The Silver Gun Page 8

  “You what?” she yelled. Apparently, I left in too many. Even in the booth, she had her hands on her hips looking like an indignant mother hen.

  “Shhhhh! Val, keep it down!” I grimaced. At least she hadn’t blurted out Uncle Louie’s name. The entire diner would have come to a standstill. That man’s name was equivalent to a grenade in the room.

  I rubbed my forehead, something I was doing a lot lately. “Val, I’m sorry! I know it was dangerous, but it was the only lead we had. No one is talking to me about what the police know, and I can’t figure out why these people are targeting me.”

  “Can’t you let the police do their own investigation?” she asked.

  “Yes, but I’m not convinced they’re taking all this seriously. Don’t forget they still think I fell of my own clumsy accord onto the train tracks. And what kind of evidence do we have that anything untoward has been happening? It all just looks like a bad set of coincidences.”

  “Well . . .” she said begrudgingly, slowly taking her hands off her hips. “You do have a point. And if it were me, I’d want to do something, too. But honey, the Meatpacking District?” I just nodded in a repentant sort of way.

  “Unh . . .” she murmured. Now it was her turn to rub her forehead. “What am I going to do with her?” I was pretty sure that was a rhetorical question.

  After we got outside, we started to slowly walk back to the office. We were almost to the steps of city hall when we heard sirens. Several fire trucks were coming in our direction. We instinctively looked around and saw smoke coming out of a tenement building a few side streets away.

  “How much you wanna bet Fio’s on his way?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding? That’s no bet! Of course he’s—” She never got to finish her sentence.

  Right at that moment, Fio came dashing out of city hall, looking wildly around with a manic smile on his face. But his car and driver were nowhere to be seen. His eyes pounced on the nearest vehicle: a motorcycle with a side car attached. He pounded down the last few steps, leaped into the side car, and yelled, “Go, go, go!” to the widely grinning officer in the driver’s seat. As they took off, he bellowed to all of us struck dumb on the sidewalk, “I am not a sissy!”

  Val and I had to hold each other up, we were laughing so hard. God, I loved that man. I looked up and saw no fewer than a dozen reporters, including Roarke, laughing and scribbling furiously. Two photographers had caught the moment and were jabbering away, figuring out who got the best shot.

  I just had to follow Fio, so I looked at Val and nodded in the direction he drove off, asking her without words if she wanted to come along.

  “Oh, yeah. Wouldn’t miss it.”

  We weren’t the only ones; Roarke and a few other press guys went along with us. We arrived at a tenement building that had been in the process of being torn down. Someone had decided to make it go quicker. There were thick black columns of smoke puffing into the sky. We couldn’t get too close, the smoke was so bad.

  I spotted Fiorello standing over by the fire chief. Then he walked farther off, taking in the whole scene. When we were still a hundred feet away or so, a man in a black suit and hat came right up to Fio, roughly bumped him in the shoulder as he passed by, and surreptitiously handed him a white envelope.

  I started to pick up the pace, as I wanted to see that envelope, and I just knew it was not a gift of goodwill. But then we ran into a pack of firefighters and couldn’t dodge around them. I jumped pointlessly up and down a couple of times to get a better view. When we could finally make our way around them, Fio was still about fifty feet away from me, standing by himself in deep consternation.

  A tall firefighter with his coat off, but suspenders and fire pants still on, went up to him. The fireman bent his head down to talk with him, nodding earnestly as Fio replied to whatever he said, and walked away. There was something very familiar about that lean, muscular frame. But how could I be sure? With their gear on, the firefighters all looked so much alike.

  So many questions were flooding through my mind that I had trouble organizing my thoughts. I finally got over to Fio, and my main thought, my main concern, was this dear man in front of me. His face was ashen, but his usual resolve was right behind the shock that he’d incurred from what he’d been handed.

  “Are you all right? Fio!” I shook his arm, as he hadn’t looked me in the eye yet.

  He nodded and wrinkled his nose, saying, “Yeah, thanks, Lane. All right, it’s about time we had a chat. Meet me back at the office in an hour, and we’ll have that talk. Got it?”

  “Got it, Chief.”

  Finally.

  An hour later, I was waiting in Fiorello’s office with two iced teas for us. I was completely impatient and jumpy. He came in, went directly to his desk, and sat down.

  “Thanks for the iced tea, Lane. So . . . down to business,” he said, clasping his hands on his desktop. “First things first. What did you see today at the fire?”

  I got the feeling he was trying his hardest not to tell me anything I didn’t need to know. “Fio . . .” I started, not wanting to play games.

  “Lane, dear, I need to know what you saw. Humor me.” His eyes were intent, and it was clear that he, too, was not in the mood for games.

  “All right. Here you go. I saw a guy in a black suit come up to you, bump you pretty roughly, and hand you something in a white envelope. Then a firefighter, tall guy without his coat on, came up and talked briefly with you, then walked away. I think he was the same man who came barging out of your office the other day—the one that you said you couldn’t tell me anything about.”

  He blinked. I sipped my tea.

  “You evidently have excellent vision,” he said. He massaged his chin in deep thought, probably weighing what he could really tell me, what I’d figure out on my own, and how little he could actually get away with without me giving him a hard time. It took a while to decide.

  “Okay, Lane. I am still not at liberty to tell you anything about that gentleman. And really, Lane, if I could tell you, I would, but it’s absolutely imperative that I do not. Can you live with that?”

  “Of course, Fio. I understand,” I said, with a sigh. “How about that envelope? Are you all right?”

  “Well, given what happened with you the other night, I think this is something you should see.” He handed it to me. I read it.

  I blinked. He sipped his tea.

  “What does this mean? Be careful, Little Flower, or someone might fall down a well.”

  “Oh, the well part is just gangster talk for someone disappearing—permanently. I didn’t recognize the guy who handed it to me; it was so fast, and then he quickly blended into the crowd. I think it was just another threat, might even have been the same guy who shoved you in the subway, Danny Fazzalari. It happened so fast I didn’t get a good look at him. Did you see him?”

  “I was pretty far away. It could have been him, but I was blocked by a group of firefighters and was jumping up and down just to catch glimpses of you. He had the dark hair, hat, and black, shiny shoes.”

  Fio grumbled, “The exact description of about ninety-five percent of the gangsters.”

  “I know,” I said dismally. “How about his voice, though?” I asked, with sudden inspiration.

  “He only said, in a singsong voice, ‘Here you go!’ and walked off. But now that you mention it, it sounded higher and slightly squeakier than I had expected.” Which was ironic, coming from the squeakiest, screechiest man around.

  “That’s him, Fio. I think you just met Danny Fazzalari. Look, just promise that you’ll take some extra precautions, okay? Like maybe another bodyguard or something?”

  He made a face like he’d just been offered a squid and peanut butter sandwich.

  I laughed out loud. “Aw, come on! It can’t be that bad!”

  “It is. But all right. I’ll get a couple more guys on the force to make more rounds and whatnot. Satisfied?”

  “For now!” I said as I went out
the door to my desk.

  After our talk, I needed some time to gather my thoughts. I worked on some filing, I put some folders together for a press conference, etc. When I finished, I took a deep, satisfied breath and packed up for the night.

  There weren’t too many of us left in the office, but I said some good-byes and headed to the stairs. I didn’t mind not having an elevator; I would go out of my way to take the stairs beneath that beautiful rotunda any day. A few press guys were walking down, too, and at the rear of their little pack, was . . . him. My God, I had to figure out his name. I walked right behind the group and gave him a half smile, trying to convey telepathically, What the hell are you doing here?

  He was pretending he didn’t know me. Great. Always a boost for a gal’s confidence. I mentally shrugged, and just then, my foot slipped and his hand shot out and steadied me. After the electric shocks running up and down my spine weakened a bit, I wittily said, “Thanks.”

  “Sure, love,” he said, without directly looking at me. But he did leave his hand at the small of my back a little longer than strictly necessary, the heat of it lingering with me the rest of the way down.

  When we reached the lobby, before I could turn to say something, anything, to him, three Tammany policemen hailed him over and started bantering loudly like guys do after work when they can start to play. I stole one last glance back at him as I walked out the door, but he didn’t look back.

  So, I decided to go for subtlety. I stalked him.

  I casually waited outside in the nearby park, wanting to catch one more glimpse of this elusive guy. He and his pals walked out, obviously heading toward McNally’s, the nearby pub. A couple of grubby street urchins peered at them from the street corner. These street kids were still pretty prevalent despite a big increase in child services, and tended to blend in with the scenery. Most of them were dirty, underfed, ill-treated, often pickpockets and thieves, and heartbreaking. The guys were not in uniform, and the kids must have been very young, because most urchins kept a wide berth between themselves and the police. And streetwise kids can sense a policeman a mile away, uniform or not. The men mostly ignored them, but one of them took an annoyed swipe at their outstretched hands. My stalkee slowed so that he was at the back of his group and casually passed a couple of coins to the kids. Then he did something stunning: He playfully mussed the curly, grubby head of the littlest kid and smiled at him.

  I was quite satisfied with myself, as I had learned a few crucial things from my stairway encounter and stalking spree. One, my mystery man still smelled great, but he must not have been able to get a full shower after the fire, because there was a definite tinge of barbecue; it had been him at the fire with Fio. Two, he was a part of the Tammany crew. And three, between the clamor of nicknames and back-slapping, his buddies had called out enough for me to deduce the mystery man’s name: Finn Brodie.

  * * *

  As I took the subway uptown, I ruminated on a variety of topics, from the distracting Finn Brodie, to the fact that I was hungry, to the fact that the woman in front of me held a teacup-sized dog that had a fancier wardrobe than I did.

  At 59th, a large rush of people started to push off the crowded train, so I stepped out of the door to let them pass. I was annoyingly jostled on every side, when I was suddenly jerked around with the force of someone yanking my handbag right off my arm.

  With everything that had happened recently, I had reached my limit. All I can say is, something inside me snapped. I yelled a furious, “That’s it!” I took off running.

  I actually caught up to the guy pretty fast, as he hadn’t counted on my reaction. If I hadn’t been running so fast, I would have yelled a lot more. That silence proved to be an excellent tactic for a sneak attack. He had just turned his head with a cocky look back when I leaped and tackled him right to the ground.

  He wasn’t a huge guy, just a teenager, so he hadn’t gotten his man shoulders yet. As he sprawled on the ground, I straddled his back, grabbed one arm, twisted it behind his back, and shoved hard. I grabbed my purse back and said a hardy, “Hah!”

  I’d only had the guts to wear trousers to work a few times, but thanks to Hollywood actresses Marlene Dietrich and Katharine Hepburn, who had been making trousers more acceptable, especially with professional women like myself, I had tried them out a few times. I got a few disgusted looks from people who clearly thought dresses and skirts were the only appropriate attire for ladies, but . . . my trousers saved the day. A dress would have encumbered my tackle.

  By this time, the people who had seen the kid steal my purse and then watched as I went pelting off after him arrived at the scene. Until the police came, I wasn’t about to let him up. Several people clapped, and more than a few were asking me if I was all right, behind big grins. The police arrived, and over traipsed a very amused, very tall friend.

  I blurted out, “Pete?”

  He laughed. “Val didn’t tell you I was on the force?” I gaped at him. “I guess she didn’t.”

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” I said.

  He smirked down at me as I sat on top of the miscreant and nodded down at my hands, which were still holding the thief’s arm behind his back, his mortified face against the cement. Pete said, “If you like, I think I could take it from here, Lane.” I leaned down and whispered something to the mugger, and then Pete helped me up.

  I gave my statement to Sergeant Pete and his amused friends on the force. One of them asked me out on a date; I cracked up as Pete swatted the guy away. Afterward, I decided to just walk home, and Pete decided to accompany me. At this point, I did not mind a uniformed bodyguard.

  As we strolled uptown, he asked me, “So, what did you whisper to your young assailant?”

  “Never underestimate a woman.”

  “Definitely not this one,” said Pete, to no one in particular.

  I chuckled.

  Where Val was soft and pliable, he was a rigid, stiff wire. Peter was pleasing to look at, but as he strolled with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture was like a carefully studied caricature of a casual stance, which made it anything but casual. After a long pause, he said, “Lane, you know, if you ever want to talk with me about everything that’s been going on, I would be happy to help you in any way I can.”

  “Uhh . . . Did Val say . . . ?” I stammered.

  “No, no, she hasn’t said much of anything,” he said, with a smile and a shake of his head. “But from what I can gather, she’s worried about you, and knowing your job and the situations that have been happening with you . . . You’ve got a lot going on, Lane.” Yes, yes I do, indeed. “Let me ask you this: Do you believe in coincidences?”

  “I haven’t given it much thought, but as of late, I don’t think I do,” I said as I viewed the darkening sky and the glowing skyscrapers around us. I loved nighttime; the city was magical. My stomach growled as we passed a trattoria. The aroma of garlic, olives, and tomatoes wafting out was unbearably delicious.

  “Do you think your purse-snatching today has any relevance or connection to the other events?” he asked, in his best investigative voice. How had I not seen it before? He was so clearly a policeman, with or without his uniform.

  “Let me think. I didn’t recognize the thief. If it was a random purse-snatching, he could have just been waiting at that popular stop for a perfect situation, or he was on the train with me and I just didn’t notice. However, if he was part of something bigger and they were targeting me, it was pretty well-thought-out. Do you think that kid has any links to Danny Fazzalari? The guy who pushed me onto the subway tracks?”

  “I can check on that. Is there anything else that you should tell me about?”

  “No, I think I’m good.”

  He looked like he darn well knew that there were things I wasn’t telling him; I must’ve had a suspicious look on my face as I thought of my escapade to the Meatpacking District. I’d have to work on that.

  * * *

  The next day dawned hot, dark, and rainy
. When I didn’t have to go anywhere, I loved the rain. When I had to be somewhere in the city, it wasn’t so fun. So on came the boots, the umbrella, and the raincoat with rain hat.

  I felt slimy as I entered city hall. Fio had picked me up in his car, but even the walk from the car to the office drenched us both. After I dried off and took off my boots, I spotted Ralph going into the coffee room.

  “Hi, Ralph. How are you doing this morning?” I asked as I poured a hefty cup of coffee and braced myself for Ralph’s fast and furious onslaught of information.

  “Hi, Lane. Good, good, how you doin’? I had a great night, met some fun people. Oh! I found a new coffee shop—”

  I figured I had better barge into his ongoing monologue if I was ever going to get my question in. “Hey, Ralph!” I yelled, a little too loudly in my fervor to be heard. In response to his startled look, I moderated my voice. “I wanted to ask you something. Val told me that you helped with interviews when Roxy and Lizzie were first hired. I’ve been trying to, you know, figure them out a little. We don’t always get along, and I was wondering if there’s anything that could help me get to know them better.” I gave him a coaxing smile, almost out of breath from spurting out all those sentences quickly enough that he couldn’t interrupt me. “Any ideas?”

  “Well, let me think, let me think. Type like lightning . . .” I rolled my eyes. “Both have been in the city for several years, but didn’t grow up here.”

  “Do you know where they grew up?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Somewhere way out in the country, I think. I can’t remember.” Which was completely unhelpful, because most Manhattanites figured anything outside of Manhattan was way out in the country somewhere. Could have been anywhere from Queens to Yonkers to Idaho.

  “Let’s see, I don’t remember much about their parents, either. And nothing too interesting like hobbies or something.”

  “Hobbies?” I questioned.