A Cast of Killers (22 page)

It depressed him. He wondered what Lilah was
doing today. She'd said something about helping to make
arrangements for a charity auction, which probably involved
hobnobbing with retired gentlemen of far greater means than
himself. That depressed him even more. He returned to reading the
newspaper and discovered, to his irritation, that his favorite
local columnist, Margo McGregor, was on vacation. A vacation in
September… she certainly had her nerve. If she'd worked for him,
there'd have been none of that nonsense. He tapped the ink-smudged
pages in aggravation, but there was no denying it. He missed the
photo they always ran of her, right above her column.

Although well into her thirties, Margo
McGregor looked exactly like the little girl that every boy had
loved in second grade. At least he knew he would have, if only
they'd allowed girls in his prep school class. Margo McGregor was
petite, with a small moon face and shiny black hair combed flat
against her scalp. The thin glossy strands fell straight down to
just above her shoulders where they flipped absurdly up in a single
neat wave. She had a pug nose, round sparkling eyes and a tiny,
pursed mouth that the photographer had captured at the tail end of
a sardonic smile. How such a delicate creature could be one of New
York's most sarcastic investigative reporters was beyond him, but
T.S. loved the unlikely juxtaposition of her physical innocence and
extreme cynicism. The paper regularly advertised her as "the
wittiest and most insightful columnist in New York." Which was a
nice way of saying she was a smartass.

Oh, well, perhaps she would be back in print
next week. He flipped the page and read about a snafu at the main
post office, then stopped. He'd had an idea. Just like that. Emily
must have gotten some sort of Social Security check from the
government. Unless she had arranged for direct deposit, damn the
convenience. But surely she'd have received a letter or two in her
time. Or junk mail. Nothing could stop junk mail. If she'd so much
as sneezed, she was on someone's list.

He slid off his stool, left an exactly
correct tip—which would certainly not surprise the waitress—and
headed for the door. If Auntie Lil could lurk about the streets of
Hell's Kitchen, so could he.

Auntie Lil's idea of rising early was rolling
out of bed just before the soap operas began. She managed it
earlier than usual once again, thanks to an automatic timer on her
coffee machine that sent an irresistible aroma throughout her
apartment at exactly ten o'clock sharp. Unable to speak without a
minimum of caffeine in her system, she downed several cups and
dialed Detective George Santos.

Four officers and one public-relations
liaison later, she was told that Detective Santos was not in yet
and would she care to leave a message?

"Yes," she announced crisply. "Write this
down." Satisfied with the rustling that met her command, she
continued. "Lillian Hubbert called to ask, 'Have you found The
Eagle?' Also, dead woman lived at 326 West Forty-Sixth Street on
the sixth floor. Owner of Delicious Deli can confirm. Please
investigate immediately.'" She demanded that her message be read
back and, except for the part about whether Detective Santos had
found her beagle, the obedient officer had approximated her
intent.

Next she called Herbert Wong and Theodore to
reiterate instructions. To her intense irritation, neither one was
home. They were probably out running wild in the streets, with no
regard for her master plan. Another cup of coffee later and Auntie
Lil was ready to tackle Father Stebbins.

The priest answered the phone himself, as
she'd suspected he would. St. Barnabas could not afford any office
help. Father Stebbins was an all-purpose kind of guy.

"St. Barnabas," he boomed into the receiver.
"May the Lord's blessings follow you all this fine day."

Fresh out of blessings, she cut to the chase.
"Father Stebbins, it's Lillian Hubbert."

"Ah, Lillian…"

"I won't take up much of your time," she
promised. "I know you're scrambling to make up for the loss of my
culinary expertise and that you have more than enough on your plate
to handle. I'm sure things have progressed right out of the frying
pan and into the fire." He was not the only one who could deal in
clichés. At least hers contained apropos allusions. "But I'm not
one to sit idly by while others are suffering. I've decided to
devote my talents to helping with the young runaways in the
neighborhood until we can get this teensy misunderstanding
straightened out. Whom do you suggest I call to volunteer my
services?"

There was brief silence on the other end.
Perhaps he was wondering if she was planning to dish out any more
of her special chili to minors. "You might call a fellow named Bob
Fleming," he finally said. "He runs a retreat for runaways a few
blocks away called Homefront. They're small without a big
fundraising staff and could probably use any help they could get."
He paused, contemplating the tact of this last statement. "Not that
you aren't a prized volunteer," he belatedly added. "Why, we're
hardly getting by without you."

"I can imagine," Auntie Lil replied
confidently. "But I suspect that dear Fran is working night and day
to make sure that everyone gets fed."

"She's certainly been a help," he answered
promptly. "But she does have problems of her own that sometimes
prevent her from devoting her full energies to our own humble
hunger-fighting endeavor."

Indeed? But surely a priest would be the last
person in the world to gossip… still, it was worth a shot.
"Problems?" she inquired lightly. "Could I be of help in any
way?"

"Oh. No, no, no," Father Stebbins sputtered.
"I shouldn't have said as much as I did. She'll be fine. I'm
helping her and she's making great progress. I'm sure she'll be
fine."

So the conceited old cassock wasn't going to
spill the beans. She wouldn't waste any more time with him. "How
can I find this Homefront fellow?" she demanded instead.

"I can call him for you right now, if you
like."

Auntie Lil checked the clock. "Actually, I've
got to run out. I'm meeting a friend at the Delicious Deli. Perhaps
I could stop by later and find out when a good time to call him
might be?"

There was another tactful silence. "I think
it would be easier if you called me back instead of dropping by,"
the priest suggested diplomatically.

"It's a deal. I'll wait until after the
rush."

"And, Lillian," he added in a voice that
oozed concern and understanding. "That scene the other day with the
authorities… I'm not quite sure what your troubles have been—I try
not to judge my fellow man—but God forgives everyone. If you ever
need a sympathetic shoulder, I'm right here."

Sure. But she'd have to pry Fran off that
sympathetic shoulder first. She murmured something neutral and,
after receiving another shower of blessings and pietistic clichés,
rang off as quickly as decency allowed. My goodness, they all acted
like she was some sort of pariah. And Father Stebbins seemed
convinced she was on a sure road to Hell. It was no crime being
smarter than Lieutenant Abromowitz. If it was, the city jails would
be bursting at the bars.

But that was exactly what she was being
ostracized for. And it left her no other choice. She'd just have to
show Abromowitz up, if it was the last thing she ever did.

Waiting for the mailman on the steps of
Emily's building seemed foolishly indiscreet, so T.S. searched the
streets of Hell's Kitchen for men and women in blue. He soon heard
an obnoxious high honking and, following the sound, discovered a
slim black mailman impeccably clad in a summer post office uniform
of navy shorts and a light blue short-sleeved shirt. Obviously
determined to wring the last drop of summer out of the year, he
also wore a regulation pith helmet and stalked confidently through
the crowd, pushing a wheeled basket of mail while honking an
attached bicycle horn incessantly. The horn had inspired a group of
hungover winos leaning against a nearby deserted storefront to honk
back. They sounded like a flock of inebriated Canada geese.

"Pardon me, do you deliver to Forty-Sixth
Street?" T.S. asked him politely, ignoring the cacophony of
birdcalls behind him.

The mailman paused with one hand poised over
the bulb of his bicycle horn. "Why? Who wants to know?"

"I need to find out where someone lives,"
T.S. explained.

The postman eyed him carefully. Apparently,
T.S. didn't look like a serial killer to him, since he then asked,
"What's the person's name?"

"I don't know," T.S. explained patiently. "I
just know her stage name, Emily Toujours."

"Is this a love thing?" the postman asked.
"Cause if it is, take it from me—those actresses aren't worth the
trouble. They're high-maintenance girlfriends. They need a lot of
attention. I'd get yourself a nice librarian, if I was you." He
honked the horn twice for emphasis and smiled.

Resisting the temptation to grab the horn and
beat him over the pith helmet with it, T.S. gritted his teeth and
asked patiently, "Do you deliver to Forty-Sixth Street or not?"

"Nope." The mailman pointed to a large
military green holding box bolted to the sidewalk near the curb.
"That would be Beulah. She'll be checking by in about fifteen
minutes. Ask her. And good luck, brother. May love shine her
blessings upon your brow." He beeped happily and wheeled his cart
away, pedestrians parting before his raucous path like a
multicolored Red Sea.

Beulah didn't show for a good half-hour and
when she did, she wasn't much help. For starters, her feet were
killing her and this occupied the first five minutes of their
conversation. No, she knew of no one named Emily Toujours or
anything else, who lived at 326 West Forty-Sixth Street on the
sixth floor. "I never delivered no mail to that floor, not never,"
she insisted. "It's empty. They's probably warehousing."

She was probably being paid off, T.S. decided
grumpily. He stomped away without a plan and stood at the corner of
Ninth Avenue and Forty-Sixth Street, watching the downtown traffic.
He heard a voice mumbling urgently behind him. "You can do it," it
was saying, "This part is for you. You've got it. You're going to
wow them. You were born to play this part. Just get in there and
grab it."

T.S. stepped back against a nearby
streetlight. The voice belonged to a middle-aged actor, who was
mumbling to himself as he waited for the light to change. He
clutched the Xeroxed pages of a script in one hand and was
gesturing into the air with the other. "It's gonna be you," he told
himself. "You're gonna knock them dead, Edward, my man. Success is
just around the corner."

That did it. T.S. wanted to throw himself in
front of one of the many trucks barreling down the avenue. It was
all just too depressing. This neighborhood was one big stew of
hopeless, naked, walking aspirations.

Except, of course, for the hopeless, naked,
stumbling apparitions. Like the rubbery figure lurching up the
sidewalk toward him.

It was Emily's building mate, the one who had
passed out in the supply closet. She was obviously on her way home
after a long hard night that had stretched into the morning. The
preposterous wig had slipped to one side and her makeup was badly
smeared, but she once again wore the orange mini-dress. It was cut
to the crotch and ripped under one arm. No stockings. Just long
coffee-colored legs that would have better fit the winner of the
fifth race at Belmont. T.S. stepped back and watched her negotiate
the corner near Emily's building. What a way to live, he thought
sadly. Like a vampire, she was fleeing the light of day and seeking
the sanctuary of the dark.

The dark. That's where he had seen her
before. She had burst into Robert's during his dinner with Lilah
and the bartender had bounced her right back out.

Well, he wasn't doing anything else at the
moment. Perhaps it was time to pay Robert's a call.

Thanks to a subway power failure, it was
nearly twelve-thirty by the time Auntie Lil reached the Delicious
Deli. The owner, Billy, was hustling back and forth handling the
small lunch crowd rush of construction workers, taxi drivers and
deliverymen. He recognized Auntie Lil and gave her a wide smile,
gesturing toward one of the tiny tables. She sat and, in between
sandwich orders, he brought her cappuccino and cheesecake without
being asked. The young man certainly had star potential. If justice
prevailed, he'd own his own string of franchises one day.

"Nice to see you again. You just sit here and
relax," he told her. "Stay a little while and you can meet my
daughter."

Auntie Lil nodded back. She was in no mood
for children, she never was, but she'd stay. The things she had to
endure just to weasel a little information out of people…

There was a temporary lull in business and
Billy rested his elbows on the counter. "Hey, you remember that old
lady you were asking me about?" he said to Auntie Lil.

"Yes. Do you have something new on her?" Her
cheesecake was immediately forgotten.

"No. But the cops are in on it now. They got
a tip on where she lived."

"What happened?" Auntie Lil asked
eagerly.

"My buddy, George, went to check it out
personally and it turned out that someone was pulling his leg. Some
young blonde actress was living at the address instead. Never heard
of the old lady. Said she'd been living there for over three years
herself. George was pretty steamed. He doesn't usually follow up on
civilian tips, you know. He made an exception because the guy
taking the message bungled it, said it was my wife who had called.
George was pretty burned about it. Wouldn't even stay for his usual
free coffee. Why? What did you find out about her?"