The Lost Girl of Astor Street

by Stephanie Morrill

  “No, I . . . I think you’re right.” Mariano’s discomfort with the topic is evident in the way he tweaks his tie back and forth.

  “They have as much of a right to legal representation as anyone else, my father says.” I shouldn’t have added that last part. Makes me sound like a little girl who can’t think for herself.

  Mariano pulls off his flat cap. Puts it back on. “But your father doesn’t talk to you at all about his clients, then?”

  “Not really.”

  I wish I hadn’t said anything. If Mariano grew up in a family of police detectives, maybe he doesn’t like defense attorneys? I had never considered the politics that might exist between them. We need a subject change.

  “So, if it’s not a good idea to talk to the police around here, where do we start?”

  Mariano doesn’t seem to mind the shift in conversation. “Let’s head this way for a couple blocks. We’ll be right by a . . . Well, a place that’s known for . . .” He clears his throat. “The local businessmen might have seen Lydia, if she’s around here.”

  It’s charming, his embarrassment. “I promise I won’t be too scandalized if you speak the word bordello to me, Detective.”

  He rakes in a breath, a mix of amusement and caution in his eyes. “I know you’re no wilting violet, Piper, but I’ve seen far too much of places like that. It’s hard for me to speak casually about them.”

  I turn those words over in my head as we continue up Clark. Mariano isn’t touching me, but he’s walking much closer than he did when we roamed Astor Street. And not like he’s trying to cozy up to me, but like he’s protecting me. Somehow, he manages to strike the perfect balance of shielding me without crossing the line into sheltering.

  Mariano gestures to a storefront—O’Connor’s Laundry. “Let’s try here.”

  The air inside is hot, damp, and pungent with lye. The whir of machines and the slosh of water make me doubt anyone but Mariano hears the “Hello?” I call out.

  But a few seconds later, a ginger-haired woman ambles out to the counter. Her eyes shift from me to Mariano and back to me. “Here to pick up?” Her accent is thickly Irish.

  “Hi!” I put on a bright smile before remembering this isn’t like selling raffle tickets for the school carnival. “No, actually. We’re looking for someone.”

  The woman rolls her eyes. Rolls her eyes. “Of course y’are. Ever since tat Detroit lass turned up on Clark Street, everyone’s come pokin’ around, looking for someone.”

  “Yes, well.” I pull Lydia’s school picture from my bag. “All the same, my best friend was taken from our neighborhood, and I just wondered if you’d seen—”

  “How daft are ya?” She doesn’t so much as glance at Lydia’s photograph. “You tink dey let dem girls walk around for us all to see?”

  “There’s no need for name calling, ma’am.” Mariano’s words are clipped.

  “If you could just look at her.” I move the picture into her line of vision. This woman can call me whatever she likes so long as she looks at the picture. “She’s really sick. It’s important that we find her.”

  With a huff, the woman makes a show of looking at Lydia’s photograph. “Like I told ya—no. I ain’t never seen de girl. Only people who does see de girls is de ones who hires tem.”

  Why didn’t I think of that? “Of course! Are there men here that I can ask?”

  Her eyes become slits. “You want me to go get my God-fearing husband so you can ask him if he’s seen your friend?”

  Embarrassment streaks up my neck and blooms on my cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply . . . I’m just very worried about my friend.”

  “She ain’t here, and I got tings to do with my time.” The woman turns and waddles away, igniting my fury.

  “Thanks so much for your concern!” I call after her, my voice lit with sarcasm. “Your effort really means a lot!”

  But she pays no mind to me. “Is this really how people feel about someone who goes missing?” I jab open the door and march through. “That it isn’t their problem?”

  “I know how personal this is to you, Piper.” Mariano’s voice is low and soothing in my ear. “But you have to stay clearheaded at a time like this, okay? If you stop thinking clearly, you start making mistakes.”

  “What if it were them? Or their child?” My breath rattles in and out of me. Lydia’s photograph vibrates in my clutched fingers. “Will they all be like this? So callous to Lydia’s situation?” My voice morphs to some mocking tone that I don’t even recognize. “Well, it’s not my problem she got herself taken. It’s not my problem she has seizures.”

  “Hey.” Mariano stands in front of me and snaps his fingers in front of my eyes. “Breathe, Piper.”

  I tell myself to take deep breaths, but the air barely scrapes my windpipe before my body expels it, and I’m growing dizzier with each passing moment.

  “Take a deep breath with me, okay?” Mariano fills my vision as he sucks in a deep inhale and then exhales out his mouth.

  After several tries, I’m able to mirror his actions. The anger boiling in my chest fades to a simmer, and I realize my head is so still because Mariano’s hands have anchored it. His thumbs press into my cheekbones.

  The pressure of his hold softens as my breathing regulates. “Better?”

  I nod, and he releases me. My cheeks must be like neon lights. He won’t think me so strong now, will he?

  I take one more deep breath before trusting myself to speak. “How long until the lunchroom opens?”

  Mariano looks at me for a long moment, and I fear he’s about to ask if I’m really strong enough to go in there. But he glances at his watch. “About fifteen minutes. Let’s see what else is open up here and then head back.”

  The butcher doesn’t recognize Lydia, but he’s kind about it. As is the tailor we speak to.

  “You know who would be good to talk to?” The tailor rolls the end of the measuring tape around his finger. “The man who owns the lunchroom a few blocks down—Johnny Walker.”

  “Why’s that?” Mariano asks before I can share that we were already on our way to see him.

  “Well.” The tailor’s gaze skitters to me and then away. “It’s not really fittin’ for a lady’s ears.”

  “I’m fine—”

  Mariano flicks me a just go along with it kind of glance. “I’ll be right out, Piper.”

  My chin juts, but I turn on my heel and stalk out the door without further protest. It won’t do Lydia any good for me to pout.

  Outside, I lean against the brick building and let my gaze wander the rows of businesses. Where was Willa Mae? Behind one of those ordinary-looking windows? Is that where we’ll find Lydia too?

  Mariano emerges a minute later, calling, “Thank you, Mr. Gorecki!” over his shoulder.

  “So? What is it?” I trot alongside Mariano, who’s nudging me toward the lunchroom. “What’d he say?”

  “You already know the stuff about Willa Mae. And apparently Mr. Walker has a bit of a reputation for, well, spending time with ladies who . . . Well, with women of a certain . . . I mean—”

  “Prostitutes.”

  Mariano rubs his chin. “Yeah. Mr. Gorecki also thinks he might be involved in gambling or laundering in some way. That perhaps the money funnels through the lunchroom on its way to the Finnegans.”

  My heart quickens at the thought that we might be just a few breaths away from Lydia. That this Johnny Walker, however vile his personal choices might be, could be what saves her. “Mariano”—my words are breathy from our pace—“I think it’d be best for me to go into the lunchroom alone.”

  Mariano snorts a laugh. “Think again, Piper Sail.”

  “I’m serious. I have a better chance of getting him to talk if I’m in there by myself.”

  Mariano stops walking and gives me an incredulous look. “Did you not hear what I just said?” He ticks it off on his fingers. “Prostitution. Gambling. Money laundering. Finnegan. So, no, you’re not go
ing in there by yourself.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Just because a man partakes in a number of vices doesn’t mean it’s unsafe for me to order a cup of coffee in his restaurant.”

  “No, Piper.”

  “How about you give me five minutes in there? You wait right outside, where you can hear me if I scream, and then you can come in if you’d like. But don’t act like you’re with me if I’m making progress.”

  “We’re not doing any undercover operations that involve me needing to be close enough for rescue in case you need to scream. I’m coming in with you, and that’s that.”

  Beyond Mariano, up the sidewalk, is a dog. He’s skinny but tall, and he’s trotting toward us. I tug at Mariano’s coat. “Let’s keep moving. Let’s cross the street.”

  Mariano glances over his shoulder, and then turns back to me with a wry smile. “Well, look at that. You are afraid of something.”

  “I’ve never claimed otherwise.” I tug at his elbow. “Let’s get going.”

  “Going to the heart of gang territory by yourself? Not scary. Being alone with a man who I’ve just told you has a bad reputation? Not scary. But a stray dog you’re three times the size of? Terrifying, apparently.”

  “Dogs don’t like me, okay? They never have.” The dog is now galloping toward us, his long tongue flopping out of his mouth. “My archenemies in this world are children, dogs, and my Home Economics teacher, so if we could please move faster . . .”

  As the dog closes in, my body reacts without my permission—I screech and take off running.

  “Piper, don’t!” Mariano calls. “That’ll make him chase you. Just stand still.”

  The dog barks. He’s closer than I imagined, and another scream bubbles out of my throat. I cower against the cool brick of a building and brace for the impact. For the feel of teeth breaking through skin. “Mariano! Help!”

  The dog’s wet nose touches my leg, and his paw presses against my thigh.

  “Your bag, Piper.” Mariano’s words are laced with laughter.

  I crack open an eye. Mariano stands on the sidewalk, hands on his narrow hips, smirking. The dog has braced himself against me with one paw. He’s a skinny thing, with dirt-brown fur matted against his body. His nose is buried in my shopping bag. The bag that holds two chicken sandwiches.

  With a trembling hand, I reach past the dog’s muzzle and into the bag to retrieve the packed lunch. I chuck the sandwiches as far as I can. The dog barks gleefully and sprints after them.

  An exhale shudders out of me. “That was terrifying.”

  “I know. I was terrified that you’d run back to the train station without me.”

  I brush dirt from my dress. “I don’t like dogs.”

  “I noticed.”

  I eye the mutt, whose mangy tail wags as he feasts. “Let’s get away from here.”

  Mariano offers me his arm, and my knees are so weak that I don’t even mind leaning on him as we walk to the lunchroom.

  It isn’t until we’re inside and seated at the counter that I realize my master plan to flirt the details out of the proprietor has been foiled.

  Stupid dog.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  You’re Johnny Walker?”

  The man’s straight teeth gleam white, and he winks a dark eye. “Unless you want me to go by a different name, little lady.”

  “I just thought . . .” I start the sentence before I realize there’s no good way to finish. I just thought you’d look more like a man who couldn’t get a date unless he paid them. “I didn’t expect you to be Italian.” I try fluttering my eyelashes like I’ve seen Mae do with Jeremiah. “Why, you look like you could be Valentino’s brother.”

  I swallow. It’s not that much of a stretch. Johnny Walker certainly has a face worthy of the silver screen, and he can’t be much older than early thirties. Still, it’s an uncomfortably forward thing to say to a man. Especially an older man.

  But Johnny only smooths his narrow mustache and winks at me again. “Always fancied myself more like Douglas Fairbanks, but you ladies go crazy for Valentino.”

  “Oh, Fairbanks was dashing as Robin Hood, but there’s just something about Italian men.” I punctuate this with what I hope sounds like a shy, girlish giggle. I don’t let myself look at Mariano, who sits stiffly on the stool beside me.

  As ridiculous as Mariano must find my flirting, Johnny leans against the counter. His smile is wolfish, and the weight of Nick’s pocket knife is suddenly comforting.

  “He’s a busy man, Piper.” Mariano’s brusque words break into the silence. “Ask him what we came for.”

  Johnny glances at Mariano for the first time, and anxiety squeezes my lungs. Will he recognize him? How often is Mariano around here? I knew it’d be better for me to come in alone.

  “This is my bodyguard.” The words spill out. “My daddy is very protective.”

  Johnny turns back to me. “A beautiful girl like you? That’s smart. Now, how can I help?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Ah.” Johnny’s word seems to say, of course you are.

  “I’m sure you’ve had tons of people in here since that article came out about the girl from Detroit using your telephone.”

  “It’s just the strangest thing.” Johnny straightens. “This neighborhood is tight-knit. We live here, work here, and play here. Why, all my girls live within a block of this place.” He makes a sweeping motion to indicate the waitresses. “Ally over there lives just upstairs, even. It’s nutty to think something like what happened to the Detroit girl was going on in our backyard, because it’s just not like that here.”

  I dig in my bag for Lydia’s photograph. “And I’m sorry to have to take up your time with one more—”

  “I don’t mind, Miss.” He takes the picture from my hand with an indulgent smile, and I feel my own waver. Feel my eyes turn watery.

  “Forgive me.” I fumble for my handkerchief. “Lydia went missing last week, and I just can’t seem to stop crying.”

  The sound of shattering dishes fills the room, and I jump.

  Several tables away, one of the waitresses crouches on the ground beside a shattered coffee mug. She keeps her back to us—to her boss—but her shoulders are hunched in embarrassment.

  “Happens to everyone, doll face.” Johnny turns back to me and lowers his voice. “Tall dames make for the clumsiest waitresses.”

  I smile because he expects me to. As he holds my gaze, seeming to have forgotten the photograph he’s clutching, I make a show of dabbing my eyes. “I know it’s a long shot, Mr. Walker, but do you recognize her? She has red hair and blue eyes.”

  My breathing hitches as he studies the picture.

  “Seen this girl in the papers, but nowhere around here.” His voice holds apology.

  The hope within me crumbles, and tears spill over.

  “Sorry, doll. Wish I could help.” He rests Lydia’s photograph on the gleaming lunch counter. “She’s a pretty young thing.”

  “And sweet too.” My hanky is smudged gray from eye kohl. “Not at all like me.”

  Johnny’s hand is heavy and unwelcome on my shoulder. “Leave your telephone number with the waitress, honey, and I’ll call if I see her. We could even hang up a notice in the front window, if you’d like. Lots of people come through my doors, after all.”

  I sniffle and smile up at him, despite wanting to yank away from the weight of his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Walker.”

  He gives me a squeeze and steps back as the waitress, who must have made quick work cleaning up the broken ceramic, delivers our lunch. “Thanks, doll. And when this young lady finishes her lunch, you bring her whatever dessert she fancies. On the house.”

  Johnny takes a step away but pauses at Mariano. He studies him a moment, and then winks. “One for her guard too. You’ve got a hard job, son.”

  Mariano grunts, never breaking character, but embarrassment flames my cheeks.

  “Sorry about your f
riend.” The soft words come from the waitress, who’s staring at Lydia’s picture, still face-up on the edge of the counter. The waitress is, indeed, unusually tall. “She sounded like a lovely girl.”

  After the way the laundress reacted to Lydia, the compassion of a stranger overwhelms me, and I can’t even manage a thank you before she walks away, her auburn bob swishing.

  “Well, that was quite a show you put on.” Mariano says, his voice low despite no one being around. “When I investigate someone, the best offer I get is for a knuckle duster. You, on the other hand, get free dessert.”

  “For my bodyguard too.” I reach for my fizzing Coca-Cola. “Flirting is miserable work. How do girls do it all the time?”

  “You seemed to know what you were doing.”

  I snort.

  “I mean it.” Mariano glances around, but the closest people to us are the old men drinking coffee at the opposite end of the counter. “He was so charmed, he didn’t know what to do with himself.”

  I want to throw one of my french fries at him, but that seems too childish. Even for me. “You’re trying to flatter me so I don’t feel so mortified by what I just did, but it won’t work.”

  “Piper.” The warmth he infuses in my name draws my gaze. “You’re doing everything you can to get your friend back. That’s admirable.” Beneath the counter, Mariano’s foot bumps against mine. “And it’s not true, you know. I’ve yet to have the honor of meeting Lydia, who I’m sure is very sweet. But you are too.”

  Those blasted tears burn my eyes again. I can’t remember a single person referring to me as sweet. Ever. “I’m really not.”

  “You’re a force, for sure. A hurricane, really. But there’s a part of you that’s surprisingly tender.” He winks. “Mushy, even.”

  My stomach folds in on itself in a pleasant, unfamiliar way as I turn my attention back to my lunch. What does it mean that Mariano sees something inside me that no one else—not even me—ever has?

  The dog sits outside the lunchroom door, and my fingers sink into Mariano’s arms when he trots near.

  “Shoo.” I make a waving motion. “Shoo, dog. I don’t have more food.”