The War Against Miss Winter (17 page)

Her lips looked ready to again form Tony’s name, but before she could, she closed her mouth and swallowed. “I don’t know.” Her head drifted downward and studied the steel coil. “After the party, Tony’s driver dropped me off. I went over to the streetlight—you know, to look for my key—and this sailor buzzes me. At first he starts talking real nice, acting like he’s seen me in a show. He wants to know if he can buy me a cup of coffee. I thought it was safe—he was in uniform and everything. I was mad at Tony, so I said sure and we started walking toward Louie’s.” I froze at the coincidence. “Before we get there, his whole tone changes. He says I should tell you, you make a better actress than snoop, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of this Raymond Fielding business. I thought that was it, he was going to let me go, but then he says he’s worried I won’t deliver the message as intended. He hits me across the face, and before I can register what’s happened, he’s beating me all over. I’ve never seen a man who was so strong. He finally stops, only he’s holding me in place and telling me if you don’t keep your nose out of other people’s business, he’s going to see to it Tony suffers an unfortunate accident.” Tears rolled down Jayne’s cheeks. Her hands grasped
the windowsill and squeezed until her knuckles turned white. “I was so scared. I thought if I said Tony did it you wouldn’t ask me why I wasn’t seeing him anymore. If I stayed away from him, maybe this guy would leave him alone, you know, thinking we’d broken up.”

“Oh, Jayne.” I put a hand to the small of her back and rubbed it as my ma used to do for me. “Where did you go all weekend?”

“I got a room at the Martha Washington.” The Martha Washington was a flophouse with two kinds of clientele: pro skirts and those who were too scared to go home. I ached at the thought that Jayne had been mistaken for either. “I was thinking, with a good night’s sleep my face would be better, but…” Her tears came faster, turning her breath staccato. “You’ve got to stay out of it. Please. For me.”

“I am, Jayne. I will. Have I said one word about it since last week?”

She grabbed my wrists and pulled me down to her level. “But this play…I know you. When this guy finds out…”

“I’m not positive it’s a Fielding play, and even if it is, he’s not going to find out. I told you it was on the Q.T. They even made us sign something.”

She shook her head, silently confirming that wasn’t good enough. “I don’t want to be afraid to walk out of the building. And I certainly don’t want to spend the next week praying that when the bruises go away I’ll still be pretty.”

“Of course you’ll be pretty.” I fetched a hanky from my bedside table and offered it to her. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to happen. She was my sidekick in this adventure, the scintillating siren who distracted the bad guys long enough for me to get to the root of what was going on. She wasn’t supposed to be beaten black and blue.

She dabbed hard at the corners of her eyes as though all she needed to stop the tears was to force them to flow in the other direction. “If you got another part in something, would you drop out of this show?” Jayne folded the hanky and blew her nose again.

“It’s not likely to happen, but sure.” I tried to hide my irritation at her fear. Shouldn’t what happened drive us to action, not force us to retreat?

And shouldn’t I care enough about Jayne to do whatever she wanted to keep her safe?

I pulled my coat back on and slung my pocketbook over my shoulder.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I…uh…you just reminded me. I forgot about this thing I said I’d do. I’ll be back later.”

I
HAD NO IDEA WHERE
I was going, but I wanted to get out of that room. I stood outside the Shaw House and toed the ashes Tony had left behind. I wasn’t mad at Jayne; I was mad at myself. Since Jim was cut down, I’d been living my life like some story in the pulps, never thinking there could be consequences to what I was doing. Jayne could’ve been killed because of me, and if I could fix that by quitting a lousy part in a lousy play, it was the least I owed her.

That and giving her peace of mind.

The morning’s rain had turned to snow flurries, disguising the dirt and refuse of the Village in a coating of powdered sugar. I headed south on Hudson, pausing now and again to examine hats, dresses, jewels—whatever caught my eye in shop windows.

On my fifth stop, a human form ducked two shops above where I stood. I made like I was going to walk into the store whose display of the new, war-plant-friendly corsets so captivated me, then spun around in time to catch Al as he struggled to catch up.

“Aha!” I said.

A cigarette dangled from his mouth, and he wore neither hat nor gloves. Since I’d last seen him his appearance had degenerated from disheveled to death warmed over.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, though even this was stated on the sly to keep attention from us.

“I’m trying to talk to you,” I said. “You got time for a late lunch?”

Al remained frozen in his path, his eyes jostling down the street, looking for danger. “I got things to do.”

I turned down Christopher Street with Al on my tail. To the right of us the door to Schrafft’s was ringing with the last of the late lunch crowd.
“Things to do, eh? Let me put it this way: I’m going in there to have a cup of joe and some chow. It will be easier and more comfortable for you to observe me doing so if you also go inside.” I bobbed my head toward the door to confirm the sincerity of the invitation and entered the restaurant. A pink-clad waitress with pencils stabbed into her pompadour directed me to a seat at the counter. As I opened my menu, Al slid onto the stool beside to me.

“Doesn’t take much to convince you,” I said.

He wrenched a second menu loose from the condiment caddy and flipped it open. “I like lunch.”

As we read about the various plates that could be had for a little bit of silver, a group of girls still young enough for saddle shoes lingered by the candy display, giggling over their blackout sundaes. The waitress deposited two cups of coffee and a pitcher of condensed milk before us and then bustled away, distracting Al with the sway of her hips.

“So how are you?” I asked.

“I got no kick.”

“You look like hell.”

He wrapped his hands around the coffee cup, then lifted them to his face so he might absorb their warmth. “You don’t look so good yourself. Were you crying this morning when you were leaving that theater?”

My morning with Peter and Ruby flashed before me. I no longer had private moments—every humiliation of mine was observed by Al. “I had a rough rehearsal. It’s an emotional play.”

He shrugged; experiencing pain for the sake of entertainment was a foreign concept to him.

I closed my menu and entwined my hands atop it. “Look, you can’t keep following me and working for Tony. It’s going to kill you.”

“It’s my decision.”

“Be that as it may, I think I might have a way for you to continue doing both without jeopardizing your job. You interested?”

He shifted until his bulk was as close to me as the fixed stool would allow. “You’ve got my ear.”

“Here’s the thing: Jayne was worked over Friday night. Badly. She’s
too scared to leave our room, much less go outside. I’m with her most of the time, so I figure if you suggest to Tony that you tail her, you can watch both of us on his time, without having to kill yourself.”

The practicality of my plan slid past Al. He’d heard only one thing. “She going to be okay?”

“She’ll heal. On the outside.” I sighed and shook my head. If I laid it on any thicker, I’d topple over from the weight. “But as long as she thinks this could happen again, I’m afraid she’ll never be all right.”

The waitress reappeared and tapped her pencil on her order pad until she had our attention. We both ordered the Spanish spaghetti and sat in silence until she left.

“Who did it?” Al freed his napkin from his silverware, causing the latter to clang as it bounced across the counter.

“I’m not sure.” I chased the lie with some java. If I told Al that I thought Edgar Fielding was behind it, he’d have no choice but to point out that Jayne never would’ve been hurt if I hadn’t started to look for the play to begin with. I couldn’t bear that. “And another thing: not only did this guy threaten Jayne, he also said he’d put the hurt on Tony.”

Al clenched his napkin until it could fit into a soda straw. “Nobody puts the hurt on Tony B.”

“You don’t have to tell me, which is why it’s important you stick to Jayne like hair on a dog.” His lips wavered but found no sound to accompany them. “I’ll talk to Tony for you. It’ll be my idea.”

He pondered this. “And what about you? Where are you going to be?”

I didn’t care about me anymore. “I’m not sure, but wherever I am, you can rest assured I’ll be staying out of trouble.”

After lunch, I bought Jayne some Schrafft’s fudge and ordered Al to go home, get some sleep, and report for duty Tuesday morning outside the Shaw House. I refused his offer to escort me home and instead ducked into a phone booth in plain view to assure him I wasn’t doing anything
I wasn’t supposed to. I depostited a dime and recited Tony’s exchange. A gruff, male voice gave me the third before agreeing to put Tony on the horn.

“Charming secretary,” I said by way of greeting.

“You can’t be too careful. How’s our girl?”

“Increasingly honest. And scared. I have a favor to ask, Tony. I want you to put someone on Jayne day and night ’til this thing blows over.”

“I’ll do it myself.”

“Nix on that. I think you need to keep your distance for a while. Whoever did this to her threatened you, and I don’t want her worrying about your safety on top of everything else.”

“Oh.” Tony didn’t believe me, but he also knew if he wanted to see Jayne again, he’d do as I asked. “I’ll put No-neck on her. He used to be a prizefighter. Anyone looks at her wrong will end up with two googs and a busted schnozzle.”

“Um…not No-neck,” I said, as though I were acquainted with the appendage-lacking gentleman in question. “I’d rather you use Al.”

“Al?” Tony’s tone made it clear that in a class full of goons Al was the dunce.

“Sure—Al. Jayne knows him, so if she crabs she’s being tailed, she won’t panic. I don’t want her to think someone else is coming after her. Trust me: we need a friendly face.”

Tony sighed and a pencil scratched against paper. I wondered if he had an enormous scheduling roster where he kept track of which tough guy was on which job. Maybe he even made them clock their hours. “Okay, Al it is. Tell her I’m asking about her, would you?”

“Sure thing, Tony.” And with that I hung up.

I left the booth and tried to dope where to go next. I was glad I’d done something for Jayne, but it wasn’t enough. Whoever did this to her was still out there, roaming the streets with his medal-adorned chest puffed up like Helen Hayes at the Drama League Awards….

“Rosie?”

Peter Sherwood stood behind me, wrapped in a worn camel-hair coat and a tartan scarf that swallowed half his face. I didn’t know if I should run or brace myself for a hit.

“Oh, hiya.” My smile was so false we could’ve recycled it for scrap. I pulled my coat closed, not because of the cold but because I hoped it would help me disappear.

To his credit, Peter looked less than thrilled to see me, but did a better job of hiding it. “You live around here?”

“Visiting a friend,” I lied. “You?”

“About a block up.”

We both nodded at this information as if it were the most fascinating thing we’d ever heard. Behind us, a member of the Junior Red Cross rang a bell asking for donations. Across the street, a pair of young girls jumped rope in unison, singing, “Whistle while you work. Hitler is a jerk. Eany, Meany, Mussolini, Put Tojo out of work…” The wind picked up and sent a newspaper into our path. I caught it before it made it into the street and read and reread a
Blondie
comic. Not only was our heroine mad at Dagwood, but she was irritated more people weren’t saving kitchen fats.

“Well…see you,” said Peter.

I looked up from my reading material. “See you.” He turned to go, and like a simpleton, I watched after him. He hadn’t traveled ten yards when he stopped and looked back at me.

“I
am
sorry, Rosie.”

I shrugged and shoved the newspaper and my hands deep into my pockets. I hoped he would take that to mean I was giving him the gate, but instead he limped the distance between us and hunted for words that would bring him forgiveness.

“I’m new at People’s Theatre,” he said. “I’m not sure you knew that. This is my first show.” I hadn’t been aware of that, not that his newness excused anything. “There’s an enormous amount of pressure on me to
ensure this production is a success and that forced me into some decisions I wouldn’t otherwise have made. Please believe me when I say that under any other circumstances, I would’ve gladly cast you in a real part, but my hands were tied.”

“That’s good to hear.” I didn’t want to believe him, but like Tony, his sincerity polluted the air to such an extent that if I didn’t acknowledge it, I’d gag on the stuff. I chewed my lip and willed myself to remember Jayne’s face. “Unfortunately, I’m going to have to drop out of the show. I feel like I need to be doing something more substantial with my career.”

Peter pursed his lips and nodded. “I can understand why you might feel that way. So you’ve worked things out with your boardinghouse?”

My stomach churned. “Absolutely. They were very understanding.”

He glanced at his watch, then took stock of where we stood. “I was thinking about grabbing a drink. Would you care to join me?”

I couldn’t tell what his intentions were. Either he was determined to appease me so I wouldn’t go wagging my tongue about town, or he wanted to convince me to stay in the show. And while I may not have relished the idea of rehashing why he was wrong and I was right, I was curious to hear his reasoning.

Plus, I’m a sucker for a free drink.

“I could be persuaded,” I said.

We headed toward People’s Theatre and landed at John Kelly’s, a small corner Irish pub where a giant mutt of a bartender served one kind of beer and one kind of whiskey from casks that looked as if they’d come over on the boat with him. We sat at a table near the door, where we were blasted by frigid air every few minutes as patrons filed in and out.

The gin mill was dark to afford privacy to everyone in its confines. Unlike most such establishments, this one didn’t try to dress up what it was by displaying ethnic memorabilia and pithy sayings. Instead, its decor disappeared into dark wood and dim lighting as a reminder to us that someday we too would vanish. Its sole concessions to the war were a vase of miniature American flags set in the storefront window and a pho
tograph of FDR hanging above the bar. The air was heavy with smoke and body odor and the putrid combination of oil and gasoline that usually lined the nails of military mechanics. A phonograph whose speed needed to be adjusted played “In the Mood” much too slowly, stripping it of its merriment and turning it into a funeral dirge.

“Charming place,” I said.

“What it lacks in charm, it makes up for in potency.” Peter waved over the bartender and requested two mugs of beer. The man disappeared with a grunt, then installed himself behind the bar to portion out our drinks. He returned to us with both mugs in one hand and deposited them with a splash in the center of the table. Wasting no time on hospitality, he again disappeared.

“What if I wanted the whiskey?” I asked.

“Trust me,” said Peter. “You don’t.” He lifted his mug and we clinked cheap glass against cheap glass. I tossed back the giggle juice until my tongue loosened and my nerve thickened.

“So…,” I said. “How long have you known Ruby?”

“A few years. I stage-managed a show she was in.” Peter’s eyes glistened in the murky light and his mouth drew itself into a lazy line that seemed better acquainted with pitching woo than conversation.

“One of Lawrence Bentley’s?”

Headlights from a hack swinging past the bar window momentarily illuminated Peter’s face. “No, this was before Lawrence. In fact, this was before Ruby. She was working under her real name back then.” I was dying to know what ethnic monstrosity Ruby had been saddled with but knew now wasn’t the time to ask.

“So I take it if she changed her name, the show wasn’t a success?”

“Again, I commend you on your perception.” He toasted me and emptied his glass to the halfway mark. “The play was very good but not in demand. A little too experimental, I’m afraid. You probably haven’t even heard of the writer.”

My stomach clenched. “Try me.”

“Raymond Fielding.”

“Ah.” There he was again. “I’m familiar with him. In fact, I saw you.
At his wake.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you knew Raymond Fielding.”

I dropped my hands into my lap and twisted them into pretzels. “I didn’t. A friend of mine was a big fan of his work, so I tagged along. Did you know him?”

Peter shook his head no and tilted his glass so he could better see the remnants of his beer. “Not personally, though I did correspond with him for a time.”

“Is that why you decided to change to one of his plays?”

Surprise wiped the color from his face. “You’re the first cast member to figure that out.”

“Does that mean I win my part back?”

He ignored my joke and mopped the table with his coat sleeve. “I’m a tremendous fan of Fielding’s work. I did my dissertation on him and committed
On Theatre
to memory by the time I was eighteen.”

“So you were obsessed?”

He smiled. The wooden boy did have human feelings after all. “I prefer ‘preoccupied.’ Anyway, one day I got the nerve to write him and for several months we corresponded about his theories—or, rather, he expounded and I flattered. Eventually, the dialogue ended with the rejoinder that if I wanted to learn about theater, I’d be better off spending my time doing it than talking to some old theorist about his ideas. So I started stage-managing—his play was my first job—and once my feet were wet, I tried my hand at directing.” He finished his beer and stared into the mug as though mystified that it didn’t immediately refill itself.