A Cast of Killers (24 page)

T.S. had instantly felt an affinity with him
and tried to steer him toward a more challenging job than the open
messenger position. But Herbert had quietly insisted that he had
tired of responsibility and that the messenger job was fine. He had
put in fifteen good years at Sterling & Sterling before
retiring the year before T.S. In those fifteen years, Herbert had
never missed a day, never even reported late and had never botched
a delivery. In fact, he had once kicked a mugger in the stomach in
order to protect nearly one million dollars in bearer bonds for his
employer, crippling the would-be thief until police arrived. Then
he had insisted on such complete anonymity, for the firm's sake,
that T.S. himself, personnel manager of all of Sterling &
Sterling, had not heard about it until after his own retirement.
Yes, Herbert was a rare man. He’d have made an excellent friend and
T.S. was a little piqued that Auntie Lil had managed to practically
steal the retired messenger from him.

Of course, Auntie Lil had never been much
concerned with people's official standing in life and, if T.S. were
to be completely honest with himself, he'd have to admit that a
full friendship between a messenger of Sterling & Sterling and
the personnel manager would have been deemed unacceptable by
everyone, including himself. But now that he was retired, T.S.
reflected, there was no reason why they couldn't be better
friends.

"That man is gesturing wildly toward you,"
Herbert pointed out to T.S., breaking their easy silence. They
stood at the corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-Eight Street,
waiting for the traffic light to change. Across the busy roadway
stood Franklin, the gigantic homeless man with the Southern drawl.
His big burly body was still encased in old-fashioned overalls, but
he was wearing a clean shirt and a new baseball hat. He was calmly
waving at T.S., an action which, in Herbert Wong's book, qualified
as wild gesticulation.

"That's Franklin," T.S. explained. "He's a
regular at the soup kitchen. He knows Adelle and the other old
actresses quite well. I wonder what he wants with me?"

T.S. soon found out. As they approached,
Franklin bent over the small laundry cart he used as a portable
storage unit and produced an armful of pocketbooks. For one wild
moment, T.S. thought he was trying to sell him one.

"I have her pocketbook," Franklin told T.S.
"I have been looking for your aunt so that I could give it to
her."

T.S. stared blankly at the jumbled assortment
of plastic, leather and straw bags. What in the world was he
talking about? Auntie Lil's pocketbook was as big as a Buick and
even harder to handle. These were wallets compared to her
suitcase-like bag.

"Miss Emily's pocketbook," Franklin
explained.

"I thought The Eagle had stolen it." T.S.
stared at the bags. Which one was supposed to be Emily's?

"He did," Franklin explained. "But like most
pocketbook thieves, he dropped it in a trash can when he was done
going through it. I have collected these over the past two days. I
suspect that Miss Emily's pocketbook is among them."

"There must be seven bags," T.S. pointed
out.

Franklin shrugged apologetically. "There are
many pocketbooks thrown in the garbage in this neighborhood. But I
have developed an eye for these things. I threw away many more than
this. Some had identification that made it clear it was not Miss
Emily's. I whittled it down as much as I could. None of these have
any identification and they are styles that Miss Emily might
choose."

T.S. stared at the homeless man. "You have
done a superb job," he admitted. "Auntie Lil will be
delighted."

"I want to help," Franklin explained. "I have
heard that you and your aunt are going to find Miss Emily's killer.
I see many things out here on these streets. It is my job. I am
always looking, noticing faces. I believe I could be of help."

"You can help me," Herbert Wong butted in.
"I'm chief of surveillance. I could use a good pair of eyes."

Franklin nodded almost imperceptibly. "You
will not be sorry," he said solemnly.

"What did you mean, it's your job to look?"
T.S. wanted to know.

"I am searching for my friend who saw The
Eagle breathing evil on Miss Emily. But much more important to me,
I am searching for my little brother," Franklin explained. "That's
why I'm here in New York City. I have promised my mamma that I will
find him and bring him home to South Carolina. So, you see, I am
always looking and watching anyway."

T.S. stood in silence. The man's dedication
to his mother made him feel ashamed. Here was Franklin, living on
the streets, eating handouts, in a city as foreign to him as
Moscow, searching seven million faces in hopes of finding the one
that would make his mother smile again. While T.S. could hardly
stand to visit his mother once a week at the elder care
facility.

On the other hand, T.S. reasoned sensibly,
Franklin's mother was probably a whole hell of a lot nicer than his
own.

"Excuse me, but I see many old ladies looking
our way," Herbert interrupted politely. "In front of that church
over there. I must surmise that the edifice is St. Barnabas."

T.S. squinted in the bright autumn sun. "You
bet. And those old ladies are our other eyes. We might as well
plunge in before the kitchen opens and we lose them to lunch. You
come, too, Franklin. You're part of the team now."

They approached the long line waiting
patiently in front of St. Barnabas. T.S. had not wanted to go
inside and face questions from Fran or Father Stebbins, so he was
perfectly content to plot outside on the sidewalk. He gathered
Adelle and the other old actresses together after they had
extracted promises that they would be let back in line at their
regular spots. Together, he and Herbert Wong explained their task:
for lack of a better plan, they were going to watch Emily's
building and take turns following everyone who entered or left.
Herbert had the master notebook—descriptions and destination
addresses would be given to him. In this way, they hoped to
determine who was a regular tenant, who was suspicious and who
might be able to tell them more about Emily.

"You said you wanted to help," T.S. told the
ladies when he and Herbert had finished explaining their plan.
"Here's your chance. Can you handle it?"

"Of course! But we must disguise ourselves,"
Adelle declared.

"Oh, yes!" the other old ladies agreed and
began to twitter among themselves. They were smelling the
greasepaint and hearing the roar of the crowd once again.

"It's so no one will make us," Adelle
insisted when she saw the look that crossed T.S.'s face. She turned
to her group and explained, "That means no one will be able to
recognize us if we're following them." Her superior air was met
with an indignant murmur. Clearly the other actresses knew what
"make" meant and who was she to lord it over them? Oh, dear, they
had to have a clear leader to nip any mutiny in the bud, T.S.
realized.

"Herbert will be the head of operations,"
T.S. emphasized. Another buzz ran through the crowd: how would
Adelle deal with this usurping of her power?

She started with a ladylike cough. "I have a
great deal of experience handling large group efforts," she began.
"I've done some directing, you know."

Herbert watched her quietly. Only his eyes
flickered lightly as he surveyed the faces of the assembled group.
He was gauging their reactions and loyalty to Adelle. And he was
probably doing a damn fine job of it. "I am sure you would make a
fine leader," Herbert assured her in a courtly fashion, throwing in
a short bow for effect. "And I am a great admirer of your work. But
I find it hard to believe that a superior craftsman such as
yourself should be asked to undertake the menial task of mere
organization. No, you should be allowed to freely ply your craft,
without any administrative cares."

"Franklin has offered to help us, as well,"
T.S. announced quickly, before Adelle could argue. "Herbert has
assigned him to night surveillance. I cannot ask you ladies to roam
these streets after midnight. It would put you in too much danger.
So Franklin will detail the comings and goings between midnight and
seven. He won't be able to follow anyone, but we'll still be able
to keep an eye on the building's traffic pattern. Fair enough?"

They all agreed it was a workable plan and
began to inch back toward their places in line. Sensing that hunger
was taking priority over justice, Herbert and T.S. quickly
emphasized the need for discretion, collected the assortment of
pocketbooks from Franklin and beat a hasty retreat.

"You are in a hurry?" Herbert asked politely,
scurrying to keep pace with T.S.

"You don't want to meet Father Stebbins,"
T.S. assured his friend. "So far, I have found your English
impeccable and cultured. One conversation with Father Stebbins and
you'll turn into a walking cliché factory."

Herbert was staring at T.S. strangely.

"What is it?" T.S. demanded, drawing to a
stop at the street corner.

The retired messenger bowed deeply and
reached for one of the pocketbooks slung over T.S.'s arm. "You must
allow me to carry the brown one," he insisted, unsuccessfully
hiding the twinkle in his eye. "It clashes with your shoes."

Homefront turned out to be a storefront on
Tenth Avenue near the Port Authority bus terminal. Bob Fleming
unlocked the door and led Auntie Lil inside. The place was deserted
and just this side of clean. A circle of empty chairs stood in the
front picture window, and there were neatly folded piles of
clothing on a table that ran along one side wall. Donated sneakers
and shoes of all styles and sizes were heaped beneath the same
table. There was a counter running across the front third of the
room. It was cluttered with a large coffee urn, soft drinks in a
Styrofoam cooler, a plate of stale-looking doughnuts and stacks of
brochures featuring cover photos of smiling youths. Beyond the
counter, a battered wooden desk dominated one corner of the room.
Three army cots were lined up neatly against the back wall, beside
a stack of extra folding chairs. A number of telephones were
mounted against the remaining side wall and penciled numbers were
scrawled across the paint above each instrument.

"Home sweet home," Bob Fleming said as he
guided Auntie Lil to the rear of the store. "Used to be a dry
cleaner's. I kept the twenty-four-hour-service sign in the window.
It seemed appropriate."

"You sleep here?" Auntie Lil asked. Army cots
were narrow and uncomfortable.

"No. I have a small apartment over on Tenth.
This is just for the kids who are too tired to go any further. They
can rest here for a couple of hours while I find a place for them
in one of the regular city or private facilities. We haven't got
enough money to open a bed facility of our own. Yet. Right now, I'm
just an outreach and referral program. But that was more than they
had. Plenty of people are willing to help runaways, but no one is
willing to stand in the open and offer it. It's easy to burn
out."

"Why so many telephones?" Auntie Lil nodded
toward the row of instruments as she settled into a plastic chair
across from his enormous desk.

"That's the one thing I can offer them. A
free phone call home. Sometimes that's all it takes. But not very
often. We're part of a corporate-sponsored program that pays for
toll-free calls anywhere in the U.S. I encourage them to at least
touch base with their parents and let them know they're okay."

"What about getting them to go home?" Auntie
Lil suggested.

"Home is not such a great place for some of
these kids to be." He folded his hands and stared at her. "Frankly,
many are better off on their own."

Auntie Lil did not ask him to elaborate.
She'd been around the world dozens of times and seen many, many
different kinds of homes, including what modern psychologists liked
to call dysfunctional ones. She'd seen and heard enough horror
stories to last until the day she died.

"So you want to help out?" He was gazing at
her strangely.

"Not exactly," she confessed, finding it
impossible to lie. Which was a switch. She was usually an
outrageous and prolific liar, untouched by pangs of conscience.
"Why are you looking at me that way?" she asked defensively.

"Because I knew you were lying earlier when
you said you wanted to volunteer," he told her calmly. "Believe me,
I've met every kind of liar there is in this world and I can
usually spot even the good ones. You're a pretty good one, you
know. I bet the little old lady act throws everyone off."

"That's true," Auntie Lil confessed.
"Obviously, not you."

"Yes. But you've redeemed yourself by
immediately telling me that you are a liar. Why, and what is it
that you really want?"

"I'm looking for someone. Three people
actually. Do you know them?" She rummaged around in her bag and
produced two photographs. The first, of Emily, received only a
cursory glance from Bob Fleming.

"Can't help you," he said quietly, handing it
back to Auntie Lil. He did not ask how she had obtained the
gruesome photo. He stared more closely at the dime store strip
showing two young boys. His eyes flickered across the series of
small photos, but his expression was unreadable. "Why do you want
to know?" he asked. "Are you a relative?

"No. Not exactly." She hesitated, unsure of
how to proceed. With one woman dead, how could she afford to trust
someone she didn't even know?

"You don't want to tell me," he answered his
own question. "Have they done something to you? Snatched your
pocketbook? Broken into your apartment? Do you work for the
police?"

"The police! Good heavens, no. I'm far too
old."