The Yankee Club (15 page)

He studied me a moment then gestured toward an empty table.

I sat across from him and braced for more questions.

He smoothed his silver hair. “My wife and daughter speak highly of you. I should trust their judgment.”

“I’m fond of both of them, but if I gave your daughter the wrong impression—”

“In my day women waited for the man to make the first move. Nowadays, women drink and smoke. If they’re attracted to a man, they’re not shy about letting him know.” He gazed toward the French doors. “Dorothy is a woman, isn’t she?”

I nodded.

“That takes some getting used to.” He removed a leather wallet from his suit coat pocket. He flipped through several pictures and showed me a photo of Dorothy, at perhaps eleven, with a small horse. “It seems like only yesterday all she wanted in life was a pony.” He stuffed the wallet into his suit coat, and the war hero with the granite-jaw look returned. “I’m a foolish old
man. Perhaps we should change the subject.”

A terrific idea.

“What did you do in the war, Mr. Donovan?”

The question took my mind from his daughter and my concern for Laura. Memories drifted back to the worst part of my life. I experienced up close the effects of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. The experience changed me forever. Viewing so much senseless death ruined people or made them appreciate life. “I drove an ambulance. Our paths may have crossed in the Second Battle of the Marne.”

“Twelve thousand American casualties in one battle. We kept ambulance drivers busy, I’m sorry to say.”

I’d heard countless stories about Greenwoody’s heroism under fire. Well-deserved medals and parades greeted his return. Like the public, I admired him in 1918 and still did. “You were wounded twice but refused to leave your post.”

He held up one hand. “Please. That, too, is in the past. Greater challenges confront our present and the future.” The general appeared to have gotten over his disapproval of me. “Please forgive my insinuations earlier.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“I’d like to make it up to you. I’m having dinner with my wife and Dorothy at The Diamond House tomorrow night. Please join us, Mr. Donovan. Eight o’clock?”

I might learn what Greenwoody thought about the present and the future. Perhaps I’d discover his ties to Spencer Dalrymple. “It would be an honor, but call me Jake.”

His eyes widened as he gazed over my shoulder.

I glanced behind me. Karl Friedman stood beside the stairway leading to the garden, smoking a cigarette. His narrow-eyed rigid exterior looked more like a military officer than a baron. He nodded toward Greenwoody, as if giving a silent command, then made his way down the stairs to the garden.

Until now Greenwoody’s commanding presence reinforced every story I’d ever heard about his valor and heroism. Acting more like a dutiful subordinate than a powerful general, he rose and shook my hand. His grip didn’t feel as strong as the first time we met. “I have to get back to the party.”

Chapter 9
She Had Me in Stitches

Laura’s safety, more than my concern about her engagement to Spencer Dalrymple III, kept me awake most of the night. I finally grew drowsy as a sliver of dawn sliced through the hotel curtains and crept along the carpet. Sleep came, and I dreamed of the day I decided to leave the city and Laura for good.

We rode to the top of the Empire State Building, completed in a little more than one year. The building was a success story towering triumphantly over New York, just like Laura’s career.

On the observation deck, children and most adults hesitated to walk to the edge of the building, but Laura ran to the railing. She thrust both hands skyward, as if standing on top of the world.

With the ring carefully tucked away in my pocket, I stood beside her. The blue-sky spring morning offered hope that this time Laura would say yes. We gazed over the city we knew so well. Her face flushed with joy. She’d never looked happier. I’d picked the perfect day.

A redheaded girl in pigtails ran up and held out a pencil and slip of paper. She asked for an autograph. Laura wrote her name and chatted with the girl.

In my dream, my father materialized beside me. Tough and broad shouldered, with the familiar boxing scars around his black eyebrows I remembered as a kid, not the emaciated stick figure he became at the end. “Don’t do it, son. She’s not ready.”

Laura wasn’t ready for marriage when we graduated from high school, the day I left for Europe, or when I returned. She wasn’t ready the day Empire Publishing released my first novel,
Blackie Doyle
. “Pop, if she’s not ready now, she never will be.”

He shrugged and ruffled my hair like always. “I was wrong about a lot of things. Like you enlisting in the army, joining the Pinkertons, becoming a writer. Maybe I’m all wet about this.”

My father’s image shimmered. In his place stood Mickey, in a sun-bleached Yankees cap. He scratched the stubble on his chin. “You’re being selfish.”

“Selfish?”

“You and Laura have more than any couple I’ve ever met. Successful careers. Plenty of
dough. Most important, you have each other. Keep the ring in your pocket or you’ll ruin it all.”

“Mickey, I just want …” I wanted Laura forever and ever, a life like my parents had before mom died and my sisters moved away, leaving Pop and me alone.

“You’re a writer. You want to live happily ever after. Life ain’t like that.” Mickey dissolved into a soundless cloud of vapor.

The little girl skipped away, clutching the autograph.

I pulled the ring box from my pocket and knelt on one knee. Two dozen people stopped what they were doing and watched.

Joy drained from Laura’s face. “Don’t do this.”

Her responses to my previous proposals were always the same. We didn’t need to get married. Our careers were just getting started. She couldn’t bear it if I turned out like her old man.

I wasn’t him I’d say, and around it went.

“This isn’t fair.”

“Laura, will you marry me?”

Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I love you, Jake, but …” She turned her back to me.

I rose and walked her away from our audience. “We talked about marriage and honeymooning in Florida where I could work on my novel.”

“Talking about getting married isn’t the same as deciding to do it. Maybe one day I’ll feel differently.”

The dream vanished. I stared at the hotel ceiling, remembering the shock on an old lady’s face outside the Empire State Building when I handed her Laura’s ring and climbed into a cab. A week later I was on a train for Florida.

On the train south I told myself Laura wanted the fame, glamour, and glitz of Broadway, rather than me. That wasn’t true, but it helped me deal with the sting of my latest and last rejection.

I spent the first six months in Tampa sampling dames and bootleg liquor. Neither helped me forget Laura.

I returned to my half-written novel. A nonstop weekend of writing broke through my writer’s block like Mildred said it would. For the next eighteen months writing kept me from thinking about my life in the Big Apple and the pain I caused Laura.

I pictured the joy on Laura’s face before I proposed atop the Empire State Building. Since my return to the city, she’d displayed pain over Mickey’s death, worry over the bullet in my leg, and fear as I held the dagger to Stoddard’s throat. I hadn’t seen joy on her face since that day I proposed.

A knock sounded at the hotel door. I eased my injured leg over the side of the bed. The pain of my stitched exit wound on the top of my thigh ached as I grabbed the cane and slipped into my robe.

When I opened the door, Frankie stepped into the suite, his face pale, his eyes bloodshot. He looked like it hurt to blink. “I’ve got a hangover bigger than Mae West’s tits.”

I rubbed my throbbing leg and closed the door.

Frankie slumped down in a chair at the table and pressed his palms against his forehead. “Edith’s not talking to me.” He glanced up. “That’s not a bad thing.”

I grabbed the suit coat that I’d tossed on a living room chair and removed my wallet. I’d thrown my lot in with Stoddard and Laura, but Frankie hadn’t. Being my driver was about to get more dangerous. With Dalrymple’s financial squeeze, I hadn’t yet run out of cash, but I couldn’t take advantage of Frankie. I held out a fifty.

He stared at the bill. “What’s that for? Another tip?”

“I lowballed you. I underestimated how dangerous being my driver might be.”

“A couple hours after I picked you up at the station, I got in a shootout with gangsters.” Frankie chuckled. “Put your dough away. I knew what I was getting into.”

We both glanced toward the door as someone inserted a key. The doorknob turned. Too early for room service. Frankie drew his revolver as the door opened.

Belle entered. Where did she get a key to my room?

Still a brunette, she wore a green flowered dress and far less makeup than the night we first met. Belle smirked. “You gonna shoot me, Frankie?”

He stuffed the gun inside his suit coat and stared as if he barely recognized her. “Belle?” Frankie massaged his temples. “She has a key to your room.”

Belle winked. “I did the desk clerk a favor.”

I doubled over with laughter, and pain shot through my leg. I slumped down in a chair next to the table.

Frankie panicked like my water had just broke. “You okay? Can I get you anything?”

Trying not to reveal too much of my leg to Belle, I lifted up the edge of my robe and inspected the stitches in my upper thigh. Had I waited too long to get them removed? The threads were hard and brittle and growing into tender flesh. From my army ambulance days, I could tell they had to be removed, or I risked infection. “My stitches have to come out.”

Frankie took a look and sucked in a hiss. “That’s going to hurt like a son of a bitch.”

I couldn’t go back to the hospital. “I’ll call the front desk. Maybe they can find a doc who can—”

“I’m almost as skilled at removing stitches as … never mind.” Belle pulled a tan satchel from her purse. “My manicure set’s got these little scissors and tweezers. I’ll have you good as
new in no time.”

Frankie nodded. “Belle used to be a nurse.”

She laughed so hard she almost dropped the manicure kit. “That was just a nurse’s uniform I wore for a certain customer.” She walked to my chair. “My old man and five brothers got in enough barroom brawls that I learned basic medicine by the time I was ten. I’ve removed plenty of stitches, even a bullet. Let me take a gander. Come on, don’t be shy.”

I wasn’t enthusiastic about Belle getting close to my upper thigh, but once the stitches were removed I’d be able to move around better and wouldn’t feel so helpless and dependent on Frankie. I might be able to drive in a couple of days. I lifted the edge of the robe enough to reveal the six stitches to Belle.

Belle shook her head. “It’s a little infected.” She held out a hand to Frankie. “Baby, get me a warm moist towel, will ya?”

Frankie hurried into the bathroom. He returned and set the towel on the floor beside her.

Belle tugged the edge of the robe from my thigh. “You think I ain’t never seen a man’s drawers before?”

I covered myself as best I could.

Belle removed tiny scissors from the bag. She knelt in front of the chair and pushed my knees apart. She leaned over my lap and touched the stitches with a flick of a red fingernail. “This might sting a bit.”

With his back to the door, Frankie snorted laughter.

Belle snipped the first stitch. “What’s so funny, Frankie?”

“From my angle, Belle looks like she might be performing a service that usually costs a customer a fin.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter.” Belle winked at me. “And it’s a sawbuck these days.”

“A sawbuck?” Frankie let out a low whistle. “A price increase to ten bucks is a sign the depression’s bottomed out.”

She snipped each of the stitches then removed tweezers from the bag. My fingers dug into the arms of the chair as she tugged out the first thread. She dropped the stitching into an ashtray and patted a drop of blood with the towel. “Men are such babies. It don’t hurt.”

Frankie covered his mouth and backed to the wall. I remembered the night of the shooting when he couldn’t take the sight of blood.

Belle continued to pull out the stitches and blot drops of blood. With two remaining, someone knocked on the door. Stoddard.

Before I could stop him, Frankie opened the door.

“Mr. Donovan is expecting me.” Landon Stoddard glanced at me over Frankie’s shoulder. He stepped into the room as Belle removed the fifth stitch.

“Son of a bitch.” That one hurt the most.

Stoddard frowned. “Apparently you weren’t expecting me so early.”

Someone else stood behind Stoddard, but I couldn’t see enough to tell who it was.

Frankie stepped back and let Laura in.

I couldn’t let Laura see Belle on her knees in front of me with her head hovering over my lap. “I’ll finish myself.” I struggled to stand.

Belle slapped my leg. “Hold still, we’re almost there.”

Laura stood beside Stoddard, eyes unblinking.

While Belle finished up, Frankie closed the door. He snorted with laughter as he gazed between the stunned faces of Stoddard and Laura focused on Belle leaning over my lap. “I know. I thought the same thing.”

Before I could explain, Belle removed the last stitch. I squeezed the chair arms and clenched my jaw as the thread caught on my tender flesh. “Damn.”

Belle grabbed the warm cloth from the floor and pressed it against the incision. “I told you I knew what I was doing. Normally I charge five bucks, but this one’s on the house.”

Laura’s glare shot across the room and hit me between the eyes.

After patting my thigh, Belle got to her feet. She held her hand out to Laura. “I’m Belle Starr.”

Laura’s face showed imagination at work as she stared at the offered hand.

Belle laughed and wiped her hand on her dress. “You got this all wrong.” She pointed to the threads in the ashtray. “I removed Jake’s stitches.”

Laura scowled at me then shook Belle’s hand with a sisterly smile. “Of course you did.”