Legs Benedict

by Mary Daheim

  “Listen to this,” Judith said, sitting on the edge of the bed and twitching with excitement. “‘Alfonso Benedetto, aka Legs Benedict, born 1956, the Bronx, New York. Started as a booster in Detroit’—what’s a booster?” Seeing Renie’s blank expression, Judith continued, “‘Returned to New York, joined Fusilli mob circa nineteen seventy-nine. Bag man. Married Elena Fusilli, nineteen eighty-four’.”

  Renie evinced surprise. “Legs married into the Fusilli family? That must have given him—excuse the expression—a leg up. But what’s this stuff got to do with jazz?”

  “I don’t know.” Judith continued reading. “‘Leg-breaker, circa nineteen eighty-seven. Assassin, nineteen ninety—. Cool customer, remorseless, can be patient, but has trigger temper. Weakness—women, fast cars, Sinatra ballads. Alleged hits—seventeen since ninety.’ What do you think of that, coz?”

  “I think he’s left more bodies than breadcrumbs in his path,” Renie responded, now looking grim. “I hate to say it, but I’m glad he’s dead. You wouldn’t have wanted his return business anyway.”

  “True.” Judith flipped through the rest of the notebook. “This thing’s full of notes, apparently on other mob members. ’Teddy Fucillo—Boston, elder statesman, etc. Johnny Grasso—owned race horses, bookie. Joseph (The Fat Man) Magliocco—Profaci’s underboss, also his brother-in-law. Sam (Momo) Giancana—Chicago boss, fled to Mexico to avoid Feds.” Judith looked up from the notebook. “I recognize his name. Didn’t he sleep with some woman who slept with everybody else?”

  “Right,” Renie said dryly. “Her name was Judith.”

  Judith gave a little snort. “No relation.” She turned another page. “Listen to this: ‘Cosa Nostra members are solely of Italian-Sicilian origin, often referred to as the Mafia.’” Judith frowned. Barney Schwartz—Bernhard Schlagintweit—isn’t an Italian name. The Mafia should be sued for discrimination.”

  Renie agreed. “Or defamation. They certainly give a bad name to all the rest of the Italians. I could weep when I think of great musicians like Puccini and Verdi and Caruso and Toscanini and Tebaldi being tarred with the same brush. It makes me want to become a bonecrusher or whatever they call them.”

  Judith gave Renie a brief glance of sympathy. “Of course. But that’s not my point—it’s about Barney trying to muscle in on the Fusilli family. Maybe it’s about turf, not nationality.” Pausing, she leafed through the rest of the notebook. “Everything in here seems to be about organized crime, not jazz. What’s Roland up to?”

  “No good?” Renie’s expression was as puzzled as Judith’s. “Maybe he’s doing some kind of tie-in, like a connection between music and crime.”

  “Some of the music the kids listen to today is a crime,” Judith murmured. “What if…?” She let the question dangle, replaced the notebook on the wicker stand, and hurried from the room. “Come on, let’s call my friend Blanche Rexford at the library.”

  In years gone by, when Judith hadn’t been tending bar at the Meat and Mingle, she had worked as a librarian at the Thurlow Street branch in the neighborhood where she and Dan had lived their dreary existence. Blanche Rexford, who was now head librarian at the Heraldsgate Hill library, had trained with Judith some twenty years earlier. Using the phone provided for guests in the hallway, Judith dialed the local branch.

  After a rather long preamble, involving a dozen queries from Blanche about the murder at Hillside Manor, Judith asked her old friend to check on books about organized crime, especially those written by someone with a name like du Turque, Turquette, Roland, Orlando, or some sort of variation. It took Blanche less than a minute to bring up a title called Cosa Nostra: Not Our Thing.

  “It was published in 1991,” Blanche said in her wispy voice. “The author is Ronald Turk.”

  Judith gave Renie a thumbs-up sign. “Is there a picture of him?”

  “I’m reading this from Books in Print,” Blanche said. “Do you want me to check the shelf?”

  “Would you?” Judith said in a plaintive tone.

  “Of course. I’ll be right back.”

  Judith gave Renie a full explanation. “It’s got to be Roland. Ronald, Roland, Orlando—they’re too similar to be a coincidence. Not to mention Turk instead of du Turque or Turquette.”

  Blanche came back on the line. “The dust jacket’s been removed. You know how it is—even with plastic coverings, they get badly worn after a couple of years.”

  “Yes,” Judith said, then asked another question. “Is there an author blurb inside the book?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Blanche said, the wispy voice tinged with regret. “It must have been on the jacket, too.”

  Thanking Blanche profusely, Judith hung up the phone. “Maybe we can eliminate Roland or Ronald or Orlando or whatever his real name may be. He’s a writer, doing research.”

  Renie was walking aimlessly back and forth in front of the large linen closet between Rooms Four and Five. “That sounds harmless enough.”

  Judith started to nod, then bit her lip. “Does it?” She looked up from the settee. “What motivated Roland—let’s keep that name to avoid confusion—what motivated him to write organized crime books in the first place? Academic interest? Some kind of personal involvement? Or a vendetta? The pen, I’ve heard, is mightier than the sword.”

  “So they say,” Renie conceded. “But Roland seems so…pleasant. I can’t imagine him shooting anybody.”

  “But he had a gun,” Judith reminded her cousin. “It may have been for self-protection, but Joe says you shouldn’t carry a weapon unless you’re prepared to use it. And don’t forget, someone notified him about Legs coming here. Who? Why? And did you notice the Amtrak tag on his satchel? It was from Oakland. Roland must have come here from the Bay Area, not Kansas City.”

  “A fairly short trip,” Renie remarked. “Less than twenty-four hours. Roland wouldn’t have needed much advance warning.”

  “But someone knew how to get hold of him,” Judith pointed out. “Was it one of the other guests? Or someone…”

  She was interrupted by a voice calling from the stairway. “Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo! Are you up there, Judith?” Vivian Flynn’s platinum coiffure appeared through the banister railings.

  “Hi,” Judith said weakly. “Renie and I were cleaning the guest rooms. Phyliss is sick today.”

  Attired in magenta silk lounging pajamas and matching wedgies, Herself grabbed the dust mop that was leaning against the settee. “I’ll take that.” She paused, staring at the dust mop. “What is it?”

  Judith, who knew from Joe that Herself considered housework a step below digging ditches on a Georgia chain gang, started to reply. Vivian, however, waved a hand that featured long, crimson nails. “Never mind, I’ll figure it out. Judith, you’ve been ill. You should still be in bed. I told you,” she went on in a scolding tone, “to let me know if you need help. Now you go rest your poor self while I finish up here. Shoo, shoo. You look positively ghastly.”

  Judith and Renie exchanged irked glances. “We’re almost done,” Judith said, getting up from the settee. “Renie’s been helping me. Really, Vivian, you needn’t bother. Don’t you have a house guest?”

  Herself was running the dust mop on the sections of bare floor not covered by a colorful pink, green, and yellow runner. “DeeDee’s sleeping in. We talked far into the night, and she’s worn out, poor darling. Maybe this evening you and Joe could stop in and meet her. If you’re up to it, of course.” Herself paused and eyed Judith critically. “If I were you, I wouldn’t push it. Your color is perfectly dreadful and those bags under your eyes could hold a week’s worth of groceries.”

  “Thanks,” Judith said faintly, then started to protest Vivian’s endeavors once more. Renie, however, poked her cousin in the ribs. “Okay,” Judith relented. “Everything but the hall and the communal bathroom has been cleaned. Phyliss did Room Three yesterday.”

  “Not to worry,” Herself said airily. Then, holding the dust mop as if it were a dance partner, she began to t
wirl around and sing, “‘I could have danced all night…’”

  Judith and Renie scampered downstairs. “Is Vivian coming here just to tell me how awful I look?” Judith hissed when they reached the entry hall. “Since when has she offered to be so helpful?”

  “Well…” Apparently Renie was trying to be reasonable. “She does call on your mother. That’s helpful.”

  “That’s treason.” Judith surveyed the living room, which, to her relief, was empty of guests. “I mean, sometimes I think she keeps friendly with Mother just to annoy me. Furthermore, if she thinks I’m going to drag Joe over to her house to watch her and DeeDee Whoever suck down a fifth of Old Jolt, she’s mistaken.”

  “Goodness,” Renie said in mock dismay, “now who’s being uncharitable?”

  “Oh, shut up.” Judith started for the kitchen just as the phone rang. “Damn! I left the cordless on the counter.” She raced through the dining room, ran the length of the kitchen, and grabbed the receiver just as it trunked over to the answering machine. “Double damn! I’ve never figured out how to break in once I miss the actual call. Now I’ll have to wait until the message is recorded.”

  “No, you don’t,” Renie said in a calm voice. “You simply speak over the clicks and beeps. The only glitch is that your conversation gets recorded.”

  “That wouldn’t bother me,” Judith said, watching for the red light to show that the message had been completed. “I’ll try it next time. Ah—it’s finished.”

  She poked the message button and heard Mike’s agitated voice, “Where are you, Mom? Kristin’s in labor. We’re at the hospital. They’re wheeling her…My God, the baby…!”

  The message stopped. Judith could hear only the buzzing of the line. For a moment, she thought her heart had stopped and that the buzzing was in her ears.

  “Let’s go,” Judith shouted, racing for the back door.

  The cousins ran past the toolshed, where Gertrude presumably was still being interrogated by the FBI, raced by two startled uniforms who remained on duty, brushed off a pair of reporters who yelled at them to stop, and flew down the driveway where Renie had parked her car.

  They never looked back. If they had, they would have seen Minerva Schwartz pulling Barney’s white Cadillac into the cul-de-sac.

  FOURTEEN

  THE HMO HOSPITAL that had served members of the Grover clan for almost fifty years was located across town, about five miles from Hillside Manor. Mike had been born there, as had two of the three Jones offspring, and Donald Grover had died in the old wing, which had since been demolished.

  After Renie totaled the Joneses’ big blue Chevrolet on a mountain pass two winters ago, she and Bill had bought a new Toyota Camry they lovingly called “Cammy.” Judith, who wouldn’t have dreamed of calling her Subaru “Suebby,” found the nickname cloying.

  She also found Renie’s careful drive to the hospital frustrating, as well as uncharacteristic. Usually, Renie drove like she was waiting for the checkered flag at the Old Brick Yard in Indianapolis. But on this cloudy June afternoon, she exercised extreme caution, even waiting for hesitant pedestrians to cross at unmarked corners and pausing for vehicles to pull out of driveways.

  “Come on, coz,” Judith urged, “I’m about to have a stroke. Can’t you put the pedal to the metal?”

  “Cammy only likes to go fast on the freeway,” Renie responded. “She has excellent manners in business and residential areas. A courteous car is Cammy.”

  Judith tried to relax as they skirted the edge of downtown and headed up the hill to Central Hospital. Her heart was still pounding, however, and she felt a throbbing headache coming on. The buzzing in her ears had been replaced by a different sound, which at first she couldn’t identify.

  “Your car is making a weird noise,” Judith said.

  “Cammy doesn’t make weird noises,” Renie snapped. “Cammy purrs.”

  “That’s what it sounds like.” Judith listened for a moment. The sound was still there, only louder. Then, just as Judith was about to turn around in an attempt to track down the noise, a large ball of fur flopped between the front seats and landed on the gearshift console.

  “Sweetums!” Judith shrieked. “Good God! How did he get in here?”

  Renie was so startled that she momentarily lost control of the steering wheel. The Camry veered to the right, just missing a blind man and his guide dog.

  “Get that damned cat out of here!” Renie yelled. “He’ll get Cammy hurt!” Grappling with a hissing, clawing Sweetums, Judith finally managed to put him in her lap. “He doesn’t like to ride in cars,” Judith muttered. “He thinks he’s going to the vet.”

  “I wish he were going to the pound,” Renie asserted, finally picking up speed as the white brick bulk of the hospital came into view. “He must have sneaked in through the window. Since it wasn’t raining, I put it down so Cammy could get some fresh air.”

  “Honestly,” Judith said in exasperation, “you treat this car as if it were a pet. It’s a car, dammit.”

  Renie took her right hand off the wheel long enough to jab at Sweetums. “You treat that thing as if it were a person. It’s a pain in the butt, if you ask me.”

  “You should talk,” Judith shot back. “You make a fool over yourself with that rabbit. Who else tucks their bunny in at night and reads him a bedtime story?”

  “Clarence is special,” Renie asserted. “And I don’t read to him. I only sing him a little song.”

  “I don’t dote on Sweetums like that,” Judith declared. “I’m not one of those people who invest all my love and affection into an animal. But if I did, it wouldn’t be as dumb as calling my car ‘Suebby.’ Unlike a pet, a car is not a surrogate child.”

  Renie turned the corner by the hospital so fast that three people dove for safety behind a phone pole. “Cammy isn’t a surrogate child. Bill and I have three children of our own, as you well know.”

  “Grandchildren, then,” Judith said, sounding waspish. “You’re jealous because Joe and I are about to become grandparents.”

  “Bunk.” Renie honked at an ambulance that was pulling away from the hospital’s emergency entrance. “We take good care of our cars so they’ll last forever, not to mention that they’re our first line of defense when it comes to highway safety.” Running up over the curb, Renie swerved around a “Do Not Enter” sign, and drove down the exit lane into the hospital’s underground parking garage.

  “Hey!” the attendant yelled from his kiosk, “you’re going the wrong way, lady!”

  Renie leaned out the window. “The hell I am. I’m in the parking garage, aren’t I?” She rounded the corner and pulled into an empty spot. “How about this for convenience?” she said, her tone again chipper.

  “It says ‘Reserved for Staff,’” Judith pointed out.

  “So?” Fending off Sweetums’s claws, Renie removed a notebook from her handbag. “Today, I am staff. Are you forgetting I designed the HMO’s outpatient surgery booklet?” She scribbled a note and placed it on the dashboard. “Let’s go.”

  Carefully, Judith put Sweetums on the floor in front of the passenger seat. “Be good. We shouldn’t be gone…”

  “Whoa!” Renie was outside the car, glaring at Judith. “Get that cat out of there. He’ll rip the upholstery.”

  “What? I can’t take him into the hospital.” Judith’s patience, along with her nerves, had begun to fray.

  “You’ll have to,” Renie declared, a dogged expression on her face. “Bill would pitch a five-star fit if you left that cat in Cammy. Come on, get him out of there.”

  Judith couldn’t risk arguing. She was too anxious about the baby. Cursing under her breath, she scooped up Sweetums and followed Renie to the elevators.

  They reached the OB ward before anyone stopped them. A middle-aged nurse wearing scrubs and a weary expression barred the cousins’ way to the main desk.

  “You can’t bring an animal in here,” she said in a firm voice. “Please take—” The nurse paused as Sweetum
s’s yellow eyes narrowed, his back arched, his fur stood on end, and he let out a menacing hiss. “—that thing outside.”

  Beset by murder, illness, a baby’s birth, the FBI, and Herself, Judith balked. “No. Tell me about Mrs. M…Mc…M…Monigle first.” She had stumbled over the name, never having quite come to terms with the concept of another, much happier Mrs. McMonigle.

  The nurse, whose nametag identified her as June Driscoll, glowered at Judith. “The cat goes first,” she insisted, as two other nurses and an orderly watched with curiosity.

  “Here,” Renie snapped, yanking a squalling Sweetums out of Judith’s arms, “I’ll take care of the cat. I’ll meet you back at the car.” She started to turn around, but had a last word for June Driscoll. “I don’t know why you object to animals in this place. The last time I was in here for kidney stones you served me boiled warthog. At least that’s what it tasted like. It sure as hell wasn’t real meat.” Renie stalked away with Sweetums under her arm, his plumelike tail waving furiously.

  June Driscoll eyed Judith with distaste. “What was the name?”

  “McMonigle. Kristin McMonigle. Mrs. Michael McMonigle.” Judith’s mouth had gone dry. “Please, I’m very worried. I’m Mrs. McMonigle’s m-m-mother-in-law.” She stumbled again, still not used to the role, and well aware of all its pejorative connotations.

  “I’ll check.” Wrinkled scrubs flapping, June Driscoll strolled off down the hall, her attitude exuding indifference for Judith’s concern.

  Taking in her surroundings, Judith realized she was not only by the main desk, but that there was a waiting room off to her left. Glancing into the room, she saw that it was empty. Mike must still be with Kristin. He had promised to watch the delivery, though Judith had doubts about her son’s ability to endure the process. She went over to the main desk, where a male nurse was sorting through charts.