The Case of the Rich Man's Wife

Swaying like a drunken bum, holding my head with my hands. I pushed my back against the wall and slid down the mirrored wall until I sat on the floor.

"Well, I never ..." exclaimed an older woman riding in the car.

"And I doubt you ever will," the operator said, winking at me.

****

The Coroner held the sheet up for me to view her face. The spinning aggravation of my headache became worse, the floor threatened to move from under my feet. Dumb bitch, why didn't you listen to me? Her face beaten, almost beyond recognition. And this is the shame of the thing, Josephine ended up dead, far sooner than I imagined.

"Her name is Josephine Moore. Her worthless excuse of a husband is James Moore." I said with a blankness in my voice, imparting the information but not sure of the reason. "AKA Jimmy ‘Light Fingers' Moore. The Light Fingers comes from his one skill ... picking pockets. The cut on her left cheek is from a diamond ring he wears on his right pinky finger." Saying this without expression, as if detached from my emotions. Gut-wrenching helplessness, grief, and rage built inside me. What utter stupidity caused this turn of events.

What imagined slight caused James Moore to do this? What perceived wrong made him beat her to death rather than only beat her? Couldn't help but wonder, giving her discomfort stopped pleasing him, so he went further? My objective aside, my efforts to understand were pointless, a waste of mental energy. Trying to understand the workings of an abuser's mind is akin to asking a wolf why they bay at the moon.

"He's most likely to be in Fat Lou's Place, playing cards with his deadbeat friends. Hum, yes, how like him, playing cards after beating a person to death would be."

Somehow, I was in the middle of a nightmare. All I wanted was to end the dream. Between heartache and headache, I needed to find a way to function.

"Do me a favor, call Frank Lange. Tell him I have gone to Fat Lou's to bring in Jimmy ‘Light Fingers' to him for the murder of his wife."

Leaving the Coroner's office without waiting on his response, I had a purpose, not a calling. Jumping behind the wheel of my Bearcat, I started the car and revved the engine. In all candor, my head didn't appreciate the engine at the moment.

****

The trip was less than 10 minutes. I walked in like an owner, moved straight to the back room. The sign on the door read, "Private." Pulling my .45 from my handbag, I dropped the latter to the floor. Pushing the door open, I moved through, without hesitation, closing half the distance between the door and the card table in a matter of a second or two.

Hot, humid air wafted in through an open, curtained window. Bringing with the gust of air, the flapping of the curtain, and a dull hammering from workers a block away, tearing up a sidewalk. A ceiling fan whirled, whisking a warm breeze over card players huddled around a table. A dim light illuminated the otherwise dark room from a white bowl, which hung underneath the fan.

Jimmy delt the cards, his knuckles bloodied and bruised from his mornings' exercises. With his restless eyes, he glanced from the cards to me. In a heartbeat, Jimmy's countenance changed from one of arrogant presumption to panic. Fast as a train, he grasped his hand in the game meant nothing anymore.

Wasting no time, Jimmy jumped up, the other men scattered for safety. In his haste, Jimmy knocked over the table, which tumbled forward. Cash and cards scattered across the floor as Jimmy's friends dived for cover. A single silver dollar spun round and round, at last, losing speed, falling over, heads up. When I played games as a kid, I always called heads when we picked something with a coin flip.

"Heads, you lose, Jimmy boy," I said without a thought.

Wheeling around, Jimmy grabbed a sawed-off shotgun from its resting place against the wall. Spinning back to me, he pointed the weapon at my chest. My .45 pointed at his chest, where his heart should've been, but he didn't have one.

Courage failed Jimmy as fear turned to terror. I knew the son-of-a-bitch would surrender. The bastard never put his fingers near the trigger guard, much less a trigger. I saw him surrender. This is where I should have said drop it. I didn't. And Jimmy obliged me when he didn't drop the gun.

I made a decision. Not hesitating, I pulled my trigger 3 times in a quick sequence. Deep barks echoed, exploding in my head, racking me with more discomfort. The shots fired in rapid succession, so close together, one not quite overling another. The distinctive sound cartridges made as they struck the floor, mixed up, jumbled together, and the other clatter in the room.

A loud thud when Jimmy's body dropped to the floor. The shotgun bounced off the floorboards beside him. Hands and feet shuddered, in death's wild dance, for an instant. Jimmy passed from one world to the next, laying face down, all motions ceased. The blood ebbed from his body, pooling around his chest. Soupy dark, darker than red, blood pooled in a slow seep under his body, pushing away from him in heavy sludge.

The door burst open with a loud crash. The door busted in half as Uncle Frank rushed in. With his handgun drawn, he fell to his knees, aiming his pistol towards the general direction of the toppled table.

"It's okay, Uncle Frank," my voice flat, emotionless. "My mistake. Jimmy ‘Light Fingers' Moore had a heart after all." I paused, needing to say more, "I fear I have broken what little heart he had."

Speaking the words, my voice, oh, so oddish, disembodied, separate from me.

Frank gandered about the room. The cop in him counted four witnesses to my carnage. The ‘tough' men cowered on the floor, concealing themselves behind cases of booze.

With his usual roughness, Uncle Frank got the men to their feet. Lining the men in a row, from left to right, in chairs. In quiet contemplation, he squinted around the room and paced, thinking. In an offhand way, Frank scratched his head with the sight of his revolver's barrel.

"Okay, you mugs, I shot him. Do you understand me, morons? Swear on a stack of bibles, Jimmy boy tried to blast me with the shotgun, over yonder. Or I swear to holy hell, I'll bum rap you bastards for killing him."

The barrel moved from one hood to another. Pointing the pistol like a finger, Uncle Frank didn't threaten the men. Though I'm sure they believed he did. They nodded in agreement. Frank shoved his revolver into his holster.

"You leave here, baby girl." He growled at me, "I'll make the story stick."

Doing as instructed, I theorized how Uncle Frank might sell the story, where he shot Jimmy with his .38 when the body had three .45 slugs buried deep inside his chest. Help from the coroner, I conjectured. A first for everything, I never lost control before.

Yes, I killed men, but never in cold blood. Never when I understood, I was in no danger. Realizing, James Moore hadn't the guts to shoot anyone. He only possessed enough courage to beat on a woman half his size. A switch clicked inside me, and Jimmy "Light Fingers" slept the big sleep. The dreadful thing is, I didn't care, not one iota. I couldn't bear the thought of him going to prison for her death and not to the electric chair.

When his hands twitched and crawled on the floor, I enjoyed the sight. I had only one regret the creep died far, too, fast.

****

Driving to the park, I gazed at the children for an hour or so. I knew some of the children I saw would grow up to be good men and women. Others would be the Jimmy ‘Light Fingers' of their generation. Still, others would be worse, some far worse.

How wonderful if one might gaze into their futures when you glanced at them? With the bad ones' future deeds held against them, someone might eliminate the buster browns where they stood. What a thought, murder them while still innocent, thus saving them from themselves.

No one has the right, though.

If I could go back and find the men who would kill my parents before they murdered them, well brothers and sisters, I'd kill them where they stood. If I go to hell for letting Jimmy Moore have it, okay. I'll go to hell, satisfied the action was worth the punishment.

Life holds no guarantees. The whole world lives one day at a time. Each day a new tribulation is put before you. Each day is a struggle to discover purpose and meaning. Today I struggled to make my way through events without flipping a wig. What a thought, to make it through a day and not make any mistakes.

Jimmy ‘Light Fingers' and his wife both troubled my conscience. After a time, I shook off my melancholy, to a degree, returning to the day's battle. The object of my efforts, finding and protecting the rich man's wife.

The pulsating ache in my head refused to leave.

****

I drove around, without purpose, for some time. The pummeling in my head cried out for rest, but the cards dealt didn't include rest. Shaking off the dread of taking another's life wasn't easy, but I managed to put Jimmy behind me. For the time being, at least. With renewed vigor, I returned to my task. I wanted to find who gave me this dad-blamed headache and make them pay for it.

Whumping and aching, my head hurt at the back all the way to my ears. Each beat of my heart pummeled me. The pained pulsing matched the pace of my pulse. Bang, bang, my heart was making its presence known to my ears. The headache wanted to explode my brains right out the back of my head.

I ended up in the apartment building of Tommy ‘The Knock' Alberto, located in East Harlem. According to neighbors, Tommy left a week before with an adorable woman. They were talkative neighbors considering all the silence I received for the past two days. None of them liked Tommy several bore bruises or scars which he gave them.

Bandying the word psycho about with telling nods. The neighbors noticed the woman before, but most of the time, she came and left in a matter of hours. He had never gone with her before that day. Well, as far as they recalled.

One woman had gone on and on about having thought Tommy, a fine man. At first, that is, but how he changed after they went out. By went out, I assumed she meant that they made love. Before long, he became possessive and abusive. This sure sounded like the Tommy I had heard about from Uncle Frank. I saw no reason why Florence Randolph should find this man interesting. He was every bit as dangerous as her husband was.

The persistent agonizing soreness in my head worsened. The landlady told me they had shut his power off days before. The woman fumbled about the office. At last, she fished out a key from a drawer, giving the thing to me. She never gave non-residents keys, the landlady said, but she trusted me.

"Understand this, I don't like Tommy, not a pleasant guy at all."

Retrieving my colt, I made my way to the apartment. Opening the door with caution, I moved into the room. My sense of smell suffered an all-out assault. The rotten air attacked me, the intermingled stench of stale cigarette smoke, refer herb, booze, and other fouler odors rushed in, mugging my nose with a stinky bouquet.

Under the stagnant sump, water fetor was something else, a sickly reek … A skunk-like redolence. The scent of death permeated the room. Trying to turn the light on, I remembered the place had no electricity. Retrieving my small torchlight, I added this to my left hand, dropping my handbag to the floor. With my automatic in my right hand, flashlight in the left, I strode through the apartment, fearing what I might find.

Soon, I discovered the source of the stench. Raw decaying food in the refrigerator covered with maggots. I couldn't quite tell what the vittles were. The apartment was empty of people. A filthy litter of garbage covered the floor, with papers, books, clothing, half-eaten food, and a map covered the carpet. Tommy Alberto would win no housekeeping award. After going through the apartment with thoroughness, I grabbed the map and left.

Reviewing the map, using the tiny light bag, threw a weak glow over the paper. A circle around a building, drawn in red ink, with an address scrawled across on the corner. The location lay inside a close to an abandoned part of Manhattan. Indeed, where the address indicated, plenty of warehouses stood, and most were empty. Was this a clue? Are they hiding?

A noise drew my attention. I hurried to the window, gazed through, twisted a rod working the blinds to where I could see through them. A night fog, thick, muggy, ubiquitous, and clinging to every. The vapor blurred the cityscape. How did we have such a fog, the air cooled, but the water stayed warm … dummy.

Bang, the back of my head was on fire again. Dropping to my knees, my .45 fell from my grasp, and my face struck the floor. Stick, wet, pummeled, the back of my head ached. Blasted Jerusalem, someone crowned again. Yeah, someone clubbed me in the back of my skull.

Blackness swarmed me, and I lay in a tunnel of darkness, no light at the end shown.

"Stupid bitch," the words pricked my attention … still, nothing else intruded into my isolation. For the moment, I didn't know if I was alive or dead. A voice out of the darkness told me I lived.

"You understand I'm not all bad, don't you?" a soft voice, feminine, sultry, and inviting. "You know, what I mean, don't you? Straight-from-the-shoulder, Miss Drummond, you can trust me? No need to worry, you're on the menu, not yet, that is."

What balderdash is this?

"Baby, she's long gone," a man said, his husky tone held a hint of anger, a dash of danger. I don't understand how, but I knew Tomy ‘The Knock' had knocked me on the head.

Chapter Six

The fog hung solid one night 18 years in my past, May 1929. The mist hung so impenetrable in the night's air, the haze obscured my father's new Stutz Bearcat. Running through the fog to the car, I spied my Uncle Frank crawled out of the driver's seat. The sight was close to comical, his oversized frame uncoiling from the undersized seat. Reaching into the back, he pulled my suitcase out and carried all my possessions into his house as I trotted beside him.

Aunt Marg led me to my room, her husband following behind.

"Here we are, dear. And I do, so, hope you like your bedroom. We'll adorn the room any way you want, sweetheart."

"The rooms fine, Aunty."

Uncle Frank stood in the door. Stepping into the room, glancing around, Frank Lange put the suitcase on my new dresser; swing around, he grinned. The attempted encouragement, at best, produced a weak smile, but a smile, nonetheless. Sitting on the bed, he patted the spread.

I ran and sat down with him.

"It'll be, okay, baby girl. Well, do the best we can to make this a good home for you," Aunt Marjorie wandered over and joined us on the bed. Aunt Marjorie sat down, pressed right up against me. "Nothing to fear here, Theo," Mrs. Lang told me. Putting her arm around me, she hugged me, and I cried.

"You understand I'm not mad you're here, don't you?" she said in a soft, feminine, inviting voice. "You know, what I mean, don't you? Heart-to-heart, Theodora, you can trust? Now, Frank and I are your family. What would you like on the menu tonight."

"Jeepers, I think hot dogs would be wonderful," I said between sobs.

Odd, how when you are nowhere, nothing exists for you, where your mind goes.

****

Sitting bolt upright, I woke this time with a quick start. A far-off remembrance of Uncle Frank and Aunt Marjorie the day I moved in with them. Got to believe Uncle Frank wouldn't be happy with his baby girl. Always check everywhere before you are sure a room is safe! Words to live by!

Glancing around at the darkness, I found my flashlight grabbing it. I shined the beam on my wrist. Goldarn it, nearly midnight. I retrieved my .45 and made my way to my car. I touched the back of my head. Oh, goodie, not bleeding this time. Geezus, my head buzzed, like Nick Etten just bashed my noggin over the centerfield fence.

Revving up the engine, I dove off. I wanted to go to my apartment and go to sleep. My head screamed at me to rest. This is important, I thought to myself. This building may be where they are. This island isn't huge, so getting from one place to another doesn't take long. Unless traffic slows you down. Luck held, rush hour was long over most of the traffic was by foot.

In some areas, cars drove slow, driven by men trolling for working girls, but the streets were close to empty. On Broadway, only a few miles from here, people crowded into theaters, entertained with musicals, dance reviews, or the latest dramas. I hadn't been to play since the opening of ‘The Glass Menagerie' in March. Before long, I arrived at my destination.

****

Two identical yellow roadsters were parked outside the building. Looks like Randolph found her before I did. For sure, I'd have to be careful. I removed the .45 colt from my bag. Removing the clip, I put three more rounds in, replacing those I used earlier in the day. Shoving the magazine back in the gun, I took a spare clip from the glove box and pushed the cold metal into my bra. Oh, my, sweet Lord, how uncomfortable.

Getting out of the car, I checked around. The docks appeared deserted, as were the surrounding streets. Without delay, I moved to the wall of the building. Leaning into the wall, I steadied myself. My head screaming at me while my left leg tingled with twinges running down from my spine. The world keeps on spinning regardless of hurt or damage. The bottom line, best I keep fighting while I can. I'll give some back to someone of what I have taken. I owe someone a good-ass beating for the distress I endured.

The sound of thunder echoed in the night, only thunder needed lighting, and we had clear skies. No, brothers and sisters, My heart beating at a deafening level. The cool wall imparted to me a perception of safety. I was about to move into a danger zone. The entrance was only ten feet from me. Where in the building would they be? Let those without fear bravely go where angels fear to tread. As for me, I tread with light steps, full of fear and trembling.

As I entered the building, the air turned chilly. No, I was cold. Hell's bells, this joint's an icehouse. Enormous blocks of ice filled the space. The blocks were stacked like building blocks with some cheesecloth or something between them. The cloth must be to prevent one block from freezing to another. Frosty clouds came with my breathing, visible in the air. Talking back in the rear of the place caught my attention. From a closed door with a window, the sound escaped, muffled, unclear words. A frosted window concealing something beyond them.

Making my way back towards the room, I moved with caution. Stopping and checked all directions and moved forward again. Repeating this ritual every few steps. I determined not to be surprised this time. The voice was a female, and I made out the words.

"I told you to eat your food – now eat!" She commanded, "Isn't this yummy? Stop spitting the food out. Come on, Alistair, you wanted me to cook for you. NOW EAT YOUR MEAT!"

A loud smack reverberated about like someone slapping someone else's face. Inching forward. Slow, indeed, I moved with care. I wasn't about to be surprised again. After twenty paces, I was at the door, at last. I resisted the urge to charge into the room.

The voice emerging from the room. The words Mrs. Randolph said didn't fit the perception I operated on. Life changed for me, for I misinterpreted the evidence. I had a purpose but was my purpose the right one? Had I run headlong down a hill misjudging all indicators around me? I took a deep breath and closed the last few feet to the door.

Grasping the doorknob, I turned the knob, slow and easy, pushed the door open to a fantastical sight. With an expression of glee on Florence Randolph's face, she held a spoon of cooked human flesh to her husband's mouth.