7
The next morning, T.S. rose early out of long habit. He drank his coffee while staring out over York Avenue, trying to decide how he could track down Worthy Enterprises. Then it came to him in a flash of inspiration, fueled by years as a successful executive. He would get someone else to do it. Best of all, he had just the man for the job.
Each night before going to bed, T.S. emptied his pockets into a silver dish in the top drawer of his dresser. It was easy to find the card. Gregory Rogers, Dance Master Extraordinaire, would not be of much help in this task. But Lenny Melk, Dandruff Master Extraordinaire, just might. He scrutinized the phone number carefully, suspecting the prefix was a public pay phone. Really, what was he doing trusting someone he'd only met the day before? On the other hand, considering the maze of official departments and filings that awaited him—who cared?
It rang sixteen rings without an answer, but T.S. was not dissuaded. At this early hour, he had to be home. Sure enough, Lenny Melk finally answered the phone with a sleepy and suspicious growl. "I know, I know, Vinny," he said. "It was the spread that killed me. I'll cover it by the afternoon, I promise."
"It's not Vinny," T.S. replied crisply. Why couldn't people wake up ready and raring to function, their dignity intact? He always did. What the world needed was a little more self-discipline. "This is T.S. Hubbert," he said.
"I'm not buying anything," Melk immediately replied. "So don't waste your time."
"No. It's T.S. Hubbert. We met late yesterday. Around closing time down at 99 Centre. Remember, you helped me out and almost got me lynched?"
There was a silence while this information filtered through Lenny Melk's besotted brain cells. "Oh, yeah, the real persnickety guy in the yellow sweater," he finally said.
"Yes, that's me," T.S. was forced to reply. He tactfully resisted the impulse to describe Lenny Melk back. "I need your help again. Tracking down who owns Worthy Enterprises."
"Oh, yeah? This sounds interesting. It's gonna cost you. There's a shit storm of corporate filings involved, understand?"
"Of course. How interesting would you say it was?"
"At least two hundred dollars. And another thirty-five in… um, personnel expenses."
"Done. Can you have the information by later today?"
"Well…" Lenny's voice dropped dubiously. "I suppose so. Since you're getting to be a regular customer and all…"
"Fine. Please call me back and leave the information at this number. I trust you will trust me for the payment." There was an astonished silence and T.S. took it for agreement. "I have an answering machine, so leave a message if you need to. It's urgent." T.S. supplied him with the necessary information and rang off. He hated it when other people had answering machines, but he loved his own. Today was not a day to sit at home, waiting for a phone call back. He was meeting Herbert Wong at the soup kitchen just after the noon hour to help coordinate the surveillance of Emily's apartment building. Auntie Lil had prudently decided that she should lie low for a while, at least concerning St. Barnabas.
He checked his watch. It was only eight-thirty and he needed something to do. Now was his chance to show some initiative, come up with some good ideas of his own, stop depending on Auntie Lil for instructions. He began by dressing carefully in a casual yet authoritative sweater-and-flannel-slacks combination, then added a tie. He carefully smoothed his entire outfit twice with a sable clothes brush purchased on a visit to London seven years before. Those British really knew how to take care of their clothes. Decades of butlerism had refined it into an art. He keenly admired their precision.
Properly decked out, T.S. paused in front of the mirror. It was time for action. But no idea came and, in the end, he simply went downstairs to the corner newsstand. He purchased a copy of New York Newsday (having read the Times hours before) and settled in at a nearby coffee shop. He alternated between flipping through page after page of mayhem, horror, poverty and politics and watching frantic businessmen and grumpy businesswomen rush past the window, headed for a world he was no longer a part of.
It depressed him. He wondered what Lilah was doing today. She'd said something about helping to make arrangements for a charity auction, which probably involved hobnobbing with retired gentlemen of far greater means than himself. That depressed him even more. He returned to reading the newspaper and discovered, to his irritation, that his favorite local columnist, Margo McGregor, was on vacation. A vacation in September… she certainly had her nerve. If she'd worked for him, there'd have been none of that nonsense. He tapped the ink-smudged pages in aggravation, but there was no denying it. He missed the photo they always ran of her, right above her column.
Although well into her thirties, Margo McGregor looked exactly like the little girl that every boy had loved in second grade. At least he knew he would have, if only they'd allowed girls in his prep school class. Margo McGregor was petite, with a small moon face and shiny black hair combed flat against her scalp. The thin glossy strands fell straight down to just above her shoulders where they flipped absurdly up in a single neat wave. She had a pug nose, round sparkling eyes and a tiny, pursed mouth that the photographer had captured at the tail end of a sardonic smile. How such a delicate creature could be one of New York's most sarcastic investigative reporters was beyond him, but T.S. loved the unlikely juxtaposition of her physical innocence and extreme cynicism. The paper regularly advertised her as "the wittiest and most insightful columnist in New York." Which was a nice way of saying she was a smartass.
Oh, well, perhaps she would be back in print next week. He flipped the page and read about a snafu at the main post office, then stopped. He'd had an idea. Just like that. Emily must have gotten some sort of Social Security check from the government. Unless she had arranged for direct deposit, damn the convenience. But surely she'd have received a letter or two in her time. Or junk mail. Nothing could stop junk mail. If she'd so much as sneezed, she was on someone's list.
He slid off his stool, left an exactly correct tip—which would certainly not surprise the waitress—and headed for the door. If Auntie Lil could lurk about the streets of Hell's Kitchen, so could he.
Auntie Lil's idea of rising early was rolling out of bed just before the soap operas began. She managed it earlier than usual once again, thanks to an automatic timer on her coffee machine that sent an irresistible aroma throughout her apartment at exactly ten o'clock sharp. Unable to speak without a minimum of caffeine in her system, she downed several cups and dialed Detective George Santos.
Four officers and one public-relations liaison later, she was told that Detective Santos was not in yet and would she care to leave a message?
"Yes," she announced crisply. "Write this down." Satisfied with the rustling that met her command, she continued. "Lillian Hubbert called to ask, 'Have you found The Eagle?' Also, dead woman lived at 326 West Forty-Sixth Street on the sixth floor. Owner of Delicious Deli can confirm. Please investigate immediately.'" She demanded that her message be read back and, except for the part about whether Detective Santos had found her beagle, the obedient officer had approximated her intent.
Next she called Herbert Wong and Theodore to reiterate instructions. To her intense irritation, neither one was home. They were probably out running wild in the streets, with no regard for her master plan. Another cup of coffee later and Auntie Lil was ready to tackle Father Stebbins.
The priest answered the phone himself, as she'd suspected he would. St. Barnabas could not afford any office help. Father Stebbins was an all-purpose kind of guy.
"St. Barnabas," he boomed into the receiver. "May the Lord's blessings follow you all this fine day."
Fresh out of blessings, she cut to the chase. "Father Stebbins, it's Lillian Hubbert."
"Ah, Lillian…"
"I won't take up much of your time," she promised. "I know you're scrambling to make up for the loss of my culinary expertise and that you have more than enough on your plate to handle. I'm sure things have progressed right out of th
e frying pan and into the fire." He was not the only one who could deal in clichés. At least hers contained apropos allusions. "But I'm not one to sit idly by while others are suffering. I've decided to devote my talents to helping with the young runaways in the neighborhood until we can get this teensy misunderstanding straightened out. Whom do you suggest I call to volunteer my services?"
There was brief silence on the other end. Perhaps he was wondering if she was planning to dish out any more of her special chili to minors. "You might call a fellow named Bob Fleming," he finally said. "He runs a retreat for runaways a few blocks away called Homefront. They're small without a big fundraising staff and could probably use any help they could get." He paused, contemplating the tact of this last statement. "Not that you aren't a prized volunteer," he belatedly added. "Why, we're hardly getting by without you."
"I can imagine," Auntie Lil replied confidently. "But I suspect that dear Fran is working night and day to make sure that everyone gets fed."
"She's certainly been a help," he answered promptly. "But she does have problems of her own that sometimes prevent her from devoting her full energies to our own humble hunger-fighting endeavor."
Indeed? But surely a priest would be the last person in the world to gossip… still, it was worth a shot. "Problems?" she inquired lightly. "Could I be of help in any way?"
"Oh. No, no, no," Father Stebbins sputtered. "I shouldn't have said as much as I did. She'll be fine. I'm helping her and she's making great progress. I'm sure she'll be fine."
So the conceited old cassock wasn't going to spill the beans. She wouldn't waste any more time with him. "How can I find this Homefront fellow?" she demanded instead.
"I can call him for you right now, if you like."
Auntie Lil checked the clock. "Actually, I've got to run out. I'm meeting a friend at the Delicious Deli. Perhaps I could stop by later and find out when a good time to call him might be?"
There was another tactful silence. "I think it would be easier if you called me back instead of dropping by," the priest suggested diplomatically.
"It's a deal. I'll wait until after the rush."
"And, Lillian," he added in a voice that oozed concern and understanding. "That scene the other day with the authorities… I'm not quite sure what your troubles have been—I try not to judge my fellow man—but God forgives everyone. If you ever need a sympathetic shoulder, I'm right here."
Sure. But she'd have to pry Fran off that sympathetic shoulder first. She murmured something neutral and, after receiving another shower of blessings and pietistic clichés, rang off as quickly as decency allowed. My goodness, they all acted like she was some sort of pariah. And Father Stebbins seemed convinced she was on a sure road to Hell. It was no crime being smarter than Lieutenant Abromowitz. If it was, the city jails would be bursting at the bars.
But that was exactly what she was being ostracized for. And it left her no other choice. She'd just have to show Abromowitz up, if it was the last thing she ever did.
Waiting for the mailman on the steps of Emily's building seemed foolishly indiscreet, so T.S. searched the streets of Hell's Kitchen for men and women in blue. He soon heard an obnoxious high honking and, following the sound, discovered a slim black mailman impeccably clad in a summer post office uniform of navy shorts and a light blue short-sleeved shirt. Obviously determined to wring the last drop of summer out of the year, he also wore a regulation pith helmet and stalked confidently through the crowd, pushing a wheeled basket of mail while honking an attached bicycle horn incessantly. The horn had inspired a group of hungover winos leaning against a nearby deserted storefront to honk back. They sounded like a flock of inebriated Canada geese.
"Pardon me, do you deliver to Forty-Sixth Street?" T.S. asked him politely, ignoring the cacophony of birdcalls behind him.
The mailman paused with one hand poised over the bulb of his bicycle horn. "Why? Who wants to know?"
"I need to find out where someone lives," T.S. explained.
The postman eyed him carefully. Apparently, T.S. didn't look like a serial killer to him, since he then asked, "What's the person's name?"
"I don't know," T.S. explained patiently. "I just know her stage name, Emily Toujours."
"Is this a love thing?" the postman asked. "Cause if it is, take it from me—those actresses aren't worth the trouble. They're high-maintenance girlfriends. They need a lot of attention. I'd get yourself a nice librarian, if I was you." He honked the horn twice for emphasis and smiled.
Resisting the temptation to grab the horn and beat him over the pith helmet with it, T.S. gritted his teeth and asked patiently, "Do you deliver to Forty-Sixth Street or not?"
"Nope." The mailman pointed to a large military green holding box bolted to the sidewalk near the curb. "That would be Beulah. She'll be checking by in about fifteen minutes. Ask her. And good luck, brother. May love shine her blessings upon your brow." He beeped happily and wheeled his cart away, pedestrians parting before his raucous path like a multicolored Red Sea.
Beulah didn't show for a good half-hour and when she did, she wasn't much help. For starters, her feet were killing her and this occupied the first five minutes of their conversation. No, she knew of no one named Emily Toujours or anything else, who lived at 326 West Forty-Sixth Street on the sixth floor. "I never delivered no mail to that floor, not never," she insisted. "It's empty. They probably warehousing."
She was probably being paid off, T.S. decided grumpily. He stomped away without a plan and stood at the corner of Ninth Avenue and Forty-Sixth Street, watching the downtown traffic. He heard a voice mumbling urgently behind him. "You can do it," it was saying, "This part is for you. You've got it. You're going to wow them. You were born to play this part. Just get in there and grab it."
T.S. stepped back against a nearby streetlight. The voice belonged to a middle-aged actor, who was mumbling to himself as he waited for the light to change. He clutched the Xeroxed pages of a script in one hand and was gesturing into the air with the other. "It's gonna be you," he told himself. "You're gonna knock them dead, Edward, my man. Success is just around the corner."
That did it. T.S. wanted to throw himself in front of one of the many trucks barreling down the avenue. It was all just too depressing. This neighborhood was one big stew of hopeless, naked, walking aspirations.
Except, of course, for the hopeless, naked, stumbling apparitions. Like the rubbery figure lurching up the sidewalk toward him.
It was Emily's building mate, the one who had passed out in the supply closet. She was obviously on her way home after a long hard night that had stretched into the morning. The preposterous wig had slipped to one side and her makeup was badly smeared, but she once again wore the orange mini-dress. It was cut to the crotch and ripped under one arm. No stockings. Just long coffee-colored legs that would have better fit the winner of the fifth race at Belmont. T.S. stepped back and watched her negotiate the corner near Emily's building. What a way to live, he thought sadly. Like a vampire, she was fleeing the light of day and seeking the sanctuary of the dark.
The dark. That's where he had seen her before. She had burst into Robert's during his dinner with Lilah and the bartender had bounced her right back out.
Well, he wasn't doing anything else at the moment. Perhaps it was time to pay Robert's a call.
Thanks to a subway power failure, it was nearly twelve-thirty by the time Auntie Lil reached the Delicious Deli. The owner, Billy, was hustling back and forth handling the small lunch crowd rush of construction workers, taxi drivers and deliverymen. He recognized Auntie Lil and gave her a wide smile, gesturing toward one of the tiny tables. She sat and, in between sandwich orders, he brought her cappuccino and cheesecake without being asked. The young man certainly had star potential. If justice prevailed, he'd own his own string of franchises one day.
"Nice to see you again. You just sit here and relax," he told her. "Stay a little while and you can meet my daughter."
Auntie Lil nodded
back. She was in no mood for children, she never was, but she'd stay. The things she had to endure just to weasel a little information out of people…
There was a temporary lull in business and Billy rested his elbows on the counter. "Hey, you remember that old lady you were asking me about?" he said to Auntie Lil.
"Yes. Do you have something new on her?" Her cheesecake was immediately forgotten.
"No. But the cops are in on it now. They got a tip on where she lived."
"What happened?" Auntie Lil asked eagerly.
"My buddy, George, went to check it out personally and it turned out that someone was pulling his leg. Some young blonde actress was living at the address instead. Never heard of the old lady. Said she'd been living there for over three years herself. George was pretty steamed. He doesn't usually follow up on civilian tips, you know. He made an exception because the guy taking the message bungled it, said it was my wife who had called. George was pretty burned about it. Wouldn't even stay for his usual free coffee. Why? What did you find out about her?"
Auntie Lil stared bleakly at her half-eaten cheesecake. "Nothing," she admitted glumly and that was exactly as much as she was going to admit. She didn't believe it. They must have gone to the wrong address. She would call Det. George Santos back. "You know the detective on the case?" she asked Billy.
"Sure, I know everyone. Can you believe someone poisoned that old lady? Who'd do a thing like that?"
"Is this George Santos a good detective?" she asked.
"Well… he's a good guy." That was as far as Billy would go.
"Does he live in the neighborhood?"
"Sort of. He spends all of his time at the precinct or down at the Westsider."
"Is that a hotel?" Auntie Lil wanted to know. Perhaps she could talk to him there.
Billy laughed. It was not a happy sound. "Some people seem to think it is," he finally said. "Including George. But it's really just a crummy dive bar across from the Forty-Fifth Street Pier."
A Cast of Killers Page 16