AHMM, Jan-Feb 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  In the back seat, she realized one of her silk stockings was sagging around her ankle. Stupid things. Viciously, she pulled it up, and after several attempts to manipulate fingers that had turned fat and sausagelike, she straightened the seam, and re-rolled it above her knee, tearing a gaping hole in the silk in the process. “Hell's bells,” she muttered.

  Surveying the congested disorder of vehicles and pedestrians in front of the Book Cadillac Hotel, James O'Neill admired the pale, spring sunshine slanting down into the street, warming and softening the granite of the tall buildings.

  The flash of a pretty ankle caught his eye as a flapper in a fur coat clambered into a cab, dropping her purse on the sidewalk in the process. Too late he rushed forward. The cab nosed into traffic as a boy pounced, scooped up the purse, and was about to make off with it.

  "Pardon me, lad.” O'Neill grabbed the young thief's collar and relieved him of the purse. “Would you care to show me your name on that purse?"

  Grimacing with the effort, the boy squirmed until he broke free, then dove into the river of black-bodied cars tearing through the square.

  For an instant, O'Neill considered giving chase, then decided it was already a lost cause. From an island in the center of the boiling, churning river of traffic, the blue-capped boy made a rude gesture at him, then continued nimbly dodging automobiles until he reached the safety of the other side of the street and disappeared.

  O'Neill loosened the purse's drawstrings. Inside was a wad of bills, a flask, and a derringer, but nothing identifying the owner. He pulled the purse closed.

  A doorman in uniform stood stonily at attention in front of the revolving glass door of the hotel, his eyes alert, taking in the scene. O'Neill approached. The man's alarmed gaze skittered away from the bulge of a gun in O'Neill's pocket.

  "Might you know that young lady, sir?” O'Neill asked.

  Startled at being spoken to, the doorman eyed him suspiciously, not recognizing him and trying to figure out where he fit in. The doorman's gaze flitted from sidewalk to street then back again, watching for trouble.

  O'Neill waited patiently, letting the man take his time.

  Finally, the doorman glanced over his shoulder at the hotel one last time, screwed his face up with the effort of coming to a decision, then blasted an answer as if it were a painful belch, “Sure I know. Everyone knows her. That was Marilyn."

  "Marilyn Massie?” O'Neill's pulse quickened at this bit of luck. That explained the purse's contents. “And might you happen to know where I could find her?"

  Before he could reply, two dapper men emerged from the hotel and gestured for a cab. Out of the corner of his eye, O'Neill sized up the men, members of the Purple Gang emerging from their headquarters in the hotel. Young, sleek, arrogant. Too arrogant, fortunately, to take notice of him.

  A whistle brought a shiny new Packard to the curb. The doorman rushed to help the men climb in. The car leapt out into traffic and the doorman returned. “Big tippers,” he said disparagingly, displaying the nickel in his palm before pocketing it. Back at his station at the door, a little less wary, the doorman asked, “Who wants to know about Marilyn?"

  Shrugging nonchalantly, O'Neill held up a five dollar bill. “She dropped her purse. Call me a good Samaritan. I want to return it to her.” He raised the purse and gave it a shake for emphasis with a sheepish grin.

  A smile tweaked the doorman's unexpressive mouth. “She probably went to the club. That's where she spends most of her evenings if she's not here."

  "The club?” O'Neill asked, not sure which of the Purples’ blind pigs he meant.

  The man's eyes widened slightly in surprise, and his glance shifted again to the concealed gun. “You new to Detroit?"

  O'Neill nodded.

  The doorman looked away and muttered under his breath as if he were a spy relaying a password, “The Kibbutzer Club. On Woodward, near Columbia. Rap three times."

  O'Neill shook the man's hand, slipping the five spot to him. “Appreciate it."

  At the Book Cadillac Hotel, Marilyn pushed through the glass door and entered a lobby plush with furniture and bright with the light of many-tiered chandeliers, the well-dressed guests as new and shiny with unrespectable wealth as the lobby.

  One of the house dicks, a front man for the Purple Gang on Ray's payroll, leaned over the coat check counter toward the girl behind it, his back to her, engrossed in his flirtation.

  Hoping to escape his notice, Marilyn quickly turned for the hotel restaurant, almost colliding with a pillar that hadn't been there a moment ago.

  Before she got far, she heard the dick's voice behind her, “Hey! I thought I told you to get lost after the stink you made last time."

  She stopped and faced him, the sudden movement causing the room to spin uncontrollably.

  Heavy jawed with small, stupid eyes, he turned to the coat check girl and laughed at his own joke. “Get it? Stink.” He mimed emptying a bottle into his mouth. “Stink!” he repeated, and held his nose at an imagined stench.

  The chubby, gap-toothed girl darted a superior smile at Marilyn before she turned back to her work.

  "I left my purse here,” Marilyn said, shaping every syllable carefully.

  "You didn't leave nothing here except your dignity, toots. If you have any left,” he said.

  She jammed her hands into her coat pockets. Like viewing pictures on a stereoscope, Ray's birthday party came back to her. Arriving late. Ray in a booth surrounded by his Purple Gang. That hussy of a blonde next to him, wrapped around him like a bun on a wiener. Ray's smile of unconcern that she'd caught him cheating on her. Two-timing sonofabitch. She was glad that she'd thrown her birthday gift, a bottle of expensive cologne from Paris, France, at him. The bottle burst on the booth's upholstery, spraying scent over the couple. It had been well worth being thrown out for.

  "You're a real comedian. You should be on the stage,” she said sarcastically, a hand on her hip. “If you don't mind, I'm going to miss the show and go look in the restaurant for my purse."

  "Oh no.” He approached, wagging his finger at her like a schoolteacher. “I'm under strict orders. You don't go near that restaurant again."

  "Get that finger out of my face before I take it off,” she snapped, not worrying that the words came tumbling out in a sloppy jumble now. “What's the matter? Is Ray still celebrating his birthday?” She tried stepping around him, but he easily moved to stop her.

  "No, your stinkbomb cleared ‘em out pretty good.” He chuckled at the memory, then became serious. “Not that Ray's whereabouts is any concern of yours no more, but he's gone.” He folded his arms over his chest, blocking her path.

  She crossed her own arms over her chest, then took a sudden step back as she lost her balance. “I'm not leaving until I get my purse."

  He grabbed her arm. “You'll leave when I tell you. Which is now.” He dragged her toward the door.

  She shook him off. “Take your hand off me or I'll make a ruckus and bring the house down."

  He knew she would, too. He glanced around as if he realized for the first time they were in a lobby full of guests, then released her. “Okay, okay. I'll take a look for you, if you promise to be quiet and go outside to wait."

  Doubtful, she nodded. She bounced against pillars and walls until she found herself standing under the awning outside. The doorman was nowhere to be seen. Angry humiliation burned in her eyes at the memory of Ray's treatment. “Got a smoke?” she asked a kid hanging around the door, probably hoping to be asked to run a message. Her mouth was dry, too. She could have used a pull from the flask she carried in her purse.

  His blue cap low over his eyes, the kid dug in the pocket of his dungarees and produced a mashed packet. He fished a cigarette out and grudgingly handed it to her.

  Before she could light it, the house dick showed up, his hands empty. “Not there,” he said.

  "Did you—?"

  "I turned the place upside down. Not there."

  "That little t
ramp—"

  "Marilyn, why don't you use that pretty little head of yours,” he poked at the curls of her bob with a finger, “instead of soaking it? You didn't stay more than two minutes. You didn't sit down. Ergo, it follows that you didn't leave no purse here, unless you threw it at someone?” he ended with a question.

  She shook her head. A bad idea. She staggered as a wave of dizziness assaulted her.

  "Think about it.” He struck a match and lit her cigarette for her. “It's gotta be someplace else."

  She took a long drag to steady herself, then exhaled. He was right.

  "Where were you before you came here?” he asked.

  "Hudson's Department Store."

  "Maybe you left it there."

  The streets near Woodward and Columbia were glutted with cars and it took O'Neill a while to find a parking space. He squeezed into a space some blocks away, climbed out, and walked along the street looking for telltale signs. A plain sturdy wooden door with a peephole had to be the Kibbutzer Club.

  He hesitated before entering, touching the gun in his pocket. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all. It could go wrong fast.

  A barrel-chested patrolman strolling his beat, his hands crossed behind his back, tossed a pleasant greeting to him, “Afternoon, sir.” A puzzled grin spread across his face as he saw the purse O'Neill carried.

  "Afternoon, Officer.” Sheepishly, O'Neill held the purse up. “I'm wondering if you might happen to know a young lady by the name of Marilyn Massie."

  The patrolman stiffened and turned watchful, as his gaze lit on the bulge of the gun. “What do you want with Miss Marilyn?"

  "She dropped her purse."

  The tension in the patrolman's eyes and mouth eased. “I saw her a few minutes ago."

  O'Neill nodded, straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and headed for the door of the club.

  The patrolman pinched his sleeve. “I don't believe you want to go in there, sir."

  O'Neill knew he didn't, but he pretended surprise. “I don't?"

  "No,” the patrolman said firmly, with a meaningful glance at the gun in his pocket, “you don't. Besides, if it's Miss Marilyn you're looking for, she's not there now. Left not five minutes ago."

  Annoyed, O'Neill sighed. “In a cab?” he asked.

  The officer nodded.

  "I don't suppose you overheard the address she gave?"

  "Can't say I do. Sorry, sir.” He drifted backwards, then turned and continued his leisurely patrol of the sidewalk.

  Perhaps she'd realized she'd lost her purse at the hotel and returned. It was worth a try.

  A few minutes’ walk bumping against pedestrians on the sidewalk like a billiard ball on a table brought Marilyn to Hudson's Department Store a few blocks away from the hotel. She pushed through the doors of the department store cautiously, ready to make a bolt if one of the floor dicks the store crawled with spotted her.

  Inside, she surveyed the women's clothing department on the first floor. Shoppers, mostly women, a few with bored children in tow, grazed the merchandise. No sign of a dick. Careful of her balance and her surroundings, she wound her way through racks of dresses and cosmetic counters toward the perfume.

  Shifts had changed and a different salesgirl stood behind an array of glittering bottles. Marilyn had fully intended to buy the cologne earlier. She had the money and she would have purchased it if she hadn't had to wait so danged long in a herd of housewives. She had already been late for Ray's birthday party. It had been quicker to pocket a bottle and scoot out.

  Mustering all her politeness, she addressed the salesgirl, “I think I may have left my purse here earlier today."

  "Lost and found—the fourteenth floor,” the girl shot back, looking down her nose like she was better than Marilyn because she had a job in a lousy department store.

  Marilyn opened her mouth for a retort, but the girl intercepted her. “Elevators—in the back of the building."

  She looked in the direction the girl indicated and saw a man in a suit striding purposely toward her, either a floor dick or a Purple sent by Ray to whack her. She bolted around the counter, spotted a door with a sign marked stairs, flung it open, and rushed up a flight. No footsteps sounded below. Her head spinning and her stomach roiling, she collapsed on a concrete step, fighting a wave of gin-induced nausea. She took off her fur coat and dabbed the beads of sweat from her forehead with a crumpled handkerchief she found in her pocket.

  When the nausea passed, she opened the door and threaded her way through housewares to the elevator. She rode to the fourteenth floor, smoothing her hair and straightening her hat.

  When it stopped, she stepped out into a corridor swarming with clerks. She hoped she was less conspicuous without the fur coat on. She stopped a secretary hugging folders to her flat chest. “Lost and found?” she asked.

  "In there,” the woman replied, pointing to a door marked detectives.

  "Hell's bells,” Marilyn cursed under her breath. But there was nothing for it. She had to have that purse. Screwing up her courage, she strode to the door and entered. Instead of a posse of detectives waiting to arrest her, she entered a quiet, bland office. A large woman sat behind an enormous desk that almost filled a cramped reception area. The nameplate on the desk read miss simmons.

  "Is this lost and found? I'm looking for my purse,” Marilyn asked, finding she didn't have to work so hard at making the words clear now.

  "Let me check.” Miss Simmons eased herself up from her chair and waddled to a filing cabinet in the corner. “What did it look like?"

  "Brown leather with a drawstring."

  Miss Simmons opened a drawer and pulled out a purse. “Is this it?"

  "No. Let me look.” Half a dozen limp, deflated purses filled the drawer, but none of them were hers.

  "Sorry. Would you like to leave a name in case it turns up tomorrow?” Miss Simmons returned to her desk and extended pen and paper toward her.

  Tomorrow? She'd be dead by tomorrow. She shook her head. She rode the elevator down and drifted through the aisles toward the street entrance like the ghost she would soon be.

  An arm grabbed her from behind. “Back again? So soon?” It was the same store dick that had been stationed near the perfume counter on her earlier visit, a big, raw-boned guy who reeked of Ivory soap. “For your information, Miss Lightfingers, a bottle of very expensive cologne disappeared on your last visit."

  "You're accusing me?” She yanked her sleeve from his grasp, then made a show of slipping on her fur coat. “I can afford anything I want in this joint.” Indignation reawakened the slur. “That pisswater you're trying to pass off as perfume? I wouldn't take it if you were giving it away.” She adjusted the collar of her coat haughtily.

  "Obviously we weren't giving it away.” He glared back.

  There was nothing he could do about it now and they both knew it. She cocked her head to one side and looked him over. “Hey, you're a dick,” she baited him. “Maybe you can figure out what happened to my purse when I was here. I think one of your customers stole it right under your nose."

  He cocked his head, meeting her challenge. “Could be. We get a lot of grifters here."

  "Did you happen to notice whether I had it with me?"

  "Can't say I did. You were making a pretty good getaway at the time.” He put his fists on his waist. “How about if I escort you to the door just so neither one of us loses something else this time?"

  "You again!” The doorman at the Book Cadillac Hotel chuckled at O'Neill. “You're a dogged one!” He glanced around, as if he were nervous of being overheard. “You missed her at the Kibbutzer Club because she came back here."

  "Obliged.” O'Neill made to push through the revolving glass door.

  The doorman yanked his sleeve. “Just a minute, buddy. She's not here now. She left. Well, you might say she was shown out. Asked to leave, so to speak."

  "I see.” O'Neill frowned. “Cab?” he asked and sighed.

  "Not t
his time. She headed down the street."

  "Then I might catch her?” He turned on his heel.

  "Maybe. That way.” The doorman pointed in the opposite direction.

  "Just in case, where does she live?” he asked.

  The doorman hesitated, glancing around.

  O'Neill produced another five spot.

  The doorman plucked the bill from his fingers. “21 Second Avenue."

  He tipped his homburg in thanks.

  That left only the bank. Clarity creeping back, Marilyn strode down the street to the First National where she had gone to get dough for Ray's cologne.

  The bank dick, a slim man with a thin mustache that he thought made him look swank, blocked the door, a fistful of keys in his hands.

  The door refused to open. Locked. She banged on the glass.

  The little man held up his wristwatch and pointed to its face. Five o'clock, closing time.

  She yelled through the glass, “Did I leave my purse here?"

  He shook his head.

  "Did I have a purse with me when I left?"

  "Sure you had one. You socked me with it,” he yelled back at her, rubbing his scrawny arm.

  Then where was it? She stepped away from the door in a daze. Stone sober now, she wandered aimlessly down the street torrential with office workers heading for home, huddling into her coat, the wind whipping tears into her eyes.

  Mentally she retraced her steps. She'd taken money from the bank and walked to Hudson's. Had she stopped anywhere? No. She hadn't been tempted as there were no speakeasies in the neighborhood. That's what flasks were for anyway.

  She'd gone into Hudson's with the purse, but had she come out with it? Maybe. She'd then walked to the Book Cadillac Hotel without stopping except for a few more swigs, arriving in more of a fuddle than she'd intended. She'd stayed at the hotel only for a few moments. From Ray's birthday celebration at the hotel, in a drunken fury, she'd called a cab to take her to the club where she'd realized she'd lost the purse. The cab! She'd left it in the cab!

  Abruptly she stopped and a stocky businessman slammed into her. She forced herself to focus on remembering the cab or the driver's face. Nothing came to her. Useless. Gone forever. It was all a gin-soaked blur.