Out of Time (8 page)

Reality, however, came back with a swift vengeance when they reached the job boards on Broadway. Most of the offerings had already been erased, leaving only dishwashing for fifty cents a day. So much for getting a job easily.

But, as she always told herself back home, if you can’t make money, spend money. Simon had balked at first, until she pointed out that he could simply never shave again. Off they went to F. W. Woolworth Co. 5 and 10 Cent Store.

The Woolworth’s back home had been nothing like this. Complete with a soda fountain, which Simon wouldn’t let her try, the store had everything a person could want. Clothes, canned goods, jewelry, personal items, the list went on.

For someone who’d never lived on a fixed budget, Simon was absolutely miserly. She managed to finagle a few items anyway. Toiletries were a must. The sales woman suggested a new product—Charmin bath tissue. What in God’s name did they use before? The soap smelled more like lye than lilacs, but at least it was something. They bought all the necessities: toothpaste, hairbrushes and a safety razor that looked anything but. They purchased towels and undergarments—Simon had delicately disappeared for that one—and one pair of pajamas. Simon hadn’t thought her suggestion that he be tops and she be bottoms was all that funny. But with less than ten dollars left, they couldn’t afford a second pair.

It was early afternoon when they dropped off their packages at the apartment and hit the pavement again. For such a big city, there were precious few jobs to be had. It certainly didn’t help not having the faintest idea where to look either.

They wandered aimlessly for a few hours before Simon suggested they work on a grid. Walking the business districts block by block, east to west. By late afternoon, they’d traveled from Columbia Street on the East to Bowery on the West. Still no jobs, not even a nibble.

As the day wore on, Simon grew more and more quiet. She knew he held himself responsible for them being there. She also knew that no amount of talking would make him feel otherwise. Screwing on her best smile, she suggested they get an early dinner.

They walked a few more blocks when the unmistakable smell of garlic cooking in olive oil caught her attention. She sniffed the air like a bloodhound on the scent and led them further down Delancy. Even before she saw the street sign, she knew where she was—Mulberry Street, the heart of Little Italy.

“Wow,” she said. “Just like in
The Godfather
.”

Simon was unimpressed. “Quaint.”

“Oh, come on, look at it,” she said, tugging on his sleeve and pulling him into the fray.

The street was small, barely wide enough for two cars, and bursting with life. Sidewalk cafes crowded with men playing cards and dominoes. Groceries with large wooden boxes displayed fresh fruits and vegetables on the sidewalk. Push carts selling every food imaginable clogged the streets. A few cars trying to weave through the mass crawled along more slowly than the people on foot. Green and white awnings jutted from the brick facades. Lace curtains covered the lower half of etched glass windows. And the smells. Garlic and oregano. Basil and simmering olive oil.

Three men in black pants with crisp white shirts leaned against a light pole smoking cigarettes. “
Ah, bambina. Molto bella. Venga averci una bevanda con.
”

Elizabeth giggled. “Hello.”

Simon grunted and moved between the men and her, taking her arm and hurrying her past.

“Isn’t this great?” she asked.

Simon let go of her arm. “Charming.”

He could be a spoilsport all he wanted to.

“I’ve always wanted to come here,” she said after enduring nearly a minute of his funk. Simon hardly seemed interested, but she ignored him. “Fun Tony always told the best stories about growing up on Mulberry Street.”

Simon raised one privileged, boarding school-bred eyebrow. “Fun Tony?”

“A friend of my father’s. Tony Funnico. I wonder if he’s alive yet?”

She looked at the young boys running down the street in their caps and knickers, and wondered if he might be one of them.

“He’d be very upset with me if I didn’t have a cannoli.”

Simon snorted and pushed his hand into his pocket, pulling out the few dollars they had left. “I’m afraid luxuries like that might have to wait.”

Reluctantly, she agreed. They had a quick dinner, eaten standing on the sidewalk, of sausages and onions wrapped in flat bread. Later, when they had money, she’d come back for her cannoli and eat one of every kind.

After dinner, on their way home, they zigged when they should have zagged and found themselves well off the beaten path. The street was deserted and eerily quiet. Elizabeth hummed a Cole Porter tune she’d heard playing in a music store. It was a nervous habit she’d picked up from her father. She glanced over at Simon and could tell from the way his back was ramrod straight and his eyes were narrowed that he was tense.

“We’ll find work soon,” she said. “I can feel it my bones.”

“Your bones are very optimistic.”

“Better happy bones than sulky bones.”

“I prefer to think of them as realistic.”

“All right, if it—” she started, and then stopped walking. In the distance, she heard something, and grabbed Simon’s arm. “Do you hear that?”

He frowned and they both froze in place and listened.

The soft scrape of shoes being dragged along uneven pavement, a cry of pain muffled by pride, a sharp crack of something hard against something broken—the unmistakable sounds of a struggle. She’d heard them from behind closed doors before and knew the images that filled the keyhole. The sounds filtered down the street, seeming to come from an alley barely twenty feet ahead.

Elizabeth started toward the sound. She heard more thumps and sobs of pain as she neared the darkened alley. She rounded the corner and stopped dead in her tracks.

ELIZABETH’S BREATH CAUGHT IN her throat. A man was on his knees holding a shaking, bloodied hand out before him. He was flanked by two large men. One casually toyed with a small blackjack, while the other leaned against the high fender of a large, expensive car. There must have been someone inside the car, because the leaning man stepped forward and lit a match, extending it inside the back seat window. Elizabeth saw a black, gloved hand steady the flame. The suffering man continued to moan, and Elizabeth was about to call out when she was yanked back around the corner.

Simon’s eyes blazed down at her in the moonlight. She tried to struggle out of his grip, but he only held her more tightly. He pulled her away until they were pressed up against the brick of the corner building.

“Let go,” she said.

“Quiet,” Simon hissed. Once he seemed sure she wasn’t going to do anything rash, he peered around the corner. After only a few seconds, he pulled his head back.

“He needs our help,” she whispered.

Simon gripped her arm again and pulled her back the way they’d come.

“What are you doing?” she said as she tried to slip out of his iron grip.

“Getting the hell out of here.” Once they were more than a block away, Simon let go of her arm and stared down at her angrily. “What in God’s name do you think you were doing?”

“That man was being beaten,” she said. “We should have done something.”

He looked positively flabbergasted. “Of all the idiotic—They had guns. What do you propose we should have done? Getting yourself killed wouldn’t have been much help now, would it?”

Elizabeth quietly seethed. “I still think we could have done something.”

Simon took her arm again and his eyes bore into her. “You must promise me you will never do that again.”

“I didn’t
do
anything,” she said bitterly. She hated being a helpless bystander. One thing she’d learned in her life was that you took help when it was offered and gave it when it was needed.

“Miss West…Elizabeth, please?”

She was about to argue when she saw the look in his eyes. He was frightened. Not for himself, but for her. Some of the righteous went out of her indignation.

“I’m sorry. I…I just wanted to help.”

“And we will. We’ll find a policeman and report it. It’s the best we can do.”

Elizabeth didn’t say it wouldn’t be enough; Simon knew that as well as she did. They made their way back toward Mulberry Street, and told the first policeman they found what they’d seen.

If his ruddy complexion and red hair weren’t enough, his accent pegged him as one of the many Irish immigrants who found their niche in the NYPD. She’d always thought it was a bad movie cliché, and yet, here he was.

Officer O’Malley diligently scrawled the details in his small notebook, but his face paled when Elizabeth told him about the car.

“A black and tan, ya say?”

“Yeah, maybe a limousine. There were three rows of windows and a man sitting in the back. He was wearing black gloves. That’s all I could see.”

The policeman’s face was a blank slate as he nodded and tucked his notebook back into his breast pocket. He absently brushed his cuff over his badge to polish it. He didn’t seem in a hurry to do a damned thing.

“Aren’t you going to do something?” she asked, unable to keep the impatience out of her voice.

“Don’t you worry yourself, Miss. You folks go on home now.”

“But—”

Simon intervened. “Thank you officer. Good night,” he said and led her down the street.

Elizabeth glared up at him. “What was that all about?”

“Isn’t it obvious? The policeman recognized the description of the man in the car and judging from his reaction, it’s someone even the police won’t become involved with. We should follow his lead and stay out of it.”

She nearly tripped them both up as she screeched to a halt. “But that’s crazy.”

“The twenty-first century doesn’t have a monopoly on corruption,” he said. “Remember where we are. When we are. Prohibition, gangsters. This isn’t a romantic period; it’s a dangerous one.”

She started to argue, but stopped. He was right. It was frustrating as hell, but he was right. Suddenly, she felt very tired.

“It’s been a long day,” he said, his expression softening. “Let’s go back to the flat.”

She nodded and they started back to the apartment.

Their room was stifling even at nearly midnight. Clouds hung over the city keeping the air thick and still. Without a breeze, their little apartment housed the heat like an unwanted house guest who comes to visit and simply refused to leave.

Simon took his place in the chair by the window while Elizabeth brushed her teeth and had a bath. He was happy for the respite. Not that she was bad company. Far from it, she was managing their predicament better than he was. He’d never considered having to provide for someone, and it seemed his first foray was a titanic failure. Where she’d met the day with unflagging enthusiasm, insisting the answer lay just around the next corner, he’d been dour and judgmental.

The people were coarse and uneducated. The streets were crowded and dirty. The only thing that lay around the next corner was another problem. He shifted in his chair and tried to relax. He hadn’t slept well the night before, but at least the nightmares hadn’t come. Perhaps the danger to Elizabeth existed in the future and not here in the past. As tempting as that notion was, he refused to accept it. Their little night adventure was proof enough of that. He felt certain she was threatened. Not knowing how or when was the rub.

They agreed to try their best to put the incident out of their minds. Their best wasn’t good enough, not for Simon. What took place in the alley was a reminder of what he’d feared since they first set foot here. He’d been a fool to let his guard down, even for a moment. And her reaction. Good Lord. She’d practically run headfirst into the mess. Where angels fear to tread indeed.

Even though the day had been exhausting, he found he couldn’t quite sit still. He stood and looked out the window at the dark street below. The lamps glowed, but left only faded pools of light on the pavement. The fire escape was less than comforting. It was spindly thin and looked ready to give way under the slightest weight.

“Oh, that felt good,” Elizabeth said as she emerged from the bath.

She was wearing the pajama top. The shirt was long enough to fall mid-thigh. With the sleeves rolled up, she looked like she was wearing one of his oxford shirts. An image lifted from his dreams. Thick, damp tendrils of hair clung to her cheeks and curled about her shoulders. Her skin, pink from the day’s sun, still glistened with droplets of water.

The situation was difficult enough without her walking around the apartment looking like sex personified. She clearly had no idea of the effect she had on him. Her unassuming sensuality only drove him that much closer to madness.

“A nice cool soak. Can’t recommend it enough,” she said.

Or an ice cold one, he thought grimly.

“Good idea,” Simon said and hurried into the bath. He closed the door and let out a long breath. The room smelled of the shampoo she’d used. He knew that scent would drift over to him in the night and carry him off to dream of things that shouldn’t be. He twisted the taps and concentrated on the rush of cold water. At least that would solve his body’s reaction, if there were only something for his heart.

He really had to stop thinking like this. He wasn’t the sort of man to ogle a woman. He’d never been one to daydream. Now, his mind was in a constant state of drift; thoughts of Elizabeth always under the surface.

Bath finished, he pulled on the pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, took a deep breath, and stepped back into the bedroom. It was empty. “Elizabeth?”

His heart began to race as he searched the room. “Elizabeth!”

“Out here,” she said and poked her head in through the window.

Simon closed his eyes for a brief moment and collected himself. “What in God’s name are you doing out there?”

“It’s much cooler. Come on out, there’s room.”

“Come back inside,” he said.

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“It’s not safe. Elizabeth…”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights.”