You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  “You came,” Charlie said.

  “Yes,” Dot said quietly, touching his arm. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

  “You wasted your time. Nothing to see here.” His voice cracked.

  Wordlessly she put her arms around him. They held on to each other for a long minute while people brushed past them. “I’m so sorry, Charlie. I’m so sorry,” Dot said over and over, her voice muffled against Charlie’s jacket. He didn’t answer, just stood with his face buried in her hair.

  “You were right, Dot,” I said. “That man is a complete charlatan.” A few passersby gave me dirty looks. I didn’t care.

  At long last Charlie lifted his head. In a choked voice that broke my heart in two he said, “I wanted to be whole, Dot. I wanted to be a whole man—for you.”

  “For me?” she cried, her voice raw with disbelief. She pounded his shoulders with her fists. “You idiot. Don’t you know I love you, just the way you are? You’re perfect in my eyes.”

  Charlie looked at the ground. “I should have listened to you. Pretty funny, huh? I guess you can say you told me so.”

  She grasped his shoulders and looked squarely into his face. “Charlie, I’d give anything to be wrong. Anything. Nothing would have given me greater joy than to be proven wrong. But he’s a charlatan, Charlie. He’s nothing but a fake.”

  He shook his head. “You’re right. You were right all along.” He glanced back at the entrance. “But he seems so convincing. How could you be so sure?”

  Dot gave a derisive snort. “That’s easy,” she snarled. “Reverend Barker is my father.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “He’s your father?” Charlie said for the umpteenth time, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t wrap his brain around Dot’s revelation. The three of us sat huddled over root beer floats in a brightly lit diner near the Coliseum. The place was crowded and hot, despite the autumn chill outside. An oscillating fan created a breeze against the nape of my neck, giving me shivers and making me temporarily regret my chic haircut.

  “Barker’s my real name,” Dot explained. “Dorothy Barker. Rodgers was my mother’s name. After I left home, I never wanted to be associated with . . . with him.” She shook her head. “That day in Kerryville, when I saw in the paper that he was bringing his spectacle to Chicago, I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

  “So that was it,” I said. “That’s what upset you in the paper that evening—the notice of the revival meeting. Pop and I were wondering.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, sorry. I didn’t want to talk about it. I tried to ignore the whole thing. But then, Charlie, when you wrote to me that you wanted to see him, that you hoped he would heal you, I felt absolutely sick.”

  “I can see why,” Charlie said, his face grim. “He sure took me for a fool.”

  “You’re not a fool, Charlie,” I said, touching his forearm. “You hoped, that’s all. Just like I hoped that Peter was really Jack. But we both put our hopes in an illusion.”

  “So did I, for years and years.” Dot stirred the straw around in her glass. “My father wasn’t always a fraud. I believe he started out in the ministry with good intentions. But that was long before I was born. By the time I came along, he’d let his thirst for money and fame get the better of him. That’s why I left home—I couldn’t stand it anymore, watching good people get fleeced. And that’s why I’ve stayed away from church for so long. Hypocrites, all of them.” She glanced up at me through wet lashes. “Well, maybe not all.”

  “Reverend Barker may be a fraud,” I said, “but not all Christians are.”

  “I think I know that now,” Dot said. “I’m beginning to, anyway, thanks to you and Charlie.” She pushed her glass aside and rested her forearms on the table. “I’ve done some horrible things. I was a gangster’s girlfriend, for Pete’s sake. I’ve done things that weren’t honest or even moral. I’ve treated you so shabbily, Marjorie. I know you’ve already said you’ve forgiven me, but—”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. You gave me a home, and helped me get a job. If it weren’t for you . . .”

  Dot’s voice quivered. “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have spent your last dime on an expensive gown that got ruined.”

  “What gown?” Charlie broke in.

  She sniffled. “Or nearly gotten arrested at the speakeasy. . .”

  “Arrested? Speakeasy? You?” Charlie’s eyes grew even wider.

  “Long story,” I muttered. “Tell you later.”

  Dot reached across the table. “Please, Marjie, say it again—you’ll forgive me.”

  I took her hand. “Of course I forgive you, Dot. But more important, God forgives you. And he forgives me, and Charlie here, and everybody who trusts in Him.”

  Dot gave a cold, mirthless laugh. I shot up a silent prayer for the right thing to say. Mrs. Dunsworthy’s wise words floated to mind. “Dot,” I said carefully, “I wasted a lot of time feeling distant from God. Then I realized that He wasn’t the one who backed off; it was me. He promises believers he will never leave us or forsake us.” She looked unconvinced.

  Charlie tried another approach. “Look, Dot. Your father . . . he might have been a fraud and a hypocrite. But the fact is, the church is filled with hypocrites. The Bible says the sick need a doctor, not the healthy.”

  I watched as a tear slid down her flawless cheek. “Oh, Dot. Don’t you see? No matter what your father did or didn’t do, Jesus loves you. Come back to Him. Don’t let someone else’s mistakes shake your faith forever.”

  Dot dabbed her eyes with a napkin. In the intensity of the moment, I noticed she even cried prettily. Some things in life simply weren’t fair.

  When she’d composed herself she said, “If it’s all right with you, I think I’d like to come to church with you on Sunday, Marjie. From what you’ve told me, it sounds like a real church.”

  “Oh, Dot, I’d love it.”

  “No promises, though,” she added quickly. “No promises about—you know. Jesus.”

  “I understand,” I said. “You just come and listen, and learn.” I turned to my brother. “And you—you mustn’t give up hope either, Charlie. If it’s God’s will, He will heal you. In His time.”

  “And if He doesn’t, that’s all right by me.” Dot grasped his hand in hers. “It’s you I love, Charlie Corrigan. I don’t care about your leg, or your arm, or whether or not you can dance the Charleston or throw a baseball. I only care about you.”

  We finished our drinks, then Charlie drove us home. He drew the roadster up to the curb and I climbed out of the back seat.

  “If you don’t mind, Marjie, I won’t go in just yet,” Dot said with a grin. “Charlie and I have some things to talk over.”

  “Yeah. Things,” Charlie added. “I’ll bet the harvest moon over the lake is really something to see.”

  “Well, happy moon-gazing, you two,” I teased. “Don’t stay out too late. Tomorrow’s a work day.”

  “Yes, mother.” Dot winked as they drove off.

  I watched the taillights until they were out of sight. Thrilled as I was that Dot and my brother had found each other, their happiness punctuated my loneliness. I glanced up at the moon, glowing orange through the tree branches. Without someone special to watch it with, it was just a big old orb hanging in the sky. I thought of Peter and wondered whether he’d ever speak to me again. After Charlie’s fit of temper, he’d probably had more than enough of the Corrigan family.

  The wind picked up. Dried leaves whispered and scuttled across the sidewalk. I pulled my cardigan more tightly and hurried toward the steps, eager for a warm bath and a good novel.

  Suddenly a figure lurched out from the shadows. My heart leaped to my throat. Instinctively I raised my handbag, ready to swat.

  “Hold on,” the figure protested, arms raised in self-defense. “It’s only me.”

  When I saw who it was, I still swatted him, though not as hard as I would have otherwise. “Good grief, Peter. You frightened me out of my
wits.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

  I hugged my arms against the chill. “What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you,” he said. “There’s something important I have to tell you.”

  I peered at him under the porch light and gasped.

  “What happened to you?” His right eye was swollen and turning purple, and a thin line of blood had dried on his lip. “Charlie didn’t hit you that hard, did he?”

  “No. Some other guy.”

  “Come inside. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  “I can’t stay. Here, let’s sit down for a minute.”

  I sat on the top step, smoothing my skirt around my knees. He sat beside me. “I thought you should know, Field’s was raided tonight.”

  “What do you mean, raided?”

  “Liquor raid. I wanted you to hear it from me before you got to work in the morning. Lucky thing the store was closed today. Nobody got hurt. Well, not too badly.” Gingerly he touched his wounded lip and winced.

  “A liquor raid? At Field’s?” That didn’t make sense. Liquor raids happened at gin joints and back-alley barrooms, not classy department stores.

  “Remember that hair tonic you saw being loaded onto trucks?” I nodded. “Bootleg Jamaican rum. Every drop of it. Gang’s been using Marshall Field trucks to move liquor around the city undetected.”

  “Rum. I see.” I shivered and hugged my knees. “And you happened to be there.” On a Sunday. When the store was closed. “You saw the whole thing.”

  “Well . . . yeah. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Was Peter in on it? Was this his confession? I steeled myself for what I was about to hear. “Peter, are you in some kind of trouble? Did you have something to do with it?”

  “Huh?”

  I was exhausted with the effort of pretending. Suddenly the whole scene played out in my mind. The black eye, the cut lip, the torn clothes—Peter had, as they say, given them the slip. It happened all the time in detective movies. The criminal would evade the cops, stopping only to bid his best girl good-bye before running for his life. Was I Peter’s best girl? In any case, if he went on the lam, I might never see him again. It was time for both of us to come clean.

  “Peter,” I breathed, “I know all about it.”

  He frowned. “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? It just happened.”

  “Not about the raid,” I said. “About you.”

  “Me?” His eyes grew wide. He rubbed the back of his neck. “How did you know? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I figured it out,” I whispered, lest Mrs. Moran overhear and call the cops. “I didn’t say anything because I don’t want you to go to jail. I care about you too much.”

  “Jail? What—”

  “It doesn’t matter now.” My voice cracked. I couldn’t take any more. “Oh, Peter. What will you do? Where will you go?”

  “What do you mean, where will I go?”

  “Now that you’re on the lam. Will I ever see you again?”

  “On the—what are you talking about?”

  I flung my hands in despair. “I know all about it. The—the bootlegging.”

  He looked at me curiously for a long moment, then burst out laughing. “Wait a minute. Which side do you think I’m on in this business?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why would I go, as you said, ‘on the lam’? And who taught you to talk like that, anyway? Jimmy Cagney?”

  My face burned. “You’re a bootlegger, aren’t you? Isn’t that what this is all about?”

  Several minutes passed before he was able to stop laughing enough to speak. Finally he wheezed, “Marjorie . . . sweet, funny Marjorie. I’m not a bootlegger. I’m a federal agent!”

  I gasped. “You’re a what?”

  “I’m an agent. I’ve been working undercover at Field’s for months, trying to crack this big liquor-smuggling ring. And now with your help, we’ve done it.”

  “That’s wonderful, but . . . with my help? What did I do?”

  “The hair tonic,” he said. “The trucks. He only dared that risky caper once or twice, so if you hadn’t tipped me off, it might have taken even longer to figure it out.”

  “No.” Gradually the truth dawned in my thick head. “So you’ve been faking all this time? You’re not really a menswear salesman?” He shook his head. “But you have everyone fooled. They all think you sell shirts and ties—and you’re so good at it.”

  “I am good at it.” He shrugged. “I told you, I worked at Gimbel’s. That’s one reason I got chosen for this assignment. I knew how to blend in.”

  A memory edged into my brain. “So that night at the country club, when you were asking the waiter for liquor . . .”

  “Just trying to ferret out whether Mr. Simpson was in on the ring. By the way, he’s not. Staunch teetotaler, all the way. He and the other executives had no idea what was going on, and are cooperating fully in the investigation.”

  “And the gun you wear . . .”

  He winced. “You saw that? You shouldn’t have. My mistake. It’s agency issue.”

  “And that night at the speakeasy . . .”

  “I was there to assist with the stakeout.” He shook his head. “Boy, was I ever surprised to see you there.”

  “Ditto.” I flinched. “Don’t remind me. That was the worst night of my life.”

  “Glad to hear it. I thought you were keeping a secret identity of your own.”

  I’d had enough secrets for one night. “First Dot tells me she’s Reverend Barker’s daughter, and now you’re telling me you’re a federal agent. Next thing you know, Charlie will be telling me he’s actually the Duke of Windsor, slumming among the common folk in disguise. I must admit, it bothers me you’re such a good liar.”

  Peter flinched. “All part of the job.” He rubbed his jaw. “Gotta give ’em credit, using the trucks was a clever trick. Nobody would think twice about seeing a Marshall Field’s delivery truck in a wealthy neighborhood, and a lot of those mansions hide secret liquor stashes behind false walls and things like that.”

  “So tell me about this smuggling ring,” I urged. “If the Field’s bigwigs aren’t in on it, who is?”

  “It’s a branch of an outfit based in New York. Braccio’s the local thug in charge.”

  “Braccio? As in, Luigi Braccio? The terror of the West Side?”

  “Yeah. When I saw you and Dot at his joint that night, I had to wonder if you were involved, too, but you both came up clean.”

  “Came up clean? Heavens. Well, that’s good, I guess.” My head started to pound. “Dot used to sing at Louie Braccio’s club. They were seeing each other, too, until Dot called it off and started dating Charlie.”

  “Smart move on her part. Well, the good news is, Braccio’s locked up. Thanks to you, most of the ring has been apprehended, but unfortunately Braccio’s number two man is nowhere to be found. And it’s somebody you know.”

  “Who?”

  His jaw tightened. “Kurt Steuben.”

  “Kurt, the security guard? You’re kidding.” That snake had no limits. “But I thought you two were buddies.”

  “Only because we were trailing him. I hoped he’d invite me in on the operation, which would have made the whole case a lot easier to crack, but he never did.”

  My stomach roiled as I thought of how I’d allowed Helen to ride on the excursion boat with not only a common lecher, but a dangerous criminal. If it were up to me, she wouldn’t talk to another man until she was thirty-five.

  “There was another insider, too, a woman,” Peter said. “Stella Davenport.”

  “Stella from Fine Jewelry? The redhead?” Peter nodded. My heart gave a little skip. “Is that why I kept seeing you two together? You were spying on her?”

  “Yeah, just trying to get her to inadvertently spill what she knew.” He glanced at me. “You noticed us together? When?”

  “All the time. In the cafet
eria, on the street . . . I thought you two were an item.”

  “That’s good. That’s what people were supposed to think, including her.” He smiled sweetly. “But, nah. Not my type.”

  “Who is your type?” I blurted.

  Before he could answer that shamefully bold question, the El roared overhead, rattling our bones. When it had passed, he spoke again, his voice husky.

  “I think you know the answer to that. I’m crazy about you, Marjorie. Do you understand now why I couldn’t tell you before? I couldn’t risk blowing my cover. My line of work requires certain doors to remain closed, even to people I love.”

  People he loves. My breath caught in my throat. “And I couldn’t risk dating a bootlegger. But in fact, that’s exactly what I did. Or thought I did. Turns out I fell in love with a federal agent. If that doesn’t beat all.”

  “Marjorie.” He took both my hands in his and leaned in as if to kiss me, then backed away. “I need to be sure of one thing,” he said in a low, husky voice. “Is it really me you love . . . or the ghost of Jack Lund?”

  I had to think for a moment. “At first I wanted to be with you because you reminded me of Jack,” I admitted. “But now I know it’s you. Just you.”

  He grinned and leaned toward me. But before his lips touched mine, the tinkling of shattered glass sounded somewhere on the block. His expression darkened. He stood up and pulled me to my feet. “I’m dying to continue this conversation, but we’ll have to pick it up later. Let’s get you inside. Kurt Steuben’s still at large, and we can’t take any chances.”

  “Why would Kurt come after me?”

  “According to the men in custody, apparently you and Kurt had some kind of argument recently.”

  “You could say that.” A fresh wave of anger surged through my chest, remembering how he tried to foist himself on Helen.

  “Could be revenge, could be fear you’ll squeal about what you witnessed in the loading dock. Until we find him, he could be anywhere, and he might be armed. I don’t want you to worry, but don’t open the door to anyone except Dot or Charlie. Or me.”