Elsinore

by Jerome Charyn

  “And every time Howard needed something, he sent my dad.”

  “Yes. Nothing could have been accomplished without your father. He was the go-between. He was the glue. He argued for Howard. He was an eloquent man.”

  “That’s funny. My dad never said a word to me.”

  Frog recalled those long, terrible silences between them. He couldn’t bear to think about his dad.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Church, is Judith Howard’s daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you invented that fable of other men.”

  “To hurt Howard. His minions would never have dared sleep with me. They were frightened of his every move. And I wasn’t sane enough to seduce the local woodcutter … Howard would come up to Elsinore, blindfold me, and make love to a madwoman.”

  “And you bit him on the mouth.”

  “I clawed his eyes. I left scars on his back. He has arthritis from the wounds I made. It’s been like that ever since we met. I run from Howard. He chases me. He’s cruel. I punish him. He couldn’t buy me with his Supper Club or the Manhattan Mimes. And I took away his own daughter. Now he loves her twice as much. That’s why she was stolen. I’m sure of it. Howard will have to surrender … if it’s not too late.”

  “She’s alive, Mrs. Church. Trust me. I’ve been in my own battles.”

  “And you’ll bring her back?”

  “I’ll try,” Holden said.

  Kronstadt was some kind of key. He felt it in his bones. That uptown heiress would lead him to little Judith. Frog only had to follow her tracks. It didn’t matter that Kronstadt wasn’t in the neighborhood. Frog knew how to deal with the dead.

  “Mrs. Church, tell me about Marcus Reims.”

  “Marcus Reims was a fiction, one of Howard’s invented names.”

  “Did he ever use it at the Supper Club?”

  “He didn’t have to. He’d changed hats. He was Howard Phipps.”

  “And did he talk of Frieda Kronstadt?”

  “Of course not. He’d killed her. He wouldn’t mention Kronstadt to me.”

  “And Reims was her partner?”

  “And her pimp.”

  “But they did have other partners?”

  “Hundreds. Howard was very enterprising.”

  “But think, Mrs. Church. Did you hear a name?”

  “Do you know how hard we had to dig? It took us years to locate Morton Katz. And there could have been other Kronstadts. Howard was very efficient at burying his past.”

  “Did you stumble onto some gang … like the Westies?”

  “Mr. Holden, we weren’t looking for gangs.… I want my child. I can lend you the Mimes. They’ve been searching for Bronshtein. I think he’s in France.”

  “No. Bronshtein wouldn’t return to his nest. Howard could pick him off.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “Squirreled away … with your daughter.”

  “Mr. Holden,” she said, her hand still in his. “We can mount whatever installation you wish.”

  “Installations won’t get me to that furrier or little Judith. I don’t need fables … like that afternoon in Queens when I met Dr. Garden, and all the Mimes were in masquerade. That wasn’t you I saw, pretending to be Fay.”

  “No.”

  “I’m glad,” Holden said. “It always bothered me. I mean, you’re a wonderful actress. But I would have known. Fay is Fay. You borrowed her from Abruzzi, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were coaching her from behind a curtain. You got her to play herself.”

  His bumper’s instincts hadn’t failed him.

  Big Judith started to cry. Ah, she was as beautiful as his dad’s black mistress, this dark lady of Elsinore, who’d borne a child in the middle of a forest. And Holden started thinking of woods. Paul Abruzzi was caught in his own maze. He loved Manhattan too much. That was disastrous for a Queens D.A. Little Judith wasn’t in any of the five boroughs. Holden would bet his life on that, though it wasn’t worth very much. He was the president of a laundering operation called Aladdin, a retired bumper who was good at writing checks. The money in Aladdin’s account was almost as lyrical as the great Hirsch. Liquid gold.

  He’d had his network of rats, but no rat could help him now. He could have gone to that encyclopedist, Tosh, and gathered up lists of gangs that might have surrounded the mythical Marcus Reims, but he didn’t want encyclopedias. Some kind of crazy string had been pulling Holden all along. He’d been lied to, cozened, duped, hurled down flights of stairs, swindled out of his darling, but he was like a sleepwalker on his way to Mrs. Vanderwelle. He unearthed a .22 long from his bedroom-office. He didn’t trust package men anymore. He rented a Plymouth, signed for it as S. Holden. He was sick of aliases. And he wasn’t going to turn his life into one long installation.

  Frog was on a dream ride. He stopped in New Haven, but he didn’t have lunch at Phippsy’s Italian restaurant, because the waiters might have recognized him and Frog wasn’t sure whose side they were on. He bought a hundred pounds of steak and went to Woods Hole, where he took the ferry. He sat inside the carwell with his treasure of meat and arrived on Martha’s Vineyard in a thick black fog that obscured the ferry slip. He couldn’t see a face. If there was a shotgun party waiting for Frog, he would have broken through in his Plymouth. He had the luck of a sleepwalker.

  He crossed over to Chappaquiddick on the little open ferry. The water seemed to boil under Holden. The fog began to lift. He could see the ferryman’s face. The smile was enormous, as if the ferryman had been expecting Frog. He wore an orange bib that looked like a bolt of dried blood. Holden couldn’t take a chance. When he reached the other side of the channel, he got out of his car and socked the ferryman in the head. The ferryman had the startled look of a baby as he sank into Holden’s arms. Holden locked him in the trunk.

  He drove to the Cardinales’ junkyard and took out the meat. The same pack of dogs appeared. They had blood in their eyes. None of them barked. Holden could have poisoned the steaks. But it would have distressed him to watch so many dogs writhing on the ground. He tossed the steaks into the air, one after the other, and the dogs leapt up as fast as they could, their fat bodies wobbling for a moment. It tormented them that they couldn’t catch all the steaks. They looked like rats with big ears. Holden was the candy man. The dogs started to grovel near his legs. They couldn’t decide whether to eat the steaks or lick Holden’s hand. He didn’t want them in that kind of frenzy. He kneeled with them for a while. He scratched their necks. He was the candy man.

  Soon they ignored him and gobbled the meat. Holden got up and went toward Ethan Coleridge’s orange house. It was Rockaway all over again. Now he was rescuing a new darling. He could never retire.

  Minot, Ethan’s youngest boy, who had to be in his mid seventies, emerged from behind an ancient toilet commode. Frog was astounded by his quickness. Minot was holding a shotgun that seemed like a toy in his gigantic paws. It was a bumper’s paradise on Chappaquiddick. Holden was the amateur here.

  “You shouldn’t have come, little Sid. This is our island.”

  “Minot, how’s your dad and your brother Paul?”

  “Don’t distract me. I never bothered you off-island. We left you and Phippsy alone.”

  Holden shot him between the eyes. Minot collapsed with spittle in his mouth and died without giving up his gun. But Holden had advertised himself with a pop that echoed off toilet commodes and rusted weather vanes and traveled like some swollen arc across the fields and slapped the orange house with an incredible din.

  Holden hiked toward the house and Paul came rushing out to greet him like some lovesick cavalier. He had nothing but a shovel in his hands. Holden had to admire his crazy courage.

  “You took my brother, didn’t you? I told him to wait in the house.”

  “Paul, give me that shovel.”

  “What’s the point? Minot is dead. I have no one to steal dollars from. Dad doesn’t count.”

  Paul bled
enormous teardrops. Holden might have mourned with him, but the shovel was a little too near. He left a perfect little heart in Paul’s forehead and then he entered the house.

  Ethan was sitting in a chair.

  “Ethan, I’m sorry about the boys.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re the fucking angel of death. I could see it in your eyes, Sid. I knew the boys would never survive your presence … now I can get married again. I ought to kiss your hand. Phippsy cursed us when he brought you here.”

  Frog had to use all his cleverness against the old man or he might not recover little Judith.

  “Tell me about Marcus Reims.”

  “Don’t bother me. I’m grieving.”

  “I want to know about Marcus.”

  “A pimp like any pimp, Marcus was.”

  “And Kronstadt?”

  “The society bitch. Phippsy was always falling for. blue bloods.”

  “And you weren’t the baron of Rhode Island. Ethan Coleridge hadn’t even been born. Who were you?”

  “Ettore Cardinale.”

  “And you brought Hirschele Feldstein into your little crew.”

  “He was a catch. A cantor who liked to steal. I groomed him. I taught him his trade. And sonny, I was proud when I heard him sing. I paid the highest price for seats at his shul.”

  “Did Kronstadt get between you and Hirsch?”

  “She fancied rough men. She liked to smell my stockings. I let her live on the street. I beat her, Sid, hard as I could. She always wanted more. And then Phippsy spotted her. Jesus, he bent down and washed her feet. He bought her flowers and clothes. He shared his wallet with her. Made her our fucking partner. I had to shell out hard cash.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Phippsy got into trouble. He lost his slot as a big-time cantor. He could have stayed with us. But he was searching for a synagogue that would have him. Then he left us flat. Moved out West. Joined the Pinkertons.”

  “Why did he leave Kronstadt with you?”

  “I dunno. Maybe he forgot to take her.”

  “And Marcus Reims was the name he used while he was with your gang.”

  “Don’t you get it? Anybody who wanted to live without a name was Marcus Reims. I was Marcus for a while. So was Phippsy. And a hundred other men. The gang we had was the Marcus Reims. No one could identify us, pin us to a spot …‘Oh him, he’s Marcus, Marcus Reims.’”

  “And who killed Kronstadt?”

  “Some no-name. Some Marcus Reims. While Phippsy was away in Seattle. Sid, I had to run.”

  “And you became Ethan Coleridge.”

  “That was later, much later.”

  “And Phippsy returned to Manhattan, found this Marcus, and finished him.”

  “I wasn’t there, but that’s what I’m told.”

  “Now tell me where you’re hiding his girl.”

  “His girl is dead. Kronstadt, I mean.”

  “I want little Judith. Is she upstairs?”

  Ethan didn’t answer, and Holden started to climb.

  “Sidney boy, I’ll have to shoot your eyes out if you take another step.”

  “I’m not Sidney,” Holden said. “I’m Marcus Reims tonight.”

  Ethan gripped one of his family specials, a long-nosed Webley that had been fashionable before World War II. His hand never wavered.

  “Ethan, it’s a small house. The bullet will ricochet off the walls and you’ll injure yourself.”

  “Sid, I’m sworn to hide that girl. If you mean to go upstairs, then kill me, and there’ll be no more Cardinales. You took my sons. Take me.”

  “I can’t.”

  And Holden continued to climb. He visited the boys’ bedroom. It saddened him. They’d accumulated so little in their seventy-five years. Paul had a fishing rod. Minot had a stamp album with a hundred empty pages. Holden found nothing else on their floor.

  He climbed up to the attic.

  He heard a whimper. He removed a painter’s cloth from a heap of old furniture. He found Solomon Bronshtein lying in a little nest.

  “Where’s Judith?” Holden said. “Bronshtein, I’ll ask you once.”

  The furrier pointed to another cloth. Judith lay under the cloth like a series of broken sticks. Her lips were raw. Her arms had purple bruises. Her cheeks were tiny blue hills.

  “Whose work is that?”

  “Minot’s. He didn’t like women in the house.”

  “Bronshtein, where are your babysitters? And if you lie to me, I’ll hurt you more than you can ever dream.”

  “They’re gone. Ethan wouldn’t tolerate them. He called them pig people.… I think they’re in Bilbao.”

  “Bronshtein, get me some fucking hot water and a towel. And make it quick … it’s indecent. One of the richest furriers in the world hiding under a drop cloth.”

  “Holden …”

  “Get me some water.”

  Bronshtein scampered around Frog and returned with a basin of hot water and two towels.

  Frog had folded his jacket under Judith’s head. He wet the towels and patted her face. Her eyes opened.

  “Don’t talk,” he said. “Do you recognize me? Just nod.”

  “Holden,” she said.

  19

  He called Mrs. Church from Ethan’s phone. “Yes, I found her. She’ll be fine.… I can’t tell you where I am. And don’t breathe a word to Howard.”

  Then he activated the little network he still hadn’t lost. It was as archaic as drummers from some unremembered war, but a doctor arrived in half an hour. His name was Figs. He’d been Frank Costello’s family surgeon. He was living in retirement on the Vineyard. And Holden had to ferry him across the channel.

  “What happened to Al?” Figs asked.

  “He’s sleeping in the trunk of my car.”

  “That’s no good. The police will come.”

  And Figs found another ferryman.

  Figs could have been eighty, but he had the touch of a surgeon. He carried Judith down from the attic in his own arms. Holden found a cot. Figs undressed her, felt every bruise, applied a cream to her face. He prepared beef tea, gave her a sedative, and kicked everybody out of the room.

  “She has a slight fever. But it will pass. I wouldn’t move her, Mr. Holden. She’s pretty banged up. Nothing broken, far as I can tell. We’ll have some X rays done. I’ll bring my own man. Hospitals can get awful nosy.… I’ll look in again tomorrow. But let her sleep.”

  “How much do I owe you, Figs?”

  “Not a dime. Your dad did me a favor a long time ago. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come. I’m not in the business anymore.”

  Frog couldn’t even get a doctor without his father’s ghost.

  Figs drank a glass of schnapps with Ethan and disappeared from the orange house.

  “Ethan, how did you and your sons get involved in this mess?”

  “Bronshtein gave us a million.”

  “You could never spend all the money you have. It costs you nothing to live in this barren place. You don’t even have a goddamn tomato in the house.”

  “Cash is cash,” Ethan said. “And Phippsy shouldn’t have been an Indian giver.”

  “But I thought you were holding his money.”

  “I got used to having it around. I’m not his personal banker. He could have left the money here. It was safe with us.”

  “And for that you kidnap his daughter?”

  “We didn’t kidnap anybody’s daughter. We provided lodging, that’s all.”

  “And you let Minot slap her around. You’re supposed to be gallant.”

  “I can’t control those boys. I never could.”

  “I ought to smash your face.”

  “I wouldn’t stop you,” Ethan said.

  But Frog went upstairs to Bronshtein, who was camping out in Minot’s room. The furrier had nothing better to do than appraise Minot’s stamp collection.

  “It’s worthless. He’s been collecting thirty,.forty years, and the whole album couldn’t
bring him a hundred-dollar bill. Think of all that wasted effort.”

  “Bronshtein, he had his millions. Maybe he was looking for a little fun.… Why did you bring her to Chappaquiddick?”

  “It was Bibo’s idea. He figured Ethan would help us. He knew all the enemies Howard had made.”

  “And did you really think Howard would let you get away with it?”

  “Holden, we had no choice.”

  “You did have a choice. Go for Howard. Not his daughter.”

  “We tried.”

  “Ah, I can’t believe Schatz is behind this. Bruno wouldn’t have come at Phipps with a band of cowboys. Bronshtein, you were meant to fail. The Swisser set you up. And I can’t save your skin.”

  “But you don’t have to give me to Howard,” Bronshtein said. “I’ll write you the fattest check you’ve ever seen.”

  “Please,” Holden said. “I can write my own checks.”

  And then there was little Judith. She didn’t have the Phipps Foundation or her mama’s mimes on Chappaquiddick. Frog couldn’t find a single bow among her belongings. He fed her soup and told her not to talk. She could have been his child. He fell in love with her all over again. He couldn’t have traded darlings without bumping Minot and Paul. Love sat across the street from a .22 long.

  Fay was becoming a shadow in Holden’s head. He couldn’t seem to love two women at the same time. He wasn’t a natural bigamist like Andrushka. He’d love and lose, love and lose. He had no other home than Chappaquiddick. Away from this island he didn’t have a chance. He was a child of Chappaquiddick, like Minot and Paul, and Ethan himself. He understood why the Coleridges had come to Chappy. It wasn’t to escape the feds. They could have gone to Switzerland with all their cash. But they decided to roost behind a junkyard. And suddenly Paul’s fishing rod and Minot’s album made sense. They didn’t need much company on this side of the channel.

  “I love it here,” Frog muttered to himself. He’d gotten used to Bronshtein and Ethan and dogs that slobbered near his legs. “I love it here.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not supposed to talk.”