I walk as quickly as a woman in heels can along the sidewalk and throw up a hand to hail a cab. I’d watched his eyes from the corner of mine as I left. He watched me go. He watched me go with a surly expression, and a hunter’s eyes.
I open the back door of the cab and step inside, and a thick raindrop hits my forearm as I reach to close it behind me. Rain is starting to clatter down onto the windshield in heavy drops – not cold or gloomy but like an orgasm, a breaking dam. It’s a release. An inspiration.
But I’d hate to be out in it later.
I give the cab driver an address near enough to home and settle back against the leather. I always drink more than I should. Now, a woman in my position, in my… line of work, shouldn’t have quite so much to drink. She should keep a clear mind.
But I’ve never been one for “shoulds”.
I close my eyes and let the warm fuzziness of the right amount of alcohol suffuse me. And suffuse, that’s a pretty good word for a woman who’s had a few. Fuzzy mind or not, at least I keep my diction and my vocabulary. You’d never be able to tell, unless you were me.
Shoulds. A young woman should marry well. She should obey her parents, and never take a steady, handsome, rich husband for granted. She should smile prettily and attend all the right parties. She should.
But should…. should and could are two different things. I could never settle down. I’m just not that kind of girl.
I slip my cab driver a handful of bills and thank him for his service. He tips his cap and smiles at me as I clamber over the seat and push open the door.
The rain’s really coming down, great fat drops from a demon-dark sky. But it’s a warm night, for fall. I almost laugh as I race to my apartment building.
The concierge tips his hat and I flash him a grin, dripping wet. He grins back.
Stepping into my apartment is always part relief and part disappointment. Getting home, taking off my heels and padding around barefoot in my shag carpet makes me feel like a girl and a woman all at once. Even I can be childish – particularly when it comes to sensation. But it’s always rather sad to come home alone. I never bring men here, of course… maybe I should get a little dog, or something. It would be nice to be greeted by someone when I stepped into the sitting room.
I turn on the wireless and settle into an armchair with a copy of Oliver Twist. Fred Astaire tells me it’s nice work if you can get it. He’s not wrong. I have leather under my thighs, shag under my feet and the lights of Manhattan out my window.
He’s not wrong.
* * *
Fucking weather.
I tug my trilby down over my ears and pop my collar up. It’s fucking pouring, the gutters are overflowing, and my pant legs will be soaked by the time I get back to my office.
I left too much of that cash in my desk drawer. Paying my tab cost me everything in my pockets. Worth it for the quality of the scotch – but now I can’t afford a cab.
Looks like I’m walking.
I have two things to keep me warm: the alcohol in my blood and a brunette’s curves in my mind.
She was beautiful, no hot-blooded man would bother denying it. But she knew it, and a woman who’s beautiful and knows it also knows how to turn it to her advantage. She’s trouble. Hell, if she’s involved in the Trollieti case she’s not just trouble – she’s dangerous.
And I’d say she knows that, too.
I want to get inside that back room. The barman, Gerry, won’t be any help. Even if he wants to help, he won’t. There’s got to be a back door. All good speakeasies have a way to get out if the cops come knocking.
Could sneak in, if I find that door. Dangerous, but might be worth it. I’m thinking of the money coming my way if I crack this case. It could buy a lot of scotch. Not to mention getting a murdering scumbag off the streets.
If only I could put the fear of god into the mob into the bargain. Won’t happen. A man can dream.
Huh. Speaking of dreams. Someone with a red dress will be plaguing my dreams tonight.
Bewitching woman. I know she’s involved somehow.
Fuck it. Why am I thinking of her. Damn femme fatales… I’ve known one or two and seen what happens to the men who chase them down into Hell. Damned if I’ll let someone like her get under my skin.
Trollieti. He spent the night at a hotel. I’ve got a paper at home in the office. I need to find out the name of that hotel and speak to the man at the front desk. If Trollieti took anyone up to his room with him, I’ll find out.
Smart money says he took a woman up there with him, but there are other possibilities. He could have been doing drugs with another man. Doing a deal with “business” partners.
I pull a cigarette out of the packet in my coat pocket and pause under an awning to light it. Tobacco… It’s probably poison, but what isn’t?
I do some of my best thinking while walking. Shame about the rain.
Scenarios. He takes a woman up to his room. She smothers him in his sleep. Or they take drugs together, and she gives him a stronger dose than he’s used to. He dies, she panics and leaves.
An accident. It’s possible. He didn’t do it himself, that’s all I know – if it was a self-administered overdose and he was alone they would have found a needle in his arm, paraphernalia all over the room.
Nothing about that in the paper. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t there; papers don’t know everything. I’ll have to ask the hotel staff. Who found him? I need to reread that article.
I don’t want to take out my notebook in this rain. My ink will run.
But she’s involved, somehow, that brunette. She’s the one who was fucking Trollieti, maybe. I’ll ask Gerry about her sometime.
I take a last long draw of my cigarette and drop it into the gutter. The rainwater carries it down the drain and drowns it.
I need to talk to my contact. Trollieti was involved in the mob somehow. I need to find out how. I have a man on the inside… he’s a small fish swimming with sharks but he keeps his mouth shut and his ears open and he’s careful. That and information is all I want in a contact.
A subway station beckons. I stick a hand into my pocket and fish around for change. C’mon. Give a man a break.
My hand closes around coins and I pull out three pennies and a dime. Perfect. Guess I’m due some luck that isn’t rotten.
I swap a dime for a token. The subway’s quiet for this time of night. Usually there are some teenagers playing chicken on the tracks or men heading home from after-work drinks. Tonight there’s just a bum with a bottle.
A puddle forms beneath my feet, dripping from the edges of my coat. Must be some sort of metaphor.
The subway car rolls to a stop and I pull open the door. It’s nearly empty, just a young couple necking near the back. I sit down with my back to them and pull off my hat. Run my hand through my hair.
How’d I get here. Sitting in an old subway car in the middle of the night is an odd place to start evaluating your life. That’s the sort of thing a man does on the bathroom floor the morning after, or staring out the window with a bottle in his hand.
How’d I get here. Chasing mobsters and brunettes through a city like the Big Apple. I should be somewhere nice. Somewhere warm. Sitting in Miami or Los Angeles with a full-figured blonde and a cocktail looking out over the ocean.
Damn, I’m too young to be thinking about retirement. Too young and too poor. This city makes me feel old. A man doesn’t know where to look. Drugs, murder, gangsters.
Los Angeles is no better, but at least it has a better climate. And women playing volleyball on the beach. Not brunettes named Trouble making eyes over martinis. Or was it a cosmopolitan?
My stop. I leave the young couple to whatever they were doing in the corner behind me. Up the stairs, taking them two at a time though I can’t say why I want to be out of there. Back in the rain.
The air smells better, at least. You can say that for a rainstorm like this. Give it a couple hours and the city feels cleaner. All the dirt and sin gets washed down the drain like a baptism downpour. A man can start again after a rainstorm.
Trouble is, men never do. John Marley included.
I pause outside my office. Look up at the darkened windows, one floor up. Tempting just to go straight home but I need to grab a few things. The paper, for one. I’ll have to slip it under my coat to keep it dry.
The stairs make hollow, creaking sounds under my feet. They’re protesting against the wash I’m giving them. I don’t blame them. I’m ready to start creaking myself.
Coat on the coat-rack. At least I’ll keep the puddle in one corner of the office. I hang my hat up next to it and they drip together onto the floor.
I pull open my filing cabinet. There are a handful of mobsters that have been associated with Trollieti in the past and I have information on them here. I should make copies so I don’t have to take them home with me when I feel like some bedtime reading.
I’ve always been keen on horror stories. I used to follow Lovecraft in the magazine “Weird Tales”. Stopped for two reasons. First is that the world is horrifying enough without fiction. The second is that he died.
They say it was cancer. He was young. Hmm. What are the chances that Trollieti was sick? Could be natural causes. Stroke, heart attack… especially if he was fucking some dame at the time. It’s been known to happen. The sap’s usually older, though.
I find the folders I was looking for. Pull them out in their entirety and shove ‘em into a briefcase. Paper, too. I snap it shut and make for the coat-rack before I stop, backtrack, open my bottom desk drawer.
My bottle of scotch calls out in greeting. Must’ve missed me.
I shove the drawer closed again. I’ve got a bottle at home, if I didn’t finish it off the other night. If I take that bottle home with me for company on the walk I won’t have any in my desk drawer if I suddenly feel the need to renew our friendship.
I pull on my wet coat and slap my hat back on my head, pick up the briefcase, and lock the door behind me. My own name stares at my back for a long moment, then I turn, and the stairs creak out their complaints.
Creak. Your steps are too heavy. Creak. The weather’s too wet. Creak. Creak. Like an old man’s conscience or a young man’s tears.
It’s been a long-ass day already. And there’s still a few hours before I’ll kiss the sheets.
Rain from inside is a blessing. Rain when you’re out in it is a curse. I enjoy the blessing for a minute or two before submitting myself to the curse.
Blessings and curses. Too few of one, too many of the other. Heh. I shake my head.
I’ve walked this way back and forward, to and from the office so many times I could do it with my eyes closed. Dead drunk. In my sleep. I’ve had dreams about walking to or from the office, every step so ingrained in my mind that the slightest thing off about it throws me.
But that’s the thing about human perception. A slight thing I’ll notice. Big things? Maybe not. I’ve looked up once and noticed a store I hadn’t seen before, couldn’t remember when it had moved in. Someone painted their home and I didn’t notice. I walk this path on automatic. I only notice the small things.
Guess that’s what I focus on. Small things. Things other people would miss.
Front door. White, paint peeling, could do with a paint job. Not my business. I don’t care enough to leave a note with the super.
My apartment isn’t big. Living room. Bedroom. Kitchen. Bathroom. Enough to get by. Nothing fancy. Wouldn’t even call it “home” but I keep all my stuff here so I guess I have to.
Key in the lock. Turn. As soon as I’m in I turn around and shoot the bolts and locks home. I’m not paranoid – there really are men in the world who would get rid of me if I gave them half the chance.
I hang up my coat and hat. Hope they’ll dry before dawn. My poor old trilby deserves better.
I hang my suit jacket in the closet next to the door. Unbuckle my shoulder holster, remove my gun, hang the holster next to the jacket.
Sometimes when I’m at home I leave my gun in its holster. Sometimes I shove it in the band of my trousers, when I’m nervous. But I’m going to be drinking, so I leave it on my coffee table, in plain sight and within easy reach.
I unclip my suspenders and hang them over the bedroom knob to dry. Feels good to get out of wet clothes.
I shuck off my shirt and toss it into the laundry room, off the kitchen. Belt off, hang it over the top of the door. I empty my pockets of the shrapnel of life and it follows my shirt. At least my vest and shorts are still dry.
I toss a folder onto the kitchen bench and flip it open.
Glass.
Anthony Giordano. A regular at Gerry’s place. Smart man, been in the business for decades and been at the top for much of it. Knows how to run a family without getting… removed.
Ice. I feel like ice tonight. Now I’m inside and no longer dripping, it feels warmer.
Giordano is one big man among many, but as a major player worth considering here. Trollieti knew him. How well I don’t know. That’s something I’ll have to find out.
Scotch.
Trollieti liked the races. Giordano does too. Could have met there, made bets, made deals. Giordano could afford a seat as nice as any Trollieti would have bought. I’ll make a note to head down to the racecourse and speak to the regulars there.
Gambling addicts will talk as much as drunks if you wave some cash in their faces. Addiction is addiction, whether it’s alcohol, drugs or that victory that’s just one bet away.
Least I know I’m never getting a windfall. Better to hope…?
I take a drink. Scotch will never taste the same after that gold Gerry passed my way. I’m a ruined man.
I take glass and manila folder over to the sofa and toss the file down on the coffee table. I pull the others out of my briefcase, spread them across the surface.
The made men of New York. Doyle. Ferro. Pavoni. All powerful men. All living some sort of knife-edge lives, never knowing when the others are going to turn on ‘em. Friends and enemies, in bed with each other and in bed with the Law.
Well, I’m not the law. And I’d sure as fuck like to take some of these bastards down.
I take a mouthful of scotch to wash down the anger. I know that’s not going to happen. Victoria Trollieti passed me a wild card and gave me some hope but deep down I know these bastards will never hang, and even if they do it won’t be me that ties the noose.
She is not in any of my files. Trouble, that’s her name, and I don’t see it written down anywhere.
I swallow more scotch. The bottle’s still on the bench. Shouldn’t have left it there. I refill my glass, and bring it back down with me to the sofa.
Trouble. I know I’d have written something down about her if I’d seen her before. But she’s a regular at Gerry’s and there were mobsters among the admirers sending drinks to her table. You don’t get to be a regular with those men unless you’ve got a damn good head on your shoulders and wit and charm enough to make it with the best of them, and the best of them are men and damn smart ones.
Damn dangerous ones too. And she knows it.
I should start a file on Trouble. Find out where she came from, what her story is. She’s got one and it’s good.
I’d bet my gun and my last drink on that.