A Cast of Killers (45 page)

"Now?" Auntie Lil asked in surprise.

Fleming shrugged. "There's nothing more I can
do here and I might as well volunteer for questions before they
come and drag me down there. This way, it will look a whole lot
better. I'm sure I'm the number one suspect in their book."

"I can certainly vouch for your whereabouts
when this happened," Fran spoke up. Her voice was firm and calm;
she remained in complete control. Father Stebbins, on the other
hand, appeared not to have heard. He was still lost in prayer and
worry.

Fleming nodded his thanks. "Good. You'll have
to. But it's still better this way. Annie will be out in a minute
with a progress report. They say he's not as bad as he looked,
but..." He shrugged and headed for the door, leaving them to the
same, dismal shared thought: the boy had looked dead. "Better"
could still mean pretty awful.

They sat in silence, staring at the double
doors, until a sudden moan from Father Stebbins made them all jump.
"My fault," he said distinctly, before lapsing back into prayer.
Fran patted his arm.

The others were not reassured. Auntie Lil met
Herbert's gaze, their look interrupted by a quiet hiss from Adelle.
The elderly actress rolled her eyes with exaggerated drama and
motioned for them to join her in a far corner, where they were
forced to evict a nearly incoherent homeless man in order to
preserve their privacy. The odor he left behind mingled with the
strong smell of hospital ammonia. Auntie Lil felt faint and
wavered.

"You okay?" Herbert asked solicitously as he
gripped her elbow tightly, ready to steady her in case of a
fall.

She shook him off with a dignity and strength
that she did not, in truth, feel. "Of course. It's just that…
things seem to have gotten out of hand."

Adelle and her followers put their heads
together closely, exchanging a private look. "One of my girls saw
Father Stebbins with Timmy this morning," Adelle whispered
ominously. "And look at him now, blubbering into his rosary."

They turned as one and stared at the
distraught priest. Fran stared back at them without emotion.

"Discreet, discreet," Herbert muttered with a
sigh. "Please, ladies. We must be more discreet."

"I saw him with Timmy the other morning,
too," Auntie Lil admitted. "But he is a priest. Perhaps he was
hearing his confession or offering guidance."

Auntie Lil and Adelle exchanged an even
glance. Both had noticed that Father Stebbins had disappeared for
long stretches of time. "Not enough time to run up Tenth Avenue and
beat up a small boy and get back in time to pass the lemon sauce,"
Adelle finally admitted aloud, somewhat dejectedly.

"But enough time to tell someone else to do
it," Auntie Lil pointed out. Despite Herbert's warning, they turned
again as one and stared at the priest.

"Ladies, please." Herbert was clearly annoyed
at their lack of self-control. "You cannot be good at this unless
you can control your curiosity." He steered Auntie Lil firmly back
to her seat.

"How much longer do we have to wait?" Auntie
Lil complained, settling back into the uncomfortable hard plastic.
It was just like the chairs at St. Barnabas.

A few minutes later, the swinging doors
opened and Annie O'Day appeared. Blood had dried all over the front
of her gray sweat suit, but her face and hands had been scrubbed
clean. Even exhausted, her pink cheeks glowed with health.

"How is he?" they asked in near unison.

"His condition has stabilized. They're
admitting him now. We're in luck. One of their better doctors took
an interest." She pushed her short hair off her face with a weary
gesture.

"I must see the boy," Father Stebbins
insisted in an abruptly commanding voice. He stood and rushed for
the door.

"You can't." Annie blocked him with one quick
movement, her shoulder bouncing him into a nearby wall.

The priest stared at her, dazed, and rubbed
his shoulder almost petulantly. "I have to talk to him alone," he
contended. "Please. I'm his priest."

Auntie Lil popped up from her chair in a
sudden burst of panic and stared between Father Stebbins and Annie.
"No one sees him alone," she blurted out.

Annie nodded her agreement, crossing her arms
firmly as she barricaded the swinging doors. Their eyes met and
both Auntie Lil and Annie O'Day nodded: they understood exactly
what the other was thinking.

St. Barnabas was dark and barren, the
basement darkest of all. It looked as if no one had set foot inside
for years. Both safety gates were firmly padlocked. Clearly, Auntie
Lil was not inside.

T.S. stood on the sidewalk, his light coat
wrapped tightly against the early autumn chill. He was wondering
what he should do next. It was nearly nine o'clock. He would be
secure with Herbert backing him up, but—on the off chance that
Worthington was somehow involved with Emily's death—if something
happened to both him and Herbert, no one would ever know who was
responsible. He ought to get word to Auntie Lil. Or he'd end up
like Emily.

He tried Auntie Lil again at home without
success, dialed again out of pure stubbornness and listened to
fifteen empty shrill rings before finally relinquishing the phone
to an impatient teenager. The gaunt young man was hopping lightly
from foot to foot as he tried to intimidate T.S. with a stern
stare. T.S. ignored it, though he was shocked to see that the kid
wore an electronic beeper strapped to his belt. Great, thought T.S.
grimly, as he headed uptown one block, we're making progress with
our young after all. We've introduced them to the miracles of
science. A new age of technologically-advanced drug dealing is
dawning.

T.S. was stalling for time and he knew it. He
was heading uptown because he had a vague idea that his
great-grandparents had once lived on the site of the old Madison
Square Garden. The lot where the towering new skyscraper now stood.
He felt alone and he felt abandoned. He needed their comfort before
embarking on his uncertain task.

The streets of Hell's Kitchen were curiously
deserted in the post-twilight hours between curtain rise and
curtain fall on nearby Broadway. It was not late enough for the
sleaze merchants to be peddling their wares; it was too early for
the nightcrawlers to have yet emerged. There was an uneasy peace
about the neighborhood, giving it more of an air of a destination,
rather than just a stop along the way. Gradually, T.S. became aware
that the sensation was not unpleasant. He felt at home.

He reached his block and stood in the shadows
of the huge skyscraper at Forty-Ninth and Eighth, looking up at the
sky. The big building was nearly dark at this time of night, only
the lower residential towers displayed the occasional light. But
across the street, a long row of older apartment houses bravely
fighting dilapidation blazed defiantly at the steel and concrete
intruder. The shabby exteriors proudly housed vibrant interiors:
the street twinkled with the lights of many filled rooms.

This was the real heart of Hell's Kitchen,
T.S. thought. He had been mistaken when he believed the
neighborhood was losing its fight against change. It knew just what
it was doing. The lifeline of Hell's Kitchen had not changed one
iota since the days of his great-grandfather. It still drew its
extraordinary energy from the thousands of lives hidden behind worn
doors and thin walls. And not even the drug dealers or prostitutes
could vanquish the spirit of the families and people who hung on
here. They were tough, he realized, much tougher than he was. They
avoided disappointment by not expecting too much of their
neighborhood. And they had learned to recognize what was most
important to them: a safe place called home, never mind the
surrounding streets. Plus a job. Friends and family. Neighbors to
nod to on the street. They had no patience or time for anything
else. He would do well to remember their lessons.

His first stop was the Delicious Deli. He saw
by the clock in the brightly lit but nearly empty restaurant that
he would be a few minutes late for his appointment at Emily's
building. No matter. He was mere seconds away.

"Help you with anything?" the proprietor
asked. T.S. could not remember his name, it was something fairly
common. Phil… Willy? No—Bill. Or, rather, Billy.

"I want to leave a message for my aunt," T.S.
told him. Perhaps Auntie Lil would stop by here before she went
home.

"That's real considerate of you. But this
ain't a post office," Billy replied good-naturedly. "I can't
guarantee she'll get it."

"It's my Aunt Lil. An elderly lady."

"Oh, her." Billy's eyes rolled back in his
head and he sighed. "What's the message? She'll no doubt be
snooping back around here soon enough."

"Tell her I went to the building. That I was
invited."

Billy stared at T.S. "You went to the
building invited," he repeated.

"No.
The building."

This time Billy got the inflection right.

As T.S. stepped out again into the night,
Billy watched him for a few seconds, then reached for the
telephone.

T.S. had expected to see a few of the older
actresses disguised as bag ladies scattered around, but Forty-Sixth
Street was nearly empty. The long row of restaurants stretched in
front of him quietly, seeming to breathe deeply in the break
between pre-theater drinks and post-theater suppers. There was one
old man parked in a lawn chair on the corner. T.S. checked out his
enormous nose surreptitiously. Good heavens. What had happened to
the poor fellow? He looked like he'd lost a fight with a meat
grinder. T.S. continued down the block, still surprised at the lack
of activity. Where was Herbert? Where was Adelle? Or even Franklin?
What was this about a blanket of surveillance?

He walked all the way to the end of the
block, passing the Jamaican restaurant where they had first
discovered a clue about Emily. He reached Ninth Avenue without
seeing anyone he knew. No one. Just a few strangers brushing past.
He went back up the block and this time drew a curious glance from
Nellie, the proprietor of the Jamaican restaurant. She was perched
on her customary table, staring blankly out into the night and
bobbing her many braids to some unheard rhythm. Her eyes took in
T.S.'s returning figure without emotion, but T.S. had no doubt that
she had recognized who he was.

One door down, he reached Emily's apartment
house again. Still no sign of the ever-vigilant Herbert Wong. He
stood at the front door, holding the key. Quite frankly, he was
afraid to go in. He did not know if he was being foolish or
brave.

A figure was hurrying up the block toward
him. At last, he thought, one of the bag ladies. Probably Adelle.
She was that tall. But he was very much mistaken. The willowy
figure passed through a pool of light and he saw that it was
Leteisha Swann, ubiquitous woman of the night. He remembered the
morning she had stumbled into this very building and passed out in
the closet. Oh, dear, she was no doubt headed home for a breather.
And he was in no mood for witnesses. He was about to turn his back
to the door when she breezed right past the building, her steady
gait showing no sign of inebriation. She was heading quickly toward
Eighth Avenue, her tall figure squeezed into a long-sleeved silver
dress. She negotiated the spike heels like the pro that she was.
Within a half-minute, she had disappeared into the shadows at the
upper end of the block.

T.S. still lingered at the front door. He
wondered briefly what Auntie Lil would do in such a situation,
found his answer, and quickly inserted one of the keys. It fit. The
tiny downstairs hall was deserted and smelled of sour cooking oil
with a faint undercurrent of cheap wine. He hurried into the
elevator and pushed the sixth-floor button, looking nervously
around to see if he was being observed. He felt slightly
ridiculous, huddled in the tiny elevator, his hands clutched
tightly in the pockets of his trench coat. Who was he expecting,
anyway? Peter Lorre?

The elevator car creaked and groaned its way
to the top floor. That hallway, too, was deserted. He would use his
wits well, he decided firmly. If he was taking a big chance, he'd
best eliminate as many little ones as he could. He checked the
stairway door. It opened easily, onto winding stairs and landings
that, as far as he could see, were deserted and, thankfully, well
lit. He inspected every corner of the hall and tried Emily's door.
It was securely locked. That left only one thing to do.

He put an ear to the door of the apartment
next to Emily's. There was a faint sound inside. A vacant hiss of
static and garbled voices. Someone was watching television. Surely,
murderers didn't sit and watch television while they waited for
their victims? He inserted the key in the lock and turned it
lightly. The bolts opened with a loud click. Immediately the
television went silent. T.S. took a deep breath and slowly swung
the door open all the way to the wall. If someone was hiding behind
it, he wanted to know.

The inside of the one-room apartment was
dimly lit by a single lamp that cast a pool of light across a cheap
rug. In the center of the room stood a small black boy, hands
jammed in his pockets. His head was ducked slightly and he stared
up at the door with a furtive unease that exploded into fright once
he recognized T.S. "You!" the boy shouted, dashing for the
door.

T.S. responded automatically. He slammed the
door shut behind him and stood against it, preventing the boy's
escape. "What about me?" T.S. shouted back. This did nothing for
the young boy's panic.

The kid backed away, eyes wide and voice
trembling. "Stay away from me," he ordered in a trembling voice. A
small hand darted into a jacket pocket and he pulled out a knife.
It clicked open and gleamed in the dull light. It was a
ridiculously small blade. On the other hand, no blade was
ridiculous, T.S. reminded himself.