“Good thought, but I sure hope not. That would leave us dead in the water.”
Jack shrugged. “All I got.” He made a sudden right hook and sauntered off into the dark. “If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”
“Where are you going?”
“Later.”
Shoe sure hoped so. If Jack didn’t know, he couldn’t imagine who would. The sound of a hoot owl sent him hurrying off to the security of the Bayside Hotel.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Behind Locked Doors
Shoe and Rudy spent the next day lying low, squirreled away at the Bayside, ordering room service and watching the swelling on Rudy’s knee go down. His knees were butt ugly, but at least they were a matched pair again.
As he stood at the window watching the last of the light slip away, Shoe concentrated on the whitewashed building at the edge of the property. In warm weather, a Bayside employee stayed busy pulling and returning deck chairs and striped umbrellas from it all day long. In December, the attendants were brought inside to polish and shine and hammer out all the imperfections summer heat and crowds could create. Still, Shoe wondered who else might be out there creeping and watching.
The only problem with removing oneself from the flow of things was that the mind jumped into the void and created all sorts of troubling scenarios: the Clinton Boys were now brazenly parked out on the main drive waiting for them, while Mackall’s henchmen lurked in the darker corners and alleyways closer to town. It would only be a matter of time before someone stole a room key and paid them a serious visit.
Rudy passed behind him, taking his hundredth test walk between the bed and his chair. “See? Perfectly fine. Trick knee, just like I told you. If we want to cross Mackall off our list of suspects, it’s imperative we know what he’s up to now. He’s hiding something in 20. And if we don’t go tonight, it may be gone tomorrow. An irretrievable loose end, Shoe.”
With Rudy chomping at the bit and threatening to strike out on his own, Shoe had taken one brief excursion to get the lay of the land, so to speak. He went as far as the train depot and made it back without molestation or any significant sightings. That was an hour ago. Other than an uneasy feeling, he had run out of excuses for staying put.
“Good as new, Rudy,” Shoe said without turning around. “Let’s beat tracks.”
Ten minutes later, they were heading to the wharf. Except for one smitten couple strolling romantically through the flowerless, leafless hotel garden, they passed no one. They did engage a mongrel dog who adopted them at the clock and trotted contentedly along with them.
“Shoo!” Shoe said, fluttering hands at him.
The dog danced away, tail wagging.
“Leave him be,” Rudy said. “We’re buddies.” He pulled the dog over and scratched his back end right above the tail. “Good boy. Your name Wags? Huh, your name Wags?”
“It’s Mackall’s dog. He probably sent him to find us. Run him off, Rudy.”
“Pfft, not anymore. Fixate on something else. He’s coming.” He offered the dog something from his pocket. Wags gave it a sniff and a lick and then galloped off into the darkness.
Shoe chuckled. “I think you’ve been weighed and found wanting. Come on, let’s go. We’ll indulge your childhood fantasies later.”
Rudy sniffed the treat. “Phew, I wouldn’t eat that either.” He hurled it out into the bay.
Conditions were ideal for keeping people tucked away at home: late, dark, and a nip in the air that would work an achy cold into your fingertips and toes and stay there. The never-ending lap of the water, a couple of lean tabbies hunting rats, and the distant conversation between two great horned owls were all they saw or heard. Given a choice, Shoe would never reconnoiter at night, but when he had to, he again took to heart a variation on his sweet mother’s admonition: “It’s the fist you don’t see that’s going to deck you.” He might not be good at sneaking around, but he had brought along his pocket pistol to even the score. Likewise Rudy. His Colt was at the ready under his unbuttoned coat, so that maternal nugget of wisdom might have come from the father they shared. Regardless, like greenhorns to a stampede, they sallied forth.
They moved quickly past warehouses, looking for number 20. It was on the more respectable end of the dock, not far from where the Captain and Mackall berthed their boats. Shoe stood watch as Rudy checked the large cargo doors, which unsurprisingly were still chained and double locked. They weren’t crazy or desperate enough to expect to enter through the front anyway, just testing old Lady Luck. They melted into the shadow of the building and inched their way around to the rear, each step carefully placed lest they walk off a short plank and tumble into God knew what below. Rudy’s labored breathing drowned out the sound of lapping water.
Shoe walked ahead, steadying himself with a hand on the rear wall, inching over and around scattered bricks, lumber, and other discarded trash. Every so many steps, he stopped and tapped his foot along the bottom of the building. These old warehouses had no need for a back door, but they often hinged a small opening in the wall to sweep refuse through—something like an ash-dump door in a fireplace.
“There,” he said, stopping to tap a section a second time. “Hear the wobble?” The door wasn’t latched and it pulled open easily. Getting through such a small opening was doable, but it would be close.
“Anything that low is not a door,” Rudy whispered as he eased down, still favoring his knee. He ran his hand along the wall until he found the opening. “Really? I haven’t been that small since elementary school.”
“It’s not that hard. Mind over body. You think small and somehow you can wiggle through it. It’s just science. Go with it.”
“Fine,” Rudy said, “but you’re going first.”
Shoe went through head-first on his back with his arms extended above his head. Once his armpits cleared the hole, he leveraged against the wall with his hands and pushed himself into the dark warehouse.
“Light,” he whispered, and Rudy slid their Coleman lantern through the opening. He lit and raised it, sending pale, ghostly shadows bouncing off tall walls and driving rats and other vermin scurrying for dark corners. Shoe’s initial reaction was disappointment. Big tarp-covered pallets sat just inside the large cargo doors on the bay side. And to the rear, a few crates were stacked in a corner. That was it. Freeze some water on the floor and Jack could ice-skate.
Shoe waited while Rudy wiggled through the opening. Halfway through, Rudy grumbled something and reversed his course.
“Stop. You’re ditching me?” Shoe asked, grabbing at his extended hands.
“Shut up. My pockets are full and I’m hung up.” Rudy disappeared for a moment. “Pull,” he said at last, shoving his arms back through again. Shoe grabbed his wrists and helped him wiggle the rest of the way.
Rudy remained on his back a while, studying the opening just past his shoes. “I’m not sure about doing that again.” He got up and followed Shoe, who had begun circling the pallets, which were parked so close to the door that a man could barely squeeze between the two.
“Looks like they dumped and ran,” Rudy said. “Whatever it is, it’s merely here for storage. The space is too tight to do any work in here.” He gave the closest pallet a shove. “Damn heavy too.”
Shoe gave it a go. “Yeah. Explains not moving them any farther inside than this.” He lifted an edge of a tarp and moved the light closer. The light played off the craggy edges of solid rock. “Well, I’ll be, Rudy. Fossils.”
Rudy leaned in and let out a low whistle. “God, I’d hate to be eaten by anything that big! Tusks? Ribs? What is that thing?”
“Dunno, but they aren’t your common sharks’ teeth.”
Rudy flipped a couple more tarps back. “All these. What a wasted trip. Darby’s fossils in a warehouse just like they’re supposed to be. Now what?” He sat down on the floor and stretched out his bum leg.
Shoe poked around in some of the other pallets. They all seemed to be large
specimens—he couldn’t put a specific name on any—all still partially encased in rock. He joined Rudy on the floor and doused the light. “Darby said they were using warehouse 17. So, what’s this stuff doing in 20?”
“Because he didn’t trust you enough to tell you where he really had them stored.”
“Nah. The man was out of his mind with inflated thoughts of glory. Falling all over himself over a set of bones they’re digging out now. Why would he lie? He told me it was rare to find big specimens. And lo and behold, we’ve got a warehouse full of them. Why would he leave these up here alone and unguarded? Out of character. He should have shipped them off for safekeeping at the National Museum and a showy press release.”
“Beats me,” Rudy said. “Pompous asses never were my bailiwick.”
Shoe was pretty sure Rudy was an expert on the subject, but now wasn’t the time. “So, you got nothing, I got nothing. Muriel Fitzhugh got nothing.”
“Not so fast, Shoe. Been thinking about something Muriel Fitzhugh said.”
“Besides nothing?”
“What was the name of Mackall’s boat?”
“She didn’t say anything about Mackall’s boat.”
“No, not that. It’s the Sea something?”
“Sea Kingdom.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Sea Kingdom. Kingdom by the Sea.”
“No,” Shoe said, shaking his head. “It was Sea Kingdom. I distinctly remember looking at it and thinking it was a too highbrow for that scum.”
Rudy chuckled. “Maybe. ‘And this maiden she lived with no other thought / Than to love and be loved by me. She was a child and I was a child / In this kingdom by the sea . . .’ I take it you’re not a Poe fan?”
“Annabel Lee? I may not have been born in Baltimore like you, but everybody who knows anything knows that one. An old salt who quotes poetry . . . Point?”
“In between taking our money and saying nothing, old Muriel gave us everything. She’s so terrified of Mackall that all she could do was talk around what he did. The line she threw at us: ‘And no other thought than to love and be loved by me.’ It was a reference to his boat. He killed Mena. He took the necklace. He ruined my life. He took my Annabel Lee.” Rudy stood up.
The light was dim, but even so, Shoe watched Rudy pull his gun from his jacket. “Whoa now, wait, Rudy,” he said, springing to his feet. He locked his hand around the barrel. “Who you gonna shoot? Nobody here but you and me. Put that thing away. Then we get the goods on Mackall and put him away. Mena doesn’t want you to shoot anybody. She wants you to be happy. No happy from a jail cell. Rudy?”
Rudy yanked the firearm away.
Shoe put up his hands and began backing up, inching in the direction of the refuse door. “Rudy! We’re wasting time in a bad place. The hatch, okay?” The farther he drew away, the less he could see of Rudy’s expression in the dim light, but the firearm was still in his extended hand. He watched the arm lower and let out a relieved sigh.
They were halfway to the hatch when a scraping sound—like boots grinding sand beneath them—froze them in place. The warehouse doors rattled and low voices began murmuring just on the other side.
Shoe was on the floor and partially out their escape hatch when they heard the clink of the heavy chain securing the door. They’d never get out without being seen. He started back inside.
“What in God’s name?” Rudy whispered. “Go. I’ll hide.”
As far as Shoe was concerned, it was a good plan, but he didn’t need Rudy shooting anybody. He pulled out of the hole, did a roll, and darted for the crates in the corner with Rudy right behind him. As they cleared the crates, the warehouse doors squeaked open on their big hinges and the interior space was illuminated with low light.
“Over there. Be quick.” It wasn’t Mackall but someone else barking orders in a husky smoker’s voice. The strong smell of tobacco smoke wafted their way.
The next few minutes were filled with grunts and groans, the shuffling of feet, and vocabulary only a sailor could appreciate. Shoe raised his head to get a better look and immediately felt an elbow in the ribs. He dropped back down. By his quick count, there were at least six figures illuminated by the light.
Their hideaway suddenly brightened. Shoe watched the play of light on the opposite wall. It swung back and forth like a pendulum, as if someone were swinging a lantern side to side as they walked. Despite the cool weather, sweat popped out on his forehead. He held his breath and followed the sound of heavy shoes as they approached. Just when he thought they’d been made, the feet stopped. The light changed course. Then more profanity, and the light dimmed. Dear God, the postern door was still open! The beads of sweat began to journey down Shoe’s face as he listened to the squeaking of the little door. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, followed by a grunt and the grinding of metal on metal.
The lantern hoisted high again, bathing their corner in light once more. Then the corner darkened and the footsteps retreated.
The husky voice from a distance: “T.B., were you posted tonight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The back hatch was open. Make sure it stays locked.” The directive was followed by scuffling and a cry of pain.
“Everybody out.”
With a whoosh, the doors of the warehouse closed and the warehouse plunged into darkness once more. The heavy chains rattled against the door and the voices faded. Silence.
They crept along the back wall to the hatch.
“Criminy’s sakes,” Rudy muttered, fumbling with the door. “He bent the hinges to shit.”
Shoe dropped down beside him and did his own jiggling. “The only way we’re getting out of here is to rip it off.”
“I have no problems with that,” Rudy said, elbowing him aside.
Shoe sat back on his haunches, and as he waited, a cold chill inched over him. This could take all night. They were in a pickle, all right: locked in a warehouse by smugglers who might return any minute, and if Rudy was carrying the necklace—and it was a good guess he was—with stolen property from the local hock shop. Oh, the flatfoots would love that one. He’d already been roughed up by Chief McCall in an alleyway. What in the hell could he expect in the police station behind closed doors?
“Is it a no-go, Rudy?” he asked, getting to his feet. “Because that noise will get us nothing but trouble. I’d much rather spend the night on one of those crates over there than have the coppers pull us out of here in bracelets.”
“You give up too easily,” Rudy said between grunts. He flipped onto his back and gave the portal a swift kick with his good leg.
Shoe’s shirt was now drenched in cold sweat, and he shuddered in the cool night air. No, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Nunnery
Jack sat back on his bike seat and looked down the deserted street, its shops dark and closed up for the night. He wasn’t scared. Fear was for Dermott and the rest of his friends. It meant you were unprepared, hadn’t considered all the possibilities. He’d been sneaking out at night for years. It didn’t hurt nobody. He climbed back in his window before daylight and got on with his business. When he wasn’t sure what was what, he took a piece of pipe with him. People found easier pickings than tangling with a crazy kid swinging for the fences.
The door to the Western Union office swung open and the nighttime manager, Mr. Martinelli, stuck out his bald head. “Hey, you, Byrne! I thought you’d be back by now. Scram or I’ll get someone else.”
Jack’s boss was loopy if he thought there were others willing to pedal down to a murder scene in the dead of night. The whores would get their messages, but Jack would do it his way. His safest bet was to follow Bayside to the boardwalk, follow it as far as he could, and then cut across to the wharf and the sleezy end of town. He made the sign of the cross and pushed off. It would all be easy as pie.
There wasn’t much light along the water. It creeped him out, but that didn’t count as being chicke
n. He guessed people didn’t need to see much down here, as they knew where they were going. He chuckled as he recalled something he’d heard once from Walter Fanwith and a dozen other times from the old wharf drunks. “Never went to bed with an ugly woman,” he’d said. “But I sure have woken up with a few.” With poor light like this, it all made sense now.
Unlike the large numbers painted on the top of the warehouses, if there were any addresses in the whore section, he wasn’t seeing any in the dim red lights illuminating each door. He hopped off his bike and began a slower, more meticulous search. When he had it, Number 12 above a place named The Nunnery, he approached and attempted to peer through the curtain in one of the two sidelites framing the door.
Out in the dark, something rustled. Jack scrambled away from the door.
“Your mama ain’t here,” a disembodied voice said. “Get on home before I take a stick to you.”
“Y-y-yes, sir!” Jack whispered. “Western Union message for Miss Shakespeare?”
There was a grunt, or maybe a painful groan. Jack stood his ground but kept a tight grip on his bicycle should he need to bolt. “Number 12?”
“I’ll take it.”
“No, sir. Has to go direct.”
Another noise, this time a definite growl. “There,” the man said, pointing to the door in front of them. “But you better not be here when I get back.”
Jack watched for a moment as the drunk staggered over to the bayside and fumbled with his pants. As the man began peeing to some undecipherable ditty, Jack hotfooted to the door and banged loudly.
“Jasus, I’m coming,” a woman’s voice called. He heard something else about waiting for an invitation and keeping his pants on.
“Well, come on in, hon,” the woman said when she opened the door. “Who you here to see?”
Jack thrust the envelope at her. “Western Union, ma’am. Miss Ophelia Shakespeare?” He double checked over his shoulder to see where new his friend was.
“That’d be me,” she said, taking the telegram. She looked past him and yelled, “Go home, Butler. And learn some manners.” She pulled Jack inside. “Ignore him. Can’t teach couth to some people.”
The Dame on the Dock Page 18