The Vaults (8 page)

The blind man walked forward, tapping ahead of him with the cane. “Mr. Reif?” He took two more steps and his cane hit DeGraffenreid’s body. He stopped and probed the body with his cane. Then he bent down and touched the body. “Mr. Reif,” he whispered as his fingers came away wet. He stiffened and craned his neck, searching with his ears rather than his eyes.

“Who’s there?” he said sharply. Puskis stood transfixed. “I know there’s someone there,” the blind man said again, his voice edging toward hysteria. “Something terrible’s happened here. Who’s there?”

The blind man rose and began advancing toward Puskis, his cane tapping in semicircular sweeps. Puskis retreated to the back wall, and the sound of his footsteps stopped the blind man short. Puskis started to edge his way toward the door to his left, but the blind man, hearing him, made a move to intercept him. Puskis stopped and began to circle the room the other way, but the blind man followed his footsteps, cutting off the room the way a boxer cuts off the ring.

“Who is that?” the old man rasped.

Puskis circled faster to his right and the blind man made a move to
beat him to the front door, only to trip over DeGraffenreid’s prone body, his cane skidding across the floor toward Puskis as he fell. Puskis seized his moment, moving as quickly as he could out the front door. He took the three steps down to the ground, then trotted, clumsy and out of breath, to the car. To his relief it started on the first try.

He turned to the house and saw the blind man on the porch without his cane. “What has happened here?” the man yelled out. Puskis reversed out of the driveway onto the road and sped away into the maze of cornfields, now turning purple with the onset of night.

Frings watched Nora smoke a Chesterfield through a holder. She had long, elegant fingers for a woman so generously proportioned. Her eyes on the jazz band up on the stage, she showed no indication of enjoyment or boredom. She was simply there. Not that this was unusual. Nora’s pleasure in music came from performing, from the exchange of energy between herself and the audience. It was, Frings supposed, a sensual feeling for her to be onstage; her ability to translate this feeling through her voice, along with her physical beauty, made her the sex symbol she was. The upshot, however, was that she did not especially enjoy being in the audience for a jazz show. Given a choice, she would probably have rather been at the symphony.

They were at the Palace on the City’s East Side—its black side. The place was nearly full, with Frings and Nora two of only a handful of Caucasians. It was their favorite place; for Nora, because here she could relax somewhat, away from the usual attention. On the East Side, the black musicians were the celebrities, while she was just one of the vanguard of fashionable whites who ventured here to enjoy the scene and—if less so in her case—the music. As for Frings, he liked the music, but it was also where he could score his reefer.

“You enjoying the band?” he asked her as the musicians paused between songs to retune their instruments and take a quick sip of whatever they were drinking.

She shrugged and frowned slightly, watching something across the room. She was distracted, in her own world, which tonight had Frings alternating between an anxious sadness and complete indifference. The bond between them had always been unclear. She was the chanteuse of the City’s vibrant white jazz scene. For now at least. He was a “name” reporter, stirring up trouble among the wealthy and powerful. As a couple they seemed to epitomize the glamour of the City that was at once elegant—her—and seedy—him. But while this played well as a symbol, their relationship had, from the
start, been based on a mutual sense of excitement that had eroded with time. Leaving what? More and more nights like this in which they seemed only to be living lives side by side.

A tall, elegant man in a tuxedo walked over to their table. He wore his hair slicked back, and a thin mustache was barely visible against his dark, dark skin. He leaned over Nora and they exchanged kisses to each cheek. Then he shook hands with Frings.

“How are things, Frank?” said Floyd Christian, the floor manager at the Palace. Frings had known him for years. “What do you think of the band?”

“They’re hitting on all sixes,” Frings said. Floyd looked to Nora. “Nora’s not talking,” Frings explained.

She had returned to staring vacantly at the stage, blowing smoke through parted lips with practiced sensuality that by now seemed unconscious.

“Floyd, if you’ve got any reefer . . .”

Floyd gave a low laugh. “These days, I’m
always
holding. My cup runneth over, I think is what they say. Those headaches bothering you again?”

Frings smiled. “Not so funny when you have them.”

Floyd nodded in sympathy. “Hey, there’s something I need to tell you. Some hood was poking his nose around in here asking about you. He didn’t know from nothing but he was fishing.”

“Big guy, yellow hair, pole up his ass?”

“That’d be him.”

Smith. “Anybody say anything?”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, sorry. Of course not.”

“He official?”

“Afraid so.”

“You got yourself into one?”

Frings nodded.

“Now I see why you need that mezz. I’ll be back.”

The band took a break and Nora turned to Frings with a look that made him realize her distance that night had been less the product of indifference than anxiety. She put her hand over his, holding it. He let her, but did not move to take hers in return.

“There was someone watching me at the club last night.”

“You’re onstage—
everyone’s
watching you.”

“No, they’re watching the show. This man was watching
me
.”

“You’re thinking too much.”

“Am I?”

“How can you possibly tell, a roomful of people like that, that one particular person is watching you like . . . differently from just watching the show?”

“How many shows do you think I’ve done, Frank? I can read people in the audience. I can tell when men are thinking what it would be like to sleep with me, or to hurt me. I can see the women who are jealous or who think I’m a tramp.”

“Or who also want to sleep with you,” Frings suggested with a smile.

“Don’t be an ass. I’m serious. This was different. This wasn’t . . . I don’t know. He seemed to be there with a purpose, and it wasn’t seeing the band. He was watching me. For a reason.”

“Guy with a crush?”

Her temper flared, though Frings knew that it was triggered by fear, not anger. “People look at me every goddamn day, Frank. I have a pretty good sense of the difference between being ogled by a guy with a crush and being
watched
.”

Frings thought about this for a second. A woman with Nora’s beauty and fame was bound to be an object of obsession for any number of men, and she ran into that problem frequently. Frings had seen it for himself on more than one occasion. It didn’t rattle her. So if this one did, Frings figured, maybe there was something to it.

“Okay. Listen. Describe him for me.” For some reason he assumed this might be Smith. The guy was showing up everywhere lately.

“He was little and had dark skin. Like an Indian. From India.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No. Just hung around at the bar and watched.”

“Was he with anyone?”

“I don’t think so. Didn’t see him talk to anyone.”

She pulled her hand away from his. Cross-examination was not what she had wanted from him, Frings knew, but he did not know what else to say.

“I don’t know, Frank,” she said into her drink. “I’m off for a week, so maybe he’ll get bored and screw.”

The conversation seemed to be over, as Nora turned from him to watch the comings and goings of the people close to the stage. These were the
City’s Negro elite, and Nora was fascinated by them; perhaps because she had no entrée into their world. Few doors were closed to her. Frings leaned back in his chair and smoked a Lucky, trying to force himself to care more about Nora than he did. It was a depressing exercise, and he was relieved to see Floyd approaching.

“You got a call on the office phone, Frank.”

Frings excused himself to Nora’s back and followed Floyd to the club office, red velvet on the walls and black leather furniture. A telephone perched on an ebony desk, the earpiece off its hook. Frings brought it up to his ear and spoke into mouthpiece at the base.

“Frings.”

“Frank, it’s Panos.”

Christ, what was he doing calling him at this time of night? “What’s the rumble, chief?”

“There’s been another bomb.”

Two years back, Poole had been doing blackmail and private dick work long enough to be self-assured, but not yet long enough to be scared. The scars from State still burned, and he was often overwhelmed with self-disgust. He drank more then and was more than willing to use his size as an instrument of intimidation and fear.

One night the excuse was a young pro named Alice. She was leaning against a wall, smoking—couldn’t have been more than fifteen—and Poole saw that both her eyes were black, swollen down to slits. He asked her what happened. She said to screw. He persisted and she finally gave in, as much to get rid of him as anything else, it seemed. A john had gotten rough—hit her, kicked her in the ribs, left without paying. Her pimp had taken care of her other eye.

Poole took Alice on a walk. Eventually they found the john shooting craps in the alley next to Lambert’s Tavern. Poole grabbed him, dragging him deeper into the alley as the other gamblers watched. The energy from their collective adrenaline fueled Poole’s anger. He braced the john. The man went down on all fours, then Poole broke his ribs with a kick. He gave the wallet to Alice, who took the money she was owed and tossed the rest on the man, now groaning in a fetal tuck.

Next they found the pimp, who surprised Poole by being no older than Alice. No matter. Similar story. When the pimp had finally had enough, Poole held him at eye level and told him, if there was ever any other trouble with Alice, to come to him. If the pimp ever touched her again, he would be back. The pimp nodded and Poole dropped him in a pile.

Alice had only one way to thank Poole, and he wasn’t interested. Someday, he said, you might be able to do me a favor. Now he was calling in that chit.

Poole walked through the intermittently lit paths in Greer Park with Alice on his arm. She was blond and thin and her face was painted with ghoulish
makeup. She wore a cheap cocktail dress under an overcoat she had for the cold.

The gazebo stood in a clearing a few yards from Greer Pond. Surrounding the clearing was a well-groomed stand of trees without any undergrowth, an improved version of nature that offered no effective cover. If police were waiting, Poole would spot them without trouble. As they approached the gazebo, Poole scanned the perimeter of trees for any human shape or movement. Finding nothing, he and Alice continued on.

Low clouds were illuminated a gray yellow by the City lights, and wisps extended downward like the tentacles of jellyfish. The noise of the City was muffled here, and it was easy enough to picture this as some bucolic country scene.

Poole had Alice sit on the floor of the gazebo. This spot was often used by prostitutes, and tonight Alice was Poole’s cover.

“If someone comes other than the mark,” he said to her, “I’m taking it out of my pants. You just stand up like you’re surprised.”

“I can make this more realistic, if you’d like.”

Poole laughed. “I don’t think Carla would appreciate that so much.” This was not the first time she had been direct with him, and he was used to her enticements.

She slouched back against the interior wall of the gazebo while Poole kept watch on the path for Bernal. Right on time came his footsteps on the pine-needled dirt path, sounding like someone punching a bag of rice. His silhouette came into view; hat, overcoat, and briefcase. Poole reached into his bag and pulled out a pillowcase with two eyeholes. He tossed it to Alice. “Put it on.”

She looked at him inquiringly and he repeated his command. He didn’t want her to be the target of any reprisals. She pulled the case over her head and adjusted it so she could see out the eyeholes. He took a stocking from the bag, removed his hat, pulled the stocking over own his face, then replaced the hat. They looked absurd, he knew, but it was essential to keep their identities a secret. He had also found that under such circumstances, absurdity could be quite unnerving to the mark.

Bernal hesitated twenty feet from the gazebo, and Poole beckoned him forward with an expansive arm gesture. Bernal resumed walking. Poole noticed that he did not look over his shoulder. At the foot of the three steps leading up to the gazebo, Bernal paused again.

“Move,” Poole said.

Bernal ascended slowly and stepped to the center of the gazebo. He gave the hooded Alice a look but did not seem perturbed.

“Set the case on the floor.”

Bernal did as he was told.

“Did you bring the police?”

Bernal shook his head.

“Because if you did, now is the time to tell them to screw. I have an associate with the photos. I don’t return, they get sent to all the rags.”