John Torres' mouth fell opened, and he rubbed his face where Billie had slapped him.
"You son of a bitch!" Billie's voice echoed through the jailhouse, drawing the attention of guard and inmates. "Are there no depths you won't sink to?"
John gripped the bars. "Billie, Princess, it wasn't me."
"It wasn't you. Wasn't you who what, killed Mickey Kazon? Or who walked out on us and took all the money, all the valuables, down to the last silver spoon? Oh don't worry, the soup kitchens provided silverware, usually."
"I was gonna come back!" John stammered.
Billie laughed bitterly. "Right! You were gonna come back. You were in such a hurry to get out and get back, you forgot to leave a note."
"I thought I was gonna make a big break, I was gonna find work in New York and get rich, and prove to your mother that I wasn't such a useless husb—"
"But you couldn't take us with you? We'd just slow you down?" Billie snorted. "You were gonna come back. Sure took you a while."
John looked down, and his face suddenly brightened. "Oh Billie! You're, you're expecting!"
She slapped him again, if possible, harder.
"I wanted that Bird for my baby! Your grandchild! What did you want it for again, to prove to Mama that you weren't a worthless husband? Was that worth murdering a man in his home for, Daddy?"
"I told you I didn't do it! I never even saw Kazon more than once!"
"I know. He was shot in the back." She flexed her fists opened and closed. "Three times."
John's mouth quivered opened and closed. "I-I-I don't even have a gun!"
"That's not what an entire bar full of people heard you telling Kazon the day before, when you were arguing with him over that statue."
"Aw, I was, I was drunk, I was out of my mind—"
"When you killed him?"
"I DIDN'T KILL ANYONE!" his voice softened. "B-Billie, we can start again. I wanna see my grandchild. I can't make up for what I did to you but, but maybe I can make it up to him. Or her."
"How can I believe anything you say Daddy." She let a couple tears fall. "You lost my trust when I was ten years old."
"Give me a chance to earn it back. Please."
Billie sniffled. Was he offering to help support her and her baby?
"We can be a family again," her father urged. "If, if you just tell them…tell the police how I came here to see you, how I was with you last night, while Mickey Kazon was being killed…"
Her father's distressed face blurred behind her tearing eyes, and Billie turned away with disgust. Time to get out of here before she did something that would get her arrested.
She stormed out the building, wondering why the hell she'd come in the first place.
Tim was listening to the morning news on the radio, while Kaaren washed dishes in silence. Ned was finally "asleep," courtesy his "medicine." Tim's pointed ears perked when the newsman began reporting the murder of a local suspected gangster.
"One suspect is already behind bars. John Torres, age 49, allegedly had an argument with Kazon the night before, and threatened to kill him…"
Kaaren asked half-jokingly, "Why aren't you and Ned out solving the important crimes, like that one?"
"The important ones don't pay half as much," Tim smiled over his coffee.
"…the second suspect remains at large and unnamed. He is described as having a small stature, gray hair and large black eyes. One witness said that the man was at the bar with Kazon, along with Torres, but did not interact with Torres. The witness described the man as 'staring at Kazon, like he hated him,' and left the bar only minutes after Kazon left. Anyone who sees this man is urged to contact the police…"
Tim froze.
Without even turning around, Karren seemed to somehow sense the change in Tim. "Someone you know?" she asked, drying a plate.
Tim's eyes darted rapidity behind his glasses. "Possibly."
After walking Annie Hanson to the subway, Charles returned to his office.
Billie had the day off work, and Charles decided to let her have the day off the Bird Hunt too. The poor woman needed time to recuperate, after that fiasco with her father. Charles hoped to god John Torres had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and wasn't actually involved in this mess of murder.
He decided to focus on the new lead Seraphine had given him, Timothy Excelsior.
At first, Charles had no idea how he was going to track down a man he'd never met, in a city as big as San Francisco. But rereading the news clipping, he realized he had several advantages. First off, the guy's weird ears and eyebrows. Charles hadn't seen such features on anyone in his life, and assumed they'd stand out in a crowd. On top of that, the guy was from New York. That meant there was a good chance that he was only here in San Francisco temporarily, and might've been spotted at one of the subway stations. On the other hand, that news clipping was a couple years old, so maybe Timothy Excelsior had been living in California for a while. Even if he was only visiting, there was no reason to assume he'd come directly to California through San Francisco.
Charles returned to his office and made a few phone calls. He phoned all of the major train stations in the city, pretending to be a concerned friend, asking if someone of Tim Excelsior's name or description had been there. Finally he got a lead, saying that Excelsior had stepped off the train a couple of days ago, in the company of a white friend-the term "white" being used a bit loosely here. According to the girl on the other line, Excelsior's friend had spots like a giraffe's, and hair like a rooster's. "I didn't wanna ask, since I figured he might've been leper," she said in a hushed voice. She'd described the car they'd left in, and the direction in which they'd gone.
Following a hunch that Giraffe Man and Excelsior were working together, Charles decided to ask the hotels he phoned for both men. But he didn't get anywhere. They might've been staying at a friend's house, rather than a hotel. A little after noon, he was starting to consider giving up. He hadn't eaten, and hadn't changed since the night before. A few more phone calls, then he'd call it a quits for today.
Shrugging out of his filthy suit jacket, he flipped the phone book back opened, found another hotel, and called them up.
"Thank you for calling Prancing Pony Hotel, name's Pip, how can I help you?"
Charles didn't bother feigning concern, instead letting his genuine fatigue do the "acting" for him. "Hello. Listen Pip, I'm trying to locate a friend. He was supposed to meet me in San Francisco yesterday, never showed. Timothy Excelsior?"
The boy searched the records, and came up with nothing. "…Is it possible he checked in under a different name?"
"It's possible, though I've no idea which name he'd use. He's got uh," Charles rubbed his temple. He was so sick of repeating this ludicrous story. "Excuse me son, I'm not drunk. But my friend has pointed ears, and unusual eyebrows…"
"Uuuuh, if he was here, he had those ears hidden. I didn't see nothing like that."
Charles looked down, putting a hand on his hip. "He might not've been alone. He…might be with another man, a white fellow with…" he sighed. "…spots on his face?"
The boy's voice changed. "Brown spots? And big blond mutton chops?"
Charles almost dropped the phone. "You've seen him?"
"Yeah, just this morning. 'Round ten. He was walking down the street."
"Which way were they going?"
"West, I think. Went past the bank, 'that helps…"
After getting some more details, Charles ran home to shower and change into some clean clothes. He shook out his wrinkled trench coat as well as he could, and threw it back on, then hopped into his car and headed down to downtown, to the street outside Prancing Pony Hotel. He parked the car at a meter, and spent a while asking around different shops, for anyone who'd seen his "friend."
Charles found that when he was asking in person, the responses were far less friendly. People seemed hesitant to tell him anything, and gave him odd looks. He soon realized how suspicious he must seem, in a wrinkled coat, and an odd tattoo under visible fighting injuries. His appearance probably screamed "gangster." The fact that he was asking around for a white man and a Negro, while he himself was neither, probably made his story of being a concerned friend seem even less likely. By the time Charles reached a little saloon called Sullivan's, he had come up with a new story that he hoped would cover his suspicious appearance.
"Hi there. I'm looking for an old friend." Charles dropped his voice into a whisper. "On behalf of a suspicious wife."
The portly Irish bartender's expression changed, and he immediately became more sympathetic. Leaning over the counter, the man whispered, "You're some kind of hired detective?"
"When I can get hired. Work's been slow, as you can probably tell." He gestured to his wrinkled coat. "I pull in extra dough in the ring on weekends. Took quite a beating last night."
"Ah!" the old man leaned back, looking at Charles' injuries in a new light. "Course, course. Times been tough all around, ain't they." He dropped back into a whisper. "So the fellow you're looking for, what's he look like? What's his mistress look like?"
"The fellow's Colored. Tall, long face, little mustache like Clark Gabel had in 'Gone With the Wind.' Glasses. And his ears are a bit unusual. They're pointed."
The man shook his head. "Most everyone come in here's been wearing hats. What about the girl he's two-timing with?"
Charles looked down, hands in his coat pockets. He looked back up, and whispered, "His wife tells me her husband's been spending a lot of time with a male 'friend.' She's afraid the fellow might be putting 'unnatural thoughts' in her husband's head. Fact that he's an old white guy made her even more depressed—no offense."
The old man's jaw dropped, and he pointed at Charles. "That last one sounds like one of me regulars, Mr. Ned Feelix! He's got some terrible skin disease, Lord help him, he looks like a tropical fish! A finer soul never walked the earth, but he's an odd one, Mr. Felix. Frightens a few of the customers now and then, ones who aren't regulars." Charles was nodding, doing his best to be patient. "Oh! Anyway, he was hear earlier, with a man who looked like Dracula's darker cousin, talking like best buddies."
"I feel like John Wayne now, but: which way did they go?"
The man pointed. "I think they said something about Leola's. That's a diner a few blocks down, it's right next to Maggie's Produce…"
Tim and Ned's first shift at the Queen's Cabin would not start until that evening. In the meantime, they decided to observe the club from across the street. Posing as fund raisers for a charity, they talked the owner of a tiny diner called Leola's into letting them set up an early Christmas display. The owner eagerly agreed, knowing that they would attract many passing families to his restaurant.
Ned sat in a little chair by a large window, waving to passersby. Dressed in a full Santa suit and beard, he was easily the strangest Chris Cringle anyone in on the street had ever seen. Never mind the fact that November was still finishing up, and there was hardly any snow on the ground. Tim stood in a green tunic and boots, with a thick red belt and candy cane patterned stockings. He wore a long green hat that ended in a pompom, his pointed ears on full display. Tim waved his charity bell back and forth, gazing over the confused pedestrians, watching the club across the street.
"Tim!" Ned hissed. "Smile once in a while, won't you? You're frightening the children."
"I…am frightening the children?"
Outside the window, a little girl with curly blond pigtails stared at Ned like a deer in the headlights. She was soon joined by her older brother, who stared at "Santa" with snobbish bemusement, adjusting imaginary cuff-links on his sleeve.
Tim's gaze moved passed the perplexed children and onto the street.
"What on Earth are you looking for Tim?" Ned whispered beneath the Santa beard.
"I've told you," Tim said quietly. "Jon Gardener. The psychotic murder I failed to catch two years ago. The suspect the newsman described fleeing the scene of Mickey Kazon's murder was him, I'm certain of it."
"Or just another hobo with bug-eyes! Your Jon Gardener can't be the only man in America who fits that—Oh!" Ned exclaimed happily, when an Asian woman entered the shop with her enthused son. "Ho, ho, ho! Meeerry early Christmas!"
Outside, the father of the two mesmerized children finally caught up to them, and scolded in an English accent, "Henry, Beatrice, there you are! Don't just stand there kids, Santa can't read minds. Go on in and tell him what you want for Christmas!"
As the family entered the diner, Tim returned to searching the street, still ringing his bell slowly. A melting pot of families had been stopping by to see "Santa" and his "elf." The bigger the crowd, the better; it would make him and Ned seem less suspicious to anyone from Kitty's club who might notice them across the street.
"Now what's this here?" Kitty Indiana muttered, peering out her diner's window with folded arms.
Her new roulette runner and chef were across the street, doing some kind of early Christmas display for the kids. Sweet of them, but a little too conspicuous. Kitty wasn't certain how comfortable she was with two of her workers drawing so much attention to themselves, right outside her club.
"Those two men," Annie Henson came up behind Kitty. "I told you, Kitty, what Harry said. Those two are watching us."
"And well they should be," Kitty admitted. "They know this is a dangerous place to work, and that gambling isn't legal in California. They might just be doing a background check on their new host before committing to a job that might get them killed." Her voice dropped to a lower, more cynical note. "On the other hand, they might be cops, doing a sting on us."
"They might also be friends of Mickey Kazon. Have you turned on the news today, Kitty?"
Kitty turned to look at her friend. Annie's blue eyes were hard and unblinking.
"Yes. I did." Kitty turned back to the window. "But Kazon was killed around three this morning, they said. These two were hired long before that. They weren't here for revenge."
"But they may be now."
Kitty turned back to her singer. Annie was in casual daytime clothes. Well, "casual" for Annie; the singer was always a tad overdressed. She wore a plain white blouse with a long black skirt, a bright red sash tied around her waist. A chunk of her gold hair was rolled over her forehead, the rest sitting around her shoulders. She looked like she wouldn't need to change to go out for a little errand.
"Tell you what Annie," Kitty said softly. "How would you like to pick up a few extra hours before your shift tonight, and do a little detective work for me?"
Annie raised her good eyebrow. "Perhaps I could use a cup of coffee before I sing tonight."
Annie mentally planned out what she'd do in the diner, as she fetched her earthy-brown coat and matching women's fedora. She knew that Mr. Excelsior and Mr. Felix had seen her and Indiana watching them. Rather than try to deny it, she decided to work it into her story.
When she stepped into Leola's, she smiled at the two men. "Mr. Excelsior, Mr. Felix. Nice costumes!"
Felix waved to her, and Excelsior nodded with a small smile. The child on Felix's lap stared up at him, perplexed by his spots.
"Miss Indiana says she wants a limousine for Christmas." Annie joked, getting in line at the counter.
"I'll see what I can do!"
While waiting in line, Annie observed her two new coworkers for any suspicious activity. Felix seemed to be genuine in his mission as Santa Claus, but his friend Excelsior was eying the street outside, as if watching or waiting for someone.
Felix turned back to the child on his lap. "Now, what do you want for Christmas little boy?"
"G'won Henry," the boy's father encouraged. "Tell Santa what you want!"
The boy quietly requested a Latin book, "and a competent instructor to go with it, for once," before surrendering Santa's lap to his sister. "He's all yours, Beatrice," the boy said, sliding off Santa's lap and prudishly straightening his plaid cap.
The father placed the girl on Felix's lap. She took one look at "Santa" and screamed bloody murder. Over her long scream, her father commented that his daughter was fond of Mozart. Ned "ho, ho ho"-ed and promised her a few records, then accepted the next child waiting in line.
Annie realized she'd made it to the front of her own line, and ordered coffee and a bagel from the red-haired waitress. As she did, the doorbell jingled again, granting entry to a new hand full of customers: a Colored woman with two children, coming to see Santa, and a dark familiar man in a battered coat. He politely held the door for the woman and kids, before strolling over to the counter. He dipped his hat to Annie.
"On break?" Charles Liberty asked her.
The softness of his voice was as striking now as it had been when they'd met that morning. Maybe it was his large build, or the down-on-his-luck attire she'd been too polite to comment on thus far, but that voice always seemed to surprise her. In any case, it took effort not to be visibly affected when he spoke.
"Yes," Annie said. "You?"
"I don't work Saturdays."
She replied with a tiny nod.
Charles seemed to be looking at Excelsior and Felix, while trying not to look like he was looking. This shouldn't have seemed odd; half the other people in the restaurant were doing the same thing. No one had ever seen such a strange looking Santa, or an "elf" with such convincingly pointed ears. But something about Charles Liberty sent up red flags. He obviously wasn't here by coincidence; but was his reason a simple attraction to Annie, or did he have ulterior motives? The fact that she'd met him at a murder scene was probably one reason she was so uncertain of him.
Annie's coffee and bagel arrived. She thanked the red haired waitress, and took a seat at one of the chrome-framed stools lining the counter. Not surprisingly, Charles slid into the seat next to her.
"Mind if I join you?"
She shook her head. "Please."
He pulled out the chair across from her, and set his hat down on the counter. His hair was an unconvincing shade of jet black, parted at the side, with streaks of natural silver running along the sides. His eyes were so dark brown, you couldn't see where the irises ended and the pupils began. They were deep set, under angular silver eyebrows, that made Annie think of a wolf.
"Unusual looking Santa," Charles said, glancing back at Ned Felix.
Annie nodded. "Very convincing ears, on that elf."
Charles nodded, sipping some coffee. As he did, she saw his eyes glance, just for a split second, on her ring finger. He didn't have a wedding band either. Her face was growing hot. But this was a good thing. Her blushing would make him think she was only interested in flirting. Maybe even get him to tell her a bit about why he was really here.
"I don't think I've seen you around here often," Annie said, but didn't smile. Flirting or not, she didn't care for the giggling schoolgirl routine.
He shook his head. "You caught me. I thought I might get to know this side of town a bit better, and eventually run into you again. I just didn't think it'd happen so soon." He reached into the pocket of his coat, which he hadn't taken off. "Mind if I smoke?"
"Actually, I do. I'm a singer. If we were outside I wouldn't mind so much, but I'd just as soon not have it blowing in my face."
He took his hand away from his pocket. "I hear it's a filthy habit anyway." His eyes were moving around the metallic disfigurements on her face. He caught himself, and changed the subject. "You a regular at this place?"
God, his voice was really doing things to her. Stirring her coffee, Annie said, "S'pose I am. I sing for Miss Indiana's customers almost every night."
He turned to the restaurant's door and front walls, which were essentially one long window. There he went, looking at Santa and the elf again. With his face at this angle, she was given a full view of that tattoo. Annie found herself pondering what on earth it was supposed to be—a wind pattern? Bird wing? Rainbow?—and ultimately only being able to connect it to a squiggling pattern she'd seen on a dress in a shop as a child, back in the '20s.
Charles made an acknowledging sound, a late response to Annie's last comment, and turned back to sip his coffee. Far too casually, he said, "I heard that Mickey Kazon was a competitor of Kitty Indiana's."
Annie looked up at him dryly. "You're as subtle as that tattoo on your face."
He froze. She waited for an explanation, but none came.
Changing the subject she asked, "What is it anyway?"
If she could get him talking about himself, she'd be free to sit in the diner for a while longer, observing Excelsior and Felix without arousing suspicion. That was what Annie told herself, anyway.
"My tattoo? It's a symbol of our journey."
After a moment, she asked, "To?"
He stared at her.
"You journey to where?"
"Oh! To—" He stopped.
"Charles?"
"Sorry. It's funny, I…I know the story behind it, or I thought I did…"
Annie lifted her coffee. "Well, I don't know how many Christians can name every one of Jesus' disciples. There's no reason you need to know...that."
Charles nodded, but still looked troubled.
"I'm sorry, I must sound very ignorant." Annie apologized. "I don't know much about…well much of the world, come to think of it."
Charles shifted on his stool, looking at her almost inquisitively. "Have you heard of a film called 'Now Voyager?'"
She stared at him. "No..."
The most peculiar sense of déjà vu engulfed her. Why did looking at this man's face, that tattoo, while hearing the word 'voyager,' ring so many bells?
"It's about a woman who's uh, shut away. Lives with her mother. No friends, no job, thinks she's useless and ugly, even though she can carve these elaborate wood boxes and she's Bette god-damned Davis..." Realizing he was rambling, he cleared his throat. "Anyway, uh, good movie." Seemingly remembering why he'd brought it up, he said, "You reminded... I mean, what you said about being socially compromised, it made me think of that film."
"I can be plenty 'sociable,'" Annie said, "I just choose not to unless I absolutely must."
Charles began to smile, almost smugly. "Unless you must."
She shifted uncomfortably, then surrendered, offering him a bashful shrug.
It wasn't long before Annie all but forgot about her mission to observe Felix and Excelsior. She became engrossed in talking to Charles, hearing about his failed archeology career, growing up in "Indian country," and his time as a Code Talker. What he lacked in a clever sense of humor and convincing hair dye he seemed to more than compensate for in intelligence and chivalry. He seemed to be everything Annie admired, and everything she knew she'd never be.
"Am I boring you?"
Annie blinked, and realized she'd probably been staring into space, letting her thoughts run away with her.
"Because this isn't me at my most boring," Charles warned. "I'm told my ancient parables could've made powerful torture devices against the Axis Powers."
"I'm sorry," Annie shifted on her stool. "You were right earlier. I'm—my social skills are out of practice."
"That's fine by me," he said, perhaps a bit too eagerly.
She gave him an odd look.
"I've had some bad experiences with women, dishonest ones. So I appreciate one who's direct."
After a moment Annie said, "I've had bad experiences with…people."
His eyes were now stuck on the hand she stirred her coffee with, the one covered it glossy metallic veins.
"Borges' Disease." She said suddenly, apparently startling him. "I was diagnosed when I was six. It's not contagious. Not very pretty either."
"That's a matter of opinion," Charles dark eyes wandered her silver disfigurements. "And I can't be the first person to suggest that, either."
Annie chewed her bagel silently for a moment, then admitted, "You're not." She washed her bagel down with a long sip of coffee before deciding to continue. "Upon reaching America, I considered working in a sideshow for a time." Charles looked taken aback by this, but Annie explained, "Apparently there's a market for ... 'beautiful oddities.' One contractor said I had the potential to join the ranks of Francis O'Connor and Daisy Earles. Offered to bill me as 'the Incredible Mechanical Woman,' a sort of real-life Maria from 'Metropolis.'" Charles looked playfully amused by the idea, shaking his head with a smile as he raised his coffee for another sip. "Trouble was, I simply don't share the extroverted personalities of 'the Living Venus' and 'the Midget Mae West.'"
Charles pondered the subject for a moment. "I think I saw Venus once, actually. She's the woman with no arms, who does everything with her feet, right?" He gave it some more thought. "Its' funny, I always thought people like her—disadvantaged, but then 'beautiful'—got a kind of saving ticket fate. But if you don't like attention, being beautiful must be nothing but salt in the wound."
Annie popped one eyebrow. "It is."
Charles was silent.
She pushed out of her seat. The way he looked at her almost hurt. "I'll be back in a minute," she assured him. "I need to use the washroom."
She hurried away before he could utter some apology.
She told herself she was going to fix her makeup, but upon reaching the bathroom mirror found it flawless. She stood there for several long moments, staring at her reflection. Annie was immodestly aware of her beauty. Not only was her figure flawless and buxom, and her face free of acne or blemishes, she even had the Hollywood ideal of gold hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. She could be a star, if not for…well, a few things. Those marks on her face, those ugly metal blotches, they were truly hideous. She was never certain if men swarmed to her because the rest of her beauty compensated, or because they found her disfigurements "unique" and endearing, or because they felt sorry for her. But even if she'd looked completely normal, she'd never be able to have a serious relationship, even a platonic one, outside of her friendship had with Kitty Indiana. Friendships and dates both had to stop just short of getting to know each others' pasts.
Annie almost jumped, when the stall door behind her opened. An older woman stepped out and strode over to the sink beside hers. After washing her hands, the woman turned to leave. But just as she was opening the door, she stopped, looked back at Annie, and let it fall closed again.
"Anita?" the woman's voice was low and silky. "Anita Heinritz?"
Clunk.
Annie had dropped her little purse. She stood there, numbly, as the woman clopped over to her on spike heels. She picked up Annie's purse and handed it back to her. Annie took it without meeting her eye.
"Anita?" the woman stared at her, with large, dark eyes.
She wasn't any taller than Annie, but she carried herself with an intimidating authority. She was unnaturally pale, with thin silver hair yanked up in a tight, tiny bun. Her large dark eyes were surrounded by almost mockingly dollish makeup, her tiny lips painted bright red. She had no eyebrows, instead having drawn thin curved lines high over her eyes, a style at least ten years out of date. Her long black dress, almost skintight, was spangled with leafy silver designs. She clung to a silver fox skin over one shoulder. Annie knew this woman, knew her better than her own parents in fact. But she refused to be reconnected with her.
Annie shook her head. "You have me mistaken for someone else."
Annie tried to shove past her, but the woman blocked her, grabbing her arm.
"Anita, darling!" the woman purred. "I know it's you, don't try to tell me it's not! It's me, Bruna Rike. You know who I am, I practically raised you."
"Take your hand off me." Annie struggled, but Bruna Rike's grip was inhumanly strong.
"Anita, I love what you've done with your hair!" Bruna cupped some of Annie's gold locks. "You look so Aryan."
Almost on reflex, Annie's normal hand clawed Bruna's cheek, with sharp long nails. Bruna released her, and moved her hand to feel the small, bleeding cuts on her cheek.
Seething, Annie warned, "If you know what's good for you Frau Rike, you'll make sure I never see you again."
She shoved Bruna against the sink, and moved to the door. She stopped, when she felt cold metal on the back of her neck.
"Into the stall, Anita. I want to talk."
Annie allowed herself to be guided into the first stall. Bruna pulled the door shut and locked it, and kept her pistol pointed at Annie.
"I don't just know your name, Anita Heinritz." Bruna smiled. "I know your employer, Kathryn O'Hara, better known as Kitty Indiana. I know she hosts illegal gambling in her club's basement, and that she's made quite a name for herself among the criminal underworld of California. I also know that she possesses an almost priceless ancient artifact, a silver statue of a bird. What am I holding this gun for? I don't need bullets to threaten you." Bruna opened her large purse and let the gun fall inside. "You're going to do me a favor Anita, and if you don't I'll come to the police about your past political affiliations, and Kitty's current ones."
"And then I will tell the police who taught those 'affiliations' to me, Nazi." Annie said coldly. "You clearly didn't think your blackmail through very thoroughly, did you."
"Actually I did. You see Annie, you have no proof that I had anything to do with Hitler. But I have plenty of documents from my beloved students in Hitler's Youth. Here's a sample." From her large purse, Bruna pulled a photograph of Annie, in her teens, standing among a group of other young Nazis, proudly sporting their uniforms and swastika armbands, lifting their arms to Hitler. "And something a little more recent…"
Into Annie's shaking hand, she placed a newer looking photo, of the gambling room down in the basement of the Queen's Cabin, with bar patrons laughing and scowling at each other around the roulette wheel.
"Oh," Bruna gasped with mock concern. "I wonder what that Injun thinks of the Nazis. He's about the right age to've served, strikes me as ex military. He probably fought Nazis."
Annie swayed slightly, but kept her face hard. "He probably killed Nazis. Hitler is dead and the War is over. What do you hope to accomplish?"
"Some funds for our efforts." Bruna said. "We're re-patriotizing South America as we speak."
Annie didn't think "re-patriotizing" was a word, but that wasn't relevant at the moment.
"I don't have any money." Annie said.
Bruna looked at Annie's outfit. "Nice wardrobe, for a starving singer. You know what I want, Anita. Get me that Bird. When I have the statue I'll be out of the country, you'll never see or hear from me again. And no one need know anything about what you were doing before 1945, or what kind of a business your friend Kitty runs."
Annie's jaw clenched. "I don't know where Indiana keeps the statue."
"Find out. You have three days." Bruna unlocked the door and gently eased it opened, then stopped. "Oh, and before you get any ideas about telling Miss Indiana about this conversation, consider how well she usually does at keeping a low profile."
Annie thought it over. Indeed, Kitty Indiana—for all her virtues—was terrible at staying undetected. Her two men Tom and Harry had just barely escaped Kazon's men with the statue the other night, after a loud car chase that wound up in the papers. Kitty herself had served several short jail sentences, after getting caught for petty crimes while she carried out her major schemes; and it was thanks to a few bribable, corrupt policemen that Kitty was able to keep her illegal gambling business going. It was Kitty's money and contacts that had kept her out of prison all this time; not her ability to lie low. If Annie told Kitty about this blackmail, no doubt Kitty would insist upon trying to take out Bruna, fumble the plan, and have them both exposed to the (non-corrupt) law in an instant. Annie loved Kitty, but she didn't trust her, not on something like this.
Their eyes stayed locked, as Annie slowly moved out of the stall, then burst out of the women's room.
Charles looked up at her with concern as she clopped back to the counter.
"Is everything alright?"
"No. I'm ill." Annie grabbed her coat from her chair and threw it on, not bothering to button it.
"You still have half your bagel," he pointed out.
"You can have it." She donned her hat and took off, before he could ask anything more.
Only when she was crossing the street did Annie realize that she'd completely neglected to ask Bruna Rike how the hell she knew about the Bird, Kitty's business, and the fact that Charles Liberty was an Indian.