The Yankee Club (17 page)

I recalled his skills behind the wheel the night he drove from Penn Station. “They’re just trying to pressure me.” Still, I wasn’t sure cops were the only ones who might follow. “You have your gun?”

Frankie patted his suit coat pocket. A block later he placed his hand on his stomach. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Gino has the best hangover remedies.”

At The Yankee Club, Frankie parked on the street. I climbed out and took a quick glance toward Hawkins and Stone. They parked half a block away, with a view of the speakeasy.

I knocked on the front door. The panel slid open. Danny’s large, expressionless face appeared. He spoke in the familiar gravelly voice. “You got a membership card?”

“It’s me. Jake.”

He didn’t respond, so I fished into my wallet and handed the card through the opening. Danny let us in and stuffed the card into my hand.

Frankie followed me inside the mostly quiet mid-Sunday-morning crowd.

Alone at the bar with a plate of eggs sunny-side up and salami, Gino wiped his mouth on a napkin and waved us over.

I hooked the cane on a stool and sat beside him. Frankie took the empty stool beside me and rested his head in his hands.

Gino ran his fingers along the lapel of my pin-striped suit. “European cut, hand-stitched silk. Very nice. Something I’d wear to impress a dame.”

I ignored the comment.

“I’m no detective, but if I had to guess, I’d say you’re going out with that knockout Dorothy Greenwoody.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? Whatever happened to the old days when we used to brag about our conquests? Oh wait. That wasn’t you. It was me.”

I gestured toward the front door. “Danny still sore at me?”

“He’s been like that since your arrival reminded him the two of us stole his bike.” Gino speared a piece of salami and dipped it into the yolk of an egg. “Let me get you two something to eat. I’ll have Ma whip you up some eggs with sausage and bacon.”

“How many hours does she work?”

Gino chuckled. “Too many. I brought up the idea of hiring a relief chef. She smacked me around but good.”

When Gino stabbed another piece of salami and wiped up a smear of yolk, Frankie groaned and held his stomach. “You can eat that?”

“Sure. This is my usual Sunday breakfast. How was the party? Musta been kind of uncomfortable with Laura and the banker.”

I wanted to explain about Laura’s fake engagement, but I couldn’t tell anyone without endangering her life. “I survived. Frankie enjoyed it more than me.”

“Too much booze, huh, Frankie? How ’bout I fix you a guaranteed hangover cure?”

Frankie wrinkled his face. “What’s in it?”

“You don’t want to know. Just kiddin’. Tomato juice, beef bouillon, shot of Tabasco, and a raw egg.”

“Where’s the john?” Frankie covered his mouth and hopped off the stool.

Gino pointed to the restrooms in the corner. “
Maschio
means men’s.”

Frankie dashed toward the restroom.

“Puking into a toilet is also a good hangover cure.” Gino nudged me. “Hey, word is, Tony Vales thinks you plugged his brother. Better watch your back.”

“I’ve got Frankie.”

He thumbed toward the restroom. “You’ll be safe if Tony corners you in the can.”

I glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “I need your help.”

He flashed a wry smile. “So what else is new?”

“I have a witness to the shooting who can identify the driver. He belongs to a group called the Blackshirts.”

Gino cocked his head. “The witness?”

“No, the driver. The driver belongs to the Blackshirts.”

“Make up your mind, goombah.”

“I thought you might have an idea where they hang out.”

Gino dropped his fork. “So I’m supposed to know about these fascist losers ’cause, why? I’m Italian. I suppose we belong to the same bowling league. I bet you’re going to tell me this driver’s name is Guido or Stefano. Sheesh.”

I had to appeal to Gino’s sense of importance. “Not because you’re Italian, because you have connections.”

Gino picked up his fork and scooped up another bite of eggs. “Okay. For now I believe you. The driver, what’s this Dago’s name?”

“Paul Cummings.”

He dropped the fork again. “Now I know you’re fuckin’ with me. He ain’t Italian.”

“I didn’t say he was. He’s Jamaican.”

Gino wiped his mouth and set the napkin on the plate. He lit a cigarette and shook out the match. “Okay, this bum helped knock off Mickey. Makes him an accessory. I’ll see what I can find out …” He grinned. “From my buddies in the mob.”

“I’m thinking whoever killed Mickey shot Jimmy Vales hoping the police would think I had something to do with it.”

He blew out a puff of smoke. “That’s quite a conspiracy.”

I thought of the Golden Legion plot against Roosevelt, which I couldn’t talk about. “Sometimes conspiracies are real.”

“You got a witness, you should tell the cops.” Gino stuck the half-smoked cigarette into a remaining egg yolk.

Frankie came out of the restroom, looking as pale as before. He sat beside Gino and glanced at the cigarette butt sticking out of the egg and covered his eyes. “Think I’ll try your hangover cure.”

“I’ll make it.” Gino hopped off the stool. “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

I decided to take Gino’s advice and tell Hawkins and Stone about Paul Cummings. Maybe they could find the guy and quit following me around. I grabbed my cane. “I’ll be back.”

“Wait.” Gino walked me to the door. “Glad you’re not in the hospital or jail, ’cause tomorrow’s Mickey’s funeral at one, St. Tim’s.”

“I’ll be there.”

“After he’s laid to rest, I’m closing The Yankee Club to customers. We’ll have an Irish wake like Mickey deserves.”

“Mickey didn’t have any family.”

Gino clapped me on the back. “He had us.”

Outside on a stool, Danny flicked ash from a cigarette onto the sidewalk.

Down the block, Inspector Stone leaned against the black sedan talking to his partner
behind the wheel.

“Hey, Jake.” Danny crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe as I headed toward the sedan with my cane. “You want I should go with you?”

Growing up, Gino and I often asked Danny along because of his intimidating size. “I’d appreciate it. I want to set a couple of cops straight.”

“Figured as much.” Danny caught up to me, and we headed down the sidewalk. “We still ain’t friends.”

“We’ve been friends since we were kids.”

“Yeah, well, we ain’t kids no more.”

“Then why are you here?”

“It’s for a good cause, putting cops in their place.”

I nodded toward the black sedan. “Inspector Stone and Detective Hawkins. You know them?”

“Stone used to come in with Mickey from time to time. Okay guy … for a cop. Hawkins is a weasel. If he can’t prove someone’s guilty, he’ll make something up and hope it sticks.”

That was my take on the guy.

As Danny and I reached the black sedan, Stone dropped the cigarette and crushed the butt beneath a well-worn shoe. “Jake Donovan. I see you brought some muscle. How they hanging, Danny?”

Danny leaned against a light pole and glared at the two cops. “Jake and me are friends, from school.”

Behind the wheel, Detective Hawkins slipped the notebook from his suit coat pocket, checked his watch, and jotted down the time. Organized as usual.

I set one hand on the roof of the car. “I thought I’d save you some time following me around, Detective. I have a witness who saw the shooting and can identify the driver of the black sedan as a man named Paul Cummings.”

Hawkins exchanged a glance with his partner. “This fella who can ID Cummings got a name?”

“The witness is a woman.”

Hawkins displayed his usual arrogance. “Any dame out the time of night you and Mickey were shot must be a streetwalker. Why should I believe some hooker you probably paid off?”

Danny crossed his thick arms. “ ’Cause Jake ain’t like that. He says something, it’s the truth.”

Thanks, Danny.

Hawkins drummed his fingers on the door. “I’ll need to chat with your witness.”

“I have to clear it with her first.”

“Where do we find this Paul Cummings?” Stone asked.

Danny hawked a load of spit that splattered next to Stone’s shoe. “Why don’t you ask Jake to slap cuffs on the guy and drop him by the station while he’s at it?”

“Supposedly he hangs out at a pool hall. Don’t know which one.”

Stone chuckled. “More pool halls in New York than fleas on a junkyard dog.”

“One more thing. If you see Tony Vales, tell him he’s after the wrong guy, same as you.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Donovan.” Sarcasm dripped with Stone’s every word. “We’re going to the theater tonight. I’ll bring that up between acts.” He climbed into the car.

As they drove away, Danny and I headed back to The Yankee Club. I had to track down Paul Cummings. First, I had a phone call to make. “Thanks. I owe you.”

“Owe me? You still owe me a bike.”

Frankie dropped me off outside the Broadway entrance to Central Park and handed me my cane. The leg pain had eased considerably without the stitches. Although I could walk without the cane, one never knew when the dagger might be necessary.

I entered the park, half expecting someone to follow. I was relieved I didn’t pick up on anyone.

On a bench inside the park, Lillian Hellman tossed bread crumbs to a small flock of pigeons. A thin package sat beside her. She finished, brushed her hands, and held them out to the birds. “That’s all, folks.”

Her red hair glistened in the sun as she stood and waved.

I gave her a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for coming.”

“You being followed?”

I peered over my shoulder and shook my head. “No, why?”

“The way you looked around when you stepped out of the car.” She tucked the package under her arm, and we headed down the path. “I have to thank you. Not sure how you did it, but Dashiell seems to have given up his quest to return to detective work. I left him pounding away on the typewriter.”

A gust of wind nearly took my hat off. “I doubt I can take credit for that.”

She grinned. “It might have something to do with the article in the
Times
about you being questioned by the police in a murder investigation. You in trouble, Jake?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. You and Dashiell know more about politics than anyone I know. I was wondering if you’ve heard of the Blackshirts.”

“There’s a growing number here in the city that’s adopted the same tactics. They’re fascist to the core and just as ruthless as their Italian mentors.”

“I haven’t discovered who shot Mickey, but the driver is a member. He’s Jamaican and
hangs out at some pool hall.”

“Sure. Blackshirt headquarters is the second floor above Al’s Pool Hall in Hoboken. That should give you an idea of how sophisticated they are. You might find him there, but be careful.” She touched my arm. “These bums are brutal and determined to gain power.”

As we continued up the path, I realized how different Central Park appeared. I stopped and gazed around. Where was all the activity I remembered from the old days? People occupied benches as if they had nowhere else to go. The place that once brought so much joy to everyone now seemed to be a gathering place for the hopeless. “Where are the kids and couples holding hands?”

“We live in troubled times. A widening gap between those with money and those with nothing and little hope.”

Central Park mirrored the country. Once festive and vibrant, now dreary and almost frightening. “Knowing you and Dashiell, I bet you’re working to change that.”

“We do what we can.” A gust of wind pushed a clattering tin can along the path as we strolled through the park. “I’m glad you called. I was going to call you. I need your help.”

“What can I do?”

She sat on a bench and set the package beside her. “I finished my first play. I pitched it to a producer who’s interested, but I’m not sure it’s as good as it could be.”

I glanced at the package and sat beside her. “What does Dashiell say?”

She brushed a strand of windswept hair from her eyes. “He loves me, so he’s crazy about it. I need a writer who’ll give me the straight scoop.”

I’d only been a serious writer for five years. Although the public loved Blackie, some critics described my work as pulp fiction. I felt honored that a talented writer like Lillian Hellman valued my literary opinion. “I’d be happy to read it.”

She handed me the package. “The title is
The Children’s Hour
. A spoiled rich student at a private school makes up a lie about two teachers, accusing them of having an affair, and ruins their lives. I’m worried it’s not edgy enough. I want this to be different, something folks will remember when they leave the theater.”

I tugged on the string, unwrapped the package, and checked my watch. “I have time now.”

“You’re the best.” She kissed my cheek then headed toward the Great Lawn in the center of the park.

By the middle of the first act, the play had hooked me. What an evil little girl. I’d read all of Laura’s plays and Dashiell’s screenplay for
The Thin Man
. This was better written, but a play about a man and a woman accused of having an affair hardly seemed unique.

I finished and set the script beside me. Lillian paced in front of a bench down the path,
puffing on a cigarette. I smiled, and she hurried to my side.

I handed her the play. “I wish I could write like this.”

“Don’t tell me what I want to hear. Tell me what I need to know.”

“It’s compelling and beautifully written.”

“But …”

I pointed down the path with my cane. “Let’s walk.” The path led us past a man helping a small girl fly a kite. He was dressed in expensive shoes and a tailored suit, the girl in a red satin dress and a straw hat with a white ribbon. He grabbed the end of the string and ran. It appeared as if he’d never flown a kite, but at least he tried. The kite soared then crashed into the grass.

The girl stomped off. “Daddy, I want an ice-cream cone!”

Her father left the kite and ran after his spoiled daughter.

As we walked, I pointed out the weakness I saw in the play. Sex between two single people lacked sufficient edge to keep theatergoers riveted—in my opinion anyway.