Dark City Lights

by Lawrence Block

  “Yeah.” Grins “Some Oreos.” He pats his pockets. “And Camels.”

  MA

  “I WAS FBI. BET YOU didn’t know that,” Ma says. “Frizzy red hair, scrawny, like a Jew Commie. Alias, Margie Goldberg. Spent a couple of years undercover.” She smiles, adjusts the seams of her nylons. She has decent gams under her tight skirt, good ankles. “The boys on both sides liked me, but I have to admit those lefties gave Margie a good time. If you know what I mean.”

  Ray’s eyes make her beefcake. “Why’d you quit?”

  “Too much like Catholic school, if you know what I mean. Besides, I had responsibilities.”

  “A private doll, not many of you,” Harry says.

  “Not many.” She crosses her legs. Her jacket is open, her blouse unbuttoned enough to show plenty of cleavage. She’s been around this corner. Puts a thin, brown cigarillo in her lips. “Got a light?”

  They both fumble to give her a light. Ray gets there first. “Any problem getting your license?”

  Ma laughs. “What do you think?”

  Ray and Harry do a “heh, heh.”

  Overhead, the fan harrumphs and harrumphs.

  “So, boys, did you ask me over to talk shop?” Ma says. “I run an honest business, a little small-time maybe, but I make a living. And my license is clean.”

  ARTIE

  “SHE’S GOT THIS STUPID BUSINESS, punk wants to know if the wife is farting on the side and it’s, ‘Artie, follow her.’ Insurance company thinks someone’s faking disability? ‘Artie’ll check it out.’ Thinks she’s fucking Philip Marlowe. Fuck, I’m Philip Marlowe. ‘Oh now, Arthur,’ she says, ‘Stop complaining. You have it good.’ Sits in the backyard with her dago red, playing poker with that fat-assed stripper, Fanny, and Fanny’s old man, Norman, who owns the Village Soir.” He’s lapping up a Good Humor on a stick.

  “Fanny was some piece in her day,” Harry says. He puts thumb and index finger together and smack-kisses. “Shoulda seen her feathered fan thing at Minsky’s.”

  Ray brings them back. His mother’s Italian and he doesn’t like “dago,” but Artie’s talking now.

  Harry says, “Ma know how you feel?”

  Artie drops the licked-clean stick on the table. He swigs some Coke, leans in to take a light from Ray. “Yeah.” Tilts his head back and makes a smoke ring. “I don’t keep nothing to myself. Most times.” Grimaces a grin. “She always says, ‘Oh, Arthur.’ Like what I say don’t count.”

  “Okay, chum.” Ray lights up his own. “Knock off the Freud crap. Get to the girl.”

  “What girl?” Artie’s doing a tease. He winks at Ray. “There’s always a girl.”

  “You know goddamn well what girl, mister.” Harry’s a big guy, over six and built like a brick wall. He gets in Artie’s face.

  “Shit,” Artie says, spraying spittle as he pulls back. “It’s my story.”

  “Then fucking tell it.”

  MA

  “WE WANNA KNOW ARTIE’S STORY,” Ray says.

  “Artie? My nephew Arthur?”

  “Yeah,” Harry says. “Good kid. He’s helping us out on a routine investigation.”

  “Arthur can’t—he’s my nephew—so I’m telling you, Arthur is like those monkeys. Don’t see nothing, don’t hear nothing. Makes like he’s a hound.” Ma waves her hands in the air. “Useless.” She thinks, What the fuck are these mutts up to?

  “He says he came to live with you when he was thirteen,” Ray says.

  “Eleven.”

  “How come?”

  Ma sighs. It’s ugly. Blocked it out. Never happened. Except Arthur, he looks more like Anthony every day. “Thirteen years ago, Jersey City, my brother Anthony killed Julia, his wife, little Angela, who was nine, and himself.”

  “Jeeze,” Ray says.

  “Arthur came home and called the police. They found him holding Julia, covered in her blood, talking to her like she was still there.”

  “Poor kid.”

  “He don’t remember any of it,” Ma says, giving them her squinty eye. “So spill. What’s going on?”

  ARTIE

  “NORMAN,” ARTIE SAYS. “IT WAS Norman. Yeah.”

  “Norman Organ, you’re saying?” says Harry. It’s really Argonne, but no secret he’s called Norman Organ, and there’s a lot of truth there. “Is this the beginning or the end?”

  “Both,” Artie says, burbling.

  “Fuck this, wise guy,” Harry says, heading for the door. “I’m done.”

  “No, no. You asked me to help you.”

  Harry comes back, sits.

  “Where does the Organ come in?” Ray says.

  “Norman sets up fun. He’s good to me. He has a room at the Earle. The girls meet us there.” Smirks. “For auditions.”

  “How long has he been so good to you?”

  “I don’t know, maybe since I came to live with Ma. Before Tamara.”

  “Tamara, she was one of the girls?”

  “Not Tamara. You ever see her?” He gets dreamy-eyed, stares off in the distance. “At the Soir. Ringer for Ava Gardner. Sings blues, like sweet smoke. Just got a recording contract with Atlantic Records.” Proud. “My girl.”

  “She dumped you, chum,” Harry says.

  Artie stares at Harry. “You’re beginning to annoy me. Who told you that?”

  “We ask the questions now,” Ray says. “When did you see her last?”

  Quiet, serious, Artie blows into his cupped hands. “We were celebrating. The contract.”

  “Celebrating, huh,” Ray says, “What do you think, Harry? They were celebrating.”

  TAMARA

  “DIDN’T LAST LONG AT VASSAR, did I? Too weird. But they were weirder, except for you, though come to think of it, you were a little weird yourself,” Tamara says. They’re drinking gin, straight. She refills their glasses, kicks off her Cubans.

  Outside, a fire engine siren blares.

  Tamara closes the window. Too hot. Opens the window. The siren is a distant wail.

  “Yeah, I was weird, didn’t grow a mustache, wore a bra,” Dottie says, “Stayed parked and got the foolscap I can’t do shit with.”

  “While I hung out at Birdland and the Three Deuces, and dives we won’t even talk about.”

  “Have to admit, you were pretty shocking.” They laugh.

  Tamara is leggy and elegant. Her nose is too long, her eyes too far apart. She is not beautiful except when she laughs. Or when she sings.

  “Oh, yes, shocking. They finally suggested I was not suited to be one of their young ladies. Crushed Mama, but Daddy, he didn’t care. Just wanted me to be happy. He wrote a big check, and I moved into the Brevoort and here I am.”

  “The story of your life.” Dottie puts her notebook down, tucks her pencil into her braid. She writes bits and pieces for Mademoiselle. Tamara’s helping her out, helping both of them out. “And we haven’t even gotten to the Soir.”

  “Thank Norman Organ for that.”

  Dottie shrieks. “Organ?”

  They’re laughing so hard, their drinks slosh. “Okay, Argonne. But everyone calls him Organ behind his back. He’s always schtupping it around.”

  Dottie takes her pencil from her braid. “I have to ask you about Artie.”

  “What about him?” Tamara can’t help being defensive. She knows Dottie doesn’t like Artie, doesn’t understand what Tamara sees in him.

  “He’s a spoiled rich kid going nowhere, you’re a girl on your way up. He doesn’t fit. The recording contract is only the beginning.”

  “I love him, Dottie. Except when I don’t. He looks like Errol Flynn, don’t you think?” Tamara says. “Besides, he’s got plans. Coffee houses on West Fourth.”

  “Coffee houses? Sure, with a side business of benzies and barbies.”

  “He promises he’s done.”

  Dottie thinks her friend wears rose-colored glasses.

  “I have to find a new place,” Tamara says. “They’re going to tear down the Brevoort and build an apartment
house.”

  ARTIE

  “SO YOU SAY YOU’RE AT the Brevoort?” Harry says.

  Artie blinks. He’s back. “The Brevoort, yeah, me and Tamara. A suite. We gotta find another place.”

  Ray puts a new cig in his mouth and lights it with the butt of the old one. “Why’s that, chum?”

  “It’s coming down. They tear everything down.”

  “So how does a kid like you get a babe like Tamara?”

  “She’s nuts about me.”

  Harry says, “Nuts enough to give you a shiner?”

  Artie touches the skin around his eye. “Walked into a door.”

  “Sure, wise guy.” Harry’s like a bulldog. “And what happened to your hair? Looks a little singed. Walk into a candle?”

  “Shove it,” Artie says, getting up. “You don’t want my help. I’m blowing.”

  “Knock it off, Harry,” Ray says, making nice. “Don’t be sore, Artie. Harry’s got his problems at home, don’t you, Harry?”

  Harry growls. “Yeah, sorry, kiddo.”

  Artie sits back down. “Okay.”

  “What’s she like, Tamara?

  MA

  “YOU HAD RESPONSIBILITIES, YOU SAY, Ma? What kind of responsibilities?”

  “You’re kidding me, right? I had the kid. What was I going to do with a kid?”

  “What did you do?”

  “Arthur inherited a lot of money. I bought a house in MacDougal Alley and put the kid in private school, Collegiate. When he’s twenty-five next year, he gets the rest of the bundle.”

  “So he don’t remember anything about the murders?”

  “Come on, boys. What’s cooking?”

  “We’re interested in why your brother did it.”

  Ma knows these two mutts with shields are playing her. She’d like to take off, but not without Arthur. What kind of trouble has Arthur gotten himself into now? “Are you telling me you’re reopening my brother’s case?”

  “Could be,” Harry says. “Wanna coffee?”

  TAMARA

  “HE DOESN’T MEAN IT,” SHE says. She’s dizzy, barefoot, the sleeve of her dress is torn. She has to hold on to the doorjamb to keep from falling over. Herb, the desk clerk, who runs errands for her when he’s off duty, has ice for the bruise on her cheek. “I took into him.” Grins, winces. “You should see him.”

  “Saw him. Blew past me like a bat outta hell.” He follows her into the room, the living area of a suite, gives her the ice in a linen handkerchief once she’s sitting. There’s lit candles all around the room and the smell of something burned. “Something burning?”

  “Threw a candle at him.”

  Herb’s spooked. “You wanna burn us down?”

  She tries to laugh but the swelling’s in the way. “Told him we’re finished,” she says.

  “Found a new place yet?” Herb says, not believing her. The two of them are off again, on again, fighting, throwing stuff. Like candles now. The only reason the Brevoort hasn’t tossed them out is the building is coming down and no one cares.

  “No. My mama and daddy are coming up from Natchez next week. Daddy will find me a place.”

  Herb nods. He’s heard her father’s rolling in dough. Padrone of the oleomargarine business across the South. No joke.

  “Leave word at the desk. I don’t want Artie let back up here.”

  “Okay. Hey—” The door opens behind him.

  Artie doesn’t look at him. Goes straight to Tamara and lifts her into his arms. “I’m sorry, babe. You’re right. I promise. I love you. It’s going to be different.” He touches her cheek. “Does it hurt?”

  “Oh, Artie.” She snuggles into his chest. “I love you.”

  “Brought you some medicine,” he says. “It’ll make you feel better.”

  “Let’s go shopping,” she says.

  Herb leaves.

  MA

  “MAYBE YOUR BROTHER DIDN’T DO it,” Harry says.

  “Waddaya talking about? It was his gun.”

  “Someone coulda popped him, then set him up, right, Ray?”

  “Yeah. Maybe he was having a little on the side with a local. People talk.”

  Harry smirks. “More like he was doing business on the side.” Moves his thumb to his nose.

  Ma doesn’t like how they’re playing her. “Big shots. Anthony wasn’t perfect.”

  “Yeah, a real skirt chaser we hear.”

  “Arthur was a kid. He don’t remember nothing about what happened.”

  “You’d be surprised, Ma.”

  “I wanna see him. Now.”

  “Later,” Ray says. “He’s looking at pictures. Let him look. He might remember something.” He stands. “I gotta get back.”

  After Ray leaves, Harry says, like he’s sympathetic, “You got a business. Why don’t you blow and take care of business and we’ll give you a ring when he’s done.”

  Ma’s got to get a report out to her client, putz carrying a torch for his ex-wife. Harry’s right. She’s gotta take care of business. “Don’t try to put anything over on me, buster.”

  TAMARA

  “TELL AUTOMATIC SLIM, TELL RAZOR totin’ Jim, tell butcher knife totin’ Annie, tell fast talkin’ Fanny . . .” Buddy on guitar, Willie drums, nice and slow. Spot loves her. She flips back her hair, goes for the repeat. “We’re gonna pitch a wang dang doodle all night long. . .” Spot out. When the lights come on, she’s gone.

  “They’re sayin’ you’re the white Bessie Smith.” Lou fills her glass with his mix of gin and orange juice. Mostly gin. Sea breeze, he calls it.

  “White Bessie. That’s a laugh.” She’s a little woozy. What did Artie give her? The dressing table mirror is flecked with age spots, her image blurs back at her. She finished her set to good-enough applause, gave them her encore of “Wang Dang Doodle,” which she always closes with. She resents the chipped paint of the table and the dingy closet they call a dressing room.

  “Drink up,” Lou says. He’s on top of the world. “You’re knockin’ ’em dead with that “Wang Dang Doodle.” Where’d you get it?”

  “Willie Davis. Mississippi blues music.”

  “Mississippi?”

  “Where d’you think I’m from, Lou?”

  “Well it’s makin’ ’em all sit up and take notice.”

  “Really? They talk, and eat while I’m singing.” Lou’s a good agent but understands nothing about being an artist; all he thinks about is the dough.

  “Listen, kiddo, there was a line tonight and the eleven o’clock is sold out.”

  “Artie says I should be in a better club.”

  “Yeah, well Café Society is long gone.” Lou does that one arm over the elbow thing. “Artie knows nothin’. Did he do that to you?” He points to her bruised cheek, which she’s carefully covered with Max Factor and powder. “Good thing blues don’t work in too bright light.”

  “It was an accident.” She checks her makeup in the mirror, but her image swims. Aspirin he said he gave her, but it must have been one of his goofballs.

  “Yeah, you walked into his fist. He’s poison. You got ten years on him, you oughta know better. You’re goin’ places, and he’s a loser.”

  “Lou, please.” Tears spill. “I know. I can’t help it. We have terrible fights. Drugs, girls Norman gets for him.”

  “Oh, shit, kiddo, don’t cry.” Lou squeezes her shoulder. “If you want, I’ll get him to lay off.”

  She shakes her head. Lou has some tough friends who might hurt Artie. That’s not what she wants. “No. I’ll do it.”

  NORMAN

  “YEAH, GOT A TIP ABOUT her from a pal at the Onyx. She hanging out, playing goo-goo with the bass player, got him to set her up on a stool during the break.”

  “So she was good,” Harry says.

  “Good? A white blues singer, sings like Bessie. You kidding me? She’s going places. And I wanted to be first in line.”

  “Who is Lou?” Ray says.

  “Jesus, do you believe that punk Lou tur
ns up from somewhere when I’m handing her a contract and says he’s her manager?”

  “She hired him?”

  “And I have to put in this and that and if and when before she signs.”

  “But she signed. And you signed.”

  “Yeah. And she’s hot stuff. Can make you cry, she’s so good.”

  “What about Artie?” Harry says.

  “What about him?” Norman lights a fag, inhales, exhales, content.

  “He’s a friend of yours?” Ray said

  “More like protégé, know what I mean?”

  “Oh, yeah. We heard about the Earle.”

  Norman winks, makes clicking noise with his teeth. “Oh, so that’s what this is? Where I do my auditions? Every sis wants to be a star. They come to audition and have fun, we have fun. The kid is a college boy, tall, good looking. What can I say?”

  “How do you know Artie?”

  “He’s Ma’s kid. Known him since she took him in after his pop popped the rest of the family.” He laughs at his joke. “Ma can be tough. Boy needs a father. I been like a father to him.”

  Harry and Ray make an obvious exchange of glances. “A real sport,” Harry says.

  “How did he come to Tamara?”

  “Oh, I get it. She made a complaint because he gave her a pat on the cheek.”

  “Something like that,” Ray says.

  “A love pat. Artie was at the Soir her first night. They fell for each other. Kid stuff. It won’t last.”

  “He moved in with her at the Brevoort.”

  “To get away from Ma.”

  “The Brevoort is coming down.”

  “Artie’ll have his pop’s dough by that time.”

  TAMARA

  SHE CALLS THE FRONT DESK. “Herb, run round to Bigelow’s. Get me a pint, House of Lords, put it on me.”

  “As soon as my shift ends. Fifteen maybe twenty, when Joseph gets here.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Quarter to.”

  “Okay. Tell Joseph if Artie comes in not to let him up. I don’t wanna see him.”

  “How’s Joseph going to stop him?” She doesn’t answer right away. “Hello?”

  “Never mind, tell Joseph to ring me up that Artie’s on his way.”

  HERB

  “WADDAYA WANNA KNOW?”

  “You and Tamara,” Ray says. The kid has enough freckles to cover a phone booth.