"Regrettably," Herbert added.
"And so it must be done." She managed a small wave and continued her trek to the church, passing a familiar old man in another lawn chair at the far end of the block. His nose was as bulbous as a cauliflower; his clothes were as drab and tan as the building behind him. He recognized Auntie Lil, but she was too preoccupied to notice that her progress up Eighth Avenue was being carefully observed.
It was back to the soup kitchen, she thought glumly, back to being nothing more than a bored old lady whose mind was sharper than her body and who harbored illusions that she could, with all her frailties, be the one capable of bringing justice to the mean streets of Hell's Kitchen.
Stop whining, she commanded herself. There was still an ace card she could play. She stopped at three pay phones until she found one that worked, then dialed Margo McGregor's number. The columnist was still not in. The reporter who answered took her latest message with bored efficiency.
Auntie Lil hung up glumly. She had to get through to Margo McGregor for help. Because her only hope now was publicity. Maybe then, public pressure would force Lieutenant Abromowitz to put more men on the job.
14
As soon as she saw the long line still snaking down the sidewalk toward St. Barnabas, she realized that they were in deep trouble and hurried inside. Nearly everyone should have been fed by now.
To her surprise, Bob Fleming had kept his word. Despite his own miseries, he was there behind the counter handing plates of hot food across to hungry patrons. Father Stebbins was back at work beside him, looking uncharacteristically subdued. Annie O'Day was sweating over one of the big industrial stoves in back, while the remaining volunteers fought valiantly to maintain order.
She saw at once where the confusion began. Auntie Lil appointed herself guardian of the silverware and napkins, then began to hand out trays. The logjam in the line cleared quickly and the flow of hungry people picked up their pace.
Thank God Adelle and her followers had already been through the line. Auntie Lil did not think that she could look them in the eye knowing that Eva was dead and that they were all about to be pulled off their unofficial positions on the case. Herbert was right. This was a job for him. He handled the dirty work so well.
Auntie Lil took advantage of a lull in the crowd to speak to Bob Fleming. She felt guilty for having been afraid of him at Homefront. "I must salute you," she began. "Being able to put your own troub—" She stopped. Bob Fleming had turned pale and was not listening. He was staring at the door behind her.
She whirled around. Little Pete was heading straight for them and his face was streaked with tears. Gone was the tough little man of the streets. He was a terrified child crying for help. At first she could not understand his words, he was emitting such an hysterical mixture of cries and bellowings. Bob Fleming was better at the translation.
"What?" He jumped over the counter and pushed a hungry customer aside. "What did you say?" he demanded of the terrified boy. Father Stebbins hurried around the counter and joined the tableau.
"He's dead," Little Pete shouted, tears streaking down his face. "I think he's dead. The man said to go get Timmy at Homefront and bring him to this old building but when we got there, Rodney started beating up on him. You should have heard the sound. I had to run away. He was too big." The boy held his hands over his ears and shut his eyes to erase the memory. "I didn't know where else to go. You wasn't at Homefront so I thought of here."
"Where is Timmy now?" Fleming shouted, pulling on Little Pete's arms. He screamed over his shoulder for Annie O'Day. Auntie Lil knelt down and drew the sobbing boy close. She was vaguely aware that a crowd had gathered around them, and that Adelle and her followers hovered on the outer perimeter watching and exchanging horrified glances.
"Where is he now?" Bob Fleming insisted again, before he was pushed aside by an efficient Annie O'Day.
"Pete, Pete, Pete," she repeated over and over until the boy calmed down. "Maybe Timmy isn't dead. Maybe he's just hurt. I want you to bring me to him. Okay? I'll come with you now and you show me where he is. Where the man left him. I'm a nurse. Maybe I can help Timmy." She spoke slowly and calmly until the small boy stopped trembling. The rest of the room waited quietly. She knew what she was doing.
"He's in that old piano warehouse along Eleventh Avenue," Little Pete sobbed in a tiny voice. He gulped. "There's a way to sneak in the back."
"He's talking about the building at Eleventh and Forty-Sixth," Annie told Bob Fleming sharply. "Call an ambulance and have them meet me there." She turned back to Little Pete and her voice softened to that of a mother crooning a child to sleep. "Can you take me there?" she asked gently. "I'll bring my bag and we'll see what we can do."
Pete nodded and waited while Annie grabbed her bag from a shelf in the kitchen, then took her outstretched hand. They walked calmly out of the basement and the crowd parted before them without comment. Even the most deranged of the kitchen's customers sensed that something terrible had just happened and that, whatever it was, it was bad enough without their help.
As soon as Annie and Little Pete hit the steps, they began to run.
Auntie Lil stared after them, only dimly aware that Bob Fleming had dashed upstairs in search of a telephone. She was startled back to reality by a terrible choking sound. Father Stebbins had turned pale blue white and was slumped against the counter with his hand on his throat, coughing violently. The cough turned into a rasping wheeze.
Oh, God, Auntie Lil thought. Not another.
"Asthma," Father Stebbins wheezed helplessly. "Medicine upstairs." Fran took off running up the steps without being asked, while Auntie Lil loosened his collar. He bent at the waist, trying to breathe. The mixture of choked air and garbled words was as terrifying as Little Pete's pronouncement had been. The priest sounded as if he were being strangled into silence.
"My fault," he whistled between whooping intakes of breath. "This is all my fault."
"Don't talk," Auntie Lil commanded, shooing the curious back. She exchanged a glance with Adelle and the elderly actress majestically wound her way through the crowd toward Auntie Lil.
"Help him," Auntie Lil said simply. "Fran is coming with medication." Without waiting for the reply, she turned and walked briskly out the door. She would see for herself what they had done to Timmy.
A block away, a running figure brushed past her. She stared after broad shoulders in a plaid lumberjack shirt. Bob Fleming was heading for the warehouse, too. He would get there well before she would. But she was hurrying as fast as she could.
When she finally reached the intersection of Eleventh and Forty-Sixth, it was marked by two huge abandoned buildings. She had no way of knowing which one was the right one until Bob Fleming burst out onto the sidewalk through the twin door of one of them, his shoulder tearing off the padlock from the inside like a battering ram. He had climbed in the back and blasted his way out of the front to create a clearer path for the medics.
"Stand there and wave down the ambulance," he commanded Auntie Lil. "I have to help Annie bring the kid down the steps."
Auntie Lil obeyed. The sound of sirens was still far away, wailing impatiently in short bursts of indignant bleating. The ambulance had gotten trapped in the heavier afternoon traffic along the West Side arteries and selfish drivers were blocking its path. Auntie Lil began to curse, unaware that Little Pete had returned to stand by her side. Then a small hand slipped into hers. It was trembling.
"Annie says he's alive," the small boy stammered. "Annie says he's alive."
"Of course he's alive," Auntie Lil told him crisply, though she was weak with relief at his words. "We aren't going to let Timmy die. And we aren't going to let you get hurt anymore, either."
The sounds of sirens grew louder, accompanied by flashing red lights and the sound of an angry man on a bullhorn.
"Clear the lane," a deep voice boomed. "Clear the lane immediately."
"Cops!" Little Pete shouted. It was a single but powerful word, and it tri
ggered an automatic reaction in him. He jerked his hand from Auntie Lil. Before she could stop him, he darted across the packed lanes of traffic. She watched helplessly as the small figure ran down the opposite sidewalk. He turned up toward Tenth Avenue and was gone.
The door clanged open behind her again and Bob Fleming re-emerged, holding a small bundle of blood, flesh and ripped clothing in his hands. Annie O'Day walked calmly beside the human catastrophe, holding an I.V. drip bag in one hand. It was attached to a small, clear tube that snaked down into the gore. "Where is it?" she asked angrily when she saw no ambulance waiting.
"It's here!" Auntie Lil shouted as she stood on her tiptoes and waved her pocketbook frantically, putting her legendary cab-hailing skills to good use. Her gesture was answered by the stepped-up volume of a siren and, suddenly, the ambulance dispensed with the traffic jam altogether. It hopped the curb and came tearing down the sidewalk toward them, followed by two patrol cars.
The attendant was out of the passenger seat before the vehicle had stopped. Another pair of medics popped from the back with a stretcher. The small figure in Bob Fleming's arms was swiftly transferred to a stretcher and lifted into the back of the ambulance.
"What is it?" a burly paramedic asked quietly.
"It's a small boy," replied Annie O'Day.
Despite a cup of coffee and his resolve to puzzle out Worthington's motives, T.S. had not been able to stay awake long enough to get anywhere. His body had cried out for still more sleep and he had barely been able to make it to the living room couch before he was out again. He awoke hours later to the rude sensation of having his face scraped with sandpaper. He opened an eye and an enormous yellow orb stared down at him. Worse, something was nibbling at his toes.
He groaned and struggled to sit up. What was he doing asleep on his own couch? The murky light outside indicated that it was early evening; the behavior of his hungry cats confirmed it. He padded into the kitchen and fed Brenda and Eddie an entire can of cat food each. After scratching Sally St. Claire, they deserved it.
He checked the answering machine. There was a message from Auntie Lil, but the street noises behind her made it difficult for him to understand. The gist of the message seemed to be that she loathed his answering machine. He sighed and tried to reach her at home without any luck. She must still be busy at the soup kitchen, he reasoned. Perhaps he should stop by to see.
Lilah's coat still hung, untouched, over a chair. Where was she? What was taking her so long?
He made himself some plain egg noodles and nibbled at them tentatively. They went down smoothly and stayed there. In fact, he felt almost human again. He pulled out the envelope that Worthington had given him and reexamined the address and apartment number. It was not Emily's, after all, but the unit next door on the same floor. Why would Lance Worthington invite him to that particular apartment? What could be waiting for him there?
Of course. T.S. suddenly remembered the sounds he had overheard and the shadows he had seen the day that he and Auntie Lil had searched Emily's apartment. A young boy had run past them, followed by a red-faced man trying to hide his identity.
But surely Worthington didn't believe that he was one of those sweaty middle-aged men who—T.S.'s spoon clanked abruptly into the bowl.
Of course Worthington thought he was into young boys. The man's mind was in the gutter. In such a disgusting context, the producer's entire cryptic conversation that afternoon made perfect sense.
T.S. knew exactly what would happen. He would walk into the apartment and a young boy would be waiting for him. One of those tough, overused hardened street kids with a heart made of leather. In fact, the young boy could very well be Timmy. If so, it was the perfect opportunity for T.S. to speak to him alone. They'd been trying to contact the boy for a week to determine how and what he knew about Emily.
Even more significantly, Auntie Lil had failed utterly at this task. Finally, it was his turn to get there first.
Except that he wasn't going to be stupid about it. Being alone in a room with an underage boy who specialized in middle-aged men was far too indiscreet an act to attempt without a witness. And who could guarantee the boy would be alone? He needed a hidden observer, someone to protect his own reputation. It had to be a person who could be counted on to remain discreetly in the background shadows. Someone who would not try to butt in at a delicate moment and wrestle the conversation away from T.S. Which absolutely ruled out Auntie Lil. But left Herbert Wong. Herbert was agile enough to climb a fire escape, smart enough to stay hidden and easy to contact.
T.S. checked his watch. It was nearly eight o'clock, which meant that Herbert was conveniently at his post across from Emily's building already. Unless he was getting carried away again with his potted plant disguises, T.S. would have no trouble spotting him and enlisting him in the plan.
Four aspirins and another shower later, T.S. was on his way back to Hell's Kitchen.
Herbert Wong had heard about Timmy's injuries from Adelle and her followers at their afternoon meeting. He, in turn, had broken the sad news about Eva's death. Their reactions had, surprisingly, been muted. Until he realized that many of the old actresses may have been in shock. The more shaken women quickly returned to their tiny apartments or group homes where they felt safe. Three of the hardier ones, including Adelle, elected to accompany Herbert to Roosevelt Hospital where, they assured him, Timmy would have been taken. Herbert wanted to see if Auntie Lil needed him.
Their presence complicated an already chaotic scene. Timmy had been whisked immediately into the emergency room entrance, but the waiting area outside was jam-packed with the poor of the neighborhood, who considered the emergency room to be a de facto doctor's office. This annoyed the overburdened nurses and aides, who were forced to make such patients wait and wait while the more drastically injured were attended to. The medium-sized room was clogged with clusters of rejected and weary mothers holding ragged children whose running noses and frequent coughs rendered a diagnosis redundant. Interspersed among these contagious hopefuls were pockets of the more befuddled homeless, who came to Roosevelt for a kind word and, perhaps, the chance of being treated as a human being by an understanding doctor or nurse. They were also there for the warmth. The night outside had grown chilly and the waiting room cozy from the heat of many bodies. In short, it was a clean, well-lighted place.
Here and there among this noisy, angry crowd were real emergency-room candidates. They were in pain and outnumbered. A young man in athletic sweats slumped in a chair, his face contorted in pain and one ankle propped on a nearby coffee table. His girlfriend fussed around him, rubbing the injured joint and glaring at an oblivious nurse's aide. A basketball had rolled under his chair, forgotten by all but a young boy sniffling nearby, who eyed it with longing and hope. Against the far wall of the waiting room, a very young and very drunk Danish sailor, on leave from his ship berthed nearby, clutched a hand that dripped steady drops of blood onto his white uniform. The scarlet stain spread across his chest as if he had been pierced in the heart. But the nurses—who had already confirmed that it was a minor cut hand inflicted by a broken beer bottle—had decided that he deserved to wait.
The only respite from the madness of this hopeless system was a small cluster of waiting figures anchored by a waving Auntie Lil. They had pulled their chairs in a broad semicircle in front of the double-wide doors that led to the treatment rooms of the emergency facility. Every time anyone entered or exited the inner sanctum, Auntie Lil was able to peek inside and demand updates from whatever hounded medical professional had failed to move quickly enough to avoid her. One dashed successfully past just as Herbert, Adelle and her two consorts joined the group.
"Sir!" Auntie Lil demanded of the already departed doctor. He left a faint whiff of antiseptic behind.
"How is he?" Herbert asked Auntie Lil quietly. "Miss Adelle filled me in on what happened."
"He's alive. That's all I know," she replied miserably. She lifted her brows slightly and slid h
er eyes quietly to the right. Father Stebbins sat crouched in a chair beside her, a rosary clutched in his hands. His lips moved silently as he prayed and his eyes glistened with tears. He alone among the suffering had managed, at least in mind, to escape the stuffy waiting room. Fran sat next to him, tight-lipped and silent, her hand resting lightly on the priest's arm.
"What happened?" Herbert asked Auntie Lil quietly, aware that Adelle was listening in. "I heard very few details. Only that the young boy's friend ran into St. Barnabas shouting that Timmy was dead."
"We don't know yet," Auntie Lil told him. "He was lured to an abandoned building and beaten almost to death. Little Pete escaped unharmed, but he ran away before he would say who was responsible."
From long habit, Herbert's eyes slid from face to face in the dreary room. "That's the Homefront man," he confirmed in a low voice, indicating Bob Fleming.
Auntie Lil nodded. They watched the Homefront director quietly argue with a nurse at the admitting desk. He was obviously a veteran at negotiating quick settlements in the overcrowded, overworked atmosphere. He spoke quickly and firmly, but in a low voice, his finger frequently hitting the countertop for emphasis. Each time the nurse's face appeared about to cross over to anger, he would lean close and whisper something that triggered a quick smile.
"He knows what he's doing," Herbert confirmed.
"Let's hope so. He signed a stack of papers two feet high." Auntie Lil nodded toward the cold steel doors. "They let Annie inside. They seem to know her well here."
Herbert nodded and gently took Auntie Lil's hand. "Not your fault," he said simply and she replied with a weak smile.
"Miss Hubbert." Bob Fleming stood before them, looking tired but hopeful. "I guess they don't have time to read the newspapers around here. They don't seem to know I'm a pariah. They've agreed to admit him if Homefront guarantees the bill. I'm going to go down to the precinct now and talk to the detectives who questioned me about Timmy's allegations yesterday."
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