Accept the paper from the newsie.
I took the afternoon edition from the wrinkled vendor. “You think your missing girl had anything to do with this?” My eyes scanned down the headlines til his thick finger tapping drew me to a semi-bold headline a ways down the page, on the left: Body found in East River, foul play suspected. I scanned the rest of the article—a paltry paragraph outlining that a body’d been dragged out of the soup that morning. A floater, looked like funny business. No name or ID, just a picture of a lady in the suit coat pocket.
Vito beat me to the punch. “He was wearing a suit from DH Holmes department store. Do you know what that means?” I didn’t, but would learn soon enough: I reached the story’s last line just as the smug grin was setting on my newsie’s face: With no other evidence, police suspect the victim might be from New Orleans. His suit was from DH Holmes, the popular New Orleans department store.”
“That’s fascinating.” I handed him back the copy.
“Hey, the news ain’t free.”
I gave him the stink eye, then started fishing through my pocket. “How much?”
“That’ll be five cents.” I placed a quarter in his waiting palm. It closed around the coin, disappeared behind the counter, and returned, empty save for the calluses that lined the meat of his palm and newsprint that gummed up his fingers.
“Hey, where’s my change?”
“I got some other news I thought you might like.”
“Okay.”
“I saw a lady that looked a lot like our friend” he tipped his rumpled hat to Broadway, where the redhead had long disappeared into the crowd “come by here yesterday. She bought a paper, then went in there.” His head bounced towards the other end of his booth. I followed his line of vision to a bar three doors down from the corner.
“Huh, that’s some news.”
“Thought you might like it.”
“Thanks, buddy. Keep the change.”
It didn’t take me long to find a seat at the bar, order a Scotch neat, ice on the side, and start swirling the rocks back in their tumbler. The bartender, a middle-aged, middle-sized man with a hairline that was starting to go back and a stomach that was beginning to come out, came after the tinkling, nodding to my ice with a broad forehead. “You need something else?” I looked from the perspiring dry cup to the amber one, around the room and back at the keep.
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“Okay. You just let me know.”
“Sure thing, captain.” He pivoted back towards the taps, a pint glass and a dish towel in his hands.
“Say there, do I hear a bit of New Orleans in your voice?”
“Born and bred,” he announced over his shoulder. “You ever been?” I nodded. “Sure is a great city, isn’t it? Been up here ten years now.” He set down the glass, and surveyed the dark room. An oak bar, nice but worn, and a row of stools in the foreground. Behind it was a set of windows, curtains drawn, on either side of the door. A wall of booths, leather, sinking numbers lined up on the far side, and the spread of hardwood between looked like it could have used a good mopping. A couple sat in one booth, necking on one side of the bench, while two men, wearing the shiny suits of the Italian mobsters, nursed Manhattans in the back corner. By the time he’d reached the dingy hall leading from the back of the bar to the john, the smile had drooped to a flat, tight line. “Sometimes I’m not sure why.”
“I’m looking for a friend from New Orleans, a young lady named Ruby.” The dishtowel, which he’d let go slack on the counter, was pulled back with an audible snap. A heavy-lidded patron, five seats down and more than a few drinks into the afternoon, looked up at the sound but quickly drifted back to his thick-tongued reverie. He seemed to be mumbling about something, but whatever it was probably also drove him to drink in the early afternoon, if not the late morning, so I’d let that dog lie.
“Never heard of her.” The barkeep’s tone, the fat, loose vowels he’d used just a minute before had sharpened to a blade. “Sorry ... buddy.”
He stalked down the bar, and pulled a pint down for the mumbler. “Here you go, Jimmy. This one’s on the house.”
The drunk snapped to attention, swung his head from the frothy glass to me and back again. “You looking for Ruby?” he croaked, his baritone lungs suddenly full enough to cut over the radio and stir the stale air. Another Louisianan, from the sounds of it. He didn’t wait for my assent. “Sarah’s staying with her sister and Big Red over by the power plant on Vinegar Hill.” The drunk reached for his beer, but it was missing, the keep having grabbed it away. He pulled it back so quick it sloshed foamy drops onto the helpful man. The bartenders eyes had slitted down to a snake’s and he started hissing “Jesus Jimmy, can’t you keep you mouth shut?” I took the rest of my Scotch in a shot, and leaned in as best I could to the whispered conversation while looking like I was gathering myself to go. The chastising continued. “What the hell did you do that for Jimmy? How do you know he’s a friend of Leonard’s? That man of hers had a lot of enemies, too.”
“Sure, but he said he’s a friend. Maybe he knows how it went down, what happened to him.”
“That may well be, but it don’t matter none, Jimmy. It went down.” He splashed the beer into the sink behind the counter and quickly crossed himself. “And that’s all that matters. That guy might know what happened to him...he might have happened to him himself.”
He gave me the stink eye from the sink, and reached for a handle, rinsing out the cup. “For all we know, Jimmy, he could be a friend of the other guys.”
“Gee, I never thought of that.” He scrunched up his face. “He doesn’t look Ey-tal-ian.”
“Oh, sure, but they’re a big operation. Just think: guy gets knocked off, next thing to go is his girl. That’s why I told you to keep your mouth shut. And as for you —” his voice raised to a level intended for me, but before he could finish the sentence, I rose.
“Gentlemen, I’m sorry to leave you, but I have a date.” I slipped a fivespot onto the counter. “This should cover my tab and buy another for my friend. He seems to have lost his beer.”
