The Yankee Club (23 page)

We climbed the church stairs where Gino, Mickey, and I had served as altar boys. The first alcohol I drank was wine Gino snatched from the rectory.

Inside I dipped my fingers in the holy water and made the sign of the cross. The familiar church made me determined to set aside the past few days and focus on paying my respects to one of the closest friends I’d ever had. The church had changed little. Organ music came from the choir loft, and statues of Mary and several apostles faced the lacquered pews. Candles flickered in red glass holders, and stained-glass windows displayed the Stations of the Cross. A huge crucifix hung above the altar as if Jesus looked down on Mickey’s casket sitting in the front of the church.

Gino and I headed up the aisle. Inspector Stone sat alone in the third row. I couldn’t help wondering if he played a role in Mickey’s death. While Gino stopped in front of Mickey’s casket, I slipped into the pew beside Stone.

With a black rosary in his hands, the inspector moved his lips in silent prayer. He paused and looked me over. “You can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”

“Where’s your buddy?”

“Hawkins? He’s not my buddy. We work together, that’s it.”

“I heard you were pals.”

He looked at me like I was crazy. “You heard wrong.”

I was glad he’d said that, but I didn’t know Stone well enough to trust him with what I’d learned about his partner. “See you at the wake,” I said.

“Wait. At the hospital I accused you of getting Mickey killed.” Stone’s fingers moved to the next bead on the rosary. “I was wrong.”

“Thanks.” On my way to the front of the church, I nodded to Frankie, seated behind Gino and Laura, touched he’d come to pay his respects to a man he barely knew.

I bowed my head before Mickey’s casket. His carefree life had ended way too soon. I’d come to terms with Mickey getting shot the night I visited his office, but I couldn’t shake all my guilt. It had been my idea for him to join me in opening a detective agency.

After landing in the hospital and getting involved with Stoddard’s investigation of Dalrymple and the Golden Legion, I hadn’t had time to mourn. Now I couldn’t remember how to, so I pictured Mickey and me having a final conversation until we met in the next life.

I knew what he’d say. He’d want me to bring Hawkins and Dalrymple to justice, because justice was what drove him as a soldier, a cop, and a detective.

Just as likely, he’d tell a bawdy joke and let out that raspy laugh I missed already. I bowed my head and said a prayer for my friend’s eternal happiness then renewed my vow to bring his murderers to justice.

Two altar boys genuflected then joined the priest at the back of the church. I sat in the front row between Laura and Gino. Everyone rose as Father O’Malley entered.

Mickey didn’t attend mass on a regular basis. He was a happy-go-lucky guy who
wouldn’t want a solemn ritual. The mass became a blur of Latin and revisited memories. The sermon about faith and accepting death as God’s plan offered no comfort.

I barely paid attention as Father O’Malley quoted Ecclesiastes—a time to be born, a time to die … a time to kill. Would I have to kill before this case came to a close?

Laura dabbed at her eyes with a balled-up handkerchief. She opened her fingers and held my hand. We stared at the closed casket. After the sermon, ushers gathered collection baskets with long handles, genuflected at the aisle, and came to the first row.

I nudged Gino. “A collection plate at a funeral?”

He shrugged. “We’re in a depression.”

Gino dropped a sawbuck into the collection. The usher held the collection plate in front of me. All I had was the grand Gino had loaned me.

He gave me a nudge. “You gotta give something. Come on, you’re embarrassing me.”

Laura covered a smile with her hand.

I slipped the envelope from my suit coat and thumbed through the money. The usher’s eyes widened at all the cash.

I whispered to Gino. “The smallest is a fifty.”

“It’s for the Lord.”

The usher let out a sigh of impatience. I dropped a fifty into the plate and stuffed the envelope into my suit coat pocket.

Gino nudged me again. “Mickey would’ve loved this.”

At the end of the Mass, I grabbed my cane and, in spite of my injured leg, walked alongside the casket with Gino and the other pallbearers.

At the cemetery, I stood with Gino and Laura, her face a mask behind dark sunglasses. After Mickey had been laid to rest, she drove me to The Yankee Club. We rode mostly in silence. I was lost in my memories of a man who touched us all.

Inside the speakeasy, Gino’s mother wrapped both arms around me and kissed my cheek. She did the same to Laura and Gino. A picture of Mickey hung beside the photo of Gino and Babe Ruth.

On the wall behind the dance floor a map of Ireland replaced the familiar map of Italy. Instead of Bridgette and the jazz band, an Irish band in green vests set up on the stage. In accordance with an old Irish custom, the mirror above the bar was covered with black cloth. The wall clock had been stopped.

Laura and Gino consoled friends, smiling and laughing like one was supposed to at a wake. I propped my cane against the bar and took a stool. The bartender poured a shot of Irish whiskey and set it in front of me.

The lead singer held up a shot glass of whiskey. “To Mickey.” When everyone replied,
“To Mickey,” he downed the drink and began to sing one of Mickey’s favorite St. Patrick’s Day sing-alongs, “Sweet Rosie O’Grady.” Nearly everyone sang along. Everyone but me. I threw back the whiskey and ordered another.

Laura climbed onto the stool beside me. She downed the last of my second shot of whiskey and signaled for another, her laughter and good cheer gone. The bartender set a fresh drink in front of her and tended to a customer at the far end of the bar.

She blinked away tears and stared at the drink. “What’s wrong with you? It’s an Irish wake.”

“I don’t feel like being festive.”

She threw back the shot. “That’s the point of a wake, isn’t it, to be festive when you feel like crying?”

“You did your part when we arrived.”

“I’m an actress.”

After the song, the singer picked up a flute. “This is the only sad song we play today. ’Twas Mickey’s favorite, so it won’t be tears I’ll be seeing. Not today.” He played the opening to “Danny Boy.”

With my heart tugging in my chest, I took Laura’s hand and led her to the crowded dance floor. As we danced, she laid her head against my shoulder. Neither of us spoke. The song ended, producing more tears, but none from Laura or me. Mickey would’ve wanted it that way. I held up my hand and caught the singer’s attention. He nodded.

I cleared my throat. “Sixteen years ago Mickey and I shipped off to France during the Great War. I won’t talk about the hard times we faced, but I’ll tell you about a bright spring afternoon at a lake we visited on the only leave I remember. The lakeshore was filled with beautiful women who made American soldiers feel welcome, even a couple of saps like Mickey and me.”

The crowd hooted and whistled. Laura smiled at a story she’d heard a dozen times.

“You might suspect we had more than a few brews. The day grew long and warm, and we grew thirsty. Mickey and I took off our shoes and socks. Beer mugs in hand, we waded into the murky lake to cool off. He ventured farther than I and must have stepped off a ledge, because all at once he sank beneath the water like a stone. As he went down, his arm shot up, mug in hand. Not a drop of lake water tainted his favorite brew.”

Laura and I joined the crowd in laughter.

“Mickey came up sputtering and wiped his face as I helped him back to shore. He held up his beer and swallowed the rest in one gulp. ‘I think I’ll have another.’ ”

Everyone in the speakeasy snickered at the story. The laughter died down, and the singer began to sing “Dear Old Donegal.” Laura and I danced. After the song she shared her favorite
Mickey O’Brien story about a St. Patrick’s Day parade where Mickey came to the rescue of an Irish lass who had had too much to drink.

The afternoon went on with songs punctuated with tales of Mickey O’Brien, funny stories, and memories of his courage. He would’ve enjoyed the wake.

I drank more than I should have. I stepped outside and dropped down on a bench by the front door as the setting sun shone into my face.

The door opened and Laura sat beside me, took my arm in hers, and rested her head against my shoulder. “I’m sorry about how I behaved at Penn Station. I risked the case against Dalrymple and endangered our lives.”

The door opened again. Frankie stumbled out and spilled the drink in his hand. He gripped the end of the bench and regained his balance. He swayed as he stood there. His mouth opened, but words didn’t come out. He turned, opened the door, and went inside.

Laura chuckled. “He drinks too much to be your driver.”

“He won’t be much use tomorrow, that’s for sure.” I stared into Laura’s eyes.

She gazed at me as if I’d never left.

“Maybe we should pack up and just leave New York, let the world sort itself out.”

“Sure, and where would we go?”

“Anywhere there are no mobsters with tommy guns, no plots against the government, and corrupt cops are rare.”

“I’d love to go away with you, Jake. I want to go somewhere safe, where I know I won’t be attending a wake for you and pretending I’m not sad.” Her eyes moistened. “I promised Mickey. We have to see this through. We only have to find enough evidence to get the feds involved. Then we’ll go away, wherever you want.”

“You’ve been trying to find evidence to put Dalrymple away for more than two months. What makes you think you’ll find it now?”

Laura pressed my hand against her cheek. “Because now I have you.”

Chapter 14
A Warrior on a White Horse

In the lobby of The Yankee Club, the last group of mourners hugged each other and said their good-byes. I set my hand on the photo and whispered a final farewell.

I made my way through the nearly deserted speakeasy and dropped into a chair between Laura and Gino. In the past twenty-four hours I’d barely slept, and I’d drunk too much. I needed rest in order to think clearly. Across the table, Frankie downed another cup of Joe and began to chew on a fresh toothpick. Coffee appeared to have snapped him out of his drunken behavior.

While the rest of us sat quietly, Danny lit a Camel and paced the dance floor. In a steel-gray suit, puffing smoke and gaining speed, he reminded me of a steam locomotive. He stopped at our table and jammed the cigarette butt into an ashtray. “Cops ain’t gonna find the men who plugged Mickey, are they, Jake?”

I shrugged.

“What kind of bullshit answer is that?” Danny gripped my collar and yanked me to my feet. “You’re a fucking detective. You come up with
anything
?”

Gino and Laura grabbed Danny’s arms.

“Lay off Jake.” Frankie rose, staggered backward, and collapsed into a corner chair.

I shoved Danny away. I couldn’t reveal what I knew about Paul Cummings or mention I’d discovered Hawkins was the shooter, but he deserved something. “The cops have an ID on the driver. After they find him, I’m sure they’ll get the guy to cough up the shooter’s name.”

Gino cocked his head. “I never knew you to have so much faith in cops. We should find the driver and get him to talk. We could work him over good like you did to Laura’s old man.”

“Jake,” Laura squeezed my arm, “what’s he talking about?”

Gino sank into his chair. “I thought you knew.”

She studied our faces. “Looks like everyone knew but me!”

I struggled to find words to explain why I never said anything about the incident. I’d used my fists to defend myself plenty of times, but since that day with Laura’s father, I’d never intentionally beat up anyone.

Gino reached for the scotch.

Laura gripped the bottle and wouldn’t let go. “Spill it, Gino.”

“Back in high school Jake beat up your old man.”

Danny held up one hand. “By the time Jake got through with him, Gino and me didn’t get our turns.”

Laura stared across the room and relaxed her grip on the bottle.

I should’ve told her long ago, but beating up your girlfriend’s old man wasn’t something easy to discuss. “That day you came to school with a black eye.”

“Yeah, I get it.” The pain and anger in her eyes hurt worse than getting shot. “What I don’t understand is why you never told me.” When I didn’t reply, she headed for the front door. She shoved aside chairs as she weaved through the tables.

I hurried after her. “Let me explain.”

At the door, she spun and glared at me. Laura glanced across the room at the others and spoke so only I could hear. “You kept this from me for almost twenty years. What other secrets have you buried inside?”

“I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t so proud of the way I solved the problem.”

She wiped away a tear. “You can’t keep secrets from me and expect me to trust you. That is, if you want us to have a future.” Laura pushed through the front door.

I rushed outside as she yanked open the door to her Packard. “Laura.”

She slipped behind the wheel and started the car. Without looking back, she sped away in a squeal of burnt rubber. The taillights disappeared into the darkness.

Gino stood outside the front door and crushed his cigarette on the sidewalk. “One of you is always running away from the other. You just gonna let her go back to her fiancé like that?”

“I still trust her, Gino.”

“Sure, but what about the scumbag Dalrymple?”

Unfortunately he was right. I followed him back inside. It had been a long day.

Frankie snored from the corner chair. His head rested on the wall, and a line of saliva slid from the edge of his wide-open mouth.

I shook him awake. “Time to get you home to Edith. Toss me the keys, and I’ll drive.”

“What?” Frankie ran a hand over his face. “I’m okay. A little nap was all I needed.”

Gino lit a cigarette. “I’m sorry, Jake. Just ’cause we never talked about teaching Laura’s old man a lesson didn’t mean it was some big secret. I figured you woulda mentioned it to her by now. She’ll get over it. Besides, it’s probably for the best that she got a little steamed. What with her getting married and all.” He cocked his head. “She’s still marrying Dalrymple, isn’t she?”