The War Against Miss Winter (13 page)

A smile peaked out from the corners of his mouth as he shook his head at me. “Name one thing I said that meant I was going to hurt you.”

I tried to recall why I’d felt threatened and came up empty. “Maybe you didn’t say anything, but the threat was implied.”

“How so?”

I counted off the reasons with my fingers. “You entered my office without an invitation.”

“The door was unlocked.”

I ticked off my next point. “You wouldn’t let me leave.”

“No,
I
wouldn’t leave. You were free to come and go as you pleased.”

I trudged forward without a finger to stand on. “You ate half of my doughnut.”

“You offered it to me.”

I ended my illustration and played with the stem of my empty champagne flute. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you weren’t threatening me. If that’s the case, why were you there?”

His eyes drifted to the table. “I can’t tell you.”

“Did you come to take the files?”

Bewilderment washed across his features. Either Al was made for the stage or he had no idea what I was talking about. “What files?”

“For crying out loud, I heard your friends at the funeral talking about cleaning Jim’s office. All of his files, even his furniture’s gone.”

The confusion disappeared and was replaced by prideful astonishment. “Hey, when we clean an office, no one knows about it. We only take what’s ours. We don’t got nothing to do with Jim being robbed.”

“Then why were you there?”

He sighed. “Like I said before: I can’t tell you.”

I crossed my arms. “Then maybe you can tell Tony.”

The fear he’d donned earlier returned. His eyes were bloodshot, the bags beneath them big enough to pack for a trip on the
Queen Mary
. “I
didn’t do nothing wrong.”

“Then tell that to Tony. If your nose is clean, why would he care?” Scheherazade deposited his drink and dribbled bubbly into my empty glass. She walked away with a rustle of fabric we could hear above the band.

Al gulped his drink, then rested the half-empty glass in his open palm. “What I was doing I wasn’t doing for Tony.”

I wasn’t following him and told him so.

“That day, the reason I was there, wasn’t for Tony.”

I wrapped my hand around the flute. “Oh, so you were freelancing? And apparently that’s a problem because…what? It’s harder to figure out your income tax?”

Al finished off his drink and raised the empty tumbler into the air. “Tony says when you work for him, you work for him. That’s all.”

I pushed the champagne bottle toward him and he gratefully splashed some into his glass. The band switched to “String of Pearls” and Tony and Jayne appeared in the center of the dance floor. They were so caught up in dancing that the crowd had to back away to give them room. Tony was a passable dancer for a guy who spent his days sitting on his can dipping the bill, but Jayne was dazzling. She flashed her best Broadway smile and followed up each of Tony’s perfunctory swings with the kind of flourish one could pick up only after working in a dozen chorus lines. The crowd cheered them on, offering catcalls at the sight of Jayne’s skirt lifting in the air, at the way she played with the men around her, giving them winks and knowing nods. Tony ate it all up, his own steps growing looser as he gave in to the music and rhythm that was Jayne.

“She’s a good dancer,” said Al. I nodded and emptied the rest of the champagne into my glass. I had a buzz on that was half a flute from knocking me on my back. “I was doing a favor for a friend,” said Al.

“What?” I screamed above the music.

“That day. I was there for a friend. There wasn’t no money involved, nothing like that, but my time is Tony’s, see?”

I guzzled the drink with the enthusiasm of a parched bulldog and set the empty glass on the table. “What did your friend want you to do?”

Al grunted and put a napkin to his sweaty brow. “Just check in with you. Make sure you’re okay. That kind of thing.”

The bubbles from my glass transferred to my brain, making it very difficult to complete a thought. A dozen shadows ducking behind pillars, up alleys, and through doors flashed through my mind. “You’ve been tailing me, haven’t you?”

Al loosened his tie. “It’s not tailing—it’s checking.”

“Son of a gun. For days you’ve been following me. How long is this supposed to go on?” Al didn’t say anything. In his hand the tumbler was reduced to a pill vial. “Who are you working for?”

The song quieted and so did his voice. “I can’t tell you.”

“Maybe not with words, but you’re going to spill all the same.” I tried to poke his arm to show him I meant business, but whatever cement he was made of was unyielding. “I’ll ask you a question and you clap once for no, twice for yes. Are you working for Edgar Fielding?” He gave me a long, indignant look before clapping once. “Henry Nussbaum?” The irritation stayed and was paired with lack of recognition. Again he clapped once. “Eloise McCain?” He paused long enough to tell me I’d landed on it. “What does she want with me?”

“It ain’t her.”

I got in his face until his beady eyes were the size of a normal mortal’s. “You hesitated.”

He bridged the distance remaining between us until he was so close I could taste what he had for lunch. “And I told you: it ain’t her.” I stared into his eyes until I knew every red vein threaded through the white. He was on the square. Worse, up close Al was a hard guy to hate. His bulk became softness, his hard lines curves, and his little peepers possessed a warmth and pain I’d begun to believe men didn’t have access to.

I put my hand atop his and gently squeezed. “Please tell me. I need to know.”

He held my gaze and cocked his head to the right, his way of relenting. “It was Jim.”

I
N ADDITION TO WORKING AS
a gumshoe and providing private security, Jim made money serving as a personal liaison for the imprisoned. Sometimes he paid their bills and helped get rid of anything incriminating that hadn’t yet been brought to the law’s notice. Other times he was the gun you called on to send your ma flowers for her birthday and let your enemies know your debts wouldn’t be met for another year or two. He didn’t make a lot of money doing this, but he worked with the expectation that as soon as you were out of the pen you owed him a favor. Most thugs became Jim’s bill collectors. When Al was released for writing bad checks, he got me.

“That explains all the letters from Attica I found in his office,” I said over the roar of the band. “So if he put you on me, did he know something was going to happen to him?”

Al shrugged. “Every guy in here thinks something bad’s going to happen to him. Maybe Jim was a little more worried when this Fielding stuff started or maybe he wanted to cover his bases, just in case.”

“Just in case?” You wore clean drawers just in case. You paid your insurance bill just in case. You didn’t hire a thug to follow your file clerk around
just in case
. “What did Jim say?”

Al’s flippers flailed through the air, illustrating everything he said in a manner that was totally unrelated to the point he was trying to make. “He told me if something happened to him I was to make sure you stayed out of it.”

That got my hackles up. Jim hadn’t been worried about harm coming to me; he was trying to keep me from snooping. “Fine job you did. What about Agnes?”

“He didn’t think she’d be a problem.”

I laughed at that. Agnes meddled more than a hairdresser on a windy day. “Why not?”

“She don’t gum things up. You though—you’re worse than the SS.”

“He said that?”

“Maybe not in so many words, but that was the gist.”

I put my elbows on the table and rested my head in my hands. “If he was so concerned about me, maybe he should’ve taken better care to see to it that I wasn’t dragged into this mess. I didn’t go looking for trouble, Al. It found me.”

“You can stay out of it now.”

Even if I wanted to, there seemed to be some force that kept dragging me back in. If I didn’t see this through to the end, who would? “I don’t think I have a choice.”

Al glanced at his wristwatch and, noting the time, sank further into himself. Was he back with the tomato whose greed had sent him to prison, or was there another duty that demanded he be home soon and up early? “There’s always a choice, Rosie. That’s why Jim asked me to tail you. I’m your choice. I’m your ticket out of trouble.”

“And if I turn in my ticket and board your rattler, who’s going to see to it that whoever killed Jim is punished?”

What I expected was a list of underworld enforcers who were already on the job. What I got was another shrug. “These things have a way of working out.”

I laughed and shredded my cocktail napkin. “Then I guess we’ll have to wait and see what happens, won’t we?”

Before Al could reply, Jayne and Tony joined us at the table. Another bottle of champagne appeared and I quickly passed the threshold between buzzed and blitzed. Rather than surrendering to a pleasant drunk, I let the memory of Jim tip me a few more drinks until the tackiness of Ali Baba’s and the sadness of his women became something resplendent and joyful, so much so that I had to sing about it.

“Easy, Rosie,” said Al. “Get off the table like a good girl and sit back in your chair.”

I gently kicked him in the stomach and toasted the room with my
eighth glass of bubbly. “I’m singing, Al. I’ve got great pipes and I fully intend to use them.”

“Let her go,” said Tony. “There’s no harm.”

He was right, so right that I stepped off the table and into his lap. He took my free hand and helped me to the floor. I settled rump first on his thigh and became fascinated with his bow tie. “I don’t like you, Tony, but you’re a good egg.” My voice didn’t sound right. It was fast and crisp in my mind, but out loud it was loose in the middle and soft around the edges. I followed his tie upward and traced the skin beneath his nose. “You should consider growing a mustache. It’d soften that schnozzle of yours.”

Two of him grinned at me, which emphasized his need for facial hair. “I’ll take that under consideration. Why don’t you like me, Rose?”

I finished glass number eight and tried to put it on the table, but the darn thing moved, sending the flute crashing to the floor. “In the first place,” I told the one of him on the left, “my name’s Rosie. I hate being called Rose. And in the second place, I don’t like the way you treat Jayne.” Saying her name reminded me she was somewhere in the room, so I stood up and located a pair of her standing next to Al. “Come here, Jayne,” I said. Both of her did as I instructed. I put my arm around her waists and the three us looked down on the twin Tonys. “This is my best friend, Tony, and when I hear you’re putting her down or you’re not calling her or something, it breaks my heart. You know why?”

The merriment was gone from his face. “Why?”

I tried to put a hand on Jayne’s shoulder and missed. “Because she’s a good girl. A devoted girl. And she deserves a fellow who’ll give her the moon.”

“I’d give her that and more. All she’s got to do is ask.” He took Jayne’s hand in his and my favorite blonde swayed from side to side until her skirt rose into the air. She looked like a flower then and the sweetness of Tony B. holding my roommate who became a flower made me start to cry.

“What’s the matter, Rosie?” asked Jayne.

“Nobody.” I struggled for breath. “Just nobody has ever made me a flower.”

When I’d stopped crying long enough to identify my coat and blow farewell kisses to the band, Al offered to see me home. Tony’s driver followed a meandering path that coaxed the champagne out of my stomach and onto my skirt. On the upside, it camouflaged the stain.

“Where’s Jack?” I asked as I stewed in my own filth.

“Who?” asked Al.

The stench cleared my head. “Jayne. Where’s Jayne?”

“With Tony,” said the man of few words. “She’ll be home in the morning.”

I leaned my head against the car window and let the icy glass bring me back to myself. “You got a sweetheart, Al?”

“Naw. Not anymore.” He spread his arms wide and rested them on top of the back seat. “I’ve got a ma.”

“I’ve got a ma,” I said, as though having a mother were as unique as having a twin. “What’s yours like?”

Al pondered the question. “Feeble. And easily disappointed. Yours?”

“About the same, though she could probably take yours in a footrace. Mine hates that I’m an actress.”

Al rubbed his eyes. “Yeah? Next time she says something about it, tell her at least she’s not visiting you in the joint.”

I smiled at that. Clearly he didn’t know my ma. “So what did Jim say when he told you to watch out for me?”

“Nothing really. Just to keep an eye on you because you were his girl.”

I sat so straight my head hit the car roof. “That son of a bitch. We weren’t…you know…like
that,
Al. I barely knew the guy. He was my boss and I was his employee. That’s the crop.”

Al winced, probably from the unnatural pitch my voice was reaching. “Whatever you say. Ain’t no skin off my back.”

“Well, it’s skin off
my
back. The guy was more than twice my age. There was no funny business going on between us. I was his file clerk.”

“You were obviously more than that,” said Al.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you meant more to him than that. Don’t take it wrong.” I caught sight of myself in the window. My hair was astray and my eyes were so shot they should by all rights be dead. “How am I supposed to take it?”

Al sighed. “You got a father?”

I leaned against the door. “I’ve got a grave in Brooklyn.”

“How ’bout a brother?”

I hadn’t heard from my brother since the war started. He only contacted me if he wanted to brag about something or needed help out of a fix. “Only when the weather’s good.”

“Then there’s your problem. I don’t know if Jim wanted to”—he raised his eyebrows up and down—“or not. You’re an attractive broad and ten to one the idea went through his head. But when a guy calls you his girl and takes pains to make sure trouble stays away when he’s not there to protect you, it could be because he cares about you like a brother or a father, see?”

I burned with embarrassment. Score one for my overinflated ego. “I’m one dumb bunny.” Al didn’t disagree. “Couldn’t he have left me money in his will?”

“Trust me, this is better. You can’t put a price on protection.”

By the time we arrived at the Shaw House I’d scraped the sick off my dress and was feeling more like myself. The last hour had become one of those hazy dreams you’re sincerely glad didn’t happen because the humiliation would be worse than anything you could imagine.

“You want me to walk you in?” asked Al.

I shook my head and fumbled with the door until I figured out how to open it. I stepped out of the car and onto the curb. A patch of black ice masquerading as cement yanked my dogs out from under me. Whatever
buzz still lingered took the run out to make room for searing pain.

Al used two fingers to wrench me to my feet. “I’m walking you to the door.”

“Change walking to carrying and you’ve got a deal.”

The Shaw House had no formal curfew, although there was enough of an implied one to make you carefully plan your evenings. After 11:00 on weekends, Belle went to bed and we had to use keys to get into the lobby. If you lost your key, you were out of luck until morning since no amount of knocking, honking, or screaming could wrestle Belle from slumber. Keys were issued once, on the day you moved in. If you lost yours—tough luck. Belle believed anyone who lost something once, would lose it again, excepting, of course, her virginity.

I asked Al to drag me close to the streetlight so I could dump out my purse and search for my brass friend.

“You got a key?” asked Al.

The situation didn’t look too optimistic. “Jayne’s got a key.” I sifted through the few things I’d bothered to cram into my evening bag. “I have a hairpin and a stick of gum.”

Al blew on his gloveless hands and examined the door. Before I could tell him about the futility of knocking, he returned to my side and claimed the hairpin for himself. As quick as a cat, he wrestled with the lock until it opened with a triumphant click.

“If you can do the same thing for stains, I might have to keep you around.”

He offered me his hand and pulled me to my feet. “That leg of yours is going to feel like hell in the morning.”

“It’s not feeling all that fabulous right now. You want to come in for a cup of tea?”

His eyes danced up the street; I was keeping him from something. “I better not. I’ll see you around.”

“I’ll be looking for you.” As he climbed back into the car, I hobbled up the stairs and into the lobby. I decided if I continued at my current pace, I wouldn’t make it to bed until sunrise, so I swallowed the pain and rushed up the stairs as fast as I could. Churchill greeted me from
the depths of the dark, empty room. As I eased my way to the bureau, hard nuggets of Cat Chow crackled like burning wood. I clicked on the lamp and surveyed the dress in the mirror. It was, in a word, destroyed. In addition to the stains, when I’d fallen I’d ripped both the knee and a side seam.

Churchill came to my side and sniffed my skirt. He identified the source of the odor and with a scowl leaped onto Jayne’s bed.

“If you think that’s bad, try wearing it.” Balanced on one foot, I removed the dress, balled it up, and tossed it into the waste bin. I’d figure out what to tell Ruby in the morning.

I didn’t wake until early afternoon. My head pounded, my vision was blurred, and my ankle had swelled to the size of Boris Karloff’s neck in
Frankenstein
. I wasn’t in a state to deal with the ruined dress, so I decided the best thing to do was leave the house and lie low. As I left my room, I tripped over a stack of books placed outside the door. True to her word, Harriet had located her copies of
On Theatre
and
Journey’s End
. I stuck them both in the crook of my arm and limped two blocks to Cora Deane’s, one of the few places where a gal could get breakfast at any time of day without the waitress tsk-tsking her for keeping a pro skirt’s hours.

While I downed a quart of java and some plain toast, a booth full of women behind me took turns reading one another V-mail from their newly acquired military pen pals. I couldn’t stand listening to their excitement over men they’d never met so I turned to my reading material. I decided to start with
On Theatre
since I had a feeling understanding Fielding’s theory was going to increase my understanding of his play. The book was surprisingly slim—only a hundred pages. Despite its brevity, it was as clear as the news from the Russian front. If Raymond Fielding had an audience (and I doubted he considered such things), it was lofty, erudite thinkers who held the common man in great disdain even as they helped to pay his bills.

That’s not to say I didn’t understand
any
of it. From what I could gather, the gist of his thesis was that theater was nothing more than an attempt to imitate life, and until we recognized this goal and focused our efforts on better achieving it, theater as a form would fail. He hated plays that flaunted
artistry,
a term he decried as “the unfortunate result when a participant places their ego above their art; when we speak of someone’s artistry we are automatically negating the possibility for a theatrical piece to succeed.”

Fielding’s favorite word was
invisible,
the state in which he believed all facets of a production should be. The set, actors, direction, and writing should be so true to life as to be unrecognizable as anything but reality. Fielding believed the worst thing to happen to theater was putting it on a stage, a remove which immediately suggested it was apart from, rather than a reflection of, life. The second worst thing was the director.