by Alice Duncan
This was not the right time for glee, however, so I didn’t feel it for long.
“I’ll give you money, Raymond!” Angie said. “I already told you I’ll give you money.”
“I don’t want your damned money, you damned whore,” said New York. Raymond? Pasadena boasted a Raymond Avenue, but I’m pretty sure Raymond Avenue and this Raymond had nothing to do with each other. “I want you dead.”
Mercy sakes again. I glanced at Angie and observed she looked frightened, defiant and absolutely furious. Although I kind of wanted to ask questions, I didn’t, thereby reflecting unusually good judgment on my part. I was sure glad neither Pa nor Spike had joined me at Angie’s place.
Glancing around the room some more, I saw Hattie standing against the far wall behind the piano. Her hands appeared to be free from constraint, but I suspect she didn’t dare move for fear Mr. Raymond would shoot her or someone else. The person I didn’t see was Mr. Lou Prophet.
Lordy, I hoped Mr. Raymond hadn’t killed him. But surely, if this fellow had gunned down Mr. Prophet, Pa and I would have heard the shot. Maybe he hadn’t shot him. Maybe Raymond had stabbed Mr. Prophet to death when he first walked into the house, sort of the way he’d ambushed me. Dismal thought. Even though Mr. Prophet swore too much and annoyed me occasionally, I liked him a lot and didn’t want him to die.
Anyhow, if Mr. Prophet had been shot or stabbed, a pool of blood would have decorated a floor in the entrance to the house, and I hadn’t observed one.
I could see Mr. Raymond’s face now. Shoot. What an ugly customer he was. Hair slicked back with some kind of greasy pomade and wearing a loud plaid suit, he looked like a gangster straight out of New York City, which made sense since it sounded as if that’s what he was and that was where he’d come from. I remembered Angie telling me she’d had a rough childhood in a bad neighborhood in New York City. Maybe she’d met this fellow when she was young. I’m not good at judging people’s ages, but if I had to guess, I’d have pegged him to be about her age. But a whole lot meaner.
“All right,” said the Raymond character. “What should I do with all these pals of yours, Ginger? Shoot ‘em dead?”
Ginger? Who was Ginger? Yet another question I didn’t ask.
“If you want to shoot them or me, the entire neighborhood will hear the gunfire, and you’ll be arrested, Raymond,” said Angie, her tone of voice reasonable. “Why don’t you just take a whole lot of money and go away?”
“Because I don’t want to take the money and go away,” said Raymond in a sing-song voice meant to express his disdain. It did a great job. “That’s why.”
“A detective from the Pasadena Police Department lives right up the street, Raymond,” said Angie, still sounding reasonable. “If you shoot any of us, you won’t make it as far as the front gate before someone from the police tackles you.”
“I don’t give a damn, Ginger,” said Raymond, sneering magnificently.
Very well then. So much for reason. What now? I soon found out.
Three more men straggled into the front parlor. They were as greasy and gangster-ish as Raymond. Glancing at them, Raymond said, “Find anyone else?”
“No, boss,” said a youngish fellow in a flat cap and a loud checked suit. He, too, carried a gun. And he didn’t look as if he’d reached his twentieth birthday! I was shocked, which shows yet again how sheltered I’d been while growing up in beautiful, serene, boring old Pasadena.
“Found this broad in the kitchen,” said another gangsterish fellow, gun in hand, propelling before him into the parlor a plump, coffee-colored woman. I figured her to be the other Mrs. Jackson. The one who wasn’t Joseph Jackson’s mother, but the one who worked as Angie’s cook.
“Shove her next to that redhead on the couch, Clyde,” said Raymond.
So the lout with his gun pointing at Mrs. Jackson’s back did as Raymond had bade him, and made Mrs. Jackson sit next to me on the sofa. I nodded at her. She frowned back at me.
“That’s it?” asked Raymond. “Where’s Gus.”
“He’s checkin’ the attics and the basement,” said Mrs. Jackson’s shover.
“Aw right. Now, here’s what we’re gonna do here,” said Raymond, sounding smug. “You, Ginger, are gonna come with me. I’m gonna let Clyde and Gus play with your friends here. Don’t worry. They won’t make any noise.”
“Raymond! You can’t do that!” Angie cried. “They haven’t done anything to you!”
“Maybe not. But you have, and you’re going to pay. So are all your friends. Teach you to run out on me, damn your eyes.”
To this day, I don’t know what Mr. Raymond had against Angie’s eyes. And where the heck was Lou Prophet? Where the heck was Mr. Bowman? Confound it, where was Sam? I wanted Sam!
Too bad, Daisy. Sam wasn’t there.
However, something then happened that surprised me more than just about anything else in my life ever had, barring having been dumped into lion’s den a few months back. All at once, a white-clad streak burst into the parlor. Before anyone could react—or maybe even notice—the streak hit Raymond, making his gun fly through the air, spinning, looking kind of like a fish leaping from the water. The streak then knocked into Gus, Clyde and the other man, whose name I never did learn. Their guns went flying, too.
As soon as all the bad guys were on the floor, darned if Lou Prophet, Judah Bowman and Sam Rotondo didn’t enter the room! Sam and Mr. Bowman held their guns pointed at the fallen villains. Mr. Prophet swung a big rope loop and managed to capture Clyde and Gus in one fell swoop. He then tugged on the rope and jerked the two men off their feet. They both fell with satisfying plops and uttered moans of pain. Made me happy.
“Sam!” I shrieked.
“Cripes, keep your voice down,” said my beloved. “Nobody move!” He turned to Mr. Bowman and Mr. Prophet. “Check these men for other weapons. Be careful, and be sure to check for boot holsters, scabbards, hide-out guns and so forth.”
Boot holsters? Scabbards? Hide-out guns? I didn’t even know what those things were.
“Oh, Lou!” cried Li. “You came!”
“Yeah. Couple times.” Mr. Prophet smirked and added, “Thanks.”
I’m not sure why, but Li blushed.
The number of deadly weapons Mr. Bowman and Mr. Prophet gathered from the villains was downright staggering. Not only were several small guns—derringers?—plucked from various places on the vile men’s persons, but a vast number of knives was also confiscated, along with brass knuckles (I’d never seen brass knuckles before, although I’d read about them), several small sandbags (Sam said they were also called blackjacks and coshes. Then he had to explain to me what those were) and some metallic handle-like tubes held together with chains. I’d never seen anything like them before, either.
I looked all over the place from my perch on the sofa but didn’t see the white-clad person who’d initiated our rescue.
After the villains were certified weapon-free and all bunched together with handcuffs around their wrists and ankles—when one of them griped about the ankle-cuffs, Sam bopped him upside the head with his gun, and he shut up—Sam, Mr. Bowman, and Mr. Prophet came over to free Angie and Li. Hattie instantly ran to Angie, fussing over her. Li reached for Mr. Prophet, and Mr. Bowman made a grab for Angie.
Sam put an end to that. “Stop it! Everybody sit down! Don’t anyone move until we get statements from you.” He turned his head and hollered over his shoulder, “Doan! Oversloot! Get in here. You, too, Blackman!”
And all of a sudden Officers Doan and Oversloot appeared, notepads and pencils in hand. I’d never heard of an Officer Blackman, but another man entered the front parlor with Doan and Oversloot, armed with a camera. I was impressed by the organizational efforts Sam had expended on this operation. I also wondered how he’d been informed. I suspected Mr. Prophet, but I’d just have to wait to find out, darn it.
“Take as many pictures as you can of everything you see, Blackman. Turn on lights and open the draperie
s if you need to, but get as many photos as possible without disturbing anything first.”
“Yes, sir.” And he did.
Nobody spoke for several minutes. I think those of us who’d been in the house when the police arrived were too stunned for conversation. But there was one thing I really wanted to know, so I leaned over and whispered a question to Mrs. Jackson, who still sat on the sofa next to me. “Who was that man in white who flung himself around the room and knocked down all those people?”
Turning her head and giving me another pretty good frown, Mrs. Jackson said, “That’s Mister Wu. He’s Missus Mainwaring’s gardener, but he also knows some kind of fighting method he calls… Oh, I can’t pronounce it. Gwung fooey, or something like that. Chinese, he says it is. Stupid name, if you ask me, but it seems to work.” She stopped speaking and turned away from me to watch the action.
I said, “Oh,” and, “thank you.” She didn’t acknowledge my thanks.
Whatever gwung fooey was, it certainly did seem to work. I wondered if all members of Angie’s staff were trained in some kind of fighting technique. Mr. Wu was clearly more than a mere gardener. Not that there’s anything mere about gardening, but… Oh, never mind.
It took quite a while for the police to finish photographing things, and for all the participants in the morning’s activities to be questioned—except for Raymond and his cohorts, who would be questioned at the police station. Finally, the police contingent except Sam departed, taking all the villains with them. Sam stayed behind, gun back in its holster, fists on hips, scanning those of us sitting on various pieces of furniture. He shook his head.
I ventured to say, “It wasn’t my fault.”
His gaze landed on me, and he said, “This time.”
“Darn it, Sam Rotondo—”
He held up a hand, and I shut up.
“This mess didn’t have anything to do with Daisy,” Angie said.
“Yeah,” said Sam. “I know it. Lou filled me in on as much as he knew.” He walked over to the piano bench gazed upon us one by one.
Li now sat next to Lou Prophet in another, smaller, sofa across the room from where Mrs. Jackson and I had been plopped. Angie had sent Mrs. Jackson off to make tea and bring us some refreshments. She’d had to ask Sam if doing so was permissible first, of course. But Sam, while often grim, wasn’t unreasonable, and he’d given his permission for this piece of frivolity. If it can be called that. He hooked the back of a straight chair and sat on it, facing Angie.
“All right, Missus Mainwaring. That fellow, Raymond, said you’re his wife. Is that true?”
Mr. Bowman sat on the arm of Angie’s chair, and the two held hands. I guess that was kind of sweet. I saw Mr. Bowman give her hand a squeeze, and I knew that was sweet.
After exhaling a huge sigh, Angie said, “Yes. I married Raymond Alberts in New York City nearly forty years ago.”
“And you’re still married? I mean, you never filed for divorce or an annulment in order to put an end your marriage legally?”
“No.” Another gigantic sigh from Angie. “But I barely got out of there with my life! He’d have killed me if I’d stayed with him.”
“Oh?” Sam lifted one of his dark, bushy eyebrows. The expression made him look rather like a particularly cynical Italian duke. I wished Officer Blackman would come back and take a photograph of him in that pose. A handsome man, my Sam.
But back to the point of this narrative…
Angie continued. “Yes. You’re right, though. In order to make certain we were no longer married, I ought to have divorced the man.”
“Right,” said Sam. “I don’t know if what he did today is going to give you any relief, but you might find yourself having to pay that bimbo some of your money.”
“I know it. I offered him money to leave me alone.”
“Oh? When did you offer him money?”
“Today.” Angie glanced around the room. “You all heard me, didn’t you?”
Not quite daring to speak yet, I lifted my hand to tell Sam I’d heard her offer Raymond money to go away. Mr. Alberts. Whatever his name was.
“Yes,” said Li. “She did. I heard her, too.”
“Right. Well, as I said, I don’t know if that’s going to make a difference. I also don’t know if he’s wanted for any criminal activity back in New York.”
“I’m sure he is,” muttered Angie. “I know he’s a bootlegger.”
“Oh? How do you know that?”
“I keep in touch with certain old friends.” Angie gave Sam a faint smile.
He didn’t return it. Rather, he said, “You know, Missus Mainwaring, your private life is none of my business—until it becomes police business—but from what’s happened so far since you moved to this neighborhood, it seems as though you might have a few people who don’t wish you well still occupying the world.”
“You’re right, Detective Rotondo. I…I wish I’d cleaned up better before I moved to Pasadena.”
“So do I,” said Sam, his tone of voice emphatic. I could tell he meant what he’d said.
“I thought I had,” said Angie, her voice small.
“Do you think we can expect much more excitement of this nature? I believe you’re attempting to…what would you call it? Fit in? Yes, I suppose that’s the right phrase. I believe you want to fit into staid Pasadena society. So far, you’re not doing a swell job of it.”
I sucked in a breath, wanting to voice a hot defense of my new friend, but a glare from Sam made me blow out the breath accompanied by no words. He was right, darn it.
Shaking her head, Angie said, “I…I don’t know. I hope nobody else from my past will find me.”
“How are all these people finding you, anyhow?” I asked. Nobody answered. I wasn’t surprised. Everyone had other things on their minds, I suppose.
“Hope isn’t exactly precise, Missus...” Sam shook his head again. “Look, what is your name? Are you Missus Alberts or Missus Mainwaring, or something else altogether? It would help if we knew who you were.”
“I don’t want people to know my name!” cried Angie. “Not my birth name. My name is Evangeline Mainwaring. I had it legally changed in Tombstone. I even have a copy of the document. I had to pay Arizona Territory to do it! So I’m Evangeline Mainwaring. Legally.”
“I see. Do you suppose anyone else might come looking for you? You under a different name, I mean?”
“I…don’t know. If Raymond and Li’s brothers could find me, I suppose it’s possible other people might be able to do it.” She added in a frustrated tone, “But I don’t know how they found me! I thought I’d covered my tracks so well! Lord, I hope none of the others find me.”
“Others? You mean men?” asked Sam drily.
After hesitating a second, Angie nodded. “Men.”
“Used a bunch of ‘em, did ya?” said Mr. Prophet, giving Angie an ugly look.
“Stay out of this, please, Lou,” said Sam. “We don’t need recriminations. We need to know the truth and what to expect in the future.”
“Huh. The truth ain’t in that woman,” Lou growled.
Li whapped him, hard, on the arm. He snapped his head around to give her a wounded look.
“Look,” said Sam, “I don’t know anything about you, but I do know we’ve experienced three unpleasant incidents in the past two days. If you can think of other people who might hold a grudge against you—and why—please write down their names and their reasons. And their addresses, if you know them.”
“But—”
“You can trust me when I tell you I’m not going to tattle, Missus Mainwaring,” said Sam in a sarcastic tone and putting slight emphasis on her last name. Her chosen, legal last name.
“It’s true, Angie. Sam never breaks his word.” I smiled at Angie and then at Sam, who evidently didn’t appreciate my endorsement of his stellar word-keeping ability.
“Cut it out, Daisy,” said he, annoying me. Then he squinted at me. “Maybe you can stay here with Missus Mainw
aring and Miss Li for a while and help them compile a list of any other people who might wish Missus Mainwaring harm.”
“I’ll be happy to!”
“Figured as much,” Sam grumbled. He rose from his chair, turned it around again, and glanced at Mr. Prophet. “You staying here, Lou, or would you like a ride home?”
Rising from the sofa he’d been sharing with Li, Mr. Prophet said, “Thanks. Think I’ll take you up on the ride. I ain’t as young as I once was, and I’m tuckered.”
“Won’t you stay a little longer, Lou?” asked Li, a note of pleading in her voice.
“I’ll be back after I rest up some,” he said. He didn’t smile at her.
I sensed a quality of lopsidedness to their relationship and wished I could do something to make Mr. Prophet appreciate Li as much as she appreciated him.
Believe it or not, I do possess an inner core of honesty, even though I make my living lying. My inner core jeered at me just then and whispered, Dream on, Daisy Gumm Majesty.
Sometimes I hate the truth.
Nineteen
After Sam and Mr. Prophet had left Angie’s house, Mr. Bowman went outside to lock the gate behind them.
“I’ll stay with Wu for a while Angie,” he said before he left. “I want to make sure nobody is lurking in the shrubbery.”
“Thank you, Judah.” Angie sat slumped in her chair, her head bowed, elbows on knees, hands covering her face.
“I told you something like this was going to happen,” Li seemed to have recovered from the loss of Mr. Prophet. Resilient woman, Li.
“I know you did.” Angie’s voice sounded muffled, which only made sense as the heels of her hands pressed against her mouth. “I just hoped you were wrong.”
“Huh,” said Li, joining Sam, Mr. Prophet and Harold Kincaid in the growing gallery of huh-ers in my life. “You’d better do what the detective told you to do, Angie. Try to remember all the men you bilked.”
“That will take forever,” mumbled Angie sadly.