A Cast of Killers (44 page)

As soon as Annie and Little Pete hit the
steps, they began to run.

Auntie Lil stared after them, only dimly
aware that Bob Fleming had dashed upstairs in search of a
telephone. She was startled back to reality by a terrible choking
sound. Father Stebbins had turned pale blue white and was slumped
against the counter with his hand on his throat, coughing
violently. The cough turned into a rasping wheeze.

Oh, God, Auntie Lil thought. Not another.

"Asthma," Father Stebbins wheezed helplessly.
"Medicine upstairs." Fran took off running up the steps without
being asked, while Auntie Lil loosened his collar. He bent at the
waist, trying to breathe. The mixture of choked air and garbled
words was as terrifying as Little Pete's pronouncement had been.
The priest sounded as if he were being strangled into silence.

"My fault," he whistled between whooping
intakes of breath. "This is all my fault."

"Don't talk," Auntie Lil commanded, shooing
the curious back. She exchanged a glance with Adelle and the
elderly actress majestically wound her way through the crowd toward
Auntie Lil.

"Help him," Auntie Lil said simply. "Fran is
coming with medication." Without waiting for the reply, she turned
and walked briskly out the door. She would see for herself what
they had done to Timmy.

A block away, a running figure brushed past
her. She stared after broad shoulders in a plaid lumberjack shirt.
Bob Fleming was heading for the warehouse, too. He would get there
well before she would. But she was hurrying as fast as she
could.

When she finally reached the intersection of
Eleventh and Forty-Sixth, it was marked by two huge abandoned
buildings. She had no way of knowing which one was the right one
until Bob Fleming burst out onto the sidewalk through the twin door
of one of them, his shoulder tearing off the padlock from the
inside like a battering ram. He had climbed in the back and blasted
his way out of the front to create a clearer path for the
medics.

"Stand there and wave down the ambulance," he
commanded Auntie Lil. "I have to help Annie bring the kid down the
steps."

Auntie Lil obeyed. The sound of sirens was
still far away, wailing impatiently in short bursts of indignant
bleating. The ambulance had gotten trapped in the heavier afternoon
traffic along the West Side arteries and selfish drivers were
blocking its path. Auntie Lil began to curse, unaware that Little
Pete had returned to stand by her side. Then a small hand slipped
into hers. It was trembling.

"Annie says he's alive," the small boy
stammered. "Annie says he's alive."

"Of course he's alive," Auntie Lil told him
crisply, though she was weak with relief at his words. "We aren't
going to let Timmy die. And we aren't going to let you get hurt
anymore, either."

The sounds of sirens grew louder, accompanied
by flashing red lights and the sound of an angry man on a
bullhorn.

"Clear the lane," a deep voice boomed. "Clear
the lane immediately."

"Cops!" Little Pete shouted. It was a single
but powerful word, and it triggered an automatic reaction in him.
He jerked his hand from Auntie Lil. Before she could stop him, he
darted across the packed lanes of traffic. She watched helplessly
as the small figure ran down the opposite sidewalk. He turned up
toward Tenth Avenue and was gone.

The door clanged open behind her again and
Bob Fleming re-emerged, holding a small bundle of blood, flesh and
ripped clothing in his hands. Annie O'Day walked calmly beside the
human catastrophe, holding an I.V. drip bag in one hand. It was
attached to a small, clear tube that snaked down into the gore.
"Where is it?" she asked angrily when she saw no ambulance
waiting.

"It's here!" Auntie Lil shouted as she stood
on her tiptoes and waved her pocketbook frantically, putting her
legendary cab-hailing skills to good use. Her gesture was answered
by the stepped-up volume of a siren and, suddenly, the ambulance
dispensed with the traffic jam altogether. It hopped the curb and
came tearing down the sidewalk toward them, followed by two patrol
cars.

The attendant was out of the passenger seat
before the vehicle had stopped. Another pair of medics popped from
the back with a stretcher. The small figure in Bob Fleming's arms
was swiftly transferred to a stretcher and lifted into the back of
the ambulance.

"What is it?" a burly paramedic asked
quietly.

"It's a small boy," replied Annie O'Day.

Despite a cup of coffee and his resolve to
puzzle out Worthington's motives, T.S. had not been able to stay
awake long enough to get anywhere. His body had cried out for still
more sleep and he had barely been able to make it to the living
room couch before he was out again. He awoke hours later to the
rude sensation of having his face scraped with sandpaper. He opened
an eye and an enormous yellow orb stared down at him. Worse,
something was nibbling at his toes.

He groaned and struggled to sit up. What was
he doing asleep on his own couch? The murky light outside indicated
that it was early evening; the behavior of his hungry cats
confirmed it. He padded into the kitchen and fed Brenda and Eddie
an entire can of cat food each. After scratching Sally St. Claire,
they deserved it.

He checked the answering machine. There was a
message from Auntie Lil, but the street noises behind her made it
difficult for him to understand. The gist of the message seemed to
be that she loathed his answering machine. He sighed and tried to
reach her at home without any luck. She must still be busy at the
soup kitchen, he reasoned. Perhaps he should stop by to see.

Lilah's coat still hung, untouched, over a
chair. Where was she? What was taking her so long?

He made himself some plain egg noodles and
nibbled at them tentatively. They went down smoothly and stayed
there. In fact, he felt almost human again. He pulled out the
envelope that Worthington had given him and reexamined the address
and apartment number. It was not Emily's, after all, but the unit
next door on the same floor. Why would Lance Worthington invite him
to that particular apartment? What could be waiting for him
there?

Of course. T.S. suddenly remembered the
sounds he had overheard and the shadows he had seen the day that he
and Auntie Lil had searched Emily's apartment. A young boy had run
past them, followed by a red-faced man trying to hide his
identity.

But surely Worthington didn't believe that he
was one of those sweaty middle-aged men who—T.S.'s spoon clanked
abruptly into the bowl.

Of course Worthington thought he was into
young boys. The man's mind was in the gutter. In such a disgusting
context, the producer's entire cryptic conversation that afternoon
made perfect sense.

T.S. knew exactly what would happen. He would
walk into the apartment and a young boy would be waiting for him.
One of those tough, overused hardened street kids with a heart made
of leather. In fact, the young boy could very well be Timmy. If so,
it was the perfect opportunity for T.S. to speak to him alone.
They'd been trying to contact the boy for a week to determine how
and what he knew about Emily.

Even more significantly, Auntie Lil had
failed utterly at this task. Finally, it was his turn to get there
first.

Except that he wasn't going to be stupid
about it. Being alone in a room with an underage boy who
specialized in middle-aged men was far too indiscreet an act to
attempt without a witness. And who could guarantee the boy would be
alone? He needed a hidden observer, someone to protect his own
reputation. It had to be a person who could be counted on to remain
discreetly in the background shadows. Someone who would not try to
butt in at a delicate moment and wrestle the conversation away from
T.S. Which absolutely ruled out Auntie Lil. But left Herbert Wong.
Herbert was agile enough to climb a fire escape, smart enough to
stay hidden and easy to contact.

T.S. checked his watch. It was nearly eight
o'clock, which meant that Herbert was conveniently at his post
across from Emily's building already. Unless he was getting carried
away again with his potted plant disguises, T.S. would have no
trouble spotting him and enlisting him in the plan.

Four aspirins and another shower later, T.S.
was on his way back to Hell's Kitchen.

Herbert Wong had heard about Timmy's injuries
from Adelle and her followers at their afternoon meeting. He, in
turn, had broken the sad news about Eva's death. Their reactions
had, surprisingly, been muted. Until he realized that many of the
old actresses may have been in shock. The more shaken women quickly
returned to their tiny apartments or group homes where they felt
safe. Three of the hardier ones, including Adelle, elected to
accompany Herbert to Roosevelt Hospital where, they assured him,
Timmy would have been taken. Herbert wanted to see if Auntie Lil
needed him.

Their presence complicated an already chaotic
scene. Timmy had been whisked immediately into the emergency room
entrance, but the waiting area outside was jam-packed with the poor
of the neighborhood, who considered the emergency room to be a de
facto doctor's office. This annoyed the overburdened nurses and
aides, who were forced to make such patients wait and wait while
the more drastically injured were attended to. The medium-sized
room was clogged with clusters of rejected and weary mothers
holding ragged children whose running noses and frequent coughs
rendered a diagnosis redundant. Interspersed among these contagious
hopefuls were pockets of the more befuddled homeless, who came to
Roosevelt for a kind word and, perhaps, the chance of being treated
as a human being by an understanding doctor or nurse. They were
also there for the warmth. The night outside had grown chilly and
the waiting room cozy from the heat of many bodies. In short, it
was a clean, well-lighted place.

Here and there among this noisy, angry crowd
were real emergency-room candidates. They were in pain and
outnumbered. A young man in athletic sweats slumped in a chair, his
face contorted in pain and one ankle propped on a nearby coffee
table. His girlfriend fussed around him, rubbing the injured joint
and glaring at an oblivious nurse's aide. A basketball had rolled
under his chair, forgotten by all but a young boy sniffling nearby,
who eyed it with longing and hope. Against the far wall of the
waiting room, a very young and very drunk Danish sailor, on leave
from his ship berthed nearby, clutched a hand that dripped steady
drops of blood onto his white uniform. The scarlet stain spread
across his chest as if he had been pierced in the heart. But the
nurses—who had already confirmed that it was a minor cut hand
inflicted by a broken beer bottle—had decided that he deserved to
wait.

The only respite from the madness of this
hopeless system was a small cluster of waiting figures anchored by
a waving Auntie Lil. They had pulled their chairs in a broad
semicircle in front of the double-wide doors that led to the
treatment rooms of the emergency facility. Every time anyone
entered or exited the inner sanctum, Auntie Lil was able to peek
inside and demand updates from whatever hounded medical
professional had failed to move quickly enough to avoid her. One
dashed successfully past just as Herbert, Adelle and her two
consorts joined the group.

"Sir!" Auntie Lil demanded of the already
departed doctor. He left a faint whiff of antiseptic behind.

"How is he?" Herbert asked Auntie Lil
quietly. "Miss Adelle filled me in on what happened."

"He's alive. That's all I know," she replied
miserably. She lifted her brows slightly and slid her eyes quietly
to the right. Father Stebbins sat crouched in a chair beside her, a
rosary clutched in his hands. His lips moved silently as he prayed
and his eyes glistened with tears. He alone among the suffering had
managed, at least in mind, to escape the stuffy waiting room. Fran
sat next to him, tight-lipped and silent, her hand resting lightly
on the priest's arm.

"What happened?" Herbert asked Auntie Lil
quietly, aware that Adelle was listening in. "I heard very few
details. Only that the young boy's friend ran into St. Barnabas
shouting that Timmy was dead."

"We don't know yet," Auntie Lil told him. "He
was lured to an abandoned building and beaten almost to death.
Little Pete escaped unharmed, but he ran away before he would say
who was responsible."

From long habit, Herbert's eyes slid from
face to face in the dreary room. "That's the Homefront man," he
confirmed in a low voice, indicating Bob Fleming.

Auntie Lil nodded. They watched the Homefront
director quietly argue with a nurse at the admitting desk. He was
obviously a veteran at negotiating quick settlements in the
overcrowded, overworked atmosphere. He spoke quickly and firmly,
but in a low voice, his finger frequently hitting the countertop
for emphasis. Each time the nurse's face appeared about to cross
over to anger, he would lean close and whisper something that
triggered a quick smile.

"He knows what he's doing," Herbert
confirmed.

"Let's hope so. He signed a stack of papers
two feet high." Auntie Lil nodded toward the cold steel doors.
"They let Annie inside. They seem to know her well here."

Herbert nodded and gently took Auntie Lil's
hand. "Not your fault," he said simply and she replied with a weak
smile.

"Miss Hubbert." Bob Fleming stood before
them, looking tired but hopeful. "I guess they don't have time to
read the newspapers around here. They don't seem to know I'm a
pariah. They've agreed to admit him if Homefront guarantees the
bill. I'm going to go down to the precinct now and talk to the
detectives who questioned me about Timmy's allegations
yesterday."