Stone Cold Dead (20 page)

“I already know what happened to her,” I said. If he was surprised, it didn’t show on his face. “I think she ran off.”

SATURDAY, JANUARY 7, 1961

With the morning came the break in the weather we’d all been waiting for. After three long weeks of bone-chilling cold, the temperatures rose into the fifties by afternoon. These January thaws were common in these parts people told me as if perhaps I’d arrived on the banks of the Mohawk from some far-off, tropical land. New York City was, after all, just two hundred miles south of New Holland. We sometimes got the breezes from the north. The warmth was a welcome respite from the snow and ice of December.

I drew duty covering the executive-board meeting of the local council of the Boy Scouts of America in Canajoharie. Not much less interesting than a City Council meeting, and it was short and easy to write for Monday’s edition. I scribbled the details in my pad and figured Norma could simply type it up without changes. I enjoyed the drive back to New Holland along the river, smiling to myself as I passed the turnoff for the Fulton Reform School for Boys. It warmed my heart to think of Joey Figlio locked up inside those walls. And if he were to escape and steal my car, I would never freeze to death on a glorious, sunny winter’s day like this one.

When I arrived back at the paper, the City Room was empty, except for George Walsh, who was typing away furiously at his desk. He saw me enter, sneered my way, then returned to his task. I left my story from the Boy Scouts’ meeting for Norma on her desk. That’s when I noticed a folder of her notes on the Darleen Hicks piece left open next to her typewriter. I picked up the first sheet of paper and read.

“Monday: Call CO at Fort Huachuca re. Wilbur Burch and Darleen Hicks. Confirm her arrival. Check bus schedule. E. S. to Arizona?”

There were phone numbers and names of army personnel, secretaries, and addresses. I hadn’t asked her to do any of these things, but my Norma was a self-starter, it seemed. I also had no intention of going to Arizona, even if Artie Short had been willing to pay my fare. For me the story was over. But I thought the answers might be of interest to Irene Metzger. She might want to contact her wayward daughter. I closed the folder and replaced it in Norma’s filing cabinet behind her desk.

“Why don’t you take a picture? It lasts longer,” I said to Georgie Porgie who, I noticed, was watching me.

I spent Saturday afternoon doing laundry and watching the NFL consolation game, the marvelously alliterative Bert Bell Benefit Bowl. A bit anticlimactic, but not a bad game. The Lions beat the Browns 17–16. After some ironing and some housework, I worked my way through a couple of crosswords I’d been neglecting. It felt good to be free of Darleen Hicks’s sad story, even if I had wasted a few days on it. I relaxed in front of the television, watching the news then
Perry Mason
. I kind of had a thing for Paul Drake. Something about his checked sport coats and white hair. After the wild courtroom confession at the end of the last act, I got up to pour myself a drink, happy to spend a quiet Saturday evening alone. But the cupboard was bare. Well, not exactly bare, but there wasn’t enough whiskey to see me through the night and Sunday, too. The prospect of a dry Sunday made me shudder. Damn blue laws.

Remembering Mrs. Giannetti’s admonition about the delivery boy’s gossip, I pulled on my coat and grabbed my purse. Clark’s Wine and Liquors on Brookside wasn’t the cheapest, but it was the closest to my apartment. Clark Robinson, a colored man with one arm, was the proprietor. He didn’t ask questions or make small talk. He just stuffed your bottles into a bag and took your money. Two fifths of Dewar’s would see me easily through the weekend, unless I had company.

I drove home and parked opposite Fiorello’s as usual. The place was hopping, with teenagers spilling out onto the sidewalk, enjoying the warm weather after so much cold. I thought I’d stop in to see Fadge at the end of the evening, but for now I had an appointment with a tumbler and some ice.

I climbed the stairs and paused at my kitchen door, fumbling with the keys, squeezing my parcel to my side so as not to drop it. It wasn’t until I’d unlocked the door and pushed my way inside that I noticed—too late— that I was not alone. From the dark of the vestibule, a thin figure slipped inside behind me. I shrieked, but he shushed me. I switched on the light, ready to bash that damn Joey Figlio on the head with one of my bottles. But it wasn’t Joey at all.

“Frankie!” I cried. The little JD who’d threatened my life at the reform school. “Stay away from me!”

“It’s okay,” he said, holding out his hands to indicate his good intentions. He looked small, scared, and hungry. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

We stood there frozen for nearly a minute, each terrified of the other. His chest rose and fell as he huffed for air, as if he’d just run a four-minute mile. I held my breath waiting for some kind of explanation of why he was gasping in my kitchen.

“Can I have something to eat?” he asked finally. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“Please, just give me a cracker or something. Then I’ll tell you.”

In the freezer, I found some Swedish meatballs I’d frozen in October after a truncated dinner date with a handsome young pediatrician who’d recently moved to town. After a few drinks, he made the mistake of sharing his politics with me. Not only did he not end up in my bed, I threw him out without his supper.

Frankie stuffed some potato chips into his mouth and washed them down with a beer as the meatballs warmed on the stove. I gave him some bread and butter to accompany the meatballs, wondering if he was going to kill me once his strength had been restored. I watched from a distance as he ate. The angry young man I’d met at the reform school looked more like a frightened boy in my kitchen. His greasy hair, wet with sweat, clung to his head making him look even smaller. His football mustache was gone, and his checked shirt was wrinkled and perspired. Funny how checks on this kid didn’t do it for me the way they did on Paul Drake.

Finally he finished, wiped his hand across his mouth, and said thank you.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded again.

“Don’t be sore, Ellie,” he said. “I mean, Miss Stone. Like I said, I won’t hurt you.”

What game was this, I wondered. I moved a step closer to the table, and Frankie stiffened in his seat. I was beginning to think I had nothing to fear from this kid.

“Okay, Frankie, let’s get some things straight. At Fulton, you told me you’d come looking for me when you got out. And you said I’d get mine. Now you tell me I’ve got nothing to worry about. What gives?”

“I was just saying that up at Fulton,” he said, averting his eyes from my stare. I waited for more. “I had to say that, don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t. Why?”

“I’ve got a reputation to protect inside,” he said. “You made me look like a fool. If I’d have let you get away with it, my life would be ruined. I got to be the toughest kid there, or I’ll wind up the sissy to some guy with ideas that he wants a girlfriend.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“So you see I had to act tough with you.” He paused, looked down into his lap, then continued. “Honest, I’d never hurt you, Ellie, ’cause I’m in love with you.”

“What?”

“It’s true. Ever since that day, I can’t stop thinking of you. You’re so pretty and smart and you got real guts. I just had to bust out of there to see you, if only for a few minutes.”

The last thing I needed or wanted was a sixteen-year-old boyfriend. And a juvenile delinquent to boot. And yet I couldn’t help feeling a little flattered.

“But I taunted you,” I said. “I called you names and mocked you.”

“That’s okay,” he smiled, beaming at me now. “I kind of asked for it. I was pretty rude to you. But I didn’t mean it, Ellie. Not a word. At least not at the end.”

“Look, Frankie, I don’t know what to say. Or what to do with you. You can’t stay here, and you can’t . . .” I searched for the right words. “You know we can’t . . . You know that, don’t you?”

He cast his eyes down again. I felt I’d torn his heart out.

“I know that,” he said softly. “At least for now.”

“Oh, Frankie,” I said. “No. Not now, not later.”

“Is it because I’m too young?”

I chewed on that one for a moment. The age difference would never change. Maybe I should go with that. But it was actually so many other things. For one, I barely knew him. For another, what I knew of him did not help his cause.

“Yes,” I said finally, patting him on the shoulder. “We’re just too far apart in age.”

Frankie seemed to be weighing my words then shook his head. “No, you’ll change your mind someday, I hope. I can wait for you. It’s not like I’m meeting any girls up at Fulton.”

“You know I’m Jewish, don’t you?” I asked, playing my trump card. It didn’t work quite as well as it had with the Karls, but it derailed his love song for a bit.

“Really?” he said, his face twisted like a screw. “You don’t look Jewish. My old man said all Jews had hook noses and fat lips.”

“Well, there’s another reason we can’t be together, Frankie. Think of your father. He’d never accept me.”

“He’s dead.”

“Frankie, what am I going to do with you?” I asked again, changing the subject. “You’ve got to get out of here.”

“I know,” he said. “But will you do me a favor?” Oh, God, I thought. What was he going to ask? “Would you call the cops on me? That way when they take me back, the guys will believe I went through with my threats. I’ll still be top dog.”

“Okay,” I said. “I suppose I could do that for you.”

“And you’ll tell the cops I tried to, you know, do stuff to you?”

“I won’t say that.”

He frowned. “Okay, well, would you mind if I yell and swear at you when they take me away? Don’t be shocked, but I’m planning to say some real bad things. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

I smiled gently and said, “Sure, Frankie. You can swear and scream at me when they come to take you away.”

Frankie was pleased. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “Joey Figlio asked me to give you something.”

Frankie fished a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and pressed it into my hand. I asked him what it was as I flattened it on my kitchen table.

“He said it was something to help your investigation. He said if he couldn’t kill that teacher, he wanted you to make sure he pays for his crime. Sounded pretty weird to me, but he’s a strange kid, that Joey.”

“You’re telling me,” I mumbled.

“What’s it say, anyway?” he asked.

“It’s a love letter to Darleen Hicks,” I said, dazed by what I’d just read. “The girl who disappeared three weeks ago.”

“A love letter from Joey?”

“No,” I said, feeling the skin crawl on my neck. “It’s from Ted Russell.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I had to submit to the drama Frankie wanted to play, accompanying him down the stairs, where we waited a few minutes for the law to show up. We didn’t say anything; Frankie just stared at me with a goofy expression on his face. Then the sheriff pulled up at the curb, and we knew it was time to go. Frankie smiled sweetly at me, told me he loved me, then stepped outside and loosed a bloody scream. Frothing at the mouth, spitting like an alley cat, he yowled in protest and flailed his arms as two deputies corralled him. Bellowing my name at the top of his voice, right there on Lincoln Avenue, he threatened to come back and slit my throat, before performing unspeakable acts on my dead person with all his appendages, his mouth, and a stick. An impressive display of profanity, perversion, and vitriol from such a young thug. What a performance! I didn’t mind too much going along with his scheme, except that he was doing it in front of a crowd of at least sixty teenagers loitering outside Fiorello’s. My good name and respectability echoed off every house in the general vicinity. The violence and volume of his tantrum shocked me for real, even though he’d warned me, which only made the hysteria more believable for the bystanders. So many witnesses to my embarrassment, including Fadge and his crony, Tony Natale.

As Frank Olney prepared to slap a pair of handcuffs on the kid, Frankie flashed me a quick high sign and an impish smile. Once he’d cuffed him, the sheriff shoved Frankie into the backseat of his cruiser, deliberately bouncing his head off the doorframe as he did. Now it was Frank Olney’s turn to give me a smile.