You Might As Well Die (20 page)

She suddenly found herself in a very small, filthy courtyard, dimly lit by the pale light from a high, narrow window.

Dorothy stopped. She needed to catch her breath. She leaned against the nearest damp brick wall. The hell with Houdini and the con artist they were chasing. She’d catch up to Houdini later. Or not. It didn’t seem to matter.

She hadn’t yet caught her breath, but she got out her pack of Chesterfields and the box of matches. She popped a cigarette in her mouth and slid open the matchbox.

The box was empty. She cursed silently and flung the box to the dirty pavement.

Then she heard a noise.

What fresh hell is this?
She stood up straight and tried to quiet her breathing. She was about to call out Houdini’s name, but she knew it wasn’t Houdini. It was someone deliberately trying to move silently. She squinted into the darkness surrounding her.

Something moved. A shadow was creeping down the alley, moving in her direction. Several shadows. Coming closer.

She stepped back. There was nowhere to go. She was too exhausted to turn and run back.

The shadows neared the tiny courtyard. There were a half dozen of them. A gang. Angry faces. Aggressive stances. Looking for a fight. Tough young hoodlums.
Very
young hoodlums.

Dorothy recognized one, the one in front, who appeared to be their leader. His wolflike grin shined through the darkness.

Tony Soma Jr.

Tony Jr. smiled. “We’ve been looking for you.”

Looking for her?
Evidently
,
the chances were pretty good.

T
ony Jr. took a step closer. “We came across an old man running like a bat out of hell. He said he’d give us each two bits if we could find you and bring you to him.”

Dorothy did her best to sound like a rough young kid, too. “All right. So take me to him.”

“Not until we find out exactly what you’re worth.”

“What I’m worth?”

“You must be worth a pretty penny if he’d pay us each two bits to find you.”

The rotten little gangster,
she thought. A shakedown in a side alley. What a night.

The gang of adolescent boys spread out, surrounding her, blocking any exit if she tried to make a run for it. Not that she could have—she was too winded.

She tried a bit of reverse psychology. She had read about it in a magazine article. “He’ll pay you
more
than two bits if you play your cards right. The man is worth millions.” She tried to speak casually. “But, fine with me if you don’t want to take me to the old jerk. I was trying to get away from him anyhow.”

Tony Jr. spoke in exaggerated baby talk.
“‘I was twying to get’way fwom him any-ow.’”
Then he spat, “What’s the matter with your voice? You some kind of queer?”

Dorothy looked at him squarely. Was that all? He wanted to trade insults? This, she could handle. She could speak insults in a variety of languages and dialects, including twelve-year-old pissant.

“Yeah, I’m queer, all right,” she said, her voice as tough as she could muster, the cigarette dangling dangerously from the corner of her lip. “Bring your pretty mouth over here and I’ll let you kiss my knuckles, the hard way.”

Some of the other boys tittered.

She continued. “Say, anyone got a match for my cigarette? Wait a minute. I’ve got a match—his face and my ass.” She pointed at Tony Jr. “Yeah, that’s a perfect match.”

The other boys laughed openly now. This level of humor, Dorothy thought, was right up their alley, so to speak.

Tony Jr. looked at his pals like traitors. “Pipe down, you mooks!” And they did. He turned back to Dorothy. “That old guy told us to bring you to him. He didn’t say we had to bring you in one piece.” He stepped forward, raising his fists.

Was he really about to punch her? She had belittled countless Broadway big shots and Manhattan matrons, any of whom would have gladly slugged her if given the chance. And here she was, about to get decked by a twelve-year-old boy who didn’t even know she was a grown woman.

What if she took off her cap and unveiled herself?
You wouldn’t hit a girl, would you?
But that might not be such a great idea. First, Tony Jr. would recognize her and perhaps drag her back to his ruthless mother. Second, there was no guarantee that they
wouldn’t
hit a girl. Or maybe worse.

Tony Jr. advanced toward her, hunching forward to strike a blow.

Well, the hell with it. If he was going to punch her lights out, she’d at least make it worthwhile. “Your mother’s an ugly, vicious warthog,” she said. “And she buys her clothes off the rack—at Woolworth’s!”

This last insult stopped Tony Jr. cold. He was more perplexed than offended. He slightly lowered his fists.

“How did you know that?” he asked, dismayed.

Dorothy had an idea. “I’m psychic.”

“A sidekick?” asked a pimply-faced boy. Dorothy recognized him. He was the son of Carlos, the bartender at Tony Soma’s speakeasy.

“A
psychic
,” Dorothy repeated. “I can read minds. And tell the future.”

Tony Jr. raised his fists again. “Every mook here knows your future. In one minute, you’ll be eating pavement.”

“Your father wouldn’t let you talk like that, Tony boy,” Dorothy said. “He’d smack your backside with his belt—and sing opera while doing it.”

Tony Jr. went pale. “O-opera?”

“
Don Giovanni
,” Dorothy said, naming Tony Sr.’s favorite. “And he’d use his best belt—the crocodile one with the gold buckle.” This indeed was Tony’s best belt. Benchley had given it to him late one night in lieu of payment.

Tony Jr. backed away, his eyes wide.

Dorothy next looked at the pimply-faced boy, Carlos’ son. “Have you stopped wetting the bed yet, Charlie?”

The boy screamed. As a group, they turned and ran.

Dorothy watched them go. They moved fast, shoving one another forward, as frightened boys do. She knew they were her only way to find her way back to Houdini—if they indeed went back the way they came.

With a sigh of resignation, she threw down her unlit cigarette and hurried after them.

 

“Mr. Benchley,” Crowninshield gasped, “what in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

Benchley turned to see the waspish, mustached face of his boss, Frank Crowninshield, looking down at him. Then Benchley looked down at his hand stuck between Lucy’s legs. He wondered to himself,
What in heaven’s name
am
I doing here?

“You are supposed to be at the Hippodrome seeing Houdini’s show,” Crowninshield fumed. “You are supposed to write a review of it for
Vanity Fair
. You are not supposed to be here, with your hands tucked in that woman’s—that woman’s—”

“Cookie jar,” Benchley stammered. “I mean, I guess you caught me with my hand in it. The cookie jar, that is.”

Benchley couldn’t help but notice the large painting that Crowninshield was holding. It was MacGuffin’s depiction of the mountain lion—the one he had used the dead cat to create. Benchley cringed just looking at it.

“Please explain yourself, Robert,” Crowninshield said. His face was red.

Benchley looked from Crowninshield’s reddening patrician face, to the dead cat / mountain lion painting, to the sticky wet bidding mechanism covered with an upside-down champagne glass, to his hands stuck between Lucy’s legs. He gave up.

“I simply can’t explain myself, Crownie, old dear.” Benchley sighed. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

Crowninshield was furious. His carefully trimmed mustache twitched with vexation. “Then I shall see you first thing tomorrow morning. In my office!” He walked away, shaking his head, his newly purchased mountain lion painting clamped under his arm.

“I thought I was in trouble before,” Benchley said, again looking down at his hand clamped in between Lucy’s legs. “Now I’m really in trouble.”

“Trouble? You can say that again.” The sense of alarm in her voice made Benchley look up.

“What do you mean?”

“We just made a bid for a thousand bucks.”

Benchley glanced at the bidding box. The overturned glass hadn’t moved. It still covered the green button. But on the stage, the auctioneer nodded approvingly in their direction, having just accepted a bid.

“Bidder N bids one thousand. Thank you, Bidder N. Do I have eleven hundred? Eleven hundred?”

Lucy said, “Our bidding box is making bids, but no one’s pressing the button.”

Nothing could surprise Benchley now. “Tonight
is
Halloween. Perhaps the darned thing’s haunted.”

 

“Boys, stop!”
Houdini yelled from somewhere far ahead.

But the boys’ footsteps did not stop. Dorothy followed the sound straight to Houdini. The magician stood alongside a stone wall, watching them run away. His back was to her as she panted slowly toward him.

“Your lackey,” she gasped, out of breath. “Present and accounted for.”

Houdini turned. He spoke impatiently. “So, there you are, Mrs. Parker. I’ve been patiently awaiting you for quite some time. The impostor went through here.” He pointed to a low door in the middle of the stone wall. “I was nigh ready to sally forth all on my own.”

“Glad you waited,” she said. “It would be silly to sally on your own. What would people say?”

He grasped the doorknob. “Then shall we?”

She nodded. “Surely.”

He threw open the door. It was a brightly lit, cluttered cellar room. No one appeared to be inside. They stepped in.

Houdini immediately began poking behind objects as Dorothy stood and looked around. The room smelled of paint, turpentine and—flowers? In the center of the room was an easel with a half-finished painting on it. Something in the style of van Gogh, Dorothy thought. More finished and half-finished canvases were stacked upright against the wall. Shelves were filled with small cans and tubes of paint, brushes, jars of mineral spirits and resin varnish. Despite the room’s disarray, several objects—such as the paintbrushes—were lined up neatly side by side. They reminded her of MacGuffin’s shoes on the Brooklyn Bridge, Dorothy thought.

Houdini stood with an ear against a tall cabinet, listening.

“Dorothy,” he hissed and handed her his stout cane. “Prepare to pummel whomever I pull out of here.”

She took the cane and nodded but prepared to do no such thing. She knew exactly who was in there.

Houdini counted silently on his fingers:
One . . . two . . . three!

He yanked open the door, reached his big hand inside and pulled out a tall, gangly man, dressed all in black, like a thief.

“Here is our impostor!” Houdini shouted in triumph, holding the man by the neck.

“He’s no impostor,” Dorothy said. “That’s Ernie MacGuffin.”

“
D
o I have eleven hundred for this haunting abstract of the Brooklyn Bridge? Eleven hundred?” The auctioneer looked in their direction. “Bidder N, you just bid one thousand. You don’t need to raise the bid to eleven hundred.”

The auctioneer looked away from Benchley and Lucy and stared pointedly toward the center of the audience. “A new bidder—Bidder Q bids eleven hundred. Thank you, Bidder Q. Do I have twelve hundred? Thank you, Bidder N, twelve hundred.”

Lucy hissed at Benchley, “
We
didn’t bid twelve hundred. This lousy machine did. The button must be stuck.”

“Must be the sticky cream soda,” Benchley said, removing the glass. He smacked the side of the bidding box.

“Do I have thirteen hundred? Thank you, Bidder Q. That’s thirteen hundred. Do I have fourteen hundred? Fourteen hundred for Bidder N. Thank you, Bidder N.”

Lucy’s expression turned from dismay to seething anger. “Did you see that? He’s taking bids from the chandelier.”

“Taking bids from the chandelier?” Benchley looked up. “Well, I hope the chandelier wants it more than we do. And good luck to it.”

Lucy grabbed his arm. “No, no. That’s what it’s called when the auctioneer takes phantom bids.”

“Phantom bids? Well, as I said, it is Halloween.”

“I mean he’s making it up. We’re bidding against no one but the auction house. Who would want to be Bidder Q, anyway?”

“Oh, right.” He thumped the bidding mechanism again.

“Thank you, Bidder Q. Bidder Q bids fifteen hundred. Do I have sixteen hundred?”

“Do something!” Lucy said. “Get his attention. Tell them it’s malfunctioning.”

Benchley waved his hand at the auctioneer. The auctioneer acknowledged him. “No need to raise your arm, Bidder N. Use your bidding box, please. Ah, I see that you have. Thank you. Bidder N bids sixteen hundred. Do I have seventeen hundred?”

Benchley dropped his arm. “Well, that didn’t work.” He looked down at the stage. He recognized the painting. It was the one that MacGuffin had left against the railing that night on the bridge.

“I wonder,” Benchley mused, “what would Mrs. Parker do if she found herself in this sticky situation?”

“Forget what Mrs. Parker would do!” Lucy said. “Think about what Mickey Finn will do. He’ll kill us both.”

“Perish the thought, my dear,” Benchley said, with a wave of his hand. “He wouldn’t harm a hair on your head.”

“He’ll kill you, though.”

“Oh, certainly.” Benchley nodded. “That goes without saying.”

The auctioneer continued. “Eighteen hundred for Bidder N. Do I have nineteen hundred?”

 

“Ernie MacGuffin?” Houdini said. “The painter? The suicide?”

“The one and the same,” Dorothy said.

“Go ahead, Dottie,” MacGuffin said miserably, his Adam’s apple rising and falling. “Say something nasty. Let me have it.”