The Crimson Shaw

by Elyse Lortz

  “I’ll be right back. Help yourself to a drink if you want it. I heard Sam stocks some pretty good scotch.” And like that, he was gone, his footsteps echoing quickly through the hall. My spine tensed as I sat next to my companion.

  “Where did he go?”

  “To wash his hands.” Keane answered quietly, now cradling his glass of whiskey between both his hands.

  “Oh. Does he do that offen?”

  “Constantly. I have seen similar cases before. They can scrub their skin raw and still not feel clean. It’s an obsession; something they need to do to carry on with their daily lives. Perhaps someday we will lessen the impulses, or make them more acceptable to those small minded busibodies of society. Were a miracle to occur to do away with the symptoms completely . . . ah, well . . . I’ve seen worse habits in my time.” Like John Christie.

  John Christie.

  Of course, the police had no evidence when we met him, but it was cemented in Keane’s mind that the man was a murderer: a man obsessed with, not so much the need for killing, but a need for corpses. Cold, rotting bodies to lay motionless with eyes unseeing to the world. He would steal the breath from them; waiting until they succumbed to a gas-induced stupor before strangling them into an eternal sleep. In some cases he even dared fall to the realm of commanding the empty body into tasks which made even Keane grow pale and ill.

  I had been more than glad to return to Devon at the end of that week.

  Mickey Cohen did indeed return soon after, along with the gentle scent of soap. The transformation from those alleyway tales was breathtaking. It is never pleasant to find yourself in the company of such a powerful man, and yet I found myself unusually at ease in his presence. However, I would have been a fool to doubt this man would hesitate to kill one or both of us if he felt his life threatened. You would not think so to look at him. From where I was sitting, Meyer Harris Cohen looked—dare I say it—normal.

  The small man perched on the edge of an ornate writing desk, but he did not reach for the scotch, nor did he grab a cigar from the box. He merely sat there with his hands folded over one knee.

  “So, Kid, where’d you get that mark on your forehead?” As conversation starters went, it was a good one. He knew where it was going and, like most everything else in his life, he had full control of the situation. No man can ignore the signs of his trade ingrained upon other human beings. I cleared my throat and ran a hand through my heavily pomaded—and ultimately shorter—hair, which no longer concealed an inch long scar just above my ear. I brushed it self-consciously with the pad of my thumb.

  “A boxing ring in Cleveland.”

  “No kidding? I did some training over there when I was fifteen. Good sport. Gives us small people a chance to be scrappy.” There was a lilt to his voice—an amusement—that caused me instinctively to smile. He was perhaps a decade older than I: a decade to create that wavering line where white and black bled into grey. One instinctively wants to walk toward what is morally right—safe—however, there are also times when the good is muddled by change. For a timid, taunting moment, I found I might even like the murderer looking down upon me. Keane jerked those thoughts to reality in his feigned Boston tongue.

  “Mr. Cohen, I would be remiss if I did not pay you a compliment. I went to one of your tailors for a suit, and found the work far superior to my own back in Massachusetts.” The mobster leaned back a little with another easygoing grin.

  “Yeah, they’re a good group of boys. I see ‘em just about everyday and their work just gets better every time.” Everyday. Good Lord, this man probably never wore the same suit twice. “So, Kid, you come from Ohio then, or were ya just passing through?”

  “When my father came from Ireland, he moved to Steubenville. I was born there.”

  “I have a few friends from Steubenville. I also had a girl once who was Irish. The only thing wrong with her was she made the mistake of fallin’ for in love with a crazy young punk, such as I was.” Again that confident humour shone through the man’s clean-cut exterior; tipping the balance away from my hastily gathered hatred for him. It is always easy to hate someone everyone claims to be bad and evil; however, when you discover there may be some good in a person, words mean little. Actions mean everything.

  Cohen’s eyes jerked quickly to Keane as my companion reached back into his pocket; the mobster’s gaze calming as a billfold appeared in his hands, rather than an automatic pistol. Was Keane even wearing his gun? He opened his wallet.

  “Mr. Cohen, I have a friend named John Harrison. I understood he did some business with you over the past several years.” Two brown eyes gazed lazily at Keane.

  “I do business with many people. Could you be more specific?”

  “He had rather a sizable debt to you over a considerable supply of hydrocodone. I would like to pay the difference on his behalf.”

  “I don’t know nothing about no Hydrocodone.” Nonetheless, Keane pulled out several five hundred dollar bills, folded them neatly together, and handed them to Cohen. To my surprise, the shorter man stuck the sizable wad in his jacket pocket without bothering to count them. The doors swung open again just as the tips of green dove into hiding, and a fourth figure entered our somber gathering. Cohen’s seemingly ever-present smile only grew larger.

  “Boys, meet the real host of this party. Sam Barker.” I wanted to hide; to dive under the sofa and disappear from the world. That, unfortunately, was not possible; therefore, I simply rose to my feet while we were introduced by the king of Los Angeles.

  “Sam, this here is Leslie McCormic and Devon English.” As the young man and I shook hands, I used more muscle than strictly necessary for two newly met individuals and arranged a somewhat tired expression on my features to match the obvious shock facing me.

  “I take it you’ve met my twin sister then. Don’t let the names fool you, she is an English at heart. Or at least she would be if she hadn’t insisted on taking on that infernal pen of hers.” My feigned masculinity completed the tailored facade as Sam Barker wrenched his hand from my grasp with special attention to his aching fingers.

  “Devon here was a boxer in Cleveland.” Cohen announced, as if my achievements had as much right to his pride as it had to me all those years ago. It wouldn’t have mattered if I had won or lost. We had a connection. In the underworld, similarity was everything. It was family.

  “I’d believe it.” Sam muttered, stretching his hand before turning to my somewhat less popular companion. “And what is it you do Mr . . . McCormic, wasn’t it?” Keane once more lowered himself upon the sofa.

  “Oh, a little of everything, I suppose. Gambling. Traveling. Philanthropy.” The last grabbed Cohen’s attention.

  “Seems we are in the same business, McCormic. Come round here on Tuesday, if ya want. Sam usually has in a few people from all over town. They state their case. Ya know, philanthropy.” Mickey Cohen’s claim to help the less fortunate was not a great surprise, though I doubted Al Capone would have done something in its like. With Cohen, his generosity seemed to be as commonplace as his ruthlessness. His sense of survival somehow spread to helping those who could not survive on their own accord. Everyone was human until they crossed him. Then they were dead. No, it was not his answer, but Keane’s that really sent me reeling.

  “Tuesday you say? I don’t think either of us have anything definite planned. What time? We’ll be here.”

  “Good.” The mobster grinned, standing up from the desk. “Now, I’m afraid Sam and me better be getting back to the party. You two will stay a while, won’t you?” Keane assured him we would as all four of us walked toward the door. Sam immediately struck up some boorish conversation with my companion, while Cohen pulled me aside as we emerged into the hallway. I had come to expect many things in my life, but having a one hundred dollar bill thrust into my palm was certainly not one of them.

  “You’re alright, kid. You’re an honest, hard working kind of guy. I like that.” And with those words, accompanied with a soli
d pat on the back, Mickey Cohen—king of Los Angeles and lord of the underground markets—disappeared into a buzzing crowd of celebratory guests.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “LEAVE IT TO YOU TO find a friend in the mafia.” Keane chuckled as he pulled a cigarette from his case. He looked more like himself now than he had when he appeared at the party. His wavy hair was washed loose from confining pomade and now dangled at the tips of his ears as blonde-grey curls. A dark blue dressing gown had been wrapped loosely around his athletic form. A white, silk pajama shirt stuck out over the collar; a new purchase for the fictional Leslie McCormic, no doubt. I sighed and tipped my head over the back of the settee.

  “This is a nice hotel. Exceptionally nice.” And indeed it was. Not quite so elegant perhaps as those grand, old establishments in Europe, but far superior to all in which we had stayed on this journey thus far. The carpeted floors were more reserved in color. The decor was less vulgar than most. Even the upholstery on which I sat was more of a faded blue of yesteryear, rather than some audacious pattern of ill-matched stripes.

  Cigarette dangling from his mouth, Keane casually lifted my hat from my side and tossed it onto an ancient basket chair. He sat himself in its place, but looked at the floor beneath his slippers, rather than me. His voice; however, bore the quiet directness I both admired and loathed.

  “Will you be alright?”

  “About what? Cohen?”

  “Come now, I know women in an emergency; all sobs and smelling salts. Heaven knows I keep enough handkerchiefs in my study to save an entire regiment of emotional females over the menial trials of life.” I replaced the first tinglings of laughter for a frustration that was never far beyond my reach.

  “Really, Keane, if you think that low of me—after the past few hours especially—we might as well introduce ourselves as the strangers we are. What on earth have I to be weepy about?”

  “Why your . . .” His voice fell to a whisper. “. . . Your hair.”

  My hair.

  Ah.

  Admittedly, it had been a cause of some discomfort over the past few days, but I hardly thought one’s physical annoyances were cause for hysterics. Not a tear had been shed over the loss, though it did take a bit longer to recognise me in the mirror when I gave a damn enough to look.

  My fingers tread self-consciously along my pruned, reddish-blonde curls. It was not a fashionable color by any means, but one I bore with an arguably foolish pride.

  “I take it you don’t like it then?” I tried to sound vaguely disinterested with whatever his answer might have been; however, somewhere between my vocal cords and mouth, the words took on a tone that seemed uncharacteristically melancholy in comparison. Keane looked at me then; not hard, yet acutely. His eyes carefully ran from my brow, back to the top of my head, and returned to an unidentifiable place near my temple. His cigarette had shrunk considerably.

  “I can’t say I dislike it, though it will look a great deal better when that grease is washed out. It still goes past your ears a bit, which is good. And you needn’t worry about the play. If it doesn’t grow miraculously by then, wigs were invented for a reason.”

  Blast.

  The play.

  I had forgotten about that.

  “I did what had to be done.” I defended feebly as Keane tipped my head forward with his forefinger to inspect the hair curling at the nape of my neck.

  “Indeed you did, and, considering the circumstances as they are, it is a rather fine job of it too.” My pride flourished.

  “I did most of it at the beach house with a pair of cooking shears.” My companion ran his thumb over the finely trimmed ends.

  “Most of it?”

  “I went to a barber to finish it. I wanted something modern enough to keep some length, and we both know I pay little attention to fashion. It did get a bit awkward though. He insisted on giving me a shave. Something about him having never cut a man’s hair without one.” My companion’s amusement was reflected magnificently as glimmers danced through his ice-blue eyes. I squelched the impulse to grin and stared down my nose at the dark, cream carpeting. “You know, Keane, I believe I can appreciate the luxury of a hot towel on one’s face, but to have someone holding a razor so close to your throat.” I flinched. “It’s ridiculous.” At that he did not chuckle as I thought he might. No, he laughed. His rich baritone erupted so close to my ear I started convulsively at the deep tremor. So rare were those great shows of humour that were constantly in wake of his presence. To earn a chuckle—however brief—was a joy.

  A laugh? An honour.

  I must have drifted off soon after, for the next recollection was based upon a hushed voice, not at my ear or side, but lingering over my shoulder.

  “As much as I relish your company, Lawrence, I fear a scandal would ensue if the hotel’s staff found your bed already made.” My mind slowly wrapped itself around his words. A part of me had thought Keane’s melodious tember only a part of a dream. It would be a very nice dream, rich with sails and sea salt, but a dream nonetheless. Then, when inevitable realisation at last occurred, I leapt up to find him leaning over the back of the sofa, a waggish grin positively glowing on his familiar face. How blue his eyes were; how deep the laugh lines running and crinkling along the side of his face. I rushed back into my own room just as an intricate mantle clock made some muddled declaration of the hour. Clothed in all but my suit jacket and a pair of brown, polished shoes I had bought sometime in the last forty-eight hours, I flung myself into bed.

  I had not thought myself tired or prone to more sleep than I had already enjoyed on Keane’s sofa, but it was not long before I found my mind swinging in the belly of a great ship, where lanterns creaked and swayed above my head and a first mate called down that all was well.

  All was well.

  WE AVOIDED THE CASINO for the next few days, fearing a more bountiful harvest from the gambling tables and finding the time better spent regenerating our energies. Breakfast and lunch we took at the hotel by having it hauled up to our rooms, rather than enduring the inconvenience of spotting ourselves at two different tables. There was little between us that was incredibly private to our lives, save our pasts, which were entirely separate and infinitely more complicated than our unusual companionship. I knew little of Keane’s own life. Exceptionally little. I had heard stories of his days in the navy during that first war, as well as his doctorate from some Irish university I had momentarily forgotten, and yet it was not until a few months before I had found he had two siblings and a history that existed long before I.

  He knew something about me as well. He knew of my unfortunate American birth, doubly cursed by any maternal lineage, and torn over the rocks of an unusual child scorned by all. At that point, I had come to suspect Keane was more aware of my tragic history than I was of his.

  We never discussed these things during meals. Or if the subject did occur, it was just as quickly brushed aside by a wave of a hand or the arrival of our waiter. It was only on the eve of that Tuesday morn that Keane or I dared venture away from our played roles into those two people who had met all those years before. Two lost people: a greying man whose life had followed little of his direction, and a young woman searching for a direction to follow. As usual, his bluntness was preceded by no unnecessary pleasantries. It simply shot across the table as Keane balanced a piece of steak onto his fork.

  “Lawrence, I will not be joining you at Mr. Barker’s tomorrow.” I paused to return my knife from where it had fallen from my plate.

  “You said we would go. We, Keane. Not me.” My companion peered down at me as though what I had just said was an idea never considered in the minds of humanity. He shook his head, chewed thoughtfully on his steak, and cut another browned square before continuing.

  “It cannot be helped. As it happens, my presence has been requested to attend a gathering of psychologists tomorrow.”

  “And you didn’t feel it was convenient to tell me until now?”

  “The
telegram only arrived this afternoon.” He pulled the paper from his jacket and gently pushed it across the table. “It cannot be helped.” The words were all there, carefully written with the official stamina which could have made even Freud weep. I gently refolded the telegram along the creased edges. No, it could not be helped.

  Keane pulled out another, thinner paper, which had been folded only once, and slid this too in my direction.

  “I suspected you might need a large sum of money tomorrow.” I opened the check, allowing my eyes to wander slowly along the neat curls and strikes of Keane’s handwriting, though it was signed to an account number as foreign as the alias signature scratched across the bottom. Perhaps it was not the finest example of prime calligraphy, but it was beautifully done with an endless amount of manual dexterity and the great male ego. I gasped.

  “Ten thousand dollars?”

  “If it is not enough, I have authorized my bank to release to you any amount.” I grabbed his long, dry hand and thrust the piece of paper into his large palm.

  “Keane, I have my own money. I have plenty of my own money. More than any I would ever need. I can use that. I—” His other hand fell over the check, gently pinning my fingers easily between his palms.

  “Do you realise how much I have won day after day behind those infernal craps tables?” He leaned forward and whispered a series of numbers that made my head spin. Then, as the wheels of reality still wobbled along the razor edge of shock, I was half aware of Keane paying our bill and climbing to his exceptional stature. He was Zeus; his thunderous bolts thrashing downward and thrusting life into even the fallen. “And, Lawrence, I do mean any amount.”

  I FELT WELL ARMED AGAINST the elegant fortress up to the very second the door opened. Then I felt nothing. I was numb; awash with that which I did not know. Men in elaborate suits stood idly in the enormous foyer, with glasses of pale liquor in their hands and international forms of tobacco crushed between their teeth. There were cigarettes from the hierarchy in France, clay pipes from the highlands of Scotland, and thin twigs of cigars from . . . India perhaps? I refused the last of these when presented to me and took out a package of Keane’s cigarettes. There is a safety—a comfort—in that which is familiar. I could only hope Keane would forgive me for taking less of the smoke into my lungs; allowing thin tails of white to rise from the cigarette’s smoldering end. It was better this way, for I stood there with the gentlemen for the better part of half an hour, and a person can only inhale so much of the stuff before finding themselves hopelessly infatuated with the infernal things. Sam Barker’s butler appeared and escorted our dull band of heavy billfolds into a large sitting room dominated by a loathful fireplace so abnormally intricate, one questioned whether it was of any practical use at all. The colors were again conservative, but there was no subtlety in the vast amounts of wealth this man held. One by one as we passed through the door, each man received a cordial nod and firm handshake from Mickey Cohen. His cream-colored suit had been replaced by one of a moderate grey. It appeared equally expensive, but not nearly so obnoxious as the bright necktie dangling from Sam Barker’s neck as he drank a glass of champagne by the fireplace. Suddenly there was a strong hand grasping mine and shaking it firmly as two old friends meeting after a long separation.