I was about to tell her that I needed all the help I could get since the only spirit that would talk to me was Jack Shepard, but I bit my tongue. "It's a strange situation. I need to speak to someone who understands more than I do about how this occult stuff works."
Jack laughed.
"You don't count," I whispered. "Since you are occult stuff."
Upstairs, I opened the apartment door, automatically glancing into the living room for Spencer—and then I remembered.
He's at boot camp, baby.
I walked down the hall and into my son's bedroom anyway. The room was so empty and quiet, with the baseball bat leaning against the wall, the bed perfectly made. Bookmark was sleeping soundly at its foot. I picked up the little orange cat, cuddled her close, and carried her to my own small room.
Miss him, huh?
"Of course." I rubbed Bookmark's ears. She yawned and purred.
But you know he 's having fun with his pals.
"I know. He's a different boy now than a few years ago. Not like his father anymore. He's happy, energetic. Full of love ... and a love of life, thank goodness."
That's right, doll. The kid's just spreading his wings.
I sighed. 'That's the trouble, Jack. Once they learn to spread their wings, they fly away."
Flying away is good, baby. It's how boys become men.
"I don't care. I still miss him."
I thought of Spencer as I changed into my nightshirt, turned down my bedcovers, closed my curtains. My little boy's auburn hair and freckles were still on my mind as I fluffed my pillow and hugged Bookmark close.
There's plenty of ways a boy can lose his mother, honey. Believe me, your way's better.
"My way?" The kitty's purr was soothing; the breezy brush of Jack's presence more so.
Close your eyes, doll, the ghost whispered. Close your eyes and I'll remind you ...
"HEY, MRS. McCLURE! What do you know, what do you say?"
I opened my eyes. A little freckle-faced boy was standing in front of me, but it wasn't my little boy. It was J. J. Conway. His ruddy cheeks appeared freshly washed, his brown hair looked newly trimmed. His shirt and slacks were clean, too, the small tears neatly sewn. He had a big smile for me— and Jack, as it turned out.
I glanced to my side. My bad-boy partner was standing there in his sharply tailored double-breasted, a fedora slanted over the hard planes and angles of his lived-in face.
"Find my mom yet?"
"Not yet, kid," Jack replied.
His slate gray gaze slid over me. Self-conscious, I glanced down at myself, saw I was now wearing a cute little navy suit with matching round-toed pumps at the end of my stocking-clad legs. I touched my hair, felt the rolled bangs, the sleekly styled pageboy.
Jack gave me a wink and addressed J. J. again. "How's things working out with Mrs. Dellarusso?"
"Swell! She sure is a good cook!"
"Pack on a few pounds then, kid. You can use it."
Glancing around me, I recognized the busy Third Avenue street corner where J. J. Conway had worked in 1947. Mac Dougherty's newsstand stood a few feet away.
"So, Mrs. McClure, you got any leads?" J. J. asked.
"Uh ..." I looked to Jack.
"We're on the job today," he told the boy. "We'll get back to you."
"Okay," J. J. said with a little military salute.
"Got that photo I asked you for?"
J. J. nodded. He dug a hand into his pocket. "Here it is, Mr. Shepard. A picture of my mom, Mable Conway."
"Thanks, kid." I moved to look at the woman's picture, but Jack quickly stuffed the small photo inside his jacket. "See you later, J. J."
"Not if I see you first!" He smiled, then turned his voice to the sidewalk crowds. " 'Killer Fire! Accident or Arson?' Read all about it!"
Jack took my arm and pulled me up the block.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Remember my case?"
"Barely."
"We're heading to the jewelry store, doll. We found an empty box in the bedroom of the kid's mother. It had a card inside—"
"That's right! The mother's boyfriend was Frankie Papps. He bought her a pair of pearl earrings. The jeweler's card was in the box."
"Broadway's Best Jewelry," he said as he pulled me along. "Shake a leg."
"THE GREAT WHITE Way" is a phrase supposedly coined in 1901 by an ad man named O. J. Gude, who foresaw the awesome possibilities of the electric display. It started with one sign on Broadway—an advertisement for an ocean resort. By the early twenty-first century, digital billboards half the size of skyscrapers were flashing realtime images from cable TV.
At the moment, however, we weren't that far in the future. We were in Jack's time, mid-twentieth century, and the ads weren't quite as massive in size, but they were plenty ubiquitous in scope. As we skirted crowds of pedestrians to cross the intersection of Broadway and Forty-second, a field of billboards urged me to chew gum, drink beer, and eat Planters Peanuts.
Nighttime was always magic in Times Square, with the glow of theater and movie marquees giving everything a glittery, electric feel. Daytime wasn't quite so spectacular— and right now it was high noon.
The midday sun's unforgiving spot exposed the dinginess of the old buildings here. The side streets appeared drab, the ticket offices tired. Grand hotel lobbies and theater entrances were dark; life swarmed instead around cheap lunch counters, cut-rate haberdasheries, and novelty concessions.
Broadway's Best Jewelers sounded like a glamorous shop, but when we arrived at the address—closer to Eighth Avenue than the actual Broadway—we found a dingy storefront with a faded sign. A bell clanged loudly above us as we pushed open the glass door.
The place smelled of must and old wood with theater posters covering the paneled walls. There was a counter— not glass but scarred oak—and no jewelry of any kind was on display; no watches, rings, or pendants, just fat catalogs with plain covers. The shop ran deep. Behind the counter, a number of men and women were bent over craft tables, bright lights shining on their work areas.
"I'm Dolly. Can I help you two?"
A heavyset woman in a black suit and wearing hornrimmed glasses approached us from the other side of the counter.
"We're private detectives," Jack said. He showed her his license. "We're looking for Frankie Papps. Know him?"
Dolly shook her head. "I haven't seen Frankie in weeks."
"Two weeks?" I asked.
"Yeah, why? What's it to you, miss?"
"To me, nothing," I said. "But there's a little boy worried about his mother. She disappeared two weeks ago. Frankie gave her pearl earrings, which you sold to him." I showed her the card we'd found inside the jewelry box.
The woman frowned. "You're talking about his girlfriend, then? The burlesque dancer? She has a kid, huh?"
I exchanged a glance with Jack. "J. J. said his mother was a schoolteacher," I whispered. "Do you have that photo J. J. gave you?"
Jack pulled the picture out, showed it to the woman behind the counter. She shrugged "Sorry, I never saw her. Just heard Frankie mention her a few times."
When she handed the photo back, I finally gave it a look. The picture showed a stunning platinum blonde no older than twenty. She wore a huge smile and a tight, low-cut sweater— very low-cut The woman wasn't built like any schoolteacher I'd ever known. She wasn't dressed like one, either.
"Did Frankie have more than one girlfriend?" I asked.
"How should I know?" Dolly said. "He buys a lot of stuff from us, but it's usually for the shows, not the showgirls."
"Shows?"
"The shows!" Dolly gestured to the Broadway posters on the walls. Then, as if I were thick-headed, she rolled her eyes and shoved over one of the catalogs on the counter. "We make costume jewelry for the theater people—legit, burlesque, magic shows. You name it, we make it."
I paged through the catalog, seeing tiaras, fake strands of pearls, diamond chokers, even stage weapons—fancy swords and dag
gers.
"Did Frankie ever have you make daggers for him?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah. We made daggers for him, tiaras, costume jewelry—"
I glanced at Jack. "Sounds like all the stuff that burglar was trying to steal from J. J.'s basement apartment."
"Did he pay you in cash or with some kind of check?" Jack asked.
"He didn't pay. He bought his stuff for whatever theater he was working for."
"Wait. He was an actor?" I said, glancing at Jack again. "I thought he was supposed to be an electrician."
"He works stagecraft, miss," Dolly said. "Does lighting, special electric effects, whatever the show's director wants."
"Who was the guy working for lately?" Jack asked. She shrugged. "Some big producer. Don't know his name but he gave us a lot of business through Frankie. He was the man who paid the bills for the props. It was Frankie who placed all the orders and picked up the stuff. He said their show was still in rehearsals."
"Can you give us the address where the bills were sent?" Jack asked.
"Maybe. If there's something in it for me."
Jack slid a five-dollar bill across the counter. Dolly slid an address over to him. We left the dim interior of Broadway's Best Jewelers and stepped into the blazing September afternoon.
I squinted up at Jack, my white-gloved hand shading my eyes. "Where's the address?" "Great Neck."
"Guess we have to take a train ride." I started down the block. Jack stopped me.
"Your next move is all the way out to Long Island? You're all done with your business in the city? Is that right?"
I smirked up at the man. "From that tone, I'm guessing I'm not."
Jack tilted back his fedora. "You sure got a lot to learn, honey."
"Give me that photo!"
Jack raised a sandy eyebrow but he didn't argue, just handed it over.
"Come on!" I said. This time, I grabbed his arm and tugged him up the block. I turned into the first burlesque show I saw. There were girlie pictures plastered under the marquee; billboards with half-dressed cuties; and a big, ugly-looking bouncer at the door. He stopped us with a giant hand, pointed to the ticket booth.
"We're not here to see the girls," I said. "We're looking for this woman. Know her?"
The big man frowned at the photo of Mable Conway and shook his head. Then he pointed to the booth and folded his massive arms. "Thirty-five cents each."
"Come on!" I pulled Jack to the next theater.
The burlesque houses were mostly clustered along Eighth
Avenue and Forty-second. I showed Mable Conway's photo to the next bouncer and then a third. None of them recognized her. But the fourth one said she looked familiar.
"She ain't a blonde, though. She's a brunette. And she's about fifteen years older than that photo."
"Did she work here?" I asked, excited to find a lead.
The bouncer nodded. "You should talk to the girls inside."
Jack flashed his PI license and the bouncer waved us in. A sultry brunette was onstage, peeling off opera gloves to a slow-playing sax. Men sat in the dark, sipping drinks, hats pulled low.
We found our way backstage, and I showed the photo around.
"Yeah, I know Princess," one of the performers finally said. The woman was stunningly tall and very well built, wearing what looked like nothing but a robe, and smoking a cigarette. Her face was heavily made up, probably to hide her age. From a dim distance she looked maybe twenty-nine; in stronger light, she was closer to forty.
"Princess?" I repeated.
"That's what she called herself. Her real name's Mable."
The woman confirmed everything. Mable Conway had a little boy. She lied to him, telling him she was a teacher, didn't want him to know what she was really doing.
"Mable was a legit dancer back in the day." The woman took a long drag, blew out a white plume. "Couldn't make it out of the chorus line, you know? A real looker so she did leg shows, then waited tables, then ended up here."
"Did you know her boyfriend, Frankie?"
"Sure. Frankie and her were cozy and all that mush. He's the one got her out of this hole. Got her some job working a legit show again. Don't know much about it. Just that some rich guy on Long Island's producing."
I glanced at Jack. "See? I whispered. "Long Island again."
Jack nodded. "Keep going, doll." "Got any idea where we can find Frankie?" I asked. "Why?" the woman asked. "He disappear or somethin'?" I nodded. "He disappeared two weeks ago, along with Mable."
"He probably skipped town," the woman said. She paused and frowned at me at Jack. "You're not working for Curly, are you?"
"No," Jack said abruptly.
"Curly who?" I asked, but Jack was already pulling me toward the stage door. "Thanks," he called to the stripper and two seconds later, we were out in the alley.
"What's the big idea?" I demanded, straightening my little blue suit.
"Every yegg in this neighborhood knows who Curly is, baby. You don't need a lead on him. I'll take you."
Then we were off again, hurrying down the block.
CURLY THE BOOKIE took illegal bets in a run-down apartment on Ninth Avenue. Jack was an occasional client, so he got us in easily. We climbed three flights of a narrow staircase and Jack knocked a certain way. A bolt slid aside in the door like a speakeasy. Eyes peered through then the door opened and a muscle-bound guy with a crew cut and an anchor tattoo greeted Jack with a handshake.
The men exchanged words about some big boxing match. Then Jack grabbed my gloved hand and pulled me along like a little coal car behind a massive steam engine.
The apartment was shotgun style, with one room leading into another. Each was full of smoke—cigarette and cigar. A radio was playing loudly somewhere, the announcer calling a horse race. A dozen men were sitting around on easy chairs, reading papers and drinking. A half dozen more sat around a table playing cards, also drinking. We plowed through room after room until we came to a closed door. Jack knocked three times.
"Come!"
Curly the Bookie didn't have any curls. He didn't have any hair, either. In an irony that didn't get past the Three Stooges, "Curly's" head was shaved clean as a billiard ball. He had a bulky, half-muscular body, as if he'd been a boxer once and had gone a little to pot—but only a little. The man's bulldog face and ham-sized biceps didn't look worth challenging in the ring or out.
He greeted Jack with a stern but not unfriendly, "Howya doin', Shep?" The men exchanged some views on a racehorse and more on the same boxing match Jack had discussed with the muscle-bound doorman.
"... but I'm not here to lose my money today, Curly," Jack said all of a sudden. "Got a girl partner here today wants to ask you a few questions. That okay?"
I tensed. Curly's bulldog face didn't move but his black eyes narrowed on me from behind his desk. "Depends on the questions."
Jack stepped back and pressed me forward. "You're on, baby."
"Crap," I muttered.
"Excuse me?" Curly said.
"I was wondering, Mr.... uh, Curly, if you know a man named Frankie Papps?" "Why?"
"I, uh, need to find him for a little boy who wants to locate his mother. Frankie was the woman's boyfriend. And she's disappeared. Can you help me find Frankie?"
Curly took a long time looking me over. He took a long drag on the stub of a cigar. "Frankie places bets here," he finally said. "Does it once a week, like clockwork. He ain't been here in two."
"Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"
"He mentioned his boss owed him a big cut of back pay and he was sick of waitin' for it. He was going out there to collect so he could place a nice big bet on Graziano vs. Zale at Yankee. Frankie don't show soon, he's gonna miss the book."
"You said he was going 'out there'—where is that? Long Island?"
Curly nodded. "Said his girlfriend worked for this rich guy, too, and they were both going to get their cut, quit while they were ahead."
"What does that mean? What we
re they doing for this man?"
"From what Frankie told me, they were running some kind of elaborate scam. There were whales involved, a big payoff."
I glanced at Jack. "Whales?" I whispered. "Rich people were being scammed, baby. Very rich people."
"So that's it," Curly said. 'That's all I know."
We were clearly dismissed and Jack led me out again, back through the shotgun rooms. We were almost to the door when someone stopped him.
"Well, if it isn't my favorite slugger. What brings you here, Jack? A bet or a case?"
"I'm done talking to you about cases, Brennan. Unless you want another shiner?"
My ears pricked at the name. "Timothy Brennan?" I leaned my head around Jack's wide shoulders and my jaw dropped. The famous late author of crime novels (in my time) was standing in front of us, now very much alive—much younger than I remembered, too, and about a hundred pounds leaner. But then, the man wouldn't be keeling over at my in-store appearance for another sixty years.
"Who's the cutie?" Tim Brennan winked at me. "Introduce me, Shepard. Don't be a cad."
"This is Penelope. She's helping me out today."
"Charmed." Brennan winked again, but this time it was more of a leer. "And what exactly are you helping our Mr. Shepard with, Red?"
"The case of a missing mother." I sniffed.
Beneath a boyish shock of hair, Brennan's eyes lit up. "Really? Sounds like great copy."
The Ghost and the Haunted Mansion Page 22