High Spirits [Spirits 03] (28 page)

      
“Carefully,” I said, and then wished I hadn’t.

      
“Huh?”

      
With an internal smack upside my head for my idiocy, I said, “Carefully is the word you want. You need to plan
carefully
. Not careful. You can
be
careful, but you have to
plan
carefully.”

      
She mulled that one over, and I feared I’d distracted her from telling the story of her escape plan from the miserable Jinx. “Oh. I guess there’s a rule for that sort of thing, huh?”

      
“You betcha. But you said you’re planning your escape carefully, right?”

      
“Yeah. I’m being real ... careful?” She cocked an eyebrow at me, and I smiled my approval. She went on, “Anyhow, I have to plan my escape carefully, ‘cause otherwise he’ll get me, and I don’t want to be beat up no more.”

      
I opened my mouth to correct her, realized what I was doing, and snapped it shut again.

      
She understood in spite of my clumsiness. “Any more, huh?”

      
“Right. Any more.”

      
“I don’t want to get beat up anymore.”

      
“Right.” Good enough for government work, as my father was fond of saying. “Um, is Johnny Buckingham helping you in this regard.”

      
Darned if she didn’t practically start glowing right there on the street. “Oh, yeah. He’s such a swell guy. He’s real nice, Daisy. I wish I could meet somebody like him instead of bums like Jinx.”

      
“What do you mean somebody like him? You’ve met
him
. Why would you want to meet anyone else?”

      
“Well ...” Now that she wasn’t wearing a thick layer of powder on her cheeks, her blush stood out like a red, red rose. “I don’t. I really like him, Daisy.” She bowed her head. “But I got a long ways to go before I can think about finding a fella like him.”

      
She clearly didn’t get my point. “You’ve already found him, Flossie,” I said gently.

      
“Oh, but—”

      
“And don’t tell me you’re not good enough for him, either, Flossie Mosser. You most definitely
are
good enough for him. Why, you’d be a swell addition to his army of folks. Say, Flossie, do you play an instrument or anything?”

      
“An instrument?” Her big blue eyes rounded, and she gazed at me with puzzlement.

      
“Sure. For the Army band, you know?”

      
“Oh.” Her face took on an expression of bleak sadness, as if her being unfamiliar with a musical instrument would be the death knell to her interest in the Salvation Army and Johnny Buckingham. “No. I don’t play nothing. Anything.”

      
There was definitely hope for the woman. “Well, don’t worry about it. You can be one of the ladies with the tambourines. They’re almost more important than the musicians, anyhow, because they collect the money after the band plays.”

      
She brightened minimally. “Oh. Yeah. I forgot that part.”

      
“Anyhow, you can sing, can’t you?”

      
“I guess. I don’t know no—I mean
any
hymns.”

      
“You’ll learn,” I told her confidently. The good Lord knows,
I’d
learned.

      
The strains of “Onward Christian Soldiers” smote our ears an instant before the band, led by Johnny Buckingham, turned the corner from Pasadena Avenue onto Colorado Boulevard. Flossie blushed again, and I was pleased to see that as soon as Johnny spotted us, he lowered his cornet and rushed over.

      
“Flossie! Daisy! It’s so good to see you both.” His eyes were on Flossie, though, and my hope for her future brightened even more.

      
“Hey, Johnny.”

      
“Hi,” said the now-shy Flossie.

      
Johnny took her arm. “Say, you two want to go grab a cup of coffee or a Coke or something? It’s time the band got back to headquarters, and I’m dry as a bone after playing all afternoon.”

      
I pondered for only a second or two. “Say, Johnny and Flossie, why don’t the two of you go grab a Coke. I’ve got some shopping to do.”

      
So they did. And I went shopping.

* * * * *

      
I was pretty pleased with myself when I got home about an hour later. I hadn’t found exactly what I was looking for, and what I had found was awfully expensive, but I figured that I could save some money, and maybe I could give Billy his thank-you treat pretty soon.

      
My mood didn’t last past the front door, in spite of Spike’s happy greeting and my happy response to it. When I stood up, Spike in my arms, I discovered that Pa and Billy and Sam Rotondo were all there waiting for me, and each one of them looked like the face of doom. I stared at the group of the men in my life—Sam was only there because I couldn’t get rid of him—and my heart sank.

      
“What’s wrong?” I knew something was wrong.

      
“Nothing,” said Pa.

      
Another glance at the threesome, Sam and Pa flanking Billy in his chair, had me calling my own father a liar, although that’s not exactly what I meant. “I don’t believe you. What is it? I can tell something’s the matter. You all look like somebody’s died.” I gasped and cried out, “It’s not Ma, is it?”

      
Sweet Lord in heaven, if something had happened to my mother, I didn’t think I could stand it. Life was hard enough already. I couldn’t bear to think of a life without Ma.

      
“Good God, Daisy, get hold of yourself.”

      
This, from Sam Rotondo. I glared at him, furious. “Well, then, tell me what’s going on! You three look like a firing squad, and I don’t care what you think of me, Sam Rotondo, I do
not
deserve to be executed!”

      
“For God’s sake,” Sam said, patently disgusted. “Nobody’s talking about executions here. Billy called me at the station and asked me to come over. Maggiori’s been trying to get hold of you.”

      
My heart squeezed painfully. I didn’t like that expression,
get hold of
me. It sounded ominous. So much for my pleasant mood. Sighing wearily, I dragged Spike and my spiritualist accoutrements to the sofa and sat, plopping my Ouija board and bag of cards on the table beside me. “Oh, joy.”

      
“I told him you’d be home after you went to Mrs. Kincaid’s,” said Billy. He looked at me accusingly. “Where the devil have you been? I thought you’d be home an hour ago. Did the woman have
that
much to say to the blasted spirits?”

      
Eyeing him with disfavor, I tried to remember why I’d spent the afternoon scrounging around for a specific present for him. Didn’t work. Feeling even more put-upon than usual, I snapped, “I saw Flossie on the street and stopped to talk to her. We walked to the Salvation Army. Then I did a little shopping. Should I have telephoned? I didn’t know I had to account for every minute of my time spent away from you.” I regret to say that my tone of voice was rather vicious.

      
Billy’s lips thinned. “No, you don’t have to account to me for your darned time, Daisy. I just don’t like this whole situation.”

      
I sighed, already regretting my temper. “I’m sorry, Billy. My nerves are shot. I don’t like the situation, either. Maybe this telephone call from Maggiori will signal the end to everything.” Oh, boy, I didn’t quite mean
that
either. While I prayed that his speakeasy would be closed and he and his goons driven out of town forever, I sort of wanted to survive the ordeal.

      
“I hope so,” said Billy, sounding as if he’d accepted my apology.

      
“We all hope so,” said Pa. He came over and patted my arm. “It’ll be all right, Daisy. You’ll see.”

      
“You’re performing a valuable service for the citizens of Pasadena, Daisy.”

      
I stared at Sam Rotondo. Then I shook my head hard, sure I’d misunderstood. Had he actually said something nice about me? Wonders never cease, do they?

      
And then the telephone rang. After all four of us exchanged speaking glances, I rose, set Spike on the floor, and went to the kitchen to answer it. I felt as though I were going to my own hanging.

      
Sure enough, it was a Maggiori thug. After he’d assured himself that I was I and not some police-planted interloper, and after I’d shooed all our party-line neighbors off the wire, Maggiori came on the wire and spoke to me. I’d have felt important if it had been, say, the king of England or someone like that. As he was only a rather high-level criminal, I saved my awe for someone who deserved it.

      
“Mrs. Majesty,” he said. He had a smooth voice, low and sort of insinuating, if you know what I mean. Oily. The man was oily.

      
“How do you do, Mr. Maggiori?”

      
“Swell. Say, Friday would be a good time for doin’ another séance here. That okay by you?”

      
Friday. I wasn’t sure I could last that long. “That will be fine, Mr. Maggiori.”

      
“Good. I’ll have somebody pick you up at eight.”

      
Pick me up? I hadn’t envisioned this scenario. “Um ... you needn’t do that, Mr. Maggiori. I’m sure I can get my friend Harold to drive me there.” If the cops were going to raid the joint, I sure didn’t want to have to depend on any of Maggiori’s employees for a ride home.

      
“Nuts,” he said. His tone was a little less greasy. My mental image was of butter with spikes stuck in it. “I’ll have one of da guys pick you up at eight.”

      
I guess one of his guys would pick me up at eight, then. I said, “Very well.”

      
“Bring dat guy Rolly witchya, too.”

      
“Rolly is always with me,” I told him, matching oil for oil.

      
Now here’s something silly. I’d invented Rolly when I was ten years old out of whole cloth. Yet every time I told someone that Rolly was always with me—the subject came up occasionally—I felt better, probably because I wished it were true. Wouldn’t it be nice to know that you had a friend who
never
let you down or got mad at you or scolded you or any of those things that real people do? Maybe it’s not silly. Maybe it’s pathetic. Oh, well.

      
“Good. I wanna talk to my granny.”

      
His granny? What happened to his godfather? However, mine was not to question why. Mine was but to ... I decided not to finish that particular quotation. I said, “Very well,” again and prayed my terror didn’t come across in my words. I was attempting like mad to sound arcane and mysterious, but
you
try sounding like an oracle when you’re scared to death and see how well
you
do.

      
My knees felt weak, my eyes were watering, and I was wringing my hands like Lady Macbeth when I got back to the living room where the men in my life awaited me. Even Spike, who was sitting on Pa’s lap, appeared to be intrigued.

      
“He’s picking me up at eight on Friday. He wants to get in touch with his granny.”

      
And then I burst into tears.

Chapter Sixteen
 

Friday rolled around, as Fridays generally do. It came a lot faster than I wanted it to. Bless Harold Kincaid’s heart, even though he wasn’t allowed to pick me up and take me to Maggiori’s new place in Lamanda Park, he at least told me that he and Del Farrington, his gentleman friend, would meet me there. That made me feel slightly better, but not a whole lot.

      
“Buck up, Daisy. This will spell the end of your involvement with the case,” said Harold in a bracing tone. He was always telling me to buck up. Sweet guy, Harold.

      
“I’ll just be glad when it’s over.”

      
“And you’ll have performed a valuable public service.”

      
“That’s what Sam told me,” I said miserably. “As if he cares about that.”

      
“Oh, I’m sure he cares, sweetie. He’s a copper, after all, and they don’t like law-breakers.”

      
A certain edge to Harold’s voice made me think suddenly and inexplicably of Oscar Wilde, who had been persecuted for his affection for another man. Were there still laws on the books that rendered such affections illegal? Good Lord, that notion had never once occurred to me before that instant.

      
“Thanks, Harold. I really appreciate this.”

      
“Think nothing of it, Daisy. Del and I will be happy to give you moral support.”

      
My emotions were truly on edge. My eyes teared up, and I sniffled.

      
“And for God’s sake, don’t cry at me!” Harold demanded, sounding pretty much like any other man in the world. Maybe Harold and his ilk weren’t as different from other men as people thought.

      
“I won’t,” I said, and hung up quickly to make sure of it.

      
The mood of the whole family was sober that evening. Ma gave me a hug when she got home from work, and Aunt Vi fixed one of my favorite meals: roast lamb.

      
“Thanks, Vi,” I said mistily.

      
“You’re welcome.” She didn’t sound particularly worried about me, but she gave me a pat on the back, and I knew she was. Aunt Vi wasn’t awfully demonstrative. Or, rather, she demonstrated her affections with her cooking, which was fine with the rest of the family, as she was one of the best cooks in the entire universe.