Whistling in the Dark Page 7

  Sutton leaned his chin in his hand. "It helps me sleep on certain nights."

  "Certain nights?"

  "Well, some nights are longer than others." Sutton smiled faintly. "I suppose you know what I mean."

  "Can't say as I do." Every night ran just as interminably. "Maybe you could shorten them with a little fun once in a while. Something besides this." He tossed the book to the bed.

  "I hesitate to ask what your definition of fun might be." Sutton tucked the book under the pillow. "Nightclubs, I suppose?"

  "Sure." Jack set the chair back on four legs and settled elbows on his knees, hands clasped between. "You like jazz?"

  "I'm not familiar with it."

  "Let me guess. Opera?"

  "You don't like opera?"

  "I don't, but there's a nice old grandma at the corner who's got it playing night and day on her Vic. You and she might really hit it off. Want me to introduce you?"

  Sutton seemed amused. "Poke fun all you want. You don't know what you're missing."

  "Ever been to a club?"

  "No--"

  "Why not? You'd meet the friendliest sort of girls there."

  "Respectable girls?"

  "Respectable?" Jack shrugged. "Esther goes with me now and then."

  Sutton broke from the steady gaze, then found it again with a glimmer of apology. "I do think Esther is respectable, of course--"

  "Good," Jack said. "I don't really want to bloody your nose after you spared me a beating."

  "I'm sorry." Sutton stared out the window, one hand absently massaging the other. "There's been so much to adjust to, lately. Just when I'm accustomed to one thing, something else comes along."

  He seemed genuinely bothered, and Jack regretted his harsh words. "Getting the hang of hauling crates?"

  "What?" Sutton followed Jack's glance at his roughened hands. "Oh. Not as much of a challenge as the cooking, really."

  "God knows you couldn't be any worse at it than Ida." Jack put on a smile. "Anyway, I've left Ox on his own long enough. I just came over to pick up some breakfast."

  When Jack got to the office and opened the basket Sutton had packed, he found the bacon, eggs, and coffee he'd ordered, along with doughnuts and pie he hadn't. He allowed that Albright was a nice enough fellow--but after their conversation, Jack didn't see much hope of friendship between them. And he didn't see any point in trying to find common ground. Albright might've survived France, but New York was a whole 'nother kettle and Jack didn't think he had it in him to hold out much longer.

  And at the moment, Jack wasn't particularly confident of his own shot at survival. He knew he couldn't mention his run-in to Ox and Harry. They were worried enough and he wouldn't make that worse. He'd have to hide his own worry over Chase's interest in the shop and make sure, one way or another, he had the cash at the end of the month--not that it would help. The business was failing and he'd let it fail before he'd turn his dad's shop into a gin joint. If Chase kept after him, he'd sink that ship by going to Mrs. Madigan and asking her to hike his rent sky high. He'd never met the woman, but he could just imagine her reaction to that. Of course she'd do it. And then he'd hunt down Ned Hennessy and wring his thick neck. And then...

  And then Harry would find work elsewhere and Ox would go back full-time delivering ice for Mr. Cartelli, and Jack--he didn't know what he'd do. Maybe Keeler would take him in. It wouldn't pay much, but he wouldn't starve. And he'd keep up with Harry and Ox. If he let them slip away, he would, too--to some place there was no coming back from.

  Assuming, of course, he wasn't already well on his way there.

  - Ten -

  Sutton locked the restaurant door and shut off the light, transforming the cheery interior into a shadowed terrain where moonlight reflected off tables and milky linoleum, but never reached the long counter to the kitchen beyond. He leaned against the door, soaking in the quiet. He had the job well in hand and went about it as if he'd done it all his life. Even so, there were moments, especially when he was alone at closing with no one around to drag him from his thoughts, that he marveled over this peculiarly ordinary pattern he'd settled into. It hadn't seemed possible for a while that life could assume a steady, commonplace shape again. Yet here he was, in an alien world that was taking on the feel of home.

  Broom in hand, he walked the length of the restaurant, running a mental checklist to make sure he'd done everything. After one last glance around, he put the broom away and hung up his apron. Treading gingerly on the creaky step, he noted that the light was already off under Ida's door. She went to bed earlier, trusting him to clean up and close.

  Esther had left at eight to stay the night with a cousin in Brooklyn and attend church in the morning. Ida closed on Sundays because, as she had mentioned more than once, decent folk ate Sunday dinners with their families. She herself attended a church dinner to which she had invited Sutton on his first Sunday working for her. The only attendee under the age of fifty, he'd found it pleasant enough, much like church socials at home--but not something he cared to make a habit of.

  He was at loose ends again, with another Sunday on the horizon. Apart from Ida, Esther, and the fellows working in the emporium, he didn't know anyone in town. He had considered visiting one of the nightclubs Jack was so enthused about. He had also considered writing to David and inviting him up to visit. He'd done neither, sure the results would prove disappointing.

  Back in his room, he pushed up the sash to let in the cool night air. At this rate, he would be a lonely old man as bad-tempered as Ida while he went about the cooking and cleaning, and then up to bed alone. It was ridiculous to come to such an end when he was in a place so filled with things to see and people to meet. How he could meet any of them properly and spend the amount of time necessary for friendship to form, he wasn't entirely sure. Sundays, as Ida said, were for family. But those folks new in town, where did they go on a lazy Sunday afternoon? Or a Saturday night like this?

  Picture shows, carnivals, and the like were lonely amusements for a soul on his own. He didn't care for dance halls, and he wasn't sure just how comfortable he might find the cabarets and saloons in New York. He thought of the hotel where he'd made a delivery last Saturday--one of the nicer in the area, with a restaurant and bar that catered to middle-class tourists. Some fellows had been playing cards in the bar and one of them had smiled at him in a particularly friendly way. Sutton had wanted to stay and join in. Now he wondered if the card games went on every Saturday and if they were even now, though it was past eleven. He might walk down and find out for himself--

  Laughter rose from the street and Sutton leaned out to see Jack, Harry, and Ox at the corner. Ox disappeared back into the store, but Jack and Harry remained, chattering away as they stood under the street lamp. Sutton had seen them head home late before, but never as late as eleven. Perhaps they were all going somewhere together--to one of the infamous nightclubs, if Jack had as much sway with Harry as he seemed to.

  When Jack happened to glance up and, seeing him, touch the brim of his hat in greeting, Sutton wondered if he might be invited along. Though he and Jack hadn't struck up a friendship, they'd developed a cordial tolerance for each other. But Jack only resumed his conversation with Harry and when Ox reappeared, the three of them headed down the street.

  It may have been more sensible to get a decent night's sleep, but Sutton felt less inclined to do the sensible at the moment. He changed into his suit and left by the side door, hoping he hadn't wakened Ida. Accustomed to going to bed after closing up, he stood in the cold alley, feeling at a loss. He couldn't trail after Jack in the hope of ending up somewhere interesting. That would look pathetic. He thought of the hotel and decided that, even if the card games were done for the night, he might find someone to talk to over a drink.

  After he had traipsed four blocks through the cold, the hotel was a welcome sight. He went into the comfortably appointed lobby where people were checking in even at the late hour, and there basked in the light and
warmth before wandering into the bar. It was just as he remembered, with a cheery hearth warming the polished wood and sparkling on the row of bottles. The card players, if they'd been in earlier, were gone. The room was deserted, but for a couple cuddling near the fire. Disappointed, he decided to stay for a drink anyway. As he settled on a stool, the bartender, a weary-eyed fellow, dredged up a polite smile.

  "Cocktail, sir?"

  Sutton nodded. "Nothing with gin, thanks." He'd been fed enough of it in the army.

  The bartender seemed to understand. "Will you be putting it on your bill?"

  "I'm not a guest. I shall have to pay you up front."

  "Two-fifty."

  He hadn't heard correctly. "Two dollars?"

  The bartender looked a little wearier. "Two dollars, yes, sir, and fifty cents. And that'll seem like nothing, come New Year's."

  He couldn't spend that on one cocktail. Not if he wanted to eat for the next couple of days. "Thank you. Perhaps another night."

  "You just back from overseas?" The man was being kind about it, for which Sutton was grateful. He started to go when the bartender put down a glass. "First one's on the house for the boys. Hotel policy."

  Sutton sat back down and watched him mix a Manhattan. Expressions of appreciation were becoming fewer and further between, which he didn't mind. Fighting to survive a nightmare hadn't left him feeling brave or special. As nice as the acknowledgements were, he felt embarrassed by them. But he didn't wish to hurt the man's feelings. And it did look like a very good Manhattan. "Thank you."

  "Give me a yell if you need anything else," the bartender told him.

  Sutton looked around the bar. The couple by the fire had left and the place was empty. He nursed the drink as long as he could, hoping some late-arriving guests might be in the mood for a game of cards. But midnight came and, his drink nearly finished, he felt sleepy and decided there was nothing for it but to go home.

  "Hello there."

  At the other end of the bar stood a tall, slim fellow, lighting a cigarette. Russet hair almost obscured blue eyes. "Kent," he said, and ordered a drink. "Positively dead tonight, isn't it?"

  "Yes, I came hoping for a card game--"

  "Did you? I thought only the older gents came here for that." Kent drew on the cigarette. "Care for parties?"

  Sutton could imagine just how different New York parties must be from those back home. "I suppose."

  "I thought you might." Kent took the stool beside Sutton's. "I'm going along to one in a minute. Care to come? Number of girls there. Friendly girls, if you take my meaning. Boys, too," he added, "if the girls don't suit."

  Sutton looked around at the bartender, but he didn't seem to have overheard. Kent laughed and patted his knee. "It's all right. He's seen all types in here. Why do you think those older fellows come in? Only to play cards? They're terrible flirts, the lot of them."

  As much as he didn't want to appear naïve, Sutton couldn't conceal his amazement. "So publicly? And no one minds?"

  Kent leaned closer. "We aren't the only lads to come back from France with more avant garde tastes. If you want to meet the right people, this party's the place to do it."

  Sutton hesitated. He'd never feel entirely at home in New York until he learned to plunge in with both feet. "I'm not dressed--"

  "You don't have to, not for this sort of party. Some will dress, but most come how they please."

  "You're sure it's all right? They won't know me from Adam."

  "After a bit of conversation, they might." Kent winked. "Didn't I?" He tossed down the rest of his drink and finished his cigarette while Sutton emptied his own glass and, thus fortified, joined him on the windy sidewalk. Kent stepped lively in the direction of Times Square and Sutton wondered if it might be a theater party.

  "Are you an actor?"

  "Funny you should ask. You'll have to tell me what you think, once you've seen me perform." He turned down a side street. "Just this way, I believe. Do you like the theater? You haven't been in town long, I'm guessing."

  "Not long at all. Do you live in this neighborhood?"

  "All my blessed life." Kent studied the street numbers. "Damned chilly for this time of year. If I can just remember--" He cut through to the next street, where Sutton saw only a few lights, subdued behind window shades.

  Kent was frowning. "Well, I'm sure I came this route last time. Give me a minute and I'll figure it out."

  Sutton listened for music, voices, any sign of a party in progress. But the whole world--or at least everyone on this particular street--seemed to have retired for the night. Kent ducked between buildings and Sutton followed, though his enthusiasm waned the further they strayed from familiar territory. He hadn't made any deliveries in the neighborhood and the darkness made it even more foreign. "Do you remember the street name? We might ask someone." Though there was no one about to ask.

  "No need," Kent said with a satisfied air. "We're here."

  Sutton saw glowing tips of two cigarettes in a dark doorway. The men smoking them came out of hiding and their assessing smiles were a less friendly echo of Kent's. Fear overshadowed Sutton's uneasiness. He stared at Kent. "All this trouble to rob me?"

  "No trouble at all," Kent said. "Convincing, wasn't I? Good enough to be on the stage."

  One of his cohorts spoke up. "You sure about him?"

  Kent's smile thinned. "I made sure. He won't go to the police." He shoved Sutton into the arms of the other two and began to search his pockets, starting with his overcoat. He found the wallet and its pathetic contents right away. "Four dollars?" The wallet and money went into Kent's pocket and he resumed the search. "Where's the rest of it? You only had one drink, I know. You're too sober for more. Where is the goddamned rest of it?"

  He punctuated the demand with a fist to the gut. Sutton doubled over, shocked at the pain and struggling for breath. He gasped, "That's all--"

  "You're a lying son of a bitch. Expensive suit and shoes, three dollar drinks. Do I look stupid to you?"

  Sutton turned up his palm to expose the calluses. "You didn't make sure enough," he pushed out, still breathless.

  One of the men behind him snorted. "Queers putting you wise, Kent?"

  "Shut your fucking mouth." Kent shoved Sutton again, nearly sending all three of them sprawling. "I'll get more than four dollars out of you."

  The blow landed on his cheek, jerking his head backward, and the pain from the first punch faded into nothing beside the pain spreading through his head. The blow after that he barely felt, somewhere below his ribs. Hands pulled open his coat, dug through his pockets and, finding nothing, became fists again. He got an arm loose and swung blindly, to hit a bony jaw--and succeeded in making it worse for himself. They pushed him against the bricks and pain burst so sharp and sudden, he cried out. But as quickly as it came, it went, and everything else followed.

  - Eleven -

  Sutton woke to feel a hand, cool and comforting, on his forehead. He could make no sense of the muffled voices nearby and he couldn't find the strength to inquire before he drifted away.

  The next time he woke, everything had gone quiet. He was draped with blankets, a cottony cocoon over limbs that had been still too long. If he had died and this was Hell, it was rather more tolerable than he'd expected.

  He didn't want to, but he went to sleep again. No dreams came to jar him awake, and he was glad because he had a sense that waking hard would hurt. Hands returned occasionally, to smooth the blankets and touch his forehead. The voices, still not clear, reassured him all the same. He concluded he was in the hospital--unless Hell was populated by soft-spoken nurses, which seemed unlikely.

  He turned his head, hoping to see something more than the white expanse of ceiling, and was rewarded with a row of ivory-linen beds and two ghostly figures trotting around between them. It was much the same as the hospital he'd lived in for a while after the war. His arm hadn't hurt right away, then, and whatever was broken now didn't hurt much either. But it would hurt late
r, and quite a bit.

  For now, he was grateful to lie still and watch the white-gowned nurses glide from bed to bed. One would eventually come his way and he could find out what was broken without having to test it for himself.

  "Good evening," said a voice at his elbow. Sutton looked up in confusion. He hadn't seen her moving to his bed and he wondered if he'd fallen asleep again.

  "Good evening," he said without much of a voice at all, but the woman seemed pleased with his response.

  "They're gray," she said cheerfully. "And Therese and I were certain they'd be blue. Now, dear, can you tell me your name?"

  "Sutton." The peaceful haze began to melt away. "I've slept--how long?"

  "You were brought in Saturday night. Today's Tuesday. Can you remember what happened? Do you know who robbed you?"

  Nearly three days? It couldn't be. He tried to sit up and she pressed him back down. "No, not just yet. You've taken a nasty knock on the head. Nothing broken, but you're bruised enough to hurt like the devil for a few days."

  She was right. Just trying to sit up turned his head into an aching weight. "I have to go. My job. If I haven't lost it already--"

  "You're hurt and in the hospital, Sutton. They'll understand. Tell me whom I might call for you. Your family must be worried."

  "You can't call anyone. I've no family here." He was awake now, painfully awake in mind and body, and he couldn't have said which felt worse. The nurse pushed for details, but he sensed she must already know why he'd been lurking in alleyways in the middle of the night. She might be too decent to put it into words, but she recognized him for what he was. He couldn't tell her anything more. If they had him arrested, he knew he wouldn't get away with a warning this time.