Don't Dare a Dame (28 page)

   
The little girl must be real. She must also be close enough I could find her, talk to her. That meant whoever was trying to stop me knew her identity. That meant ... she could now be in danger.

   
Having thrown a fit to get down here, I had to admit to myself I wasn’t in shape to do much of anything. The only thing which came to mind was checking on Corrine and Isobel. I’d wanted to yesterday, but hadn’t been able to face going downstairs and back to use the telephone.

   
“Oh, we’re doing splendidly,” assured Corrine. “Any news of Neal?”

   
“I was on the sick list yesterday. May be for a couple more days, if you want to get someone else—”

   
“No, no. I don’t think we’d trust anyone else.” One of her students was warbling a vocal exercise in the background.

   
Corrine said it was wonderful having Franklin around again and that the new pooch was settling in fast. We hung up.

   
Maybe I should get a dog, let him guard my office, I thought. And me, when I was in this kind of shape.

   
I preferred cats.

   
Cats weren’t exactly in the same league when it came to protection. Maybe I could get a vicious one like Mrs. Z’s. One that would sink its teeth into every set of legs that came through the door. Possibly not good for business. And possibly my thoughts weren’t quite as coherent as I’d believed when Genevieve was trying to reason with me.

   
I forced myself to get up and take a lap around my desk. I tried to clear my head by breathing deeply, only to have the effort blocked by the bandages imprisoning my ribs. Finally, after thinking some, I called Rachel.

   
“Want to meet for a drink?” I invited. “I’ll buy. Make it someplace dark.”

***

   
Rachel’s movements were uncommonly slow as she slid into the seat across from me in a nondescript bar on Third Street. Her midnight eyes began to glitter as they scanned my face. Forgetting her lighter she ripped a match from the book on the table and started a cigarette. Still studying me, she blew a stream of smoke over her shoulder.

   
“You look like dog puke.”

   
“So nice to have a friend to cheer me up.” I knew from the sting of my stitches I must have grinned.

   
She cupped her elbow in the opposite hand.

   
“Four-thirty did strike me as early for cocktails. Now I see why. Not that I’m complaining.”

   
“Better for pain than little white pills,” I said giving a small salute with the old fashioned I was sipping through a straw.

   
She inhaled some more and blew smoke out her nostrils.

   
“When did this happen?”

   
“Tuesday.”

   
Rachel summoned the waiter and ordered a Gibson.

   
“Was it the man Pearlie expressed concerns about?” she asked when we were alone again.

   
“No. Somebody sent by a man who doesn’t like some questions I’m asking, I think.”

   
“Last time we talked, I got the impression you might be scratching around a politician.”

   
“Yes.”

   
“Care to share a name?”

   
“Only if you and Pearlie promise not to get involved.”

   
“You’re a big girl. You don’t need us.”

   
“That’s the kind of wiggle I’d do to keep from making a promise.”

   
Her smile spread in a slow line with no hint of a curve except at the ends. No matter what else it conveyed, it always held a hint of challenge.

   
“Very well. We won’t poke in unless you invite us.”

   
“It would complicate the little dance he and I are doing.”

   
“What’s the dance?”

   
“One where he needs to prove he’s smarter than I am.”

   
Rachel grinned.

   
“Does he know you’re leading?”

   
Her drink arrived. The waiter asked if I wanted another. With some regret I decided against it.

   
“Cy Warren,” I said as we settled in again.

   
“Swallowtail Properties. Commercial landlord. He doesn’t build much, and when he does, the projects are smaller than we generally handle.”

   
Rachel’s company built small apartment buildings, private schools, offices for doctors and lawyers.

   
“Any whispers of his being crooked?” I asked.

   
“None that I’ve heard. Like me to make a few discreet inquiries of people I trust?”

   
“I’d appreciate that.”

   
“Anything else that Pearlie or I could do to be useful?”

   
“I could use a driver tomorrow.”

   
I was pinching bits from the cherry that decorated my old fashioned, easing them into my mouth, which was still too sore for much wear and tear. My empty stomach didn’t have much sympathy for my mouth. Rachel eyed me shrewdly.

   
“What have you eaten today?”

   
“An egg. Coffee. Getting back on my feet.”

   
“Sure you are.” She knocked back her Gibson and stubbed out what remained of her cigarette. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.”

   
“That’s okay. I’ll take a taxi.”

   
“A while ago you said we were friends. It’s what friends do. Just let me make a phone call first.”

   
On the way out, she noticed me favoring my side, but made no comment. She said we needed to make a stop on the way. It turned out to be at a good-sized building I’d never seen. One wall had a string of symbols I thought might be Hebrew, and two spotless delivery trucks were pulled up next to the door.

   
Rachel got out. When she returned, she shoved an open pasteboard box in my lap. Inside were a spoon and what looked like a squat, wide-mouthed vacuum bottle of stainless steel.

   
“Catering place,” she said briefly. “The owner’s a friend. He makes the best chicken soup you’ll ever taste. Things in it are matzo balls. Good for what ails you.”

Thirty-four

   
Rachel was right on all counts about the soup. The next morning I felt considerably better. By the time Pearlie picked me up, the other occupants at Mrs. Z’s had left for their jobs, which was how I’d planned it. My mouth hadn’t looked quite as swollen when I checked the mirror, and my lips weren’t as sensitive. I figured I was up to oatmeal.

   
Pearlie let me off at the door nearest McCrory’s lunch counter. He sauntered in ten minutes later to check on my progress. When he saw I was just about done, he brought the car around and helped me in. He argued some when he let me out in front of my building.

   
“Sure you don’t want me coming up with you?” he asked for the third time.

   
“Nobody’s going to jump me in the middle of the day. Except maybe you and Rachel.”

   
“Okay. Twelve-thirty then.”

   
“Thanks, Pearlie. Don’t forget to give that Thermos back to Rachel, and tell her the soup was first-rate.”

   
Heebs was supposed to check in with me. He might have stopped by to tell me something while I was laid up, but in any case I wanted to pay the kid for his week’s surveillance. And I wanted him away from Cy Warren.

   
In the meantime, while I still wasn’t up to running foot races, I could make phone calls. I got out the list of beer joints Connelly and Seamus and I had brainstormed. Most wouldn’t be open for business yet, but they’d be sweeping out, washing glasses, overseeing deliveries for another day’s trade.

   
“Oh, hi. Could you take a message for Neal Vanhorn?” I bubbled when somebody answered. “This is the dry cleaners. He left a ten dollar bill in the pants he dropped off. We thought he might want it.”

   
“Who?” said a voice on the other end. “Honey, this is a bar.”

   
“Oh, I know. Neal said he had a swell time there.” I gave what I thought was a giggle. Giggles had never been my strong suit. “I figured if he got the money back, he’d be spending some of it there.”

   
“Sorry, don’t know any Neals.”

   
“He’s kinda new, visiting or something. Maybe if I described him....”

   
I did. After repeating the same act half a dozen times, I still hadn’t had any luck, although one guy had generously offered to come fetch the money and hold it for Neal in case he came in.

   
Someone knocked at my door. I leaned back and let my hand dangle conveniently close to the pocket under my chair as I called a greeting, but it was Heebs. He looked up from closing the door and stopped in his tracks.

   
“Holy smokes, Sis! Someone roughed you up bad.”

   
“Yeah, but I shot him,” I said to allay his dismay.

   
He came toward me, all traces of his usual sauciness vanished.

   
“Was it Cy Warren’s mugs did it?”

   
“Nah,” I lied. “Some girls have a fan club. The one they started for me is people lining up to break my nose. Learn anything on that black Dodge?” I’d asked him to keep an eye peeled for the car Pearlie and I had boxed in.

   
Still eyeing me solemnly, Heebs sat on the edge of a chair. He shook his head.

   
“Nobody ought to punch a woman like that, Sis. On the Dodge, what I learned is whoever drives it must not be pals with Cy. If you got the tail number right, then I didn’t see it, not even once. I went past a couple of times in the evening, too, when I knew they were having meetings.”

   
“Heebs—”

   
“Thought you might like this, though.”

   
Reaching into his pocket, he brought out a torn scrap of paper and gave it to me with a flourish. Penciled on it were a dozen license plate numbers, each followed by the kind of car that wore it.

   
“Started keeping track of them the first day I was down there,” he said proudly. “Ones parked in back of Cy’s place and ones that parked along the street but people went in. A check mark means they were there more than once. Two marks means they were there most every day.”

   
“Nice work, Heebs, but you took too much risk, snooping around in the alley. They might have spotted you, gotten suspicious.”

   
He grinned, more aware than was good for him that he had an aptitude for my kind of work.

   
“Guy’s got to walk back where he came from when he’s done selling papers, and he’s got to find somewheres in an alley to relieve himself now and then.”

   
I started to chuckle, but gasped and pressed an arm to my side.

   
“You’re good, Heebs. No question. Most of all, your malarkey. But you have to scram. You’re making my ribs hurt. I’ll give you a buck to run some errands for me, though, if you’re willing.”

   
“No need to give me lettuce to do you a favor, Sis.”

   
I did, of course. Mixed in with my phone calls to bars earlier, I’d called a second-hand shop called The Good Neighbor. The woman who ran it appreciated some help I’d given her and she’d been more than willing to lend me a canvas cot for a couple of days. Having a place to stretch out would help me manage until I was back to full speed. By the time I’d made more unsuccessful calls about Neal, and Heebs had returned with the cot set it up with me explaining how it went together, I was more than ready to give it a test run.

   
Clarice had included a blanket when she sent the cot. Folded under my head, it made a good pillow. I closed my eyes, but my brain kept working.

   
Where was Neal?

   
Who was the little girl?