Death at the Old Hotel

by Con Lehane

  I knew that feeling, too. But Christ, what kind of change would this be? There were too many things rushing at me for me to think straight. I didn’t have an answer. “You gotta give me some time to think about this,” I said, stalling for time. “Besides, it’s getting near Christmas. You’d want to be with your mom for Christmas. And you can’t punch her.”

  He was too quick for me. “Decide whatever you want. I’m not going to stay there anyway.”

  “Now, wait just a minute—” I said as authoritatively as I could. He turned his back and went inside the building.

  “Kevin, look—” I said, chasing him through the lobby.

  “Leave me alone—” he screamed, and I heard the tears in his voice, so I let him go.

  By the time I caught up with him in Pop’s apartment, they were on their way out to the Jamaican ice cream store down the block. Neither asked if I wanted to come or if I wanted any ice cream—another slight, on top of the other barbs and arrows fate had thrown at me lately. The last codeine pill I’d taken had worn off. My head ached; every time I moved my eyes, pain streaked across my forehead. I was sick and tired. I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up again unless I’d been transported to Oz or maybe Shangri-la. Everyone should go away and come back another day; I was tired of them all.

  Why I decided just then to call my service is anybody’s guess. Out of habit, maybe, or boredom. Or perhaps I thought that with all the crap happening around me, justice would provide that I’d get some good news for a change—like the lead in a Broadway play my agent forgot to tell me about.

  The message, however, was to call Betsy; it was urgent. I should call her at her mother’s, and she’d left the number. When I called, an older woman answered. She didn’t seem especially glad I’d called, so I stammered that I was looking for Betsy at this number and started to repeat it. The woman cut me off and told me to wait. As I did, I could see Barney on high alert. He watched me the way the candy store proprietor used to when I was a kid.

  Betsy’s tone was even more hysterical than it had been that morning. “Oh, Brian! You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to help me. My God! My God, Brian! Katie is missing. She’s gone, Brian. She’s really gone now—”

  “But … but—” I stammered.

  “No! No!” she screamed, cutting me off. “Dennis is dead!! Someone killed him. He’s dead. The fucking asshole is dead … and Katie is gone—” A torrent of wails and sobs overcame her voice.

  chapter eleven

  Her mother got back on the line, having subdued Betsy for the moment, and explained more coherently that someone shot and killed Betsy’s husband and the baby was missing. The police were on the case—and they’d tear the city apart to find the child and capture the animal who did this.

  “My husband was a police officer,” Mrs. McIntyre told me proudly. “When it’s one of their own that’s killed, they don’t rest until they get the murderer. We’ve known Dennis’s family for years. The police families here stick together. The police will find whoever did this, and they’ll find Katie before—” Reality must have caught up with her then, because the rest of what she was going to say caught in her throat.

  I told Betsy’s mother I was sorry for what happened and asked if I should come out there to Gerritsen Beach, if Betsy needed company or if there was something she wanted me to do. She told me no before I’d finished asking, as if she were afraid if she didn’t get it out fast enough, I’d show up on her doorstep. She said that Betsy was better off with her family and that the police were doing all that could be done, so all we could do was wait and pray.

  I didn’t like her tone when she said this, the implication that, whoever I was, I represented the part of the world that had brought this trouble that wouldn’t have come Betsy’s way if she’d stayed in Gerritsen Beach. I could see why Betsy might have married young—to get away from her mother—and a cop because he was the only game in town. I might have married a cop myself to get away from Betsy’s mother.

  When I hung up the phone, I thought Barney would try to shake the story out of me. Then, as I told him about the murder and the missing baby, his spirit seemed to leave him. “God has forsaken us,” he said when I finished, blessing himself.

  I could buy that God had forsaken us, all right. I didn’t understand, if that was the case, why Barney blessed himself. Nor did I understand Betsy’s mother praying for Katie’s return. What good would it do praying to a God who allowed this to happen in the first place? Betsy’s loss was unimaginable to me. I wouldn’t know how to comfort her, because nothing or no one could comfort me if my child were lost.

  “What the hell is going on, Barney? What are we going to do?”

  Barney shook his head woefully. “My heart goes out to poor Betsy. Her husband dead and the baby gone, it’s more than a heart can bear. Please God, they’ll find the infant soon. Sure, no one would hurt the child.” He looked to me for affirmation.

  I stared at him blankly. MacAlister dead, now Tierney, I couldn’t believe there wasn’t a connection. But what? And why would someone take Betsy’s baby?

  “I can’t understand what’s happening,” I said. “Why would MacAlister and Tierney be killed one after the other?”

  Barney shook his head. “I can only think there were things going on around us we didn’t know about.” His expression was thoughtful, as if he were thinking out loud. “We’re carrying on our strike, thinking it’s what’s most important in everyone’s life, and with no one the wiser, these men were entangled in something far more sinister that led to their murders.”

  “We don’t even know that they knew one another, Barney. It could be what you say, but there could be a dozen other reasons. The two murders might have nothing to do with one another.” Or they could have to do with the strike, I could have said but didn’t.

  Barney made the connection for me. “Bejaysus, Brian, looking at the murders and who’d be the man most likely to have committed them, you could say it was meself.” His expression was that of a wronged man searching for understanding. I was hard-pressed to offer any.

  MacAlister the one man holding out against the strike according to Barney; Dennis Tierney standing between him and Betsy—the possibility made too much sense. What was worse, Barney and Betsy could have engineered the murders together. Where had Barney been since the tussle with Betsy’s husband on the picket line? Where did Betsy go when she left my apartment after my second run-in with Dennis? My head was spinning. I imagined Barney’s open and honest face turning suddenly evil, him pulling out a gun, and telling me I was next because now I knew too much.

  Kevin did stay at Pop’s that night, and I said I’d talk to his mother. A real treat that was going to be. By the time I got home, I felt like something the cat dragged in, which, of course, reminded me of the cat; gone now, I remembered as I looked around. Good riddance. At least I wouldn’t have to shovel cat shit anymore. Still, I did look outside the window and make a couple of halfhearted attempts to call him. This was New York, though. You had to be careful hollering “Otto!” out the window. There was no telling who the hell might show up.

  My mind was clogged with many things, including the effects of the joint I’d shared with Ntango on the trip over from Brooklyn. Betsy’s baby missing, the baby’s father dead. What did it mean, the kid gone? Nothing good came to mind. I couldn’t get rid of the idea that for Barney, even though he had to hide out for a while, two major obstacles to his future happiness were gone. Yet, I couldn’t see the baby as an obstacle to anything, and no way, even if in a weak moment I might think Barney put MacAlister and Betsy’s husband out of their misery, could I think of him doing anything to harm the baby. Maybe he would, though, it occurred to me, not hurt the tyke but sell her. Start a new family with Betsy, without someone else’s kid. Even have a few extra bucks from the sale of the kid to set up housekeeping.

  This is what happens inside the mind of someone who smokes a joint after sucking on codeine pills all afternoon. I was crashi
ng now. Death all around me, depressed about everything I could think of, I threw myself on top of my bed, still in my clothes, barely getting my shoes off, not bothering to turn off the light.

  After what must have been only a few minutes, my doorbell rang. It’s shrill and obnoxiously loud to begin with, but coming at this moment with my head splitting from the pain, it pierced my brain. I tried to ignore it. Someone ringing my bell this late only meant trouble. Then I realized it might be Kevin, so I dragged myself over to the intercom and asked who was there. No one. Just another long push on the bell. I live on the first floor, a few steps across the lobby from the front door. Most of the time, I skip the intercom and buzz people in, waiting on the little stoop in front of my apartment to see who it is. This is what I did next, but no one came through the big front door of the building. Just another long pull on the buzzer. Remembering myself lying in the foyer not many hours before, I propped my apartment door open and went for a look.

  When I opened the door, my heart stopped—I was sure for good. My mind reeled. When my heart started up again, it sent a rocket-launch shot of adrenaline through my body. Parked in the foyer, underneath the row of mailboxes, was a baby stroller—and in the contraption was a blue-eyed baby staring up at me with something resembling a cute little smile on its face. Worse than the initial shock, on second look, I realized the kid looked like Betsy’s baby—Katie—but with only her eyes and red nose showing beneath her wool cap and the rest of her wrapped in blankets, I couldn’t tell for sure. Bound up like a mummy, she was gurgling, kicking, and smiling, as cheerful as the Christmas pup.

  I looked around outside the building. No one there. I called Betsy’s name out the door. Of course, no one answered. I looked around the lobby, but I already knew it was empty. So I picked up young Katie, stroller and all, and carried her into my apartment, my heart thumping, my head pounding, my brain shooting out distress calls. I was as panicked as if I’d kidnapped the tyke.

  Then, at the height of my panic, I heard a sound from the kitchen. At the same instant, the baby’s eyes widened. Fear crawled up the back of my neck and stood my hair on end. I let out a yelp and turned just in time to see the cat scramble off the windowsill and scurry across the kitchen floor.

  “You fucker!” I yelled, grabbing a book from the shelf to throw at it. This scared the baby. I saw the accusing look in her eyes, the bottom lip begin to curl. Oh Jesus, I knew what was coming. Sure enough, she began blatting. This was just great. Once she began crying, she must have realized all the problems she had. Number one, where’s her mother? Number two, who’s this guy with the big loud, scary voice? And where is she and where has she been? I want to go home. I WANT MY MOMMY!! She cried and she hiccupped and cried some more. I had visions of everyone in the apartment building calling the police. Strangers on the street calling the police. Not only did he snatch the kid, they’d say. He brutalized her.

  I cooed to the baby, made clucking sounds, and tried for funny faces, but my heart wasn’t in it. Not surprisingly, this made things worse. I shook the kid’s rattle that I found in the stroller. There were lots of things in the stroller, a couple of changes of clothes, a sweater and a little jacket, diapers, a couple of toys, and a bottle. A bottle! Of course. I grabbed the bottle and ran to the refrigerator. Great! What was I going to do, fill it with beer? The West Side Market. I could get milk at the store. I made a beeline for the door. Wait! I couldn’t go out and leave the kid in the apartment alone, and I’d be damned if I was going to wheel a screaming baby down Broadway.

  All of a sudden, the baby’s eyes grew wide again; she hiccupped and stopped crying. She gurgled a couple of times, waving her hands, kicking her feet, and craning her neck. The cat! The kitten had come out from under the couch and was crossing the living room heading toward its food bowl, stopping every couple of steps to check that the coast was clear, and garnering the rapt attention of the little one. During this lull in the action, I came to my senses, called my service, and got Betsy’s mother’s phone number.

  Betsy answered the phone on the second ring. Her screech when I told her I thought I might have Katie with me must have roused her mother and half the neighborhood, if not half the dead of Brooklyn.

  She first had me make sure the kid had a tiny earring, then a small mole on her neck. After this, questions and giggles and terms of endearment tumbled from her as I tried to calm her enough to figure out what to do when Katie started crying again.

  “Are you sure she’s all right, Brian? She’s not hurt? Is she dirty? Is she hungry? Did you check her diaper?”

  “She looks fine to me. I’m afraid I’ll scare her half to death if I touch her.”

  “She won’t cry, Brian, or not for long. She knows you love her.”

  “How does she know that?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Betsy gushed. “You’re so wonderful, Brian. Everybody loves you. I’m so happy!!”

  “Easy, kid. I didn’t do anything. She showed up on my doorstep.”

  Betsy was breathless. “How could that be? Who brought her there? Did someone find her? You’re sure she’s all right?”

  “She looks all right to me. You want me to take her to the hospital?”

  “No! No! I’ll be there in no time.”

  “I could get Ntango and bring her out there.”

  “No! No! Brian. I want to come there. I’m so happy. I can’t believe it. Thank God! Thank God!”

  I started to suggest that for the sake of propriety she be a little bit less happy since her husband’s dead body had barely gone cold, but thought better of it.

  “The car service is on standby, Brian. I’ll be there in less than an hour. There won’t be traffic this time of night.”

  “Says you. What do I do when she starts screaming again?”

  Betsy became the efficient mom again. “She’ll be hungry. She must be. And she’ll want to nurse. But she only nurses for comfort. She can eat baby food and drink from a bottle.”

  When I told Betsy about not wanting to leave the baby to go to the store, she said, “Don’t be silly,” again.

  I didn’t think silliness had anything to do with it.

  “Katie loves to go in the stroller. Take her for a walk.”

  “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

  “Take her to the store, Brian. People understand that babies sometimes can’t sleep. No one will think it’s weird. Buy some milk and some baby food. Then feed her a little—maybe just fruit for now, apples and apricots. Feed her some of that. Then take her out of the stroller and give her a bottle … and don’t forget to check her diaper … I’m just so happy!” Betsy said again, and began sobbing.

  The cat was finishing up dinner when I got off the phone, so I grabbed him before he could jump out the window again. I figured I might need an ace in the hole. Katie let me work her back into one of the sweaters and put a blanket over her, cooperating because I more or less dangled Otto in her lap. The kid loaded up, I put on my pea coat and stuffed the kitten, who’d grown some and now barely fit, into the side pocket. I thought he might squirm and try to jump out; instead, he settled in and I think went to sleep.

  By the time Betsy arrived, the tyke was asleep. We’d gone to the market. I’d fed her the baby food, hoisted her out of the stroller to take off her sweater—bit the bullet and laid her on the floor to change her diaper. There was a package of Pampers and a packet of wipes in the stroller. The job went more smoothly than I dared hope. I carried her around the apartment for twenty minutes or so showing her assorted things, then put her on my bed with her bottle and the cat. She whimpered for a while between slugs from the bottle but finally conked out, as did Otto. What a helluva day she must have had. I wondered if she was there when her father was killed, if she’d remember, if it would haunt her life.

  After watching her sleep for a few minutes, deciding I’d had quite a day myself, I went and poured a healthy shot of Jameson from the private stock I kept on hand for such days. I put on a John Coltrane re
cord, sat down in my stuffed chair, and marveled at all that had happened since Sam phoned that morning to tell me MacAlister was dead. How strange it was Betsy and Katie spent last night in my apartment and would again tonight—at least what was left of it. In the interim Betsy became a widow.

  When the doorbell rang this time, I buzzed without asking, and as soon as I got the door open Betsy flew into my arms and knocked me back into the apartment. She squashed me into her arms, loosened her grip, then squashed me again, burying her face in my chest. The bedroom door was open, so she saw Katie on the bed. Letting out a yelp, she ran to the baby, holding on to my arm and dragging me along. For a moment, she just looked. Tears came, then she scooped Katie into her arms and squashed her. At this point, I managed to sneak away back to my Jameson.

  After cooing and crying and kissing and hugging, Betsy seemed to be coming back to earth. Her smile was beautiful, and her eyes, even though glassy and streaked with red, sparkled with happiness. She was a tall girl, Betsy, as tall as me, with a thick mane of blond hair that made her look robust, but she was actually slim and fit easily in my arms when we hugged. I watched her with the baby, thinking there might be something to this madonna thing that artists get off on.

  She sat down on the couch, still with that beatific smile, and opened her blouse, unclipping her bra in the middle, pulling it apart and exposing her breast. I thought I should politely avert my eyes, but I didn’t want to, and since Betsy was smiling, her pretty eyes meeting mine, with no sign of shyness, I didn’t and watched her hook the baby onto her breast.

  Soon after, the baby fell asleep, and Betsy took her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed. When she came back, she sat on the couch and said, “I feel so content, so at peace.” She talked softly about how worried she’d been, how relieved she was, what a miracle it was that Katie showed up on my doorstep. She pondered how Katie got there and why Dennis was murdered.