Lipstick and Lies (11 page)

Chapter Eight

The Horseshoe’s interior was cramped and dimly lit and thick with smoke. Round tables tightly packed with seated patrons formed a random pattern across a wood plank floor strewn with sawdust. Mixed in with the pungent smells of smoldering cigars and cigarettes were the yeasty smells of spilled whiskey and beer.

We pushed through the crowd, my trusty nostrils picking up a spritz or two of cheap perfume along the way. At last we arrived at a long bar with a brass railing. Across the room, an ensemble of musicians in rumpled, gangster-style, pin-striped suits performed on a small stage. The trumpet player, a short man with soft features and cheeks that ballooned when he played, began a serpentine performance of flaring solos. I gawked, mesmerized by the irregular stop-and-start flights of invention. Dante gestured to a vacant stool. Still absorbed in the irregular sounds, moving at a whirlwind pace, I hoisted myself up backwards onto the seat while my neighbor, an elderly Negro, hitched his stool sideways, creating a slot between us. Dante eased into the space and the two men greeted one another with mumbled, “Hey, how ya doins,” and a few other pleasantries, suggesting they knew one another.

The older man had a wide nose, close-cropped, fuzzy salt-and-pepper hair, and a white stubble beard that stood out like spilled sugar against his dark, mahogany skin. He slipped his elbows onto the bar’s railing, resting with his back propped against it and keeping his head half-turned, facing Dante, as they spoke.

Dante noticed my interest in his friend and introduced us over the driving sounds. “Leo meet Pucci. Pucci, Leo.”

Connelly and Dante had discussed a “Leo” back at FBI headquarters. This must be him.

Leo’s wiry hair glistened with pomade. He grinned, showing large white teeth, and pointed to his shiny coif. “Your ‘do,’ girl. It’s go-ood, know what I mean? You got inventee goin’ and that be go-ood.”

He thought my haircut was original, I guessed. I took it as the compliment I thought it was meant to be and thanked him.

A bartender with a missing front tooth ambled over. Dante ordered a Vernor’s ginger ale. On-duty FBI agents did not drink alcohol, but as an independent who had spent her afternoon sipping tea from a porcelain cup, I figured I deserved something with a kick. “Tanqueray martini, up, extra olive.”

The olives were sustenance. I munched on them, then sipped my drink before turning to face the band again. On stage, the musicians were awash in the muted blue light projecting from colored spots on the ceiling. Three performers wailed on bass, alto sax, and trumpet while the fourth, hunched over a piano, raced his fingers over its keys. Dante had been right. Be-bop was like nothing I had heard before. The harmonies, melodies, and rhythms, all playing off one another, created an innovative, energizing resonance. Before I knew it, be-bop was inside me. My entire body swayed with the beat and my foot, resting on the base of my stool, tapped the metal rim.

Dante and I were wedged together. So closely that we moved from side to side, like a couple dancing. After a while, my partner added a subtle bouncing movement to our synchronized performance. I glanced down. Special Agent Dante was shuffling his feet, moving them in restrained, semi-tap steps. My gaze returned to his face. Lost in the moment, his eyes were closed, his thick lashes hovering dreamily over his slightly full cheeks.

Sensing my stare, he opened his eyelids lazily and smiled. Then, as if returning from wherever it was that he had been, he stiffened, suddenly self-conscious.

He had shown me an unexpected side. And I loved it. I smiled warmly, hoping to convey my unspoken approval.

“You’re supposed to be watching the band,” he whispered, his breath tickling my ear.

My hand was at my side. He reached for it, squeezing it in what I thought was a friendly gesture. But then he didn’t let go. I felt his fingers thread through mine. Our palms touched and I sensed the heat of his flesh. I looked up and caught his questioning glance. Rather than object, I smiled, tightening my grip.

Our hands linked between us, we turned our attention back to the stage. Moments later, the musicians finished their set and Dante released my hand so we could join the rip-roaring round of applause that continued until the band left the stage to take a break.

The three of us, Dante, Leo, and I, swiveled to face the bar. I nibbled nuts from a dish, sipping the last of my martini, while the two men spoke to one another in low tones.

“What’s goin’ down here tonight, Pops?” Dante asked.

“Place is movin’, you know, you know what I mean? Won’t stop, gonna keep swingin’ all night long. You know what that means, you know. We’ll get a whole mix here, comin’ and goin’, all the dolls, all the gamblers and all the pimps. And that means likely we’re gonna get trouble goin’ here, too, you see. So I gotta watch the joint, watch the cats, watch what’s goin’ down. The gal you been wantin’ to know about, havin’ the bash few years back, she wasn’t watchin’ the comin’s and goin’s, is all. Look what happened. Bad rap.”

I leaned in closer to Dante. Was Leo on drugs? Was he talking in code?

Dante’s practiced eye had been scrutinizing the room while he was listening to Leo. He whispered something to which Leo replied, “Uh-huh, want me seein’ red now is what you want. I’m seein’ another bad rap comin’, you know what I mean, you know?” Dante grunted and reached inside his suit. “Here you go, Pops. It’s all set. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

Anyone else at the bar would have missed it, but alerted by their cryptic exchange, I caught the slight movement as Dante removed an envelope from his pocket. Leo palmed it.

The bar area was bathed in a red glow. Leo’s unbuttoned sport coat hung loosely around him. The jacket was black but the fabric had a sheen. It shimmered, reflecting a glint of crimson as he pocketed what Dante had slipped him.

Dante gave Leo’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, then cupped his hand lightly around my elbow. “Time to go,” he whispered, his lips brushing my ear.

At the warmth of his breath, I felt a rush of tiny shivers. I slipped off my stool, conscious of feeling pleasantly weak, especially in the knees.

Prof the Bouncer was holding up the wall beside the door as we left. We exchanged nods and walked back to the car in silence. The night air was cool and with a light tug of my elbow, Dante pulled me close. I smiled up at him without objecting.

“Have the impression you would have liked to stay longer,” I said. “For the music? For passing more envelopes?”

His eyebrows angled up and he grinned. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

The windshield had fogged over. He flipped the defroster to full blast and we remained at the curb for a moment, waiting for it to clear.

“They seemed to know you pretty well in there,” I prompted again. “Especially Leo. You called him Pops.”

A small, nostalgic smile crossed his lips. “Leo and I go way back. He knew my dad. He also helps out sometimes in this part of town. We’re not just rounding up enemy aliens these days, you know. Federal bank robberies, kidnappings, extortions, we handle all those investigations. We’re also tracking down draft dodgers.”

Was he playing the artful dodger himself? I tried a different tack. “So Leo’s an informant?”

He shrugged. “Like I said, he helps us out. He’s also part owner of the club.”

Dante nosed out into the flow of traffic. “Enough about work. We were going to forget all that for a while, remember?” He glanced over. “What about the music? Did you like it?”

“Loved it. Thanks for taking me.”

“I have some 78s I think you’d dig, too. Billie Holiday, know her?”

Billie Workaday, the other Billie I’d recently met in jail, flashed to mind. But I sensed where the G-man might be heading. My eyes met his. “Doesn’t everyone? She’s one of my favorites.”

Dante’s loosely noosed tie had slipped sideways. He centered it. “Say, I have an idea. How about having dinner at my apartment? Mrs. S brought me some manicotti last night, her specialty. What do you say?”

Dinner at his place was a bold move considering the brief time we’d known one another. If I agreed, would he think I was fast? And what about my professional status? Would it suffer? “Mrs. S?” I asked, buying time.

“Mrs. Sarvello. She’s my landlady, a family friend. Don’t worry,” he chuckled. “Mrs. S lives below me and likes to amuse herself by monitoring what goes on upstairs. Besides, there’s Connelly’s call. It’s important. You should be there, too. How about it?”

For a moment, I’d thought his reason for inviting me to his apartment involved seduction. Now he had flipped the work light back on. I smiled. Who cared? Work or romance, I was looking forward to some alone time with him. “Of course, let’s do it. Sounds nice.”

The traffic unsnarled. Dante gunned it. The chain, looped around the mirror, swayed madly. I reached for the medals and caught them.

“This horseshoe charm, is it special?” I asked, culling out the smaller one.

“My dad’s. His legacy. Has to do with being a fan of the racetrack.”

“Ah, I remember,” I said, envisioning the framed photograph I’d seen on my recent visit to his office. “Your dad was in that picture of your graduation from the academy.”

“No, that’s my stepdad. My real father, owner of that medallion, died when I was twelve.”

“I’m sorry.”

He looked over, his eyes dark and soulful. “I’m sorry for you, too. You lost your mother when you were just ten.”

I was stunned into silence.

I had begun processing how Dante knew about the tragedy—my dossier, of course—when in my mind’s eye the horrifying scene flashed before me: Mother in the choir loft, her back to me, directing the singers, while several pews over in the church nave below, I sat with my journal, filling its pages with a tall tale lifted from the scene depicted in a nearby stained glass window. Something, perhaps the snap of the railing Mother had been leaning against, caused me to turn and look up. What I saw, no child—
no one
—should ever see. Arms flailing, screaming, she plunged backwards through the void until, with two unforgettable thunderous thwacks, her body cracked against the unforgiving curves and edges of the wooden pews, hemorrhaging and breaking, irreparably.

Pure quiet. Then screams. Sobs. Pounding footsteps.

I took a breath, pushed down the images. “The tear in your heart never mends, does it?”

Dante smiled sadly. “I’ve been blessed, though, with my stepdad,” he said softly. “He’s laid down some solid footprints for me to follow. And he’s good to Mom.”

We were motoring through a commercial section along Gratiot Avenue. Dante’s real father, Aldo, the son of Italian immigrants, had been a waiter at a number of neighborhood restaurants in the area and Dante pointed out a few of them. We covered several more blocks of low-rise brick and cement buildings as he continued talking about the past.

At the heart of the account was Aldo’s weakness for gambling. He liked to wager his earnings at the track, and the battle over his losses was a constant between Dante’s parents. He rubbed the small scar on his eyebrow and confessed that during one heated argument, when Dante had tried to prevent his dad from leaving home, the proceeds of his cashed paycheck on him, his dad had shoved him away. Dante had fallen, his forehead splitting against the radiator.

Besides creating a strain on his family life, Aldo’s habit led him to rack up a huge debt with the Purple Gang, the gangsters who had operated in Detroit during Prohibition. Kiki Barclay-Bly and her association with the Purples had been a misstep that changed her life forever. I sensed Aldo had suffered a similar fate and that I was about to hear the high point of the story when Dante swung the Ford down a street lined with towering elms. Tall, two-story frame houses stood behind tidy square lawns set back from the street. Dante’s candor was flattering, and I had been listening, enraptured. I was crushed when he pulled over, shut off the engine, and fell into silence.

I regarded the house we had stopped in front of. An amber glow behind shades covering high narrow windows beckoned invitingly.

I turned and met Dante’s tender gaze. “Let’s go inside,” he said, finally.

Chapter Nine

To avoid disturbing his landlady, Dante and I crept up the driveway, eventually reaching the back of the house where an exterior staircase rose to the second floor.

In front, the windows had glowed warmly with interior light, but in back it was completely dark except for one dimly lit shade behind the stairs. The wooden steps, a little rickety, creaked under our feet. A shadow moved behind the shade. Grabbing Dante’s arm, I gestured to it. We stared as an elongated pyramid of light slowly revealed itself along one edge.

Mrs. Sarvello did not show herself, but she was there. Like a couple of teens late for curfew, we scurried upstairs and burst through the door at the top.

Dante flipped a switch. “Told you she kept an eye on me.” He grinned.

I laughed softly. “The moving shade, the sliver of light…not very subtle, is she?”

We had entered through the kitchen. Dante removed an oblong Pyrex dish from the icebox. “Manicotti,” he announced, stripping off the foil cover, setting the dish on the counter. Two rows of ricotta-stuffed pasta, packed tighter than a school of herrings in heat, were wedged inside the dish.

Dante looked at me. “You okay?”

I was, but I wasn’t. We were alone in his apartment. He was preparing a late-night meal. We would be spending the next couple of hours eating and talking. I was nervous. I was also excited.

“Um-m, I’m fine. Thanks.” I smiled and drifted over to the counter opposite him. Another of Mrs. Sarvello’s creations, a layered chocolate-iced cake, beckoned from under a glass cover. There was a note tucked under the cover’s edge.
Heard the tapping last night. Thought extra cheer was in order. Fondly, Mrs. S.
“Did you see this?” I asked.

The oven door closed with a clunk. Dante walked over. He patted his stomach. “Dessert, too. When will she stop?” He noticed the note, scanned it, and stuck it behind a toaster fitted with a checkered cover. “C’mon, I’ll show you around.”

The comfortably cluttered living room reminded me of my Gran Skjold’s. An overstuffed, moss-green sofa was pushed against a wall. Side tables, holding fringe-shaded lamps, flanked its sides. An inviting leather club chair with a footstool was angled nearby, a floor lamp with a graceful shade of mauve silk next to it. Light hardwood covered the floor. I was certain the braided rugs and lace curtains were Mrs. Sarvello’s even before Dante, a little sheepishly, confided she’d taken over the decorating.

A small wooden dining table with two chairs filled the nook to our right. Dante went to a cabinet and swept out a lace tablecloth. Shaking it once, hard, he let it billow and drop, like a parachute, over the table. Almost before it had touched down, cloth napkins, silver candleholders, and white candles were arranged on top.

“Ooops,” he said, crossing the room. “Music.”

A wood-grained cabinet housed a Philco floor-radio and a hidden interior phonograph compartment. An adjacent wall unit held Dante’s album collection. While he flipped through slim boxes containing the albums, I drifted to a cluster of silver-framed photographs on one of the tables beside the sofa.

A headshot of an attractive woman with dark hair, sparkling eyes, and a beautiful mouth caught my eye first. The woman’s mouth, though slightly fuller, was so much like Dante’s I assumed she must be his mother. Next, I reached for a framed crayon drawing, lifting it to get a closer look. In the sketch, three stick-figures danced upon a stage. The smallest shape was a girl with a mane of long black curls. She wore a triangular-shaped yellow skirt and danced between two men in straight-legged, purple pants. The men both had dark curls, like the little girl’s, but theirs were close-cropped. The drawing was primitive, but from their position and the oversized shoes the threesome appeared to be tap-dancing.

In a sidelong glance, I saw Dante open the tilt-front panel of the cabinet. He placed a 78 on the turntable and gingerly lowered the needle. A haunting melody filled the room. Orchestra sounds quickly faded to background as a sultry woman’s voice joined in with lyrics. The music, a sharp change from what we’d heard at the Horseshoe Club, was mellow and romantic.

I looked up at him with a smile. “Who did this?”

“Sophie. My half-sister. She’s a teen now. Lives just down the block from here with Mom and her dad, my stepdad, Jimmy Galvin.”

Dante took the drawing. Angling it to catch the light, he dabbed a small speck of dust from the glass. “She was just six when she drew this.”

My FBI boss was a true family man. And how endearing that he cared so deeply for his little sister. “That’s you with her, right? Who’s the other figure? Why are you all dancing?”

He smiled. “That’s Leo.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. Leo was a big part of my childhood. He and my father met at Ford Motor Company during one of Dad’s many short-lived attempts at making an honest buck. Wasn’t long, though, before the two of them were boozing together, gambling together, kissing away a lot of money they didn’t have together.”

He placed Sophie’s sketch on the crowded table and picked up the framed snapshot next to it. “Leo and his bride came all the way from Mississippi to find work in the plants. Housing was scarce. Dad pitched in, helped them build this, shortly after they arrived.”

He handed me the photo. The image was faded and cracked, but it was of two men, one Negro, one white. Dante’s natural father, Aldo, had wavy dark hair and thick-lashed eyes, like his son. Next to him, I recognized a more youthful Leo. The bond between the two was obvious. They stood before a shed-like shelter resembling a large chicken coop, their arms linked at the elbows, their faces relaxed and smiling. The metal end of a hammer protruded from Leo’s pocket; Aldo’s free hand held a leveling tool.

“In the car you said your father got mixed up with the Purples. And Leo? Did he get sucked in, too?”

“No. That was the sad thing. Leo didn’t know Dad had taken that turn until one night he got word of a party at Kiki Barclay-Bly’s apartment. Hearing Dad was there, Leo followed. Saw him talking with a thug. Found out he was a Purple.” Dante took the frame from me and returned it to the table. “Actually, the Purple was doing all the talking. Calling in Dad’s debt. Next morning, Dad was found floating in the Detroit river. Took a bullet through the head.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. Goose bumps rose across my shoulders. I hesitated, but had to ask. “And Kiki? You suspect she was criminally involved with the Purples? With your Dad’s death?”

His hand was still on the photo of the two men. Sighing softly, he released it. “I didn’t know Dad and Leo had been to her place the night of his murder until I pulled Barclay-Bly’s file. I cornered Leo. He told me about Dad’s connection to the Purples.” Dante smoothed his scarred brow with a fingertip. “I was getting stitches, he was bargaining with thugs. Leo also claimed Barclay-Bly didn’t know the gangsters were at her party that night. He stuck to the story even after I showed him the file photo of her with the two Purples.”

A segment of the jumbled talk between Leo and Dante at the Horseshoe Bar suddenly made sense. “In the bar, Leo referred to the gal havin’ the party a few years back. He said she wasn’t watching the comings and goings. He meant the Purples crashed her party, uninvited, right?”

Dante shrugged. “He claims he got separated from my dad. He was trying to find him again when he bumped into Kiki. She was concerned, wanted to help. All walks of people had been dropping in all night long. They covered the entire apartment together, questioning guests. Leo says she barely knew anyone by name. Absolutely had no inkling about the Purples.”

I read Dante’s face. “You think Leo missed something. What?”

“Call it a hunch. Back then she was partying with Purples, and now, more recently, she was caught rubbing elbows with another known criminal, the Countess. Seems incongruous with her current pose as the innocent society matron, doesn’t it?”

“Um-m,” I said vaguely. “But you’ve drawn Leo into the case. Why?”

Dante lifted an eyebrow. “What makes you think he’s involved?”

“The envelope, the banter at the bar…”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “For now, anything more about Leo’s role in all of this is probably best left unsaid.”

I looked at Sophie’s drawing. “Including the secret of why he’s in the picture, dancing with you and your sister?”

Dante laughed. “He teaches tap.”

“Leo was a tap-dance teacher?”

“Is. He taught tap in the South before he came to Detroit. Dad’s death hit him hard. He lost a best friend. Felt responsible for not keeping closer tabs, especially that last night at Kiki’s. Afterwards, he started watching over Mom and me. Eventually they became friends. He got straight because of Dad’s death. Started a neighborhood dance studio for kids and teens. Wanted to do some good.” Dante chuckled unexpectedly.

“What’s so funny?”

“Years later, Mom signed Sophie up for classes. But the distance and the neighborhood posed a problem. She needed someone to go with her.”

I smiled at the drawing. “And you got elected. You took lessons, too?”

He found a smudge mark on the table and rubbed it with his finger as if trying to lift it out. “I liked it. Plus, if you could have seen Sophie’s face when she saw me dancing, and the fun we all had…” He paused, his expression softening as if he could still picture her delighting in his performance.

His love for his sister was endearing. I touched his hand. A jolt of energy passed between us and a surge of something equally powerful that could burn me.

Dante expelled a deep sigh and the next thing I knew, I was in his arms. A pounding in my ears blocked out all distractions and heightened the sensation of his lips, those beautiful Michelangelo lips, caressing my ear.

A moan, more of a groan, invaded. “Damn!” A timer Dante had set in the kitchen was buzzing loudly. He disappeared into the kitchen. The buzzing stopped. I heard the oven door creak open, then snap closed. A delicious tomato-y scent wafted into the living room.

Dante returned and we settled into plump velvety cushions. He switched off the table lamp, leaving the mauve-shaded floor lamp, near the armchair, to cast the only remaining light in the room. Scuff marks on the floorboards near the dining nook that could only have been made by tap shoes caught the mauve glow. Was that what Mrs. Sarvello had meant about the tapping noise last night?

I felt the weight of his arm as it slipped around my shoulders. “Pucci…” he said, nuzzling close.

A raspy little voice inside my brain, the one that liked to offer an opinion at the most inconvenient of times, piped up.
Careful,
it warned in its grating whisper.
Things are moving fast, maybe too fast. You’ve only known him for a few days. A few hours, actually…

The pesky voice was right. I wasn’t a good judge of men. Two months ago, in Hollywood, on an unofficial mission, after flinging myself at Mr. Right, who later turned out to be a psychotic killer, definitely Mr. Wrong, I had vowed to be more cautious in the future. I turned, accepting Dante’s kiss with my cheek.

A second internal voice, the less conservative one I preferred, chided me.
This man is no maniac like the one you went gaga over in Hollywood,
it said melodiously, its tone sweet and caring.
He’s an FBI agent, a good Catholic, a good son, a good big brother, a good neighbor.

I faced Dante. Our lips touched and I felt a pleasant warmth spread through me. A telephone jangled in the kitchen. Sensing a sigh warm my neck, I was painfully aware that the feathery stream of air had not been intended to stimulate me.

Dante said, “I have to get it.”

Moments later, he was back. The caller had been Agent Connelly. Mrs. Blount, the wife of the murder victim, had been found. Alive.

“We’ve had someone watching her place here in the city,” Dante explained, his voice both relieved and excited. “She’s been at her sister’s farm. Just returned home about an hour ago and Connelly went there. She hadn’t heard about her husband’s death, so it was up to him to tell her. She fell to pieces.”

“She was at her sister’s place all this time? Isn’t that strange?”

Dante was suddenly keeping a more professional distance. He rearranged himself on the spongy cushions. “Blount was murdered around six a.m. Earlier, around five, a woman telephoned, identifying herself as her sister’s neighbor. The sister wanted Mrs. Blount to know that their mother, who lives with the sister, had suffered a stroke. She was needed directly.

“Mrs. Blount tried telephoning her sister to confirm the news, but couldn’t get through. So she hopped in the car and raced to the sister’s home in the country. To find that her mother was not ill after all. Greatly relieved, she tried to crack the mystery of the misleading call. She drove to the neighbors but they were clueless.”

“Of course. It wasn’t a neighbor who called. It was someone involved in the spy ring.”

“Possibly.”

“It’s also possible Mrs. Blount fabricated the cry for help.”

Dante lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Not likely. She was en route to her sister’s at the time of the murder. It was long drive and with the fuel shortages, she decided to prolong the visit, stay all night. Our men are checking her alibi, of course, but it appears solid.”

“You said she didn’t know her husband was dead. That’s a bit odd, isn’t it? Why didn’t she try calling him before rushing off?”

“She did. But her husband was out on rounds.”

“Then why not ring him again, from her sister’s? Especially after deciding to stay over?”

“The phones were out, remember?” Dante wedged a finger inside his collar and scratched his neck. “Besides, she’d left him a note.”

I shot him a skeptical glance.

“It’s true. Connelly found it on the floor, under the stove. Our boys missed it earlier.” Dante read the disbelief on my face. “I know it seems incredible. And there’s no good excuse. But Mrs. Blount says she left a pen on top of the note. They have a cat. She thinks he may have batted at the pen, knocking it, and the note, to the floor.”

I snorted. I couldn’t help it. Predictably, Dante smiled.