This Dame for Hire (18 page)

“Yer kiddin,” I said.

“Nope. Joanne made it herself.”

Lemon meringue was my favorite, and I hadn’t had it since eggs had been rationed.

“It’s only for special customers. I have it under the counter. I’ll bring ya a nice big piece when ya finish yer soup. Eat up, my Tiny Tomato.”

This news made me want to pour the soup down my throat, but I didn’t. I at least had to eat like a lady.

I stubbed out my butt in the ashtray and started on the soup.

I couldn’t get Jim Duryea outta my mind. The truth is, when I first laid eyes on him I thought he might be a pansy, not that I cared, but that’s why I was so bowled over when he invited me to dinner. Then I thought it was to impress his mother, make her think he liked girls. But now, finding out he wanted to date Claudette, I was all balled up.

Why did he want me to know that he knew her? And he did. If Dragon Lady hadn’t brought her up, I was sure Jim would’ve. But he knew his mother would warn me not to hurt her son, mention his last love, that was part of their dance. He could count on her.

And did he really not know Claudette was dead? I decided he
did
know, but that still didn’t tell me why he wanted to let me in on their acquaintance.

“Ya finished, Dora Doom? Ya look like death took a stroll over yer face.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Let’s put it this way: ya ain’t Happy Hannah tonight.”

“I got a confusin case, Skip.”

“That’s what ya say every time.”

“I do?”

“Sure ya do, Banana Betty. Ya never know how yer gonna solve them, but ya always do.”

“This is a murder case. I never had one a those before.”

“No kiddin? A murder case. Wow. A regular Sherlock Holmes, huh?”

“I wish. He always solved his cases.”

“You will, too. So who got murdered? Hey, it ain’t that gal you stumbled over in January, is it?”

Everybody knew I’d found Claudette cause my name had made the papers. For a while I couldn’t go anywhere without somebody mentioning it. The picture they used of me was lousy, more Marjorie Main than Scrumptious Susan. Still, people often recognized me.

“Yeah, matter of fact, it is that case. But I can’t tell ya anythin about it, Skip.”

“Sure, I know that, my Cupcake Cutie. Ready for yer pie?”

“You bet.”

He took away my empty soup bowl, the margarine, and my half-eaten roll. In a flash he was back with the luscious lemon meringue, a piece as big as the Waldorf, and fresh joe for my cup.

“I can’t believe it,” I said, looking at the pie. “Ya know how long it’s been since my last slice?”

“Prolly not since ’421.”

“Yup. That’s about right.” I was almost afraid to eat it, put my fork through, scared it might topple.

“Go on, try it.”

I did. And omigod, it was the best thing I’d ever tasted. It was a holy experience, like being blessed by Mahatma Gandhi or somebody.

“Who’d ya say made this?”

“Fred’s wife, Joanne.”

“It’s the best of the best, Skip. You tell her for me, okay?”

“I will.”

I ate in a trance, savoring every morsel, and when I was done I wanted to lick the plate but controlled myself.

I paid my check, and after reminding Skip to toss a bouquet to Joanne, I went out into the night.

The streets were quiet as I walked home. Nightlife was at a minimum these days. And most windows had blackout shades, so the streets were pretty dark.

When I turned the corner of Fourth and Jones, I could hear footsteps behind me. I knew by the sound it was a man, and I didn’t think much of it until I turned the next corner and he was still with me.

I sped up, and so did he. I didn’t wanna turn around, but it was either that or taking a chance a being decked or worse. I stopped. So did he. I swiveled around. There was nobody there that I could see. But it was pitch on the street.

“Who’s there?” I didn’t really expect an answer. If you’re shadowing somebody ya aren’t about to tell them. But I wanted to let whoever it was know I was onto him. Now what? I couldn’t stand there all night. I wasn’t far from home, so maybe I could run for it. I knew he’d run, too, but what could he do once I got to my building?

I turned on a dime and hit the grit as fast as I could. So did he. Right in the middle of my block I got it on the back of my head.

Slices of lemon meringue spun around me, and I kept trying to grab one, but I couldn’t get a grip on anything. It was like being on the merry-go-round, reaching for the brass ring and missing every time.

Then I came to. I saw a lotta faces looking down at me. Beyond that I saw my ceiling. I could tell cause of the carved cherub in the corner of the molding, and I realized I was in my living room on one of my sofas.

“How do you feel?” A woman. “Oy vey. Some night.”

No mistaking that voice. It was Dolores, my next door neighbor. What was she doing in my apartment? What were all these people doing? And who were they?

I tried to sit up, but the pounding in my head made me dizzy and I lay down again.

“Like death warmed over,” Dolores said.

“I think we should get an ambulance.” A man. “She could have a concussion for all we know.”

That was Jerome Byington. I’d know his baritone anywhere. He lived on the fourth floor.

“No ambulance,” I said.

“I don’t think she needs stitches.” Bruce Jory. Across the street.

“Are you a doctor, may I ask?” Dolores.

“I think we should all calm down.” Ethel Kilbride. Across the hall from Byington.

I refused to ask what happened like I was in some detective pulp. I kept hoping somebody would say.

“A drink of water,” I said.

“Get it.”

“You get it.”

“I’ll get it.”

“Are you in a lot of pain, dearie?” asked Ethel.

“It hurts some.”

“Who would bang a nice girl like Faye on the head, is what I want to know?”

There it was. And then it came back to me. The footsteps, the running, the . . . nothing. I guessed that was when I got it.

“Well, we all know what line of work she’s in,” Jory said.

“So? Who says a detective has to get a bang on the noggin?” Dolores.

“Tell us what happened, my dear.” Byington.

“I really don’t know how it happened,” I said.

“You were lying like a lox in the middle of the block.”

“Well, it wasn’t a burglary,” Jory said.

“Robbery.” Ethel.

“What?”

“Robbery. A burglary is stealing from a place. Not from a person.”

“Burgle gurgle, who cares? The thing is our Faye got clobbered by some gangster.”

“I doubt it was a gangster, Dolores.”

“What’s all the nitpicking? The important thing here is to see if she needs a doctor.”

Someone handed me a glass of water. I took it and sat up slightly to drink it.

The pounding was terrible, but the thirst was worse. When I was done, I held it out and a hand took it.

“No doctor,” I said.

“Why no doctor?”

“I can tell I don’t need one.” I’d be taken to St. Vincent’s, which I had nothing against, but I didn’t want to get stuck in the emergency room all night. I remembered I was waiting to hear from Marty.

“Did the phone ring?” I said.

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“No ringing.”

“You hearing bells in your head, Faye?”

“I don’t mean now. However long we’ve been here. Did the phone ring?”

“No.”

“No ringing.”

“I didn’t hear nothing.”

“Nope.”

“You was some lucky girl, Faye.”

“I know. I guess I coulda been killed.”

“That, too. But I mean being found like that.”

“Who found me?”

“I did,” Jim Duryea said.

TWENTY

Y
ou
found me?” “Yes. I’d taken a walk, and on my way back there you were, right in the middle of the block. I tried to carry you here, but I couldn’t manage, so I knocked on Jory’s door. Fortunately he’s on the first floor. He came running, and we carried you home,” Duryea said.

I wanted to say, Isn’t it more likely you hit me over the head? but I didn’t. “Thank you.”

“Who wants coffee?” Dolores said.

There were a couple a takers.

“I’ll be right back.”

At least she was gonna make it in her own apartment. It seemed like we were having a party.

The phone rang and I tried to get up, but Ethel Kilbride gently pushed me back.

“Would somebody answer that?” I said.

Jerome picked it up on the third ring.

“Miss Quick’s residence, may I help you?”

When I groaned, they all thought my head was getting worse.

“Well, who are
you,
sir?”

“Is it Marty Mitchum?” I said.

Jerome asked the caller. “Right you are, Faye.”

“Tell him to get over here pronto.” I wasn’t about to be left with Duryea playing nursie, and it could easily go that way.

Byington hung up. “He said he’ll be right over. Rather a rude fellow, isn’t he?”

“He can be abrupt,” I said.

Dolores came back with a tray full of cups and a coffeepot. “There’s milk—from powdered, naturally—but no sugar. I ran out of stamps.”

“Let me help you with that,” Duryea said.

“I want Faye to get some of this down, it’ll be good for her.”

Easing up to a sitting position set off the tom-toms in my head, but they weren’t as loud as they’d been.

“Careful.”

“Easy.”

“Don’t be too much in a hurry.”

Dolores said, “You shouldn’t sit up, you might exasperate it.”

When I finally got myself up, I looked around. I didn’t think I’d ever had this many people in my place at one time.

“Milk?” Dolores asked.

“Black.”

She poured my coffee, a slight shake in her hand rattling the cup and saucer as she held them out. “Family tremor,” she said.

I nodded but didn’t have the vaguest what she was talking about.

“Drink slow, Faye.”

“I will.”

Jory said, “You think coffee is going to cure the bump on her head?”

“Alevei,”
Dolores said with a wave of her hand.

From talking with her I knew this Yiddish expression meant something like “it should only happen to her.”

“She should have a doctor.”

“She doesn’t want a doctor.”

“Who cares what she wants. She doesn’t know what’s good for her.”

“I say . . .”

It went on that way for what seemed like hours, and then the doorbell rang and I knew I was saved. Jim Duryea, that jack-of-all-trades, played doorman, letting Marty in.

I don’t think I’d ever been so happy to see a man in my life. I
knew
I’d never been happier to see Marty.

“What the hell is goin on here?” he said, seeming to accuse them all as he looked from one person to the next.

I said, “It’s okay, Marty.”

He came over to the sofa. “What happened, Faye?”

I started to explain, but the help from the chorus only got Marty confused.

“Hey, hold it. One person at a time. Who found Faye?”

Duryea said he had.

Marty asked him to give details, and he blabbed the same spiel he’d told before, word for word. I was glad Marty was getting a load of Jim so he’d know who I was talking about later.

“Ya want some coffee, Mr. Marty?” Dolores asked.

“No, thanks. You’ve all been swell to Faye here, but she needs some quiet now.”

Oh, thank you, Marty.

“And will you be staying?” Byington asked.

“Yeah. Me and Faye got some business to discuss.”

Jory said, “Why should we leave her with you? For all we know, you’re the one who bashed her on the head.”

“No,” I said. “Marty’s a cop and a friend.”

“You’re with the police force?” Ethel asked.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m a detective with the New York Police Department.”

“That must be very exciting.”

“Okay, Ethel, Marty ain’t here to entertain us. Let’s go.” Dolores was like a sheepdog herding them all toward the door.

“Your coffeepot and cups, Dolores.”

“I’ll get em tomorrow.”

When they were gone, Marty said, “Lemme see that bump, kid.”

“It’s nothin.”

“Lemme decide that.”

He sat next to me on the sofa, and I bent my head so he could get a good look.

“Size of an egg,” he said. “A big one.” He touched it. “That hurt?”

“A little.”

“It didn’t break the skin.”

“Feels like it did.”

“Nah. Ya don’t need stitches or nothin, but ya could have a concussion.”

“Ya think so, Dr. Mitchum?”

“Hey, anybody would know that.”

“I’m just razzin ya, Marty.”

“Yeah, okay. But ya know what ya have to do if ya have a concussion, don’tcha?”

“What?”

“Ya gotta rest.”

“Rest how?”

“Rest, ya know, rest.”

“In bed?” I was scared he’d say yes.

“Maybe not, but at least here on the sofa.”

“Why?”

“Cause this was no tap, Faye, is why. It could be dangerous ya go runnin around.”

“What if I don’t run?”

“C’mon, Faye, ya know what I’m sayin.”

“Marty, I’m working a case . . . you know that . . . I can’t take time off.”

“Ya have to take a day at least. Ya don’t wanna make things worse. Can’t ya do some work from here?”

Enough of playing the patient. “Ya know the guy who told ya what happened to me?”

“What about him?”

“He’s Duryea. Did ya have a chance to check him out?”

“Matter a fact, I did. He’s got a yellow sheet long as my arm. But only two arrests stuck.”

“Yer kiddin. What for?” Now I was sure Duryea had been the one to knock the daylights outta me before coming to my rescue.

“Mostly fraud.”

“What kind?”

“Antiques.”

“That’s what he does now. He says he has an antique store.”

“He does. Nothin to stop the guy. He’s done his time.”

“He’s been in the slammer?” That knocked me back on my heels.

“Twice. Once when he was in his twenties and once about ten years ago. First time he tried to pass off a copy of a royal wheelchair as the real deal, some Louis or other. Next time it was somethin called a highboy belongin to the ‘father of our country,’ accordin to Mr. Duryea. Even had a piece a Georgie’s writin in a drawer. Nice touch, don’t ya think? Only problem was, another drawer had the name of a New Jersey furniture factory stamped on its underside.”