Shoe nodded. “Our paths crossed,” he said, remembering the anonymous beatdown the copper had given him in a Nevis alleyway when Shoe had begun asking too many questions about illicit liquor. He was as crooked as a Chesapeake Bay Retriever’s hind quarter. “I don’t think he’d appreciate my involvement in his case.”
“Unfortunately, they do not appear to want anyone’s involvement. Little has been forthcoming, even in exchange for a little extra cash. We suspect—” Emerson interrupted his suspicions with a drink of water and a gentle patting of his lips with his pocket square. “My client, whom for convenience’s sake I will refer to as Mr. X, doesn’t need their help. The family wants quick resolution no matter who may be implicated. That’s why I’m here.”
For the first time, Shoe noticed Emerson’s dirty and scuffed-up cap-toe boots. When they were pristine, he bet they’d been real lookers. He’d probably had a nice watch, too— before the local crowd gave him a literal run for his money. Emerson must have been reading his mind. He tucked his feet further back under the chair.
“You’re not giving me much to work with here, Mr. Emerson, sir. Given the threat to my safety—which your client, I am certain, is in no position to guarantee; and which the Nevis police force would be disinclined to insure—your fee would have to be a substantial one to entice me to return.”
“Would the sum of three thousand dollars entice you?”
“Come again?” Shoe asked, trying to relax his death grip on the arms of his chair. A year’s income being thrown at him from one client?
Emerson repeated the same sum. “Probably more than you’re used to seeing,” he said as he removed his arm from the upholstered chair and brushed off the underside of his sleeve. “You come highly recommended. But if you can’t commit this morning, I must move on to the next name on my list.”
“I’m in,” Shoe said without hesitation, “but I must have half up front . . .so I can tie up loose ends.”
“One third down in good faith, another third when you begin work, and the balance when you’ve provided the specifics of the crime, including the identity of the perpetrator.”
Shoe thrust out a hand as his heart danced a lively foxtrot. “Done. But do we have anything else to go on besides the few morsels the Star published?”
“There are these, which will not be published.” Emerson drew a tan portfolio from an inside coat pocket, unwound the string from the button tab, and withdrew several photos.
“Dear God,” Shoe whispered, and promptly heaved his lunch into the nearby wastebasket. “What was that?” He heard the creak of Emerson’s chair. Hopefully he would provide distance and allow a moment for Shoe to restore his dignity.
“I can’t assure you that this is the worst of it, Mr. Shoemaker,” Emerson said, his voice now coming from across the room. “This case is going to test your mettle. Still firm in your answer?”
“Uh huh,” Shoe said, his reply muffled by the trashcan. He wiped his face with a handkerchief, carried the can out into the hallway, and left it. Someone would swipe it by end of day. Problem solved. He rejoined Emerson, who now stood at the window. The local boys were dispersing under the watchful eye of a beat cop who made a showing about once a week. They’d be back by the time he hit the next block.
“It’s settled then,” Emerson said. “Now I’m off to see Ru—to other business while this nice policeman can offer me free passage out of here.” He put his misshapen hat back on, and as he passed Fannie’s desk, he paused a moment and placed a plain white envelope there. “Time is of the essence, Mr. Shoemaker. Ask for me at the Bayside Hotel tomorrow, eleven o’clock, and we’ll discuss further.”
“Yes, sir. You can expect me.”
“Excellent. And these photographs,” he said, stooping to pick up the envelope and pictures from the floor where Shoe had left them. “It goes against my better judgment to leave them. If they should somehow find their way into the press . . .” He locked eyes with the detective. “That would be most unfortunate for all parties involved.”
Shoe felt queasy again. He closed his eyes. “No, I don’t think I will be needing them. And rest assured that anything between us is confidential.” He hesitated a moment. “Sir. Before you go . . . if I may ask one question?”
Emerson raised an eyebrow. “Certainly. Within reason.”
“What happened to the face?”
“We have no idea. It takes a lot of effort and uncontrollable rage to do that to a body, Mr. Shoemaker. We’re relying on you to see that something so hideous never happens again.”
Chapter Two
Incentives
Shoe sat down in his thinking chair, but not to contemplate the gruesome pictures he had just seen. He had seen enough. Cows in slaughterhouses were treated with more respect than the poor unfortunate souls in those pictures; the killer was depraved. He distracted himself by counting the money in Emerson’s envelope. A thousand smackers. That could take him places. But back to Nevis?
Maybe he’d been a little quick to sell his services. Returning there was one of the last things he wanted to do; it was a step down, a step back. He’d worked hard, risked much to snag his Pulitzer nomination. And now he was risking his stature in the nation’s capital to investigate a murder—sensational though it might be—in the same two-bit town he’d bolted from?
He took a good, hard look around him. Who was he kidding? He was in desperate financial straits, and other than Emerson, he hadn’t had a customer of note in weeks. His notoriety was fleeting . . . Ha! It had already fleeted out the door to frolic with the no-names on the sidewalk outside his window.
He closed his eyes and let out a long, troubled sigh. Choose, Shoe. Stay here and slowly sink into a morass he couldn’t get out of, or buck up and show the exceptional newshound he was no matter what life tossed in his path. Conquer Nevis once again, and then hightail it back with enough smack to get him out of this dump and Uptown, where his clients didn’t have to run a gauntlet.
The fretting was academic. To survive, he had to swallow some pride and go. Hopefully, everything would turn out jake.
And then there was Emerson. He certainly didn’t seem the type to back losers, but Shoe couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right in all of this. Why would Emerson advance him so great a sum without so much as a contract? It was the gesture of a fool, but Emerson struck him as nothing of the sort. And there were any number of first-rate investigators between Nevis and here. Why venture into one of the most dangerous areas of D.C. to procure Shoe’s services? Sure, he knew Nevis well, but any PI worth his salt could quickly bring himself up to speed on the small bayside town. Why him? He tapped the envelope against his open palm. He would proceed cautiously, options-open on this one, ready to back out if things didn’t add up. And he would need to spend his newfound wealth sparingly in case he had to repay money for nonperformance of the agreement, in spite of it being a verbal one.
He pocketed the envelope and put his feet up on an old packing crate to await Fannie’s return. She would be livid about the fruitless errand he had sent her on, threaten to quit again, and then stick it to him at the first opportunity. After all, theirs was a loving relationship. He just needed to watch the eyes. Unlike those of his first heart’s desire—the always-perfect Lillian Gish—Fannie’s brown peepers could rage like a thunderhead or pull you into a world so peaceful and intoxicating that you willingly gave in to their siren song.
To his relief, Fannie returned singing the latest ditty by Fanny Brice. She swung a Hahn’s shoe-store bag up onto her desk.
“Fannie, I’m sorry. Mr. Emerson show—”
“Ut-tuh-tuh,” she said, wagging a finger. She walked over and handed him a Hahn’s receipt billed to the office account. “Wait until you see these.” She kicked off her simple brown oxfords and slid on a pair of fancy red pumps with silver filigree buckles. “You know, you’re right. It’s going to be a good day.” She strutted to-and-fro, admiring.
“Ouch,” Shoe said,
looking at the $18.50 price tag. Actually, with Emerson’s retainer, he could spare the dough. But if Fannie thought she had stuck it to him good, she wouldn’t hunt for another way to put him in his place. “Emerson showed up right after you left. A little the worse for running the hoodlum gauntlet outside, but determined to see his mission out.” He waved the envelope. “He left a most generous retainer.”
“Work?” She snatched it from him. “We should celebrate,” she said, executing a graceful twirl before pulling him from the chair.
“The job is in Nevis,” he said, eye-watching again.
The waltzing ceased. “No.” She dropped his hands and stepped away. “That wouldn’t be smart at all.”
“Towns change, people change. It’s a big town. Mr. Emerson, for example. If he lived in Nevis when we were there, I never met the man. Anybody seeking revenge is eating three squares in the federal pokey. I’m probably old news by now. It’s been months.”
“Nevis? A big town?” She laughed. “You took on the political machine, honey. Ever hear of institutional memory? Pease don’t tell me you’re taking on political corruption again.”
“Nope.” He handed her the newspaper story. “Next to the bootlegging scheme coming out of the mayor’s office, it’s the most sensational crime to hit Nevis in recent memory.” He shook his head. “Nah, it’ll be fine. Besides, I think there will be other targets if people’s feathers get ruffled. When he left here, Emerson was headed over to the Star—to see someone else. Rudy Becker, I think. Rudy and I go way back in Philly. Ran neck-and-neck with stories. There’s no way I’m going to let him crack this case and publish the riveting story.” Competition wasn’t always a bad thing, but with the amount of money at stake . . . It suddenly struck him that should Rudy get an early jump on him, Emerson might even kick Shoe to the curb.
Fannie smacked the envelope into his midsection and turned away. “My mother always says it’s a mistake to compare your life to someone else’s. You should just try to be the best—”
“If your mother was here, she’d say, ‘Fannie, put away your dancing shoes, pull out that wonderful, Drexel-educated brain of yours, and support your man.’ And I, in turn, would promise to take you on a nice long vacation afterwards. You can even pick the place.”
She took off the shoes and swaddled them in their tissue paper as she considered what he’d said. “Yeah, just like you promised to take me down to the Ellipse on Christmas Eve. President Coolidge is bringing a Christmas tree all the way from Vermont and it’s going to be decorated.” When she looked over at him, her eyes were flashing, a bit like a yellow caution signal at a railroad crossing.
Shoe walked over and rubbed her back. “We can still do that.”
“Oh, Shoe,” she said, her shoulders beginning to droop. “Don’t you understand? It’s just like keeping soldiers down on the farm. We’ve seen Paree. I don’t want to go back home. Washington has everything I’d ever want.”
“Please don’t throw Sophie Tucker songs at me. Consider this a nice little vacation with a bigger vacation afterwards.”
As he had seen so often before, Fannie let him dangle a moment. Shoe was never sure whether this was a tactical move on her part, or whether she was actually taking time to consider the merits of his ideas. At last, she threw her arms around his neck and pecked his cheek. “Yes, then. But only if you’re positive someone won’t hurt you. And I want to stay at the Bayside Hotel, not with Mom.”
That had been too easy. For the second time today, he felt as if he’d been outfoxed. But Fannie was happy with him for the moment, and he had money, and exciting work to sink his teeth into, so he’d go with it.
Before he could nuzzle her neck, the door opened and in strode a fast-moving young boy with a head of unruly curly hair. He bolted the door behind him and went directly to the glass candy dish on Fannie’s desk, where he fished out two foil-wrapped Hershey’s Kisses. “If you’re going to hold my sister like that, you should at least marry her.”
Shoe reluctantly let her slip out of his grasp. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried, but apparently Fannie thought bare pockets were never a good start to a marriage.
Fannie took one piece of chocolate out of her brother’s hand and put it back in the dish. “Clients,” she said. “Why aren’t you in school?”
“Half day,” he answered, popping the other Kiss in his mouth. “Mr. Graham wasn’t feeling well.”
“Not too attached to Mr. Graham, are you?” Shoe asked.
Jack dropped into Shoe’s chair and swung his legs over the rolled arms. “I’m never going to use this stuff. I may as well be back in Nevis.”
Shoe tossed the newspaper to him. “Curious you should say that. Big murder case and I’ve been offered a chance to investigate it. And it’s good money too. Want to go back?”
Jack caught the folded paper but didn’t bother looking at it. “I heard about it.” His eyes shifted to the window.
Jack wasn’t big on reading, but neither was he one to contemplate life from an easy chair. “Something happen at school?” Shoe asked.
Jack shook his head and mumbled something. “Got to go.” He tossed the newspaper on the crate and headed out.
Shoe frowned. “Nevis. I didn’t get a yes or a no. Would you like to tag along?”
“No, he can’t,” Fannie said. “He’ll never get an education if he starts bopping in and out of school every time you think he might be entertained by something.”
Jack didn’t turn, but he said, “Is that all I was to you in Nevis, just a tagalong?”
“Of course not,” Shoe said. “I never could have cracked the bootlegging operation without you. You have the instincts to be a first-class investigative reporter.”
“If he stays in school and applies himself,” Fannie interjected.
“Right,” Shoe said. “What’s really eating you, Jack?”
“Doesn’t it bother you that there were two murder victims, but the best the paper can do is add a single line about the second one? Horse pukey—”
“Language!” Fannie admonished.
Jack hung his head. “They can’t be bothered to name a local boy who lost his life down there? Was he that insignificant?” He choked up. “Who’s out paying someone to find his killer? I ran those streets at night. What if that had been me? Would anyone have cared about me?” He flicked his balled up nigglywiggly from the Kiss toward the window.
“Well, to be precise,” Shoe said, “they didn’t identify either victim, but I get your point. Do you know something we don’t?” he asked. “An educated guess who this kid might be?”
Jack shrugged. “I knew everybody. Don’t know nobody here.”
Shoe nodded. “Washington is a big, rough town. It’s not for everybody. If we find the perpetrator, then it’s a pretty good bet that we nab the one who killed the boy too. Does that help?”
Jack turned and fixed serious eyes on Shoe. “Small town or big city, kids matter. Everybody matters. I’ll come with you. If it’s the last thing I do, I want to know who killed him.”
Shoe looked at Fannie and raised his eyebrows.
She slowly nodded. “All right. But if Mom says you have to stay in Nevis for good, I’m not going to argue with her. Go pack while Shoe and I work out the details.”
“You start packing too, Fannie. Anything we don’t want stolen comes with us.”
“Got it, boss. Do you think they’d take these?” She waved the stack of overdue bills at him, but her Irish eyes were smiling this time.
He laughed. It was good to see her happy with him again. “Let’s not press Lady Luck, okay? Pay half of what we owe to half of them today. And tomorrow, do likewise with the other half. That’s when I meet up with Emerson again. I don’t think we need to raise our creditors’ expectations too much.”
He retrieved his fedora from his desk and headed out, catching the door with his foot just as it was about to close behind him. He looked around the dumpy office with a nostalgic feeling that surprised
him. Then it bolted for greener fields and he followed.
Chapter Three
Heaven Sent
Rudy Becker stepped off the train platform. The tiny booth that masqueraded as a train depot was already mobbed with discontented passengers pleading for assistance. A useless endeavor, if he had interpreted the train’s high-pitched whining and unplanned stop correctly.
The sunset was coloring up all right—shades of scarlet and cameo pink streaking across the December sky. The landscape, on the other hand, was dismal—nothing but fields of stubby brown tobacco plant remains, no matter which direction of the compass he turned. Baltimore had its cultural roots, Annapolis an historic charm, but Clinton, Maryland? Ha! Bumpkinville. The value of the place was that it led to someplace better. Just ask John Wilkes Booth, who galloped through on his way from Ford’s Theatre to possible sanctuary in the deeper South, or the conductor on the Chesapeake Railway Express who traversed the landscape daily to get to the nation’s capital. Clinton was a means to the ends.
Rudy emitted a sound beyond a weary sigh and just short of a growl. If luck should continue to fail him, he would need to lay over until he could reach Nevis, Maryland. He gave the farmland one more look and pitied the children who grew up in this cultural wasteland. As he searched the line for a railroad worker, his eyes fell upon a grease-covered, bedraggled fellow rushing along toward him—the engineer’s assistant, no doubt. “Excuse me, sir,” Rudy said to him. “Will we be long?” He held out a dollar bill.
The worker swiped it and kept walking. “Dead, sir.”
“And a replacement?”
The worker laughed.
Well, then, when’s the next scheduled run?”
“Eight-thirty tomorrow morning. Bright and early.”
Rudy vented his frustration in a longer, deeper sigh that sounded much like the death throes of the engine behind him. Bright and early would be having a back-up train ten minutes ago. He turned and re-surveyed his surroundings. Surely there must be—
The Dame on the Dock Page 2