Escapade (9781301744510) (22 page)

It was not only her own future tied up in
that company, but Tony's as well, Angelo's, Pete's and the handful
of other young men who had given up good, steady jobs down at the
docks in order to work for her.

Not only was her behavior stupid, it was
incredibly selfish. For one day at least, she needed to get Zeke
Morrison out of her head.

"You have a seat, Tony," she said. "It won't
take me more than a few minutes to get ready."

Darting into her bed¬chamber, she scrambled
into a navy-colored Newport suit—a gored skirt with matching
jacket, constructed of sensible repellent cloth, plain and
businesslike. She managed to knot her unruly mane of hair up into a
neat chignon.

Barely a quarter of an hour later, she and
Tony left the flat. It was a lovely spring morning, a little brisk,
but the sun was shining, warming the front stoops of the
brownstones. Even Finn MacCool looked mellowed. Basking in the
rays, asleep, he merely opened one eye long enough to growl at Tony
and Rory as they passed.

It was like so many other mornings when Tony
had dropped by to join her in catching the El, heading for the
warehouse, talking balloons. This morning they speculated on their
chances of getting that government contract.

If Tony lapsed silent a little more than
usual, if he often avoided looking at her, Rory supposed that was
to be expected. And if her own thoughts frequently wandered to a
certain brash Fifth Avenue tycoon, wondering where Zeke was, what
he was doing, what he was feeling, why, that couldn't be helped
either.

Since neither she nor Tony had breakfasted,
they took a detour by way of Grand Street as they often did, lured
by the prospect of lox and cream cheese sandwiched between
fresh-baked bagels.

The Jewish quarter of the city had always
fascinated Rory, the narrow streets with their endless rows of
pushcarts, selling everything from newly-killed chickens to
violins. Bearded peddlers haggled with their female customers,
whose hair was bound up in kerchiefs. Scholarly-looking men,
wearing eyeglasses and skullcaps, lingered on corners, lost in what
Rory was certain must be deep discussions, although she understood
not a word of that mysterious language called Yiddish.

After she and Tony had made their purchase,
they planted themselves atop a couple of herring barrels to enjoy
their breakfast. Rory didn't realize how hungry she was until she
bit into her bagel, but as usual Tony had demolished his before she
was half-done.

Licking his fingers, he glanced around,
preparing to perform that other daily ritual, the purchase of the
morning paper. Although on Grand Street many of the papers for sale
were printed in those strange Hebraic symbols, the ubiquitous New
York World still made its appearance. Tony flagged down a newspaper
hawker and secured one.

Usually he would have taken a few moments to
glance through it. But with the government man due to arrive that
afternoon, neither he nor Rory dared linger too long. There was
much to be done to get ready at the warehouse.

As they set off, retracing their steps to the
nearest El platform, Tony folded up the paper and tucked it under
his arm. But Rory caught enough of a glimpse of the front page
headline to make her freeze in her tracks.

"Tony, let me see that a minute."

She didn't wait for him to comply, but
snatched the paper from beneath his arm. She unfolded it, her pulse
already racing with apprehension.

A bold headline jumped out at her.

Millionaire Wanted by Police.

She tried to read the accompanying article
under the byline of a Mr. W. Duffy, but it was difficult with Tony
crowding so close and the words blurring before her panic-stricken
gaze.

"What's the matter, Rory? What are you
reading? Holy damnation!"

Tony grabbed the paper from her to gain a
better look. She had not been able to make out more than the words
"J. E. Morrison wanted concerning disappearance of Stanley
Addison."

"Tony!" Rory bounced on tiptoe, trying
without avail to read over his shoulder. "What does it say? About
Zeke? It has to be some sort of ridiculous mistake. Zeke was with
me most of last night. How could he know anything about the
disappearance of Mr. Addison?"

Tony lowered the paper, looking at her with
troubled eyes. "Rory, this paper doesn't say Addison just
disappeared. He's dead.

"And your Mr. Morrison is wanted for
murder.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Zeke Morrison felt as if the top of his skull
were going to explode. But considering the pain that thundered like
the strokes of a hundred hammers, the loss of his head might prove
a blessing. For what seemed an eternity he had been conscious of
nothing but mind-numbing agony, mists of darkness webbing his eyes
the few times he tried to open them. The effort to do so had proved
so great, he had given over trying.

But slowly the pain receded enough to allow
him awareness of other things—the feel of silk beneath his cheek,
the heavy odor of cheap perfume, so strong it made him want to
retch. He remembered enough to know he had sprawled out on Rory's
sofa to spend the night. But such a cloying scent had nothing to do
with the riot of springtime, the freshness that was Aurora Rose.
Something wasn't right.

He managed to raise his hand to his head,
flinching as his fingers came in contact with a huge knot swelling
on his scalp. He eased his eyes open, a fraction at a time. All was
a dizzying blur, but eventually the room stopped spinning. He was
surrounded not by the cozy warmth of Rory's parlor, but an
atmosphere far different.

Moth-eaten velvet curtains blocked out most
of the light, for which Zeke was grateful. His gaze roved around
the chamber, taking in the tawdry flocked wallpaper, the cheap gilt
trim on the bedposts and dresser. Somehow it all fit well with the
stink of the perfume.

Zeke blinked in recognition, not of this
particular place, but of similar establishments he had frequented.
He knew a bedroom in a brothel when he saw one.

He could almost hear the echo of Sadie's
voice scolding. Johnnie, why must you have anything to do with bad
girls like those?

"This time, lady, I swear I'm innocent," Zeke
murmured. How had he come to be here? Not by his own power, of that
he was certain. He couldn't even remember leaving Rory's flat.

He shifted on the lumpy mattress, his head
throbbing with the effort to remember. It had been too warm in
Rory's parlor. He had opened the window, climbed up to the
roof.

The roof! Footsteps behind him, the thug with
the jagged scar, the heavy club crashing down- it all came back to
Zeke in a blinding flash.

Attacked by the same man twice in one night?
It made no sense. Obviously, the scarred man had trailed Zeke to
Rory's flat and lurked in the street below, waiting for him to
leave. When Zeke had climbed up to the roof, the thug must have
spotted him and followed. In Zeke's experience, pickpurses usually
weren't so persistent. He didn't know what this was all about. He
was only sure of one thing—he had to get out of here.

Zeke struggled to raise himself. But at that
moment, he heard the scrape of a heavy boot, the chink of a key as
someone unlocked the bedchamber door.

Too weak to risk further conflict, Zeke felt
it might be better to lie still. Closing his eyes, he feigned
unconsciousness as the door swung open. The floorboards creaked,
and Zeke sensed someone standing over him.

He risked peering beneath his lashes enough
to see who it was—two men, undoubtedly the same two who had
assaulted him earlier.

The ugly one with the scarred chin leaned
closer. "Hey, I thought I saw him move. I better give him another
thunk."

Zeke tensed, keeping himself motionless with
great difficulty. To his relief the second man intervened. "Naw,
stupid. He's supposed to wake up."

"Yeah?" the scarred man grunted. "Well, I
don't like none of it, all this play-acting and games. This
feller's too dangerous. Damn near broke my jaw before. I shoulda
just slit his throat the first time we jumped him."

"Good thing you didn't. The boss man would've
been mad as hell. He might not have paid us. He wants him alive for
now."

The voices faded and Zeke heard the door
close, telling him he had been left alone again. He tried to clear
his disordered thoughts, make sense of what he had just heard. The
boss man wants him alive for now.

So he had been right. This series of attacks
was no coincidence, no minor attempt at thievery, but part of some
more sinister plan directed by a person who had not as yet revealed
himself.

It would seem you have an enemy, Zeke, my
boy. There was nothing new about that. In the old days, he could
have taken his pick of any number of rival gang members who might
have wanted to see him dead. Now that he was a respected pillar of
the community, that was supposed to be all behind him. It had been
a long time since he had even been threatened. Not unless one
counted Charles Decker's pathetic bluster.

Zeke's lips curled in contempt as an image of
the politician rose in his mind, the weasly fellow sitting in
Zeke's office hemming and hawing, while he had hinted that Zeke
should drop his support of Stanley Addison or else he would be
sorry.

All bluff. Or so Zeke had thought. He still
had difficulty picturing Decker, in his natty checked business
suit, dealing with street toughs and arranging something so
desperate as abduction, possibly murder.

Yet Decker had been hard-pressed of late. Any
rat when cornered would bite. Maybe Zeke had been foolish to
underestimate the man.

Only one thing was clear. He would find out
nothing lying here in some night chippie's bed. Nothing except how
they intended for him to die.

Luckily his captors had not taken the trouble
to bind him. Whoever was paying the scarred fellow wasn't getting
much value for his dollar. The thug wasn't that good in a fight,
nor was he overburdened with brains.

This time when Zeke struggled to rise, it
still hurt, but his head didn't swim so bad. He made it to a
sitting position, the ache behind his eyes settling to a dull
throb. Hell, he always had had a hard head.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he planted his
feet on the floor and nearly stepped on someone.

Startled, Zeke drew back, glancing down and
realizing he was not the room's only captive. Sprawled on his back
lay a young man with waves of wheat-gold hair, staring at the
ceiling, glassy-eyed, the sensitive contours of his face gone
rigid.

Zeke's throat tightened with recognition.
"Addison!"

The shock of seeing the attorney somehow
numbed Zeke's own aches. Shaking off what remained of his
confusion, he sank down to his knees beside the man.

He didn't need the absence of a heartbeat or
even the sight of the dark red pool on the attorney's slender chest
to know. Addison was dead.

Addison, with all his muddleheaded ideals
that Zeke half-admired and was half-driven crazy by. Addison, his
blue eyes empty now, with all his dreams snatched away.

Zeke rocked back on his heels, feeling sick.
It was not the first time he had confronted death, even in its more
violent forms. Why did this one wrench so hard at his gut? He
barely knew Stanley Addison, yet he felt pierced with a sense of
loss. He was actually shaking. His fingers trembled as he moved to
close those gentle, unseeing eyes.

As his hand dropped back to his side, Zeke
struck against something hard, half-protruding from beneath the
bed. Grasping it, Zeke pulled the object out, only to find his
fingers curling about the thick handle of a knife, the blade
encrusted with blood. His sorrow gave way to anger.

"God damn it. God damn them all to hell!" He
didn't know who, but someone was going to pay for this.

At that moment, the door to the room swung
wide. Zeke would have given every last cent he possessed for it to
be the scarred thug, or better still the mysterious and cowardly
"boss man" who had yet to show his face.

Instead he stared upward into the haggard
features of a buxom woman, clad in a scanty negligee. She gasped as
stared at Addison’s blood stained body and then at Zeke, the knife
still poised in his hand.

From then on everything seemed to happen by
prearranged cues. The girl backed out of the door, screeching with
a melodramatic flair that would have done credit to Maude
Adams.

"Oh, help. Murder! Police."

Flinging her hands into the air, the girl
vanished, still screaming. Zeke dropped the knife, ready to plunge
after her, only to hesitate. It seemed somehow obscene to abandon
Addison, leave him in a place like this.

A ridiculous qualm, for there was nothing he
could do for the young man now, only live long enough himself to
see the murder avenged. With one last look at the attorney's
absurdly youthful features, Zeke staggered out into the corridor.
It was already filling up with women, ladies of pleasure in all
stages of undress, straggly hair, pale cheeks devoid of rouge,
purple hollows beneath their eyes.

The first girl had already raised the alarm,
and they all fluttered about, shrilling like a flock of frightened
star¬lings.

"Oh, there he goes. The murdering fiend!"

Zeke's appearance set off a fresh series of
shrieks. He wanted to clutch his ears as he bolted down a rickety
flight of steps. He expected at any moment to come up against the
thug with the scarred chin, or some other burly rogue bent on
preventing his escape. But he encountered no one until he reached
the small foyer below. The front door was flung open to admit a
blue-coated officer.

Zeke gaped at the sight of the dapper
Sergeant O'Connell. He would've been prepared to wager that the
policeman had never responded to a distress call so fast in his
life. He was glad for once the copper was doing his job.