A Cast of Killers (23 page)

Auntie Lil stared bleakly at her half-eaten
cheesecake. "Nothing," she admitted glumly and that was exactly as
much as she was going to admit. She didn't believe it. They must
have gone to the wrong address. She would call Det. George Santos
back. "You know the detective on the case?" she asked Billy.

"Sure, I know everyone. Can you believe
someone poisoned that old lady? Who'd do a thing like that?"

"Is this George Santos a good detective?" she
asked.

"Well… he's a good guy." That was as far as
Billy would go.

"Does he live in the neighborhood?"

"Sort of. He spends all of his time at the
precinct or down at the Westsider."

"Is that a hotel?" Auntie Lil wanted to know.
Perhaps she could talk to him there.

Billy laughed. It was not a happy sound.
"Some people seem to think it is," he finally said. "Including
George. But it's really just a crummy dive bar across from the
Forty-Fifth Street Pier."

Robert's had a small lunch crowd and a
slightly larger group of regular daytime drinkers parked at the
bar. T.S. didn't recognize the bartender. He checked out the two
waiters carefully. One looked familiar—a finely sculptured,
well-built young man with a broad, handsome face and short brown
hair cut closely against his head. He was leaning against one end
of the bar, morosely staring out the picture window in lieu of
staring at his mostly empty tables. He hardly moved when T.S.
tapped him on the shoulder. But then, he was probably used to
getting tapped on the shoulder by guys at bars. T.S. would set him
straight. Quickly.

"Excuse me, I was in here the other night
with a lady friend of mine," T.S. began.

"Congratulations," the waiter interrupted,
still glumly staring out the window.

"You were here, too," T.S. continued.

The waiter shifted his stare to T.S. "What
night?"

"Tuesday. A woman came in for a moment and
the bartender bounced her right back out," T.S. explained
patiently. "She was very tall. Dark skinned. With high-piled hair
and lots of makeup. I'm interested in finding out who she was."

The waiter didn't answer and T.S. was forced
to launch into a fashion forecast. "She was wearing spike heels and
a silver sequined tube dress with long gloves..." His voice trailed
off as embarrassment overtook him at last.

"What color?" the waiter inquired.

"What color what?"

"What color were the gloves?" He stared at
T.S., waiting for an answer.

"White. What difference does it…" T.S.
stopped. He was almost certain he was being teased. But in New York
City, you never knew for sure. "Do you know who I'm talking about
or not?" he demanded with reclaimed dignity.

"Sure, I know who you're talking about. But
I'd get a different hobby if I was you."

"I just need her name. Forget the cute
stuff." That sounded good. Tough. Very James Cagneyish.

The waiter looked T.S. over with amusement
and held out a hand. T.S. sighed and handed him a five-dollar bill.
Considering the name could be worthless to their investigation, he
thought he was being generous.

"The name's Leteisha Swann," the waiter told
him, smiling thinly as if he were enjoying a private joke.
"Leteisha Swann is not a welcome person on these premises. She's a
little too entrepreneurial for our taste. She was hiding in the
bathroom one night. Damn near gave some old guy a heart attack when
she jumped out of the shadows and offered to unzip his pants for
him." The waiter winked at T.S. "For another ten, I'll get you her
phone number."

"No thanks," T.S. replied stiffly. "I can
unzip my own pants." Besides, he already knew where she lived. And
that her phone number rang on a corner somewhere.

Patience exhausted, he left the sarcastic
waiter behind with an overly polite bow.

Leteisha Swann… he'd lay ten to one odds that
the name wasn't real. And the odds on her having known Emily were
even less. He sighed and headed for St. Barnabas. No sense in
letting Auntie Lil have all the fun.

The door chimes tinkled and a miniature lady
stepped into the Delicious Deli. There was no other way to describe
her as she was far too self-possessed to be called a child. The
tiny girl wore a blue and green plaid Catholic-school jumper over a
snowy white blouse with an old-fashioned Peter Pan collar. Her
straight black hair was cut in a sleek cap around her face and her
fine features stood out against a porcelain complexion. Irish
beauty at its budding best. The girl was probably no more than six
or seven years old, but she had the bearing of a fifty-year-old
matriarch.

"Hi, Daddy," she called out to Billy,
flipping her hair back with a practiced toss of her head. "I'll
take a cappuccino, please."

"Oh, no you won't, Miss Megan Magee. Sit at
that table there and I'll bring you a milk." Billy pointed out
Auntie Lil and Megan dutifully sat next to her with a slight pout.
But the grudge was soon forgotten, thanks to the girl's lively
curiosity.

"Who are you?" she asked Auntie Lil, folding
her hands primly in front of her and waiting expectantly for the
answer. Auntie Lil had the uncomfortable feeling that she was at a
tea party.

"I'm Auntie Lil. I'm a friend of your
father's."

"You're not my aunt," Megan pointed out. "My
aunt is young and beautiful and goes dancing every night."

"I go dancing every night, too," Auntie Lil
replied grimly. She was suddenly reminded why she didn't like
children.

"Magee, don't talk this nice lady's ear off."
Billy set a glass of milk down in front of his daughter and winked
at Auntie Lil. "Megan takes after her mother. Where is she,
anyway?"

"Two doors down getting carrots. Yuck." Megan
wrinkled her nose.

Well, Auntie Lil thought, thank goodness she
still harbored some childish traits.

"What can I do for you today?" Billy asked
Auntie Lil as he pulled out the chair next to his daughter and sat,
wiping his hands on his deli apron. "I've got a couple of minutes
before the next rush."

"I wondered if you knew these two young men."
Auntie Lil produced the strip of dime store photos of the two young
boys from her pocketbook, all the while keeping a close eye on her
plate. Megan was staring at her cheesecake with undisguised
interest and Auntie Lil wasn't about to give up the last bite
without a fight.

Billy surveyed their faces. "Yeah. I've seen
them. They're not allowed in here. They steal. Why are you looking
for them?"

She could not think of a single plausible
reply, but Megan made one unnecessary. "That's the guy that threw
up," she announced proudly. She placed a small finger on the face
of the white boy. "Remember, Daddy? You said it looked like he'd
been eating pepperoni pizza."

"Megan!" Billy groaned and smiled an apology
at Auntie Lil. "Both of these guys hang out around the neighborhood
a lot. I think they work out of that run-down sleaze palace at
Eighth and Forty-Fourth. They've been around here about a year or
so. I give them another six months."

Auntie Lil was going to ask why, but the
presence of Megan made her hesitate. Besides, she had a sad hunch
that she already knew.

Billy was staring at her quietly. "Listen,
I'm not quite sure why you're going around and asking a lot of
questions," he said carefully. "But you seem like a nice enough
lady and I just want to tell you that whatever it is you're doing,
I'd stop if I were you."

When Auntie Lil said nothing, he continued.
"I was born in this neighborhood. Practically on this block. I grew
up here. I've seen it change again and again. I watched the Irish
take over from the Puerto Ricans, who took over from the blacks,
who got it from the Irish in the first place and around and around
and around. Unless you know someone and you've got protection, this
is a dangerous place to be messing with. The people you see on the
street may seem nice enough, but it's the people you don't see that
you have to worry about. I know. I know them. They're not fooling
around."

"Has anyone been in here asking about me?"
Auntie Lil asked quietly. She did not resent the warning, she just
wished she knew whether it was sincere or an attempt to dissuade
her from her task.

"No. Not yet. And like I say, I don't know
what you're up to and I don't think I want to know what you're up
to. Just be careful. Maybe you should find yourself a new way to
pass the time." He held up both palms in apology. "Not that it's
any of my business."

The door chimes tinkled again and a chubby
man entered the deli. He was burly and of just below average
height, with a scraggly beard that was beginning to go gray. His
long, flowing hair tumbled to his shoulders in brown waves. He was
dressed in a flannel shirt and baggy blue jeans. Altogether, he
looked like he belonged on the outskirts of Anchorage, Alaska,
rather than in the heart of New York City.

The man quickly scanned the store and his
gaze settled on Auntie Lil. "Lillian Hubbert?" he asked
politely.

"Yes, that's me. Who are you?"

"I'm Bob Fleming. From Homefront." He glanced
at Billy, then looked away with a quick nod.

The deli owner acted swiftly. He took his
daughter by the hand and pulled her away from the table toward the
door.

"Where are we going?" Megan asked
indignantly. "You didn't give me my cake."

"I'm going to watch you walk down the block
to meet your mother," Billy answered back grimly. "Now. And don't
talk back to me, either."

The atmosphere in the deli instantly chilled.
Bob Fleming sat quietly at Auntie Lil's table. They both stared at
Billy's broad back as the deli owner stood in the doorway, watching
his daughter's progress down the block to where her mother was
shopping.

"Careful father," Bob Fleming observed.

"Around here, I guess you have to be."

The man nodded in agreement and stared
directly at Auntie Lil. "I've just been by St. Barnabas, dropping
off some kids. Father Stebbins said you wanted to help me out, so I
thought I'd try and catch you here. We could use some help. But you
look kind of old."

"You're certainly direct," Auntie Lil
admitted. "But don't worry about me. I'm strong and healthy."

The man nodded. "Sometimes an old lady is
good." His voice trailed off. It was plain that Bob Fleming was not
a happy man. His shoulders slumped from worry and fatigue. He had
not chosen to take an easy path. Runaways in midtown Manhattan
could be untrusting, unforgiving and unredeemable. "Old ladies
don't usually remind the kids of anyone," he continued. "Except for
maybe a long-forgotten grandmother. What can you do?"

"Anything you want me to do." Auntie Lil did
not like lying to this man. He worked too hard and spoke too plain
to deserve anything but the truth. What she really wanted was to
show him the photos of the two young boys. But after Billy's
warning, she was reluctant to bring them up again in front of the
deli owner. "Can we go somewhere else and talk?" she asked Bob
Fleming.

"Sure. We'll go to my office. I don't think
that guy likes me very much, anyway." He cocked his head Billy's
way and Auntie Lil found it hard to disagree. Billy was leaning
against the counter shooting barely disguised glares Bob Fleming's
way. He would not meet Auntie Lil's eyes and she finally marched to
the counter, money in hand.

"How much?" Auntie Lil inquired politely. She
would be back to find out what the trouble was between the two
men.

"Three and a quarter," Billy mumbled, taking
her money without his usual cheerfulness.

As she left the deli with Bob Fleming, Auntie
Lil could feel the owner's gaze following them out the door. And no
wonder—Billy stared after them until they were well out of
sight.

His thoughts on Leteisha
Swann, T
.S.
was
not paying full attention to the midtown traffic swirling around
him. First, he was nearly plowed down by a messenger on a bike—who
slowed down just enough to flip an obscene gesture T.S.'s way—and
then he took a wrong turn up Ninth Avenue and had to backtrack to
St. Barnabas. He was still lost in thought as he ambled up the
mottled sidewalk outside the neighborhood's huge new skyscraper.
Suddenly, a strong arm gripped his elbow and a body moved in close
behind him. T.S. did what any sensible New Yorker would do. He
yelled, jumped two feet in the air and clutched the pocket that
held his wallet.

"So very sorry, Mr. Hubbert," a distressed
voice cried out. "I did not mean to startle you."

"Herbert!" T.S. rubbed his elbow and glared
at Herbert Wong. "Why in the world are you skulking around like
that?"

"I was not skulking," the retired messenger
complained, spreading his arms wide. "I make very much noise.
Please accept my deepest apologies." He bowed deeply.

T.S. did not believe him for a minute. Ever
since he had, however briefly, questioned Herbert's prowess at
martial arts, the elderly Asian man had embarked on a subtle quest
to prove T.S. wrong. He was always sneaking up behind him or
showing off his strength.

"I am forgiven?" Herbert asked, his face an
impassive, dignified mask.

"Of course you're forgiven. I'm just
preoccupied or I would have spotted you coming from a mile away."
Herbert allowed T.S. this ego-placating fabrication and they walked
toward St. Barnabas together, falling into a contemplative
silence.

That was another thing T.S. really liked
about Herbert Wong. Unlike certain other people, Herbert was
perfectly content with quiet. T.S. had discovered this rare trait
in Herbert years before, when he had interviewed him for a job at
Sterling & Sterling. Herbert had entered the personnel
manager's enormous office without a hint of nervousness, sitting
down across the desk from T.S. in dignified silence. Nodding, he
had waited patiently while T.S. scoured his application with
customary suspicion. Unlike most other applicants, he had not
blurted out incriminating details during this silence, nor revealed
any desperation for a job. At the same time, he had not been
secretive and had calmly divulged under questioning that his wife
had recently died after a long illness which had stripped him of
all his savings. He had lost his small dry-cleaning store as a
result. He had no children and the rest of his family lived in
Singapore, where he had been raised until he had emigrated to the
U.S. as a young man. His only hobbies, it seemed, were traveling
and the study of new subjects. He did not enjoy television.