Remembering Mrs. Giannetti’s admonition about the delivery boy’s gossip, I pulled on my coat and grabbed my purse. Clark’s Wine and Liquors on Brookside wasn’t the cheapest, but it was the closest to my apartment. Clark Robinson, a colored man with one arm, was the proprietor. He didn’t ask questions or make small talk. He just stuffed your bottles into a bag and took your money. Two fifths of Dewar’s would see me easily through the weekend, unless I had company.
I drove home and parked opposite Fiorello’s as usual. The place was hopping, with teenagers spilling out onto the sidewalk, enjoying the warm weather after so much cold. I thought I’d stop in to see Fadge at the end of the evening, but for now I had an appointment with a tumbler and some ice.
I climbed the stairs and paused at my kitchen door, fumbling with the keys, squeezing my parcel to my side so as not to drop it. It wasn’t until I’d unlocked the door and pushed my way inside that I noticed—too late— that I was not alone. From the dark of the vestibule, a thin figure slipped inside behind me. I shrieked, but he shushed me. I switched on the light, ready to bash that damn Joey Figlio on the head with one of my bottles. But it wasn’t Joey at all.
“Frankie!” I cried. The little JD who’d threatened my life at the reform school. “Stay away from me!”
“It’s okay,” he said, holding out his hands to indicate his good intentions. He looked small, scared, and hungry. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
We stood there frozen for nearly a minute, each terrified of the other. His chest rose and fell as he huffed for air, as if he’d just run a four-minute mile. I held my breath waiting for some kind of explanation of why he was gasping in my kitchen.
“Can I have something to eat?” he asked finally. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“Please, just give me a cracker or something. Then I’ll tell you.”
In the freezer, I found some Swedish meatballs I’d frozen in October after a truncated dinner date with a handsome young pediatrician who’d recently moved to town. After a few drinks, he made the mistake of sharing his politics with me. Not only did he not end up in my bed, I threw him out without his supper.
Frankie stuffed some potato chips into his mouth and washed them down with a beer as the meatballs warmed on the stove. I gave him some bread and butter to accompany the meatballs, wondering if he was going to kill me once his strength had been restored. I watched from a distance as he ate. The angry young man I’d met at the reform school looked more like a frightened boy in my kitchen. His greasy hair, wet with sweat, clung to his head making him look even smaller. His football mustache was gone, and his checked shirt was wrinkled and perspired. Funny how checks on this kid didn’t do it for me the way they did on Paul Drake.
Finally he finished, wiped his hand across his mouth, and said thank you.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded again.
“Don’t be sore, Ellie,” he said. “I mean, Miss Stone. Like I said, I won’t hurt you.”
What game was this, I wondered. I moved a step closer to the table, and Frankie stiffened in his seat. I was beginning to think I had nothing to fear from this kid.
“Okay, Frankie, let’s get some things straight. At Fulton, you told me you’d come looking for me when you got out. And you said I’d get mine. Now you tell me I’ve got nothing to worry about. What gives?”
“I was just saying that up at Fulton,” he said, averting his eyes from my stare. I waited for more. “I had to say that, don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t. Why?”
“I’ve got a reputation to protect inside,” he said. “You made me look like a fool. If I’d have let you get away with it, my life would be ruined. I got to be the toughest kid there, or I’ll wind up the sissy to some guy with ideas that he wants a girlfriend.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“So you see I had to act tough with you.” He paused, looked down into his lap, then continued. “Honest, I’d never hurt you, Ellie, ’cause I’m in love with you.”
“What?”
“It’s true. Ever since that day, I can’t stop thinking of you. You’re so pretty and smart and you got real guts. I just had to bust out of there to see you, if only for a few minutes.”
The last thing I needed or wanted was a sixteen-year-old boyfriend. And a juvenile delinquent to boot. And yet I couldn’t help feeling a little flattered.
“But I taunted you,” I said. “I called you names and mocked you.”
“That’s okay,” he smiled, beaming at me now. “I kind of asked for it. I was pretty rude to you. But I didn’t mean it, Ellie. Not a word. At least not at the end.”
“Look, Frankie, I don’t know what to say. Or what to do with you. You can’t stay here, and you can’t . . .” I searched for the right words. “You know we can’t . . . You know that, don’t you?”
He cast his eyes down again. I felt I’d torn his heart out.
“I know that,” he said softly. “At least for now.”
“Oh, Frankie,” I said. “No. Not now, not later.”
“Is it because I’m too young?”
I chewed on that one for a moment. The age difference would never change. Maybe I should go with that. But it was actually so many other things. For one, I barely knew him. For another, what I knew of him did not help his cause.
“Yes,” I said finally, patting him on the shoulder. “We’re just too far apart in age.”
Frankie seemed to be weighing my words then shook his head. “No, you’ll change your mind someday, I hope. I can wait for you. It’s not like I’m meeting any girls up at Fulton.”
“You know I’m Jewish, don’t you?” I asked, playing my trump card. It didn’t work quite as well as it had with the Karls, but it derailed his love song for a bit.
“Really?” he said, his face twisted like a screw. “You don’t look Jewish. My old man said all Jews had hook noses and fat lips.”
“Well, there’s another reason we can’t be together, Frankie. Think of your father. He’d never accept me.”
“He’s dead.”
“Frankie, what am I going to do with you?” I asked again, changing the subject. “You’ve got to get out of here.”
“I know,” he said. “But will you do me a favor?” Oh, God, I thought. What was he going to ask? “Would you call the cops on me? That way when they take me back, the guys will believe I went through with my threats. I’ll still be top dog.”
“Okay,” I said. “I suppose I could do that for you.”
“And you’ll tell the cops I tried to, you know, do stuff to you?”
“I won’t say that.”
He frowned. “Okay, well, would you mind if I yell and swear at you when they take me away? Don’t be shocked, but I’m planning to say some real bad things. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
I smiled gently and said, “Sure, Frankie. You can swear and scream at me when they come to take you away.”
Frankie was pleased. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “Joey Figlio asked me to give you something.”
Frankie fished a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and pressed it into my hand. I asked him what it was as I flattened it on my kitchen table.
“He said it was something to help your investigation. He said if he couldn’t kill that teacher, he wanted you to make sure he pays for his crime. Sounded pretty weird to me, but he’s a strange kid, that Joey.”
“You’re telling me,” I mumbled.
“What’s it say, anyway?” he asked.
“It’s a love letter to Darleen Hicks,” I said, dazed by what I’d just read. “The girl who disappeared three weeks ago.”
“A love letter from Joey?”
“No,” I said, feeling the skin crawl on my neck. “It’s from Ted Russell.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I had to submit to the drama Frankie wanted to play, accompanying him down the stairs, where we waited
a few minutes for the law to show up. We didn’t say anything; Frankie just stared at me with a goofy expression on his face. Then the sheriff pulled up at the curb, and we knew it was time to go. Frankie smiled sweetly at me, told me he loved me, then stepped outside and loosed a bloody scream. Frothing at the mouth, spitting like an alley cat, he yowled in protest and flailed his arms as two deputies corralled him. Bellowing my name at the top of his voice, right there on Lincoln Avenue, he threatened to come back and slit my throat, before performing unspeakable acts on my dead person with all his appendages, his mouth, and a stick. An impressive display of profanity, perversion, and vitriol from such a young thug. What a performance! I didn’t mind too much going along with his scheme, except that he was doing it in front of a crowd of at least sixty teenagers loitering outside Fiorello’s. My good name and respectability echoed off every house in the general vicinity. The violence and volume of his tantrum shocked me for real, even though he’d warned me, which only made the hysteria more believable for the bystanders. So many witnesses to my embarrassment, including Fadge and his crony, Tony Natale.
As Frank Olney prepared to slap a pair of handcuffs on the kid, Frankie flashed me a quick high sign and an impish smile. Once he’d cuffed him, the sheriff shoved Frankie into the backseat of his cruiser, deliberately bouncing his head off the doorframe as he did. Now it was Frank Olney’s turn to give me a smile.
The crowd dispersed slowly once the sheriff had driven off with Frankie. Mrs. Giannetti sidled up to me on the porch. She’d seen everything, but could manage no speech. Not one snide remark. Finally, after a few moments of awkward silence had passed, she reluctantly forfeited her chance to shame me and slipped back inside her door. Fadge approached to see if I was all right.
“What the hell happened?” he asked, joining me on the porch.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, shaking, and not from the cool air. “It was all an act.”
He stared at me for a long moment, trying to gauge the level of my upset. “You want me to close up and stick around for a while?”
I scoffed with a forced smile. “Don’t be silly. I’m fine. I just want to go to bed.”
He looked uncertain, but finally wished me good night and crossed the street to the store. I trudged up the stairs, damning myself for what I’d done with Ted Russell, author of love notes to fifteen-year-old girls. I wanted to be alone.
SUNDAY, JANUARY 8, 1961
I awoke Sunday to find one of the new fifths of whiskey I’d bought half empty. If that wasn’t enough, the original bottle—the one I’d been sure wouldn’t last the weekend—was dead in the trash can. Whiskey doesn’t give me headaches, but I still felt fuzzy-headed. And ashamed. Not so much for the liquor I’d consumed, but for the reason I’d drunk it. How could I have done such a thing? How had Ted Russell managed to fool me?
I spent hours in bed, the pillow over my eyes, sleeping off my regret. Slumber provided a temporary tonic for my self-reproach. As long as I was unconscious, I could dream of other things. I lowered the shades and closed the drapes, shrouding the bedroom in total darkness. I felt anonymous and invisible to the world outside, and I liked it. I imagined myself in a strange city, holed up for days in a nondescript hotel, selected so randomly no one would ever be able to find me. With doors bolted and curtains drawn, no one could possibly know where I was, what I was doing, or what I’d done, and that comforted me. I would still have to face myself and the truth once I finally got out of bed, but for now, I wallowed in the indulgence of escape and solitude.
The phone rang a few times throughout the afternoon, but I didn’t answer. It may have been Charlie Reese or Sheriff Olney, but it was probably Fadge, wanting to know if I was okay. I told myself I’d drop in at the store in the evening then rolled over and fell back asleep.
Around ten p.m., I showered and dressed in a black skirt and cotton blouse. I didn’t bother with lipstick, figuring I didn’t need to impress Fadge. The store was empty when I walked in a half hour later. Fadge was putting off the end-of-day sweep of the floor and was holding down a stool with his rear end and the edge of the counter with his fat elbow. We chatted for a few minutes about the sudden warm weather, then he asked about the previous night’s scene with Frankie. I really didn’t want to talk about it, but I had no excuse not to. At least until Frank Olney strolled into the store.
“Just the girl I wanted to see,” he said, taking the seat next to me at the counter. He nodded to Fadge, “Hi, Ron. How’s business?”
“I’ve got two customers, Sheriff, and neither one of them has ordered anything.”
“Do you want us to order something?” I asked. “That would mean you’d have to get up and do some work.”
He considered it a moment then waved us off. Frank jerked his head toward a booth, silently inviting me to join him for a private powwow. We settled into my usual booth at the back of the store.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said. “So what’s up? You didn’t come here to buy me an ice-cream soda.”
“Tomorrow morning at nine, I’m going to the junior high to search Darleen Hicks’s locker. How’d you like to come along? It was your idea, after all.”
I sighed. “I’m not sure, Frank. It seems a waste of time,” I said, steeling myself to break the news that I’d been holding out on him. “I should tell you that I visited Irene Metzger and found some new information. Darleen had a bus ticket to Arizona. You were right all along. She just ran off to meet a fellow.”
Frank stared at me for a long time, breathing a little heavier with each moment that passed. At length, he fidgeted then began with great care: “I wish you’d told me sooner. But that doesn’t mean your story is finished. You’ve got a girl that’s run off.”
“Sure,” I said. “But this story is a dead end, Frank. I just want to forget it.”
“Something else is bothering you. I think it’s those Fulton boys. First Joey Figlio, now Frankie Ralston. I tell you, we can keep them away from you, Ellie.”
Joey. Damn. Wallowing in my self-reproach, I’d completely forgotten to contact Orlando Figlio. What did it matter, anyhow? Darleen was gone. No need now to pay social visits on the Figlios.
“I’m not worried about Frankie Ralston,” I said. “He’s harmless.”
“Well, Joey Figlio’s locked up tight at Fulton. No need to worry about him either.”
“That school couldn’t hold him if he had a handle. Arnold Dienst told me he’s escaped on several occasions already. Fulton is no Alcatraz.”
“I’ll ask the city police to watch your place. You’ll be fine.”
“You’re going to ask Chief Finn to look out for me?” I said.
“Okay, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll check in with Fulton to make sure your boy’s still there.”
Frank pushed his way out of the booth, forcing a squeal from the table, then sauntered over to the phone booth and stuffed himself inside. He didn’t close the folding door. Probably had forgotten his shoehorn and figured it was too much trouble without it. I heard the jingle of change slipping down the slot then the whir of the dial as he wrenched it around and around. He asked in his deep voice to speak to a night guard. A few moments later, he squeezed back into the booth opposite me and smiled.
“Everything’s fine. Said there hasn’t been one escape today. So stop worrying about Joey Figlio and Frankie Ralston.”
I picked at my fingernails and probably chewed my lip. He was far off the mark; I was thinking of Ted Russell and just wanted to slither away.
“Ellie, my dad taught me to finish what I started. No matter what. He said he didn’t mind if I didn’t do anything at all. But if I started it, I had to finish.”
“Cool your jets, Frank,” I said finally, thinking it was preferable to waste an hour pawing through a junior-high-school girl’s locker than to explain the true reason behind my gloom. “I’ll go with you tomorrow.”
“Don’t take it so hard. There’ll be other
stories. Better ones. I shouldn’t say this, but you’re good at this newspaper stuff. You run circles around George Walsh.”
I grunted a thank-you.
“Eight forty-five okay? I’ll pick you up,” he said, sliding out of the booth like the Queen Mary down the launch.
MONDAY, JANUARY 9, 1961
I rose early the next morning and packed a bag of clothes: a couple of skirts, blouses, shoes, toiletries, and underthings. After some toast and coffee, I emptied the perishables from my icebox into the trash, then I settled down on the sofa and picked up the letter Fadge had wanted to use as a coaster. It had been sitting there unopened for nearly a month. I had been either too busy or too stubborn to open it. I knew what was inside, of course, but some things are just hard to look at.
December 1, 1960
Dear Miss Stone,
As discussed in our first meeting in February of this year, a proper burial is an essential tradition in the completion of a life. The ritual honors the departed in a holy ceremony and provides a measure of solace and peace for the loved ones left behind. We encourage mourners to show respect for the departed by fasting, sitting shivah, and donating to the needy or religious organizations of their choosing.
We also implore you not to neglect an important part of this ritual: the selection and placement of the headstone. You will recall that we showed you a wide variety of options in February, and you expressed interest in a simple granite marker. I’m writing now to remind and beseech you to consider finalizing the arrangements at your earliest convenience. The yahrzeit is fast approaching, and you should not fail to mark this solemn occasion.
Stone Cold Dead Page 15