AHMM, October 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Yes—probably—but you've got to keep it down.” She didn't like the way the kid was acting. He picked up her plate without looking her in the eye. Louise chewed on a knuckle. Jesus! What had they gotten into? All they'd done was to take an interest in Frankie's death, and suddenly they were smack-dab in the middle of a murderous black-market ring. And why had the boy chosen that particular moment to make a phone call? Had he overheard them? Was he in on it? Were they in danger even here? “Cabby, listen, Red saw you there, and you could be in ... I mean, there's a precinct house a couple of blocks down Lexington, and—"

  "Hold your horses, Louise. Red probably just thinks I'm a friend of the family. And, anyhow, I know how to take care of myself—I didn't grow up in Brooklyn for nothin'. After work I'll go back to Bensonhurst and ask a few more questions. Get the lowdown on Max."

  "Oh, no, you won't.” Louise rose from her seat. Now the boy was polishing a glass, still carefully not looking at them.

  "But, Louise, I might get myself a byline out of this."

  "No!” Louise practically screamed the word.

  The bald fry-cook shot them a curious glance. The boy jerked his head around.

  Louise pulled out her change purse, placed a fifty-cent piece by her saucer, and began to button her coat. “Cabby, don't you see?” she whispered near her friend's ear. “These are goons who don't stick at murder. We're marching ourselves down to that police station right now.” Without waiting for change from her coin, she strong-armed Cabby off her stool and marched out to the sidewalk. Once they'd rounded the nearest corner, Louise stopped dead.

  "It's like this, Cabby—I don't want to wake up tomorrow and find you floating in the East River."

  * * * *

  The detective, who'd introduced himself as Lieutenant Shannon, motioned abruptly with a pudgy hand, and the uniformed stenographer slapped his notebook shut. Gazing speculatively at Louise and Cabby, Shannon tilted the straight-backed chair on its hind legs and ran his tongue over his bottom teeth. “Ladies, I'd be more than happy to have you hang around the station house all day if you like—for the decorative value—but as far as this black-market-homicide stuff goes, I think you're just whistling Dixie. All you really got is a dead boozer, a red-headed guy who probably works two jobs to make ends meet, the smell of coffee, and a shitload of imagination."

  For almost two hours Cabby and Louise had waited in an airless, windowless interview room the color of underbaked piecrust at the 19th Precinct station house on 67th Street. Then this rotund Lieutenant Shannon, with his fringe of white hair, his red face and dangling cigarette, had barreled in, followed by a uniformed cop with a notebook. He'd questioned them for all of ten minutes. Cabby wanted to knock the smirk off this fatuous creep's face with one of the moves she'd mastered at the Y's commando course. And she could do it, too, the shape he was in. She hated it when men looked at her as if she were dessert—in this guy's case, given his girth, she'd be cherry cheesecake.

  "Listen, mister, you're not dealing with a couple of dizzy broads here. We're professional women.” Cabby had opened her mouth, not quite knowing what would come out, and this was the result. Uh. Oh.

  Shannon raised an eyebrow and took a long draw on his smoke. Cabby counted to ten and thought about jujitsu. “What I mean, officer, is that we're both trained observers—like I told you, I'm a reporter and my friend's a nurse—"

  The detective turned to his stenographer. “Oooh, O'Reilly—trained observers. Better watch out or they might observe just exactly what it is we've got on our minds.” The stenographer had the grace to blush, but Shannon turned back to Cabby, took another draw, and puffed a series of smoke rings in her direction.

  Cabby choked. When she caught her breath, she sputtered, “Think you're a real card, don't you?"

  Louise placed a cautionary hand on the younger woman's arm, ready to restrain the explosion she saw coming. Cabby bit her lip and subsided, staring down at her tightly twined fingers.

  Louise spoke for the first time in several minutes. “Lieutenant?"

  Cabby looked up, startled. The way Louise had uttered the word, it had at least five syllables—each one dripping with honey.

  "Ah'd take it as such a favor (faavah) if ya'all would just make a phone call or two to the gentlemen in charge of looking into black-market crime. Ah believe the Office of Price Administration is the agency you want.” Louise's smile was pure sunshine. “Jes’ to see if this Mr.... Red (ray-ed) and Mr.... Max are known to them?"

  Cabby turned her gaze from Louise to Shannon.

  The detective sighed and scratched his head, leaving finger trails in the Brylcreem. “You gotta be kiddin’ me, lady. That Scarlett O'Hara crap might work in the movies, but this is midtown Manhattan.” He hefted his bulk from the chair and waggled a forefinger. “Now you two get outta here and stop wasting my time."

  * * * *

  "Honey-chile, my eye!” Louise glared at Cabby as the heavy precinct door swung shut behind them. “I've never felt so ridiculous."

  "You gave it a good try,” Cabby insisted, refusing to look contrite. “And with any other guy it woulda worked. Lieutenant Shannon has a heart of stone."

  "Brain of stone, more like it,” Louise answered testily. Beneath her neat porkpie hat, her blond hair rippled in the wind that whipped newspapers and an empty cigarette pack across 67th Street. “Are all the policemen in this filthy city such fatheads?” She stabbed angry fingers through her wayward mane.

  Cabby pressed her lips in a thin line. “I suppose the cops in your precious Louisville ride white chargers and rescue maidens from fire-breathing dragons."

  "Oh, Cabby.” Louise closed her fingers around her friend's slender forearm. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so blunt. It's just so maddening. Frankie dead. A black-market ring dug deep into the city—” Louise fell silent, reluctant to give voice to more personal fears, as if not mentioning them would make them disappear: And us somehow innocently plumb in the middle of it. She gulped and finished on a solemn note, “There's not a damn thing we can do about any of it."

  "There's got to be something,” Cabby said fiercely. “Just because we got a sock in the jaw doesn't mean we're down for the count.” She pondered as they slowly descended to the sidewalk where pedestrians jostled by without a backward glance. Cabby snapped her fingers. “Lookit, Louise, why don't we go straight to the OPA ourselves?"

  "You think they're going to listen to us?"

  "How do we know until we try? Let's go. I heard the OPA has set up shop in the Empire State Building. We can take a cab.” Without waiting for a response, Cabby trotted to the curb. Spotting a Checker cab, she thrust her arm in the air. After a second's thought, Louise followed.

  The taxi veered toward them, but suddenly a long black Pontiac cut it off, screeching into the curb. The dark sedan belched out two men, each one outweighing Louise and Cabby by at least a hundred pounds. The cabbie rolled down his window and cursed. As the bigger goon grabbed Louise by the wrist, the cabbie threw his door open and yelled, “Hey, hey, none of that!"

  Before she could even take a breath to scream, Louise was spun violently into the back of the sedan, onto the car's wide backseat. She struggled to raise herself, but a rough hand pushed her down. Thick fingers smelling of garlic and cigarette smoke closed over her mouth.

  Out on the sidewalk, Cabby planted her feet, drew in her chin, and assumed the broad stance that she'd learned in commando class. Her attacker, a burly thug with a crooked nose, hesitated for a heartbeat. Then he laughed, wrapped long arms around the petite woman's waist, and half carried, half dragged her toward the Pontiac. Her fists pummeling his broad back didn't even make him wince.

  The cabbie dashed toward the Pontiac and slammed a fist on the hood. A woman in a fox stole drew back, screaming, and two men ran for the station house. A newsie with a sackful of papers cried, “Mayday! Mayday!” A cop burst out of the wide front door of the station house.

  Suddenly another dark sedan squealed to a halt in th
e middle of 67th Street. A tall man in a blue suit shot out of the passenger door, legs pumping. Rounding the Pontiac's rear bumper on a dead run, he grabbed for Cabby. Too late: The brute bundled her inside the big sedan, and it sped away, wheeling around the corner, the door slamming shut as they hit Lexington.

  Louise and Cabby, sandwiched in between the pair of thugs, clutched each other's hands. The Pontiac careened wildly downtown through the morning traffic, hitting the curb twice and once mounting the sidewalk, sending pedestrians scattering in all directions.

  Louise locked eyes with her young friend. I love this kid, she realized. When the housing shortage had first paired them as roommates, she'd been uneasy with Cabby's New York brashness. But after months of sharing a new life in a world that seemed bent on snuffing itself out like a candle—Louise gulped. Now they were in danger of being snuffed out too. “Oh, Cabby,” she whispered, tears spilling onto her cheeks.

  "Shuddup, girlie.” Louise's captor tightened his grip on her upper arm. Through the wool of her coat, she could feel the outline of each sausage finger. She'd have bruises tomorrow. If there was a tomorrow.

  Cabby held Louise's gaze, thinking furiously. The driver was heading downtown, now cruising at a normal rate of speed. What could she do? There was no way she and Louise could overcome two men the size of Bluto. Even if they somehow managed it, there was the driver and, in the front passenger seat, another big mug in a workman's cap with the brim tilted to cover his face.

  Wait. Something about those greasy strands of hair straggling out of that cap seemed very familiar.

  "Red!” Cabby exclaimed.

  Max's counterman hitched around and leaned over the seat. His sideways grin bared yellow smoker's teeth. “Sister, you've got to be the nosiest broad I've come across yet."

  "Well, at least I'm not a lousy traitor,” Cabby shot back.

  Red's grin changed to a stiff-jawed frown. Suddenly a wicked-looking revolver materialized in his left hand, pointed straight at Cabby. “Who you calling a traitor?"

  Louise gasped. She had to shut Cabby's impulsive mouth, play for time. “She means M-Max,” a frantic Louise stumbled over her words. She squeezed Cabby's hands. “He-he's the one that's running this show, isn't he? She thinks Max is a traitor because ... he-he's ... undermining the war effort."

  Red's mud brown eyes shifted to Louise. “So, big deal, the troops have to make do with a few less drops of coffee. Max has a right to make a living, doesn't he? We ain't no traitors. Our kids got to eat like everyone else's."

  Even in this extremity, Louise drew a shocked breath. “Max is stealing coffee meant for the troops ... for our fighting men?"

  Red shrugged, somehow keeping the gun's muzzle absolutely level. “Joe Public's rationed to a cup a day, but coffee manufacturers with fat government contracts are roasting tons of beans for overseas. Max knows a guy who can do ... a little skimming when the beans come through the warehouse. Call it our private Lend-Lease Act. We're happy, our customers get some decent coffee, and the Army ain't missing more than a single drop in each pot."

  Cabby couldn't keep still. “You bastards! I bet you'd even do business with Hitler!"

  Red leaned farther over the seat, shoved the gun within inches of Cabby's nose. Both goons made menacing shifts. Twins. Mirror images, thought Louise hysterically. “Frankie!” she blurted out. “Why did you have to go and kill poor Frankie?"

  "Frankie was yellow. And a big mouth besides. We had to get rid of him or he'd've blown the whole deal.” Red guffawed, tipping his head back so far, Louise could see the hairs in his ski-slope nose. “And now you two. I think maybe we can have a little more fun with you than we did with Frankie.” He let his gaze linger on Louise's slender figure and continued in a husky tone, “I remember you from Max's. You're the classy broad with the big smile, ain't ya? Well, la-de-da.” He shifted the gun and slowly ran the cold barrel across her lips. “Well, now you're gonna be my classy broad."

  With a moan, Louise burrowed deep into the collar of her coat, slumping forward like a rag doll. But Cabby's sharp ears had picked up what no one else's had: the drone of a police siren in the distance. She tensed herself for action. It was coming closer now. Only a block or two away. Cabby clutched at the purse that still hung from her wrist. Her commando training had been a bust, so she'd resort to a woman's time-honored weapon.

  Red had caught the sound of sirens. His head jerked around front. “Step on it,” he ordered the driver. Now a powerful motor was right on their tail. Cabby could hear its deep thrum-thrum-thrum. Red rolled down the passenger window. He leaned out facing backward. The silver revolver gleamed against his brown jacket. The two goons turned to stare out the rear window, loosening their holds on the women.

  Now or never, thought Cabby. Curling her fingers around the straps of her overstuffed purse, she flung her arm sideways, swung the bag around with all the force of her commando-trained muscles. The leaden bag slammed against the side of the driver's head. He jerked the wheel right, overcompensated left. The big Pontiac swerved up onto the curb, smashed into a mailbox, and came to a juddering halt. A crash of skull against shattering glass and one of Max's heavies slid bloodied onto the seat, down for the count.

  Red fired. Shots whizzed back and forth.

  Cabby pushed Louise to the floor of the Pontiac. As the smaller woman pressed herself on top of her friend, a pair of size twelves trampled her fingers.

  She heard Red scream in pain, and the firing stopped.

  Then the back door was yanked open. A deep thud and a grunt, and the second goon was hauled from the backseat, yelling and cursing.

  Cabby took a long breath and raised her head. She slid back up onto the wide seat. One mug was flat out on the sidewalk with a uniformed cop straddling him, a big foot in the middle of his back. Two other cops had Red and the driver slammed up against a brick wall, cuffing their hands behind their backs. Dark blood soaked the counterman's left sleeve.

  A square-jawed man in a blue serge suit peered into the capacious backseat. “You ladies okay?” He offered his hand to help Louise up from the floor of the Pontiac. “Careful, ma'am."

  "Is it over?” Louise asked in a bewildered voice. “Are we safe?"

  "You're fine,” he said, depositing her on the sidewalk. “We have everything under control."

  "Huh! I thought I knew you.” Cabby extended her hand while simultaneously dabbing at a spot of blood on her skirt. “You've been hanging around Max's Luncheonette. And if that wasn't you outside Frankie Dattilo's wake, I'll eat my handbag."

  The man in the blue suit smiled. His grip was warm and firm. “Agent Henry Sherman, ma'am. Office of Price Administration. We've had our eye on Red and his boss for a long time. Thank God we were right on their tail when the gang grabbed you two."

  Cabby was still holding on to Agent Sherman's hand, so Louise slipped her arm through his.

  "Yes, thank God for that,” she said with just a hint of honeyed drawl.

  * * * *

  The sign painted in a proud arc on the window of the reopened luncheonette read mrs. hamelin's coffee shop. Inside, the counter and the booth tables gleamed, and the glass case displayed both apple and lemon pies. Victory pies, Ethel Hamelin had explained, made with sweetened condensed milk or honey substituting for white sugar.

  "I still can't believe this is the same old place,” Louise said, as Cabby slid into the booth opposite her. She pointed to the Easter bunny garlands strung along the walls above the booths. “Can you imagine Max putting up anything like that?"

  Cabby snorted. “I can't imagine Max doing anything except breaking rocks at Sing Sing—thanks to your friend Cleo. Without her testimony those lousy black-marketers would never have been convicted. She remembered times, dates, quantities of goods—"

  Louise nodded enthusiastically. “She was terrific, wasn't she? And even when Red threatened her with that killer's glare across the courtroom, she didn't back down from identifying him as the delivery boy."

  "
How'd she get so brave?"

  "Easy. Her husband is overseas, risking his life every day. She told the court that the minute she first set eyes on ‘that redhead bucket a lard’ she knew he'd shot his own finger off just so he wouldn't have to go fight."

  Cabby reached for the handwritten menu in its plastic sleeve. “It's too bad Red's draft board didn't know he was really left handed."

  "Don't worry, he'll get his in spades. His trial for Frankie's murder starts next week, and Henry says the D.A. has an open and shut case."

  Pretending to study the menu offerings, Cabby made her tone perfectly casual. “Oh, so Agent Sherman is Henry now."

  Louise smiled and lowered her lashes. “Well, he invited me to have dinner with him the next time I have a night off ... but enough of that. I'm starving right now. Let's order."

  She beckoned to Ethel, who zipped over with her order pad. “What'll it be, girls?"

  "A hamburger for me?” Louise said doubtfully.

  Cabby turned her nose up at the thought of mystery meat. “I'll just have a piece of lemon pie, and ... any chance of a decent cup of coffee?"

  Ethel shrugged her shoulders. “I'll bring you what I've got. Don't know as I'd call it decent."

  Cabby sniffed the air. That robust, tantalizing coffee aroma had disappeared, probably for the duration. She caught Louise's eye, and they traded a nod. “That'll be fine, Ethel. We can live with that."

  Copyright © 2009 Joanne Dobson and Beverle Graves Myers

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  Fiction: THE MOUND BUILDERS by Eve Fisher

  South Dakota is divided by the Missouri River into two worlds. West is the true high plains, where bleached green waves of wild grass ripple for miles until they break on the sandy cliffs of the Badlands. East River has little echoes of the west, like the Vermillion Hills, but most of it is farmland, with endless fields of corn and wheat and soybeans that make it look tame. Then winter comes and you realize how badly you've been fooled.

  Our farm lay East River, and stretched along the Vermillion Hills. The corn ran right up to the grassland, and in between the two, almost like a boundary marker near the house, was a cairn of stones. It wasn't very far from the house, and it wasn't very big, unless you were me at eleven, when I decided to take it down and see what was under it. I'd read a book about the Mound Builders and, ignoring the complete lack of resemblance to any of the illustrations, decided the rock pile was their handiwork. Mom said the rocks had been there ever since she could remember, and that was close enough to the pioneers for me. The way I figured it, there had to be at least some gold buried under there, if not a body or two.