Authors: James W. Ziskin
He pulled off his coat as I dug into the pizza.
“What’s that?” he asked, nodding at the envelope on my kitchen table. It was the one Irene Metzger had left me.
“Nothing,” I said, picking it up and tossing it to the counter next to the toaster.
“How come you didn’t come by the store today?” asked Fadge a while later, once we’d settled in on the sofa with our drinks.
“I was busy,” I said. “New story I’m working on.”
He eyed the empty bottle in the wastebasket. The recently opened one stood without shame in plain sight on the table before us.
“Tough, working on a Sunday,” he said. “And a holiday to boot.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, well, you know how it is. You worked today, too.”
“Sure, but I didn’t get as much done as you did.”
We stared at each other. Fadge was no saint and wasn’t judgmental either. I couldn’t believe he would begrudge me a lazy Sunday of overindulgence.
“How was that party you went to last night?” he asked after a suitable moment of discomfort had passed.
“It was all right,” I said. “What did you end up doing?”
“Worked till about eleven thirty, then closed up and went over to Timmy Gallo’s.”
“Sounds like fun. Did you ring in the New Year there?”
“I wouldn’t exactly say we
rang
it in. I drank beer with Timmy’s father-in-law, Lou, and we watched Guy Lombardo.”
“No girls?” I asked, mugging a pout.
“Timmy’s wife changed their one-year-old daughter’s diaper on the coffee table in front of the TV. Does that count?”
I shook my head.
“I was so hard up, I drove back here around one thirty to peep through your windows, but someone took away the ladder.”
“And after I’d left the curtains open for you . . .”
“Your light was on anyway, so I figured you were busy.”
I had to tread carefully now. Joking was fine as long as I didn’t cross certain lines. Fadge was sweet on me—I knew that much—and I didn’t want to parade my indiscretions in front of him.
“I had an unexpected, late-night visitor. A lady named Irene Metzger.”
Fadge took a gulp from the quart of beer and waited, watching me, his eyes bulging from an overactive thyroid. I sensed he didn’t believe me. A doubt crawled into my mind: What if Eddie Robeleski had stopped by the store and bragged of his conquest? Why wouldn’t he want to blacken my name? I had left him high and dry, after all. Or what if Fadge really did have a ladder?
Okay, that was paranoia. Fadge was a true pal. Even if we did crack off-color jokes about sex, he’d never so much as made a pass at me, and he’d never inquired about my attachments. Still, a girl likes to give the impression of propriety, even if she’s only kidding herself. So what if Irene Metzger showed up later than I’d said? Would Fadge rather hear that I’d been breaking commandments with a twenty-one-year-old sailor on shore leave? What kind of floozy do I take me for?
“Who’s Irene Metzger?” he asked.
“Have you heard about that junior-high-school girl who disappeared ten days ago? Darleen Hicks.”
“Sure,” he said. “I read the papers. What’s she got to do with it?”
“This Irene Metzger is her mother.”
“So what did she want with you at one thirty in the morning? And on New Year’s Eve.”
“She wants me to help find her daughter. She says the police don’t care, and she read all my articles on the Jordan Shaw murder.”
“How proud you must be,” he smirked.
“Jealous. Anyhow, she thinks I can help find out what happened to Darleen.”
“So what does she think happened?”
“The only thing Irene Metzger’s sure about is that her daughter didn’t run off. And that her husband, the girl’s stepfather, couldn’t possibly be a suspect.”
“Isn’t it always the stepfather?” asked Fadge. “I read
Lolita
.”
“You read
Lolita
because you heard it was all about sex.”
“True,” he granted. “A little disappointing in that regard.”
“Serves you right.”
“So you’ve talked to him?” asked Fadge.
I took a sip of my drink. “Not yet. Irene Metzger wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted he knows nothing about Darleen’s disappearance.”
“What else did she tell you?”
“Not much,” I shrugged. “Boyfriend’s up at Fulton. Couldn’t have had anything to do with this, according to her. There are a couple of men who live nearby. Nothing to point to them yet, though.”
Fadge rose to get the second quart of beer from the icebox. He asked if I wanted another drink, but I’d had enough. When he returned, he sat down beside me on the sofa, placing his beer on the end table.
“Can I use this as a coaster?” he asked, showing me the unopened letter.
“No, I need that,” I said, reaching for the envelope.
He drew it back and squinted at the postmark. “This was mailed a month ago. You haven’t even opened it.” Then he read the return address: “‘Berg and Raphael Statuary.’”
I snatched it away and tucked it into the pocket of my robe. “There’s a coaster right in front of you.”
“Take it easy,” he said. “I didn’t mean any harm.”
Fadge sipped his beer pensively. A long silence settled over us. I was thinking about Darleen Hicks. I don’t know what was on Fadge’s mind.
“Her mother said she sometimes took taxis home when she missed the bus,” I offered finally. “And sometimes she took rides from strangers.”
“There’s your ending,” said Fadge. “Probably jumped into the wrong car. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Yeah, I thought of that, too. But her mother says she’s smart and resourceful. Never got into trouble before.”
“She tell you anything else?”
I thought some more. “Just that Darleen chews Black Jack gum. Yuck. And I know I’ve heard that recently, but I can’t remember where.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
I looked up at him, waiting for an explanation.
“You really don’t remember?” he asked. “A couple of weeks ago at the high-school basketball game. You were drunk and got sick in the girls’ room. You told me a girl chewing Black Jack gum held your hair while you puked into the garbage can.”
What a humiliating reminder. Though it stung, Fadge was right. Partly right.
“I wasn’t drunk,” I corrected. “And it was the toilet, not the garbage can. I had the flu.”
“And a pint of whiskey in your purse,” he said. “You told me so yourself.”
I waved him off. “The bottle was unopened. Intended for later. It was the flu.”
The memory returned instantly. I had drawn photo duty for the Friday-evening basketball game. Our sports-page photographer, Gabe Morrissey, was in Herkimer, covering local kegler Casimir Nowicki in a regional bowling tournament. Better him than me. My editor, Charlie Reese, assigned me to the basketball game over George Walsh, who’d just emerged from football season and was convinced that a basketball field goal counted for three points.
The New Holland Bucks, in the midst of their most promising season in a decade, were squaring off against the Gloversville Red Dragons in a Friday-evening tilt. Charlie wanted some action shots of Teddy Jurczyk— Teddy J., the straight-A freshman sensation who had turned around the Bucks’ season after a dismal start, leading them to seven straight wins.
Teddy had been marooned at the far end of the bench, collecting splinters, while the coach’s son, Dickie Mahoney, started at guard. Then Dickie came down with tonsillitis. A tall, wiry kid with a crew cut, palewhite skin, and an Adam’s apple that called to mind Ichabod Crane, Teddy Jurczyk looked more like the scarecrow man in a Charles Atlas ad than a basketball star. But he was a natural: one of those players who made opportunities for himself and his teammates; handled the ball like a wizard; and led the team in scoring, assists, and steals. While almost all the other players launched workmanlike, two-handed set shots, Teddy soared high and let fly grand, arcing jump shots. Deceptively fast, he glided over the polished hardwood in his tight satin shorts, dishing out assists and sinking baskets by the dozens.
Charlie had instructed me to come back with some good action photos and a pithy, post-game comment from the kid, who—I was sure— would be tongue-tied talking to a girl reporter.
At halftime, the score was tied at thirty-two. Teddy J. was leading the way with fourteen points and five assists. I had been running a temperature since morning, but the nausea was new. I had felt like hell all through the first half, but the real trouble began just as the referee tossed the ball skyward for the second-half tipoff. A crawling, cold sweat on my neck, general discomfort of my insides, and a swallowed gag convinced me that the evening was not going to end well. I had the good sense to spring from my seat in the second row, climb over my fellow spectators, and dash for the exit before it was too late. I bounded up the stairs to the corridor ringing the gymnasium above and shouldered my way through the door of the girls’ bathroom. There were three or four girls primping in the mirror, but I hardly took notice. I made a beeline for the first stall. My nausea was cresting, and there was no time to lose. The first stall was locked. I lurched toward the second, covering my mouth and squinting through watering eyes. It was free, but filthy. Summoning God knows what determination (and intestinal fortitude), I managed to dive into the third stall before the floodgates released their plenty. After three or four healthy heaves, I became aware of two firm hands holding my long curly hair clear of the rush of vomit. Or nearly, as I discovered a few minutes later.
Once the convulsions had subsided, and I had wiped my mouth and nose with a wad of tissue, I collapsed against the wall of the toilet and closed my eyes. A gentle hand stroked my head, and I heard a soft voice comforting me. I opened my eyes and turned to see my savior: a pretty girl with green eyes and dark hair, pulled back on both sides by tortoiseshell barrettes, leaving long bangs hanging down to her eyebrows in front. She was about fourteen or fifteen, with red lips and a pink nose from the cold weather. She smiled at me, and that’s when I saw the silver braces on her teeth and the black chewing gum sticking fast to them like a thick tar.
“Are you okay now?” she asked. I nodded. “I sent my friends to get the nurse. Can you stand up?”
“Just help me to the sink,” I said. “I want to splash some cold water on my face.”
The young girl lifted me off the floor and guided me to the bank of washbasins where she released me and let me fly solo. Grasping the porcelain sink with both hands to steady myself, I examined my reflection in the mirror. I looked away; didn’t want to throw up again. I dug into my purse, looking for a comb, and removed the pint of Dewar’s and placed it on the edge of the sink. Then I pulled out a lipstick, a package of gum (Doublemint), and my Leica, before I finally located the comb at the bottom.
“I have to go now,” said the girl. “The nurse will be here soon.”
I washed my face and slipped a stick of gum into my mouth. A few minutes later, I had combed my unruly hair and painted my lips. I was presentable, if somewhat green. Repacking my purse, I realized the bottle of whiskey had vanished.
The kindly nurse, Mrs. Golnik, and the faculty chaperone, Miss Barnett (one of the girls’ gym teachers), escorted me to the infirmary. Mrs. Golnik clopped down the corridor in her sturdy heels, supporting my left elbow, while Miss Barnett squeaked along in sneakers and a Jack LaLanne jumpsuit, holding my right. To complete my embarrassment, the assistant principal, Mr. Brossard, arrived to investigate the incident. I assured them I was fine to see myself home, but they insisted I call someone to pick me up. Since it was Friday, I knew Fadge would be up to his fat elbows in the usual ice cream, hot fudge, and egg creams, so he was out of the running. I dreaded calling Charlie Reese. His wife, Edith, always sounded put out when I phoned, and, all things being equal, I preferred to keep my boss in the dark about my more spectacular bouts of public disgrace.
“I’m fine now, really,” I said, giving it one last try. “I can drive myself home.”
Miss Barnett volunteered to accompany me, but she was a bit too keen and transparent in her motivation. Mrs. Golnik stood before me, flashed a light into my eyes, then grasped my jaw firmly in her right hand and cocked my head upward to examine my pallor. She flattened the back of her fingers against my forehead to gauge my temperature, then frowned, gave a curt shake of her head, and said no. Mr. Brossard, a stocky man in his mid-thirties, considered the options from a few feet away. He stood there squarely in a plain brown suit and wingtip shoes, arms crossed over his ribs, legs splayed just beyond their normal stance, like a football coach watching his charges practice.
“You don’t look well, miss,” he said finally. “We can’t let you leave by yourself.”
“Ellie?” a voice called from the doorway. “I thought I saw you. What are you doing here?”
Stan Pulaski: deputy sheriff, ardent admirer, and my hero. Thank God. Stan would drive me home and probably pay me a few compliments on the way, too. “Gee, Ellie, your hair looks nice with sick in it.”
Mrs. Golnik and Mr. Brossard were satisfied with my escort and gave me their blessing to go. Miss Barnett sighed as I took my leave.
Stan drove me home in his cruiser and helped me up the stairs. My landlady, Mrs. Giannetti, witnessed the whole thing, and I heard all about it the next day.
“What were the charges, dear? Well, at least you were completely dressed.”
I wanted to invite Stan in for a coffee, but I felt like vomiting again, and he was on duty besides. He left me at my kitchen door, bowing and replacing the cap on his head.
Fadge nudged me from my thoughts. “Anyone home?”
“Sorry,” I said, putting the memory aside. “Do you suppose that girl was actually Darleen Hicks?”
“Kind of a long shot, isn’t it?”
“Maybe. But she was chewing that awful gum. About the right age . . .”
“Wasn’t that after she disappeared?” asked Fadge.
I shook my head. “No, the basketball game was the sixteenth, a Friday. Darleen Hicks disappeared on Wednesday the twenty-first.”
“Could have been, then,” shrugged Fadge.
“Wait a minute. Her mother left me a photograph.”