You Might As Well Die (12 page)

“There’s no cause for alarm,” Tony continued in his most reassuring voice. “Carlos will be around with tea and coffee. So please drink up quickly or dump your drinks into the potted ferns. That’s what they’re there for.”

“I guess that’s how they came to be potted,” Benchley said.

Tony hurried back to Dorothy, Benchley and Sherwood. “Now I got to go get the lockbox. Those damn cops will want a handout.” Then he looked at them hopefully. “Unless you have the money?”

Dorothy and Benchley shook their heads, and Tony hustled into the back room.

They moved to the bar. Carlos already had a teacup for each of them. He deftly poured a measure of top-shelf Scotch into each one. He put the bottle back on the shelf and then pulled a hidden lever. The shelf of bottles descended through a trapdoor, as though on a dumbwaiter. Once the bottles were out of sight, the trapdoor closed and Carlos covered the shelf with a cloth; on top of the cloth he placed a large, ornate, silver coffeemaker. Then he grabbed a silver carafe and moved quickly around the room, filling up patrons’ cups with hot, freshly brewed coffee.

Amused by the hubbub all around them, Dorothy, Benchley and Sherwood cheerfully raised their cups and clinked them together in a silent toast.

Just then, the door burst open. Government agents in long trench coats swarmed in.

To Dorothy’s surprise, Carlos had reappeared behind the bar. He grabbed their teacups of Scotch and dropped them into the sink behind the bar. He quickly filled up new cups with steaming hot tea.

Tony now stood at the door. The agents swarmed past him. “Gentlemen, what’s the meaning of this?”

A humorless man—the senior agent—stepped forward. “This is a raid. We know you’re violating the Volstead Act.”

“Hogwash!” Tony said, removing the cashbox from underneath his arm. “This is nothing but a quiet coffeehouse. Can’t we discuss this?” Tony ushered the senior agent into the back room.

Two homely, stocky men—one wearing a priest’s frock and one in a rabbi’s hat and ringlets—sidled alongside Dorothy. She glanced at their cheap black shoes. Damn it, but Lucy Goosey was right.

“Are you enjoying a nice cup of tea?” said the one dressed as a rabbi in a friendly tone.

She looked into the steaming, dark liquid in her cup. “Yes, it
is
a nice hot cup of tea, as a matter of fact. It’s
only
tea, thanks to you. So take your cheap shoes and go for a walk.”

 

Dorothy, Benchley and Sherwood left the speakeasy before Mrs. Soma and Tony Jr. could return and make things worse.

Once they were back on the sidewalk, the long white limousine pulled up alongside them. Mickey Finn’s face leered out the window. “How was your relaxing little drink?”

“It didn’t suit me to a tea,” Dorothy said.

“Ah, better luck next time,” Finn said, and cackled a mischievous laugh.

Inside the car, Lucy whispered something to Finn.

Dorothy followed Lucy’s line of sight to Benchley. Dorothy was dumbstruck. The last time they had encountered Finn and Lucy, Benchley couldn’t stop ogling her. Now it seemed the tables had turned. What fresh hell was this?

“Well, why not?” Finn said to Lucy; then he spoke to Dorothy. “Would you three care to come back to my little sanctum sanctorum for a wee drink?” He opened the limousine door.

Benchley said, “I wouldn’t mind a wee drink or two.”

“Or thwee,” Sherwood said. “And I’ve heard a lot about this hideout of yours, Mr. Finn, but I’ve never seen it.”

Sherwood formally introduced himself to Finn. They shook hands as he and Benchley stepped inside the limousine.

Benchley sat down next to Lucy. She moved close to him, not taking her eyes off him. Benchley didn’t even seem to notice.

What’s going on here?
Dorothy wondered. She stood resolutely on the sidewalk.

“Come on, lass,” Finn said. “We’ll let bygones be bygones.”

Just then, Mrs. Soma and Tony Jr.’s Studebaker came racing around the far corner. Dorothy thought she could hear the woman screaming even from this distance.

“What madness is that?” Finn said.

“A very mad Mrs. Soma.”

“Aye, poor Tony,” Finn said. “That woman would drive a sober man to drink.”

Dorothy hopped inside the car, squeezing herself in between Benchley and Lucy. “Drive this sober woman to drink, instead.”

 

The limo cruised through a forlorn and dilapidated section of the Bowery. An alley cat, curled up in one of the potholes of the empty street, looked up peevishly and sped out of the way of the oncoming limousine. Dorothy saw it turn and make an angry hiss as they drove by. They cruised alongside a shuttered brewery building, then turned a corner to another desolate street of boarded-up and dilapidated storefronts. The limo stopped beside the one shop that still appeared to be in business: Prof. Oddball’s Magic & Novelty Emporium.

Dorothy gazed up at the sign. “Emporium? Not exactly truth in advertising.”

“How do you mean?” Finn said, holding a hand out to Lucy. But as Lucy emerged from the car, she still had eyes only for Benchley.

“How can you call it an emporium when you never get a customer?”

Finn approached the shop and opened the door. “That’s where you’re wrong. The advantage to this place is that it
never
gets a—”

Finn stopped in his tracks. Inside the shop, a well-dressed man stood near the front counter, perusing the shelves.

“A customer?” Dorothy said.

Finn angrily pounded his silver-tipped shillelagh on the tiled marble floor to attract the man’s attention. “Who the devil might you be?”

Sherwood knew the man immediately. “Jesus Christ!” he cried, before the man could answer.

“No, but I thank you for the compliment,” the man said. “I also perform miracles; however, mine are merely illusion.”

Though she had seen him only from afar, Dorothy recognized him, too. It was none other than Harry Houdini.

M
ickey Finn growled, “Mister, if you don’t want to find yourself locked in a box at the bottom of the river, you’ll explain your presence here.”

Houdini was less than six feet tall. His expensive, well-fitted suit enhanced his powerfully built physique. He had a wide, friendly smile that was perpendicular to his angular features. Despite his youthful physicality and energy, he had crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes and gray hair at his temples, which indicated what Dorothy already knew—that the man was in his fifties.

Houdini smiled genially, completely unafraid of Finn. “I’ve found myself locked in innumerable boxes and tossed in many a river. As evidenced by my presence here, I’ve escaped every one.”

Finn advanced threateningly. “Enough games, man. Explain yourself.”

Lucy Goosey spoke up. “It’s Harry Houdini, you jackass.”

Lucy—and only Lucy—could speak to Finn this way. Thus he ignored the insult.

“Mr. Houdini!” Finn was flabbergasted. His ruddy face reddened further, but he recovered quickly. “You grace us with your presence in my humble shop.”

“Humble indeed,” Houdini said with an amused smile, looking around. “These tricks went out of fashion decades ago, although anyone could tell as much by the thick coating of dust on—well, everything.”

Like many powerful men, Finn groveled before those even richer and more powerful than himself. “You hardly need to visit a magic shop, Mr. Houdini,” he said with a bow. “Is there something you’re needing, then? I have many resources.”

Houdini returned the bow. “I make it my business to know every magician and every magic shop in the city, if not the world. But I’ve had a house in New York for twenty-odd years, and I’ve never visited this particular shop. It has managed to evade my notice. I now see why. And, my curiosity satisfied, I need never visit it again. Thank you.”

Houdini put on his top hat (Dorothy wondered if it had any rabbits inside) and moved toward the door, intent to leave.

“Ah, just a moment, there, Mr. Houdini.” Finn wouldn’t let such an influential man leave without trying to impress him. “I myself have a few tricks up my sleeve, and I wager you haven’t seen everything this shop has to offer.”

Houdini turned, and Dorothy detected a hint of condescension in his warm smile. “I’ve walked every aisle of your shop—without the oversight or assistance of any shopkeeper or salesperson, I might add—and found nothing to pique my curiosity.” He was goading Finn. “What more could you possibly offer that would be of interest?”

Finn answered confidently, “Follow me.”

Finn seemed to have forgotten all about Dorothy and everyone else except Houdini. He led the magician through one of the dim, musty aisles toward the back of the store, which was even darker. They followed Finn and Houdini and found them standing before a fun-house mirror.

“Go ahead,” Finn said. “Give her a shove.”

Houdini gently pressed the mirror with both hands. It silently slid backward, revealing a dark passageway.

Finn led the way. Houdini stood aside to let the ladies enter, and then he, Benchley and Sherwood followed.

They entered an enormous, brightly lit room as big as a banquet hall. It had been the cafeteria and employee bar of the shuttered brewery. Now it was Finn’s lair, where a party was almost always in swing. On seeing Finn enter, a small band of musicians in the corner jumped to their feet and struck up a merry Irish tune. A silver-haired, steely-eyed bartender stood behind a long and beautifully polished bar. An assemblage of gangsters, henchmen and scantily clad beauties mingled about the room.

“Well,” Houdini said to Finn, suitably impressed, “this is indeed quite a wondrous place. I literally take my hat off to you, sir.” And he did.

Finn, his yellowed teeth grinning widely from his little triumph, now turned to his other guests. “Allow me to make formal introductions, Mr. Houdini. This is my girl, Lucy.” She made a sort of bow. “And some fellow visitors today from the literary world, Mr. Benchley, Mr. Sherwood and Mrs. Parker.”

“I’ve read your amusing articles,” Houdini said to Benchley and Sherwood, shaking their hands. “And, Mrs. Parker, you are also making your name as a woman of letters.”

“Afraid so,” she said. “And those letters are IOU.”

Finn clapped his hands together. “Now, how about that wee drink?”

“Now you’re playing my tune,” Dorothy said. “I’ll have a Rob Roy.”

“And you, sir?” Finn said to Sherwood. “A tall drink of water for a tall drink of water?”

Sherwood said gratefully, “A martini would be grand.”

Lucy Goosey stood at Benchley’s side. “Can I wet your whistle?”

Dorothy moved closer, waiting for a chance to get between them. She wouldn’t let Lucy
touch
his whistle.

Benchley said, “How about that delightful beer I had once before?”

Lucy smiled. “Coming right up.”

Finn tossed his hat, his jacket and his shillelagh to one of his helpers, then turned to Houdini. “And you, sir? Name your pleasure.”

Houdini answered graciously. “The pleasure of your mysterious company, sir, is all I desire. I’ll be satiated if you tell me more of your secrets.”

Finn reddened, his emotions turning on a dime. “My secrets?” he snarled. “Come, come. Is that how you answer my hospitality? You drink or you get out!”

“I meant no offense, sir, I assure you.” Houdini showed no fear. He answered Finn as if talking to an ill-tempered teenager. “But I have to keep my senses as sharp as a knife. Thus I rarely drink. A sarsaparilla or a lemonade would be perfectly suitable—or simply soda water if you have neither of those.”

Finn’s face flushed again, this time in embarrassment. But instead of lashing out at Houdini, he channeled it into despotic authority over the others in the room. “The great Harry Houdini has spoken! In deference to our exalted guest, we’ll all have soft drinks.”

A low-browed man with hairy knuckles had just handed Dorothy a cocktail glass. It was half-full of a deep amber fluid with a delightful smoky smell.

“Take those drinks away,” Finn commanded. “Sarsaparillas all around.”

For the second time that day, the drink was yanked from her fingertips. In no time, someone else handed her a tall, cold glass of bubbly, foul-smelling
root beer.

Not quite defeated, she sneaked over to the bar and winked at the bartender, an old man with silver hair and bushy black eyebrows.

She whispered, “Could you sneak a few drops of rum into mine?”

“Not on your life,” he answered. “Because that would be the end of it.”

A
beer-stained, green velvet love seat and several matching armchairs formed a circle in the center of the hall. Mickey Finn sat down in the nicest of the armchairs and the rest of the group followed. Benchley sat down at one end of the love seat. Before Dorothy could take the other seat, Lucy quickly slid in next to him.

Dorothy looked at Finn—Lucy typically sat on the arm of his chair, like a house cat. But Finn either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the change in seating arrangements, and Dorothy—feeling glum—slumped into the only armchair left, between the love seat and Finn.

Benchley, oblivious to Lucy’s presence next to him, spoke to Houdini. “Mrs. Parker and I saw you at the halftime show at the pro football game last week. That was quite a disappearing trick with the police horse. We can’t wait to see your performance on Thursday night.”

“The Halloween show!” Houdini smiled tauntingly. “Yes, you’ll be very entertained.”

Finn said, “Can you show us a trick—or is it only for the paying customers?”

Dorothy felt insulted on Houdini’s behalf. She muttered to Finn, “Don’t make him sing for his supper—or even for this stale sarsaparilla.”

“No trouble at all, Mrs. Parker.” Houdini stood up. “I’m happy to oblige. As a matter of fact, I’d be insulted if our host
didn’t
request a trick. Here’s a little one I always carry with me.”