Innocence Lost

by Sherilyn Decter

  Maggie smiles through narrow, tight lips; Tommy knows that means trouble.

  “So, youse a cop?” Jimmy asks Joe between mouthfuls.

  “Yes Jimmy, I work downtown at Enforcement Unit Number One’s headquarters,” Joe says.

  “That means you go after bootleggers and moonshiners, right?”

  “Yup, I make sure people don’t break the law. Liquor is illegal.”

  “Well, me Da’ says it’s a stupid law. He drinks beer all the time,” Jimmy says.

  “Jimmy, would you like more potatoes?” asks Maggie.

  “Sure, Mrs. Barnes. This all tastes great. You’re a swell cook.”

  “Thank you, Jimmy. What are you boys up to after dinner?”

  “Um, I think we’re going to do some homework. Right, Tommy?”

  “Yeah, homework, Mother. We have lots of homework.”

  “Say, Constable Kelly? Did you ever shoot anybody?” Jimmy asks

  Maggie and Archie Mansfield choke on their food. Eugene laughs.

  “I’m pretty sure that that’s not dinner table conversation, Jimmy,” Joe says.

  “You got any more pork chops, Mrs. Barnes? They’re real good.”

  “Sorry, we’re finished with them. But if you’re still hungry, I’ve got a cake for dessert.”

  All the boys at the table, big and small, crack wide smiles.

  After supper, Tommy and Jimmy head upstairs before the adults. “Shh, be quiet!” Jimmy whispers.

  “Which is the cop’s room?”

  Tommy nods to Joe’s bedroom door directly ahead.

  “You said that you saw where he puts his gun, right?”

  Tommy listens. Joe’s voice floats from the kitchen; he’s doing the dishes with Maggie. Archie Mansfield has retired to his room and closed the door. His humming travels under the door frame and Tommy knows, from experience, it means he’s reading. Both boys heard Eugene Smith go out; his room is off the kitchen.

  “I don’t think we should be doing this, Jimmy.”

  “Yeah, you said that already. Like a million times. Show me where it is.” Jimmy turns the knob to Joe’s room.

  Tommy scoots under Joe's bed and pulls out a box. Jimmy lifts the lid. The two boys stare at Joe’s service revolver inside its holster. Jimmy reaches in and pulls the gun from the holster. “Okay, let’s go find Mickey.”

  “Whoa Jimmy, you never said anything about taking the gun with us. Are you nuts?” He tries to grab the gun from Jimmy, who keeps it out of his reach.

  “Chicken. I thought you said you were Oskar’s friend? What kind of friend won’t stick up for a pal? He got shot down in cold blood. We were there. We gotta go back and make them pay for what they did.”

  “So, who you gonna shoot, Jimmy? You don’t even know who did it.”

  “I’m gonna shoot Mickey Duffy. He’s the boss. And somebody’s gotta pay for what they done to Oskar.” Jimmy’s scowl causes Tommy to shiver.

  “Come on, you chicken. Or I’ll go me-self, and tell everybody that you were too scared to go.” Jimmy leaves the room, tucking the gun into his waistband, under his sweater.

  “You always get me in trouble, Jimmy.” Tommy follows Jimmy.

  “Mrs. Barnes. I forgot some of me books at home and need them for me homework. Is it okay if Tommy comes with me over to my house to finish what we’re working on?”

  Tommy is anxious, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes pleading. If ever there was a time for a mother to say no, this would be it. But, Maggie isn’t picking up any of his nervous signals.

  Joe frowns at Tommy. “Just over to Jimmy’s, right? Will you be late, Tommy?” he asks.

  Tommy‘s eyes blink rapidly. His face is pale as if he might throw up. “No. I just have to go over to Jimmy’s for a few minutes.”

  “Don’t be too long, Tommy.” Maggie brushes the hair off Tommy’s forehead. “Are you okay, sweetie?” Tommy shrugs her off. “And thank you for coming, Jimmy. It was nice to meet you.” Maggie hangs up the dish towel on the stove handle to dry.

  Tommy slowly pulls on his jacket and hat. He trails after Jimmy. The boys head off in the direction of the warehouse.

  * * * *

  Before Oskar’s death had been announced, Tommy and Jimmy had snuck back to the warehouse a couple of times since the night of the police raid. They’d told each other they’d look for clues of his disappearance, but a big part of their reason was that they were generally fascinated by the bootleggers; had even hoped they’d see Oskar working for Mickey. Each time they’d gotten close, they’d been chased off by one of the guys in Mickey’s crew.

  They hadn’t dared go back since Oskar’s body had been found.

  Tonight, they are extra cautious. Jimmy has moved the heavy gun from his waistband to his pocket. The two boys creep closer.

  Jimmy climbs to the top of a crate, and peers in a dirty window. “Whaddya see, Jimmy? Is Mickey there?” Tommy tugs at Jimmy’s sock, which is tucked into the bottom of his knickers. Jimmy tries to kick him loose.

  “Naw, I don’t see Mickey yet. Just a bunch of guys doing bootlegger stuff.”

  “Maybe we should come back another night? What do you think? Wait until Mickey’s there?” Tommy continues to tug at Jimmy’s sock.

  “Let go, you jerk,” Jimmy climbs to a better spot. For a moment the space is illuminated; headlights sweeping from a wide turn. “Shh, someone’s coming.”

  Car doors slam. The warehouse door opens. “Hey Mickey,” says one of the men.

  “It’s him. He’s here.” Jimmy fumbles with the gun in his pocket. The barrel keeps getting caught in the fabric.

  Suddenly, Tommy is grabbed by the collar from behind and hoisted off the ground. He squawks in surprise, arms and legs flailing. Jimmy turns. The color drains from his face.

  “What are you boys doing here?” Joe Kelly whispers. He shakes Tommy. “I thought I told you this is dangerous.” Jimmy tries to scramble away, but Joe drops Tommy and catches Jimmy’s arm and drags him off the crates. The racket draws the attention of the crew inside. Several of Mickey’s men come out with guns drawn.

  Joe shoves Tommy and Jimmy behind him. The three of them crouch behind the fallen crates. One of the crew fires off a warning shot. “Hey, who’s there?” the bootlegger shouts. “Come out where I can see ya.”

  Tommy shakes at the sound of the gun. Jimmy starts to tug at Joe’s hold on his arm. Another shot rings out. “I said, come outta there.” Holding firmly to Jimmy, Joe looks cautiously around the corner of the crates. Tommy peeks around Joe. The bootlegger stands with his back to where they are hiding. They watch the bootlegger holster his gun.

  “Cats after rats.” He slams the door of the warehouse.

  Eventually, Joe nods and the three creep away out of the yard, and down the street to the alley.

  When they reach the alley, Joe slams Jimmy against the wall. “What the hell, kid? What did you think you were doing? And where did you get that gun?” he snarls into Jimmy’s face, grabbing the gun out of Jimmy’s pocket. “Hey, this is my gun. You idgits. It's not even loaded. What the heck were you thinking?” Holding Jimmy against the wall, he turns and glowers at Tommy. “I thought you knew better.”

  Jimmy hangs limply against the wall.

  Tommy stares at his shoes; it’s becoming a habit.

  “If they had caught you, what do you think would have happened? Do you think they would have maybe shot you?” Joe shoves hard at Jimmy to emphasize the word shot. Jimmy whimpers and Tommy’s knees weaken. “Do you think they would have dumped your sorry bodies in the river?” Joe gives Jimmy another shake. Jimmy starts blubbering.

  “What do you think it feels like to get shot? To be bleeding everywhere? To be stuffed in the trunk of a car? To be thrown into the river? Do you float or do you sink?” With each question, Joe gives Jimmy a little shake and glares at Tommy. Both boys are now blubbering and shaking their heads vigorously.

  “We won't do it again.” Tommy can’t stop shivering.r />
  “I don’t wanna float or sink. No, sir. We’re done,” says Jimmy.

  Jimmy slides down the wall into a heap. Joe keeps his voice low. “You boys get home. Now.”

  The two boys collide with each other, and with a wall, then scramble out of the alley and high tail it for home.

  Chapter 38

  W hat with the turn of the century and then the war, it is a time of many advances in America: cars, planes, radios, telephones. Lots of changes, and yet some things are still the same. Monday is still Wash Day and clothes are still scrubbed on a board and wrung out to dry, then pinned on the line. Tuesday is still Ironing Day, with a hot iron from the stove. Wednesday is mending, usually replacing the buttons torn off by the washing machine’s mangle. Thursday means cleaning the upstairs. Baking is done on Fridays. Saturday’s chores are to clean downstairs. The best day of all is Sunday: a day of rest, church, and visiting.

  Now that Maggie’s doing the lodgers’ wash, her Mondays are longer than ever. She bends over the large galvanized tin washtub on the back porch, and scrubs Tommy's shirt on the washboard. There are two more washtubs next to it on a wooden washstand. A hand-wringer, the infamous mangle, is mounted above the wash tubs. Two wooden rollers and a crank squeeze out the excess dirty water before the shirt is rinsed in the second tub. Her mangle often breaks a few buttons, keeping Maggie busy with repairs for her own household as well as for the public laundry downtown.

  Like most of the houses in the neighborhood, the windows at the back of Maggie’s house are always steamed on Mondays. Inside the kitchen, a large pot of water is on a slow boil so that the washing water stays hot and the soap is dissolved. Maggie uses a second rinse tub to make sure the harsh Borax soap is rinsed out of the clothes before she hangs them on the line. As the shirt goes through the wringer for the last time, it falls into a wicker laundry basket.

  It’s a mild March day, and Maggie puts clothes on the line to dry. Even with it being sunnier, after pinning out the clothes this morning, her fingers are blue from the cold. She picks up one of Tommy’s school shirts and remembers that day she found Alicja crying. She feels a lump in her throat. It seems a lifetime ago.

  Next door, Clara hangs her own wash. Maggie hadn't enjoyed washdays before, but now looks forward to them. It's her way of staying connected to her neighbors now that she's not needed over in the Leszek kitchen.

  There’s a community conversation going on under the washing lines and over the fences of the houses every Monday.

  “So, Joe was telling me about this cop in California who had two houses, a couple of cars, a speedboat, and cash stashed in every bank in town,” Maggie says.

  Clara mumbles around the wooden peg in her mouth. “I should have married a cop. I’d get me one of those new washing machines.”

  “And sit and eat bonbons on Mondays, while the rest of us work?” Maggie asks with a chuckle.

  “Nah. You can come over and use my machine too, Maggie. I’ll let you. But it will have to be a Tuesday, because I’ll need it on Mondays.”

  “Then when would I do my ironing? Wednesday? Clara, that wouldn’t work. And I suppose mending day would get pushed to Thursday and before you know it my whole week is turned upside down.”

  Their laughter is caught by the flapping sheets.

  “Yes, but you’d have Mondays free, Maggie. You could eat bonbons with me.”

  Fanny appears from around the corner of the house. “I thought I’d find you out here, Missus B.”

  “Fanny, oh, right, Monday is your day off,” Maggie says.

  Fanny steps around the basket of wet clothes and holds a grease-stained paper bag. "I brought donuts.” She takes a seat on the step.

  “Eee- you great gal, you.” Clara shouts from behind a wet sheet being hung on the line. “I hope you brought enough for three.”

  “I brought one for Joe, too. You can eat his. Just don’t tell him.”

  Fanny sits on the step, enjoying her donut while the two women finish hanging out the wash. The sun shines through the bare branches. The three women gossip about movie stars.

  “So, I hear you and Joe are getting married, Fanny,” Clara says over her shoulder as she continues to pick from her basket of wet laundry.

  “Someday, but not right now. We’re going to take it slow for a bit. Joe says it will give us a chance to get to know each other better.”

  “So, how's work, Fanny? Fanny works downtown at the Atlantic Refining Company as a telephone operator,” Maggie explains to Clara as she pins more clothes to the line.

  “Oohh, very posh. That keeps you in donuts, does it?” Clara asks.

  “Not really. I’m always running out of money. Living in the city is so-o-o expensive.” Fanny sighs and takes another bite of her donut. Clara hangs her last item, brushes her hands together, and parks herself on Maggie’s back steps. Fanny offers her Joe’s donut.

  Maggie brushes back a stray hair off her face. She grabs a clothespin and jabs it down on the shoulder of Tommy's wet shirt.

  “What have you been doing, Maggie,” Fanny asks. “Joe says you've been pretty busy lately.”

  “Oh, out and about. You know…” Maggie says. She ducks behind a pillowcase to avoid looking at Fanny.

  “Yes, she’s always heading out to lunches and going shopping, so she says. And looking pretty swell too, I must say. I think she has a sugar daddy,” says Clara.

  Maggie pokes her head around a pair of Tommy's trousers. “I’ve been seeing a lot of my friends lately.”

  “Ah, is that a little blush there, toots?” asks Fanny.

  “A friend called Howard, perhaps?” asks Clara. Fanny and Clara burst into giggles. Maggie rolls her eyes, grins, and ducks back behind the trousers. If only they knew what I was up to and the crowd I’m running with. Seeing Howard would be mild compared to my life as a lady detective. And if they knew I’d had a few coffee dates with Edith Duffy? Oh the tongues would wag then. It would surely entertain these two, and it would definitely put Mother and the Garden Club over the edge.

  Chapter 39

  M aggie reflects on the last time she went for coffee with Edith. She’d worked carefully to learn more about Mickey, storing away all kinds of tidbits Edith mentioned. And then Edith had invited Maggie to her house for lunch.

  Maggie is nervous climbing the stone steps to Edith's front door. She's been watching the outside of the house for so long, and now she’ll finally see the inside. The heavy stonework gives the house an intimidating massiveness, as does the front door, a heavy oak one with stained glass. I bet even Mother would hesitate to knock on this door.

  While Maggie and the Inspector still haven’t found anything that could be a smoking gun, they are slowly building a case that shows the size and power of Mickey’s empire. The investigation has been almost too enjoyable; she’s had to remind herself, at times, to stay on track. Wandering the shops with Edith, stopping for coffee at lovely cafes; it’s been years since she’s permitted herself these small indulgences. Maggie knows she’ll miss this, and she’ll miss Edith too.

  The Inspector never mentioned how attached you can get to the people you’re tailing. I feel like such a rat. It’s almost like I’m lying to Edith. But I’m not pretending. I really do like her. A lot. And I feel sorry for her, too. Edith and Mickey are goofy about each other. It’s going to shatter poor Edith when he’s sent away to prison.

  A uniformed housekeeper answers the door. Maggie barely has time to hand off her coat and gather her impressions of the foyer before Edith squeals hello and gathers her up for the customary peck on both cheeks.

  “Maggie, don’t you look like the bee’s-knees. Is that a new dress? And I love your hat.” Edith links her arm through Maggie’s and leads her through to the living room. Even though it has a large Palladian window facing the street, the room feels dark and oppressive because of the oversized furniture and dark colors. Every piece is fringed or tasseled. Oil paintings in heavy gilt frames hang in front of dark, flocked wallpaper. E
ven at noon, all the lights are on. Maggie’s surprised. This isn’t the house she’d pictured Edith living in at all.

  “Lunch will be ready in just a shake, so we have time for a couple of gin rickeys, if that's okay?”

  Maggie is getting used to a small tipple in the afternoon.

  Edith makes the cocktails and delivers one to Maggie. “Edith, your house is lovely.”

  “Oh, banana oil.” Edith says. “I hate this old pile. Mickey lived here before we got hitched. He likes the address, very posh don’t ya know, but I hate it. Living here is like living in a mausoleum or a bad hotel.