“Say, can I come in for a few minutes?” Harold asked. “I’m glad I caught Sam, but does he really think Luciano’s thugs kidnapped Vi? Why would they do such a thing?”
“We can talk out here,” I said. “Mr. Prophet is afraid of Mrs. Rattle—”
“I ain’t afraid of her!” Mr. Prophet barked. “I just don’t want no old lady cozying up to me.” He shuddered quite eloquently for a man with a bullet graze on his left upper arm and only one leg. His sling still dangled around his neck with no arm in it.
Therefore, I said, “Mr. Prophet doesn’t want Mrs. Rattle to seduce him—”
“Hellkatoot,” grumbled Mr. Prophet.
Harold laughed.
Mr. Prophet frowned at him. “It ain’t funny. That old lady has designs on me.”
“I don’t want to start an argument or anything,” Harold lied pleasantly, “but you’re not precisely a young chicken yourself. Rooster, rather.”
“Don’t care,” said Mr. Prophet sullenly. “I like me more tender meat.”
“He means like the meat down the street from us,” I told Harold.
“Yeah,” agreed Mr. Prophet with what I can only describe as a devilish grin. “Like her.”
“Who’s her?” asked Harold ungrammatically.
“Miss Li Ahn.”
“The Chinese lady who works for the scarlet woman?” Harold beamed. “Good for you, Lou! She’s gorgeous.”
“She is, ain’t she?” said Mr. Prophet, preening.
“Men,” I snarled. “They only care about a woman’s looks.”
“Gen’ly,” agreed Mr. Prophet.
I shot him a scathing glare. He appeared remarkably unscathed. It figured. “Well, since we can’t go inside the house because Mr. Prophet is scared of Mrs. Rattle, let’s sit on the porch steps. We can all fit.”
Mr. Prophet growled something incoherent. I paid him no mind.
Before plunking himself on the top step, Harold surveyed our front porch. “You ought to get some porch furniture, Daisy. Your porch is big enough, and it might be pleasant for your folks and Vi to sit out here on a balmy evening.”
“You’re right. It is big enough, and they would definitely enjoy it. Just haven’t done it. I’m not sure why. We needed the space when we had to maneuver Billy’s wheelchair around. Didn’t want to be bumping into porch furniture.” A lump filled my throat again, and I tried to clear it. Moderately successful in the endeavor, I continued, “We finally took down the ramp Pa built in the front. We still have one leading to the back deck.” Because I had to, I ceased talking.
“Makes sense,” said Harold, patting me on the shoulder before taking his seat.
Mr. Prophet sat to the north of us, several feet away. Noticing this, I said, “What’s the matter, Mr. Prophet? Don’t you like us?”
“Like you just fine. But I wanna build a quirley, and you probably don’t want smoke blowin’ in your face.”
“Thoughtful,” said Harold.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Huh,” said Mr. Prophet.
“So, Harold, what did you mean about…Curse it. Why can’t I ever remember that man’s name?”
“Luciano,” said Mr. Prophet as he stuck his quirley into his mouth.
“Yes. He’s the one. What did you mean about Mr. Luciano poking his nose into the motion-picture studios?”
“Just what I said. He’s trying to get close to producers and directors and studio heads. Not sure if he’s having much luck yet, but he probably will. I know people in his organization are dealing lots of drugs and booze to a few of the studios’ stars.”
I lifted my hands in the air in a gesture of pure frustration. “If people know he’s doing these things, why can’t they stop him?”
“Sam told you why,” murmured Mr. Prophet.
I scowled at him. “I guess. But it seems…I don’t know. Impossible for one man to wield so much power!”
“It’s not impossible if it’s happening,” Mr. Prophet pointed out.
“He’s right, you know, Daisy. And I know many, many so-called stars are using drugs. Drugs to stay thin, drugs to wake up, drugs to go to sleep, drugs to keep them awake for hours and hours, drugs for everything. The studio heads don’t care as long as people show up for scheduled shoots. Anybody calls in sick, that somebody is out of a job unless that somebody is a huge star, and most of them aren’t. Somebody’s got to supply drugs to them. These days, bootleggers are dealing in drugs even more than they are liquor, some of them.”
“That’s discouraging,” I said, and thought about some of the movie stars I especially liked. “Is it true Mabel Normand uses drugs?”
“Yes,” Harold said as if he knew what he was talking about. “So’d Wallace Reid—”
“I knew about him,” I said, interrupting. Bad habit. I should try to curtail it.
“And there’s always John Barrymore. Drinks like a fish. Don’t know if he takes drugs. Wouldn’t surprise me. Fatty Arbuckle’s another one who got mixed up with drugs and alcohol. Cost him his career.”
“And cost that poor woman who went to his party her life,” I muttered.
“Her death wasn’t Arbuckle’s fault. He was tried three times, and all three juries acquitted him.”
“Yes, but it was his party. He probably paid for all the alcohol and drugs.”
“True. Olive Borden’s another one. I know she drinks, and I think she takes drugs.”
“What kinds of drugs are people so fond of? I mean, why do they take them if they know they’re so bad for them?”
“You should be asking the studio heads,” Harold said drily. “As I told you, they give their stars drugs to keep them thin, to keep them working all day and all night, and to keep them happy.”
“Doesn’t sound like a whole lot of fun to me,” I said.
“The stars—especially the women—make millions for the studios, and their life span is short.”
“What?” I demanded, appalled. “Why? Do they all die young from drug use?”
“What I meant was that when women begin to age, the studios don’t want them anymore. Men have it easier. They can ease into older parts, but a woman who’s built her career on being beautiful and thin won’t last long in pictures once she begins to age. Or if she gains weight.”
“Life is so unfair to women,” I grumbled. “People only care about our looks.”
“Not universally true,” said Harold with a short laugh and a glance at Mr. Prophet. “But mostly.”
Lou Prophet said, “Huh. When I worked as a consultant at a couple of studios, the studio heads might as well have called themselves pimps. They supplied young ladies for anyone who wanted ’em.”
I stared at Mr. Prophet, appalled all over again. “Really? That’s terrible!”
“Mebbe it was for the ladies. Worked out all right for some of us.”
I’d once given Mr. Prophet a piece of my mind about this very thing, and I felt like doing it again, but didn’t. Wouldn’t help, and another lecture from me would only annoy him. Sam wouldn’t appreciate it if I drove Mr. Prophet away, since he (Sam) apparently had plans for him (Mr. Prophet). I scowled at him as hideously as I could, though.
He sneered. “Yeah, I know. We fellers go around spillin’ our seed everywhere without regard to consequences. It’s the ladies pay the consequences.”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “They do.”
With a shrug, Mr. Prophet said, “I didn’t make the system. Only used it a time or two.”
“Like when you drove those two women who came to California to become movie stars off that cliff in Malibu.”
“Hey! I wasn’t drivin’.”
I sniffed meaningfully. “Bet it was you who supplied the booze that went over with you.”
“Slander,” he said. The blasted man slanted me a sly grin.
I felt like running into the house, grabbing the dachshund-headed cane Sam had given me after I was hit by a car on New Year’s Day, and pounding Mr. Prophet into the cement porch with it. “I’d like to beat you to death,” I snarled at him. “But I’d just end up having to clean blood off the porch. And I’d probably get arrested.”
“Prob’ly.”
How anyone with such wrinkled old eye sockets could twinkle like that astounded me. But he did.
“My goodness,” said Harold in a mild voice. “I haven’t heard this story. Sounds fascinating.”
“Bah,” I said.
“Humbug,” added Mr. Prophet.
Again, I fought an urge to do him bodily harm.
Suddenly the front door opened, and we all gave starts of alarm. Swiveling around, I saw Mrs. Rattle, beaming at us and holding a tray with what looked like lemonade and glasses on it. Harold leaped up to help her with her burden. Mr. Prophet didn’t.
I got up to help Harold and Mrs. Rattle. “How kind of you,” I told her. “You didn’t need to bring us anything.”
“My pleasure,” she said. She peeked at Mr. Prophet, who was occupying his time blowing smoke rings, and she heaved a little sigh. “I have some cookies in the house, too.”
“I’ll get them for you.” Harold had taken the laden tray from Mrs. Rattle, and I said, “Why don’t you put that tray…Uh…” The porch contained no furniture. “I’ll get the little table from the living room.” I raced indoors to get the table, which resided next to the front door. It contained already-read library books, but I picked them up and laid them on a bench in the inglenook. Carrying the table out to the porch, I said, “Here,” and plunked it in front of Harold.
“Thank you, dear,” said Mrs. Rattle. “But you stay here with your friends. I’ll get the cookies.”
“Oh, but I’m happy to help,” I said, feeling a little sorry for the woman.
“Nonsense.” And Mrs. Rattle disappeared into the house.
I turned on Mr. Prophet. “The least you could have done was thank the woman!” I hissed.
“I was busy.”
“Blowing smoke rings,” I snarled.
With a shrug, he didn’t even bother trying to repair his reputation with me. In truth, I doubted he gave a rap what I thought of him.
But Mrs. Rattle appeared in the open front door with a plate filled with cookies, so I didn’t bother with Mr. Prophet. “Thank you, Mrs. Rattle. I’ll take these. You’re so kind to do this for us.” Never mind that I was still stuffed from all the goodies we’d eaten at Mrs. Bissel’s house.
“Nonsense. Your lovely fiancé is giving me a job, and I aim to do it as well as I can. I’m sure I’m not the cook your aunt is, but I’ve a lovely chicken-and-rice casserole on the stove for your supper tonight, and I hope it will taste almost as good as one of your aunt’s meals.”
“I’m sure it will. Thank you so much, Mrs. Rattle.”
“Yes. Thank you,” said Harold.
After glancing up and seeing me scowl at him, Mr. Prophet lifted a hand to his forehead in a kind of salute. “Thanks, ma’am,” he managed to say. I hope it hurt his mean old throat.
“It’s nothing,” said Mrs. Rattle, her cheeks pinkening as she turned to scuttle back into the house.
Golly, maybe Mr. Prophet was right. Maybe Mrs. Rattle did have designs on him. I hoped not. There was no way on God’s green earth Mrs. Rattle could compete with Li Ahn for the old goat’s affections. If he had any. I suspected he merely had lusts. He did, however, heave himself to his foot and his peg and visit the table for lemonade and cookies.
I got myself one cookie and a glass of lemonade. Harold, who loved his food, took a short stack of cookies, put them on a napkin, poured himself a glass of lemonade, and he and I settled ourselves on the top porch step again. Mr. Prophet took a cookie and a glass and again sat a few feet to the north of us, although he only aimed to eat cookies and drink lemonade. Or maybe he’d want another quirley after he downed his refreshments.
“Good cookie,” I muttered after swallowing a bite. “Has coconut in it.”
“Yes,” Harold said, holding up his own cookie and eyeing it closely. “Think there’s oatmeal in there, too. And walnuts.”
Silence settled over the three of us as we contentedly munched and drank.
And then a perfectly hideous noise made us all jump. I nearly dropped my lemonade glass.
“Jesus!” Mr. Prophet said, trying to rise while reaching for the revolver he always stuck in the back waistband of his trousers.
“Holy cow!” cried Harold, stuffing the last of his cookies into his mouth. Guess he didn’t want to die without one last bite of something tasty.
After catching my glass and setting in on the table, I leaped to my feet, wondering how I thought I was going to face down a bunch of gangsters if Lucky Luciano actually was in town and had heard of our endeavors to free Aunt Vi from durance vile. That noise must be of his devising, but what wasit? Some kind of vicious mental torture? Did he want to murder our entire neighborhood? Oh, Lord, I wished Sam was with us!
I opened my mouth to scream bloody murder, when I heard an adolescent voice holler, “Miss Daisy! Miss Daisy!” The voice came from the lawn of the house just to the north of ours. And darned if Pudge Wilson didn’t charge at us waving a bugle in the air!
“For heaven’s sake,” I muttered, sinking back onto the top porch step, my heart thundering.
“Christ,” grumbled Mr. Prophet. He’d managed to rise to his leg and peg, and he quickly stuffed his gun back into his trouser band. “What the hell’s the matter with the boy?”
“Miss Daisy, look! I can play the bugle!” squealed a delighted Pudge.
And he did. Again.
I refrained from covering my ears, but I can’t vouch for Harold or Mr. Prophet.