Settling again she asked quietly, “Did she suffer? I hope not.”
“Not much. It was her heart. It gave out.” He looked at her, composed again. “How is Amos?”
Her boss in the detective agency, Amos Haddam, was a scraggly old Brit. His health was compromised during the war, the first one, by mustard gas. “Still ticking. Looks like hell though.”
“That’s nothing new.” Amos liked Harvey, and often asked about him like Harvey’s mother apparently did about her. She thought about Joe then, guiltily, as if she’d forgotten what had happened over the last two weeks. She concentrated on his face, his blond hair and bullish neck. She crossed her fingers in her lap. He would come home, whatever she felt about him. She would answer every letter, no matter what.
“This snow is something, isn’t it?” she said. There was nothing to see now, just blackness and their reflected faces on the windowpane. Harvey nodded at her in the glass, their eyes meeting. Why had she broken up with him? Or did he end things? She couldn’t remember. Harvey was her first stand-up boyfriend, the sort of man who fought for people, for the right things, for truth. The kind of man she never thought she deserved, a strong, brave man, a good man. She remembered how he discovered their neighborhood stiff was a ragtime piano player and how Harvey got him banging the ivories out in the street. Now that was a day.
Fifteen minutes of silence before he got up the nerve to ask. “So who’s the lucky fella?”
“We met on a case. The girl who died on the tracks in October. Do you remember that one?”
“Sort of. She got her leg cut off?”
“There was freezing rain that night and it was slippery. She was walking along the tracks, that was the guess. She fell, or something, and the train ran over her leg. She bled out.”
“How old?”
“Sixteen. Her name was Blanche Forsythe. She was his sister. Joe, that’s his name.”
“Joe Forsythe. Nope, I don’t know him.”
“You wouldn’t. He works — worked at the stockyards.” His odor was his legacy. If she never saw Joe again, if he never came back from the war, she’d always remember his smell. “Blanche, believe it or not, worked in a laundry as a bleacher.”
“Blanche the bleacher? Sounds like a chorus girl.” He smiled then winced. “Sorry. Rest in peace, Blanche.”
“She walked to work along the tracks most days, even though she wasn’t supposed to. It was the fastest way from their house to the laundry. But it was a Sunday morning when it happened. So the cops figured she was walking to church.”
“Let me guess. The church was the other direction.”
“Righty-o, as Amos would say. But the cops didn’t care. By the time they found her there was no evidence. The freezing rain had turned to regular rain, washing down the scene.”
“So Joe asked you to look into it. And what did you find, madam shamus?”
“Not much at first. Lots of legwork, not many answers.”
“But you didn’t give up, not you. Let me guess how it went. You looked for a boyfriend first.”
“Well, after I talked to everyone at the laundry, at home, and at church, yes. She was in school the year before and there was a boyfriend from school. He didn’t know anything, hadn’t seen her for months.”
“Scratch boyfriend number one. On to number two.”
“How’d you know? Seems nights when her folks thought she was at some knitting circle she was over on the wrong side of town.”
“She had a boyfriend of a different color?” Harvey raised his eyebrows dramatically. “How modern.”
“Not everybody thought it was a good idea. In fact nobody did. The boyfriend is a sort of man-about-town. You might know him.” She paused. “Winslow Jones.”
“The actor?”
“And theater owner, and club impresario. Winslow has fingers in a lot of pies.”
“And a lot of women, I hear.”
“He’s a handsome man.” Winslow Jones was more than handsome, he was the sort of smooth-talking dandy mothers worry about and daughters dream about. Six-foot-two with a pencil-mustache and made hair, a broad chest, yellow eyes, and dancing hips, Winslow had no shortage of admirers.
“Who knew about them? Her parents?”
“They’re good Christian folk. She had them fooled. But Blanche got herself dolled up and swanned over to his clip joint a couple times. Where some of Winslow’s other women got a good gander.”
“Isn’t he married?”
“The wife was one of the dames at the club. A good old cat-fight, they say.”
“The wife pushed her under the train?”
“Not so fast, slick. Winslow runs some hotcha girls out of the club. You know the type.”
He grinned. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Uh-huh. There’s one you might have heard of. A real fancy girl, Lola Champagne. That’s her stage name.”
“Lola Champagne. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“She’s a fan dancer. Big feathers, coupla baubles, and not much else.” He was grinning again. “I see you’re familiar with her work. I don’t get to burlesque joints very often.”
“Me neither. Feathers make me nostalgic. Or allergic.”
“Lola was supposed to work that night. She did her act then she met her customer at his table. I could tell you the name of her customer, he was pretty open with me. But he’s in — government work.” She whispered that last bit. “Confidential.” She crossed her heart with a finger. Her lips were sealed. The assistant district attorney had threatened her with jail-time on her old warrant if she blabbed his name.
“A public servant? How shocking.”
The brakes of the train squealed loudly and they were thrown forward. Harvey put his arm across to brace Dorie. Her collar bone bumped his elbow. The train screeched and came to a stop. Around them in the car passengers groaned, tossed and waking up and cross about it. A suitcase tipped off the rack and landed on a man’s bald head. That caused a ten-minute ruckus. Harvey helped calm down the duffer, offering to go get ice from the club car for his bump. The man refused, taking his broken head down there himself.
When Harvey sat down again, Dorie had scooted into his window seat. “Want it back? There’s nothing to see but acres of white.”
He demurred, pulling his overcoat around him again and tightening his wool scarf. “It’s freezing in here. Got gloves?” Dorie found her old brown leather gloves in her pockets and slipped them on. They were thin, useless as tits on a rooster. She plunged her hands into her coat pockets. At least she’d worn trousers. They could see their breath now, clouds of winter circling their heads.
“You think there’s snow on the track?”
“Or cattle. Or both.”
They sat contemplating the situation, feeling colder by the minute. After a long pause when nothing seemed to be happening to get the train going, Harvey reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a flask. “A little hooch for what ails ya?”
Dorie unscrewed it and drank, feeling the liquor burn then warm her feet and hands. “I feel better already.” Harvey took a pull and slipped the flask back inside his coat.
“So Miss Lola Champagne and Loyal Public Servant are deep in conversation at the Zoot Club,” he said, prompting her.
“Right, the Zoot Club.” She squinted at him. “She makes nice then gets a phone call and never comes back.”
“Where’d she go?”
“The coat check floozy says the phone call was from Blanche.”
“They meet up? Why?”
“Wondered that myself. Nobody remembered they even knew each other. But Winslow Jones shed some light on that. He admitted, after some careful prodding and superior sleuthing, that Lola Champagne is really Gustine Jones.”
“His sister?”
“Got it in one. Care to speculate?”
Harvey bit his lips, thinking. “Blanche is going to expose Lola’s identity, embarrassing her brother?”
“Not much shames a man
like Winslow Jones.”
“Embarrass Lola then. But she’s already totally exposed.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “So I’m told.” Dorie smiled. He said, “Blanche has got to be blackmailing somebody.”
“Getting warm.”
He rubbed his hands together. “I wish. The wife already knows about Blanche. Okay, gumshoe. Who is Blanche blackmailing?”
A steward stepped into the car, carrying a pile of gray blankets. A murmur of relief went through the passengers as he handed them out. Harvey and Dorie wrapped theirs around their shoulders. Dorie pulled her feet up, tucking them in. Harvey asked the steward about the situation. “Going to be awhile, sir. Big drift across the tracks.”
They shared another sip from the flask. “Better?” Harvey asked. Dorie nodded, although her teeth had begun to rattle. Outside the wind buffeted the train cars, rocking them as the howl sang along the rails. “Damn. Hold on.” He unwound his blanket and tugged hers loose. Then wrapped both blankets around them together, sliding closer, linking his arm through hers. “Strength in numbers, Lennox.”
Dorie felt his body, close and comforting. Her chin stopped shaking in a moment. She took his hand under the blanket, squeezing it. “Warmth in numbers, Talbot.” She looked at him, his hat pulled low. “Your ears are turning white.” He pulled his plaid scarf over his head like a Russian woman and replaced his hat, turning up the collar of his coat.
“How’s that?” he asked and she laughed. They sat, shivering, silent, wiggling toes and fingers. A child somewhere behind them began to cry. “Tell me the story, Lennox.”
“Right. I was stumped. I found out Blanche was a squeeze of Winslow Jones, and that Lola Champagne is Winslow’s sister. Then everybody clammed up.”
“Did you have to cut ‘em with your pig sticker?”
“I’m leaving my switchblade at home these days. Too much trouble. As you recollect.”
“What’s your sweetener then?”
“Squawking to coppers. Works sometimes with mugs like Jones. I counted fourteen laws he was breaking in five minutes in the Zoot Club.”
“Sounds about right. Did he crow?”
“Nope. Got friends in high places, he says. But Lola. She’s been busted dozens of times. No more jail-time, she said. Real shaky, she was, like somebody else was leaning on her too. She’s a looker in her clothes, in case you were wondering.”
“In or out, I’d say. Who was leaning on her? Our public servant?”
“One of his friends. Hey, wise guy.” She squeezed his hand. “You should think about writing for a newspaper or something. This other G-man is all straight-up proper. Methodist or something. Doesn’t cotton to dancing or feathers. But that’s between Lola and him. What she told me was Blanche was blackmailing Winslow. She was going to tell the cops he was having relations across the race line if he didn’t pay up. Gambling, prostitution, burlesque, hell, ballot stuffing: all good in Kansas City. But the race line?”
“Painted in blood.” He glanced at her. “How’d he do it?”
“He and Lola got her drunk. Maybe slipped her a mickey. She was out cold. They dumped her on the tracks. There’s an underpass near where she was found. Easy for the two of them to haul her down.”
“So strictly speaking they didn’t kill her?”
Dorie shook her head. “Their story is they dropped her off, drunk as a skunk. Never saw her again.” She looked out the window. She hadn’t seen Blanche’s body. It had been swept off to an early burial. Just as well, but Dorie’s mind’s eye was vivid and disturbing.
“Lola told you all this?” Harvey asked.
“I saw her lift a ladies clutch purse in the club. I promised not to turn her in if she spilled. I told the cops the whole thing but Winslow pays them off to stay in business. They don’t want that gravy train to go south.”
“Your word against theirs. That’s bushwa.” He put his other hand around her fingers. “At least you got the truth. Most don’t care.”
“It’s a job.”
“Big money huh?” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s what I thought.”
Around them the car quieted as people snuggled into the night and the thin gray railway blankets. The bare ceiling bulbs flickered and went out. It was very dark. Harvey pulled her closer. “Are you warm?” he whispered.
“Enough. With you.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. He set his scarfed ear on her head. It was pleasant. But she hoped the train got going soon, before they all turned into icicles. She closed her eyes and felt the tug of sleep.
After a minute Harvey blurted out: “What’s he like? Your Joe.”
She blinked her eyes. He moved his head off hers and she straightened up. “Ah, you know. Just a fella.” Nothing special, she wanted to say, because no one would say Joe was anything but a Joe. The girls at the boardinghouse had laughed themselves silly. “Kind of a shit-kicker.”
“Farmer?”
“When he was a kid. Now he feeds cattle down at the yards. And smells like it.”
Harvey smiled. “Sounds like a catch.” His voice lowered again. “Do you love him?”
Dorie looked at him through the gloom, his pale face now shadowed with dark beard. He’d pulled down the scarf now and caught her eye, making her confess. She didn’t flinch. She felt so close to him suddenly, as if there was nobody else in the world she could talk to, nobody who knew her inside and out.
“I felt sorry for him. His sister died, horribly. He was wrecked. The parents were wrecked. Then Pearl Harbor hit us all and he ran right out and enlisted like a bunny. Not that everybody who enlisted is a bunny but Joe? He didn’t think about it. He’s crying and shouting and running crazy.”
“One of the copy boys did the same thing.”
“Then he sorta comes to his senses. Says he can’t sleep, keeps having nightmares about getting blown to smithereens and his parents having no kids to take care of them in their old age. He’s all they’ve got now. He shoulda thought about that.”
Harvey was massaging the back of one her hands. But he didn’t ask. He just waited until she was ready. Such a patient man. You’d have to be patient to get involved with Dorie Lennox, she thought. She took a deep breath and blessed the dark, a secret’s best friend.
“So he says, begs really: let’s get married. It’ll keep me alive, he says. Write me every day, he says. You can take care of my old mother since yours is gone. I didn’t want to, god knows. I barely know him and truth be told he’s about as big as a button and not as cute, with hair like straw and pink cheeks and speckled like a hog. And as hard as he washes he can’t get that stink off him. He says nobody notices but me but they’re lying. They are prevaricating on that one.” Harvey chuckled. “But he won’t leave me alone. There’s no work, not since December Seven. I can’t get rid of him that way. So finally we get really drunk like everybody else on the day we go to war with Germany and we do it. Get the license. We were too squiffy to actually stand up and say ‘I do.’”
“You got rings.”
“He gave me one. Probably out of a Cracker Jack box.”
“And you’re happy.”
Happy? Her throat closed. What was happy? Whatever it was, it wasn’t Joe. “Oh, Harvey,” she croaked. This thing with Joe was all wet. He was gone now, off to training and who knows where. But she still had to deal with him. Harvey moved under the blanket, his arms circling her shoulders, pulling her close. With her face pressed against his coat she babbled, miserable. “I didn’t turn it in, the license. I looked at it and I just couldn’t. He left it with me. Does that mean —” Harvey didn’t answer. It was her question, her answer. She had to decide whether the marriage was real or not, and what the hell she was going to do about it. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”
“How was your wedding night?” he asked. Just like that, with a hard edge of jealousy in his voice. Maybe he felt he could ask because they were lovers once, they knew each other’s scars and soft spots. She wasn’t squeamish about sex like a lot of girls. She wasn’t lik
e a lot of girls.
“We were blind drunk. Somebody down the street was passing a bottle of moonshine. Joe, he tried but… He passed out, slept awhile, then went back to his mother’s house. She was expecting him.”
“How old is your Joe?”
“Eighteen. I know. I’ve got close to ten years on him. He’ll probably find some cute Frenchie and forget about me.” She sighed. “I hope.”
Harvey pulled back. “Do you hope?” He tucked a loose hair behind her ear.
She looked into his eyes, unreadable without a sparkle in the night to reflect off them. He smelled so nice, like cinnamon and smokes, the way he always did. Harvey Talbot was the last thing she thought would happen to her on the night train to Kansas City in the worst snowstorm in a decade. But she’d never been one to second-guess fate. Except in the case of a moonshine wedding.
Did she hope? There in the train, stuck in the snow on the darkest of winter nights with no stars to guide them home, in the bitter wind and cold, with war all around, death and destruction and bombs and torpedoes, with all that, she felt something stir in her heart. Things wouldn’t be this bad forever. She could hope again. Not because of Joe. That would be rectified.
“Kiss me, Talbot. My lips are cold.”
————
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