A Cast of Killers (25 page)

"They used a seventy-nine-year-old woman two
years ago to expose nursing home fraud," he pointed out. "And you
look just like the type who could handle it."

"You're a very suspicious man." Auntie Lil
couldn't decide whether to feel complimented or insulted. "But for
your information, there is no love lost between me and the New York
Police Department."

"Me, either." He was silent. They stared at
one another and just as it looked like it would be a dead end, Bob
Fleming sighed and combed his beard absently with roughened
fingers. "How about if I lay my cards on the table, then you lay
yours beside them?"

She considered his proposition. "All right,"
she agreed. "But you go first."

"Something funny is going on and I think it
has to do with me." His voice was level, but his eyes had narrowed
to hard slits. "People who used to talk to me won't talk to me
anymore. People I don't even know are giving me the cold shoulder.
You saw how that deli owner treated me." He stared at Auntie Lil.
"Some woman has been snooping around and asking the kids questions
about me. She's middle-aged. Small. Dark hair worn to the
shoulders. Who is she? What does she want?"

"I assure you I have no idea," Auntie Lil
replied. "I'm here on an entirely different matter. If I wasn't
already up to my elbows in a different mystery, I'd try to find out
for you."

"Why? Are you a private investigator?" His
eyes narrowed even more. He did not like private investigators any
more than the public kind.

"No. Sometimes I get involved with… puzzles.
But I'm not affiliated with any sort of investigative company or
bureau at all."

Bob Fleming's eyes darted to the street and
he automatically scanned the sidewalks.

"Looks like business is slow," Auntie Lil
offered.

"I wish it was. But it's always like this in
the middle of the day. But they'll be here. Like vampires. When
night falls. That's when they have to face what they've become.
That's when they start remembering that they're only twelve or
thirteen or ten years old. Night is when they have to stop playing
video games and start making money. It's when childhood starts to
look pretty damn good as an alternative to the streets."

"You take it hard," Auntie Lil observed. "You
look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders."

Bob Fleming nodded. "I have a lot of weight
on my shoulders. And then some. So I don't need any more. It's your
turn. Why do you want to find these boys?"

Having no choice, Auntie Lil told Bob Fleming
the story of Emily's death. She omitted the part about breaking
into her apartment and simply said that she'd found the strip of
photos among her personal belongings. "I just want to find the boys
and ask them what they knew about her. Maybe they know her real
name. We have to find out who she is before we can find out why she
was killed."

"And the police don't care." He was not
asking a question. He was stating a fact.

"They don't seem to care very much. I guess
she isn't very important in the grand scheme of things." Her tone
made it clear that Emily was, at least, important to Auntie Lil's
grand scheme of things.

Bob Fleming sighed again. He scrutinized
Auntie Lil, seemed to decide she was harmless, then ran a calloused
finger down the images. "The white kid is Timmy," he told her.
"Only his hair's not black anymore. It's blond. Almost white. He's
been working out of this neighborhood for about a year, I think.
Been on the streets for around two in all, I'd say. He hangs out
with the black kid a lot. That's Little Pete. Timmy's from
somewhere in the Midwest or maybe the Southwest. I think Little
Pete is from around here. I've gotten them to talk to me a couple
of times, but it's no use. They're not ready to give up the
game."

Auntie Lil didn't have to ask what game.
Despite T.S.'s belief that she be kept innocent, Auntie Lil was
well aware of the darker side of life. When you've seen
six-year-old prostitutes in Thailand being pushed upon strangers by
their mothers, the thirteen-year-old ones in New York can seem
pretty tame. "Why is it no use talking to them?" she asked.

"They've got someone taking care of them. A
pimp, maybe. A sugar daddy, your generation may have called them. I
don't know for sure. But he gives them money. New sneakers.
Quarters for the video games. Dollars for the cheap double
features. Feeds them junk food, like they like. Forget about
broccoli or eating your peas. In return, they keep their mouths
shut and do what he wants. They won't give up the game until he
pulls the rug out from under them."

"What if he doesn't?"

Bob Fleming laughed bitterly. "The one thing
I can absolutely guarantee you is that Big Daddy will pull the rug
out from under them. I'm surprised they've lasted this long.
They've hardened and it shows on the outside. Look at them—you can
see the cracks. Any day now they'll start stealing or figuring out
how they can up their score. They'll start doing drugs, if they're
not already. And then they won't be of use to this guy—whoever he
is—or any of his friends."

"You don't know who he is?"

Bob Fleming shook his head. "If I did, he
wouldn't still be around. I have a policy about people like him.
Take them out any way that you can."

"You don't mean that," Auntie Lil protested.
"That would make you as bad as them."

Bob Fleming shrugged. "My conscience is
clear. And it would still be clear if I personally rid this
neighborhood of another scumbag. I have no confidence in the court
system to deal with these slime. And I have no trouble helping to
hasten their demise."

He was a hard man, but Auntie Lil wasn't
going to argue with his position. It probably took a lot more than
desire to keep on trying to clean up the streets. Obsession and a
fair amount of hatred would be essential, too. "Do you know how I
can get in touch with them?" she asked him. "I just want to ask
them a few questions about Emily."

He stared at their photos. "I might be able
to get Little Pete to talk to you. I doubt Timmy will bite, though.
He's cagey and suspicious. Something's going on with him. I don't
know what. He got real friendly and now he's been avoiding me. Like
a lot of other people I know." He slid the photos back across the
desk to Auntie Lil. "I'll see what I can do about Little Pete. How
do I get in touch with you?"

Auntie Lil gave him her name and phone
number, then T.S.'s number as a back-up. "In a pinch, you can
always get word to me through Father Stebbins or some of the soup
kitchen regulars," she added.

He nodded. It was early afternoon and he
already looked exhausted. "If you really want to volunteer," he
said with just the tiniest spark of hope, "I could use some
help."

Auntie Lil nodded her head. She didn't like
to promise what she couldn't deliver, but she knew the man needed
something to go on. "When all this is over," she said, "I'll see
what I can do. I assume you'll take either money or time."

"Lady, I will take whatever I can get."

He accompanied Auntie Lil to the door and
they shook hands farewell. As she was leaving, she noticed a young
girl not more than twelve years old waiting in the shadows of a
nearby doorway. Her blonde hair was greasy and limp, and her tiny
midriff top barely covered a childish chest and an even more
childlike rounded tummy. Her hot pants were a wrinkled and grimy
lime green. She wore high heels and watched Auntie Lil pass by from
under a curtain of dirty bangs. Her eyes were not childish at
all.

Auntie Lil walked slowly to the corner before
turning around for a peek. The young girl was shyly knocking on the
front door of Homefront. Bob Fleming stuck his head out and, for
the first time, Auntie Lil saw him smile. His face was transformed,
exhaustion giving way to hope. He nodded and gestured for her to
come on inside.

Auntie Lil wondered if the young girl would
be one of the few who decided to call home.

Like lemmings, they converged across the
street from Emily's building: Auntie Lil, Herbert Wong and T.S. The
team of volunteer tails was still at St. Barnabas, consuming their
meal of the day. "Any luck?" T.S. asked Auntie Lil.

"I've got names for the two young boys." She
stared at the collection of pocketbooks held by both men. "Not very
chic," she admonished them. "One well-matched accessory is usually
more than enough."

"Very funny," T.S. acknowledged. "Your pal,
Franklin, found these. He thinks one of them might be Emily's."

Auntie Lil's face lit up. "Excellent. I must
remember to thank him."

"You'll have plenty of opportunities," T.S.
assured her. "Haven't you heard? He's joined the team. Adelle has
consented to let him have a bit part."

His little dig at Adelle was lost on Auntie
Lil. She had caught sight of Herbert Wong's new tie pin and was
busy oohing and aahing over the craftsmanship. T.S., who was not in
the mood to hear from what exotic port the pin had hailed,
suggested firmly that they adjourn to a more private spot before
they began rummaging through the pocketbooks. "Otherwise, we'll
look like a gang of thieves," he warned them. "And lord knows
Lieutenant Abromowitz would seize on any chance to give us
trouble."

The mention of the lieutenant reminded Auntie
Lil of her need to talk with Det. George Santos. "Let's go to the
Westsider and examine them," she decided for them all. "Detective
Santos hangs out there and I need to have a word with him."

She led the way confidently westward, as if
she frequently paraded down to the waterfront for a visit to the
friendly neighborhood dive bars. Along the way, she explained the
mystery of Emily's apartment. Neither T.S. or Herbert could figure
it out.

"A young actress said she'd been there for
over three years?" T.S. asked.

"According to my reliable source," Auntie Lil
confirmed.

T.S. sighed. Auntie Lil
never gave away a name when the chance to show off a "reliable
source" arose. She had seen
All the
President's Men
once too often. But he had
no doubt that her source probably was reliable. Which wasn't the
same as being infallible. "Maybe they made a mistake," he warned
her. "The police might have gone to the wrong
apartment."

"That's what I want to check out." She was
scanning the signs of the decrepit handful of bars that dotted the
Westside Highway. Most were carved out of abandoned warehouses or
deserted terminals. "What a colorful neighborhood!" she cried out
gaily, but her attempt fell flat. Both T.S. and Herbert were
distinctly uneasy. It was as if Hell's Kitchen had abruptly given
up its fight for respectability. Only danger, dirt and drunken
dreams could be found along this particular stretch of lonely
sidewalk.

"Why would someone choose to imbibe at such a
place?" Herbert Wong wondered out loud. They had found the
Westsider. It was a corner bar with windows thickly coated over
with black paint. The sign, faded and dangling from a single chain,
slapped against the side of the building with a dull thud every
time a truck roared past— which was frequently, since the only
barrier between the bar and the Westside Highway was a narrow
concrete sidewalk.

Inside the Westsider was even less uplifting.
For starters, it smelled sour, and old, like the bottom of a long
forgotten keg of beer. The floor was cracked linoleum and coated
with a sticky scum that made little sucking noises every time they
lifted their feet. A row of torn fake-leather booths lined one wall
and the tables between the ripped, overstuffed seats were marred by
years of scratched-in initials and vaguely disreputable stains that
were clearly visible even given the almost nonexistent lighting.
The bar was nearly as dark as a tomb and only slightly more lively.
A television at one end blared championship wrestling. The only
other patron was a toothless old man perched at one end of a long
bar. He was sucking down a juice glass full of watery draft beer as
he watched the televised action. Occasionally, he'd grunt with
satisfaction or hoot in glee at a particularly nasty body slam.

The bartender was a barrel-shaped woman clad
in a too-tight yellow knit shirt and bright blue polyester pants.
She wore black glasses of a cat-eye style popular thirty years
before. Her obviously dyed blonde hair swirled above her head like
the top of a frozen custard ice cream cone. Some sailor had left
her there in 1944, T.S. decided, and never looked back.

Engrossed in the wrestling, the bartender
hardly looked up when they entered. Apparently, a little old lady
dressed in expensive clothes and accompanied by an impeccably clad
Asian gentleman and middle-aged executive type was not an unusual
sight around the Westsider. Nor did the bartender seem interested
that, between them, they were hauling seven pocketbooks.

"Hear no evil, see no evil," Herbert
remarked.

They chose the booth closest to the door
where the air was a little bit fresher. T.S. piled the pocketbooks
into a heap in the middle of the battle-worn table.

"Drinks?" Auntie Lil suggested brightly.

"Not without an inoculation first," T.S.
declared.

"Where do we begin?" Herbert picked up a
small green suede bag. "Examine the contents and guess which one is
hers?"

"No. We can do better than that," Auntie Lil
decided. "The other actresses insist that Emily always carried a
matching handbag. She was wearing a light blue dress with black
trim that day."

"Are you sure?" T.S. asked. Last time he had
seen Emily, she was wearing a rubber sheet and nothing more.
Details on her dress had flown right out the window after that.

"It was a Walter Williams original," Auntie
Lil announced confidently. "First appearing in his Fall '59 line.
Available at Saks and Bergdorf Goodman's in New York. And at
selected finer establishments across the country. Retailing at
$130, which was not peanuts back then."