Hot-Wired in Brooklyn (7 page)

T
he address Arnold had shouted at me was in Brownsville, on Sutter Avenue. I recognized the building immediately. Back in his
chicken-stealing days, I’d tailed him there. He’d met a pal and two teenage girls on the front stoop. The girl Arnold had
kissed was a looker who looked like real trouble. In the movies, a “black widow,” but to the Italian boys of Bensonhurst,
una assatanata,
a man-eater. Remembering that rainy, windswept afternoon started me thinking, and hoping her name wasn’t Charlotte.

There were no familiar names under the mailboxes, and I didn’t feel like jousting with the building super, so I just walked
inside. The halls were dimly lit, the cooking smells fainter now, several hours after dinnertime.

I hadn’t run into anybody on the first two floors, and I’d just stepped onto the third floor landing when I heard shouting
inside one of the flats. Women’s voices. I walked casually toward the source, 3C.

The door burst open and a young, dark-haired woman emerged. She slammed the door and shouted, “Oh, go to hell, Caroline!”
through the inch and a half of wood. She was even more stunning now: cascading, silken hair blacker than Watusi’s skin; pale,
marble-smooth features; hard, mesmerizing brown eyes. She wore an open pea coat over a cotton blouse and jeans tight enough
to cut off the blood flow to her legs.

Charlotte.

As soon as she saw me, she smiled and put on a pose.

“Well, well,” she said. “Lookey here.”

“Well, well yourself,” I answered. I was about to offer my name when she reached out and brushed the tips of her fingers across
my cheek.

“Nice close shave,” she said.

“Thanks. Twice a day sometimes.”

“I like to keep close-shaved myself.” She slid her hand languidly down her flank, let it rest on the inside of her thigh and
waited for a response.

“I’ll bet you used to be shy,” I said.

Her smile broadened as her hands drifted slowly upward in a self-caress that ended at her ample breasts. Her eyes never left
mine. Slitted cobra eyes, hypnotizing for the kill. To avoid them, I looked back at her breasts, still cupped in her hands.

“That’s quite a dairy.”

“You want a taste?”

“A taste?”

She screwed up her mouth. “There’s an echo in here. Well?”

“Well what?”

“You interested in these or not?”

“No, thanks. I only drink homogenized.”

She turned pouty. “That how you get your vitamins, too?”

“I’m Italian. We don’t need vitamins.”

She shifted her weight with an easy, fluid motion, her breasts bobbing gently under her clothing like buoys on a lake. “Drinking’s
only half the fun, anyway,” she continued. “There’s squeezing, too.” When I didn’t react, her tone turned peevish. “You do
know what to do, don’t you?”

“I’ve had some lessons.”

“I’ll bet.” Her left hand glided like the head of a snake from her breast to my shoulder. As it moved steadily south, she
scanned my eyes again for weakness. “You’re a little old,” she observed, “but you might be fun anyway.”

“I shoot a mean game of pool, too. They say that’s proof of a wasted life, but…”

Her hand continued its slow, maddening caress. When I felt myself responding, I tried to name in my head all the rides at
Coney Island, just like Father Luigi had taught us to keep away thoughts of mortal sin. That didn’t work, so I computed batting
averages, which did. By the time her roving hand found home, I didn’t even flinch. She drew it away and looked up.

“Doesn’t it like to play?”

“With the right woman. At the right time.”

“You’re one of
those,
huh? Don’t
make
love unless you’re
in
love?”

“Something like that.”

“How boring. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Eddie. Eddie Lombardi.”

“I’m Charlotte.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You know?”

“Arnold told me. That’s why I’m here. He wants you to go see him at Raymond Street.”

“You’re Arnold’s lackey? A big boy like you?”

“I’m nobody’s lackey.”

Lethal satisfaction flashed in her cobra eyes, and she started stroking me again.

“Arnold wants you to visit him at Raymond Street,” I repeated with an iciness that didn’t begin to match hers. “I’m just doing
him a favor.”

“You his pal or something?”

I suppressed the laugh I felt coming. “Yeah. We go way back, Arnold and me. So, are you going to see him?”

She sighed. “I’ve seen Arnold plenty. Right now, I’m looking for something a little bigger and better.”

“You’re Arnold’s girl, aren’t you?”

She pulled her hand away, her eyes turning darker, more dangerous. “I’m nobody’s
girl,
understand?”

“Sure. But Arnold, he’s your boy, right?”

“He
is
a boy,” she said, more seductively. “Like I said, I’m ready for a man.” Impatience crept into her voice. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Jesus, you’re slow on the uptake…”

“Oh, that. I’m kind of busy right now.”

“That can be fixed.” Her hand moved slowly down my thigh again, and I countered with Father Luigi’s most surefire antidote
to impure thoughts: an alphabetical list of the
saints. I was up to St. Ignatius when she finally gave up. “No offense,” I said when she drew her hand away, “but maybe you’re
the one oughta be fixed.”

“Come and see me anyway,” she said, just like Mae West. “I live right here.” Her hand made one more glancing pass over my
flank as she walked past me toward the stairs.

“You going to see Arnold?”

“Told you. Seen him plenty.”

“I meant at Raymond Street.”

“Maybe,” she said as she reached the stairwell. She said something else on the way down, but I couldn’t hear it. The door
to 3C had just opened. The young woman in the doorway looked like Charlotte’s twin, but maybe five years older.

“Oh,” she said when she saw me.

“Oh, yourself.”

W
e studied each other. She was even more beautiful than Charlotte, but it was a beauty she’d suppressed, as if she feared it.
Her black hair was combed stiffly behind her head and tied in a bun. She wore no makeup over her pale skin. Still, even without
a smile, there was a gentleness and warmth in her eyes that was a world away from Charlotte. I saw loneliness there, too,
and an overwhelming sadness.

“If you’re looking for Charlotte, she went that way,” I said, pointing at the stairwell.

“Oh,” she said.

“She your sister?”

She stared past me, past the walls, lost in some great, troublesome thought.

“Charlotte… she’s your sister?”

“Yes.”

“She’s a nymphomaniac. You should take her to a specialist.”

“Who are you?” she asked, but I was still trying to figure her out. The sad brown eyes and pinched mouth suggested responsibility,
long-suffering patience, propriety. Her clothing matched the profile: a conservative plaid skirt and loose-fitting sweater;
sensible low-heeled shoes over plain nylons. Somebody’s reliable, uncharismatic older sister, without a doubt. Charlotte had
called her “Caroline” through the door.

“Mr….?” she prompted.

I handed her my business card. “Your sister’s boyfriend, Arnold, wanted her to come see him at Raymond Street. I told him
I’d talk to her.”

She’d stopped listening and was staring, almost reverently, at my card. “You’re really a detective?”

“I like to think so in my bolder moments.”

“Won’t you please come inside, Mr….?”

“Lombardi,” I said. “Eddie.” I hesitated. I was trying to be courteous, to pay attention, but my mind drifted back to the
landing. Part of me was still fixed on Charlotte, body swaying seductively, mind burgeoning with depraved thoughts.

Assatanata,
and dangerous as they come.

“Is something wrong?” the sister asked.

“Are you anything like
her?”

“Who?”

“Who else? Charlotte.”

“I… Won’t you please come inside?”

She served tea. It was okay if you like tea. She went through half a cup before she told me what business we were drinking
tea over.

“I’m worried about my brother Jimmy,” she said. She sat on an afghan-draped sofa, her legs crossed demurely, her
hand resting on the hem of her skirt, as if a cyclonic burst of air might come from somewhere, anywhere, and blow it unacceptably
above the knee. I sat in a worn but comfortable easy chair across from her, trying to look like I wasn’t interested in her
legs. They were great legs, so I forced myself to study the room instead. It was sparse, clean, fussy. Charlotte obviously
hadn’t helped with the staid decor. Or anything else.

I examined her face again and added “independent” to my list of character traits, but with a caveat. She’d made it on her
own, I figured, but not happily and probably long before she was ready.

“Why are you worried about your brother?” I asked. “And why should that be my business?”

“Well… You know about Stinky.”

“Who?”

“Arnold.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “Is there something wrong?” she asked.

“No, not a thing. Please continue about… Stinky.”

“If you know about him, you must know about the stolen car, and Mr. Shork…”

“Uh huh.”

“And Chick and Teddy?”

“His pals, Gunderson and Mitchell.”

“Then you must know they’re missing. My brother Jimmy’s missing with them.”

“I see. And what’s your brother’s last name?”

“The same as mine, of course.”

“And what’s that?”

She blushed, her hand moved clumsily to her mouth, then fell back into her lap. “Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t say, did I?
It’s Hutchinson.”

“No problem. Keep going.”

“He’s only fifteen. Look, I know Stinky and the other two like to find trouble, but not Jimmy. He’s a good kid. I’ve got him
steered right.” She stopped to gauge my reaction to that thought. “My parents are both dead,” she explained. “I’m in charge
of Jimmy now… and Charlotte, too, I suppose, for whatever that’s worth.”

“And?”

“Well, Chick and Teddy, maybe they’ve got a reason to hide from the police, but Jimmy doesn’t need to hide out from anybody.”

“So, you’re concerned.”

“Yes. It isn’t like Jimmy to stay away from home, Mr. Lombardi.”

“Call me Eddie.”

“I’m really worried… Eddie.”

“And you want me to find him.”

“Would you?”

“First, tell me a little bit more about… Stinky… and the other two.”

“I guess I made them sound like criminals. They’re not really bad kids, just a little wild.”

“That why Charlotte hangs out with them?”

“It’s the other way around, mostly. She enjoys pushing them, prodding them… into doing things.”

“Bad things?”

“Yes.”

“Like stealing cars?”

“I suppose…” She studied the plaid pattern of her skirt as if it offered a quick window of escape. When the opportunity fled,
she looked at me again.

“How long’s your brother been gone?”

“Since the day before Stinky got out on bail.”

“Chick and Teddy, were they around?”

“No. They were already hiding somewhere.”

“Any guess where?”

“They have a hideout, some abandoned building near the bridge. I don’t know exactly where it is.”

“Brooklyn Bridge?”

“Yes.”

“Could Jimmy be there?”

“I don’t think so.” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. I wanted to move closer, to offer some comfort, but I didn’t dare. Just talking to her was like
walking on thin-shelled eggs.

She wove her shaking hands together in her lap. “I haven’t been totally honest, Mr…. I mean, Eddie. Maybe it’s because I don’t
really want to believe what I think.”

“And what’s that?”

“That Jimmy’s not alive. I dreamed last night that he died, horribly.”

That stopped me. She caught me staring, saw the distress in my eyes.

“Eddie?”

“I’m sorry. You were saying…”

“It was in my dream. Someone had murdered him in a dark, cold place. His body was… unrecognizable, except to
me. Do you believe in dreams, Eddie?”

“Sometimes.”

“I believe in mine.”

“And because of your dream, you believe your brother’s dead.”

“Yes.”

“In that case…”

“Yes?”

“In that case, I guess you know where we’d have to look first.”

“Yes,” she said, “I know,” as a solitary tear ran down her cheek.

T
he city morgue was a Raymond Street for the dead. Worse. At least at Raymond Street you had hope. The poor, forsaken stiffs
in the morgue had used up all their hope. They were the nameless, the friendless: rummies who’d frozen in doorways, overdosed
addicts, transients murdered for pocket change. Only the cops and the medical examiner paid their respects, if you could call
it that.

Even sadder were the stiffs who actually had people looking for them, who waited like grim Halloween surprises for their unprepared
and disbelieving friends and relatives. Tricks, not treats, under the white sheets. In the ugly, inhumane world I knew as
a private detective, there was no uglier or more inhumane place than the morgue.

But Caroline Hutchinson wanted to find her lost brother Jimmy, following wherever her nightmare would take her, and hoping
it hadn’t come true. I was there to hold her timid little hand if it had.

I knew one of the morgue attendants, a weaselly little guy called Paulie the Pickler. I just called him Pickle, because his
sallow complexion reflected the institutional green from the walls more readily than anybody else’s, and because he practically
lived there. In all the years I’d known him, I’d never seen him in natural light.

He spotted me as I brought Caroline in through the ambulance entrance. The basement hallway was filled with gurneys, plain
white sheets covering lumps of former humanity. The sheer number of them put a pause in Caroline’s step. Pickle, sporting
a perverse grin, stepped forward to greet us.