Yesterday's Stardust (14 page)

“You’re right. I’m working on a story. About kids in this neighborhood. Gangs, to be specific.”

“So you thought you’d wander around the Swamp looking for some nice gang kids to interview.”

A muscle tightened visibly on her jaw. The nagging rusty voice screamed in his head. What was he doing? And why? “Want pictures?” He pointed toward the newly defaced garage. “I’ve painted the back wall of that building three times this summer. The paint doesn’t even have a chance to dry before they’re back marking it up like a psychedelic 7UP ad.”

The girl’s pupils seemed to dilate. “Can I see it?” Energy practically buzzed off her like the hum surrounding high-voltage wires. Strange girl.

“I guess.”

“I have a friend who’s doing a photography exposé on urban art.”

Nicky sputtered. “Makes it sound so…artsy.”

She shrugged. “Maybe it is.”

Really strange girl.

She should have just let him back away, but she was sure he’d seen her. If she’d had a plan in her head before yelling to him, maybe she could have come off with some degree of common sense. As it was, she now appeared exponentially more ignorant than the other two times he’d caught her here.

She scampered to keep up with Nicky’s powerful strides. Squinting into the sun as they crossed the street, she read the inscription on a stone in the arched garage door. “1924. So it was built the year after the restaurant.”

Nicky nodded.

“Can’t you just see this street back then? Model Ts, guys in celluloid collars and wing-tip shoes. Women in cloche hats with pearls down to their knees.”

Nicky turned and stared at her then led the way through the green space.

Dani backed away from the depiction of a white-gloved hand wrapped around a warped, Salvador Dali-style painting of a green bottle. Rivers of red ran from a red dot on the label. Clearly intentional. “Who did this?”

“Local artists.” He kicked gravel with the toe of his shoe. “If it were my property, I’d set up a security camera.” His voice was tight, restrained.

“The Sevens?”

“You’ve done your research.”

You have no idea.
“It’s my job.” She stepped closer to the wall. “It takes talent to do something like this with spray paint.”

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

“You have to admit it ads color to the alley.” She swept her arm to include the parking lot behind the restaurant and the backsides of houses and businesses backed up to the gravel alley. “It livens things up.”

“It’s illegal.”

She’d never used
curmudgeon
in a sentence before. This seemed an appropriate time. “Has anyone ever vandalized Bracciano?”

“No.” A dimple teased his right cheek. “They wouldn’t dare.”

She smiled back, the dimple having sucked all words, including
curmudgeon,
from her lips.

“You said you needed to talk to me. You want to ask what I know about the guy who killed himself?” His eyes seemed to darken. His expression made her want to back away. “Or are you back in my neighborhood because you have a death wish?”

Even when the guy was being rude, there was something weirdly charming about him. “It’s mine. I was hoping to talk to China, Miguel’s girlfriend.”

“What for?” He looked up and to the right. She’d taken a class on body language once. Which direction did eyes shift when people had something to hide?

She turned back to the dripping, blood-red ball. “I interviewed her a few months ago for a series I wrote.”

She looked into Nicky’s eyes, needing, for some undefined reason, absolution from him. “I gave her some advice. I told her to break it off with Miguel. And she did.”

“That’s why he killed himself.”

“Yes.”

“And she blames you.”

She nodded.

“You did the right thing. He’s the one who made the wrong choice.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself. But it wasn’t my place. As a journalist I’m supposed to report the facts, not get involved in the story.”

“You might have saved her life by what you did.”

“Maybe.” She blinked away the sting in her eyes.

“You acted on what you thought you should do. That’s way better than being left with regret.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Dani wasn’t so sure Rena was right about her brother always saying what he felt. She had no doubt there were things Nicky Fiorini kept hidden in a tightly clenched fist.

“Do you know where she’s staying?”

He held her gaze with an unblinking stare. “I might.”

She waited, looking back with an unwavering stare.

“The guy who owns the house across the street said she’s living with her aunt. Turns out she used to work here. Carmen James.” Again, the shift of the eyes to the right. “She lives in Wilson Heights.”

Her pulse quickened. Another neighborhood she’d be dumb and stupid to walk through. “Thank you.”

“Promise me something, okay?” His voice took on the Prince Charming gentleness she’d heard once before.

“What?”

“Don’t go looking for her by yourself.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Who was this man?
“Thank you.”

“Now, do you really want a calzone?”

“No. I mean, yes, but some other time.”

“Let me know when you’re coming. I’ll make one just for you.”

Just for you.

His chin dipped, making his gaze slice deeper. “Might even sit down and join you.”

Did she want that?

She looked over at the restaurant, imagining freshly painted trim against new brick, neighbors chatting on front porches, and the alley where they stood a safe place for a game of stickball. The way it might have been in June of 1928 when Francie Tillman had a ‘fun night at Bracciano.’

Breathing shallow, fingers tingling the way they had the first time she dove off the diving board at Washington Park, she answered her own question.
Yes. I want that.
She looked into eyes that masked stories she wanted to hear. “I found something across the street. If you’re interested, I’d like to show it to you.”

Nicky tipped his head to one side, hair tumbling across his forehead. “I’m interested.”

September 30, 1924

Arms spread out like one of the thieves on the cross, Francie gripped two hooks on the inside of the cargo box. Her muscles ached from shivering, but every time she let go of the hooks to hug her coat closer to her body, the truck hit a rut or turned a corner and she lost her balance on the upturned pail. She had no idea how long they’d driven, but her bottom hurt from too many jarrings and hard landings on the bucket, and her stomach growled fiercely. Tears surfaced whenever she thought of the stew on the stove at home and Mama’s face when she would read the letter Francie’d left.

She’d saved Daddy’s money. When she’d threatened to scream, Baldy turned it over. She just hoped he’d given her all of it.

Hooga-hooga.
The horn blared, the truck swerved. The chugging of the motor slowed. More ruts. She imagined a long dirt road like the one linking their farm to the main road. For a moment she wished they’d changed their minds and were taking her home.

Gritting her teeth, she fought tears. Suzette needed her. Her nephew needed her. How were people treating him? Were they calling him the names she’d heard for Halla Gudmundson’s baby? The little girl was in school now, but Mama’s friends still whispered about Halla not knowing who her daughter’s father was. People could be so mean while sounding like they were doing God’s work.

That was why Daddy never went to church and why he hadn’t made Francie go after she got confirmed. The fight he’d had with Mama still rang in her head.

“Francie would learn more about genuine compassion sitting out in my office than in a church pew,” he’d said.

“Can you really fool yourself into thinking you’re doing God’s work when you sell liquor to weak-willed men and then listen to them ramble in their drunkenness?”

“I may not do it in the name of God, but I do more for the ‘least of these’ out there at that table…” They’d thought she was sleeping, but she’d heard every word. She remembered his loud, heavy sigh. “If you people just once acted like the man you claim to follow, maybe he wouldn’t have died in vain.”

Mama had gasped. “That’s blasphemy.”

“Is it? When’s the last time you even gave the time of day to somebody outside the walls of your church who’s down on his luck?”

“The Missionary Society collects money and packs boxes for—”

Daddy had laughed, cutting off her words. “You take money from people who can barely put food on their tables and then you sit in your righteous circles and pick them apart while you pack your boxes for the poor children in China.”

The fight had ended with Mama crying, Daddy marching to the barn, and Francie not returning to church.

The truck lurched. Brakes squealed. Her shoulder slammed into a crate of syrup cans. She heard the doors open, and Baldy and Green Eyes talking in hushed tones. “All clear. Get her.”

With a soft whine, the rear doors opened.

“Get out.” Baldy motioned with his arm. She could just barely make out his silhouette in the moonlight. “Get behind the wheel.”

In the dark? They expected her to drive in the dark? “Where are we?”

“Nowhere. Just sit here and follow that truck when it pulls—” A dog barked not far away. A door opened. “Rusty!” A woman’s voice.

“Shh!” Green Eyes grabbed her arm and yanked her to the other side of the truck. His arm went across her chest, and he pressed her back against him. A hand clamped over her mouth. His breath touched her ear. “Not a word.”

“Rusty, come here now!”

Francie’s heart hammered in her throat. Her knees quivered. The door closed, and Green Eyes’ arms relaxed, but he didn’t move for several long moments. “Sorry, doll,” he whispered. “Didn’t mean to scare you. We’re borrowing this truck from a friend, see, and he said his Ma wouldn’t like it, so we have to make sure she doesn’t know. He said she’d be sleeping by now, but looks like she’s a night owl. We’ll have to push the truck out onto the road. Think you can see well enough to follow?”

Moonlight cast ghostly tree shadows along the roadside. Francie nodded. She could see. Could she remember how to drive?

“Good girl.” Green Eyes took his hand off her mouth and stroked her cheek with his knuckles. His spicy scent spun images of far-away countries where women dressed in rich-colored saris and men wore turbans and rode camels. “We’re going to make a good team, you and me.”

Her heart slowed. The trembles of fear transformed to jitters of anticipation. It was only for a night and a day. Tomorrow night she would be in Chicago, safe and sound with her sister. Until then, she could cram in enough excitement to last a long, long time.

“Get rid of her.”

Francie huddled in the corner of a metal cage just large enough to lie down in. She had no idea how she’d gotten there. A few yards away, Green Eyes and Baldy sat at a table with a gray-haired man with glasses. The high-ceilinged building was bigger than the barn back home. The truck she’d driven and the one they claimed they’d borrowed were parked inside along with at least two others.

Perspiration trickled down her sides in spite of the damp cold.