He Was Her Man

by Sarah Shankman

  She had to know. Suddenly her location seemed terribly important. She grunted and rolled herself over, and she was staring up into the lights. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the glare, and she could see a few details. Could that be stained glass in the ceiling? She made out what looked like the figure of a swimmer in the colored glass. The panel was surrounded by a double crown molding of creamy plaster. You saw this kind of detail in buildings from the twenties, in the lobbies of big hotels. But did either the Palace or the Arlington have a gym? She didn’t know.

  But wait a minute. Today, yesterday, somebody had said something about a gym in Hot Springs. A gym and boxing. She closed her eyes and willed the words back. A gym. Joe Louis himself worked out there. Joe, the Brown Bomber. People in Harlem had danced in the streets when he won the title. What was there today that would make folks do that? Nothing. The days of that kind of joy were long gone. But wait, wait. She was drifting off. She probably had brain damage from that lick on the chin. Now, who had said that about Joe Louis? The voice, yes, that was June talking, June with the skin so rich and smooth it had reminded her of chocolate. They’d been talking about the baths and—yes, that was it. She had it. June had said one of the bathhouses—Sam slid over the name that was out of her grasp, trying not to stop the flow—had been made into a museum, and that was the one with the gym where Joe Louis, and who else, yes, the Dallas Cowboys had trained. The Forsythe. No, Fordyce! She was in the Fordyce Bathhouse!

  Maybe. And maybe she wasn’t. And if she was, so what? She was still trussed, ready for the oven. Or whatever fate the big man had in mind.

  “Mickey, it’s very important for me to know what Doc’s doing in town.”

  What? She could have jumped out of her skin, if she hadn’t been tied up, his voice coming out of the darkness at her like that.

  “I understand that just because you’re partners doesn’t mean you know everything about Doc. But I’m sure you’re in on whatever’s going down here. Just tell me what that is.”

  “I told you, Kris, I don’t know any Doc. And I have to pee something awful.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” He really did sound sorry. “I didn’t think about that. Wait right there.”

  Sure.

  But he wasn’t joking. He was back in a few minutes with a five-gallon stockpot—which made her think. Maybe this wasn’t a bathhouse after all.

  “I’ll untie you, and then I’ll walk away over here and turn my back.”

  “That’s your best offer?”

  “That’s my only offer.”

  “How do you know I won’t hit you in the head with the pot?”

  He laughed. “It’s a thought.”

  The release was sweet even if the cold rim of the pot made her shiver. Too bad she didn’t have any tissue. But maybe she did, in her jeans pockets.

  She asked.

  He held the jeans up, pilfered through the pockets. “I suppose if I were any kind of gentleman, I’d let you do this yourself.”

  “A gentleman wouldn’t have taken my jeans in the first place.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Here, this is all I can find.” He was holding up Harry’s fax, handing it to her.

  She unfolded it and read a line.…sure you’re having a great time there without me, but I…

  “Perfect,” she said.

  18

  DOC WOULD BET that Speed McKay was talking before he had teeth. No way before that. Doc would bet you, any odds you wanted to name, Speed McKay was talking the minute he saw daylight. And not just talking. Giving instructions. “Excuse me, Dr. Obstetrician, I think if you’ll use a sailor’s half-hitch on that suture, you’ll find that it much more efficient in the long run. Now, let me give you a brief rundown on knot-tying. Back at the dawn of time.…”

  Though Speed had made a pretty good chicken salad sandwich while he was explaining how to make Southern fried chicken. Now, while Doc was dealing the cards, Speed had moved on to pigeons.

  “You know what Jack’s taken up? Pigeons. He’s got a slew of ’em over at his place. They’re descendants,” Speed was saying, “of Owney Madden’s birds. You know who I’m talking about, Owney? A little man with the biggest set in New York City, running beer, ’shine, got himself in a pinch with FDR.”

  “You want to skip the history lesson and play cards?” said Doc.

  But Speed, once he was started, wouldn’t or couldn’t stop, unless you hit him with a club. Doc remembered the eyes of racehorses glazing over when Speed talked to them. That’s how long-winded the little man was.

  “It didn’t look good when Governor Roosevelt wanted to run for President, having somebody like Owney full-throttle on his turf. No sir. FDR got the man exiled here to Hot Springs. Now, Owney had raised pigeons from the time he was a boy in Leeds, looked after his dad’s birds. Kept ’em atop the Cotton Club in New York City. Yes, he did. That Owney, did you know at one time he and Frank Costello had a regular flotilla of boats, ships, tugs, they even had some submarines fighting off the Coast Guard, bringing in booze? They used the pigeons to deliver the all-clear signal, so they could off-load those boats.”

  Doc didn’t believe a word of it, even though, actually, Speed was telling the truth.

  “But these birds, that’s what I was talking about,” Speed said, as he picked up the king Doc had just discarded, “they came down from pigeons that Owney was given by Governor Earl Long—one of the Louisiana Longs?”

  Doc turned a queen, which gave him three ladies, a four-card run in clubs, two aces, and a deuce. Two cards in, he could have knocked with four, but why do it? The way he cheated, his gin card would be in the next pull.

  Speed kept the next card he took from the deck, discarded Doc’s winning ace, and said, “Gin.” Four kings, a diamond run, three deuces.

  The little bastard had suckered him even when he’d stacked the deck! How the hell did he do that? Nobody suckered Doc Miller. Nobody.

  Speed scooped up Doc’s 20 bucks, saying, “With your pigeons there’s racers and fancies, you know, the ones you use for aerial shows. Tumblers, what they do is fly straight up, then tumble down. Rollers, you train for flying for distance—up. They go so high you can’t see ’em anymore, then plummet. I’ll tell you, I love those birds. Thoroughbreds and pigeons, they’re better than any broad.”

  The phone rang twice and stopped. Then rang again. Doc picked it up. He said, “She said what? When did you talk with her? Then why did it take you so long to call? What are you saying? I don’t believe it. Listen, get back here. What do you mean, don’t tell you? I’m telling you, something’s screwed up. You get back here, and we’ll talk about it.”

  19

  NOW THEY WERE both sitting on the floor, leaning up against the side of the ring. Sam had promised she wouldn’t try anything if he didn’t tie her up again. He’d brought her a bottle of cold mineral water. She was actually feeling kind of cozy, like he was looking after her. She wondered if Patty Hearst had felt this way when Cinque let her out of the closet.

  He was smoking a cigar. “So how do you know Joey the Horse?” You’d have thought they were sitting across from one another at a sidewalk cafe, on a first date, he rolled the question out so casually.

  She explained how her friend Lavert used to work for Joey as a chef and chauffeur. How Joey had sent Lavert to cooking school in France and Italy, Lavert having picked up his basic culinary skills jailing in Angola, the state penitentiary. She noticed how she left out the part about Lavert being Harry’s best friend and partner.

  “Lavert’s a big black man? About six-five, six-six?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I’ve eaten his grub. The man’s a genius in the kitchen. I’d forgotten about Lavert.” Then, more to himself than to her, “Maybe I could get him to come up here, cook in my place.”

  “Your house, do you mean? Or do you have a restaurant?”

  He didn’t answer that.

  So she said, “I first met Lavert in New Orleans when I was still w
orking for the Atlanta Constitution. I used to be a reporter. Sam Adams, reporter. I still have some business cards in my wallet, if you want to see them. Along with my driver’s license. My Social Security card. You could call the paper, ask them. They’d ID me.” Though the way some of the staff had felt about her by the time she left, they’d probably hang up. Hell, let her rot.

  “A reporter, huh?”

  “Yes, and—” Then she remembered something else. “You know, last night, boy, talk about a small world, I saw somebody else here who knows Lavert. I don’t really know him, but I saw this man, a black man named Early Trulove, who—actually, I think Early used to work for Joey, too. He groomed horses for him. Or worked for Joey’s trainer, I’m not sure.”

  He was staring at her. “Where did you see Early?”

  “At the piano bar in the lobby of the Palace. The same place I saw Mickey, the woman you’ve mistaken me for.”

  “Where were you sitting?” He was getting excited. His face was flushed.

  “Like I said, right at the bar with Early. He was a couple of seats over from me. I was going to speak to him, but he left.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” He stood up.

  “What?”

  He was walking in a circle, shaking his big head. “We got our signals crossed. Jesus! I thought he was fingering, I thought you were the—oh, shit.”

  She was beginning to get the drift. “You were in the Palace lobby last night?”

  He shook his head and nodded at the same time. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Well, listen. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve had a difficult time with the concept, too. Being grabbed out of the parking lot, knocked out, tied up, battered, etc. It hasn’t exactly been a stroll through the park.”

  He wheeled, reached over, and gave her a hand, pulling her up. “Jesus! This is a—” He was brushing off her shoulders.

  “Fuckup. A fuckup of the first water, I’d say.”

  He closed his eyes and pinched his forehead like he had a terrible headache. Then he opened them again, and there it was, that same brilliant blue. He said, “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’ve been telling you for I don’t know how long. Sam. Samantha Adams. But more importantly, who are you? And where the hell are we?”

  “Oh, Christ.” He stuck out a big hand. “Jack Graham. This is the top floor of my restaurant, Bubbles, it’s in the old Quapaw Bathhouse, listen, I can’t tell you how sorry—Jesus, can I—I’ll make this up to you somehow.”

  “Hey. Mistaken identity? Kidnapping the wrong woman? It happens to the best of us. But there’s one thing you can do.”

  “Name it.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  He smiled uncertainly, then shuttered those china blues.

  Sam rolled her neck and shoulders until she felt pretty loose. She softened her knees and danced back a step or two. Then, like he told her, hands up, she pulled back her right, rotating her hips through her swing, and threw all her power behind it. She was bare-handed, so her fist throbbed like crazy after she landed her punch.

  But his nose hurt worse.

  20

  “WHAT?” SAID SPEED, when Doc got off the phone. You could never read the man’s face. He did that stony thing. But he knew Doc had to be fooling around with Mickey, pulling his leg. Or, Speed wondered, maybe they were jerking him off. Pretending something had screwed up, so they could do him out of his third. Well, they could fool around all they wanted to, they were nuts if they thought they were pulling his chain. “So, Doc? Something went wrong?”

  “Nope. Everything’s just hunky-dory.”

  Doc looked like he was figuring out something. Speed didn’t like that. He didn’t like it when Doc was figuring.

  “It sure sounded like something was wrong. You don’t look happy.”

  “I’m telling you it’s nothing. Mickey said the car keeps stalling on her. I tell her all the time, buy a Cadillac, if you want a good car. But, no, she’s got to drive that damned Mercedes.” He poured himself another cup of tea. “Women.”

  “They’re all crazy,” Speed agreed.

  Doc laid a hand on his shoulder. “Did you think I was talking about the deal? Nawh. The deal’s copasetic. Mickey said your girlfriend’s coming through.” Now all of a sudden, he’s wearing this big smile. “Piece of cake, Speed.”

  Speed relaxed. “Right. Piece of cake. That’s what I said from the minute I ran into Mickey at the track, been two, three years since I saw her down in Sarasota, told her about Jinx and her lottery dough, how I’d flimflammed Jinx into thinking I was Mr. Gotrocks, marrying me, but the sticky part being the prenup she wouldn’t back off of.”

  “I know, Speed.” Doc still smiling, but sounding a little impatient. Like he’d heard all this before.

  Well, he had. But that didn’t mean that Speed didn’t like telling it over and over. He liked to talk. Talking helped calm his nerves. And he’d been real nervous since he’d left New Orleans. It hadn’t been pretty, that chapter. What was a guy supposed to do, his whole life he’d been connected, a first cousin to Joey the Horse, who’d given him odd jobs despite the fact that his dad was Irish from Magazine Street—just like Jack Graham. One little screwup, that Lush Life thing, which was all Doc’s fault anyway, and he’s out. Just like that. Like he wasn’t family.

  Joey said it was Speed’s own fault, but Speed didn’t see how he figured it that way. Joey had told him to work with Jack, and Jack had told him to work with Doc, and he figured Doc knew what he was doing. Jesus!

  He went back to his story. “Jinx’d get a big hunk, we divorced. That’s what that prenup paper said.”

  Doc said, “Not that it made the least bit of difference, since you ain’t got the proverbial pot. A big hunk of zilch is zilch.”

  “Hey! I had my hot streaks. But the part that was the kicker, in the case of her death, all her money goes to her kid. That didn’t seem fair to me. Does it seem fair to you? Huh, Doc? I said to Jinx, it’s like you don’t trust me.”

  “Why should she trust you, Speed? You’re only marrying her for the bucks.”

  “Yeah, but I told you she doesn’t know that. I wined her and dined her and danced her and romanced her. Hey, the woman thinks my heart is doing flip-flops. And she’s nuts about me. You never saw a woman so nuts about anybody. She worships the ground beneath my feet. She’d do anything for me.”

  That’s what she’d said. But then, he’d heard those words before. Joey used to slap him on the chops, just playing, and he’d say, Speed, I’d do anything for you. Then when he screwed up that one tiny thing, Joey said, Walk. Walk if you want to live. Just like that. The man was cold.

  Doc said, “Yeah, uh-huh. The woman’d do anything for you except cancel the prenup.” Then he took a long swig of his tea.

  “Yeah, but Mickey, she’s always been a smart girl, she came up with the plan, saw the way around it just like that.” Speed snapped his fingers. “The phony nab. Jinx, she loves my little butt, she’ll cough up the mill for ransom, we split it three ways, we’re outta here. So tell me, what exactly did Mickey say just now, about the money? Said she’s coming through with it, right? Just like we planned. Right? No problemo?”

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

  Speed had been so busy talking, he hadn’t heard the car drive up. But there she was, Mickey, standing in the kitchen door. She wasn’t smiling. You’d think she’d be smiling. Speed turned back to Doc. Doc was smiling. So, it must be like he said, Mickey was on the rag because the Mercedes stalled on her.

  He’d jolly her up. “Hey, I heard about your car. But you got back here all right, right? Bringing us some of the good news, right?”

  “Wrong,” Mickey snapped, swinging into the room. Moving up on him, so close he had to look up to see her face. He hated that. He hated people making him feel short. She was saying, “Wrong, wrong, wrong, Speed. The lady you were so sure about? Your Jinx, the sure thing? Well, little buddy, Jinx said to tell you to go fuck yo
urself. And fuck Doc. And fuck me. We’re all fucked here, Speed. We went to a hell of a lot of trouble, and now we’re coming up with empty.” She flipped her hands palm up.

  Speed turned back to Doc, who was still smiling, Doc, who was strolling over to the counter where Speed had made the chicken sandwiches. Doc, who was picking up the chef’s knife he’d used to chop. Doc, who was strolling back over to the table where the gin hands lay, face up. You could see Speed’s winning hand. He knew Doc didn’t like that.

  But Doc was still smiling. A kind of sharky-looking smile. Not real pleasant. Not the kind that warmed your heart.

  “She’s joking, right?” said Speed, backing away a little. Doc was making him nervous. “Mickey’s just joking.”

  “No joke,” said Doc. Then quick as a wink, Doc reached over and pinned his right hand to the table, reared back with that chef’s knife and hacked off the first joint of his little finger so neatly the horseshoe diamond ring didn’t even fall off.

  He stared down at his finger lying there on the table. He couldn’t believe it. He was spurting blood like a frigging fountain.

  Then he looked up at Mickey. She’d screamed once. Then she’d gone all white around the mouth.

  Now he heard himself yelling at Doc. “What? What the hell’d you do?” The room was moving. “It doesn’t even hurt. I can’t feel a thing.” He looked up at Doc, who was still smiling that awful smile. “Why’d you chop my damned finger off?”

  The con man leaned into his face and crooned, “You know that old saying, don’t you, Speed? Never play cards with a man named Doc?”

  21

  “FONTAINE FONTAINE, WHERE are you?” Lateesha couldn’t believe she was being so bold, standing right in that giant’s yard, hollering out his name. But if he was her cousin June’s husband, it wasn’t like he was going to bite off her arms. Was it?

  From deep inside the house, somebody answered. “Whaddyou want?”

  It didn’t sound like Fontaine. It didn’t sound like anybody she’d ever heard before. Probably the ghost of one of those people who’d died up in the tower. Lateesha shivered in the middle of the afternoon of a warm spring day.