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STACY CHASED AFTER us in a rush of heavy shoes and heavier breathing, Monica taking up the rear. “What’s going on?”
Starr called back. “Try to stay out of the way.”
Stacy saluted. “Will do.”
We rushed toward the turnstile. Thinking the coast was clear, the station attendant had just raised his eyes to lookout level. When he saw us, he ducked under the counter and hit the floor. We dribbled coins through the pay window and stampeded onto the platform.
Aligned like Doric columns with fists folded over crotches and feet spaced a yard apart, the wise guys inspected us with casual interest. A train chuffed into view. Starr and I meandered down the line as if searching for the perfect boarding spot. Stacy found a discarded Post-News and unfolded the broadsheet just below eyelevel. Monica made the blunder of openly appraising the wise guys.
The albino slithered his eyes sideways. “Got a problem?”
“Your suits,” she said. “Italian stitched?”
“What’s it to you?”
Stacy tore his eyes away from the cartoon section. “The lady was just admiring the weave.”
The wise guy reached under his coat. “Take a hike, pal.”
“Anything you say.” Stacy saluted and moved along.
The wise guys took a second gander at me, this time with keen interest, eyes sunshiny and mouths drooling. Starr moved in as my knight in shining armor and wrapped me up like a birthday present. When I eked out an audible protest, he muzzled me with a forceful lip lock. I clawed to get loose. He twisted my body like a licorice stick and awarded himself with an unobstructed view of the wise guys. The buttons on his waistcoat dug into my breastbone. He blinked down the track, his eyes darkening with intrigue. I whined maledictions. He dragged me along, his clutch unbreakable. We capered across the platform, Starr charging forward on worn soles and me treading backwards on high heels. The small of my back met up with a steel pillar.
The el train rumbled into the station. The platform shuddered and pitched. A wind tunnel upended my hair. The suction between us ruptured. We came up for air. Starr was full of himself. He winked, scooped up his fedora, and dusted it off while I unhitched a spasm in my neck. Making believe we hadn’t taken a side trip to Mars, we split up. The doors of the el train clattered open. Passengers disembarked. Just before the doors clapped shut, a rotund silhouette emerged from the rear-most car. The dark shadow plodded methodically toward the exit. The train pulled out of the station, picking up speed. Its interior lights pulsated, switching the fat man on and off like an old-time movie reel.
As the el train pulled out of view, Johnny Kirk met up with the wise guys. They exchanged a few words. The words became heated. He spit out his Havana. Revolvers appeared. A volley of bullets punctured fiery holes into the night. The wise guys took cover. Monica screamed and scampered downstairs, hands slapped over ears. A gunshot ricocheted off steel. Kirk held his ground. Spent cartridges trickled onto the platform. Explosive gunfire rocked the night. When the smoke cleared, Kirk hobbled downstairs.
The albino whipped out a Colt .45 and took aim at the fat man’s back. I two-fisted the strap of my shoulder bag and let it fly. The pocketbook whacked him in the shoulder. The pistol sprang from his grasp, rebounded off the platform, and tumbled onto the tracks. Torn between retrieving the lost Colt or escaping further abuse, the wise guy cut and ran. Starr took off after him, rappelling down the staircase. Stacy chased after everyone else, yodeling like Tarzan.
The swarthy wise guy lobbed a toothy grin in my direction before contemplating the el tracks. Lodged against the third rail, the Colt conducted electricity. Deciding to go for it, he used his hands as springboards and jumped down. He held onto his hat, prissily stepping over ironwork. A train bore down on the southbound track. The conductor blasted warning whistles. The wise guy leapt out of the way, tripped, dove for safety, and landed between the rails of the empty northbound tracks.
The train streaked by, wheels hammering out a monotonous beat.
The wise guy sat up and redirected a probing eye at the revolver. He extended a timid arm. Nightlight glinted off the gun grip, just out of reach of his buffed fingernails. Another train rounded the bend, this one riding the northbound tracks. He made a second attempt, his fingertips straining. Seconds separated him from immortality. He played chicken and hiked himself to a sitting position, his joints limber and his muscles primed for flight. Exhilaration etched his face. On a count of three, he scrambled to his feet and hurtled onto the platform, arriving with the gun in tow. Gleeful with success, he checked out the cylinder, took pleasure in the solid heft, and tucked it into his waistband. Undaunted by his encounter with near-death, he brushed off his suit and staggered toward the exit, arms swinging.
Down at street level, several sirens complained. He tuned into dissonant caterwauling coming from multiple directions. Engines roared. Tires braked. I pushed my luck, beat him to the head of the staircase, and blocked his way. He grabbed me, one arm for each fist. My flesh smarted. A string of Sicilian swearwords detonated from his bottle mouth. I returned the gunfire with a compilation of my own, also in Italian, my accent flawless. His eyes bulged with wonder. In Italian, he said, “Will you marry me?”
I answered back, also in Italian, “The pope is a fag.”
Pleased with my grasp of his native tongue, he guffawed and formally introduced himself. “Armand Centanni,” he said, doffing his fedora.
Translating the meaning of his name, I said, “A hundred years.”
“That is why I fear nothing. Trains. Bullets. Sirens. Women.” He raised his arms in an invitation to dance.
“I never dance with strangers.”
“We can fuck instead.”
“Try it, and you’ll have to answer to Arezzo.”
His mouth rounded into an O of surprise. “You? Know Arezzo? I don’t believe.”
“I’ve often admired his black onyx bathtub.”
He wagged his eyebrows. “Do you want to know what I’d like to do to you in his black onyx bathtub?”
“Make sure your gun is loaded, because if it isn’t, mine will be.”
“Oh, lady, talk dirty some more.”
“Screw you.”
“Just for that, I will kiss the hem of your skirt. I will crawl on my hands and knees. Just say, Sì, and I am yours forever.”
Car doors slammed. Feet scampered. Shouting splintered the night.
“Up yours,” I said.
“With every word, I fall more madly in love. I am sinking at the deep end of the ocean. I am floating on cloud nine.”
“Kiss off.”
A northbound train pulled into the station. Centanni was torn between ravishing me or making his escape. “I will do your bidding,” he said. “Reluctantly. ’Til next time, arrivederci, il mio amore.” He hopped onboard. As the train pulled out of the station, he threw a kiss through the grimy windows.
I spun on a heel and trudged downstairs.
Up until this moment, I had been playacting like an actress on a stage, spitting out dialog, emoting for the audience, and flinging arms in diaphanous splendor. Now that the backdrop had been lifted away, only stark reality remained. I couldn’t stop trembling.
In those few seconds when gunfire lit up the night, my life flashed before my eyes. Starting with the cold, dark moment when I arrived in this world, the perfect mixture of my father’s intelligence and my mother’s beauty. Fast-forwarding through memorable scenes: the day my mother walked out; the first day of kindergarten; the date, hour, and minute I realized my father was a hood; the night I lost my virginity; finally ending when everything came to a screeching halt with a stray bullet. I could see it. Visualize it. Witness the aftermath. Daddy weeping inconsolably at my funeral. Lilith frozen with grief. Rose and Violet telling everybody what a wonderful sister I was. Friends and colleagues extolling my virtues.
After giving over to a few tears, I shook away the jitters and pulled my posture straight. Then I descended the last few steps with sluggish care, preparing to enter through the curtain stage left and fake my way through the improvisational scene to follow.
Pulsating emergency lights drenched everything the color of blood. A battalion of black-and-whites had braked to chaotic stops, doors ajar. High beams converged on a single point of focus. Armed police officers formed a semicircle around the hub. Poised in shooting stances, they cocked service revolvers and aligned sights on Iris Grenadine, reporter for the Daily Standard, who had a nose for news and a talent for bad timing.
I pumped my hands skyward. “I give up.”
With his non-regulation Colt Python aimed at my heart, Pennyroyal cut a path through his men. Floodlights turned his face into a full moon. His skin was papery white, his eyes coal black, and his lower lip cherry red. The pistol swiveled around his trigger finger and pointed harmlessly at the sidewalk.
“You’re no fun at all,” I said, and lowered my hands.
After holstering the weapon, he draped an arm over my shoulder and walked me away from his men and into the shadows. “I’m only gonna ask you once,” he asked, his voice dripping congeniality and reasonableness, belying the malice underneath. “Where’re your buddies?”
“Which buddies?” I asked innocently.
“Starr. Kirk. Stacy. Arezzo’s henchmen.”
“Why not ask Monica Seagraves?”
He ran calloused fingers through my hair as if he had the right. I brushed his arm away. Congeniality remained but reasonable faded away. “Just say the word, Iris, and we can leave everything behind.”
I smiled, but not a very complicit smile or complacent smile. “And go where?”
He saw my annoyance but was determined to make his point. “A hotel room comes to mind.”
“The Ritz? Paris is lovely this time of year. Champs-Élysées. Eiffel Tower. Notre Dame Cathedral. We can stroll hand-in-hand along the Seine and throw caution to the wind.”
He threw his head aside and smirked. He was annoyed with me as much as I was annoyed with him, but with a difference. I wanted to put him in his place. He wanted to strangle me with his bare hands. Malice rose like froth to his lips. “If I can’t find anyone else to pin the murders on, there’s always you.”
“Who told you Arezzo’s boys would be here?” I touched my fingertip to his swollen lip.
He winced, threw his head aside, and captured my wrist in his fist. “What’s it to you?”
“Someone tipped you off,” I said.
“An anonymous source.”
“A lady in black, perchance? With bodacious bazooms? Who ...” I glanced around. “... seems to have flown the coop?”
He tugged me close. His breath washed across my mouth. His lips were within kissing distance, but instead of kissing, they spoke. “Monica Seagraves doesn’t talk to me, and I don’t talk to her.” He could scarcely contain his anger.
“Tumbling in bed with the lights turned down low doesn’t require talk, only lip reading.”
The stern set of his mouth relaxed. The fire in his eyes doused. A faint glimmer of humor appeared. Then a thin-lipped smile surfaced. “Take off before I really lose my temper.” He released me with a pat on my rump and tramped toward the Pontiac.
I called after him. “Did you find out anything about the Holt girl?”
He glanced over a shoulder and shook his head. With a last look that held affection, he ducked into the car.
I never knew how to take Pennyroyal, whether he was lover or adversary, ally or foe, friend or disaster waiting to happen. Maybe all. Maybe none. Yet I was in the unenviable position of having to rely on him for information, cooperation, and support, even though the information was suspect, the cooperation spotty, and the support random. Given his cop code, he could also save my life one day.
In a cloud of exhaust, the Pontiac roared off. One by one, the squad cars peeled away. I was alone.
