The Lost Girl of Astor Street

by Stephanie Morrill

  Walter is quiet on the drive until he pulls alongside the front sidewalk of Presley’s. He puts on the brake and watches the crowd of girls heading up to the doors. “I wish I could go in there with you. I hate that you have to do this alone.”

  It’s not hard to fake the wobble in my voice. “I can handle it.”

  If I tell Walter what I have planned for today, he won’t let me out of his sight, and this is something I need to do.

  I slide out of the car, my shopping bag thumping against my calf in a way that seems incriminating. But Walter only says, “See you at three” as I shut the door.

  I wave good-bye and start up the sidewalk.

  I dawdle my way to the front doors, keeping an eye on the Ford as Walter inches through Presley’s traffic. The girls stream around me, walking in content pairs or groups. They beat their gums about parties and summer plans, but their chatter fades to a whisper when they brush past me.

  No one says a word to me. I wouldn’t have expected this to hurt so deeply.

  I had hoped I could slink away once Walter was out of sight, but there are far too many eyes trained on me for that. I’ll have to go inside and try to use a telephone in there.

  I stroll through the doors, becoming one of the many girls in saddle shoes and an ankle-length black skirt. Several glance at the shopping bag hanging off my shoulder—they know it’s out of place—but still no one breathes a word to me. And as the time draws near for class to begin, when I know Headmistress Robinson is in the chapel for morning prayers, I slip into her office.

  The room hasn’t changed since the last time I was in here, “borrowing” several sheets of her personalized stationery. The same photographs are gathered on the edge of the desk, the same cup of sharpened pencils, and the same candlestick telephone.

  I pull out the card and dial the number.

  “Detective Cassano.” His words have a gruff, almost sleepy sound.

  “Hi, it’s Piper.”

  There’s a pause. “Are you not at school today?”

  “I am, actually, but I needed to let you know something. Before I tell you this”—I suck in a swift, fortifying breath—“I want to make it clear that I’m not calling to ask permission.”

  “I’m already nervous.”

  Footsteps echo in the hallway and my heart rate doubles. I’m in here because . . . ? I left a book at home? I’m feeling sick? I’m emotionally traumatized?

  The footsteps travel farther down the hall, and breath whooshes from my lungs.

  “Piper, are you still there?”

  I drop my voice low. “Yes, sorry. I thought someone was about to come in here.”

  “Where exactly are you?”

  “The headmistress’s office. Look, I’m going up to Clark Street today, to that lunchroom where Willa Mae made her phone call. I want to ask around about Lydia. I’m only telling you because I want someone to know. Just . . . in case.”

  “And you’re picking me.” His statement is slow, measured.

  “You’re the one person I know who won’t try to stop me.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that, Piper. A girl like you . . .” Mariano’s voice drops to a hush as well. “Look, it’s not a good idea for you, of all people, to go walking around by yourself in a part of town that’s controlled by the North Side Gang. Let’s not tempt fate.”

  “I told you, I’m not calling to ask your permission. I’m calling so someone knows where I am.”

  “We’ve gone to every vice district there is with a photograph of Lydia, including the North Side. This isn’t something you need to concern yourself with.”

  “Detective Cassano, I think you’re smart enough to know that in a situation like this, a girl like me might be able to get answers when a uniformed officer can’t.”

  “I thought we’d dispensed with the formalities.”

  “Well, you’re not acting like Mariano right now. You’re acting like Detective Cassano.” I glance at the clock. Morning prayers will be over soon. “Now, I’ll be getting on the L at Schiller, and I intend to get off at—”

  “Piper, stop.”

  “I want somebody to have this information.” I clutch close the paper on which I scribbled my plan this morning. “If you don’t want it, then I’ll leave it taped under the headmistress’s desk, and if something goes awry—”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  I’m glad Mariano isn’t here to see the surprise on my face. “That’s not necessary, Mariano. I don’t expect you to drop what you had planned to—”

  “My job right now is to recover Lydia LeVine. I would rather not lose you in the process.”

  The thought of Mariano coming with me, of not having to venture into Johnny’s Lunchroom alone, makes relief slide through my veins. Yet my words still come out razor-sharp. “You won’t show up looking like a cop, will you? Because I don’t see that helping me any.”

  “If you promise you’ll wait at school for me, I promise I won’t blow your cover, Detective Sail.”

  I glance at the clock. It’s definitely time to get out of here. “There’s a bench at the corner of Irving and Lake Shore. I’ll meet you there.” Footsteps echo in the hall again. “And if by chance I’m not there, come into the school and tell them I’m needed for something.”

  I hang up before he responds.

  And just a second before the headmistress opens the door to her office.

  The surprise on her face is quickly replaced with fury, and a deep crease forms between her silver eyebrows as she scowls at me. “Miss Sail—”

  My response is a reflex. I cover my face with my hands and burst into loud, fake tears.

  “I know I shouldn’t be in here, but it’s just so awful, ma’am. I can’t stand it, I can’t.” I don’t let myself peek. I don’t want her seeing that my cheeks are dry. “It feels so terrible to be at Presley’s without Lydia. She loves it here so much. She views you as a role model.” Was that too much? Too late now . . . “And I just feel closer to her when I’m in your office.”

  Behind my hands, I squeeze my eyes tight, pushing out a dribble of tears before I risk uncovering my face.

  Headmistress Robinson’s expression has softened. It’s still not soft by any stretch, but the crease between her brows is gone.

  “I know you and Miss LeVine are very close.” She glances at the two wooden chairs in her office, the ones for students, but remains standing. “Her disappearance is a shock to us all. If you feel you are unfit for school, Miss Sail, I suggest you go home. If, however, you decide that crying and feeling sorry for yourself will not do anybody any good, you may head to your first class.”

  This woman is a stone.

  Or aware that I’m faking.

  Here she is, practically gift wrapping a reason for me to walk out the school doors, but my pride buckles with the implication of weakness. “I’ll go to my class, thank you.” I rise, back straight and chin jutted.

  I skirt around her at the door, inhaling the smell of peppermint candy, which she uses to cover up her cigarette habit. I feel her cold, suspecting gaze follow me down the hallway.

  The most discreet exit is in the back, by the lunchroom, which is empty. I help myself to two chicken sandwiches in the ice box and tuck them into my sack. I duck into the pantry and wriggle out of my uniform, which I wore over a pale blue day dress that matches the color of Lydia’s eyes. I had originally dressed in a dull gray, hoping to ward off unwanted male attention, and then realized if I intended to flirt answers out of anyone, I would need to look at least somewhat fetching.

  I jam my discarded Presley’s uniform into the bag, along with the sandwiches, a notebook, Lydia’s senior portrait, and several other items that seemed like they might be helpful—a length of rope, a roll of tape, and Nick’s pocket knife, which I hope he has no occasion to miss today. I hesitate a second before pulling it from the bag and tucking it into my pocket. The thought of using it sends a shiver through me . . . but so does the thought of being caught u
nprepared.

  With the shopping bag secured over my shoulder, I slip out the back door and into the crisp morning air.

  The bench is unoccupied, and I take a seat. I lost track of time while putting on my show for Ms. Robinson. Will Mariano drive or take the train? He better not show up here in the touring sedan that Jeremiah so easily identified as being a detective’s vehicle . . .

  My thoughts roam the afternoon ahead. Walking to the train station with Mariano, finding Johnny’s Lunchroom. This makes my stomach twist with a different brand of anxiety than I felt when I imagined doing this alone. Aside from my brothers and Walter, I’ve never spent extended time alone in a man’s company. Not that this is a date in even the loosest interpretation of the word, but that doesn’t keep my stomach from feeling like a rag that someone has grabbed either end of and twisted tight.

  Ten minutes pass before I catch sight of Mariano. I never noticed how distinct his gait is—he has a sort of swagger to him, arms loose at his side, shoulders squared. I sling the shopping bag over my shoulder and rush down the sidewalk.

  But when I reach him, I’m unable to speak. I want to tell him thank you for coming, thank you for letting me interrupt your day, but the words catch in my throat.

  He sticks his hands in his trouser pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Am I holding up under scrutiny, Detective? I did my best to not look like a cop, but I’m afraid there’s only so much a man can do to disguise his true identity.”

  “You look good.” Heat races up the back of my neck. “I mean, you don’t look like a detective.”

  He touches his flat cap. “I changed my hat.”

  “I see that.”

  Mariano smiles. Had we met under more normal circumstances, a party or a school function, I would have hoped he’d come ask me to dance.

  But we didn’t meet under normal circumstances. I shift my bag higher on my shoulder and step into the crosswalk. “If I’d been thinking clearly when we spoke on the telephone, I would have suggested meeting you at the station. That would have saved you time and energy.”

  “But then I would have had to tell you no, and that would have taken time and energy as well.”

  I glance at him. “I suppose you’re aware that you’re very stubborn.”

  “I’m stubborn?” Mariano’s laugh rumbles. “You’re the one who phoned me to say she was venturing into known gang territory wearing a very pretty dress.”

  My heart hitches in my chest. “It’s the daytime. I can’t imagine it’s so dangerous in the daytime.”

  That’s what I had told myself all day yesterday during church and a slow Sunday afternoon, but Mariano snorts in reply.

  The train station is alive with Chicagoans bustling about the city, their coats left unbuttoned, packages and briefcases dangling from arms. The air has the smell of a workday—a mix of coffee beans, newsprint, and shoe polish.

  Mariano hands over the coins for our fare.

  “I dragged you all the way out here, though,” I protest as we’re waved into the station. “I’m positive this wasn’t on your list of things to do today.”

  “Oh, you’re positive, are you?” Mariano turns to me with arched eyebrows. “When you were at my desk Saturday, were you peeking at my calendar, Piper?”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course not. I’m taking an educated guess.”

  Mariano’s hand is light against my back as he guides me through the fray of people toward the platform. “I’m glad you called me. I wouldn’t want to find out you did this alone.”

  I tense, despite my mad urge to lean against him, to let his weight support mine and slow the fissures of fear that weaken me at the core. But I don’t think a needy female would impress Mariano Cassano. Nor do I want him suspecting that I manipulated him out here with an ulterior motive.

  “Well, I have lunch covered, anyway.” I pat my bag. “I swiped sandwiches from the school cafeteria.”

  “Ah, good.” Mariano’s hands are in his pockets again, giving him a boyish look. “Because I don’t know where we would find lunch during our investigation of Johnny’s Lunchroom.”

  I turn away, my nose in the air, and try to bite back my smile. Mariano laughs loud enough that I can hear it above the squeal of the approaching train. “I’m only teasing you, Piper. My stomach thanks you for thinking of it.”

  After we’ve waited for passengers to exit, Mariano holds out a hand to help me across the threshold. The train is stuffy, and I pick a window seat underneath a fan. Mariano settles beside me in the green plush seat, his knee bumping mine.

  As the train lurches onward down the tracks, I cross my arms around my bag, securing it against my chest. “I’ve never done anything like this. Do we need some kind of a cover story?”

  Mariano’s mouth pooches as he considers my question. “This is one of those times when the truth will serve us just fine. My guess is that anyone we talk to will have seen the news about Lydia in the paper. You tell them you saw Willa Mae’s story, and you felt hopeful. Simple as that.”

  “And what about you?” The train curves and we bend with it. “Who do we say you are?”

  “When people ask you about Walter, what do you say?”

  “Walter?” It’s strange, the twist of guilt in my gut. Should I have told Walter what I was doing? Should I have given him a chance to come with me, to help? I turn my gaze out the window. “He and I haven’t done many undercover investigations together, so I’ve never had to answer for him.”

  “But surely you have to explain him to others sometimes.”

  Do I? “In the neighborhood, people know he works for my family. I suppose they feel that’s a sufficient reason for seeing us out together.”

  “What about outside of the neighborhood?” Mariano hooks his ankle over the opposite leg. “When the two of you are out, what do most think?”

  “How should I know what they think? Maybe they think he’s my brother or my bodyguard. I don’t know. Times are changing. Even if people knew that Walter worked for my family, I doubt they would give it any thought.”

  “Don’t make the mistake of assuming that just because you don’t think on it, no one else does.” Mariano shifts in his seat, and again his knee bumps mine. This time it settles there. “I suppose I’m too narrow to make for a convincing bodyguard, so we had better go with the brother angle.”

  “But we look nothing alike.” A man on the other end of the aisle appears to be angling for a better view of my legs, and I rearrange my skirt to cover my knees. “And I disagree about the bodyguard thing. While you aren’t big like Walter, you have an air about you that suggests you aren’t a man to be messed with.”

  Mariano doesn’t answer. When I glance at him, I find his gaze full of questions. Does he think I’m flirting with him?

  Am I?

  I look away. “I think I should do the talking.” My voice seems terse to my ears. “It’ll be less threatening to talk to some secondary-school girl like me. Any advice for how to get information out of people?”

  “I think I should be asking you. You seem to know what you’re doing.”

  I shake my head. “I’m just winging it.”

  “You’ve got good instincts.” His gaze is on me again, but I keep my face turned toward the window. “Most young society ladies in your situation would have fallen apart. But you’re too strong for that.”

  “Your praise is too lofty, Mariano. I don’t intend to waste time falling apart when we don’t know if anything has happened to Lydia. If that reality changes”—there’s a tremor in my voice that hopefully the train covers—“you will not think me strong at all.”

  “Grief is not weakness.” Mariano’s words soothe the rattle of fear in my heart. “And I would never accuse you of it, Piper.”

  I don’t mean to look at him, but I can’t seem to not. Mariano’s face is a man’s, no doubt, but there’s a boyish softness to him when he regards me that makes my heart quicken. “Thank you.”

  The bodyguard idea was a sm
art choice. I don’t imagine that anyone who sees us here, staring at each other, would buy that we’re brother and sister.

  “Closed,” I groan. “Why didn’t I think of that? I assumed all places like this were open for breakfast too.”

  Mariano glances at his wristwatch. “But it opens in thirty minutes. That’s not so bad.”

  “We can’t just stand out here.”

  “No. We’ll walk around. Experience Clark Street in its Monday midmorning glory.”

  Impatience bites at me as I drag myself away from the eatery. I had expected this neighborhood would look tired after a weekend full of debauchery. That men would be passed out on the streets and trash would sour the alleys. But instead, the street is quiet and reasonably clean. A bit more broken glass in the gutters and not the same manicured feel as Astor Street, but it seems . . . fine.

  “I’m just wasting your time, Mariano,” I say on a sigh. “I didn’t think to check what time Johnny’s opened, and this neighborhood seems perfectly safe—”

  “Don’t let its quiet appearance deceive you.” Mariano’s voice is low. “This place is . . . It would not be good for you to be found alone here, Piper. And I don’t care about Johnny’s being closed. In my line of work, you learn to be patient. Let’s find someone else we can talk to while we wait.”

  “Okay. I had thought after Johnny’s, I would talk to the police. The station is just—”

  Mariano snorts. “Let’s not waste our time. They’ve all been bought.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mariano gives me a skeptical look. “Given who your father is, I assumed you would know. This part of town is mostly controlled by the Finnegan brothers.”

  “Father doesn’t really talk to me about his work. My brothers know all about it, of course, but he’s careful about what he says to me. Some of his clients are even mobsters, I think.”

  Mariano opens his mouth . . . closes it.

  Did I say something I shouldn’t have? Maybe that’s not even true. “I don’t know for sure. I could be wrong.”