Book One of the Travelers (8 page)

T
he next morning Gunny headed for the subway stop. He had just left the Wrights' apartment after Jeffrey's funeral. Now he was going to check in on Jed.

There wasn't any action at Ambrose Jackson's site this time. But Ambrose was there, having what looked like a heated discussion with a construction worker—probably the site foreman. As Gunny drew closer, the argument grew louder.

“Not until my men get paid,” the foreman was saying. He crossed his burly arms over his barrel chest.

“Don't fret, my man,” Ambrose said with a broad smile. “You'll get your money. You know I'm good for it.”

“I know food doesn't appear on my table unless I pay cash for it,” the foreman said. “The grocer doesn't accept promises. And neither do I.”

So Ambrose is having money problems
, Gunny noted.

Ambrose's eyes narrowed and a steely glint appeared in them. He was still smiling, but the hard set of his jaw
made it clear to Gunny that Ambrose was fighting back a boiling anger.

“I'll have all the money you need very soon,” Ambrose assured the construction worker, his voice now clipped, rather than the smooth, velvety tones he usually used. “I've got a sure thing about to come in. It's going to hit, I know it.”

The foreman looked skeptical. “The only sure thing I know is cash in my hand. So when you've got that, that's when we'll start working again.” He turned and walked away.

Ambrose glared after him. Gunny suspected Ambrose was a man used to getting his way.

Something about the conversation set Gunny thinking. “Sure thing,” “going to hit”—Gunny had heard gamblers use those phrases. Gunny had learned from hard experience that gambling and gunplay too often went hand in hand. If Ambrose sent Junior to pick up money from gamblers, that could explain why the car Junior was driving had been shot up.

“You there,” Gunny called after Ambrose.

Ambrose turned to face Gunny. A wary smile slowly appeared. “You're Jumpin' Jed's pal,” he said with a slow nod.

“I'm also a friend of the Wright family,” Gunny said. “So I don't like it if any of them are put into a dangerous situation.”

Ambrose's smile broadened. “Of course not. I feel the same way.”

“Those envelopes you sent Junior to collect. Were they to pay off gambling debts?” Gunny asked.

“Is this guy bothering you, Mr. Jackson?”

Gunny startled. He hadn't heard the man who had just materialized behind him. The man strolled past Gunny and stood next to Ambrose.

“All good here,” Ambrose said. “Though this gentleman should keep his nose out of other people's business.”

Another man stepped up beside Ambrose. Where did they come from? Gunny realized they must have been hovering in the background and only drew attention to themselves when they thought Ambrose was in danger. Bodyguards—invisible until called into action. The bulges under their jackets were quite visible to Gunny now, though.

“I sincerely hope Junior and his family are faring well during this difficult time.” Ambrose gave Gunny what looked like a sincere smile. Well, his lips were smiling but his eyes had a hard look to them. Then he gave his men a signal, and they all strolled away.

Gunny watched them as they turned the corner. He had a feeling if he was going to try to keep Junior safe, getting him away from Ambrose might be a good place to start.

 

Gunny perched on the edge of the rickety cot in Jed Sweeney's jail cell.

“The whole neighborhood turned out for the funeral this morning,” he told Jed. “I think that made Mrs. Wright proud.”

“How are Delia and Junior holding up?”

“Hard to say. They were very dignified at the funeral. Even Junior kept himself in check.”

“Good.”

“How does Ambrose Jackson figure with the Wrights?” Gunny asked. “Were he and Jeffrey close?”

“What does your gut tell you?” Jed asked.

“My gut usually just tells me it's time for lunch,” Gunny joked.

“You should pay attention to your instincts,” Jed said. “You can trust them. Listen to that inner voice and tell me what
you
think of Ambrose.”

Jed had always been a bit eccentric but had never steered him wrong, so Gunny decided to try it. He shut his eyes and pictured Ambrose. He opened his eyes again. “Ambrose is bad news.” He snorted a laugh. “But I don't think that's a particularly surprising conclusion to come to.”

“Do you think he could be harmful to the Wrights?” Jed pressed.

“I don't think he has that boy's best interests in mind. But I don't know what kind of danger he could pose.”

Jed nodded. “I've felt the same way about Ambrose since he started spending so much time in the neighborhood. Nothing I could put my finger on. There's just something…”

“Oily? Snakelike?”

Jed smiled. “Exactly.”

“Is there a link between Marvin Halliday, Jeffrey Wright, and Ambrose Jackson?” Gunny asked.

“I did see the three of them together at times,” Jed said. “And I know Jeffrey didn't want Junior doing errands for Ambrose.”

Gunny shrugged. “That could be because the errands took Junior to bad neighborhoods or encouraged him to break laws.”

“Don't let on to Mrs. Wright,” Jed said, “but I often loaned Jeffrey money, and so did other members of the band. Money we never saw again. He always promised he'd have it any day now but…”

Gunny's eyebrows raised. “Do you know what Jeffrey needed the money for?”

Jed shook his head. “I always assumed it was for the kids. I never had any of my own, but I do know raising a family is expensive.”

“Could he have been gambling?” Gunny asked.

Jed shrugged. “Could be. Do you think that's why Marvin's club was smashed up, and Jeffrey killed? Over gambling debts?”

“I'm beginning to think that's exactly why—and I think Ambrose had something to do with it.”

Jed's dark eyes widened. “Then it's even more important you keep an eye on Junior. If he's spending time with Ambrose…”

“I know,” Gunny said. “Junior could be heading for deep trouble.”

 

The next evening the party to raise bail money for Jed was in full swing at the Wrights' apartment when Gunny arrived. He was surprised when Mrs. Wright suggested she host it, until she explained that she just wanted to keep busy. “Besides,” she added, “I want everyone to know I don't hold Jed responsible. Even Junior sees that now.”

Gunny paid his dollar at the door and scanned the
room. Jed would be proud to see how many people not only believed he was innocent but were willing to share their hard-earned dollars to try to help him. A buffet table was filled with potluck dishes and music blared from the radio. Several couples were dancing to the new hot swing.

Delia gave Gunny a shy wave. “Where's your brother?” he asked when he joined her.

Delia frowned. “He won't come out of his room,” she said.

“I'll go have a chat with him,” Gunny said.

He lightly rapped on the door, but didn't wait for a response; he just turned the knob. He had a feeling Junior wouldn't have let him in if given an option.

The room was dark, but Gunny could make out Junior lying on his bed. The boy was on his stomach, gazing through the window.

“Leave me alone,” Junior said.

“Just came in to see how you are.”

“Fine.”

“Now, son, don't go telling lies. I wouldn't be fine if I had just lost my father.”

“What do you want me to do?” Junior demanded, not turning his head. “Bust out crying?”

Gunny grimaced. He was saying all the wrong things. Why did Jed keep insisting that he do this?

He heard a commotion of some sort on the other side of the door, but concentrated on Junior. “Well, if you feel like crying—”

“I don't!” Junior flipped over onto his back. “I feel like being left alone.”

“Your Mama says—”

Three quick raps on the door interrupted Gunny. Three raps in slower succession, then three fast ones again got Junior to swing his feet to the floor. He stared at the door.

“Junior?” Gunny asked.

“Something's wrong,” Junior said. “That's our code. Delia and me.”

The raps came again, with more urgency this time.

“SOS,” Gunny said, recognizing the sequence from his army training.

Junior crossed the room in three long steps and opened the door.

Delia grabbed his hand. “Mama's upset. Come quick.”

Gunny followed the children into the main room. Now he understood the commotion. Chubby Malloy had arrived.

“You have a lot of nerve showing up here!” a voice in the crowd shouted.

“We're trying to raise money for a man who is in jail instead of you!” someone else shouted.

Chubby looked grim, but the thugs with him looked a lot grimmer.

Mrs. Wright glared at the men. “I've already asked you to leave. And I don't want to ask you again.”

Junior pushed his way quickly through the group. “You heard my mother. You get out of here. Now!”

To Gunny's complete shock, Junior spit in the huge man's face.

Instantly the thugs had guns trained on Junior.

Without thinking for even a split second, Gunny stepped in between Junior and the weapons. Just in time to hear the click of the triggers being cocked.

T
he boy just lost his father,” Gunny said softly, forcing himself to sound calm, even though he could feel his heart thudding against his ribs.

How did he keep winding up with guns pointing straight at him?

The room was silent as Gunny and Chubby stared at each other.

“Grief does crazy things to people,” Gunny said.

Now Chubby's eyes narrowed and Gunny could tell the club owner was weighing his options. Then he held up one hand to signal his men not to move and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket with the other. Slowly he wiped his face.

“He gets a pass,” Chubby said, his voice low and serious. “Once.”

“Understood,” Gunny said.

The gangsters put away their guns, and Gunny's shoulders dropped back down to where they belonged, instead of hunched up by his ears.

Chubby threw up his thick arms in exasperation. “What I don't understand,” he demanded loudly, “is why everyone seems to think I had anything to do with this mess.” He looked around the room. Gunny noted that no one would meet Chubby's gaze.

“I don't have to worry about Marvin Halliday and his sorry club. No one can compete with my Paradise,” Chubby huffed. “Why should I care if some drum player wants to set out on his own?” He seemed genuinely perplexed. Hurt, even.

There were shuffling feet, averted eyes, and a few murmurs around the room, but no one spoke.

Chubby's hurt look was replaced by flashing anger. “I don't have to take this.” He yanked a fistful of dollar bills out of the “bail bowl.” “And I'm not giving a dime to Jed's defense. In fact,” Chubby continued, lumbering back and forth in front of the door, “because of this insult, I'm going to
fire
Jumpin' Jed's JiveMasters!”

Someone in the room gasped, but no one dared to say anything. Gunny knew everyone was afraid of making the situation worse.

“Yeah, yeah.” Chubby nodded, as if he were warming to the notion. “I think I'll go ahead with that championship boxing idea I had.” He rubbed his palms together and tipped his head toward his goons. “Don't need a band for that, do you?”

“No, boss,” a thug said. “No band. Just a loud bell!”

Chubby let out a hooting laugh and clapped a beefy hand on the goon's broad shoulder. “You got that right!”

Chubby snapped his fingers, and he and his two bodyguards spun on their heels in unison, and the three men walked out. The room instantly felt bigger.

The moment they left, the room burst into loud chatter. Gunny stared at the door that had just shut behind Chubby. Chubby's genuine bewilderment and hurt had made a real impact. Gunny felt in his gut that Chubby wasn't behind the hit. But if everyone, including the police, thought the culprit was either Chubby or Jumpin' Jed, how would Gunny convince anyone to investigate somebody else?

By getting the evidence himself.

 

One day after the bail party, Gunny walked down the basement corridor of the Manhattan Tower Hotel toward his room. After seeing Jed in jail, Gunny had so much on his mind he felt as if his head would explode. He passed the hotel laundry, the vault, and the baggage room, and arrived at the door to his apartment. He was looking forward to stretching out on his bed, if only for a catnap.

He stopped.

The door was slightly ajar. He rarely locked his door, but he certainly hadn't left it open, that much he knew.

He held his breath and listened at the door.

He heard a tiny scraping sound, as if someone had pushed a chair away from a table.

No doubt about it. Someone was inside.

T
reading as softly as he could, and keeping his eyes on the door, Gunny backed away. He kept his eyes on the door just in case the intruder stepped out.

He ran his hand along the wall so that he'd know when he'd arrived at the laundry room. He needed a weapon, and the closest he'd find to one would be in here.

The steamy air was filled with the scent of bleach and crisp smell of linen in the presses. He moved quickly—he didn't want the intruder to slip away before he could discover who was there, and why.

His eyes landed on the long dowels used to open the windows to allow steam to escape. At the basement level the windows were small and hard to reach; they could only be opened from the very top. He grabbed a dowel and tiptoed quickly back to his apartment. The door was still ajar.

Holding the dowel in front of him as if it were a javelin, he charged his apartment. The door flew open
and slammed hard against the wall. There was a high-pitched, terrified shriek and then a crash. A chair toppled over as a small figure ducked under the table.

Gunny quickly switched his grip so he could swing the pole at the intruder's head. His heart thudded as adrenaline pumped through him.

“It's me! Don't hurt me!”

Gunny blinked. Still gripping the dowel, he bent down and peered under the table.

Two huge brown eyes in a round, dark face peered back.

“Delia, what are you doing here?” Gunny demanded. He couldn't believe he'd been frightened by an eleven-year-old girl. He crossed to the window and balanced the dowel in the corner. “Does your mother know where you are?” he asked.

Delia looked away, which answered Gunny's question.

“Delia,” Gunny said with a scolding tone. Before he could say anything further, the phone jangled. He picked it up. “Yes?”

“Gunny!”

Mrs. Wright's distraught voice came though loud and clear over the phone.

“Don't worry, Martha,” Gunny said, knowing exactly why she sounded so upset. “Delia is here with me.”

“I was so worried,” Mrs. Wright said. “She simply disappeared. With Junior I wouldn't have been so surprised, but Delia has never given me any cause for worry.”

Gunny kept his eye on the girl. She was walking around his room, gazing at the picture on his wall.

“Well, with all that's been happening,” Gunny said softly, not wanting Delia to overhear them discussing her, “the girl probably just needed to get away for a bit.”

“I suppose. She's going to get quite the talking-to though. Going all the way to your place on her own. And scaring me half to death.”

Delia had also scared
Gunny
half to death, but he wasn't going to admit that!

“I'll bring her home myself,” Gunny promised Mrs. Wright, then hung up.

Delia was studying him, an impatient look on her face.

“Something bothering you, little missy?” Gunny asked.

“I'm here because I think I know where Marvin Halliday might be,” she said. “Don't you need him as a witness—to help Jumpin' Jed?”

Gunny gaped at Delia. This little girl could accomplish what the police and the adults in her neighborhood couldn't? Discover the whereabouts of the prime witness?

“You're going to catch flies with your mouth hanging open like that,” Delia snapped. “Don't act so surprised. I know things.”

“I guess you do at that,” Gunny said. “Why do you think you can help us find Mr. Halliday?”

Delia shrugged. “Everyone thinks I'm just a little kid. And a Goody Two-shoes. They hardly notice me. So they talk in front of me. Daddy often took me with him to the club or on errands when Mama was working. I heard things.”

Now Gunny was curious. What did the child think she knew? “Go on. Where do you think Marvin Halliday is?”

Delia smiled. She obviously enjoyed having someone take her seriously.

“Daddy and Mr. Halliday both liked the ponies,” Delia said. “I thought if Mr. Halliday was upset about his club being ruined, maybe he'd go to where the ponies are. I went to the stables near Central Park, but no one I asked knew him. I thought maybe you would know some other place where you can be with ponies.”

Interesting. Ambrose talked about having a “sure thing” coming in, and now it seemed that both Marvin and Jeffrey “liked the ponies.” This was adding up to a shared taste for gambling. And if both Marvin and Jeffrey owed money because of gambling—quite possibly to Ambrose—that could explain the motive right there. Ambrose was very quick to point the finger at Chubby.

“You are an enterprising young lady,” Gunny said.

Delia's face lit up at the compliment.

“Let me ask you something,” Gunny continued, amazed that he was using an eleven-year-old girl as a sounding board. “The police believe Jed might be guilty because your father was quitting the band. What do
you
think?”

“Daddy wasn't going to do that,” Delia said firmly. “I asked him and he said he liked it over at Chubby Malloy's. I guess he didn't get a chance to tell Mama—” Her voice broke off and Gunny was afraid she might cry. “So
I
told her. And Junior. Now even Junior knows it wasn't Jed or Chubby.”

“Junior believed you?” Gunny asked.

Delia shrugged. “Junior is still real mad. He just doesn't know who to be mad at. So I think that makes him even madder.”

She gazed down at the floor. She swallowed hard and then her eyes widened. “Do you think Mr. Halliday was so mad about Daddy staying with Jed at Chubby's that
he
killed Daddy?”

Smart kid,
Gunny thought.
She's found an angle that hadn't occurred to any of us.
“I don't think so. That wouldn't explain why Mr. Halliday's club got all smashed up.”

Delia looked relieved. “That's good. Daddy liked Mr. Halliday. It would be terrible if his friend was the one who shot him.”

“What about Ambrose Jackson?” Gunny asked. “Were he and your father friends?”

Delia pursed her lips in thought. She shook her head. “They acted like it, but I could tell Daddy really didn't like Mr. Jackson. He was nervous around him.” She scowled. “I don't like him either. He talks sweet, but it's all fake.”

“Thank you, Delia. You have been very helpful.” Kids see things adults don't, Gunny realized. Most of the neighborhood seemed to consider Ambrose a great guy. The more he thought about it, the more he believed Ambrose was the guilty party.

Now he just had to prove it.

 

“Running all over town when I should be trying to raise money for Jed,” Gunny muttered. “Or finding evidence to nail Ambrose.” He pulled the collar of his coat higher. The rain was not improving his mood.

He had just come back from seeing Jed in jail. Both agreed that the police wouldn't simply accept Delia's information—that her father had no intention of leaving Jed's band—to clear Jed, even though it proved he had no motive. So Gunny was even more determined to find the proof linking Ambrose to the murder. He had a feeling the link would involve gambling.

What surprised Gunny was that Jed still seemed more concerned about Gunny watching over Junior than he was in his own case. So here he was, keeping tabs on the boy.

The soaking rain didn't wash away the broken bottles or garbage littering the uneven streets. No wonder Jeffrey and Junior argued—if Gunny were Junior's father, he wouldn't want Junior spending his time down here either.

Odd. In the dark neighborhood two windows glowed just below ground level. Faint sounds of shouting and laughter emanated from them. Something was going on in that warehouse basement.

Gunny carefully made his way down the slick metal steps and peered in the grimy windows. “My, my, my,” he breathed.

He wasn't sure what he had expected to see, but it wasn't a boxing ring and a professional-looking match under way!

He snapped his fingers. Boxing. Junior wanted to learn to be a boxer and his father objected.

“Might as well dry off,” Gunny told himself.

The smell of sweat, blood, and cigar smoke assaulted Gunny as soon as he opened the door. He shook the rain off as he stepped inside.

“Don't let the weather in!” a gruff man in shirtsleeves and a colorful vest snarled.

Gunny pulled the door shut behind him and turned to face the ring. Shouts and catcalls bounced off the low ceilings, and the room was dark. All the lights seemed to be aimed at the ring.

He paid his admission and moved away from the door. A fight was already in progress. A small wiry fighter, his dark skin coated with sweat, was ducking and swaying. A thicker, more powerful man was jabbing. The smaller man dodged and feinted.

“Look at that speed,” the man in the vest said with admiration. “He's like a ballet dancer.”

Gunny nodded. The smaller fighter had a lithe, catlike way of moving that made the bigger man look stodgy.

“But does he have power?” Gunny asked. “Heart?”

The man in the vest nodded. “This is his third fight tonight. I'm betting he'll win this one too.”

“He's doesn't even look tired!” Gunny said, amazed.

The man in the vest shoved a fat, stinky cigar into his mouth. “He's young.”

Gunny's eyes adjusted to the low light, and he recognized a few faces. Interesting. Both Chubby Malloy and Ambrose Jackson were focused intently on the ring.

The fighters were circling now, and Gunny's mouth dropped open. The smaller fighter was Junior!

Now he could make out what the crowd down near the ring was shouting: “Kid Wright! Kid Wright!”

If Junior has a nickname, he must come here a lot
,
Gunny realized. No one seemed to be rooting for the bigger guy. Junior was a definite favorite.

Gunny's eyes went back to the ring.
No wonder
, he thought. The kid was good! In a flurry of moves, an uppercut, a twist, and a body blow, the larger fighter was suddenly down on the mat. A roar went up, the referee made the count, the bell rang and Junior had won again.

“Kid Wright doesn't seem able to lose,” the man in the vest said, smiling. “The payouts are smaller because he's such a sure thing. It's nice to know there are things in life a man can count on.”

Three men helped drag the loser out of the ring, while Junior beamed and waved his gloved hands. Then he ducked under the ropes and out of the ring. He stood nearby, gulping down water.

“Up next!” an announcer declared, “Kid Wright and Action Anderson.”

Gunny sensed an immediate change in the crowd. He could feel the tension rise and there were whispers all around. Gunny wondered who this Action Anderson was.

A hulking giant lumbered into the ring. On the other side of the ropes, Junior suddenly went back to looking like a boy again. A small one.

“That guy will kill Junior!” Gunny exclaimed.

He pushed his way down to the ring.
This is crazy
, he thought. Why would anyone want such a mismatched competition?

Someone who wanted Junior to lose.
If Junior is the favorite, and someone bets on his opponent, the payout would be huge if Junior loses
.

“Junior!” Gunny clamped a hand on Junior's shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” Junior asked. He shrugged off Gunny's hand. “You're going to try to stop me, aren't you.” He glared at Gunny. “Just like my dad.”

“You bet I am,” Gunny said. “You can't go into the ring with that gorilla.”

“You don't think I'm any good.”

“That's just it—you
are
good. You could probably be great, but you have to live long enough to train,” Gunny said. “That guy will do you major damage—maybe permanently.”

Suddenly Chubby Malloy appeared on Junior's other side. “Listen to him, Kid. Don't go out losing, go out victorious!”

Gunny tensed. The last time Chubby and Junior met, Junior spit in the large man's face. Yet Chubby stood here giving Junior good advice. Clearly, Chubby had forgotten about that incident. Junior was another story. According to Delia, Junior now agreed that neither Jed nor Chubby killed his father. But that was according to an eleven-year-old girl….

Junior's jaw clenched. Was he still blaming Chubby? Gunny wondered. Would he do something foolish—and potentially dangerous?

“Chubby's right,” Gunny advised. “He doesn't want you hurt. And you will be if you go into that ring.”

Junior looked at Chubby, who nodded. Junior's shoulders slumped.

“But everyone will think I'm chicken!” Junior protested.

“No, they'll think you're smart.”

“But Ambrose says—”

“Forget about Ambrose!” Gunny snapped. “That man is only trouble. He doesn't have your best interests in mind. Believe me.”

Junior stared at Gunny. Gunny hadn't meant to speak quite so forcefully.

Junior's eyes widened and his brow furrowed. “Do you think that Ambrose had something to do with my father—”

Before Junior could finish the sentence, a towering man in a cheap, shiny suit stepped up to them. “In the ring,” a man ordered Junior. “Now.”

“Who are you?” Gunny asked.

“I'm the owner,” the man replied. “And Junior here was paid for four bouts. Unless, of course, he got knocked out. And clearly, Kid Wright is still standing.”

“This is a ridiculous pairing,” Chubby told the owner. “And everyone here knows it.” He faced Junior. “I want you to stay in one piece, Kid. I'd like you to be a local contender at my club. I'm putting in regular bouts.”

Junior's eyes widened in amazement. “Really?”

“But if you get your brains rattled or your eyes popped out in a fight with that giant over there,” Gunny said, “you're not ever going to get that shot.”

“The man speaks true,” Chubby said.