“Anyway,” I continued, “after that it was just Dad and me. If we ever got along, I don’t remember it. I ran away when I was fifteen and never looked back.”
I took a swig of ginger ale and wished it were something stronger.
“My turn,” I said. “What do you think of John Meredith?”
“In what sense?”
“Whatever sense you want to take it,” I said. “I ask because for someone who’s a step above shift manager, he seems to have a lot of access to your family.”
“Well, he’s been around forever, hasn’t he?” she said. “And to be honest, Randy has a little crush on him. Totally platonic, of course. I think he sees John as a role model. A real man’s man.”
“How do you see him?”
“I don’t know. As an employee. He’s nice. Kind of…I don’t know. Rough.”
“No grudges against your family?” I asked.
“None.”
She said that with a level of confidence that made me raise my eyebrows. Even if Meredith hadn’t given off the vibe of being a little too interested in Becca, I’d have been skeptical of any longtime employee who hadn’t stored up some grudges against his boss.
“As far as I know, he’s harmless,” she said. “I swear. Cross my heart.”
A manicured nail traced an X across red satin.
“My turn. What’s the most dangerous situation you’ve ever found yourself in?”
If I had kept being 100 percent honest, the answer would have been one of the times my father came home blind drunk and I had to spend the night hiding in a cornfield. Instead, I gave her three-quarters honest and told her about the first time I met Ms. Pentecost. By the time I was pulling the knife on McCloskey, her jaw was half dropped and she was perched on the edge of her chair. Her blue eyes practically vibrated with excitement.
“That is amazing!” she exclaimed when I was finished. “You are, by far, the most interesting person I have ever gone dancing with.”
“Thank you,” I said with a little bow. “My turn?”
“How can I compete with that?”
“It’s not a competition,” I reassured her. “Just a friendly game of mutual interrogation.”
She downed her gin and waved to the waitress for another. “As long as it’s friendly,” she said.
I pondered my next question. I figured I’d get one more out of her before she either tired of the game or had one too many gins to make it ethical.
“How far do you trust your uncle Harry?” I asked. “And why?”
The waitress came over with a replacement cocktail, giving Becca some time to chase down that curveball.
“I trust him as much as anyone alive,” she said. “He’s always looked out for us. My father trusted him, and I trusted my father.”
“Did your mother trust him?”
“I never asked,” she said.
“But what do you think?”
“I think you’re trying to sneak in extra questions.” Somewhere in the last exchange, something had happened. Her face had been open. Now a mask had fallen over it. I made a mental note to find out why she was protecting trustworthy ol’ Uncle Harry.
“Okay,” I said. “Your turn.”
She narrowed her eyes in thought, then her face broke into a wide grin.
“I’ve got one,” she said.
“Uh-oh. I don’t know if I like that look.”
“What is the absolute most unforgettable kiss you’ve ever had?”
I’ll admit it. I blushed. You would too with that face grinning at you from across the table. I shuffled through the possibilities, finally settling on one.
“Carmine Vincenzio.”
Her smile faltered.
“But it’s unforgettable only because he was wearing bright yellow tights and had one leg wrapped around his head.”
I briefly explained about my summer fling with the Italian contortionist.
“But if you’re talking about the best kiss,” I said, “that would be Sarah. No last name.”
She put a hand to her mouth in feigned horror. “No last name? How scandalous!”
“I never got a first name, either. I just call her Sarah because she looked like a Sarah,” I said.
“Is this another circus story?”
“Afraid so,” I said. “It’s like this. We were parked for a weekend gig in some no-horse town in the middle of Ohio. One night I was helping shuffle people on and off the Ferris wheel. There was this girl on a date with a farm boy. Definitely a first date, and she definitely didn’t want to be on it.
“She wants to ride the wheel, but he’s scared of heights. Doesn’t want to go up. She doesn’t want to sit alone, but the only other singles waiting in line are men, and farm boy doesn’t want her seeing the sights with some other fella. So I volunteer to ride with her. Everyone’s happy.”
On the stage, the singer brought a song to its finish. I waited for the applause to die down before continuing.
“We get to the top and the wheel pauses. Give everyone a chance to get their necking in. Sarah says, ‘At the end of the night, he’s gonna kiss me. It’ll be my first kiss and I don’t even like him.’ So I say, ‘How about I kiss you? You might still get a peck at the end of the night from farm boy Johnny, but at least it won’t be your first.’ ”
“What did she say?” Becca asked, on the edge of her seat again.
“Not a thing,” I told her. “She just closed her eyes and leaned in. So I kissed her.”
Becca laughed with delight.
“This no-name girl in the middle of Ohio was such a good kisser she went right to the top spot?” she asked in disbelief.
I counted off on my fingers. “Fifty feet in the air. Hot summer night. Lights of the midway stretching out below us. With all that going for it, you tend to grade technique on a steep curve.”
Onstage, the band announced they were taking twenty. Becca and I stood and joined in the applause as the singer took a bow.
“You want to blow this pop stand?” Becca asked. “I’ve got plenty of gin and a cabinet full of forty-fives back home.”
Going out dancing was one thing. Heading back to her place was something else entirely. I wondered how far she’d stray from discretion. But I had my orders, so I said yes. She paid the check and we made our way outside. A light snow had begun to fall and the sidewalks were already covered.
Becca shivered in her backless dress. I deftly transferred my gun to my trouser pocket and draped my jacket over her shoulders. We started walking to the end of the block, where we’d be more likely to catch a cab.
We didn’t hold hands, but we were close enough that our respective knuckles brushed against each other as we walked.
We were halfway to the corner when a figure detached itself from the shadows of an alley and grabbed Becca. I turned and stumbled, slipping in the fresh snow and landing hard on my back. My hand dove into my trouser pocket for my gun. I was terrified I was already too late.
CHAPTER 18
The hammer of my .38 caught on the lining, which was the only reason Randolph didn’t get a dose of lead in his gut.
“What the hell, Randy!” Becca said, tearing her hand away from her brother. “You scared me half to death.”
“I’ve been waiting out here for nearly an hour,” he hissed.
“That’s not my fault,” she said, helping me to my feet. “You could have come in.”
“And have both of us seen in there?” His face spoke volumes about exactly what he thought of “in there.” “What did I tell you about going to places like that?”
“What did I tell you about trying to control me?” she spat back. “Money and appearances. That’s all you care about. Don’t want me to embarrass the corporate giant in training.”
I didn’t think his face
could get much redder, but he managed.
“If this place was raided while you were in it, your picture would be splashed all over the front pages tomorrow. ‘Collins Daughter Arrested at’…whatever they call this place. And if they find you with her. Jesus Christ, Becca!”
It’s funny. A while back I called him one of the most beautiful humans I’d ever laid eyes on. I didn’t see it now. His face was an ugly mask of anger and disgust. I’d seen that face before. That face was why I left home.
“I swear to God, Randy! I will do what I want with whoever I want!”
“How much have you had to drink?”
“None of your business!”
“I can smell it on you, Becca! I can smell the gin!”
With every volley more heads turned our way. The muscle working the door to the club began climbing up the steps to see what was the matter.
I took Becca’s arm, intending to move the exchange into the alley. Randolph misread the move. He grabbed hold of my shoulder and squeezed.
“Get your hands off my sister,” he growled.
I was startled by how strong he was. That swimmer’s body wasn’t just for show.
“Uncle Harry’s going to hear about this,” he said, spittle flying in my face. “So will your boss. I’ll make sure you don’t have a job this time tomorrow.”
“You tell whoever you need to tell,” I said, conjuring up my meanest smile. “Ms. Pentecost’s asleep right now, and she’s had a long day, so I’d appreciate it if you could wait until morning.”
I reached up to the hand grabbing my shoulder and took his wrist in both hands. Giving a firm yank, I swiveled on my heel and twisted his arm to an uncomfortable angle. Locking his elbow, I bent his wrist forward in a way it was never meant to go.
Randy hissed in pain and I let him loose.
“Next time you do that, I don’t stop until something’s broken,” I told him. “Now, if you’re really worried about making the papers, I’d suggest taking this off the street. You’ve got about thirty seconds before that doorman comes over, and he looks like someone else who enjoys picking on people half his size.”
Randolph shot a look at the doorman, who was up on the sidewalk now, watching the scene playing out and wondering if he’d have to get involved before the cops did.
“I’m just worried that—”
“I know,” I said. “You’re being a good big brother. Give us two ticks.”
I pulled Becca into the alley and away from the reach of the streetlights. She bit her lower lip, tears swirling in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “We were having such a nice evening.”
“It was a great evening. One of the best. Your brother playing truant officer can’t take that away. But he’s right.”
“What?”
“The police have their eye on you. I kept an eye out for a tail on the way here, but they might have somebody watching your place.”
She did some quick math and came to the same conclusion.
“No gin and forty-fives?”
“Not tonight,” I said. “You should probably go home with your brother.”
She wiped her tears away with a gloved hand. “So pragmatic. I thought you were a thrill-seeker.”
“I contain multitudes.”
That brought a smile, but it was curdled around the edges. She took a breath and found some poise, then called back to her brother. “All right, Randy. You may have the honor of driving me home.”
Randy, who had been staring apprehensively at the doorman, breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’ll bring the car around,” he said before darting down the street.
Becca turned back to me. “Can we see each other again?” she asked.
I cocked a shoulder. “It’s a possibility,” I said. “There’s the matter of a murder to clear up.”
“Always the professional.”
“Not always,” I said. “But I have my moments.”
A two-door Lincoln pulled up to the curb, brakes squealing.
“My ride’s here,” she sighed.
She slipped off my jacket and draped it over my shoulders.
“Good night, Will. You’re a pretty good dancer.”
“Night, Becca. You’re not half bad yourself.”
She was two steps from the car before she abruptly turned on her heel and ran back into the alley. She leaned in and kissed me. Not a peck, either. Three full seconds of contact. Not that I was in a mind to time it. My mind had left the building.
Randy yelled something unprintable from the car.
Then it was over. By the time I opened my eyes, she was disappearing into the Lincoln. With a Detroit roar, she was gone.
I tottered out of the alley, yanking my head out of the clouds long enough to look around and see if anyone had eyes on me. The bouncer had returned to his station and nobody was paying me any mind.
I walked south for five blocks before I remembered I hadn’t driven. I hailed a cab.
No contest.
She’d knocked whatshername from the Ferris wheel right to number two.
CHAPTER 19
Saturday was a madhouse at Chez Pentecost, but Saturdays usually were. The women started arriving around eleven in the morning and didn’t let up until dinnertime. Maids and cooks, students and schoolteachers, barmaids and burlesque dancers from Brooklyn to the Bronx to Harlem. All the neighborhoods people like Randy wouldn’t have been caught dead in.
Some came for advice, some with an honest-to-God crime that needed solving. There was a nursemaid who’d been fired because her employer accused her of stealing a diamond bracelet. Two phone calls got us the fence. A third got us the pawnshop owner. A few quick questions and a not-too-subtle threat to pass the owner’s name on to the cops for trafficking stolen goods revealed the culprit to be the employer’s stepdaughter. The pawnshop owner suspected the girl had put the money right up her nose.
Ms. P promised the nursemaid she’d write a carefully worded letter to her former employer but suggested asking for a month’s severance and a glowing recommendation in lieu of her old job back. After the nursemaid walked out leaking tears of gratitude, the boss turned to me and said, “Twenty minutes of my time. And it probably kept that woman and her family out of the poorhouse. Or worse.”
She wasn’t bragging, or at least not only bragging.
I’d been on her to cut back on the Saturday open house. Cramming two dozen cases into an eight-hour day took a toll. It was a rare Sunday she didn’t stay in bed.
She wouldn’t have it. Since she spent so much of her time and energy keeping the lights on by helping folks like the Collins family, she wanted to balance the scales.
Every woman in the five boroughs who lived in the bottom tax brackets knew that Ms. Pentecost’s door was open every Saturday. Mrs. Campbell made enough food to feed the 401st. Anyone who showed up got a hot meal and twenty minutes of Ms. P’s time.
She’d been doing it since long before I came into the picture, and bad days or not, she wasn’t about to stop. So I helped any way I could, including poring over my address book for fences, drafting carefully worded letters, and so on.
The nursemaid’s case was an outlier. Most weren’t nearly so complicated. Most of the women who turned up at our door lived with the people giving them grief. Many sported black eyes and busted lips and the occasional broken limb.
Not long after I started working for Ms. Pentecost, I joked that these women didn’t need a detective, they needed a revolver, a divorce lawyer, or at the very least somebody to teach them how to throw a punch. That was before I understood that a useful suggestion, even in jest, was as good as raising my hand.
We cleaned out the basement, which at the time was mostly old furniture, and created a big open space. Then we laid out a bunch of old wrestling mats I�
�d scrounged from a local high school. The following Saturday, while Ms. P consulted, I invited any and all to join me in the basement to learn some self-defense. I’d picked up boxing from a strongman, wrestling from that ill-fated episode with a contortionist, and more than a few nasty tricks from Kalishenko. I didn’t have many takers at first. Then I showed the few women who joined me how to dodge a punch, take someone to the ground, and, if all went well, snap their arm in two.
Word spread.
That particular Saturday I had nearly twenty women on the mat. Inspired by Randy’s antics the night before, I was teaching them how to turn the tables on a guy if he put his hands on you.
“Most of the time they’ll be big enough to yank themselves free before you can do serious damage,” I explained, demonstrating the arm twist on a housewife who’d been coming to the classes for over a year. “But it gets them off you and gives you some space to work with. Follow up with one of the other moves we worked on. If you’ve got a weapon nearby, use it. If you’ve got open air, run for it.”
I made eye contact with everyone on the mat, making sure they heard this next bit.
“I don’t care what tricks you know, if you’re up against a guy that has fifty pounds on you, you’re going to get hurt. You get a chance to run, you run until you get somewhere safe.”
I broke them up into groups according to skill and size and began working through moves. I was showing this five-foot-nothing woman old enough to be my grandmother how to throw a proper liver shot when Mrs. Campbell called from the top of the steps.
“Will! The missus wants you.”
I left the room in the hands of the women who’d been coming longest and went up to join my employer in the office. In one of the guest chairs I found a middle-aged woman with beefy forearms and a face like an axe blade—narrow, chipped, and just as friendly.
“This is Mrs. Nowak,” my boss said. “Mrs. Nowak, this is my associate, Will Parker.”
“Not missus,” she said in an accent that originated somewhere east of the Rhine. “I am Ms. Nowak. Or Anna. I was missus when I had a husband. Now I have a drunkard who I will not let into my home.”
Fortune Favors the Dead Page 16