Jimmy the Stick (13 page)

“Speaking of that, was Mr. Evans really naked?”

“As the day he was born. Not even socks and garters.”

“And he was
nailed
to a tree?”

I nodded and held my hands about six inches apart. “Nails about so long. They pulled 'em out with pliers.”

“Really?” Her eyes were wide with amazement.

“Really.” I gave her a few more of the details before we got down to business. When I showed her the rifle, she said, “That's a Winchester. My father has one, but his is different.”

“Then you're more familiar with it than me. Know how to load it?”I turned on the lights in the shooting range and clipped a fresh target onto the pulley. She fed the bullets smoothly into the rifle, cocked it, and said, “What do you want me to do?”

“Just shoot. This is a pistol range, so it won't be hard.”

She pulled the stock tight against her shoulder, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger. Both of us flinched at the first sharp report. The rifle kicked but she held it firmly, cocked, and fired again. I admired the strong set of her shoulders and the curve of her waist and hips, or what I could see of her beneath the heavy black dress.

When she'd finished, I hit the switch and the target whirred back. All eight rounds hit the target, most near the center.

“Do you want to try the pistol?”

She looked hesitant. “Yes, I suppose so.”

I gave her the Detective Special and showed her how to hold it. “Use your left hand to support your right. You sight it just like the rifle.” I put a fresh target on the pulley and ran the cardboard figure back.

Her aim wasn't as sure as before but she hit the target with all five shots. She said she was more comfortable with the rifle.

As I reloaded, I said, “If anything happens and we have to break out the guns, you try to stay with the kid. They seem to think that the library is the safest place in the house. If that's where you wind up, put him in the corner farthest from the door and shoot whoever comes through the door. Unless it's me.”

She smiled in a nice wicked way. “Oh, I know a better place to hide there.”

Upstairs in the library, she went straight to a corner section of the bookcase near the fireplace.“I found this the first time I cleaned in here,” she said, still smiling. “When the light hits the carpet in just the right spot, you can see the marks.”

She reached around a book to the back of the case. I heard a click and a section of shelves popped open. She tugged with both hands so that a part of the cabinet pivoted away from the wall, revealing a dark, narrow doorway. She scrunched her shoulders to get through. I followed.

She hit a switch and warm light filled the hidden room. The lampshade was made of ornate colored glass suspended from the ceiling above a threadbare tasseled armchair and a footstool. Beside the chair was a table with a clean ashtray and a yellowed stack of
Police Gazette
magazines. In a corner stood a small sink and toilet, along with a second table holding a humidor, a bottle of brandy, and a dusty glass. One wall was made of brick. It was the side of the fireplace and the chimney. Roughly built shelves held more magazines, books, and stacks of photographs.

I picked up one of the books. It was filled with tinted pictures of naked women, very nice naked women. “So this is Spence's little hideaway.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Mr. Spencer hardly ever uses the library. This was Mr. Pennyweight's room.”

We were close together in the small space. She didn't try to back away. I leaned closer and tried to peer into the shadows.

“You're right. This is the place to stash the boy if anybody tries anything.”

“Do you really think that's going to happen?” Her tone was serious, as was her face. I tried to concentrate but was sharply aware of her body.

“Hell, Spence has been gone less than twenty-four hours and somebody has tried to break into his house and somebody nailed one of his neighbors to a tree. Is there something else I should know?”

Her words came out rushed like she was afraid. “Something . . . something is wrong. I think I've known ever since I came here. It doesn't have anything to do with Lindbergh. It's just I'm worried and . . . something's wrong. I don't know what it is but . . . oh, forget it. I shouldn't have said anything.”

She'd chosen a good time and place to make her case, whatever it was. Standing there in front of me, so close, her eyes were even with mine. If I'd thought about it, I might have remembered that I'd just told Connie Halloran to move into the Chelsea. But I didn't think about it.

We went back into the library, and I heard a loud thump outside, then the slow, haunted opening trumpet notes of “Meet Me in the Shadows” echoing on an Electrola.

I told Connie Nix to stay put until I knew what was going on, checked the Detective Special in my coat pocket, and hurried out.

The front door was closed. The wide double doors at the other side of the hall were open, with weak light and music flickering through from the big ballroom. The part of the floor I could see was big black-and-white squares of polished marble. The light came from wall fixtures. There was a dark chandelier above, with no bulbs. The room would nicely suit a jazz band. I could imagine fancy parties with flappers, dowagers dripping with diamonds, and stout gents smoking expensive cigars—the moneyed men who rode the Millionaires' Express into the city.

More light shone from candles on a piano in a corner of the room where Flora and another young woman were dancing. A couple of chairs and a chaise were carelessly strewn about like they'd been taken from another room. A slim young guy in a blue blazer and baggy Valentino slacks had four cocktails on a tray. Another man, a big long-haired guy, almost fat but not quite, stood by the Electrola cabinet, sorting through discs. He'd dragged the big record player in from another room, banging it across the threshold. That was the thump I'd heard.

Flora's friend, Cameron Rivers, was dressed as a man in a black-and-white striped jersey, tight black pants, and a beret over marcelled black hair. Flora wore a long yellow dress, slit up one leg past the knee, with a matching open jacket. The two women were doing a French Apache number. Even though Cameron was shorter, she whipped Flora around with exaggerated violence. She threw the other girl to her knees, grabbed her hair to pull her back, entwining their legs, and then flinging her away again. Both were breathing hard but seemed to be having a hell of a good time.

Something similar happened at my place one night when some guy started playing a squeezebox and two half-plastered women tangoed to the music. I remembered how the guys in the crowd got real quiet and intense as they held each other close. The women wanted attention and they got it. We had a couple of fights before closing that night. You run a speak, you see things like that.

Flora and her friend circled each other only to fall into a spinning embrace. The smaller woman grabbed Flora's head with both hands, pulling her into a slow open-mouthed kiss. They broke apart, staring at me as I approached, the sound of my cane on the marble floor muffled by its rubber tip.

All four in the group stared silently at me. The bigger guy had a football player's build, with wide shoulders that strained his jacket. Even loosened, his tie looked like it was too tight around his thick neck. He glared at me. The second man wasn't as large, with glistening fair hair and a dewy mustache. He passed the cocktails to the others. Both guys were familiar.

Several liquor and champagne bottles were scattered around the end of the hall. Remembering the ones I saw in Flora's room, I figured this group had been sucking it up all afternoon. The heavyset guy moved directly behind Flora, his hand resting on her shoulder. The smaller one drained his drink, fished out a cherry and chewed it. “You see, Cousin Titus, I told you it was him. I'll wager he doesn't even remember us.” He had a mush-mouthed Southern accent.

Cousin Titus stepped away from Flora. He had a nasty look on his face. What the hell was going on? Flora's friend Cameron Rivers whispered in her ear, and they smiled at their shared secret. Flora's eyes were bright—too bright, I thought—and her lipstick was smudged. Her mother was right. The fear of kidnappers had been forgotten.

“We're looking for more champagne,” Cameron Rivers said with a put-on British accent. “You're a bootlegger. You must know where it is. Teddy . . . that's Teddy over there. Teddy says that Walter keeps the best bottles in the butler's pantry. I think that's ridiculous. What do you think?”

I switched my cane to my right hand and leaned on it. Something phony was going on.

Teddy put an arm around Cameron Rivers's shoulder. “You don't remember us, do you, Quinn?”

The big one tried to look tough.

“Refresh my memory. Have you been in my place?”

Teddy said, “That's right. You threw us out over a silly little misunderstanding.”

“I've thrown a lot of people out of my speak. I don't remember all of them.”

Titus bunched his shoulders. “It wasn't right. I don't get thrown out of dumps like some common field nigger. I sit with Chink Sherman at the Swanee. Owney Madden saves his best table at the Cotton Club for me. It wasn't right what you did.”

He was even more mush-mouthed than Teddy.

Teddy said, “I think he should apologize,” walking quickly behind me so he stood between me and the door.

“An apology? That's what you're looking for?”

“No, I don't need no fucking apology. I just want a fair fight.” Titus pulled off his jacket to reveal a shirt that was even tighter across his chest and shoulders.

I slipped my free hand into my pocket and strolled over to them. Flora looked hopeful, expectant, still flushed from her wild dance.

That's when I remembered them. “You're the assholes who were in blackface,” I said, and the big guy got even angrier.

“That's why I didn't recognize you,” I said. “You're Yale men, aren't you? Or you were. They kicked you out. It was a Friday night. You sang a song, something about the good times you had at a lynching. It was supposed to be funny, and that's when the trouble started. We told you to pipe down and then you”—I pointed my cane at Titus—“you tried to manhandle the cigarette girl.” Connie was there that night. That's how it started.

“She was just a whore,” Titus muttered. “And then the bartender sucker-punched me. None of you could have taken me man-to-man, not in a fair fight.”

I ambled closer and said, “Now you want . . .”

“A fair fi—”

I smacked him in the mouth with the brass knucks. Blood and teeth sprayed out. I came in as fast as I could and hit him again under his right eye. Choking up on the cane, I got him twice across the forehead and split the skin. More blood flowed into his eyes as he staggered backward. I shoved the big lug over a chair. He went down hard. His head cracked on the marble floor, and he stayed there.

I turned around and, sure enough, there was Teddy holding a champagne bottle by the neck. He danced in, nimble and light, and snapped the bottle at my face. He was fast, I'll give him that.

He connected, but he was so intent on bouncing out of range that the blow didn't really hurt. I still saw sparkles and stars, and lost my balance for a brief moment.

Teddy weaved from side to side, zipping in for another shot that came up short. I brought the cane tip in front of his face. The Detective Special was still in my pocket, but I knew if I pulled it out, I'd kill him. And I didn't want to do that. He wasn't threatening Spence's kid, and dealing with a body would be complicated.

So I moved in slowly, keeping my weight on my good leg. I feinted low with the cane, and when Teddy dropped his guard, I jabbed him hard in the throat. He gasped, dropping the bottle as he staggered back. I closed in with the knucks to his breadbasket. Three fast shots took the starch out of him. When he bent over, I straightened him with an upper cut and caught him again with the stick. That put him facedown on the marble floor.

It took a moment for the excitement to calm down. I felt it every time I had to get rough but took no pleasure from it. It's bad business to beat up your clientele, but then, they were assholes, so that made it kind of satisfying.

The women had been perched on the chaise. As soon as they realized that the rough stuff was over, they bounced up, jazzed by the action. I'd seen the same thing before. The girls pretended not to like it when boys mixed it up. But they caused most of the fights, and they enjoyed what came after. Flora tried to get the big guy to his feet, but he wasn't moving.

I slipped off the knucks and flexed my fingers. Everything was fine, but the big guy had gotten some blood on my sleeve and lapel—dammit.

Dr. Cloninger's ambulance arrived eight minutes after I called. Nervous attendants scurried in with two canvas stretchers. Cloninger followed slowly, hands deep in his overcoat pockets.

The attendants struggled to get Titus's bulk strapped onto a stretcher. The right side of his face had swollen to the size and color of a grapefruit. The doctor strolled around the big hall, looking up at the dark chandelier.

“It's been years since I was in this room,” he said. “I'd almost forgotten how grand it looks. A pity there's so little need for it now.”

He turned to me. “You have had a busy day, Mr. Quinn. First Mr. Evans and now these two unfortunate young men.”

I ignored the doctor's suggestion that I'd plugged Evans and asked how the half-frozen naked guy was doing.

“I predict he will make a full recovery. The cold kept him alive, you know. It slowed down the body's many functions. The wound itself was neither deep nor serious.”

“You got the slug out of him then. What caliber?”

“Oh, I'm afraid I know nothing about firearms, but it was very small.” He held two fingers close together.