Face of the Enemy

by Beverle Graves Myers

  This visit to Penn Station was a last-ditch effort for McKenna. The medical examiner had released Arthur Shelton’s remains, and the train to Indiana would carry his casket back home for burial. Every minute counted, now that the Cap had delivered his ultimatum. And McKenna wanted to see who, if anyone, would show up to say goodbye.

  He made a practice of attending the funerals of homicide victims, alone, or with one of the boys. Yeah, it showed respect for the families, but there was another reason. Something about the enforced solemnity of the final rites made people easier to read; unexpected emotions could flash across the face of a mourner like blue-white lightning against a midnight sky. For Arthur Shelton, this send-off at Penn Station would be as close to a funeral as McKenna was gonna get.

  A fat woman in a cotton-print dress planted herself in his path. “Where’s the lockers?” she demanded in a transplanted hillbilly twang. A bulging suitcase, strapped around with a worn leather belt, weighed her down.

  There was no getting around this insistent obstacle. Impatient, McKenna thumbed her toward a side corridor, and she stepped in that direction.

  But a tall boy in a sailor’s uniform stopped her immediately. “Can’t go down there, Ma’am. They got the lockers all closed up. Some Kraut or Jap might plant a bomb.”

  “Bomb?” repeated a passing soldier sporting sergeant’s chevrons on his dress khakis. Everyone in earshot paled and stopped dead in their tracks.

  McKenna rolled his eyes, pulled out his badge and spoke in his most confident police baritone. “Nothing to worry about, folks. Move along. Move along.” He hurried on, searching for a sign that would point him in the right direction. Glimpsing an arrow that pointed to Concourses 60-100, he headed in that direction.

  An old woman’s voice quavered, “…war planes…spotted over the city. I heard it on the radio.”

  “Old news, granny,” said a gum-snapping boy, “and dead wrong.”

  McKenna limped on. It’d be squadrons of Messerschmitt 110s bombing Coney Island before the gossip mill was done.

  Another arrow. Oh, great—Gate 62 was still the equivalent of a block-and-a-half’s walk away. Better be worth the effort. He passed a huddled family saying goodbye, a small boy strutting around in his father’s garrison cap.

  When he finally reached the steps down to the trackside platform, McKenna started looking for familiar faces. Who would come to see Shelton off? For sure, his boyfriend, Lawrence Smoot, and maybe his assistant, Desmond Cox. Robert Oakley wouldn’t be there—Dolan had reported Oakley was in the hospital, in an oxygen tent. And his wife, she was locked up tight on Ellis Island. But, Lillian Bridges, that professor, she was part of the Shelton/Oakley circle of friends. If Bridges didn’t show up track side, he might just look her up.

  Women have big ears, he thought, they always know the dirt.

  Something had better pan out soon. Unless some Veronica-Lake-type blonde threw herself at his feet and confessed to hiring Herman Rupp to picket the gallery, he was just about at rope’s end.

  It was early yet; the rush that accompanied every departing train wouldn’t kick in for another ten minutes. So he slowed down, sauntering along the platform, past passenger cars and Pullman sleepers painted in the Pennsylvania Railroad’s signature brick red. Next came the diner, with its tables set in white linen, then more passenger cars. Looking in windows, he caught brief vignettes: a gentleman in a gray fedora sat leaning forward, his chin propped on his hands, his hands propped on a mahogany cane, apparently lost in thought. A white-haired woman stowed a straw picnic basket in a rack above the seat, while three little girls in satin hair bows squabbled over who got to sit next to the window.

  McKenna saw no one of interest in the case until he’d almost reached the locomotive. Among the redcaps lining up with cartloads destined for the baggage car stood a pair of men in solemn black overcoats and homburgs. They hovered over a velvet-draped rectangle atop a wheeled gurney. McKenna flashed his badge. “This Arthur Shelton?”

  The taller one inclined his head. “It is, officer.” The words seemed to rumble from subterranean depths as he introduced his firm—Munsch Brothers and Sons Funeral Home, established 1906.

  “Anybody else come to wave bye-bye?” McKenna made way for a redcap with a load of pigskin suitcases.

  “Not so far, but…perhaps…” the undertaker trailed off and gestured to a young man trotting along the platform, top coat flapping out behind him.

  Desmond Cox came to an abrupt halt, nodding to McKenna without any visible surprise at his presence. “Looks like I’ve come to the right place,” he said.

  McKenna stepped aside to let the gallery assistant have a moment with his late boss. It wasn’t a long one. Cox passed a few words with the men from Munsch, then laid a hand on the casket. He stood silent and composed for the time it would have taken McKenna to run through an Our Father and a Hail Mary. Cool, calm and collected. McKenna gave a mental shrug.

  With a final nod, Cox turned and stepped back, toward the detective. “Life’s funny. Isn’t it, Lieutenant?”

  “I don’t see anybody laughing.”

  “You know what I mean. Last Friday—just a week ago—I left Arthur at the gallery hale and hearty. He was riding high. He’d gotten rid of the protestors, sold several of Masako’s canvases, and had deals in the works for a few more.” Cox swept his over-long hair off his collar. “We weren’t at war yet, and the gallery was going strong—even though he’d decided to take the show down, it looked like we might finish the year in the black for once.” He gave a short, ironic laugh. “Now Arthur’s going back to his folks in a box, and the few pieces he actually owned will be sold to cover his debts.”

  McKenna nodded. The war had turned things upside down for him, too. But, at least, unlike Shelton, he had a future. Maybe. He asked, “Will there be enough left to cover Lawrence Smoot’s investment in the gallery?”

  “I doubt it—but that’s all up to the lawyers, now. They’ll jump on Arthur’s inventory as soon as they’re allowed.”

  They fell silent as the conductor strode along the platform announcing, “All aboard” in a foghorn voice. The remaining passengers scrambled to board.

  Then McKenna asked, “Have you finished organizing things at the gallery?”

  “Just about. There’s one thing I do need to mention. I finally reached that San Francisco collector. You know—the one who purchased the brush pot? As you predicted, it never arrived. She’s fit to be tied. Do you think there’s any chance it’ll turn up?”

  Like hell, McKenna thought, it’s probably at the bottom of the East River by now. He shook his head. “Would she want it—if it did?”

  That brought a snort of laughter from Desmond Cox, quickly stifled. He thought a second, hand over his mouth, then replied, “Mrs. Cuthbert-Symes is one of the most avid collectors I’ve dealt with—she probably would.”

  “Well, tell her not to hold her breath.”

  Along the train, vestibule doors slammed shut. McKenna twisted around. A burst of activity on the part of Munsch Brothers and Sons signaled Arthur Shelton’s last ride. The undertakers wheeled the casket up to the baggage car door and peeled off the velvet covering to reveal a mahogany box outfitted with polished brass handles. A porter, skin as dark as the casket, jumped out of the train to help with the transfer.

  “What are you going to do—now that you’re out of a job?” McKenna asked Cox.

  The gallery assistant kept his eyes on the casket that spanned the divide between gurney and baggage car. His answer was barely audible, “I thought my future held a partnership with Arthur. Running a gallery like his was truly all I ever wanted.” A tragic mask deformed his face for an instant, but he quickly transformed it into a wry grin. “Fuck it all! Maybe I’ll just toddle down to the recruiting station before my number’s called.”

  A deep voice boomed out from
up the platform, “No, no. Please. Wait.” They both turned.

  Lawrence Smoot, red-faced, arms swinging, barreled toward them. He must have run out of breath at that very moment, because his mouth opened again but nothing came out. Following in his wake was a more dignified figure—Lillian Bridges, tall, slender, trousered. Holding a clutch bag close to her body, she moved in the long, graceful strides of a golfer or tennis player. She, at least, wasn’t huffing and puffing.

  McKenna took close note as the pair passed him. Miss Bridges was as cool and graceful as he recalled from meeting her at Smoot’s office. If he wasn’t mistaken, the lady had attended the opening party for the gallery show. He checked with Cox.

  “Yes, Lillian was there.”

  “With a husband?” McKenna asked out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Lillian?” Cox’s eyebrows registered mock horror. “The only thing she’s married to is her career. She came to the reception with Lawrence—he squires her everywhere.”

  “I see.” McKenna nodded. Bridges was obviously one of those women who didn’t mind providing cover for homosexuals. A thought uncurled at the base of his brain, like a tiny budding leaf. Did Bridges hope for more than friendship with Lawrence Smoot? A lot of these gals actually believed they could change a tiger’s stripes.

  Just now she stood aside as Smoot threw himself on one end of the casket with a wild wail.

  “Please, sir,” a Munsch intoned. “The train will be leaving in a moment.” The porter tried, and failed, to suppress a sneer of disgust.

  Cox recoiled, too. “Good god. I can’t stand this.” The younger man cursed under his breath and scuffed the soles of his shiny Oxfords on the cement platform. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Yeah, you do that,” McKenna said, now more interested in the coffin drama.

  Lillian Bridges had stepped forward and was patting her friend’s shoulder. She whispered something behind her flat purse, as if to shield her words from enquiring eyes and ears.

  Smoot was undeterred. His fingers curled on the casket as if they wanted to penetrate the wood, and tears flowed in sloppy, hiccoughing sobs.

  Cox retreated so rapidly he was almost flying along the platform.

  McKenna lit a cigarette, his brain giving leaf to a new idea or two.

  Chapter Seventy-two

  Abe Pritzker opened the door of the Italian restaurant, a “little joint” he knew in Williamsburg, and Louise was instantly enveloped in the aroma of garlic, onions, and tomatoes. “Oh, my,” she gasped. “That’s the best thing I’ve smelled since Kentucky pit barbecue!”

  “Oh, yes?” He smiled, crinkly-eyed, down at her. “Then I’m honored to bring you to my favorite hangout. Welcome to Mario’s.”

  “Hey, Abie—Goombah!” A tuxedoed maitre d’ rushed up, threw his arms around the lawyer and pounded him on the back. “Long time, no see!”

  “Hey, Mario—paisano!” Abe, grinning like a fool, thumped him right back.

  “C’mon in—c’mon. For you, Pritzker, and your pretty lady”—he bowed to Louise with an interested sparkle in his brown eyes— “the best table in the house! Roberto,” he called, “show my good friend here to table twenty.”

  After the aborted attempt that morning to secure Masako’s paintings, Louise had taken the IRT uptown intending to spend the rest of the day at Professor Oakley’s bedside. Of course she’d expected to find him still in the oxygen tent but, even so, she was shocked at how weak and passive he’d become.

  Through the tent’s slick, transparent walls, Oakley’s gray complexion, jutting cheekbones and suddenly wispy beard seemed not quite of this world. Louise heartened for a moment as he raised one finger and sent her a nod. She slid her hand under the tent to pat his shoulder, but his attention faltered and his eyes closed.

  She’d been sitting with him for about three hours as he drifted in and out of sleep when Professor Lillian Bridges walked into the room. She nodded a greeting to Louise, but had little to say to her. Instead, Professor Bridges aimed an innocuous, one-sided conversation at Oakley. Feeling like a very uncomfortable fifth wheel, Louise had finally headed back to Brooklyn. At least that gave her plenty of time to get ready for dinner with Abe.

  Now, as Louise followed the waiter to a table directly beneath a huge gold chandelier, her stomach clenched painfully. She really had to quit skipping lunch. Despite her sudden hunger, she couldn’t help noticing that Abe looked different. His hair had been cut, and combed with brilliantine; his blue suit pressed. For me? she wondered.

  Now he waved the boy aside and pulled out Louise’s chair. “Sit down. Relax. Everyone here knows me, and the food is fabulous. Mario will order for us.”

  Nodding, Louise looked around. Abe’s “joint” was classy, but noisy, and the thick cigar smoke didn’t do much for her queasy stomach. It struck her that the men at other tables were stocky and swarthy and, to her, sinister-looking; the women looked like…dames? For a moment she wondered if, for some incomprehensible reason, Abe had smuggled her into a gangsters’ hangout.

  “How do you know Mario?” Louise asked in a low voice, her brow furrowed.

  Abe flashed a grin. “We were in school together—good pals. Mario went into the family business. I went on to college. We keep in touch.” The beaming waiter returned with red wine in a glass. Abe swirled it, took a sip. “Terrific, kid. Pour some for the lady.”

  He turned back to her. “How’s Oakley doing?”

  “Not good. Not good at all. I wouldn’t be surprised if Masako’s plight didn’t kill that man—he seems almost to have lost the will to live.” She looked up at Abe. “Is there any way you might be able to get permission for Masako to visit the hospital—on compassionate grounds?” She smoothed the napkin on her lap. It was one thing to have an old friend like Lillian Bridges by his sick bed, but nothing would give the professor a boost like seeing his wife.

  “I’ll look into it,” he said, dubiously. “If I could find a precedent…” He trailed off as the waiter delivered a dish he called Clams Oreganato, and they tucked in.

  The food was delicious and it kept coming. Spaghetti, eggplant rollatini, pork chops in a sauce with potatoes and green peppers. At the end of the meal, when they were presented with cannoli, Louise moaned, “Enough! Enough!” Then Luigi came over from the bar with a bottle of grappa, and Abe insisted, so she tried it. Liquid fire. She liked it.

  They sipped in silence. It was as if a bubble—a bubble of quietude—had expanded around them amidst the strident conversation of the room. “Louise,” Abe said, somewhat abruptly. “Something I’ve been wondering about. What brings a girl like you to New York City all on her own?” His gaze felt as tactile to Louise as skin on skin. Those deep brown eyes…

  Maybe it was his eyes, or maybe it was the grappa. She couldn’t help it—she told him.

  “That. Son. Of. A. Bitch! He just left you high and dry?” He glowered.

  “Well, he did offer to pay my train fare home.” She clenched her jaw, lest the humiliation she’d felt that night swamp her again. “But I told him, ‘No, thanks. I’ll buy my own…goddamn…ticket.’ But, after everything, you see, I just couldn’t go back to Louisville.” She knew a tear was forming and knuckled her right eye. “I’d expected to arrive home a married woman.”

  “Bastard!” Abe erupted again. Louise thought the lawyer was about to twist the silver coffee spoon into a handcuff.

  She waved away his indignation. “It’s okay. Really.” She picked up the delicate cordial glass and took another sip. “It’s funny. I would never have left Louisville without him, but now that I’m here…” Her head was spinning.

  “You like it?”

  “Very much. It surprises me to say that. Life is so much more…” She didn’t seem to be able to find appropriate words.

  “More what? Expensive? Noisy? Rude?”
<
br />   She laughed. “All three. But also more…interesting. For instance, at home I would never have gotten to know anyone like you.”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. “They don’t have Jews in Louisville?”

  “No. No.” She wafted her hands in front of her, palms down. “I don’t mean that.”

  “What do you mean?” He was studying her intently.

  “I mean someone so very…so extremely— Oh, god, I’d better shut my mouth. I think maybe I’m…drunk?”

  Abe laughed again. He was looking at her as if it was all he ever wanted to do in his life. “You’re not sure?”

  “How would I know?” She shrugged. “I’ve never been drunk.”

  “Ha!” He clapped his hands once, leaned forward. “Oh, Louise, you are absolutely delightful.” He reached across the table, squeezed her hand lightly, let it go. Then he sighed heavily. “I’m not a masher, you know, despite my behavior that night at the Battery. But you, I’m sorry, you’ve gotten to me.”

  “Abe!” She couldn’t breathe.

  He sat back. “I knew, of course, the moment I met you that you were a beauty, but I’m just now coming to realize what a sweet, brave, extraordinary woman you are.”

  She pulled back in her chair, stunned even through the liquor haze.

  He cleared his throat. “But, listen,” he continued, “before I say any more about that, there’s something else I’ve got to tell you. This afternoon, on the ferry back from the detention center, I was thinking—”

  “Wait a minute!” She jolted up straight in her chair, suddenly sober. Well, soberish. “You went to Ellis Island this afternoon? You went to see Mrs. Oakley without me?”

  He tilted his head. “Well, yes, of course I did. She’s my client. Remember? And I’ve wangled an early hearing date for her. Monday, the twenty-second.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I am telling you. Right now.” He was back in brisk lawyer mode. “And that date really puts the pressure on. The goddamn Feds won’t allow her to have an attorney present, so I had to try to get some crucial information from her so I could advise her on how to present herself. And you’re so protective—I knew you’d only get in the way.”