The Silver Gun Page 3

  “He started to mumble something crude, but didn’t get far. He saw you coming and let go.” I had to get my mind around this before I made a big deal of what the guy had said. Fio, not to mention all mayors of New York City, received threats all the time. This was just the first time I was involved. “Probably just some weirdo. I smelled a lot of alcohol on him.” Which wasn’t a lie, but he also smelled like cheap men’s cologne, and I could feel that he was on the shorter side, taller than me but definitely under six feet.

  “Did you see what he looked like? What he had on?” asked Roarke as he delved into figuring out the facts of the story.

  “No, and don’t go talking about this to your paper,” I said sharply. “Or to Fio, for that matter. He’s got enough on his plate without worrying about me taking care of myself.” I took a deep, steadying breath. “Seriously, it was random, just a crazy guy. Okay? No telling Fio.”

  “Hmmm,” he murmured skeptically.

  We started to walk toward Fio, who was talking amiably with some firefighters as they wrapped up everything.

  “All right,” said Roarke. “I’ll let it go. For now. Just be careful. You work for the most important and the most controversial man in the city. He has enemies, which means you have enemies, too,” he said, looking down at me.

  “Thanks, Roarke. I will.” His words rang undeniably true as I considered what the guy had said.

  I let Roarke say good night to Fio, who was blissfully unaware of my adventure. I smoothed down my hair some more and tried not to hold my arm, which was still throbbing. Nothing was too wrong with it, maybe a light sprain.

  I waved to Fio with my other arm as Roarke and I started the long walk back to Broadway to grab a taxi. Up ahead I saw a very familiar yellow sweater and shining white-gold head of hair, the owner of whom was clinging to some guy’s arm. Then, with a quick glance our way, she quickly ducked out of sight. What was Roxy doing over here, far from the clubs, restaurants, and shows?

  CHAPTER 3

  Huh, no dreams. You’d think that after a night like last night, I’d have all sorts of nightmares. Instead, I awoke with a headache, my hair smelled a lot like a barbecue, and a canary yellow sweater was flitting through my mind. Oh, and when I went to get out of bed, I winced from my painful and stiff arm. Fantastic.

  I took a shower, slowly washing all the smokiness out of my hair and letting the hot water ease the weariness out of my shoulders and the ache out of my head. I stretched my arm gingerly and loosened it up a bit. I took an aspirin and hoped my cool demeanor would deflect any questions from Aunt Evelyn.

  “Good morning, Aunt Evelyn,” I said with a sleepy smile as I sat down in the creaking dining room chair.

  “Good morning, dear. And what did you do to your arm?” Of course.

  “Oh, I don’t know, must have slept funny on it,” I said, in a very convincing tone, I thought.

  “Really,” she said, with a don’t even think about lying to me, child, look.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” I declared, with a frustrated gust of air to my bangs. I spilled the beans about last night. It had been harder to stop thinking about those terrifying moments than I wanted to admit.

  I told Aunt Evelyn how I had left things with Roarke last night.

  “Yes, I think that’s a good idea for now, Lane,” she replied, to my surprise. I took a piece of toast as I sipped my black tea. It was heaven.

  “As one of my favorite friends from Egypt is fond of saying, I think we need a council of war,” said Aunt Evelyn, with a portentous finger raised. “And perhaps we should start some kind of list. A list of people who could be behind this.” Aunt Evelyn had friends all over the earth. I didn’t know this one, but I smiled at the serious tone of her statement.

  “Okay, what are you thinking as far as suspects?” I asked her.

  “Let’s see. Fio is forever getting into trouble. It’s trouble the city needs; God knows he’s worked miracles already just to get voted in. But then to take on Tammany Hall and all its corruption . . . Good heavens.”

  Nobody had expected Fio to win the election two years ago. Tammany Hall was a corrupt political machine within the Democratic Party. Its bosses had influence on city officials from the police force to the lawyers and the judges. It was a miracle Fio won on the Fusion ticket. Believe me, they gave it their best shot to try to circumvent the system.

  On voting day, Tammany had thugs all over the city “assisting” voters . . . With brass knuckles, blackjacks, and lead pipes. Some public figures came out to help. Even Tony Canzoneri, the prizefighter, showed up to back Fio. But Fiorello was galled at the outright chicanery of Tammany. They went against everything he wanted for Gotham. So, in his usual style, Fio was everywhere at once, scurrying around to as many polls as possible to “enforce honesty” as he liked to say.

  But Fiorello did it. He became New York City’s ninety-ninth mayor.

  “Well, who would have it out for him? What do you know of the leftovers from Tammany?” I asked, getting my pen ready.

  Aunt Evelyn had friends in all places, high and low. She was in the know about everything and was always connecting with people from all different worlds: art, finance, education, politics. She deliberated about possibilities as she sipped her steaming cup of tea. “I know the Tammany crowd is still very angry and not convinced that Fiorello can make his changes permanent. I think they’re hoping that they’re only on a hiatus. Jimmy Walker and the old Tammany Tiger crew were disgraced, but power and greed do not relinquish their hold very easily. Plus, New Yorkers love Walker! I never understood the cheers and hoots and hollers for him every time he showed up somewhere—even after he was out of office! He is a charismatic man, I’ll give him that. His wisecracks carried him farther than anything he ever did.”

  I wrote down the names of Fio’s biggest opponents as Evelyn started naming them, ticking them off on her long fingers.

  “Besides Tammany, there are the gangsters,” I said, flipping to a new page. Gangs like Lucky Luciano’s and Louie Venetti’s were running monopolies on anything they could get their hands on, with unpredictable and brutal scare tactics.

  “Yes, it’s likely one of them has a grudge and is willing to do something about it. Every time I see Fiorello wielding a sledgehammer across his shoulders on another anti–slot machine campaign, one moment I want to cheer out loud, and the next moment I want to yell at him to stop making such a show of himself,” she exclaimed, with a shake of her head.

  I nodded in complete agreement. Once in the mayor’s seat, Fiorello began a quest to rid the city of everything that the good people had been tempted to try their luck on in these hard times after the crash. He especially hated the slot machines that filled the delis and grocery stores. He was convinced that people were spending their milk money hoping for a little luck. He started a campaign to get rid of them, loading thousands of them onto barges and then dumping them in the sea. Those machines, which Fio so blatantly and joyfully crushed with his very own sledgehammer, were mostly operated by gang bosses. You can imagine what they thought of Fio as he destroyed a very lucrative part of their businesses.

  She held her chin in her hand and tapped her cheek with two fingers. She murmured something about talking to a friend named Ellie.

  “Who’s Ellie?” I asked. Mr. Kirkland kept coming in to replenish the breakfast items, and I couldn’t help but notice that he was taking a deep interest in our conversation. He wasn’t his usual muttering self as he kept looking directly at Evelyn like he was trying to get her attention.

  “Hm?” she said, as if I had woken her up from her thoughts. “Mr. Kirkland, did you need something?” She had obviously noticed his unusual interest as well. Or possibly she was avoiding my question about Ellie.

  Mr. Kirkland’s light blue eyes opened wide. He looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Mmmmuuundddertttss,” he said, then grabbed the nearest dish and raced off to his lair.

  A smile tugged at one side of Aunt Eve
lyn’s mouth as she blithely continued, “I think that when Robert Moses and Fiorello tore down Jimmy’s casino in Central Park, it was the coup de grâce. It was a move that made both Tammany and the gangsters upset. I think we are at a pivotal moment. Jimmy’s supporters will either die out, or they will become vengeful and take things into their own hands.”

  Fio had denounced Walker’s casino as a whoopee joint. He had it razed and replaced it with park space. Personally, I wished he’d kept it; I’d have loved to dance in the gorgeous black glass ballroom with those dazzling chandeliers. But Fio was trying to root out the rampant corruption. Walker was “charmingly corrupt,” as many reporters loved to say, but corrupt nonetheless.

  “With that, I regret I must leave you to ruminate, Lane. I have plans with Lucille later today. Would you like to come? We’re going to go to the Whitney.”

  “No thank you, Aunt Evelyn. I have some things to think about, plus it’s beautiful outside. I want to take a walk along the river, maybe read more Agatha Christie,” I said, with a smile as I felt a ripple of delight at the thought of having a day to myself.

  She looked at me a little skeptically, assessing my arm, my curiosity, and whether or not the trouble of last night would follow me today. She smiled back, releasing her pursed lips, and ended with, “Just watch your arm, Lane. And don’t get yourself into a lonely spot again. Until we know what last night was all about, we need to be more careful. When it gets dark out, make sure you’re not walking around alone, all right?”

  “Definitely. Thanks.” I watched as Aunt Evelyn swept around the room collecting her hat and her capacious purse. She passed by the pair of a man’s riding gloves on the little desk and a beautiful sketch of Evelyn with a young man in a chic Paris café with their heads close together. She opened a drawer and retrieved a small lavender book that I had never noticed before, then quickly left the house, softly closing the door behind her.

  I collected my notepad and pen as I strolled through the empty kitchen and poured myself a lemonade from the icebox. It was new, and Mr. Kirkland told us it was officially called a refrigerator. “It even uses the new cooling agent, Freon-12, to keep things cool!” he had happily explained. It was the most excitement I’d ever seen Mr. Kirkland show.

  I leisurely strolled farther back and swung open the door to my favorite part of the house, the patio. We lived in a four-story brownstone and had an outdoor space in the back where Mr. Kirkland showed a surprising and charming talent.

  He had landscaped a beautiful green space full of climbing plants like ivy, morning glory, and moonflowers that opened their enormous white petals in the summer evenings and let off a spectacular scent. In large clay pots set in strategic places were tall grasses, annual flowers of bright colors, and more ivy. A long table hosted many dinner guests on warm evenings. And above that table was an old, sprawling maple tree. Ingeniously, Mr. Kirkland kept the branches pruned over the years to form a canopy over the table and part of the small yard. He and Aunt Evelyn strung lanterns and even some small crystal chandeliers that they filled with tiny lights in the evenings. It was a magical place. A place that stirred thoughts of Peter Pan, where fairies flew and danced and created their own magic.

  I let out a contented sigh and found my favorite spot, a chaise longue in the corner. There was a small teakwood end table next to it, where I set my things down. I stretched as I sat back on the soft cushions, flexing and pointing my feet, enjoying the cool air running through my toes.

  I started to make some notes. There was a lot going on in the city. This summer the new Triborough Bridge was to be opened, as well as the huge Randall’s Island complex. And we had already broken ground for the World’s Fair that would be coming in 1939.

  Lying beneath all these names and ideas and lists, puzzling and teasing my mind, was that quick glimpse of silver in my assailant’s jacket. Could it be the silver gun in my dreams?

  Just as I was massaging my cramped right hand, the doorbell rang. I set my notes down and ran to the front door.

  “Roarke. What are you doing here?” His presence was completely unexpected. We usually only saw each other during the week at work or dancing on the weekends. “Is everything okay?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Everything is fine,” he said, rather unhelpfully. We stood there looking at each other for a few long seconds before I decided to be the forthcoming one and ask him in. I took him to the patio; it was too nice to stay inside.

  “Lemonade?” I asked as we went through the kitchen.

  “Sure, sounds good.” I poured another glass and got some potato chips for us to share.

  “Wow! This is a great space!” exclaimed Roarke, with his head swiveling all around, taking in the trees, the lightly tinkling chandeliers, and the colorful comfort of the patio. He had on a white polo shirt open at the collar, and a pair of light blue slacks with loafers. He looked pretty darn great with his sandy blond hair as he took off his boater hat.

  “Yeah, I love it here. Have a seat,” I said as I gestured to the outdoor couch and chair striped in a worn green and white fabric. I curled my legs up on the couch and sipped some lemonade.

  “You look surprised to see me,” said Roarke, with the kind of know-it-all smirk on his face that drives women to criminal fantasies.

  “Euuhhh, Roarke,” I said, with exasperation. “Do you have something to share?”

  “Mmm hmm!”

  “Well?”

  “I’m just enjoying the anticipation of your reaction.”

  “This can’t be good,” I muttered.

  “All right, I’ll put you out of your misery.”

  “Really? Leaving so soon?” I said, with the same smirk he had been giving me.

  “Ha. Funny. I heard through the grapevine that Fio has found out about your little misadventure last night.”

  “Well, that’s not that big of a deal. He’ll be mad that I didn’t go to him right away, but . . .”

  “And that a little gal who loves yellow sweaters was . . . the . . . tattletale,” he finished, with a flourish.

  “What?” I yelled. He jumped, making lemonade splash onto his sleeve. “That little, conniving . . . Wait a minute. How did she know about that? When we saw Roxy, she was far up ahead of us. The fire was in a residential area away from the restaurants and shows.”

  “She says she saw the whole thing from across the street. She’d been walking home just like we had, heard the sirens, and went to see what was going on. Saw what happened to you, but after I had arrived and the guy had fled, she figured that you were all right and just went home.”

  “And I suppose out of the goodness of her heart, she called Fio to ‘check on Lane’ and gleefully pass on the information,” I surmised.

  “Yyyyup,” said Roarke as he crunched another chip.

  Something still wasn’t right about it. “That was pretty far away to see all that, and we were in the shadows. Is it possible that she knows more about it than she should?” I asked.

  Roarke gave me a sidelong glance, his eyebrow lifted skeptically. “Lane, I know you and Valerie don’t get along with her and Lizzie, but . . .”

  “No, Roarke, listen. I didn’t tell you everything about last night.”

  “I figured,” he said smugly.

  So I filled him in on what the guy had actually said to me in the shadows.

  “Well, it was clearly just a message,” said Roarke. “He could have hurt you if he’d wanted to, but he didn’t.”

  “True. So what about Roxy? She knows I would eventually tell Fio everything, probably Monday morning. Why make sure he gets the news now? You know, interrupting his weekend, making sure he got the message now.” Roarke looked at me as he gave it some thought, then another realization struck me a terrifying blow. “Oh, my God,” I said, with the blood draining out of my face. “Fio’s going to come here!”

  “What’s wrong with that?” said Roarke, unbelievably naïve.

  “Are you kidding? He’ll give you and me the third degree . . .
for hours.” He still looked at me a little blankly. I spelled it out. “No. More. Weekend.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “We gotta get outta here!”

  We swept out of that house as fast as humanly possible. As I closed and locked the door behind me, the phone started ringing. Close one.

  We decided to go for a stroll along the East River walkway. Later, we caught up with Val. The three of us decided to spend the evening down in Little Italy. Moneta’s had the best food in town, but was way out of our price range. Copioli’s was a close second and fit our budget. I especially loved their crumb-coated, fried green olives. I could eat about fifty of them.

  As we were drinking our red wine and soaking up the last of the sauce on our plates with the fresh bread, a small band of diminutive Italian gentlemen came up to play some music.

  The music was making people move; the whole crowd felt the vitality of the place, plus, the wine helped. We got up, helping to move tables out of the way, and Valerie was scooped up by an admirer. It was dark, smoky, and sparkling from the candle flames dancing off the glasses.

  Just as I was helping the people next to me move their table, someone came up, put his arm around my waist, and pulled me toward the middle of the floor. He pulled his arm in toward himself and me along with it, pressing me in close.

  “Hi, love.”

  My eyes opened wide in surprise as I smiled. The music had a fast tempo, but was very smoldering. My right hand clasped his left as sparks and tingles flowed through his fingertips. The whole place moved to the rhythm, everyone caught up in their own world. He’d left his hat at the door. My mystery man from the office had on a black form-fitting suit with a bright white shirt, open at the collar. We turned and swayed to the music.

  Hey mambo, mambo Italiano . . .

  His looks were full of opposites. His eyes were dark gray, or maybe green, and had that intangible quality that makes eyes sparkle. His slight five o’clock shadow darkened a strong jawline. He looked like he could take a punch and give one back, yet there wasn’t an ounce of arrogance. His arms were hard and strong, yet he moved with grace. He was intense, yet there was a hint of a smile dancing around the corners of his eyes and mouth.