The Hour of the Cat

by Peter Quinn

  “Few years later, I would have known what to do and done it pronto. But I was a kid. Immediately after the baby was born, she was sent to the Foundling Hospital, which Wilfredo had arranged, and then it was over. Wilfredo and the baby were gone.” She leaned back her head, as if to see the stars. Dunne took another cigarette from the cylinder, lit it. and handed it to her. She took a long drag, then looked down and exhaled. “Did the stars already tell you any of this?” she said.

  “Once I figured out why you were so hot to keep Elba from the clutches of the good-time Charlies, the outline was pretty clear.” Dunne glanced up at the stars. It was a story repeated an endless number of times in an endless number of places. The philosopher-types called it “the human condition,” which didn’t quite describe the disparities in the way the worst parts of that condition were handed out, nor dull the pain when you got more than your share. In that case, Dunne knew, a cigarette offered more instant solace than any philosopher.

  After a final puff, she rubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Where was I?”

  “Alone.”

  “Alone, yes, and faced with having to support myself, which I managed. I never imagined I’d hear from Wilfredo again, but he wrote me from Cuba and not just a now-and-then note. I got a stream of apologetic, remorseful letters. He sent me money but I sent it back. I told him to stop writing, told him I was working as a hooker and what I needed was clients, not pity. He stopped. Unfortunately, he’s always been an incurable idealist. He also has a compassionate heart. Unknown to me, he arranged to have the baby brought to Cuba and raised by his aunt as a cosseted, privileged convent girl. That lasted until the political situation destroyed their privacy and safety.

  “Meantime, I’d done what most desperate, lonely girls do. I got married. He was a shining prince, a decorated doughboy, blonde, blue-eyed, and full of fun. We moved to his hometown of Hartford. It wasn’t long before I discovered the prince was a frog. Second time he knocked me around, I was on the next train back to New York. Looked up Lenny Moss when I got back. Fixed me with a job right away.”

  “Noticed right off that when you mentioned his trial, you left out he was a pimp,” Dunne said.

  “He never hit a girl or held anybody against her will.”

  “A regular Francis of Assisi.”

  “Compared to Charlie Luciano he was.”

  “How long you work for Lenny?”

  “Not long. Set myself up in a couple of different houses. The madams were sensible and businesslike. Knew most of the girls were there only until they got the money to do something else. Some were on the greedy side, for sure, but there was no strong-arm stuff, and they always provided a doctor or a lawyer if you needed one.”

  The maître d’ stood by as a waiter brought their dinner. Dunne ordered another bottle of wine, which was quickly delivered.

  “That’s when Lucky Luciano elbowed his way in?”

  “Luciano and his crew ran over the madams, pimps, girls, all of us, forced us into one big combine and squeezed the life out of everyone, especially the girls, and when there was no work left in them, tossed them into the street, or into the river.”

  “You were working for Rita Vander at the time?”

  “You remember Rita?”

  “Remembered the name soon as I saw it on your sheet. She was murdered not long after I left the police department. Case was never solved.”

  “Murdered is too nice a description. Rita was tortured and mutilated. She’d run one of the best houses in the city and took guff from no one. When the combine moved in, she threatened to make a stink. Next day, they found her floating hog-tied in the East River with her tongue cut out. Nobody had to be told who was responsible, but somehow the police managed to be baffled and left it unsolved.”

  “That’s when you went out on your own?”

  “I probably should have applied to medical school, but despite all I’d learned about anatomy, I figured they still wouldn’t take me. At first, myself and a few other girls simply dropped out of sight. I kept thinking about how to make the system work for us instead of the other way around. Figured out that if we set up ourselves as a system of independent operators, pooling a part of our money to retain a doctor, a lawyer, and our own central booking service, we could protect ourselves as well as keep the largest share of the profits. It would require being highly discreet, sticking to a select list of customers, preferably businessmen, and only taking those recommended by at least two other customers, but I was confident we could pull it off.

  “We built up a dependable clientele. One or two of the girls got scared and ran back to the combine, but they never ratted on us. Before long we had a very nice business. Couple of the girls even married their clients. An executive at Time Inc. A congressman. By their own decision, the girls decided to give me an extra cut of the profits for overseeing the operation. The only customer I kept was my first, Clem Babcock. The money was good and, believe it or not, I was afraid I’d hurt him if I ended our arrangement. Funny thing is, now I suspect he kept seeing me for the same reason.”

  “When did Wilfredo show up again?”

  “Two-and-a-half years ago. A phone call out of the blue. Thought it might be a joke at first, a heavily accented voice asking for Rosalinda Dorsch.”

  “How’d he find you?”

  “Part luck, part effort. Wilfredo was a steady customer of the West Side cathouses. He knew I was in the business. I’d written him that much. He kept asking the girls he was with if they’d ever heard of Rosalinda Dorsch. One day, bingo, he found a girl named Lina Linnet, who had.”

  “That’s when he told you about Elba?”

  “We arranged to meet at the Bickford’s on 34th and Eighth. I didn’t recognize him when he walked in, a bloated man in an ill-fitting suit, so unlike the Wilfredo I remembered. The real shock was to hear about our daughter, and the kicker came when he told me that because of the political situation in Cuba, he’d brought her to New York. Had her in a Catholic girls’ college in the Bronx but couldn’t afford to keep her there and, besides, she wanted to get out on her own and open a dress shop.”

  “So you gave the money to Wilfredo to set her up in her shop?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then became a customer and had your associates buy their clothes there too.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice work if you can get it.”

  “At the start it was a charade, yet Elba ran a first-class business and built her own clientele. First time I saw her, I was struck by how much she looked like Wilfredo. Over time, as I came to know her, I saw how ambitious she is, how determined to make her own way, how sure that if she persists, things will turn out all right.” She paused and rubbed the edge of her wine glass with her index finger. “I was like that once.”

  The maître d’ reappeared to inquire if there was something wrong with the food they’d barely touched. They cut into their steaks. He poured more wine. They ate in silence for a few minutes before Roberta put down her knife and fork and wiped her lips with her napkin. “There’s not a chance Wilfredo did what he’s been convicted of. I’ve been with every kind of man, good, bad, the worst. Wilfredo was always a gentleman, and though he drank, he was one of the few who, the more he had, the quieter and more passive he became. The prosecution painted him as half man, half animal, and the reporters’ only interest was in hurrying him along to the electric chair.”

  “Wilfredo helped in that regard.”

  “He wants to die out of shame at the monster the papers pictured him as.”

  “He’s close to getting his wish.”

  “Elba can’t let go. She’s been torn apart by this. She hired one detective who took her money and tried to take her to bed. I straightened him out and got her money back. Then he disappeared.”

  “‘Disappeared’?” Dunne pretended to look shocked.

  “Left town. Leave it at that.”

  “And you figured me for another?”

  “I hoped you w
eren’t. It was as though fate sent you. There I am, standing at my window, waiting for Clem to show up, and I’m staring at this Joe on a bench across the street. He’s taken off his hat and is soaking up the sun. I felt as if I knew him from somewhere. Soon as Clem pulls up, he’s got his hat back on and is scratching on a notepad. Next week, same time, same story.”

  “So you turned the table and tailed me? I still find that hard to swallow.”

  “It was a cinch, really. I knew you’d never suspect a woman of following you. The moment I saw the name Fintan Dunne on the building directory, it fell in place. That cop from Lenny Moss’s trial. That well-built Irish cop with the wavy black hair and sky-blue eyes. The one who told the truth. Not easy to forget a mick like that.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Babcock he was being tailed?”

  “I planned to. That’s the day he didn’t show.”

  “And the day you sent Elba to see me.”

  “As soon as his secretary called with the news about Clem, I sent Elba to see you. I thought you’d be looking for new clients. I wanted her to get there before anyone else.”

  The Ernie Carero Orchestra was in place on the grandstand, a dozen Latin men, brown and good-looking, in white dinner jackets with red carnations in their lapels. Carero, the band-leader, came to the microphone. “This first song,” he said, “is for everyone who’s ever been in love, or is in love now, or wants to be.” He turned to the band, tapped his baton rhythmically on the music stand and the orchestra began to play. A crooner with slicked-back hair and a pencil mustache replaced him at the microphone.

  He sang in a soft, understated voice, carefully articulating each word. An invitation to embrace until the tune ends, to waltz in the wonder of why we’re here, to dance in the dark because time is the enemy of love and it soon ends, erasing everyone, we’re here and we’re gone.

  Only one couple was on the dance floor. Carero returned to the microphone. “Come on, folks, where are all the lovers? Don’t tell me they’re all upstairs gambling!”

  “Let’s dance,” Roberta said.

  “Not exactly the dancing type,” Dunne said.

  “Tonight you are.” She led him onto the floor, put an arm around his shoulder, and slipped her other hand into his. “Relax,” she said. “That’s the only secret there is to dancing. Listen to the music and follow me.” He looked down at her feet.

  “Forget your feet. Look at me.”

  He followed her graceful direction, the sure push of her body against his. The dance floor filled up. “There,” Carero said after the next chorus. “I knew we had an audience full of lovers.”

  The singer held the microphone in a close embrace, one hand on the stand, the other on the head, a dreamy gaze in his eyes, as if he’d found the light of a new love to brighten up the night, a mate with whom to face the music together, a lover for this night and all the nights to come, dancing in the dark, dancing in the dark, dancing in the dark.

  From the second floor of the Riviera, where the gamblers were busier than ever at the gaming tables, came a cheer and a burst of applause. “Sounds like somebody hit the jackpot,” Roberta said. “It must be his lucky night.”

  “Must be.”

  They danced until their dessert was served. Roberta asked him about his life. “As soon as I get around to writing my autobiography, I’ll see you get a copy,” he said.

  She smiled. “Or maybe I’ll just wait until they make it into a movie.”

  He changed the subject, talking instead about meeting Wilfredo and his visit to Miss Lynch’s apartment. He took the key he’d found beneath the highboy from his pocket and placed it on the table. “I think this is why Miss Lynch was killed,” he said. “The murderer strangled her to death as he tried to force out of her where it was. Raped and stabbed her to make it look like a crime of passion. Probably cut her open to see if she might have swallowed it.”

  Roberta moved her chair back, putting an extra bit of space between herself and the key. “Any idea what it might unlock?”

  “Maybe the motive for murder. I won’t know until I find it.”

  A valet brought the car around to the front of Ben Marden’s. Roberta seemed sleepy and asked Dunne to drive. As he got in the driver’s seat, he noticed the gas gauge was almost on empty. He stopped at a station in Fort Lee. Roberta’s eyes were closed. He rolled up his window and went to the men’s room. Above the cracked and reeking urinal was a padlocked dispensing machine. THE YOUNG RUBBER CORPORATION OF CLEVELAND, OHIO. SOLD FOR THE PREVENTION OF DISEASE ONLY. He shook free the last few drops and buttoned his fly. The first time he used a condom was in France. The mademoiselle had to show him how to put it on. She laughed and said something in French about Americans that he guessed wasn’t intended as praise.

  Back in the car, the fragrance of Roberta’s perfume was overwhelming, a scent different from Lily’s, less sweet but no less alluring. He put his window down and started the engine. On the other side of the George Washington Bridge, he exited onto the Henry Hudson Parkway and drove north. Roberta stayed asleep and didn’t notice that they were traveling away from Brooklyn. He turned off the Parkway, followed a winding road through Fort Tryon Park to the Cloisters, and steered into the parking lot on the west side of the building. The sole empty space was next to a large white sign with black lettering:PARK HERE ONLY WHILE ENJOYING THE VIEW. NO PLAYING OF RADIOS OR CONSUMPTION OF ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES ALLOWED.

  He tapped her gently. She woke and looked around. “Where are we?”

  “Fort Tryon Park, the Cloisters. Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”

  He got out and opened the door for her. They sat on the low stone wall that faced the river. A few other couples sat on the wall, enjoying the light breeze. Radios played softly in several of the cars. In the rear of the lot, close to the looming tower of the Cloisters, a row of cars was tucked deep into the shadows. Satisfied with what they had, cool night air, stars, river, the moonlight on it, bodies at rest content to stay at rest, none of the river gazers bothered to peer or intrude.

  He lit a cigarette and offered her one. She held hers to his, sucking on it until the tip flared red. She took his hand, and they sat watching the Hudson River in silence.

  To the left, the bridge spanned the moon-streaked river, a looming latticework of steel and cable that was at once massive and graceful. South of the bridge was Palisades Amusement Park. Its searchlights played across the night sky as though it were the roof of a vast tent. From below came the steady thrum of tires on asphalt that could be mistaken for the faint echo of Palisades Park, a drone of laughter and screams, the monotone exhilaration of crowds sharing the same fright or thrill.

  By the time they got back in the car, the lights across the river had been turned off and the park seemed to have magically disappeared. “You can drive to your place,” Roberta said. “I’ll take it from there.”

  He drove down Broadway. She was asleep again in a few minutes. He decided to let her sleep, drive her home to Brooklyn, and take a cab back.

  As they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, the horizon shaded toward blue. It was the moment Dunne enjoyed most when he’d worked the nightshift on homicide, the city momentarily balanced between night and day. Partygoers, bakers, printers, cops, office cleaners, insomniacs out of necessity or choice were getting into bed as the city’s sleepers started to put aside the covers, stretching, scratching, trying either to remember or forget their dreams: a pause in the day’s routine, when even the crime rate fell.

  Dunne looked in the rearview mirror. A black sedan was some distance behind, two men in the front seat. He switched on the radio. A cheery voice hawked Ivory Soap, as a xylophone mimicked the happy ascent of soap bubbles. He slowed down. The sedan slowed too. He made a sharp left onto Atlantic Avenue, running a red light, and pulled over on Flatbush Avenue in front of Bickford’s Cafeteria, which was brightly lit and filled with early-morning customers.

  Roberta woke with a confused look on her face. “What’s going on?”r />
  The sedan pulled up behind them. Both men got out. They flanked the car. The one on Dunne’s side produced a badge and said, “I’m Agent Lundgren of the FBI.”

  “Didn’t know the FBI was in charge of red lights,” Dunne said.

  Another sedan pulled up behind the first. Two more FBI-types got out. One of them reached in, unlocked Dunne’s door, and swung it open. “Please step out slowly.” He cuffed Dunne’s hands behind his back. Another agent did the same to Roberta. The agents hustled them into the backseat of the second car. Dunne leaned forward. The handcuffs were tight and uncomfortable. Agent Lundgren got in the passenger seat. When Dunne complained about the cuffs, Lundgren stepped outside. Dunne whispered to Roberta the address of Cassidy’s Bar. “Call me there,” he said. “No place else.”

  Camera around his neck, Sniffles Ott stood a few feet away as Lundgren adjusted Dunne’s cuffs. “Made my night, Fin. Here’s me sippin’ a cup of coffee, thinkin’ I wasted a whole shift without takin’ a single worthwhile snap, and who rolls up to get himself arrested but you’se!” He readied his camera to take a picture.

  Lundgren put his hand in front of the lens. “I’d ask that you stop, or I’ll be required to detain you for interfering with an arrest by the FBI.”

  “G-men? What’d you do this time, Fin, rob a bank?”

  “Worse, I ran a red light.”

  “That’s a federal offense?”

  Dunne inclined his head toward Lundgren. “Ask him.”

  Sniffles had his camera in position again. Lundgren put Dunne back in the car and aimed a finger at Sniffles. “I tell you to desist, I mean desist. Try again, I’ll confiscate the camera.”

  Once Lundgren was in the passenger seat, the agent who took the wheel made a U-turn and headed down Flatbush, toward Manhattan. Lundgren used the hand receiver on the two-way radio to report that “the suspects had been successfully apprehended” and that they should be “returned shortly.” As they merged into the traffic headed for the Brooklyn Bridge, he swiveled around and rested his left arm on the back of the front seat.