Jimmy the Stick (6 page)

I didn't realize how she'd got under my skin. As I thought about it, for the first time, really, I remembered how little we actually spoke. At least, I didn't say much, and she wasn't a talker herself. For the most part, we screwed and walked and went to the movies. I thought it was great, and she hadn't complained about any of it. She was fascinated by stuff we saw on the crowded crush of city sidewalks—the charging kids, the peddlers, the pushcarts, all the tired guys looking for something to do, and the guys who had work and tried to look like they were heading somewhere important.

And she loved the movies, most of them anyway. Sometimes she surprised me by not liking the ones I thought she would, but that was OK because it was fun when she got bored. We always sat in double seats in the balcony, my arm over her shoulder, tickling her hair or her ear. Sometimes she'd brush my hand away. But if she really didn't like a movie, she'd slip off her coat to crawl over me. We could always go to the Chelsea of course, but there was something different in those dark seats where I could look up to see the gray smoky light playing over us. There was Connie on my lap, busy little hands working at the buttons of my shirt, and me tugging her blouse out of her skirt, carefully unbuttoning it from the bottom, one button after another, my hands rubbing across her soft stomach, fingers teasing at the edges of her brassiere, feeling her lips smiling against mine as she reached back to help me. I loved the smell of the stuff she put on her hair, the feel of it against my face. They don't make movies like that anymore.

I always tipped the usher on our way in to make sure we weren't disturbed. We never were.

Damn, where the hell was she?

I put on a black pinstripe single-breasted and a turtleneck sweater. It was too cold in that house for a shirt and tie. When I strapped on my watch, I was a little surprised to see the time: after midnight. I slipped my brass knucks into a pocket, notepad and pen into my coat, and bounced the little pistol in my hand. That's when I saw the stamp on the side. I held the gun closer to the light and realized that Spence had bought the piece at Abercrombie & Fitch. Well, hell, I guess he could afford the best, and even if the Mauser wasn't my first choice, it would do until I found something I was more familiar with. I slipped it into my coat pocket.

Then I picked up my everyday stick, checked the room one more time, and went out to find something to eat.

The stairs leading to the first floor were wide and easy. The servants' stairs at the far end of the hall were narrow, dim, and steep. I held on to the railing with my right hand, and took them carefully one at a time, leading with my right leg, the cane held in my left hand: “Good foot goes to heaven, bad foot goes to hell.” That was the way Dr. Ricardo put it. “Stairs are easy if you do 'em right,” he'd said, “but your right knee will never work the way it used to. The muscles will become stronger and support you most of the time. If you twist or put too much weight on that bad knee, it'll fold underneath you. So keep the cane on the same step with your right foot. When you have to support your weight on a bent knee, make sure it's your left. And when you're going upstairs, lead with your left, your good foot. Good foot goes to heaven, get it? Going downstairs is actually harder so you gotta be real careful. Bad foot goes to hell.”

The doctor may have been a hophead but he was also right. And so Fast Jimmy Quinn, who'd been the quickest kid in the city, was reduced to going down stairs one step at a time. Thinking of Ricardo brought back the bad times and made me angry for feeling sorry for myself. That was pointless, and I thought I was done with it.

The stairs ended at a hall with the walls painted white. I could see and smell a kitchen at one end, and it made my mouth water, I was so hungry. It was a wide, warm room with a big rectangular table and half a dozen chairs in the middle.

A wiry, gray-haired woman banged pots at a stove and muttered to herself. Next to her stood an open pantry, a tall refrigerator, and a set of shelves stacked high with boxes and jars of baby food. It looked like there were a dozen different kinds.

Oh Boy sat at the table, hands warming around a mug of creamy coffee. The duffer who'd been guarding the library had a bottle of dago red and a half full glass in front of him. What was his name? Mears. And the wiry woman had to be the cook.

She turned around and nailed me with a gimlet glare.

Oh Boy stood, scraping his chair back. “Mrs. Conway, this is the guy I was telling you about, my pal Jimmy.”

She sniffed. “The gunman.” I guessed she was suspicious of anyone who came to Valley Green from the wicked city.

But I make it a rule to always stay on good terms with the cook.

I walked around the table and extended my hand. “I suppose you're right. I am a gunman, Mrs. Conway. That's what Spence thinks he needs right now. But I'm not a gangster. I'm just here to help an old friend. Do you think I could get something to eat, a sandwich maybe, and a thimble of Mr. Mears's wine?”

She sniffed again but I sensed a thaw. “Of course. Any guest in this house will have the full hospitality of the kitchen. Mears!” The old gent's head snapped up. “Another glass, if you please. We've some mutton left over that will do nicely.”

The wine wasn't as bad as it could have been.

She sliced and buttered two pieces of bread and warmed them on the oven while she carved slices from a roast on the counter. As she worked, a dark-haired girl came in through a second doorway, pushing a cart full of dirty dishes and leftovers of what looked to be the same mutton.

“Constance,” Oh Boy said, “this is my friend Jimmy Quinn.”

She had glossy black hair, skin that was about the color of Oh Boy's light coffee, and a challenging look in her eyes. I couldn't tell about the rest of her under that frumpy black maid's dress.“Constance . . . ?” I held out my hand and she took it.

“Nix. And it's Connie.”

Just what I needed, another Connie.

Mrs. Conway set down my sandwich and went around to the trays. One of them held a single pink rose in a narrow vase. She lifted the metal warmer lid from the plate and made a
tsk-tsk
cluck. “She barely touched her supper. Whatever is the matter with that girl?”

As she turned back to the sink, Oh Boy grabbed an untouched slice of devil's food from the tray before Mears could get to it. I tucked into the sandwich, carefully keeping myself from bolting down the excellent eats. Even so, as I was finishing, Mrs. Conway sliced more bread and mutton and made a second.

She poured tea for herself and sat at the table. “You know they're saying that gangsters from the city committed that unspeakable act on the poor little Lindbergh baby.” Her eyes widened. “Or maybe it was that Purple Gang from Detroit or even Scarface Al Capone himself, ordering it from jail.”

“I don't know anything about the Purple Gang or Capone,” I told her, “but it wasn't any of the mugs I know in New York.”

“And how can you be so sure of that . . . if you're not a gangster?” Her tone was sharp. Connie Nix, the maid, followed the conversation closely.

“I used to be a bootlegger. Now I run a speak.” I saw the question in the younger woman's eyes. “A speakeasy. It's not a fancy nightclub or casino. It's just a place where a guy can get a drink of good whiskey and feel comfortable bringing his girlfriend or his wife. Or even a girl can come in alone and nobody will say boo. A nice place.”

Mrs. Conway sniffed even more disapprovingly. A woman alone in a bar, the very idea!

“But I do know some of the guys you're talking about, the guys you read about in the papers, ‘racketeers,' ‘the underworld.' And they wouldn't do anything like that with a kid. They'll bust each other and they're not too careful about bystanders, adults who happen to be in the way. But they wouldn't go after a baby. Bad for business.”

Everybody knew what happened to guys who hurt kids.“And even if they were gonna do something so stupid, they wouldn't come way the hell out here to do it, pardon my language.”

“Is that so? Well, what do you think about this?” Mrs. Conway ruffled through a stack of newspapers.

“‘Racketeer Murdered in Union City,'” she read aloud. “And over in Boonton, two men arrested on ‘statutory charges,' and we know what those are, caught with two underage girls in a bungalow at the lake. Stanley Pawlikowski and Joseph Scerbo—Polacks no doubt, or worse. At least they didn't name the poor little girls who'd been led astray.”

“Those girls weren't led too far astray,” said Connie Nix. “I read that story. They ran away from the North Jersey Training School. I don't think they did anything they hadn't done before.” She had a slight accent I couldn't place.

Mrs. Conway paid no attention to her. “And look at this: not one but three, mind you, three fires of mysterious origin in Cedar Knolls. And here, another gangster, Izzy Presser, murdered in a car owned by a woman lawyer. Imagine that! A woman lawyer—but then they were both Jews.” She rummaged through more papers. “That sort of thing happens near any big city. But here? When I read this last week, a chill went straight up my spine, it did. Just look.”

She read aloud again: “‘Young Daughter Strangely Killed.' That's the headline.”

She looked around to make sure she had everyone's attention. “‘Three-Year-Old Girl Caught on Branch of Tree, Virtually Hanged. The unusual facts connected with the death of three-year-old Patricia Thomas Holmes, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. James Holmes, a prominent New York broker who resides at his country estate in Peapack, became known today. The little girl died on Wednesday.

“‘According to the police, little Patricia, dressed from head to feet in a warm woolen suit, attempted to climb a tree. Her nurse, standing nearby, failed to notice the child's actions. Suddenly a scream was heard as the horrified nurse saw the fearsome spectacle of the little girl hanging from a branch of the tree. A part of her suit had caught on the branch, tightening around her throat.

“‘The inert body was immediately taken into the house but efforts to resuscitate the child proved in vain. She died a few minutes later.'”

Mrs. Conway put down the paper and pointed at me like all of that had been my fault. “That's the mad world we live in today. Don't tell me a gangster from New York or Detroit might not come here to steal a child. We've been cursed ever since Miss Mandelina was taken from us.”

The silence stretched out uncomfortably. Finally I said, “OK, I guess I'm the only one who doesn't know Miss Mandelina.”

Something moved at the edge of my vision. A cat, a thick-bodied brindle that had crept out of a wooden box against the wall, stretched and sat beside me, leaning against my leg. It stared with a hunter's patience at the dark space beneath the stove. Mr. Mears poured more wine, keeping the bottle close this time.

Mrs. Conway busied herself with another cup of tea. “I probably shouldn't have said anything.”

Oh Boy said, “She was Flora's sister.”

The cook sat and silenced him with a sharp look. “Miss Mandelina was Flora's older sister, and you have never seen two girls more devoted to each other. When they were younger, the darlings were inseparable. For those little girls every day was a new adventure, both being so active and curious. You'd have thought they were boys, they were so full of energy, chasing each other from one end of the house to the other. And they were simply mad for horses from the day they could walk.”

The woman's face fell, her tone darkened. “That was the problem. Horses. It's five years ago this autumn that Miss Mandelina had her accident as she and Miss Flora were riding between here and East Hanover. We don't know exactly what happened because no one saw it. I always suspected they were racing; it wouldn't have been the first time. They were arguing with each other over racing at lunch. Miss Flora was ahead, I'd wager, when Miss Mandelina's horse ran past her. Flora rode back and found Mandelina on the ground unconscious. She was an excellent rider but even excellent riders can fall. Miss Flora did the only thing she could, and dashed home for help.” She sniffed back a tear before she went on.

“We were so afraid that the child had broken her neck or her spine, and then thankful when we learned that wasn't so. But she was unconscious for three days, and the whole house was on a virtual death watch. Doctors came from New York, discussing concussion, shock, and then coma. That poor child just wouldn't come around. And even when she finally opened her eyes, she was never the same. For the first year or so, she was unusually quiet and still. And then she seemed to get better, more like her old self. But then she became . . . erratic. She laughed at the wrong things at the wrong time. Or she'd burst into tears for no reason. And then came the anger, the rages when the least little thing could set her off. And finally the wild stories. She accused her own father of nightly attacks in the most horrible way. And then she claimed that Mr. Evans tried to force himself on her.”

Oh Boy nodded. “Yeah, she said that Clark Gable, Babe Ruth, and Bing Crosby came into her room one night.”

“I loved those girls,” Mrs. Conway muttered into her teacup, so low that almost no one heard. “I loved them more than their own mother.”

“What happened to her?” Connie Nix asked.

“More doctors, the poor dear.” Mrs. Conway paused, on the verge of tears. “Dementia praecox, they said. Completely untreatable. Incurable, too.

“Dr. Cloninger worked with her more than any of the others did. He came here every day, trying different combinations of drugs, and finally took her to his sanatorium.”

Oh Boy shivered. “He gives me the creeps.”

He was interrupted by the chiming of a loud electric bell. I looked up at the source of the sound and noticed a grid of numbered squares sitting high on the wall. The light on the number three shone brightly.