Murder at the Flamingo

by Rachel McMillan

  Reggie faked a smile. “Deciding whether I should write my resignation letter.”

  “Oh, don’t do that. I have half a mind to take a break at 3 p.m. and find out what Boots Malone is up to. Will Molloy foil his villainous plot?”

  “I won’t do anything rash then.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  At lunchtime Reggie left the office and went to a delicatessen on Hanover Street to buy a sandwich. After settling on a bench outside, she took her Journal of Independence out of her bag and creased it open to a new page. Phil. Schultze. Luca. How were they connected? What about Chicago? It was easy enough if they were on the trail for some owed money, but Luca was too meticulous for that. She couldn’t see him being roughed up for a few dollars. He never would have let his suit get wrinkled that way. He was suave, yes, but smart too.

  Thinking of Luca made her think of Hamish. Her parents would be appalled at the easy familiarity she was showing with Nate and now Hamish. But she wasn’t used to meeting people who didn’t want anything in return.

  “Miss Van Buren.” Brian MacMillan, the accountant, was removing his hat and tipping it toward her in a way decidedly like Vaughan Vanderlaan. Reggie closed her journal and folded the sandwich she was eating back into its paper. Quickly swallowing, she made to rise.

  “No, please don’t let me interrupt your lunch. May I?” With her assenting nod, he lowered beside her. “I was hoping to find Mr. Valari. I need to assure him everything on our end is looking right as rain.”

  “You’re welcome to follow me to the office. I can give him a ring.”

  He smiled. He had such a pleasant face, she decided. One of those kind faces with smile lines like loose commas on either side of his thin mouth. And while he treated her with the utmost respect and looked at her appreciatively, he never flirted.

  She wrapped the rest of her sandwich, unable to eat it with him beside her, and tucked it into her handbag.

  “You’re sure you’re finished?” he asked as she stood to leave.

  “Yes. But thank you.”

  They rambled by St. Stephen’s and in the direction of the North Square. “A beautiful day.” He let her walk ahead as they sidestepped children single file on the stones. Their teacher was illuminating the night of Revere’s famed ride. Some children giggled. Others gasped with delight at the rise and fall of his voice.

  “I think it’s odd that an office for what Mr. Valari hopes will be a long chain of nightclubs is here in the North End. But I am happy it is.” She smiled at him as he reached and pushed open the front door of the office building. “I love how alive it is here. And the cannoli.”

  He let her lead them up the stairs to the second floor. En route, they passed a buxom brunette woman on the descent. She had a swing in her step, her generous hips swaying with intent when she made out Brian MacMillan.

  He smiled. “I know you.”

  “Sure,” she whined nasally. She sounded like a girl in a picture, Reggie thought, one of the actresses who was always trying to steal the love interest back. One of the actresses who made you wish you could retreat to the days before talkies.

  “From where?” he hedged. “Oh! Wait. I’ve seen you with Tom Schultze. You sometimes pedal Chesterfields at the Dragonfly.”

  “Schultzie! What a gent. I’m going to be at the Flamingo now.” She noticed Reggie. “Oh, hello.”

  Reggie’s smile was tight-lipped. “How do you do?”

  “Just waiting for Schultze. But he has a real wreck on his hands.” She sighed, looking around the building, appraising it as she had doubtless seen Schultze or men of his standing do in the past. “The staircase in the back is falling apart. My heel gets stuck.” She gave MacMillan a long look—one Reggie recognized from several pictures—usually from a girl with heavily lidded eyes and bright red lips and the ability to turn an entire room with the swish of her skirt over her hips. She playfully brushed past them and out the door.

  “Schultze’s mistress,” Brian MacMillan said once they were inside Luca’s office. Reggie noticed he watched her retreating figure for several moments. “I wonder how long she’ll last. She isn’t the first.”

  It was the first almost indelicate thing the man had said. He took a seat and Reggie offered him a copy of the Globe she had pilfered earlier that morning from Jimmy Orlando’s office mailbox. The private detective hadn’t been seen for days. And one of the things she was proudest of during her idle days in Luca’s employ had been securing printed ads for the club’s opening. It was still open at that page when she provided it to her guest.

  When the phone rang, she answered it presciently, delighted that it was Luca’s housekeeper informing her that Luca and Hamish would be by later that afternoon and that if she had the opportunity, she should start drafting a new memo to the Flamingo’s investors. Reggie scribbled some of the instructions, distracted by the realization that Hamish must be better than she had anticipated if he was well enough to come in today.

  “Mr. Valari will be coming to the office.” Reggie smiled brightly as she set down the receiver.

  MacMillan looked up from the paper. “Wonderful!”

  Reggie couldn’t keep from turning her chair in the direction of the window behind her and looking down to the street below for a sleek black car to court the curb. When it finally did, she smiled.

  A moment later, Luca and Hamish walked in, Luca looking tired but still as if he had stepped out of a cigar ad in a magazine. Hamish smiled to see Reggie and merely clasped Brian’s hand warmly as Luca prattled on about the latest baseball scores as if they were the new accepted social greeting.

  When Luca politely asked if he could make use of her chair to speak to Brian, Reggie happily took the opportunity to stand and stretch and join Hamish by the door. It was far enough to convince Luca that they had privacy but not far enough that she couldn’t steal a furtive look or snatch of a sentence now and then.

  “How are you?” She leaned into Hamish.

  “Tired. And sore.”

  “I’m surprised you’re here.”

  His eyes drifted toward the tête-à-tête Luca was having with Brian MacMillan. “And I am determined to figure out what is actually going on. I’m worried for Luca.” His eyes fixed on hers and she knew he trusted her. That their shared experience the night before had earned his trust. He lowered his voice so it was barely more than a whisper. “I know you might not feel comfortable working here. I feel I should have been smart enough to know that . . .”

  He shrugged. Reggie filled in the blanks to mean something in the vein of wherever Luca is, trouble follows.

  “I should have been able . . . I thought it was different.” He shrugged. “My fault.”

  “You aren’t to blame at all,” Reggie whispered with conviction. “We’re both to blame then. I’ve enjoyed having rent money away from my parents and twiddling my thumbs and listening to the wireless.”

  Hamish nodded. “Luca thought I should stay home today.” His eyes were drifting to the conversation by Reggie’s desk as often as hers were. “But I wanted to let you know that I’m all right. And I wanted to let you know I am determined to figure out what is really going on here.”

  “If you truly think your cousin is innocent . . .,” she hedged.

  “I wanted to let you know that I am determined to clear Luca of whatever it is these men think he has done. He told me he is in the clean. Whatever he did in the past . . .”

  He shrugged again, but his eyes were serious. They both knew Luca had a past. Heck, anyone seeing that suave Valentino gait would know Luca Valari had a past. And probably a present.

  Reggie nodded. “Well, I have to at least see this through the Flamingo’s opening. You too, I assume. Since you’re here.”

  Hamish smiled. It almost reached its full stretch, but she wouldn’t push further. She knew he wasn’t at his prime, and he kept feeling at his neck before wincing. He was still in a lot of pain.

  In her past, such an intense reaction to a ne
w acquaintance would be seen as a weakness. Her mother had taught her that women were floral music boxes with keys that turned slowly and secrets they should always keep inside. That smiles should never reach their eyes. That everyone should be held at arm’s length as propriety and decorum dictated. But her mother must never have felt the jolt of connection. Dwelled on the ampersand when Luca (as he did at that moment) leaned toward them with a quick “Cicero and Reggie! MacMillan here wants to ensure all books are in order for the Flamingo’s first months’ expenses.”

  Reggie moved to retrieve a ledger from a filing cabinet near the window. MacMillan was questioning Luca on Hamish’s nickname. As in most things, the questioning brought out Luca’s evasion. He flitted around answers with a precision and skill that took years of practice. She should have noticed that too. On the first day. But her heart hopped with the idea of unraveling Luca’s mystery with Hamish.

  Luca’s conversation with the accountant—up until this point a low murmur—had taken a different timbre. Luca’s voice rose.

  “Arrangement?”

  “I wondered about the arrangement.” Brian uttered the last word in italics.

  Luca laughed him off. “Arrangement?”

  “My father and I . . . You must know that I know there are others who look at the Flamingo as a unique opportunity. That . . .” He coughed. “Father is getting older, and our clientele is not as robust as it once was. I am here to let you know that I am completely dedicated . . .”

  MacMillan stopped. He followed Luca’s gaze, which was wide and aware in the direction of Reggie and Hamish.

  Luca slapped him on the back with a laugh. “Don’t believe everything you hear. Don’t let my young friends here think that the Flamingo is anything but what it is.” He was speaking in a firm voice for their benefit. “An opportunity to show Boston what class is.”

  Reggie caught Hamish’s eye. Luca could change the subject with that ease of his, but they both knew that something was ticking. Some people had access to an aspect of the Flamingo that others did not. And Brian MacMillan wasn’t given leave to cross the threshold. Luca walked Brian MacMillan out just as Mrs. Leoni’s shadow curved through the doorway.

  She looked at Luca apprehensively, reserving a smile that spread wide for Reggie and wider still as she remembered Hamish from her shop.

  “How can we help you?” Luca asked with a slight bow.

  “I brought some cannoli for your secretary.”

  “Don’t let me disturb you.” Luca flashed a smooth smile. It didn’t melt Reggie or Mrs. Leoni and he ironed it out. “Cic, Mr. Baskit is expecting me. Schultze has encouraged me to invest in another property in this area. And he needs the rent.” Luca’s eyes swept the office then settled on Mrs. Leoni a moment. She was perspiring and her mouth wavered. “If you want to stay here with Reggie for a while? I’ll meet you outside with Phil in an hour, say?”

  Luca left and Mrs. Leoni uttered something under her breath that no lady should say. Even though it was in Italian, Hamish recognized it from one of his father’s tenser moods.

  “My cousin, Mrs. Leoni,” Hamish said softly, leading her to a chair.

  “He owns the office. He works for those bad men.”

  “He doesn’t work for anyone,” Reggie said.

  “My niece’s husband was told that he has to vacate his apartment.” Mrs. Leoni crossed herself and lapsed into Italian. Hamish leaned closer, listening, nodding.

  He sighed and leaned back.

  “What is she saying?” Reggie whispered. Hamish was pale, which made the broad red stripe on his neck stand out even more in the crevice of his open collar.

  “They signed a year lease. The owner wants to renege.”

  “Oh.”

  Reggie looked toward the open door. Hamish followed her train of thought. Luca was meeting with Mr. Baskit. They had some time to themselves.

  “If you like, I can take a look at her lease.”

  “Hamish is a lawyer from Canada,” Reggie explained.

  “You would?”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  Without the previous night’s makeup, Reggie looked just as she had before Hamish knew her name. When she was just the girl with the intelligent eyes and flicker of a smile he saw in the cannoli line. She was more on his level like this. Not some girl out of a picture and out of his reach. He opened his mouth to say something but was waylaid by another party: a young man Hamish supposed to be about his age whose face broke into an easy smile and a comfortable familiarity with Reggie. Hamish looked between them.

  “Sorry I missed the last few days. Do clients not realize their property problems are of secondary importance to Winchester and his femme fatale Veronica? They—” Seeing Hamish, he stopped, extending his hand. “Nathaniel Reis.”

  “Hamish DeLuca.” Hamish judged the man to be a little older than he was. He had a pleasant face—like a book knowing what page to open and stay on. An Action Comic was tucked under his arm.

  Nate discarded the comic on the side of Reggie’s desk. “It’s dull as tombs here.”

  “Oh, I’ve told him.” Reggie sparkled today. Did she fancy this Nathaniel guy? She lit up when he entered the room. Women were a crossword puzzle: the seemingly perfect word was met with too many letters.

  “So I hear you’re from Toronto. Tell me, do you all live in igloos and ride moose?”

  “He’s joshing you. Nate, be nice.”

  “I’m just breaking the ice.” Nate scraped a chair next to Reggie’s desk and sank into it.

  “Do you want your magazine?” Hamish asked, holding it up before returning to the seat behind his own desk.

  “That isn’t a magazine, Hamish,” Nate reprimanded, but his eyes twinkled. “That is only the home of the most exciting new comic I have seen in an age.” His voice ebbed and flowed dramatically and Hamish smiled despite himself. Nathaniel had a way of putting others at ease. “There’s this fellow, Clark Kent.” He held up the comic. “He’s a human, right? But he has these superhuman powers.”

  Reggie snorted. “Superhuman powers? Like a fairy tale? Like magic?”

  Nate rapped at the comic. “He can leap over tall buildings. Bullets don’t hit him.”

  Hamish chuckled. “Bullets hit everyone.”

  Nate shook his head and warmed to his theme. “Not him. Not this super-man. He’s a man but isn’t. Any fear you have. Anything you wish you could do: amazing speed or strength. He has it.”

  “I know a few guys from the Harvard varsity team who would like to think they are super-men.” Reggie rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

  “There is nothing he cannot do.” Nate narrowed in on Hamish as Hamish’s faltering smile stayed a moment. “Nothing.”

  Hamish looked down at his right hand. It should have been involuntarily shaking a little with new talk with a new person. But it calmly rested on his knee. His eyes darted up to Nate and then to Reggie. He wasn’t reacting the way he was used to reacting. Happy, he listened to Nate describe the new comic.

  “But he’s not really human.” Sensing Hamish’s waning focus, Nate turned intently to Reggie. Even his chair had shifted on a diagonal in her direction. “He’s from a planet called Krypton.”

  Reggie shushed him. Her long finger turned the dial on the wireless. “We can talk about super-men later,” she said, her eyes meeting Hamish’s. “It’s almost time for Winchester Molloy.”

  While an Ovaltine jingle filled the office, Reggie reached into the top drawer of her desk.

  “Almond cookies from the delicatessen. Perfectly kosher.” She extended them to Nate, who eyed them happily.

  “You’re a wonderful woman.” He opened the paper parcel, inhaling. Hamish could see he liked what was inside.

  Reggie beamed and held up a second bag to Hamish. “And for you and me, Mr. DeLuca, the most uniquely named cookie in the whole bakery. Pretty but ugly.”

  Winchester Molloy was plagued by a pretty client whose voice reminded Hamish of Mary Finn’s. She was k
ept by a wealthy man who had ties to New York’s criminal underworld. Just as Hamish was beginning to think it all sounded a little too familiar, the phone jangled. Reggie turned the volume dial on the radio and reached for the receiver. “Luca Valari’s office, Regina Van Buren speaking.” She squinted and held the receiver away from her ear so Nate and Hamish could hear the loud and angry voice on the other end. It droned on and Hamish could make out some of the words in heightened volume. Reggie animated her face in exaggerated responses for their benefit, and Hamish, watching her, felt a little spark of something deep inside. “Yes, I hear you.” She put the receiver back against her ear. “No, Mr. Valari is not here. He is very busy with the Flamingo.” She had a recitation of the Flamingo’s charms down to an art form. “The most popular club in Scollay Square. Already the rage. Mr. Valari is too busy fighting off reporters who want every last detail for the society pages.” The voice erupted again and Reggie tilted her head, puppeting her hand for Nate and Hamish’s amusement. Finally, she hung up.

  “Well.”

  “That happens every day?” Hamish looked concerned. “You would think they wouldn’t talk to a woman like that.”

  Nate guffawed. “Hamish, Hamish, Hamish. What rabbit hole did you crawl out of? Someone controls the North End.”

  Reggie and Hamish leaned forward. Nate took another bite of cookie, this time not bothering to swallow before he answered. “There is a theory. Just a theory, mind you.” His voice was muffled. He swallowed. “That there is someone who controls everyone.”

  “For what purpose?” asked Hamish.

  Nate shrugged. “Clearly something sinister and untoward.” He laughed. “There are layers and layers of crime here. You’d think it was a chocolate cake.”

  Reggie worked her teeth over her bottom lip. Hamish watched her eyes sparkle. She was suddenly far away. “And this man from Chicago must think Luca has something to do with it.”

  She turned to Hamish, who raised his hands innocently. “Don’t look at me. Sometimes I think my cousin is on the fringe of the law. But I don’t think of Luca and sinister in the same sentence.”