street, but this time with no shadow. The driver must have figured out that Fadge was onto him. Or her, I suppose. Anything was possible. When we reached the corner of Grant this time, Fadge turned left and floored it. For all its dents and dings, his Nash Ambassador could still fly when he took the whip to it. Five minutes later we pulled up to Zeke’s house on McClellan Avenue. Fadge cut the engine and doused the lights. Everything was still at 12:45 a.m.
“That was close,” said Zeke. “Really cool the way you lost him, Fadge.”
“Could it have been some kids having a little fun?” I asked. “Trying to scare us?”
Fadge frowned. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“They followed us to Scafitti’s, too,” announced Bill. In the commotion, I’d nearly forgotten he was there.
“What do you mean they followed us to Scafitti’s?” demanded Fadge.
Bill laughed in his characteristically manic way, though I saw nothing funny about the situation. “Followed us from the store all the way to East Main Street,” he said, still chuckling.
“Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”
But Bill didn’t answer. He never answered when Fadge yelled at him. Whether he’d broken a sundae dish in the dishwater or done a poor job of washing a rack of Coke glasses, Bill rarely argued back. He pouted, eyes fixed straight ahead for several seconds. Then he’d open some new topic of conversation to deflect attention. That night he didn’t change the subject. Instead he said, “DUT 5639.”
“What?”
“DUT 5639. The license number of the car that followed us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After Fadge dropped off Zeke and Bill, he drove me back to my place. Casing the block from the front seat, we decided all was clear. It was one, and I confessed to Fadge that I was feeling more than a little frightened. I dreaded the idea of another break-in.
“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Bill and Zeke,” I began, “but I don’t think that car was full of joyriding teenagers trying to scare us.”
“Me neither,” said Fadge. “I think it’s someone you cheesed off. Maybe one of those gamblers you wrote about.”
“I told you I didn’t mention any names at all.”
“But you did shine a light on them. Maybe gave the police ideas about who might be responsible for Dornan’s murder. You gotta be careful, El.”
“Horse. Gone. Barn door. Too late.”
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you up to your place and make sure no one’s lurking in the shadows.”
We sat in my parlor for an hour, listening to some jazz, and considered the situation over a couple of drinks.
“Let’s say you’re right and it was gamblers,” I said. “Maybe they were trying to send me a message. Trying to scare me a little. Maybe they won’t come back.”
“Let’s hope not.”
“We’ve got the license number. We can ask Benny Arnold at Motor Vehicles to trace it.”
“Yeah, but not before Monday. What do we do in the meantime?”
“Maybe Frank Olney can check with the state police for me.”
We sat quietly for a few minutes more, sipping our drinks and listening to the Oscar Peterson Trio. It was one of Fadge’s records, a live LP from the Newport Jazz Festival, which he’d lent me a month or so before. I’d hoped it might soothe my anxiety, but in truth it did not.
“You don’t suppose it was an admirer of yours,” said Fadge.
“An admirer?”
“Yeah. Maybe someone whose heart you broke.”
“I don’t break hearts,” I said. “And I can’t think of anyone who might be obsessed by my charms to the point of tailing me around town after midnight.”
Fadge chuckled.
“This isn’t funny, chum.”
“I know, I know. But I was thinking of Zeke. He’s got a big crush on you, you know.”
“Oh, God.”
“I told him I’d see what I could do. You know, feel you out. See if you were interested.”
“Again. Not funny. Remember that kid from the reform school, Frankie Ralston? He wanted to marry me. I don’t need another teenager in love.”
Fadge apologized for real, and we sank back into silent contemplation of Oscar Peterson. But I had a thought. One that I couldn’t share with Fadge
. It may have been wishful thinking, but I wondered if, by chance, Freddie hadn’t dropped by for another late-night visit just as I climbed into Fadge’s car. What if he’d been seized by jealousy and followed us down to East Main Street and Scafitti’s Pizzeria? And then perhaps waited outside until we’d finished and followed us home? I laughed at myself, though not so Fadge could see. What nonsense. For one thing, Freddie drove a little roadster, not a non-descript old jalopy. I was sure the thought was motivated by my seeing him with his friends earlier that day at the track. The twinge of jealousy stung a lot less if I pictured Freddie guilty of the same weakness.
Finally, a little before two, I told Fadge to go home and get some rest. He made a lewd suggestion that he’d rest perfectly fine in my comfy bed, but I pushed him out the door with an admonition to drive carefully and watch for cars in the rearview mirror.
“Be at the store tomorrow at noon,” he said at the kitchen door. “And don’t be late. Traffic and parking are going to be hell tomorrow. Travers Day.”
SATURDAY, AUGUST 18, 1962
I phoned Frank Olney at 8:00 a.m. Home on a Saturday morning for a change, he was nevertheless up, dressed, and ready to jump into the saddle if crime called. It did, in the form of me and my spooky encounter with DUT 5639.
“Can you get a trace on the owner by any chance?” I asked.
He paused before answering, and I fancied I could hear him scribbling the number into a pad of paper. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said finally. “Might take a day or two. But maybe someone can get me this before Monday.”
“Thanks, Frank. I owe you.”
“Say, Ellie, I saw your piece in the paper yesterday. You’re not messing around with gamblers and criminals again, are you?”
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