Genuine Gold

by Ann Aptaker

  Rosie sure pegged me this morning: I’m still in love with Sophie. I’ll always be in love with her. She was my joy, the passion in my loins and the sweetness in my soul, my smile in the morning, my peaceful sleep at night. With or without Sig, I’ve got to find her.

  As much as I love Sophie, I also love life. My life. My crazy, brazen, thumb in the Law’s eye life. That life was good to me today. So why do I feel so crummy tonight?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rosie’s phone rings half a dozen times before I accept there’s no answer, accept she’s not home. I wonder if she’s with that regular fare again tonight. Serves me right if she is. Rosie’s too smart to keep waiting around for what I can’t give her.

  I grab a quick shower, spiff up in a fresh suit—a navy double-breasted with pinstripes over a pale green shirt, navy tie with pale yellow chevrons, finish it off with a pale green silk pocket square—and figure I’ll take in a slow fox-trot with a sweet stranger at the Green Door Club. That oughta pep up my mood.

  I’m just about to grab my overcoat and fedora from the closet when there’s a buzz at my apartment door.

  My heart beats fast again, just like it always does when there’s a buzz at my door, ever since the night Sophie disappeared. Scenes of reunion play in my head, scenes of embraces and kisses and tears, my face buried in Sophie’s dark hair, my arms around her, while she whispers my name. Those scenes play in my head now, I hear her…Cantor…when I open the door.

  It’s Rosie.

  My heart slows down, resumes its mundane function of keeping me alive.

  Still, it’s good to see Rosie. It’s always good to see Rosie, and the way she looks right now, all dolled up in a black velvet cocktail dress, a strapless number, heart-shaped at the top and curvy the rest of the way down to just below the knee, her coat thrown over one shoulder, makes seeing her even better.

  “Oh,” we both say at the same time.

  “Oh,” she says again, “you’re dressed like you’re going out.”

  “So are you.”

  She gives me a shrug and a smile. “Can I spoil your plans?”

  “You can improve my plans.”

  I have to admit, I love Rosie’s smile. It’s sweet and tart at the same time. It hints at ecstasy, promises an adventure in finding it.

  Her smile shrinks a little, a touch of regret settling in the corners. “I’m sorry, Cantor. I was…a little rough on you this morning. Forgive me?”

  “Always.”

  *

  The feel of Rosie against me as we sway on the dance floor of the Green Door Club is the best medicine I could have tonight. Warmer than swaying with a stranger, more stimulating than any amount of booze I could swallow. I could be content in Rosie’s arms forever, if only…

  “Mmmm,” she purrs, “if I didn’t know you as well as I do, I’d say you’re actually enjoying yourself.”

  “Of course, I’m enjoying myself. Dancing with you is always a pleasure, Rosie.”

  We dance a little more, sway around the dance floor to the swoony music. Indulging myself in Rosie’s warmth, her body in rhythm with mine, I’m barely aware of the crowd in the room, barely notice the drinkers at the bar.

  She says, speaking slow and low, “I almost didn’t come over tonight. I almost took a fare.”

  “Same one as last night?”

  “Oh…well, yeah. She’s a regular, and—”

  “You don’t owe me any explanation, Rosie. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Maybe I’m glad you did.”

  I have no response to that, at least, not one that would make her happy. I could tell her I was jealous last night, and it would be the truth, but not the happily-ever-after kind of truth.

  But the way she moves with me, the way her body curves into mine, is a truth, too. So I hold her a little closer, move a little more smoothly to the music, just let myself enjoy Rosie, trust our friendship on whatever terms we live it. Tonight, at least, here on the dance floor, I’ll let myself be happy.

  Except it’s a rotten happiness. It’s rotten because as Rosie and I circle around on the dance floor, I catch sight of Peg Monroe serving drinks to a couple at the bar. The couple’s on the same bar stools where Lilah and I sat last night.

  I don’t want to think about Lilah, have no reason to think about her now that I’ve recovered the Dancing Goddesses. My work in Coney Island is done.

  But it isn’t done, because Mickey’s killer is still out there, and the killer may have designs on Lilah. And now I know that Sig Loreale has his own interest in Lilah.

  She might be in the crosshairs of killers.

  I stop dancing. “I’m sorry, Rosie. I have to go.”

  The way she pulls away from me, quick and stiff, you’d think I’d slapped her. And in a way, I did.

  “Good-bye, Cantor.” It’s as if she’s slapped me back.

  *

  I stop by my place, strap into my shoulder holster, slide my .38 into the rig, put extra rounds into my trousers pocket, and grab my lock picks. Breaking and entering is often on my menu.

  It’s almost ten o’clock by the time I arrive back in Coney and park outside Lilah’s bungalow in the Gut. The place is dark, probably no one home, but I knock on the door anyway.

  No answer.

  I walk around the bungalow, check for light or sounds of life in a back room.

  Nothing, which worries me. The possibility of Lilah dead on the floor worries me.

  Back on the porch, I pick the front door lock and walk inside, switch on a living room lamp. All that floral wallpaper almost dizzies me.

  The kitchen and two bedrooms are tiny, tidy, and with walls of a cheerless, dull beige.

  No one’s home.

  I drive over to Surf Avenue, park the Buick, then walk along Schweickerts to the tattoo parlor. It’s dark, too. Against my better judgment, I knock on the door, pound on it, not giving a damn if I’m disturbing Lilah and some john in the back room.

  No answer.

  I pick the lock and walk inside.

  Finding a light switch, I flip it on, call out, “Lilah!” and move through the still blood-spattered tattoo joint and into the back room where I met with Mickey. It’s empty, so I walk into a side room, flip on a light there, too. It’s a cramped, dreary bedroom with an empty, unmade bed, the sheets tangled, the air tinged with the smell of flesh. I don’t want to be in here.

  I’m grateful for the salty ocean air when I get back outside and walk up to the boardwalk. The nippy night clears my head of the fleshy misery of that bedroom.

  But the familiar Coney breezes do nothing to calm my worry for Lilah’s safety. Where the hell is she?

  *

  Eddie’s emptying coins from a shoot-’em-up machine when I walk into the arcade. The nighttime crowd’s thick with locals, plenty of people feeding the games, making them clang and whistle and shriek.

  Eddie’s not happy to see me. “I can’t be talkin’ to you.”

  “Who’re you afraid of, Eddie?”

  “That’s not a smart question.”

  “Maybe you’ll like this one better. Where’s Lilah Day?”

  “How should I know? What am I, her babysitter?”

  “You were happy to babysit her last night, make sure she was safe.”

  “Yeah, well, that was last night. I’m busy tonight. Take a look around, lots of people for me to handle. I can’t be bothered about one dangerous little girl.” His grizzled face is suddenly all pasty, like he’s been caught in a spotlight with nowhere to hide.

  “That’s a strange thing to say, Eddie. I figure Lilah’s more in danger than she is dangerous.”

  “Sure, that’s what I mean. If she’s in danger, I don’t want her bringin’ that danger in here. I don’t need the aggravation.”

  “And I thought you’re a nice guy, Eddie. I guess I was misinformed.”

  “Go away, Cantor. I got work to do.”

  “Sure, I’ll go away,” I say. “Next time I see Sig Loreale—remember
? I know him personal-like, just like you said this morning—I’ll be sure to mention your name, tell him you’re a good soldier after all.” The old geezer’s gone from pasty to green. “Uh-huh, I get the picture now. You’re one of Sig’s Coney locals. But you’re way down on the ladder, Eddie. He doesn’t chat personal-like with you. So you must be getting your orders from…um, let’s see, how about Esposito? Is that why he was all over you today?”

  Eddie suddenly looks a little less trapped, even gives a small laugh, sort of a nervous spit. “Sure, Cantor, I’m way down on the ladder. And if you want to tell Mr. Loreale I’m a good soldier, that’s fine by me. But I don’t know where Lilah Day is.”

  “Then you’re not such a good soldier after all, Eddie. But maybe you can make it good. What do you know about Mickey Day’s operations?” He starts to walk away, I grab his arm. “He told me he’d been putting an outfit together, young toughs who are probably the angry sons of Solly Schwartz’s old gang. I, uh, had a little run-in with two of them last night.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” he says, yanking his arm, but I don’t let go.

  “No, I wouldn’t guess you do. But are there any little tidbits about Mickey’s operations you do know, Eddie? I figure you’re supposed to snoop and give the information to Esposito, who gives it to one of Sig’s henchmen, who gives it to Sig. You’re not gonna get rid of me, Eddie, until you spill.”

  There’s that nervous spit of a laugh again. He wipes his mouth with the back of his free hand, a way of buying a few extra seconds of not talking to me, maybe put a wall between him and me. But none of it works, the wall crumbles, and he finally says, “Yeah, Mickey was puttin’ an outfit together. He really thought he could go to war with Loreale if Loreale didn’t accept his business offer to get Coney’s rackets back. Jerk. Loreale had damn good reason to kill him—”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “Right, he didn’t. So who the hell did?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me, because whoever killed Mickey may want to kill Lilah. The killer might figure Mickey’s sister would inherit his operations. Somebody might want the last of Solly Schwartz’s kids out of the way.”

  Eddie’s stiff attitude loosens a little, and I let go of his arm. Maybe I hit some out-of-the-way sentimental spot in the old Coney coot, maybe the mention of Solly’s family stirred a nostalgia for the old days. “I hope you find her, Cantor.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I drive over to Sixteenth Street, and I’m not crazy about it that the only parking spot on the block is in front of my old house. Last night’s trip down memory lane while lounging on the stoop—just like I did as a kid—was enough. Being back in Coney’s sugar-sticky grip, wallowing in all the memories, could get in my way. I have even more dangerous things to do.

  So I make it snappy down the block to Mona’s bungalow, walk past a patched-up Chevy truck, a pre-war but newly shined Ford, and a fairly recent model dark Dodge. I never liked a Dodge. Its chrome grille, stretched across the front, makes the car look like it’s in a bad mood.

  Mona’s front parlor light’s on.

  The squeaky screen door announces my arrival even before I ring the doorbell. Mona’s “Who’s there?” comes through the door.

  “It’s Cantor.”

  It takes a little longer than I’d like before she opens the door, her aqua terry robe catching streetlight, throwing a watery pallor onto her puffy face and stringy black hair. “Come in, Cantor. Quickly.” When I step inside, Mona shuts the door fast.

  “Why the fast slam? What’s going on, Mona?” But the answer is right in front of me: Lilah.

  She’s seated on the couch, dressed more like a jazz denizen of Greenwich Village than a Coney Island cutie in black high-heeled shoes, a black high-necked sweater, and a green-and-black plaid pleated skirt that’s at war with the couch’s floral upholstery. The skirt is winning.

  Lilah’s nervous when she sees me, runs her hand through her hair, making it even more adorably tousled, as she gets up from the couch. “Cantor, what are you doing here?” The usual lilt in her voice is gone. Instead it’s tight and scratchy.

  “Making sure you’re all right,” I say. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Tried you at home and the tattoo parlor. Only other place I could think of was here.”

  “That’s—that’s very kind. But I’m fine.”

  “Yeah. So I see. You’re as nervous as a rat in a streetlight, Lilah. What’s going on? What are you doing here at this hour?”

  But it’s Mona who answers. “She’s helping me, Cantor. She knows how upset I am about the loss of my precious Miss Theresa. Lilah’s keeping me company.”

  “Mona,” I say, “you were a better liar when you were in the fortune-telling racket. You weren’t sad when you came to the door, you were jittery. So drop the death-in-the-family act and tell me what the hell is going on.”

  Lilah sits back down on the couch, Mona sits next to her. Neither of them looks comfortable.

  I let their discomfort fester, waiting to see which one will finally break and tell me what’s what.

  After a few awkward moments, Mona sits up, and when I think she’s about to talk, she just dully primps the same vase of flowers next to the same deck of tarot cards that were on the coffee table last night. She doesn’t say a word.

  The stillness in the parlor is heavy enough to flatten every wave in the ocean.

  It’s Lilah who finally breaks it. “It’s because of me, Cantor. Mona’s scared because of me. I came here because I’m terrified, and I hoped Mona would…well, take me in for a while. My house and the tattoo parlor aren’t safe anymore. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go, who else to call.”

  A twinge of—hurt feelings? jealousy?—sneaks up on me. We’d shared a bed. We’d shared a murder. And now I’m not even in Lilah’s phone book. Maybe I should just walk out of here, go back to the city, back to Rosie, try to patch things up with the woman who could teach Miss Lilah Schwartz Day a thing or two about being on the level.

  But if I turn my back and go home to Manhattan, and something happens to Lilah, if a killer finds her, could I live with that? I don’t want to find out. “Who’s scaring you, Lilah?”

  “That’s just it,” she says, sitting up, eyes wide with fear. “I don’t know. But someone’s after me, Cantor. Someone’s been to my house and the tattoo parlor. When I went home this afternoon, things were out of place, like someone looked through my stuff, through Mickey’s stuff, too. I think they tried to put everything back the same way, but I could tell. Same thing at the tattoo parlor when I went there tonight. Things were moved around like they’d been handled. I was so scared, I had to…I had to send a client away.”

  Lilah’s not the first hooker I’ve bedded or befriended. The ladies and I share some of the same turf. Their lives, like mine, are acts of giving the middle finger to the Law that kicks us around. Their clients, like mine, provide the cash to keep a roof over our heads, food in our mouths, and if we make a few extra bucks, well-tailored clothes, like mine, like Lilah’s. It’s just business. So why is it that whenever Lilah talks about her clients, my stomach tightens and my throat threatens to close up?

  After a “Hmm,” meant to sound like I’m thinking but really to get my insides to settle down, I say, “Anything missing?”

  “Not that I could see,” she says.

  “What about Mickey’s business records? Are they in the house or at the tattoo parlor?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Didn’t you ever see him write a check, or cook the books?”

  “Look, Mickey wasn’t big on sharing anything with me about his business, except when he collected money from a client and gave me my cut.” She takes a deep breath, the kind that tries to flush out a memory, then says, “A lousy, chintzy cut. Mickey could sure be cheap, even though he was my brother. The only time he forked over more cash was for my clothes. He wanted me to look nice. He said it was goo
d for business.” She says it like the words are spiked with bitter juice. But then something in her softens, something inside works its way outside, and she winds up looking like a little kid wondering whether she’s allowed to go into the candy store. “Cantor, I don’t remember my father. I was just a baby when Loreale murdered him. My mother always said my father was a hard man but a generous one, that’s why his friends—well, okay, his gang—were so loyal to him. Do you remember him that way?”

  “I didn’t really know him all that well,” I say. “I remember him as the boss of Coney. I remember seeing him around. Don’t forget, Lilah, I was a kid myself when Sig and your dad battled it out. And like everybody else in Coney Island, I just tried to stay out of their way. Maybe you should ask Mona. She was around then.”

  Mona waves away the question like she’s shooing a fly. “Yeah, sure, I was around, but what good is talking about it? Solly is dead and gone, and now Mickey is dead and gone, and if we don’t want Lilah dead and gone, we need to forget about all that old stuff and think about what’s going on now.”

  “All right,” I say, “let’s talk about what’s going on now. Like what was Mickey involved in, besides putting a new gang together? What was Mickey’s racket?”

  The way Lilah looks at me, and laughs at me, you’d think my pants suddenly fell down. “You’re really asking me how he made money, Cantor?”

  It’s another gut-tightening moment. “Besides that,” I say.

  “Gee,” she says, playing at a smart-aleck attitude, “I’m sorry if you don’t approve. But don’t worry. I’ve been sneered at before. I’m just surprised to be sneered at by you.” Those gorgeous green eyes which last night looked at me with so much lust, and later with a plea for protection, look at me now with a disappointment that makes me ache.

  I push aside the vase of flowers and deck of tarot cards on the coffee table, then sit down on the table, knees to knees with Lilah, and take her hands. “You’ve got me all wrong, Miss Day,” I say. “I’m not sneering at you, or how you earn your daily bread. Hell, last night I was the grateful beneficiary of your talents.”