The Stringers, page 37
“Oh.”
Another long pause. By now Port had lost interest and went back to his work.
“Do you like the newsroom?” Jean asked.
“Yes.”
Another pause. I loosened my tie and unbuttoned the top button on my waistcoat, reclining against the back of my chair. I couldn’t decide which question to ask myself first, if “What did she want?” was better than “Why was she calling me?”
Tom had said she was crazy. So did everyone else. I should have hung up and resumed my work. But I was too curious to let it go. Also, she knew how to find the newsroom. It wouldn’t take long for her to show up if she wanted trouble, trouble I didn’t need. Apart from my interest staying alive, not exactly an unreasonable goal, I also needed to get this story done before Tom called back with more notes.
“Will you be at the library tonight?” she asked.
I frowned. Was it a trick question? What would make a nice, vague response? I could have lied and said no, but she would want to know why. I had stopped trying to lie my way out of problems after attempting to convince a girl I didn’t consider her ugly because of her braces. Nobody had bought that whopper, including her.
“I suppose,” I said. “What’s it to you?”
“Do not talk like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like that,” she said. “You are not like that.”
“No idea what you mean.”
“I will not be at the library tonight. I do not think you should go.”
I lowered my head and whispered. “Why? Something bad going down tonight?”
“No. I will be somewhere else. You should come with me.”
“Where?” I asked, even though I didn’t want to know the answer.
“There is an old abandoned train station by Jackson Street.”
“The one with the clock tower?”
“Yes.”
I paused. “…why there?”
“I like it,” she said. “It is quiet there.”
Frowning, I cupped my hand over the phone again, turning away from Port’s peering eyes, which had once turned on me. I didn’t need to be overheard and let it get around that I had spoken to Jean, or I’d spend the rest of my life there trying to dispel rumors about it. Rumors spread like maggots in a dumpster and were harder to kill.
“I’ve got other things to do,” I said. “What do you want with me?”
“You should meet me there.”
“Why?”
“Because I asked,” she said.
Gripping the phone tightly, I turned my head to the side and lowered my voice. I couldn’t believe I was still talking to her. I should have hung up, let it go. Except she would simply call again and again until she got what she wanted. She had an eerie calmness about her, yet underneath it was a tenacity that probably took other people by surprise.
“I don’t take orders from you,” I insisted. “I also don’t like people who point guns at me.”
“I am sorry,” she said.
“Took you a while to get around to apologizing. How do I know it’s real?”
“I do not know. That is for you to decide. Everyone has to decide what is real and what is not. I cannot do it for you. I want to talk to you tonight. That is why I asked.”
“About what?” I asked.
“We can talk.”
I groaned under my breath. “Sorry, but that doesn’t sound like a good idea. I know the library isn’t the first place I’d like to be, but I know what I’m getting there and I can handle it.”
I expected a backlash from her, but she didn’t fight it at all.
“Very well,” she said. “You do not have to talk to me. I will be there at seven, near the grand staircase. You can come in the door near the train tracks. The doors are easy to open.”
I paused for a moment, my mouth hanging open in bewilderment.
“But I said I’m not coming,” I said.
“I will not have my gun.”
“Not coming.”
Click.
“Hello?” I asked.
The answer was a static noise. She had hung up.
I looked at the phone in disbelief before throwing it down and returning to my draft that was staring back at me on the typewriter. Port wasted no time pestering me about who had called. I tossed him a lie to catch and by the time he had called it out I was too consumed in my work to return his fire. Thankfully, Tom’s notes were well written and the story was finished before the end of the hour. I slipped it into the copyeditor’s basket, relaxing as one of them picked it up. Unfortunately, the free time between calls left me free to think over Jean’s offer.
It had been too random. That part made me anxious. Had I been expecting it, I could have dismissed it. But I had no idea what she wanted, and she hadn’t hinted at it in any way. If I went, of course, I’d find out.
Crossing my arms, I shook my head at my own suggestion. No. Never. No way. She would talk, and she had her gun speak for her.
I smiled as Tom called. I took notes as he gave them to me, my curiosity tamed as I distracted myself.
***
During our lunch break, I was consuming a sandwich at my desk, content to be alone for a few minutes. The door to the newsroom on the right opened. A small man poked his head through the door, glanced around, and then saw me. He took another cautious glance before he entered.
“You Farrington?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He approached my desk, so short he didn’t need to kneel to match my height in my chair. He was neatly groomed and well dressed, but he had a circumspect expression that left me uneasy.
“Something I can help you with?” I asked.
“No. Something I can help you with.”
“Yes?”
“Look, my name isn’t important, so I won’t tell it. Here’s the thing. I work in the telephone operator room. I put through all the calls before they’re transferred to reporters. It helps keep the lines clear and protects us, you know? Anyways, I put through the call you got with the girl.”
I rose up in my chair. “Yes?”
“I know that was that crazy bitch with the Fifth Avenue Boys.”
“What about it?”
He threw his hands up theatrically. “Hey, I’m here for your own good. You have to ice her.”
“Excuse me?”
“Waste her. You know? Kill her.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what she’s going to do to you tonight.”
I was already impatient with his orders. “You better start explaining yourself fast. I don’t like people who eavesdrop on my calls.”
“Yeah, sorry about that, but you’ll thank me for it. Here’s the thing. She’s done this before. Call up a guy, ask him to meet her, then kill him. There was this one guy who went to meet her there and we never saw him again.”
Although I didn’t have high regard for Jean Carr, I was suspicious of the man. He smelled of ulterior motive like a bad aftershave.
“How do you know she killed him?” I asked.
“Come on, man! It don’t take much to put two and two together to get four.”
“If she killed him, how come nobody did anything to her?”
“I don’t know. People figured if he was dumb enough to meet her, alone, he deserved to get it. That’s just what I heard.”
“You don’t know, though,” I said.
The man threw his hands up defensively, as if I were personally attacking him. “Hey, I’m just here telling you so you don’t end up in the same boat as him. She’s a cold-hearted bitch. You know that just by talking to her. She’s got to go.”
“Why don’t I just not meet her?” I asked.
“Then she’ll come after you. I’m telling you, she’s like a black widow. Once she decides to kill a guy, he’s a goner. Unless…”
His fatalistic tone turned hopeful.
“Unless,” he said, “of course, the guy she plans to ice gets to her before she gets to him.”
“That’s not how I do things,” I said.
“Fine. I was just trying to help. That’s it.”
He poked my chest with one of his small fingers and whispered in my ear. “But when you see that gun in your face and you’re waiting for her to pull the trigger, just remember who told you so. If you’re smart, you’ll put her down. Everybody knows she needs to go, but nobody will do nothing about it. But don’t do it for anyone else. Do it because you want to live. If you don’t, you’ll spend the rest of your life here waiting for her to come after you. Just saying.”
He then chuckled under his breath as he walked out of the newsroom. I dismissed his visit as a prank of some kind. Then later as the day progressed, however, I started doubting my own certainty. Whoever he was, he had been direct, to the point. He hadn’t asked any questions or tried to get me say anything. I didn’t suspect him as much as I found his advice repulsive. It was so easy for men in the newspaper to use violence as a solution to a problem. Then again, most of their problems involved other men in the same profession, and they respected force above anything else.
An hour before the deadline and the end of the day, I was bent over my desk, my face in my hands as I contemplated the man’s counsel. What had once been inconceivable for me was beginning to gain sensibility. Jean Carr had already threatened to kill me without any cause. She was obviously unstable, and while a lot of the men there were as well, none of them had outright tried to kill me.
It was an impossible choice. If he’s wrong, I’d suffer the consequences for it and carry the burden for the rest of my life. If I’m wrong, however, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to defend myself. All she would have to do is take a shot at me at the library or when I was out in the open. There was no time to speculate as to why she wanted me dead. Like so many things in life that I had learned, when confronted by a situation it was best to deal with it first, then ask why later.
The thought of killing her should have made me disgusted at myself and examine the stability of my own conscience, but I managed to justify the possibility because of what she had done. Her violence rationalized my actions. She killed people for a living, and now she wanted to kill me. It was perfectly understandable that I do what was needed to stop her. Envisioning her waiting to ambush me in the train station, I no longer saw her as a neutral figure, a misfit among the assassins. She was a personal enemy standing in my way. She was trying to stop me from finding my father. Nothing, no one, would stop me.
***
The dilapidated train station stood like a misfit among the skyscrapers, an historical artifact that did not blend in with the modern buildings that surrounded it. Even in the darkened mist, the clock tower was visible from afar, its terra cotta red walls overrun with vines. At the front steps, I approached under the cover of darkness, aided by a large area devoid of lampposts. Making my way to the front entrance, I eyed the left door. Now that it was night, darkness covered the area like a black shroud. I only saw the door because of a silver sliver of moonlight slipping out behind a cloud. The air was frigid, and I rubbed my hands laboriously as I approached the door, glistening with a thin layer of frost.
My wool gloves protected my fingers as they touched the door handle. For an instant, they stuck to the frozen metal, but as the warmth of my hand thawed it I was able to pull it back and open the door. I pushed hard and used both hands to swing it back, and once inside I found it just as difficult pushing shut again, fighting to conceal the noise. A strong musky smell flew into my face as I breathed the stale but stiffly cold air.
Turning around, I took out a small flashlight and shone it in a few chosen spots to give me an awareness of my surroundings. Dust covered the floor and the walls, cobwebs dotting the corners of the ornamental plaster ceilings and dangling from the stairway. The interior décor had rotted away, drips of water frozen on the side of the wall. The wood baseboards had been ripped out, and the railing overlooking the room below had been removed.
Before I moved, I zipped open my coat and examined my revolver strapped to my side. Taking it out, I pulled the hammer back softly, holding it down at my side.
I refused to think about what I was about to do, other than to get it done with as quickly as possible. Ideally, I would take the shot from afar, before she knew I had arrived. Expecting me from the train tracks, she’d be facing the opposite direction.
I moved forward, pushing through several large cobwebs that decorated the room and went past the defunct elevators and down the stairs. Though I tried to keep silent, the stairs had cracked and with each step I risked pushing a piece loose. Taking my time, I got down to the grand waiting room. With my flashlight away, I pried into the blackness, searching for any sign of her.
After a long pause, I finally spotted her by the grand staircase. A mere silhouette, I nevertheless could see her hands in her pockets, her hat on the top of the banister. She had a tall candlestick placed on one of the seats near her, which she was staring at as though meditating in front of it.
I studied her, incredulous at how effortlessly I had snuck up on her. Raising the revolver, I aimed down the sights and lined them up directly on her head. I then lowered it slightly to account for recoil. I couldn’t miss the shot. If I did, she’d have the upper hand. A revolver was no match for a submachine gun.
As I slowly squeezed the trigger, I felt the last twinge of resistant on it before it’d release the firing pin. That was all it would take. Then it would discharge the bullet, and Jean Carr would no longer be a threat to me. As simple as it could be.
I wanted to give the trigger that final tug of my finger. Looking at Jean through the sights, however, a terrible weight fell into my gut. The irrevocability of what I was about to do set in. I was about to kill her. Like that young man the Tongs had left on the street, she would be dead and nothing would change it. The power to kill did not involve the power to resurrect. An aching question probed at me. What right did I have to kill her? My justification I had built up around my decision collapsed. As if placed in front of a mirror, I saw myself and what I was about to do from another perspective. This was not my way.
Lowering my gun, I tucked it inside my coat’s arm sleeve, still within reach if need be, as I stepped out into the room and walked up to Jean. I then stopped and cleared my throat to make myself known. She didn’t move at first. Maintaining her reflective pose, she eventually looked over at me, her cryptic smile glowing in the candlelight.
“Thank you,” she said. “I knew you would be here.”
“What made you think I’d come?”
“I know you are curious. I made you curious.”
I looked down at her hand. No weapon. Her coat was unbuttoned. No bulge or impression in it. She was unarmed.
I discreetly put my revolver back into my coat, standing in front of her.
“Well, congratulations,” I said. “I’m curious.”
“Do you want to sit?” She gestured at the seats in the center of the room. Resembling church pews, the cushions were gone, leaving bare, rotting wood that stank of mildew.
“No thanks,” I said. “I’d prefer to stand.”
“Yes.”
I shrugged. “So what do you want to talk about?”
She got up and approached me and looked up at me in the eye. There was a strong glow in her eyes as she studied me. Down below, beyond her visibility, my hand carefully slid over the grip of my revolver.
“Can I ask you a favor?”
“What?” I replied.
“Can I hold your hand?”
I took a step back. “What?”
“May I hold your hand?”
I paused, waited to see if she was serious. “No,” I said.
She stamped her feet, her eyes growing larger as her lips barely opened to let her words out. Her voice was quiet, but desperate. “Please!” she begged.
I was on the verge of walking out. To have stayed this long already felt absurdly foolish. Yet, her unusual demand reminded me of the night I had held Correen’s hand and the discomfited manner in which she had accepted it with the belief I was committing an unspoken social faux paus. I had no idea what my expression had been, or how I had appeared to Correen, but Jean’s face evinced dissimilar emotions from the ones I had experienced just before realizing how hollow my relationship had been.
I looked down at her hand for a long time, then held mine out. She quickly grabbed it and held it with a stiff, firm grip, her sharp fingernails wrapping around my hand like an eagle’s claw, as though my hand was the only thing to keep her from falling off a mountain or cliff. My eyes kept watch for the slightest flick of her hand concealing a switchblade or some kind of stabbing weapon.
However, I began to doubt whether she had any ill intent when I saw her face undergo a great change. A clear sign of relief fell over her countenance, and her eyes shrank as she let out a long breath. Her hand remained tight around mine, but her mouth softened and her jaw unclenched.
“Thank you,” she said. “I hope it does not bother you too much.”
“That can’t be helped.”
“Oh.”
“So is that what you had me come here for? To hold my hand?”
“No.”
“Why, then?”
“Let’s walk.”
We paced around the room at a slow, meditative pace. She pressed herself up against me and let her head lean against my arm. I frowned, but said nothing, praying she couldn’t feel my revolver. Then, all of a sudden, she proceeded to bombard me with a flurry of questions. All of them were about me: Where had I come from? What had I done before I had come to work for the newspaper? What was Bellevue like? What did my apprenticeship entail?
Perplexed, I answered all of them as best I could, seeing no harm in them, albeit maintaining a reserved demeanor as I did so. But each answer prompted another question, which she asked with the natural enthusiasm and excitement of a young child. And when I mentioned my father to her, she insisted I tell her all there was to know about him. As I did so, she broke off from her queries and offered me some soda bread from her coat, saying she had baked it herself. The bread was actually delicious, much better than what I could get at the marketplace.
