Authors: Robin Hathaway

Sleight of Hand (12 page)

BOOK: Sleight of Hand

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There was a wind high above us, chasing the clouds across the moon in a sprightly dance. But down below, the bay was as flat and smooth as a pewter plate and the only fitting music would have been a funeral march. The marsh had its own distinctive odorâa mixture of salt and brine and decaying matter. I was used to it, but now as it stole into my nostrils, it had a stronger taint of death than usual.

A small wooden structure poked up out of the marshâa fishing shack. The edge of the bay was dotted with these rickety shelters, havens for devoted fishermen who couldn't afford anything better. They were deserted this time of year. Fatty parked the limo beside the shack and we all piled out. The shack and the sleek limo made an incongruous couple. How can I think of such things when these might be my last minutes on earth? A ladder leaned against one wall of the shack, as if the building was undergoing repairs. The boss veered away from the ladder, I noticed, whereas Fatty and I walked right under it. Our destination was a motorboat moored conveniently nearby.

“Get in,” the boss ordered, waving the gun at me.

I hesitated, weighing the pros and cons of being shot or being drowned. “Where are we going?” I asked.

Fatty took it upon himself to answer. “A little moonlight ride. It's a nice night.”

“Come on, step on it,” the boss said.

Fatty gave me a shove from behind and I stepped into the boat. It wobbled under me as I made my way to the seat in the bow.

“Watch it,” the boss said. “You might fall overboard.”

For some reason, this struck Fatty as extremely funny. His laugh echoed across the bay. He followed me into the boat, and it sank at least a foot under his weight. He took the middle seat, facing me, and the boss handed him the gun. The boss sat in the stern, next to the motor, assuming the role of captain.

Fatty's spirits had risen noticeably when we reached the bay, as mine had declined. When the motor started up on the first pull, Fatty cried gleefully over the roar, “Way to go, boss!”

“Shut up,” grunted the boss, and knocked his knuckles against the side of the boat, even though it was made of fiberglass, not wood.

Slowly, a plan began to form in my sluggish brain.

As we plowed across the water, no one spoke. When we reached the middle of the bay, the boss turned off the motor.

“Where is the cement?” I asked, trying to keep things light. “Aren't you going to outfit me with cement booties?”

The boss grinned and said, “You watch too much TV. That stuff went out in the thirties. A clean shot in the back of the head beats that messy method. Quicker, too.”

“Yeah,” agreed Fatty, relishing this conversation. He spit on the muzzle of the revolver and rubbed it against his chest.

“I guess a black cat must have crossed my path,” I said gloomily, and watched the boss's reaction. His gaze flicked over me, but he didn't say anything.

“Or is today Friday the thirteenth?” I asked.

“Naw,” the boss said quickly. He obviously kept track of such things.

“It must have been that ladder I walked under a few minutes
ago, back at the shack. I should have known better. My grandmother always warned me about these things.” I shook my head.

“What are we waiting for, boss?” At the sound of his voice, I flinched.

“Are you guys from Philly?” I asked, in a desperate attempt to keep the conversation going.

“Yeah,” they said in unison.

“I don't know anything about Philly. I'm from New York.”

“Gotti country,” the boss said.

“Once when I was at Bellevue, someone was admitted with a knife wound and the rumor was he was a Gotti informer.”

“Did he recover?”

I nodded.

They both laughed. “Guys that inform on us don't recover,” Fatty said.

“I'd never inform on you,” I said fervently. “Unless you kill me. Then I'll come back and haunt you.”

More laughter, but from Fatty only. The boss was staring at me intently. “You believe that stuff?”

I looked at him, my expression very serious. “My grandmother had the gift. She came back and haunted her ex-husband until he died. Her spirit preyed on him day and night, and finally he passed awayâof fright.” I paused. “The family says I inherited the gift.”

“For god's sake, boss.” Fatty shifted in his seat, causing some water to slosh over the side of the boat.

“Where was your granny from?” asked the boss.

“Ireland. She came from Donegal, where they eat potatoes, skins and all. But she claimed she had some Gypsy blood, too.”

“No kidding.”

“She had the power to draw the “little people” out of the glen on Midsummer's Eve and make them talk to her.” Careful, Jo, don't overdo it.

“Geeze, boss. Why d'ya listen to this crap?”

“Shut up.”

“She was called a âhaint,' in the neighborhood. People revered her, but they also feared her,” I said. “And she's supposed to have passed her powers on to me.”

I stopped to let him think this over. While I waited, I thought the unthinkable. All the boss had to do was give Fatty the word and I was dead. Who would mourn me? Tom. Dad. Tom would get over it. Dad never would.

“If I let you goâ” His words came to me as if from a great distance.

“Boss!”

“Would you flip?”

Flip? Flip? Where had I heard that word? Dr. Brooks, the pathologist. To squeal, inform. “Saints preserve me â¦ no,” I cried. “My grandma would haunt me 'til the day I died if I did such a thing.” My Irish accent grew richer with every word. “There were no yellow-bellied informers in my family!”

The boss began to turn the boat toward shore.

“Boss, are you nuts?”

“Shut up,” he said.

On the way to shore, sweat poured down my back and I thought I was going to black out. My body was reacting to the end of fear. When we nosed onto the beach, the boss cut the motor. But he didn't get out right away. Instead, he said, “Have you ever heard of the black hand?”

Again, something the pathologist had said came back to me. “Maybe.”

“In the old days, when the families came over from Sicily, that was how they kept people in line. If they got nervous and threatened to break
omertÃ
, the silence, they would receive a warning note signed with a black hand. Back then, the signer dipped his hand in coal dust to make the print. The person who got this note knew if he flipped, he or his family would be harmed.” He paused for dramatic effect.
“That's how
omertÃ
was kept for hundreds of years. Lately, it hasn't been working so well,” he admitted. “But if you ever get a note like that, you better watch out and keep your mouth shut.”

“Boss â¦” whined Fatty, his tone full of the disappointment he felt over the way the evening was turning out.

“Shut up.” The boss climbed out of the boat. Fatty followed. I came last. My legs were shaking so much, I almost fell, but I managed to steady myself.

“Do you want a ride?” the boss asked.

I looked at the limo and knew there was no way I would ever get in that car again. “No thanks.”

I started walking across the marsh. A few minutes later, the limo bumped past me. I half-expected a shot to ring out, but nothing happened. Soon their taillights disappeared and I was alone on the marsh. I breathed deeply and looked up at the moon, which had escaped the clouds for a minute. I sent up a fervent prayer of thanks to my fictitious grandmother.

CHAPTER 32

In a seedy hotel on Manhattan's Lower East Side, tenanted by prostitutes, drunks, and drug addicts, a wino was leafing through a day-old copy of a free newspaper. He yelled across the lobby, “Hey, Jeanie. Didn't you tell me your real name is Regina?”

“So what?” muttered a gaunt woman wrapped in a shabby overcoat several sizes too big. She was stretched out on a broken-down sofa.

“Look here!” The wino shuffled over to her and pointed to a personal ad.

“Get lost, Frankie. I'm tired.” She sat up suddenly, racked by a violent fit of coughing.

The wino waited patiently until she recovered, then said, “You should take care of that cough.”

“Yeah, yeah, but I told you, Frankie, my Park Avenue doctor's in the Bahamas.”

“Well, you should look into this ad. It might be worth something.”

“Always ready with the free advice, Frankie. Why don't
you
look into it?” Exhausted, she rolled over and fell asleep.

CHAPTER 33

True to my word, I told no one about my brush with the Mafia. My lips were sealed. I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind. I succeeded fairly well during the day, but at night the faces of the two mobstersâespecially Fatty'sâhaunted my dreams and I'd wake up shivering. Now when I picked up my mail, once a pleasurable experience, I dreaded every delivery. What if the boss had changed his mind and I found a note signed with a black hand? My heart beat quicker until I had looked through all my mail and found only bills, ads, and the occasional postcard. Gradually, however, time worked its magic, my mind became occupied with more immediate problems, and the memory of the mobsters faded like an old photograph.

One day, on the way to the hospital, my cell phone rang. I had to pull over to answer it. I had yet to figure out a way to drive my Honda with one hand. It was Dad.

“Somebody answered your ad!” He sounded excited.

“No kidding?” My spirits soared.

“A guy named Frankie. He knows Regina and wants to see the ring. Says she'd come herself, but she's too sick.”

“I'll be damned.” I stared across the open field and tried to envision this guy Frankie. I was already juggling my schedule in my head
and planning to call on Barry's services again. I told Dad to call Frankie back and set a time and a place for us to meet the next day. “Can you put me up tomorrow night?” It was a rhetorical question.

As soon as I arrived at the hospital, I began to make the necessary arrangements.

The meeting place Frankie chose was a shabby bar on the Bowery. Such places were hard to find, since the area had been rehabbed. When Dad heard the address, he wanted to come with me. He hadn't seen the face-lift. I assured him it was perfectly safe. After all, it was daytime. Although inside the bar, all traces of daylight disappeared. It might as well have been midnight as I searched the gloom for my contact. Gradually, I made out a figure slumped at the far end of the bar. Since he was the only customer, I went over.

“Frankie?”

He raised two bleary eyes from the beer he was nursing. “Yeah?”

“I'm the one who wrote the ad,” I said, and felt the bartender's gaze on me. Was he hoping for some comic relief during a long afternoon?

Frankie sat up. “Have a seat.” He patted the bar stool next to him.

I sat.

“What'll you have?” He looked at me.

“A Miller Lite,” I said reluctantly. It was the last thing I wanted, but I didn't want to offend him. I decided to make the most of the interlude and do a little interrogating. After all, he was Regina's friend. Maybe she had confided some things to him about her past.

“How long have you known Regina?” I asked casually, as if making small talk.

“A couple of months. She moved in last July.”

“Down on her luck?”

“Yeah. She was into alcohol and meth big time. Her husband threw her out.”

I took a long sip of beer, then asked in an indifferent tone, “Any kids?”

“Naw. I asked her once and she said that wasn't for her. In fact, she told me she'd had her tubes tied.”

That would fit, I thought. Max's Regina might have had a tubal ligation after she had Lolly. To prevent having another child with Down syndrome. Max might not even know about it. “Did she ever tell you what she did for a living?” If Frankie breathed a word about magic â¦

But I guess my tone wasn't casual enough. He looked suspicious and said abruptly, “Naw. She never talked about that.” Then he got right down to business. “Did you bring the ring?”

I nodded.

His bleary eyes brightened. “Let's have it.”

“Not so fast. I have to show it to Regina myself,” I said firmly. “She's the only one who can identify it.”

“But she's sick.” His pupils lost their shine.

“I'm a doctor. I'm used to sick people.”

He considered me for a minute, then drained his beer. “Let's go.”

Since he made no attempt to pay for the drinks, I paid and left a tip. It was a good tip, but the bartender looked forlornly after us, contemplating a long, lonely afternoon.

Frankie kept up a pretty good pace through the back streets of the Bowery. We passed numerous disreputable hotels and tenements interspersed with newer restaurants, coffee shops, and boutiquesâsigns of the changing neighborhood. He stopped in front of a fancy doorway that had fallen into disrepair. Its once-shiny marble and gilt trim was dull and the steps and sidewalk were littered with fast-food containers and empty beer bottles. Frankie pushed open the heavy wooden door. No key was required. The lobby was empty except
for two men who looked like clones of Frankie. One was asleep in a chair; the other was reading a tattered newspaper. The marble floor was cracked and filthy, piles of trash had collected in the corners, and an unpleasant odor pervaded the spaceâa combination of dust, mildew, and unwashed bodies.

“Where is she?” I asked.

He raised his eyebrows to the ceiling. “I better warn her first.” He shuffled up the broad staircase. If there was an elevator, it had probably given up the ghost long ago.

The man with the newspaper showed no interest in me. The sleeping man began to snore. Since there were only two chairs and they were both occupied, I stood, staring at the wooden desk, where a dapper clerk in uniform must once have reigned. I wondered what brought people to a place like this to end their days.

Frankie reappeared and beckoned. I followed him along a dark corridor lined with closed doors. The mutter of a television could be heard behind some of them. At the first open door, Frankie stopped and waved me inside. He was about to follow, but a harsh smoker's voice ordered, “Don't come in, Frankie. We want to be alone.”

With a shrug, Frankie went away.

The woman lay on what looked like an old hospital bed. The mattress was bare and her quilt was soiled and torn. A chemical smell of bathtub meth hung in the air.

“Come closer,” the woman croaked. I was reminded of Miss Haversham in
Great Expectations
when she had ordered Pip to come closer. But this woman was younger, and sicker. My physician's instinct told me she was on her way out. There was no way I could tell if she was Regina by her appearance. Her illness had transformed her and she bore no resemblance to the Regina of the poster.

“Where's the ring?” Her eyes were the only alert things about her. I had planned to ask her to describe the ring before I showed it to her, but she was so ill, I decided to skip that. I drew the ring from my pocket.

“Sure. That's mine. Where did you find it?”

“Where did you lose it?” I countered.

“I haven't a clue. One day, I just noticed it was gone. It must have slid off.” She began to cough, a deep, rasping cough that threatened to bring up her entire insides.

When she was done, I said, “Let's see if it fits.” I reached for her hand. It was scrawny, more like a claw. The ring slipped on easily; in fact, it was loose. It could have fallen offâexcept it wasn't hers, I reminded myself. When I tried to remove it, she made a fist.

“So that's how it is,” I said.

The woman gave me a sly grin.

I wasn't about to pry a ring off a dying woman's finger. I would take the loss.

“Now that you've proved the ring is yours,” I said sarcastically, “I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

Her face clouded over.

“What's your husband's name?”

She didn't answer.

“What was your husband's occupation?”

No answer.

“Do you have any children?”

Silence.

“I may have to take that ring back.”

“Try it.” She smiled like the Cheshire cat.

Anger and frustration welled up in me. I grabbed her hand, pried open her fist, and took the ring. She was too weak to put up a fight. Her eyes narrowed and she whispered, “What do I have to do?”

“Confess and clear your husband's name, so he can take better care of your child.”

“And end up in the slammer?”

I looked around the room and thought the slammer would be an improvement.

“Get lost,” she said, and closed her eyes.

I was afraid our tussle over the ring had used up her last reserves of strength. What was I thinking? I tossed the ring on the bed. “That should help you find a doctor,” I said. “And if you change your mind, there's more where that came from.” To my horror, I realized I sounded like one of those mobsters. I pulled a card from my pocket and scrawled the name of an internist I knew at Bellevue. “She's good,” I said.

Her eyes remained closed, but her hand scrabbled across the filthy quilt until she found the ring. Her fingers curled around it. I placed the card on the bedside table.

As I came down the stairs into the lobby, Frankie pounced on me. “Was it hers?” he asked.

I nodded. “And don't try to make off with it,” I warned.

“Who, me?” He rolled his eyes.

“If she has to go to the hospital, let me know. You have my number.” My conscience was pricking me.

He nodded.

I left.

BOOK: Sleight of Hand

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