A Cast of Killers

by Gallagher Gray

  A Cast of Killers

  A Hubbert & Lil Mystery

  Gallagher Gray

  Thalia Press

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Books by Gallagher Gray

  1

  Naturally, the phone rang just as Tyrone enveloped Camilla in his massive arms and drew her closer to him. T.S. sighed. He had been waiting for this kiss for two weeks now, enduring illegitimate children, plastic surgery, a murder conspiracy, the talking dead and other silly subplots along the way. All for this one single fulfilling moment—a moment now about to be spoiled by a shrill electronic intrusion.

  Well, he'd just let the answering machine pick up. He was retired now. He didn't have to answer the phone unless he damn well felt like it.

  Unless it was Auntie Lil, of course. Mere machines could not stop her.

  It was Auntie Lil. "Theodore!" Her foghorn of a voice, amplified considerably by the answering machine, boomed through his apartment and caused Brenda and Eddie to stir in dreamy feline discomfort.

  He ignored her. On screen, Tyrone quivered above Camilla. Their faces wavered closer and closer together, as if controlled by bursts of magnetic force. T.S. had never experienced a kiss like that, but it was just as well. Their necks were weaving from side to side like cobras and he'd no doubt pull a muscle if he tried the same.

  "Theodore, I know you're home. And I know you're watching those silly soap operas. You're rotting your brain. Pick up the phone at once or I'm coming over in person. By cab."

  T.S. sighed. Auntie Lil would do it, too. She'd be there in twenty minutes and run a white-gloved hand over the television set for signs of heat. Then she'd never let him forget that she'd been right. He picked up the phone reluctantly. Best to stave her off.

  "I am not watching soap operas," he replied indignantly. "I am trying to read The New Yorker without interruption, for a change." He nudged the television's volume down a few notches with his free hand. Auntie Lil was a bit hard of hearing. Chances were good she'd never know for sure.

  "Nonsense. I've been calling you every day for two weeks now between noon and 1:00 p.m. and you never pick up the phone. I know quite well that "Life's Interludes" is on right now. I know what you're up to, Theodore, and frankly I'm a little disappointed in you. Retirement is not a death sentence. There's no reason for you to turn your brain into Jell-O. Thirty-five years of work does not entitle you to fifty more of pure laziness."

  He sighed again. There was no arguing with Auntie Lil. His own fifty-five years of humble existence could not begin to match her eighty-four years of self-proclaimed authority.

  "What was it you wanted, Aunt Lil?" he asked absently, his attention drawn back to the television. The couple on screen were kissing at last. And last and last and last. T.S. stared. Good Lord, when were they coming up for air? He liked romance as much as the next person, but this really was getting silly. Their lips were being mashed about like silly putty. Surely the show's writers didn't believe that people really enjoyed such fleshy gymnastics.

  Or did they?

  T.S. was no authority on romance; he'd devoted his entire adult life to his business career instead. His few brief forays into romance had been, without exception, disastrous and deeply distressing to his personal dignity. As a highly eligible bachelor, he had been subjected to extremely innovative pressure techniques from several otherwise sane middle-aged women. He'd found these experiences humiliating for all concerned.

  Auntie Lil's brisk voice cut through his thoughts. "Good. Then it's all settled," she said with great satisfaction. "You'll be glad that you did."

  "Glad I did what?" The television set flickered, as if the celluloid couple's heat was too much for its cables. And still they kissed on.

  Auntie Lil sighed with the patience of a weary martyr. "You're not paying the least bit of attention to what I say, are you?"

  "Of course I am..." My God—Camilla had pulled away from Tyrone and slapped him across the face. It was a most unexpected plot development. What had Tyrone done to deserve such treatment? T.S. must have missed it. Or was there something going on down there in the waist area, outside of camera range? T.S. leaned forward and scrutinized the screen more carefully, searching for a clue.

  "I'm going to march over there right now and rip that television cord out of the wall," Auntie Lil said firmly. "I will not have my favorite nephew turning into some kind of a mesmerized zombie who hums jingles and knows the names of sitcom stars."

  The show cut to a commercial, freeing T.S. to respond. "I heard every single word you said," he lied. "And you're right. You're absolutely right." They were Auntie Lil's favorite words to hear and ought to mollify her.

  "Good. Then you'll be here in an hour."

  Uh, oh. He'd been tricked. He was suddenly quite sure that Auntie Lil had deliberately called him at this time, knowing he'd be preoccupied, and had planned exactly what had just happened. What in the world had he agreed to do now? Well, he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing how well her little scheme had worked. He'd play along and find out the details in his own subtle way.

  "What's the address?" he asked casually.

  "I knew you weren't paying attention. It's right off the corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-Eighth Street. St. Barnabas Church. Large stone building. The soup kitchen is in the basement. You'll see a long line of people waiting to get in. Hurry. And bring rubber gloves."

  Rubber gloves? A soup kitchen? He was in hot water now.

  "Theodore," Auntie Lil's voice softened to a suspiciously self-satisfied purr. "Thank you so much for helping out. Two volunteers failed to show. I don't know what we would have done without you."

  "Done what?" he finally asked, starting to panic. "What am I doing?"

  "You're serving the food. What did you think you'd be doing? I wasn't inviting you over for lunch, you know."

  "Serving food at a soup kitchen?" he asked. The show was starting again but Tyrone and Camilla were nowhere to be seen. A silly subplot had taken over the screen.

  "Yes," Auntie Lil said firmly. "It's only for today, if it's such an imposition." She stopped, letting her reproachful silence berate him with its own eloquence.

  "I thought God helped those who help themselves," T.S. said faintly, knowing that it was a feeble rebuttal.

  "How very convenient for those of us who are selfish." There was no sarcasm in Auntie Lil's voice. Sarcasm required subtlety, which was not her strong suit.

  "What kind of people eat at this soup kitchen?" he asked. He envisioned an army of dusty, homeless muggers lockstepping toward him with arms outstretched.

  "What kind of people do you think?" she snapped. "All kinds of people. Hungry people. Old people. Homeless people. Discouraged people. Mentally ill people. The main thing, Theodore, is that they are people. In case you've missed my point."

  Miss one of Auntie Lil's points? That was like overlooking a spear sticking in your back. But she had shamed him sufficiently and T.S. knew when he was licked. What was a mere soap opera in the face of starving humanity?

  "All right," he agreed grudgingly. "I'll see you in an hour."

  "Good. Try to contain your enthusiasm," she ordered, hanging up abruptly.

  Maybe she could be sarcastic, after all.

  T.S. reluctantly turned off the television and marched back t
o his meticulously organized closet, swapping his bedroom slippers (thank God she'd not ferreted out that little detail) for a suitably humble pair of shoes from the day-wear rack. Image was important to him. The proper attire said a lot about a man. But in this case, he decided, there was no need to change clothes. He'd be there and back by late afternoon.

  He asked his cab driver to detour past the Newsday Building at One Times Square so he could set his watch by the time on their giant electronic clock. T.S. was a precise man and liked to know exactly what time it was. That way he was never, ever late. Except for that one day in 1956 when the subway train he'd been riding on had derailed and made him fifteen minutes late for a dental appointment. The thought still rankled.

  They skirted the square traffic and headed across Forty-Second Street toward the West Side. His taxi slowed as it started up Eighth Avenue, passing the brightly lit marquees of fast food outlets and even faster sex shops. There were a few hustlers of every breed and brand of business scattered over the dirty sidewalks, but it was relatively deserted in mid-afternoon.

  Soon, the business district surrounding the Port Authority gave way to ethnically diverse residential streets, divided by avenue blocks of smaller restaurants, delicatessens and retail shops. It had been several years since T.S. had ventured into the neighborhood that the rest of Manhattan called Hell's Kitchen. A few residents had tried to replace the century-old nickname with the more upscale "Clinton." But—like most of their efforts at gentrification—the change had not stuck. The area was still Hell's Kitchen and most of its inhabitants were still stubbornly proud of that fact.

  Few skyscrapers had invaded the area west of Eighth Avenue. Side street after side street was lined with four- to six-story brownstones in various stages of disrepair and renovation. T.S. peered curiously out the window. Cheerfulness thrived only in very small pockets, but at least it had not given up entirely: streets gleaming with new brick and freshly planted trees were always bordered on either side by streets filled with the gray-stained concrete and crumbling front stoops of poverty.

  Hell's Kitchen still had not decided what it wanted to be when it grew up. It was neither a bad neighborhood nor a particularly good one, its varied residents coexisting in a schizophrenic truce that defied description. Hard-working immigrants from every country of the globe peered out of the windows of their small restaurants and shops. Well-dressed businessmen scurried eastward, eager to make their after-lunch appointments. Hordes of preschool-age children swarmed everywhere, held in tow by overweight mothers of all races who shared a single, weary expression. They, in turn, were elbowed aside by fantastically fit actors and actresses, who picked their way through the crowds mumbling lines to themselves and trying on different faces. Attracted by cheap rents and the nearby theater district, they shared apartments in the neighborhood and added to its astounding (even for New York) diversity. T.S. felt that their fresh and hopeful faces only made the reality of the neighborhood that much more depressing.

  No matter how hard it tried, he reflected, Hell's Kitchen was still lower middle class with an occasional sprinkling of hopeful yuppies seeking zooming property values. In fact, he passed several of these well-groomed residents as his cab roared uptown. They were tightly gripping their purses and briefcases, as they grimly steered clear of grimy, frantic groups that gathered on certain corners, chattering and pointing with self-importance to nearby windows.

  T.S. sighed. That, too, had not changed. Waves of drug dealers and users still washed over the neighborhood's blocks in regular intervals, only to recede a few weeks later, when the cops finally chased them a couple of blocks down the avenue. But never far enough away to matter.

  T.S. sighed again. Though the details had changed, the amount of progress was the same. Hell's Kitchen was always getting better, but never, ever quite got there.

  He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not notice when his driver overshot Forty-Eighth Street and pulled up in front of a gleaming, new red-brick skyscraper at Forty-Ninth and Eighth. T.S. had heard it was being built, but he had not seen it yet. Its existence was a shock.

  "Sorry, buddy." The driver shrugged. It was not his problem. "Con Ed was tearing up the streets back there."

  T.S. was too stymied by the new building to reply and simply paid his bill and climbed out to stare. Someone had put a lot of money into this building, and thus into the neighborhood. Perhaps times were changing after all. But it was funny. He was not as happy as he thought he'd be.

  The building loomed above him, its upper floors blocked by the brilliant glare of the sunlight high above. It was at least forty stories high on its Eighth Avenue side. T.S. peered around the corner—it stretched down the block all the way to Ninth Avenue, where it tapered down to a more modest six stories in height. Construction was still going on inside the lower floor interiors and torn brown paper ineffectually blocked the internal debris. But outside, brass fixtures and cornices winked in the bright sunlight, beckoning smartly dressed people, who fled from their cabs to step briskly through the building's revolving doors, anxious to trade the grime of the neighborhood for its high-tech, sterile interior.

  T.S. paused to read the directory and saw that a major advertising agency had moved into the building. That explained all the slim bodies, deep tans, boxy shoulders, short hairdos and male ponytails flowing past him. Hell's Kitchen would never be the same.

  On the other hand, he noticed with surprising satisfaction, the sidewalk surrounding the new edifice was thoroughly splattered with reddish spots. When cleaning the brick and brass for a final time, careless workmen had evidently allowed chemicals to spatter in the wind and fall onto the not-quite-set concrete—giving the new sidewalks a mottled, almost bloodstained, look.

  So Hell's Kitchen had not given up without a fight, T.S. decided. And it had drawn the borders right up to the very base of the new intruder.

  The thought pleased him and confused him at the same time. Hell's Kitchen always had that effect on his heart. It unsettled T.S., stirring up visions of his poverty-stricken German immigrant ancestors, whose dreams and hard work had helped him escape these very blocks. He experienced the same restless yearnings whenever he examined the hopeful faces that appeared so often in the old photographs showing scores of people crowded on the decks of ocean liners, their faces upturned to gaze at the Statue of Liberty, their dreams worn so nakedly that people a hundred years later could see plainly the longing there. Their ability to believe made T.S. feel lost; their will to succeed made him feel ashamed. His own life had been so much easier.

  How could he have been so unwilling to help out at the soup kitchen? If Auntie Lil could do it, so could he. T.S. shook his head, put the familiar guilt behind him, and walked determinedly toward Forty-Eighth Street. His destination was obvious. A long line of people stretched around a corner and snaked uptown along the east side of Eighth Avenue. As T.S. drew closer, he saw that the queue led to a small basement entrance tucked under the stoop of a sagging, Baroque-style church. City grime stained its sweeping front steps and the main entrance doors were blocked by a massive locked wrought-iron gate. A smaller, collapsible gate prevented anyone from waiting on the steps. Like so many other churches in the city, St. Barnabas could no longer afford to offer sanctuary to the spiritually needy—too many of them also needed an empty pew that they could call home.

  The church's side basement entrance was also protected by a locked wrought-iron gate. A large clapboard sign on the sidewalk out front announced:

  St. Barnabas Soup Kitchen: ones at 3:oo p.m.

  All who are hungry are welcome here.

  There were, apparently, plenty who were hungry. And they were just as Auntie Lil had described them: people of all shapes, sizes, colors and ages. Some were young with ancient faces; they waited in line and looked away when others stared, as if afraid that they could not offer a good enough excuse for their presence. Others were just plain old and stood patiently with the expertise of those who have spent their
lives waiting in lines. A number of people were disheveled, dusty and dirty. These mumbled incoherently to themselves and were left unobtrusively alone by the others—who knew better than to make eye contact.

  T.S. passed by the line and noticed an oddity. There were a surprising number of elderly ladies: trim, neatly dressed in styles of bygone eras, their hair carefully coiffed in swirls on top of their heads, slightly garish makeup perfectly in place, all of them dignified and quiet. What were they all doing here? One after another, they stood silently in line, staring at the wrought-iron gate that led to the basement soup kitchen. T.S. glanced at his watch: it was only two-fifteen. Over half an hour before any of them would eat.

  He hesitated near the locked basement entrance. A plump woman wrestling with a garbage can on the other side of the gate noticed his discomfort. She paused in her efforts and tucked a frizzy lock of gray hair back behind an ear. She was in her mid-fifties, about thirty pounds overweight, and had attempted to disguise the extra baggage with a broad, khaki-colored skirt of such unrelentingly starched sturdiness that it looked like it could easily withstand a charge of elephants without wrinkling. She wore a short-sleeved, plaid shirt and had a vaguely masculine air about her. T.S. had run into her type before: she was from New England, the outfit declared, and was a capable woman who could take care of herself and was sick and tired of picking up after weak men. In short, she terrified T.S. He stepped back reflexively under the power of her stare as she, in turn, surveyed his own attire. Finally, the woman arrived at a reluctant conclusion, rewarded him with a perfunctory glare and produced a set of keys from her skirt's pockets. She was not the kind of woman to wear a skirt without pockets.