President Roosevelt looking a lot younger; the Empire State Building going up in record time. Those men on those girders! Sad photos of farmers losing their homes, and World War I veterans living in shantytowns.
And then I hit stories that sent a chill up my back. Right here in New York there were real Nazis. Used to be. The Bund, they called it. I didn’t know that. I was just a kid then, more concerned with saving pennies to buy comic books and staying on the nuns’ good side.
Now those Nazi symbols made me sit up straight and look for more stories.
They had a giant rally in Madison Square Garden a little before the war began. How was that possible? And I wasn’t a little girl then. I was in high school, in my own little bubble, I guessed, not caring about current events.
I paged through the photos from the rally, a new chill running down my spine. On the next page, there was a photo of a row of men saluting. In uniform. Shouting “Heil, Hitler!” They looked just like the Nazis in Germany we know now, too well, from newsreels.
The article said the organization fell apart when the war started, and their leader went to jail for some kind of fraud. But still. The enemy we were fighting so hard, giving our all, used to be right here, just a few miles from where I sat.
I looked again, and then the chill hit my whole body. I thought I saw Donelly in the front row.
Now this was when Mayor LaGuardia told us, often, to be on the alert for spies. In my house, whatever LaGuardia said was law.
He wasn’t just trying to scare us, either. Volunteers patrolled the Long Island beaches, looking for U-boats offshore, and shockingly, they found some. A team of spies had been arrested in Manhattan. Posters everywhere reminded us about loose lips sinking ships. Actually, there was a reminder of it any day at work I happened to look up. The bridge was covered along the sides so no spy could look down and see the battleships and aircraft carriers we were building right there. We were building. We, including me.
And there he was, Donelly, working right next to me, seeing it all. And I realized, with my heart beating faster and faster, I had told him all about my brothers and cousins. Where they were. What they were doing.
Maybe the picture wasn’t him. Maybe I was hysterical. Maybe I was just playing I was Nancy Drew. I was only eighteen. I still had all my Nancy Drews under my bed.
I took a deep breath. If I had blabbered to a wrong guy, it was my mess and it was up to me to fix it. I straightened my shoulders. I’d start by keeping a sharp eye on him. I could try to talk to him more. Maybe this fake friendship could work both ways. And I took that magazine with me.
With wide, innocent eyes, I confided in him that while I supported my brothers, I did not understand why we fought with Germany and Italy. The Germans were so civilized. Look at Beethoven! And Italy was my family’s own country.
I forced myself to say the lies, looking right into his eyes.
“Yeah, it’s tough,” he said. “I’m half-German myself. Pretty strange to be at war with the homeland.”
For a minute, I forgot he was not really my friend and laughed. “My nona told my brother Frankie that if he got to Naples with the Army, he should look up Uncle Leo. She gave him the address, too. Honest.”
“You think he’s going to Italy?”
And that’s when I knew.
A few days later he gave me something. It was a badly printed pamphlet, all about why we fight. Yeah, well, I knew why. We all did. But this said we shouldn’t be fighting and that we had the wrong friends.
“Maybe this will clear up some of your questions,” was all he said.
But it didn’t clear up anything. It was confusing and…honestly?…what I got from it made me feel creepy. Dirty. And scared. Who was he, for real?
Did I need to tell someone like Yard security? Or the FBI! I had a duty. But what if…? What if it’s all innocent, and the photo was not him, and I got a coworker in trouble for no reason? What then?
Before I told anyone, I decided I would have to get some proof. I followed him for a few nights to see what he was up to. I stuffed a light jacket in my work gear, so I could put on something different and blend into crowds, and a cute cloche hat that sort of hid my face.
First night, home to a Brooklyn boardinghouse. Next night, home. Next night, a movie, alone, Humphrey Bogart in All Through the Night, at a run-down theater near his home. What a boring life he led.
Then one night after our shift, he got on a whole series of trains and I had to work hard to keep up. We came back out to a sidewalk in Yorkville. That’s a long way from home. In fact I had never been there.
I had to ignore the fragrant German bakeries and restaurants I passed, keeping my eyes firmly on Donelly. It would have been a whole lot easier if he hadn’t covered his red hair with a gray fedora but I managed to track him weaving through the crowds on the sidewalks.
Finally, he went into a little café, a dump, really, on a little side street, and sat in the back. I muttered bad words to myself, ’cause there was no way I could follow him in and not get spotted. No way I could explain being so far from home.
I stood in front, trying to look casual and…what’s that long word? Nonchalant. Too bad there was no bus stop to explain my loitering.
People went in and out, but not many. I got some funny looks from passersby, but most were just hurrying home from work, coming off the Second Avenue El.
Then someone showed up who looked vaguely familiar, a middle-aged man, in a suit, carrying a German newspaper. Well, that was not so unusual. It was Yorkville, the German-American part of the city. But. But.
I pulled my hat way down and took a quick peek in the window, trying to see if he met someone.
Another man went in and I saw, with another quick peek, that they sat with Donelly and seemed deep in discussion. A meeting of some kind.
By then, I started to be scared. I turned, fast, and walked toward the El. I didn’t know if it was the best way to get home and I didn’t care. It was the nearest. I could disappear, fast, into a packed car.
My hat went into my bag; I shook my hair loose and added a little beret. My light jacket was exchanged for the one that matched my skirt. I almost ran up the steps to the train, and then, safe in the crowded car, I took the magazine out and saw what I was hoping not to see. There were the faces of the two men who went into the café. I dropped the magazine as if it burned my fingers, and didn’t relax at all until I was home.
The next day Vito and I worked the same shift for the first time in a while. He came by the house every morning to walk me to the trolley. Because I couldn’t possibly find my way there alone. Right.
But the truth? Sometimes a girl needs a big brother, and he was the only one of mine that was around.
So I told him I was scared of Donelly.
He turned red and said, “What did he try? I’ll kill him if he did anything!”
“No. Golly. You think the neighborhood boys don’t have extra hands? I can take care of that. No. Something different.”
And I spilled everything. Even my Yorkville trip.
He grabbed me and just about shook me right there on the sidewalk.
“What the…?” He stopped, took a deep breath, tried to get control. “What the heck do you think you were doing? Don’t you know those guys are dangerous?”
“It was a public street! Not too late! Plenty of people coming from work! I’m not a baby, ya know.”
He took his hands down. “You’re an ignorant kid. They were like a mob, the Bund. People got beat up. You gotta stop these games.”
“It’s not a game. And I need to tell the FBI.” I may have weakened the impact, when I added, “So there.”
He just said, “You leave it alone. I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”
What could he do? I asked myself. Nothing. I was going to ignore him.
I tried my wide-e
yed innocent approach again with Donelly. I was interested in his pamphlet, I said. I needed to get more understanding, I said. I hated myself, but I did it. Playing a part, like Barbara Stanwyck.
And he bit.
“Let’s take in a drink after work, okay? I know a nice quiet bar, real near. Serious talk and a coupla beers?”
Yes, I said. Sure, I said. I even choked out a “Looking forward.” He smiled and walked away, not soon enough or far enough for me.
I went, though. Of course I did. Cleaned up after our shift as well as I could. Bundled the coveralls into a shopping bag. Put on my high heels and some lipstick. Took off my headscarf and brushed my curls back in, took a deep breath and said a prayer.
We walked up Flushing Avenue toward the bars that clustered outside the Yard, but then he turned up a tiny side street. What the heck? It looked dark and empty. I was surprised, but he said, “It’s not far and I know the owner.”
I couldn’t see a single store, bar, restaurant. In fact, the street seemed empty even of people. Just as I was getting nervous, he grabbed my arm, very tight. “What are you up to?”
I wasn’t faking my surprise.
He repeated it and I stuttered something.
“I saw you following me. What the hell? So either you’ve got a hell of a crush on me, or you are one nosy little girl.”
“Yes, yes.” I tried to remember how to do the wide-eyed look. “A crush. Yes.” I stammered it out. “Maybe it was immature of me to follow, but I…I wanted to be near…”
He grinned. Not a nice grin. “You’re crazy about me? Yeah? So here we are, alone in the dark.” He was edging me toward an empty, overgrown lot. “So prove it, baby.” One arm was tight around me, and the other hand was where I sure didn’t want it. As he dragged me down behind the bushes he muttered in my ear, “You think I don’t know? I saw that magazine. I know what you’re up to.” His grip got tighter with every word. “I faithfully serve the Fatherland, you stupid American child.”
What could I do? I did just what my brothers taught me.
My high heel into his instep, a knee where it would hurt the most. And when he doubled over, I hit him with my purse, where they made me keep a metal screwdriver, just in case I needed a weapon sometime when I worked the night shift.
He screamed, staggered back, tripped, and fell. And then he was very quiet. The only sound was my hard breathing.
I was shaking and couldn’t think. Running away felt like a good idea but my legs seemed to have turned into spaghetti.
I couldn’t hear his breathing at all. Was he knocked out? Dead? I sure wasn’t getting close enough to check.
I have no idea how long I was there. Time seemed to stop. The next sound I heard was my name, a whisper.
It was Vito.
I turned and fell into his arms, sobbing. He patted my back and said, “You gotta stop crying and tell me what happened.”
I did my best to explain. He stepped fearlessly to the body on the ground, bent over, checked things and turned back to me. “He’s dead. Looks like he hit his head on this little wall here.”
“He’s dead? I killed him? I…”
“You were defending yourself.”
He was calm about it. I was not.
“We have to do something. Something. Call the police. Call…I don’t know…”
“Are you crazy? He’s dead. He had it coming. Leave this to me.”
“No, but…”
“Leave this to me! I’m going to hide him now under these bushes, make a few calls for help at the first booth I find, and get you on a trolley. Can you get home? Don’t talk to anyone! Don’t even look at anyone! Be invisible. You got that?”
I was shaking too hard to argue. I got it. I got myself home, I let myself in, crawled into bed without waking anyone, and that was that.
Donelly didn’t show up to work the next day, and no one knew what to do about it, but we were a good team. We did our work without his supervision and the next day, there was a new foreman.
At Sunday dinner, Vito gave me a look over the roast chicken that said as loud as words, “Keep quiet about that night.” And then he said, “Pass the gravy my way.” So I did. Passed the gravy and kept quiet.
There were always rumors at the Yard. Sure, it was the size of a small city but people know people, made friends, had family, dated. There was one going around, that another ship with dead sailors was in dry dock.
Everyone who heard about it was horrified at what those poor young men went through. Anyone with a sailor brother, like me, couldn’t get it out of their heads. That’s why it took me several days to connect it to Vito saying, “I’ll take care of it.”
When I confronted him, he denied everything. He’d never helped me that night. He’d never disposed of Donelly’s body. We’d never been on that lonely street. He especially denied the second rumor, that they found a body in the ship’s hold that was not weeks old, was not decayed, was not dressed, had no ID.
Some of the guys on our team wondered about Donelly’s sudden disappearance. They asked the higher-ups, who had no answers for them. The answer I had, I kept to myself. I didn’t go up the official chain; I had a friend who worked in the security office.
She said the body they found didn’t match Donelly’s fingerprints, but that his fingerprints on record didn’t match his name. She couldn’t explain it, she just overheard it. Kind of overheard. Through an eager ear at an office door not quite closed, was what I guessed.
I tried to tell Vito all of this, and pry some answers out of him, but he just shook his head.
“Sometimes a brother has to watch out for his kid sister. Ya know? You better leave it at that.”
A Fox in the Hand
Tina Whittle
I made my first trip to Arizona in 2011 for a book signing at The Poisoned Pen, my very first ever signing for my very first ever published novel, The Dangerous Edge of Things. I’m a Georgia girl, born and raised, a child of red clay and cotton fields. The stark deserts and looming mountains and hot dry air were a revelation, as alien as the moon, as exotic as Xanadu. But the people were familiar, as welcoming as any front porch.
I’ve been back to Arizona many times since, to Scottsdale and Phoenix and Flagstaff and Sedona. I’ve hiked those mountains and watched the sun sink in those deserts. And even though my kudzu-entangled heart remains true to the South, something about Arizona always feels like a homecoming.
—T.W.
***
The cards were printed on heavy paper, not card stock, and were as delicate and crisp as toast. A genuine Lenormand deck, not a reproduction—circa 1840, I was guessing—and in excellent condition. The antiques dealer two doors down had picked them up at an estate sale and, being the thoughtful chap he was, had decided to offer them to me for what he’d paid. I’d thanked him with a polished citrine hand mala and cleared a spot for the cards in the display counter.
But as I opened the case, the sun caught in the beveled front window of the shop and dappled the cards in my hand. Even through my white cotton gloves, I could feel their energy, layered and potent. Warm.
I got a little prickle. These cards had belonged to somebody who knew what they were doing.
So I took off the gloves and worked with the cards skin to skin, turning the deck facedown and cutting it into three piles. Without invitation, Pythagoras sprang lightly onto the counter and tucked himself into a neat Siamese sit, as precise as a guru. He knew better than to touch, but he put his face right at the middle stack and gave a good sniff. I turned the card over.
“Well,” I said, “that’s a fine start to things.”
The Nine of Clubs. The Little Fox. It warned of close-by treachery and guile, and wasn’t exactly the most reassuring card in the deck. But Lenormand decks worked in patterns, not singularities. And the shop was empty except for Py, and he was a big mars
hmallow, so I didn’t see anything to worry about.
At that moment, however, the front door jingled open, and I looked up to see Officer William Davis easing his way inside. He always carried himself tentatively, but respectfully, as if he were afraid he might knock over a potion.
I put my new cards away and smiled. “Good morning, Will.”
He ducked his blond head to keep from crashing into a crystal sun catcher. “Morning, Callie.”
As usual, his energy was contained and latent, the deep strength of rocks and old trees. But his landscape had shifted since I’d last seen him, some internal tectonics. A fracture line, vibrating.
He inhaled. “What’s brewing today?”
“A nice Ecuadorian dark roast. Would you like some?”
He nodded. William was new to the Metro police, new to Savannah, new even to the South. He’d grown up in an insular Vermont hamlet, though, so he was comfortable navigating the eccentricities of a small town. And Savannah was a small town, a fact sometimes lost on transplants. But Will knew not to let the tour buses fool him. He walked his squares every morning, from Troup to Pulaski and up to Chippewa, and he knew to call everyone on his beat by their first name…once they’d given him permission, of course.
He also knew where he was likely to get a free cup of coffee. I reached for the mug I kept for him under the front counter.
“You’re late today,” I said, and poured to the brim.
He put in a scant teaspoon of sugar and stirred. “I’ve been on a call this morning.”
There was something in the way he said it, with his eyes on the coffee, not on me. I refilled my own mug, giving him time.
“And I guess that’s why I’m here now,” he continued. “I guess this is a professional call. Ma’am.”
Bound by Mystery Page 44