He swallowed to try and loosen his throat. He had to sound confident and in command.
The sitting room was well named; it had a lot of seats.
Mrs. DeVries sat on a short sort of couch Taylor would call a loveseat, though he guessed they had another name for it here, probably because this was the original model. She wore a black dress and white blouse—half mourning at this point? Her face was composed, her beauty oddly more obvious than in happier times. Audrey was next to her, her head leaning against her mother’s shoulder. She wore jeans and a peasant blouse. Charlie stood near a window that was framed by white drapes that looked like foam. He smoked, peering at Taylor with what might be anger, or maybe annoyance at being sidelined for the beginning of his night out. Taylor was a little surprised to see Bobby Livingston in a heavy leather chair, a cigar in an ashtray on the side table.
Audrey must have caught his look. “Bobby’s so close to the family, we asked him to be here.”
Nothing in the room matched. Intentional, no doubt. Matching furniture was for the middle class, striving for that living room set from Sears.
Bobby got up and shook both their hands with a big hello. Audrey and Mrs. DeVries offered hands from where they sat. Charlie didn’t move. Taylor would watch Charlie extra close because Taylor had already told Charlie what Martha had overheard. Back at Studio 54. As the family member with the closest thing to motive, it would be telling if he’d shared the story or kept it to himself.
“I want to thank you for finding Connell,” said Mrs. DeVries. “We’re hoping ….” She let her hopes trail off.
“I know. As I told Audrey,” her warm brown eyes looked at him, “it may take the police a long while to track down the money.”
“At least he’s caught—”
“At least.” Charlie stubbed out the cigarette. “At least. That buys us jack shit. What the hell do you want with all of us?”
“He’s helped us,” Audrey said. “Be civil.”
“He’s helped us to get a story. Which is all we need right now.”
“I want to ask you all about something that may be related to Mr. DeVries’ death. Could we get the staff in here too?”
The butler, standing at the door, looked like he’d suddenly been plugged into a wall jack.
“You want all of us together in the sitting room?” Charlie said. “Together? What is this, some kind of old-lady mystery? You going to lock us in here until we figure out James did it.”
The electric current running through the butler—through James—increased.
“Believe me, I’ve never interviewed anyone in a sitting room, Park Avenue or elsewhere. I want to ask everyone about something important I learned about Martha Gibson. It’s easier if I do it all at once rather than one by one.”
Audrey sat up at this, while Mrs. DeVries blinked slowly twice, as if she was trying to remember who Martha was. After a couple more blinks, she told the butler to go get everyone.
Samantha watched him leave. Having moved to one side of the room, she’d listened with bland interest. Nothing obvious—undercover in plain sight. She’d give him a good second read on what was said and how people reacted.
Carol Wheelwright, James, the housekeeper Mrs. Frist, the cook, and a temp filling in for Martha (based on the maid’s dress she wore) stood at the edge of the room. They looked around but not at their employers. Carol fidgeted. The cook’s head went down. The family didn’t seem nervous, but Mrs. DeVries’ and Charlie’s demeanors had changed, her back straighter, Charlie’s anger mutating into concern. Or anxiety? Audrey remained intently focused on Taylor.
“Thank you for taking the time. A week before she died, Martha heard something here at work. She was changing the flowers outside this room. She heard two people talking in here. One, a so far unidentified man with a deep voice. The other person was speaking too softly to make out. If the man wasn’t from this apartment, it’s my assumption the second person had to have been. The man said, ‘We can’t wait any longer. The money’s going to be all gone. All of it—’ ”
“Oh my god,” Audrey said. “Martha couldn’t even guess who this man was?”
“She said she didn’t know the voice. That’s all we’ll ever get from her. Hard to be sure. She may have been scared afterwards.”
“This is getting so ridiculous,” Charlie said. “How do we know you’re not making it up? That your source didn’t? That you have a source?”
Taylor made a point of not looking at Carol. It wouldn’t be hard to figure out the person Martha shared with was another member of staff. He also made a point of not yet calling Charlie on the fact that he already knew the story. Mrs. DeVries’ face remained a mask. He couldn’t tell how she was reacting. Audrey had gone white, lips pursed, like she was trying to figure out another question to ask.
Charlie continued to push back. “This is some stupid game of Clue,” he said. “Or that silly play we saw in London. Mousetrap. Let us end these theatrics.”
“Please go on,” said Mrs. DeVries.
“As I said, the other person in this room spoke low. Martha thought perhaps he or she was sitting at the far side by the windows there. When that person talked, the man got angrier. Here’s more of what Martha heard from the man. ‘I don’t care. He might as well be throwing the money out the window. The crazy things he’s investing in. Still writing the same checks to charities when you’re going to be the charity. He has to be stopped.’ The other went on for a bit. The man ended with, ‘All right. As long as we take care of him by then. Final and done. No frittering away what’s left.’ Martha heard steps coming toward those doors.” All eyes moved to the doorway. “She hurried back down the hall. She had no idea if she was seen.”
Taylor opened his notebook to a blank page. “To me, there are three key things here. Martha may well have been murdered because someone thought she overheard the conversation. Second, a threat was made against Mr. DeVries. ‘Taking care’ of someone usually has that meaning. Finally, a question. Who else would be in this room with someone but one of you three? Who else has direct interest in the money? Of course, not to rule absolutely anything out, one of the staff could have been in here instead. I doubt that as much as James does.” He paused and had to keep from smiling at James’ pale face. “One side point. I told Charlie all this at Studio 54. His theatrics tonight are a mystery to me. He already knows the story.”
“Goddamn you.” Charlie crossed the room halfway. “How can you say this? To us? To my mother? I was trying to protect her.”
The lights flickered. Like a short circuit.
Total darkness.
Chapter 28
A couple of screams, followed by shushing.
“I’ll call downstairs to see what’s going on.” That was James.
“Let’s get candles lit.” That was Mrs. DeVries. “It must be a brownout because of the heat.”
Taylor tried to move toward the windows while not knocking over an end table worth a month of his salary. But he couldn’t tell the windows from the wall.
This shouldn’t be that hard.
A crash behind him. “I’m so sorry,” said one of the staff.
A candle flared to life and reflected light off the windows he’d been hunting. Outside was as dark as the sitting room. The Upper East Side was black, as was the entire area as far uptown and downtown as he could see. Queens had disappeared.
Taylor turned around. “Looks like a major blackout. All of the city that I can see.”
“Must have been the heat and the air conditioning.”
“Thunderstorms up north.”
Taylor didn’t want theories. “Can someone please find a transistor radio?”
“There’s one in my room,” said Audrey.
She went with Carol, who had a flashlight, and came back. Taylor tuned to 1010 WINS.
“The blackout is citywide and includes parts of Westchester County. Con Ed has yet to provide a statement. Lightning strikes were reported north of the city in W
estchester.”
Everyone started talking at once: questions about staffers’ family members, distances from home, and food going bad. Sweat trickled down Taylor’s back. The room was warming up fast.
“Okay, okay everyone.” Mrs. DeVries stood for the first time. “This has happened before. Let’s wait and see what happens. It may not last that long.”
The ’65 blackout went on for 13 hours. That was in November.
Waiting made sense, though. This might be a major news story, but Taylor needed to know where to go to cover it. The city was massive with the lights on; the dark made it a world without edges or boundaries. WINS kept reporting. “The cause of the outage may have been a lightning strike near the Indian Point Nuclear Power Plant in Buchanan. Civilians are out in some intersections of the city directing traffic stranded on the streets when the power went out.”
There had been all sorts of Good Samaritan acts during the ’65 blackout. Would be nice if a little of that New York returned tonight.
The butler served snacks on little silver plates.
“Worse ways to spend an outage,” Samantha said, holding some form of hors d’oeuvres.
“There are. Imagine there are some mighty unhappy people on subway trains and in elevators right now.”
The heat from the dark air outside continued to seep into the apartment now that the air conditioners were stilled. Taylor took off his jacket. Carol opened windows. The noise of traffic rose from the street, striking Taylor’s ears as odd, with everything else stopped. Cars moved up and down the avenue, providing the only illumination.
The announcer broke off in the middle of a piece on the status of the hospitals. “We’re starting to hear scattered reports of looting in Harlem and Brooklyn. No details yet.”
“May I borrow the phone?” Taylor said.
Mrs. DeVries nodded.
Dial tone. God bless you, Ma Bell.
He dialed the City News Bureau and was surprised to hear the voice of night editor Howard Nicholson.
“Thought you’d leave soon as the lights went out.”
“I’m a newsman.” Maybe. Once. “Good you called. The general manager at WINS reached Novak. They’ll pay two hundred fifty dollars for any stories we can phone directly in—”
“You mean anything I can phone in.”
“Yeah, yeah. They get ’em exclusive, which is easy enough. The facsimile machine ain’t sending anything tonight. Novak says you’ll keep fifty bucks and I get twenty. Combat pay.”
“Now I know why you stuck around. What combat are you going to be in?”
“Gimme a break for once, Taylor. You’re getting yours.”
“You’re going to earn yours. You stay by that phone. You’re my clearinghouse. People will be calling for me. I call and you’re not there, no double sawbuck for you.” Nicholson started making noises to interrupt that Taylor ignored. “The looting’s the first story. I’m heading to Harlem. I’ll get interviews, descriptions, what the cops are doing, and call that in to WINS.”
He hung up and turned around to the room, the same people, but all different. Some in shadow, some lit by flickering candles. Features shifting or exaggerated.
“Interrupted by a blackout. The ultimate no comment. You heard everything I said. Someone in this room was with the man making threats against Mr. DeVries. ‘Final and done.’ Dead is final and done. Maybe it was more than one someone. Maybe it was someone from the staff. I need to cover the blackout. Martha Gibson and Edmond DeVries were killed because of what was said in this room. Does anyone know anything about who was here? Charlie?”
Charlie grunted something—maybe it wasn’t even words—and charged at Taylor. He fell when Samantha hooked his leg.
He got back to his feet. “Assaulted by these scum in my own house. I’m done with this. I’m done with all of this.”
He ran from the room. The door to the hallway that led to the stairs shut with a thump.
“Isn’t it possible someone else was here?” Audrey said. She didn’t appear angry, more apprehensive and bewildered, like she believed the conversation happened, but didn’t know what to do about it. “It’s such a big apartment. Guests visit. We’re not always here. We’re not always watching every room.”
“Anything is possible. Some things are more probable, I’m afraid.” He wrote his office number on a pad next to the phone. “Call my office and let me know when Charlie turns up. If anything else happens. There’ll be someone there all night.”
Mrs. DeVries shook his hand. “I don’t know what to say.” Which was true, because she said nothing else.
Taylor and Samantha went through the secret door in the foyer and took it slow down the fire stairs.
The apartment buildings on Park formed a canyon down which flowed a river of light from the cars still in the city when the outage hit at about 9:30 p.m. The first cab he actually got to pull over didn’t want to go to Harlem because he could get $50 taking stranded commuters home to the burbs. And because it was Harlem. The driver had WINS on. Most everybody would have immediately tuned to that station or WCBS AM, the other all-news outlet. Taylor offered thirty bucks and promised to put the cabbie’s story on the radio. The hack decided he could get more commuters after the short run.
At the next intersection, a woman in an evening gown cut low in the back gracefully directed traffic, almost dancing. About every third light had a volunteer.
The radio reported trouble along Eighth Avenue on the west side of Harlem. Taylor told the driver to take 96th Street. The transition from the quiet dark of the city to the quiet dark of Central Park was eerie for the very reason you usually went from light to dark when you entered the park. Now it was more of the same.
Heading up Eighth, they saw trouble three blocks ahead at 114th Street. Flames flicked out of two buildings at the north end of the block, the light dancing off the street in tiny flashes that looked like a hallucination.
The cabbie hit the brakes. “End of the line, bub.”
Taylor and Samantha walked the last three blocks. As they got closer to the shops under assault, Taylor understood the source of the hallucinatory flickering on the street. Glass from smashed store windows covered the pavement. Security gates had been peeled away like the openings of giant sardine cans so people could get into an appliance store, a jewelry shop, and a grocery. Men, women, and children emerged from the stores with armfuls of merchandise. Two men marched north with a couch.
“Oh my God,” said Samantha, “it’s chaos. The whole city has fallen into chaos. It’s not one psycho killer. It’s everyone. Everyone’s giving up. The minute the lights go out, all hell breaks loose.”
This could go any direction. Taylor flexed his fingers. Stay ready, focused, aware, but not afraid. There was a big story in front of him.
They stopped at the edge of the pillaging.
“Back when the city almost went bankrupt, I kept saying nothing could kill New York,” Taylor said. “Now New York is killing itself.”
A man of medium height walked toward them with a portable TV that came up to his eyes.
“Sir. Just a reporter.” He held up his notebook. “Why is this happening?”
“We’re taking it because they ain’t giving. No jobs. No help. It’s shopping day.”
“Aren’t these businesses part of the neighborhood?”
“Neighborhood? What the fuck do they do for the neighborhood? Nothing. Even the stores owned by Blacks are getting hit. None of them give back. You’re not going to fuck with me, are you?”
Taylor kept notebook and palm up. “Just doing a story.”
“Maybe we don’t want a White boy doing a story.”
With that, he walked past.
As they moved closer, they caught angry looks.
A boy and a girl, Black, the same size, like twins, skipped out of Monty’s Sweets and Treats. They ran before Taylor could get close enough to ask a question. The boy turned. “It’s Halloween in Harlem.”
A teenager
ran up to the fire callbox and pulled the handle. A patrol car came down the block from the north and pulled on to the sidewalk, rolling down it at medium speed to move people away from the stores. As soon as the car left, the crowd closed in on the storefronts again, some to work on gates that hadn’t been ripped open.
There was too much to report here, but Taylor already had enough to phone in his first stories. The combat pay was a nice bonus. Getting the story out counted for more.
He took Samantha’s hand and walked south a block. “Strange in New York when dark and quiet means you’re safe.”
Bang!
Taylor and Samantha crouched low.
“I spoke too soon.”
She pulled out the Colt. “Gun?”
“Maybe a firecracker.”
The crowd kept pulling merchandise from the stores.
Chapter 29
Taylor called the radio station and gave reports on three different scenes. The blackout as experienced in a certain Upper Eastside apartment—leaving out the DeVrieses’ name. The cab ride and volunteer traffic cops. The looting on Eighth Avenue. He’d never done broadcast before, so he just wrote stories with short sentences and read them out of his notebook. The WINS editor recorded the three, asking Taylor questions at the end of each read. He made Taylor wait to talk live on the air about the looting. Taylor told the anchor what he was seeing and what people were saying. He refused to give an opinion on the cause, the role of race, or if the looters were all “just thugs.” He said he didn’t do speculation.
“Pretty old-fashioned approach,” the anchor said. The line went dead.
The rampage moved a block south. More people flooded onto the street from the apartments above the stores and the side streets. When a group couldn’t get a security gate free, a flaming bottle went into S.W. Schwartz Men’s Clothing, setting the biggest fire so far.
Lights Out Summer Page 19