Westside Lights, page 9
Cherub was dead.
Marka, too.
The District’s birds were dying.
And Marka wanted to know why.
Unraveling this mystery might save me from the hangman, but that was not why I wanted to do it. Death was nothing but an ending, and I did not fear it as I once had. It was the time in the cell that had me worried, because time in a cell was time to think, and being alone with my thoughts was the terror that had driven me onto the river in the first place. As long as I was searching for a killer, grief could wait, and that was the most I could ask.
Back on the barge, the curtain parted, and Minnie’s voice called out, “Get back in before somebody sees.”
I crawled onto the deck. The wind caught me, and my teeth began to chatter. A towel thudded into my chest.
“Get dry.”
I followed the instructions. When I stepped into the dim light of the dressing room, Minnie handed me the yellow dress. I guess that made it mine. She lit a cigarette and let her eyes close for a moment. It seemed the closest she would ever get to letting herself relax.
“You did good up there.”
“With the tambourine?”
“God no. You’re the worst I’ve ever seen. But you know how to vanish. That’s a skill.”
“Thank you for the chance. You probably saved my life.”
She shrugged. This was her little moment of peace. Sadly, spoiling such moments is my life’s work.
“Marka came to you last night. About the birds.”
“She said they’re dying.”
“Was she right?”
“I think so. I’ve been seeing it too. They don’t fly straight. Their feathers are loose, their beaks brittle. I’ve been keeping my birds out of it, but the wild ones look worse every day. For a while I was thinking it’s just my imagination but no, it’s real, and it’s awful.”
“How have you kept your birds safe?”
She drummed her fingers on the table, thumping it as hard as she had the piano keys. A starling dove from the ceiling and marched back and forth in front of the vanity, its feathers glistening purple and black.
Minnie reached out her finger and let the starling peck at her nail. Once it was satisfied, she went on.
“It’s the booze. Two years ago, there were no people on this stretch of the waterfront, and the birds were fine. Then people came here to drink, and the birds drank too, and now they’re falling from the sky.”
My chest tightened. I’d pushed so much of that liquor through my system. It had never left me feeling healthy, but the idea that it was poison gave me a chill. I could not afford to believe it was true.
“I’ve been drinking Ida Greene’s red gin for some time,” I said, fighting to keep the fear out of my voice. “It’s treated me to some hellish hangovers, but nothing worse than that.”
“Oh, that slop is harmless. It’ll put holes in your liver and rot in your brain, but that’s the end of it. That gin isn’t what concerns me.”
She rooted through a trunk until she found an empty pint bottle.
Diana’s Fire.
“I’ve seen this before.”
“I hope you haven’t been drinking it. You probably can’t afford to. I caught a table of Newport types topping up their drinks with it, acting all secret, as if the whole bar couldn’t see their little trick. I threw them in the river and kept the bottle. Was going to drink it, but it smelled so rancid that I dumped it out. Those bastards looked as sick as the gulls. Since then, anytime I’ve seen someone drinking this stuff, they’ve looked just as bad.”
“What is it? Gin? Rye?”
“Nothing. Just raw liquor cut with god knows what, worse than anything Barbarossa ever spewed out, but it’s expensive and that means it must be good.”
I gripped the bottle in my hands, twisting it until it caught the light and the glass turned the color of blood. If it was the best, Marka would want to drink it. If it made her sick, she would want to know why. What better test subject than her dear friend Gilda Carr?
“You told Marka this?”
“All of it.”
“Did she believe you?”
“I think so.”
“Where’s this stuff coming from?”
She took a drag on her cigarette and found it had gone out some time ago. Smiling at herself, she ground it into the ashtray.
“Everybody I ask says they get it at the Casino,” she said. “I believe that’s where Marka and her people went after they finished here. The man who runs it is—”
“Ugly La Rocca.”
“He must adore you if he lets you call him Ugly.”
“I don’t think he likes me at all.”
Furio La Rocca. A very strange, possibly handsome man. The first time I met him, he’d trapped me in a coffin and driven me uptown in a hearse for a private meeting with his patron, Glen-Richard Van Alen. I’d thanked him for the ride by breaking his nose. His nose had mended. Our relationship had not. When the District was built, he’d found himself in charge of the Casino, acting as a bridge between the unabashed criminals of the Roebling Company and the preening St. Abban’s crowd. Whenever Marka had dragged me to the Casino, I’d noticed La Rocca watching me from his balcony. He never said hello.
“Onward to the Casino,” I said, trying to summon some of the enthusiasm Marka would have shown.
Minnie considered lighting another cigarette. Instead, she closed her case.
“You could do that,” she said. “Or you could stay here. I have friends on the river. Before dawn, I could have a boat at that door that could take you to Hoboken.”
“I’d rather die in Manhattan than live in Jersey.”
“A girl after my own heart. Still, the offer remains.”
“And give up on the mystery of Roy B. Sharp?”
“I could let that slide.”
“I can’t. Besides, why risk anything for me?”
“Brass is my best customer, and Marka was, well . . . a familiar face. Or maybe I just have a soft spot for barefoot girls.”
“About that . . .”
She flipped open the lid of a chest beneath the window, full of loafers and boots in various stages of disrepair, none of which quite matched. I found two that roughly approximated the size of my feet. Pulling them on felt like sliding into a suit of armor.
“Thank you. For the dress and the boots and . . .”
I looked over my shoulder. There was no point finishing the thought. The piano was screaming. Minnie had gone back to her girls. I straightened my shoulders and headed for the front door. I passed Brass at the bar, but he was lost in the music and did not notice me go. As I walked through the room of deafened revelers, I allowed myself the faintest feeling of pride. I was the only one there whose clothes had not been soiled by the birds.
Seven
I stepped off the gangway. No one screamed my name. I slipped into the throng and followed the traffic south. I had worn nothing but black for most of my adult life, and in that pale yellow dress I felt like I was under a spotlight. There were Peacekeepers or uniformed cops—honest-to-god cops, here on the Lower West!—every ten feet, but the crowd was thick enough that I simply drifted by. I rounded the corner onto Spring Square, where the great light pierced the sky. I picked my way around it, stepping over groaning men in stained tuxedos and couples rutting in the grime. I was a hunted fox driven into the open, but I strode like my father taught me and the world got out of my way.
As I walked, I watched the drunks. They were laughing, sobbing, dancing, fighting, staring at the stars, or smiling private smiles with their chins tucked against their chests. One was vomiting; many more were fighting the urge. There was nothing unusual in any of this, but that did not mean they looked well.
The Casino’s lights burned brightly. A flight of sagging steps led to the front door, where gigantic doormen in white overalls leered at the crowd, daring them to make trouble. No one took the bait. I walked around the back and passed through the staff entrance. I looked miserable enough that no one could mistake me for a customer, and no one questioned me when I walked inside.
The kitchen had been a chemical storeroom when the Casino was a factory. The rusted vats that once filled the floor had been replaced with a few lopsided tables and an ankle-deep carpet of molding food scraps. The air stank of old poison. Mosquitos swarmed. There was no light but a half dozen candles, and no conversation but a ceaseless stream of some of the vilest profanity I’d ever heard.
I was about to pass through the double doors that led to the Casino floor when I heard a grunting that could have been a pig but was, improbably, a man. A playwright had parked himself by a rack of hors d’oeuvres. There was a streak of mayonnaise on his shoulder and flakes of parsley in his moustache. He picked up a cone of puff pastry, slurped out the filling, and put the remains back on the tray. I’d never thought I’d be so happy to see Stuyvesant Wells.
“Hullo, Gilda,” he said without removing his eyes from the tray. “Want one of these? They may be crab.”
“I thought you were dead.”
“I’m not. Lucky me.”
The double doors swung open. A busboy spun to avoid smashing into me. To get out of the line of fire, I stepped close to Stuy, almost choking on the stench of raw liquor and poached fish.
“Why didn’t you die on the Misery Queen?” I said.
“I’ve been asking that question in between every bite. I started the evening with them. I should have been there until the end. I should have been—”
He choked. At first I thought it was emotion, but it turned out to be shrimp. After a bit of gagging and chest-pounding, he went on.
“The only reason I wasn’t there was because I got rather caught up in this blackjack game, up in La Rocca’s private room. It turns out one should always split aces and eights. Or never split aces and eights. Someday I’ll have to learn how that game works. Incidentally, might I borrow some cash?”
“Do I look like I have any to spare?”
“That’s a new dress, isn’t it? And a haircut too, if you can call it that.”
“Both free.”
“You overpaid.”
A waiter tried to scoot around us. Stuy blocked him, snatched a fistful of finger sandwiches, and waved him on.
“But who needs money? The food here is free as long as they don’t catch you eating it. I keep meaning to stop, but whenever my mouth is empty I remember Marka and the others, and then . . .”
“Me too.”
“You loved him, didn’t you?”
I nodded. He lunged at me. I thought he was going for my throat, but it turned out to be a hug. The mess on his suit squished into my chest.
“Let go,” I said, “or I’ll bite your ear.”
He released me. He noticed the filth on my dress and dabbed at it helplessly with a cocktail napkin. I began to fear he might cry.
“Have you ever tasted liquor from a pink bottle,” I asked him, “with a picture of Diana on the label?”
“I rarely look at things before I put them in my mouth. Spoils the surprise.”
“Marka would have given it to you.”
“I really couldn’t say. I don’t want to talk about her. Murder, you know . . . it’s upsetting.”
“Then get me to La Rocca. I think he’ll know.”
He drained a glass of something bubbly and offered his arm. I shoved open the swinging doors and we swept into the main room.
The light was obscene. Miniature Bourget Devices hung from every flat surface, their dancing shadows clashing horribly with the massive chandelier that hung from the old factory ceiling. Nightclubs are not meant to be so bright, but on the Westside light was the greatest luxury, and La Rocca wanted his patrons to gorge on it. The Casino was the Roebling Company’s first attempt at something high class, but they had done it—as they did everything—with their eyes glued to the bottom line. Soft white curtains dangled from the roof, not quite covering the creaking old walls, and stolen carpet hid a floor so warped that none of the roulette tables had a hope of spinning true. As long as the booze flowed and the band played, no one cared. The rough edges only added to the charm.
We were at the end of the long bar, facing a sea of gaming tables—blackjack and roulette, mostly, with some games I didn’t recognize sprinkled in. Down three steps were the dance floor and a crowded bandstand, where the Roy B. Sharp Orchestra was murdering the “Baby Bear Stomp.” The glare was dizzying. I leaned on the wall and fought to catch my breath.
“Where’s La Rocca?” I said.
Stuy pointed a cucumber sandwich at the ceiling, where a catwalk ringed the room. La Rocca leaned on the railing, his suit as white as fresh snow. He lit a cigar and disappeared into his office. A switchbacking staircase looked to be the only way up. Reaching it would mean crossing the entire room. I squeezed Stuy’s arm tight and dragged him toward the floor.
“Are we dancing?” he said. “It’s one of my few skills.”
“Another time. I just need you to get me to the stairs.”
“Playing cards with La Rocca is one thing, but a conversation? I can’t imagine anything more tedious. I told Marka the same thing.”
“She went to see Ugly?”
“As soon as we arrived.”
“Do you know what they talked about?”
“What could a critic possibly have to discuss with that lout?”
“Something she was writing, perhaps.”
“As far as I know, the only thing she was working on was her review of my new play. I do hope she finished it before she died. A good notice in the Sentinel is so important, even for a name playwright, and—”
“Stuy. Shut up.”
We approached the band. I got a good look at Roy B. Sharp, a puffy white man whose hair was slicked into artful curls. Like Screaming Minnie, he led the band from his piano, but where she pounded the keys, he caressed them, draping himself across the instrument like he was trying to talk it into bed. His orchestra followed his lead, drawing every last bit of sap out of music that didn’t have the right to be called jazz.
“Do you know what the B stands for?” I asked Stuy.
“Barnacle.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Yes, but wouldn’t it be fun?”
Sharp launched the band into “Sharp’s Serenade.” It was his trademark number—the one the crowd had been waiting for. Dancers filled the floor, cutting off our path. Fear surged through me, and I was on the verge of doing something rash when Stuy seized my hand and threw his arm around my waist. Before I quite understood what was happening, we were spinning with the crowd. I had never considered that such a hopeless mess of a human being could dance with such effortless grace.
“My parents broke themselves to give me a good education,” he said. “Tragically, dancing was the only thing that stuck.”
“Can you get us to the staircase?”
“Just follow my lead. Why do you ask about Mr. Sharp’s middle name?”
“A friend wants to know.”
“Then we’ll have to find out.”
We swirled around the edge of the floor, orbiting beneath the spinning chandelier. By the time we swung up to the bandstand, my head was spinning as well.
“Sharp!” cried Stuy.
“It can wait,” I hissed.
“You’ll probably be dead tomorrow. You’d hate to expire with something like this on your mind.”
He pounded on the stage. Roy B. Sharp shot Stuy a look of absolute hatred. Stuy laughed and pounded harder.
“Come now, Roy,” he said, sickeningly amused with himself. “Your public wants to know your middle name!”
A boy scurried across the stage and whispered something in Roy B. Sharp’s ear. Sharp stopped playing. The band did, too. The dancers stopped, surrounding us as firmly as a brick wall. Only Stuy did not notice that something had changed.
“I say—” he shouted.
I cuffed his ear. At last, he shut up. I grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him into the crowd, whose eyes were locked on something I was too short to see. We had only gone a few feet when a shout snapped across the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a killer in our midst.”
The voice was cold, almost mechanical, and incredibly calm. Emil Koszler was here, and he had the floor.
I caught a glimpse through the break in the crowd. He leaned heavily on his cane, his other hand held high. At his elbows were Oliver Lee and Otto Conforto, whose suit was filthy with the remains of dead birds. Cornelia Prime and Marvin Howell were there, too, keeping their distance, as though these beacons of law and order were simply too dirty to touch.
“She’s a woman of twenty-nine,” he said, “just over five feet tall. She has matted black curls, and when last seen she was barefoot, wearing a muddy black dress. That was several hours ago, however, and it’s likely she has since adopted a disguise. Her name is Gilda Carr.”
There was no frenzy in his voice, no cruelty. He chose his words carefully and spoke as softly as the venue allowed. The gamblers and dancers scooted closer to hear, trapping us tighter.
“You’ve heard stories of the murder boat, which now floats adrift, farther up the Hudson. I’ve seen it, and I can tell you, it’s worse than anything you can imagine. Some of the brightest people in New York hacked to pieces, their limbs scattered across the deck, their flesh hanging in strips, all because they made the mistake of offending Gilda Carr. Among the riffraff that crewed the ship, there were Bess Barron, Lisbeth Frasier, Yoshi Miyazaki, Eva Distler, Stuyvesant Wells, Mercury Tyne, and, of course, Marka Watson. I had not the privilege to meet that brilliant woman, but I read every word she wrote, and I know that without her, this District will be dimmer, and winter will be far more cold. The person who killed her deserves to hang.”
Once again, it felt like a spotlight had fallen on me. I considered hauling myself onto the stage and trying to slip out the back, or pushing through the crowd and making for the kitchen. It was impossible. Any movement would mean more eyes on me, and so I did the hardest possible thing: I stood still.
“Most of you sailed here,” Koszler continued. “Most of you are planning, on Tuesday morning, to sail home. Those shattered corpses on the Misery Queen could have been any one of you. If you encounter Gilda Carr, give her no shelter. Do not try to apprehend. Inform the nearest Peacekeeper or policeman, and we will deal with her ourselves. Thanks to you all.”
