9

CHAPTER 4

St. Paul, Minnesota

Tuesday, August 11

1925

(1 DAY AGO)

The following morning, Christopher's mechanic, Lefty Caruso, swaggered into Christopher's office without bothering to knock. He let the Gladstone bag he seemed never to be without settle on the floor with an ominous clunk. "What's shakin, bub?"

"Salt 'n' pepper," Christopher replied automatically.

He frowned at his visitor. Calling Lefty a shrimp would be insulting, Christopher mused, but if he'd stopped growing two inches ago, you wouldn't have much choice. Normally dressed in greasy overalls, today Lefty wore moleskin breeches, knee-high lace-up boots, a white linen shirt and a blue serge eight-quarter golf cap. Except for his cold, flint-colored eyes, he looked scarcely thirteen.

"Sorry I haven't been by with your money," Christopher said. "I've got it right here." He began sorting through the bills for the one from Lefty's Garage.

"Never mind that right now," Lefty said. He tossed the business card Christopher had left with Dapper Dan onto the desk. "Hogan said to make myself useful."

"You?" Christopher rubbed his chin, not sure what to make of Hogan's spy, or what to do with him. He would never have guessed his own shade-tree mechanic was on Hogan's payroll. "Well…suppose you start by telling me what sort of…skills you have that I'd find useful."

"Better you don't know, bub. That way you can't spill the beans accidental-like. How 'bout this: is that flivver you drive the best you can afford?"

"For now, yeah." He hated how defensive he sounded. The battered old Model T ran, usually, but boiled over at 20 miles an hour. On her best day she seldom managed fifteen miles between breakdowns

"Pathetic. Gimme half a C-note and I'll make it a new car."

The only way to do that was replace it piece-by-piece from the tires up.

"We don't do car heists."

"Hey!" Lefty held out both hands palms up. "Are these the hands of a siwash buggy-booster?"

Christopher thought the stubby fingers looked more suited to grubbing potatoes than anything else. They probably weren't nimble enough to jump-wire any modern automobile.

As if reading Christopher's mind, Lefty added, "I'll have you know I helped Rickenbacker there develop the tandem fly-wheel and the 4-wheel braking system."

Christopher glanced at the autographed photo on the wall. The Great War air ace had bought into and lent his name to an automobile factory. The plant produced extraordinary vehicles, which even with the innovative 4-wheel braking system remained moderately priced. A Rickenbacker Six four-door sedan sold for under $2000. Christopher would have traded his soul for one.

Wondering why the little man had parted company with Rickenbacker, and how he ended up an errand boy for Dapper Dan, Christopher decided he might as well find out what Lefty could do. Praying his sole means of transportation survived whatever Lefty had in mind, he pulled a $50 bill from the retainer Nina Clifford had given him and handed it over.

… … … … …

What Lefty could do, Christopher discovered when he answered the little man's summons to "come take a gander," gave him a nice new crop of premature gray hairs.

"Lucky it wasn't any older," Lefty said, "or I couldn't've put the self-starter in. It was optional on this model, but whoever bought it was too cheap to pay the extra. I put in a fuel pump, so no more backing up hills. Now you gotta watch it, 'cause self-starters are vulnerable to bombs, the way the crank never was. You still got the gas tank right under the driver's seat. If that blows, they'll have to pick up what's left of you with a blotter."

Accustomed to the complicated procedure required to crank-start the car - set the spark, adjust the choke, turn the crank, and cross your fingers the blasted thing didn't backfire and break your arm when the crank counter-rotated - Christopher took the passenger seat. He watched closely as Lefty toed the starter button on the floorboard. The engine purred magically to life.

He scrabbled for a handhold as the runabout leaped from the curb and zoomed down the street as if chased by the hounds of hell.

"I doubled your horsepower and about doubled the speed she can reach," Lefty shouted over the howling slipstream. "Too bad you don't have a speedometer. I bet we're pushing fifty. Fellow I used to work with at Budd's in Philly? Tesla. An inventor. He's working on one. Working on a new kind of engine, too. Powered by a turbine - "

KA-BLAAAM!

The Model T careened to the right. Lefty yanked the wheel hard left to keep from taking out a fire hydrant. Automatic in hand, Christopher was trying to spot the shooter and return fire when he realized one of the runabout's tires had blown.

"Pathetic" Lefty said, eying the destroyed tire. "I hope you got a spare."

That afternoon, although he had nothing to offer beyond his visit to Hogan and the go-between's agreement to cooperate, Christopher decided to drive to Nina's and give Althea a progress report.

He expected Althea to be busy inventorying bed sheets or preparing a bank deposit, and was disappointed not to find her in Nina's office. Hoping no one would notice him, he peeked cautiously around the corner into the 'day room' where Nina's girls gathered for a meal before the brothel opened for the evening. No Althea. Two or three of the girls smiled enticingly and beckoned him to join them.

"Later," he promised with fingers crossed behind his back. Turning to escape, he almost mowed down Etta as she carried in a coffee urn.

"Sorry, me darlin'," he said, clasping her shoulders until she had her balance. "Would ya know where I'd be finding Mrs. Macklin?"

"The ballroom, Sir."

He'd been hearing music, he realized. Not the assorted honky-tonk tunes and ballads from Nina's phonograph record collection, but the same melody played again and then again on a piano. He followed the sound, pausing inside the open doors when he reached the ballroom.

"I think you've got it, Duckie" Nina told the woman perched atop the piano. "Run through it one more time."

"I'll see you in my dre-e-eeams," the woman crooned, "and I'll hold you in my dre-e-eeams…."

Once again Christopher found himself staring, mouth agape. No question the voice was Althea's, but her own mother wouldn't have known her.

Her silver-blonde tresses were gone, cut in a chin-length bob and dyed a witchy black. A red silk show gown slit thigh high and shimmering with beaded fringe had replaced her mourning garments. She clasped a long, red lacquer cigarette holder in one gloved hand. Red tinted silk stockings and high-heeled shoes completed her ensemble.

And damn if she couldn't sing. Her low, throaty voice was made for slow, sexy ballads. Christopher stood unmoving, entranced.

When she finished the number and hopped down from the piano, Christopher's applause startled everyone in the ballroom. Louie's hand disappeared beneath the keyboard, then reappeared gripping a tiny, four barreled pistol. Recognizing Christopher, the piano player slipped the derringer back in its hiding place.

"Mercy, Christopher," Nina said as she marched over to hook an arm through his, "you mustn't sneak up on people like that. I didn't know whether to dive behind the piano or reach for my shooting irons."

"Mrs. Clifford, you tote shooting irons? 'Tis amazed I am."

'Tis damn near shot, you were," Louis said, mimicking Christopher's brogue in his deep bass.

"Can't be too careful when you're harboring a fugitive," Nina said. "What do you think of Althea's disguise?"

"Fooled me completely. I come lookin' to speak with your secretary and instead I find a torch singer."

"Not quite yet," Althea said, joining them. "I don't have any repertoire to speak of. The only singing I've done outside church is in the shower."

Did she have to say shower, Christopher wondered. A picture of her, naked, wet, and soapy, arose like some exotic blossom in his imagination. He tugged his jacket closed to cover his reaction to the image.

"Do ya think it's a good idea, Mrs. Clifford, puttin' Mrs. Macklin on public view like this?"

"Did you recognize her?"

"Well, no, but that's not sayin' someone else wouldn't. Her husband - "

Althea exploded in a fit of giggles. It was the first he'd heard her laugh. The sound made him want to sweep her up and whirl her around, or present her with the Hope diamond, just so he could hear her squeal with delight.

"Nina," she said, "can't you just picture Humphrey coming in here?"

Nina gave her a look.

"Oh, heavens, you don't mean he actually…did?" She no longer sounded so amused.

"It was long ago, Duckie. Long before he married you."

"I wish I'd known when I filed for separate maintenance," Althea said. "I could've blackmailed him."

If you'd ever dressed like this for him, Christopher thought, you wouldn't have to.

Taking a strangle hold on his thoughts, Christopher said, "I came to give Mrs. Macklin a progress report. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

"Use my office," Nina said. "I've got some errands to run."

Christopher and Althea gave each other puzzled looks. Nina Clifford wasn't in the habit of running errands.

… … … … … …

His progress report took less than three minutes to relate. Casting about for some excuse to prolong the time he spent with Althea, he heard himself blurt, "There's a Tom Mix picture playing at the American Theater. I don't suppose you'd care to go?"

Althea suddenly looked very sad. "That's the movie my sister and I were going to see this weekend."

"Aw, geeze, 'tis sorry I am." Me and my big mouth.

She laid a hand on his arm, and his arm ignited.

"It's not your fault, Mr. Chance. Please don't feel bad. I'd love to see a movie, just…not that one. I haven't seen the new Valentino picture. The Eagle. It's playing at the Mounds. I've heard it's swell."

Oh great, Christopher thought. Another 'Latin Lover' lover. Mrs. Gustav and her daughters could rattle on for hours it seemed, Rudy this, Valentino that. However, if it meant spending more time with Althea, he could sit through the show. Maybe even pick up some pointers….

"The Mounds it is, then. And please call me Christopher. Umm…would ya care to get a bite of dinner before we go?"

"Dinner sounds wonderful. And you must call me Althea. But please, let me treat. You've been so kind, it's the least I can do."

Christopher had never, in his adult life, allowed a woman to pay for an outing. He didn't intend to start now. "Tell ya what. We'll toss a coin. Loser buys dinner." He fished a $5.00 gold piece from his pocket. "Call it."

"Heads."

Rather clumsily he managed to reverse the coin before presenting it. "Tails it is."

Althea put her hands on her hips. "I saw you switch that coin."

"Did ya now? 'Tis a sharp eye ya have, me lass. Want to try for best out of three?"

"Only if I toss the coin. You, Sir, cheat!"

"Guilty as charged, but I'll be doin' the buying. When should I pick you up?"

Preparing to pick up Althea felt odd to Christopher. A long time had passed since his last outing with a lady. Girl, really. He was nineteen, she maybe seventeen. A church social. Lots of water had washed across his decks since then, he mused. He'd slain a traitor, fled to America, joined the Merchant Marines. Proudly took the oath of allegiance when he became a citizen.

He seldom met eligible ladies. When he was with Pinkerton's, he never stayed in one place long enough. Since opening his own business he rarely had the means to show a nice girl a good time. There had been that one…adventure with Hazel when the elevator got stuck between floors. You couldn't really count that as a good time, even with Hazel trapped with him. And calling Hazel a nice girl was like calling a mountain lion a pussycat.

So, nowadays when he craved female companionship, he carried a pocket full of change to Olaf's Cabaret where the Dime-a-Dance dollies were only too happy to sit out a few numbers, drink some root beer, and talk. Once in a while he took one of Nina's girls upstairs.

But this was a real date. The kind where you shave a second time, wear a dinner jacket and tie, and maybe buy the lady a corsage. Did you bring a corsage when taking a lady to dinner and a movie? Maybe a single long stem red rose was better. No, make it white.

He hesitated befor strapping on his shoulder holster. It was uncomfortable as hell and he wished he could leave it behind. But with Althea's husband still free to make trouble, he'd better carry it.

At six-thirty he arrived on Althea's - well, Nina Clifford's - doorstep. Althea was staying at Nina's home, she'd pointedly reminded him. A butler answered the bell.

"Please come in," he said, taking Christopher's fedora. "Mrs. Macklin will be right down. Do have a seat."

He was too nervous to do anything but pace.

Mrs. Macklin. He'd given little thought to the fact he was stepping out with a married - albeit legally separated - woman. Whose husband's presence lurking in the wings presented a boulder-sized stumbling block between himself and the woman who made his heart turn cartwheels just by smiling at him. Like she was now.

"Hello, Christopher," Althea said.

He stopped pacing and proffered the rose. "This is for you."

"Thank you. It's lovely."

So are you, Christopher thought.

The bobbed black hair was utterly different from the image he carried in his mind's eye from the first time he saw her. Still, the new look somehow suited her. She wore a dark lavender frock with a wide-pleated over-skirt that didn't quite reveal her knees. A band of beadwork sewn in geometric patterns encircled the waist and neckline, and twinkled with every breath she took. She wore a long necklace of matching beads and carried a tiny handbag that matched her French heeled shoes. A delicious fragrance enveloped her. He wanted to press his face against her skin and never stop inhaling.

"You look good enough to eat."

She laughed. "You must be famished if that's what you think. Let me find a vase for this, then we can go."

The butler materialized as if waiting for his cue. "May I take that for you?"

"Thank you Travis. Make sure it goes in my room, will you please?"

"Of course, Mrs. Macklin." He took the rose and handed Christopher his hat. "Enjoy your evening."

Outside, Althea heaved a huge sigh. "Servants! They make me feel so…so inadequate, know what I mean?"

"They scare me silly."

"So let's go somewhere plain and simple for dinner - unless you made reservations?"

He hadn't even thought of reservations.

He took her to Bambino Billy's, where tiny tables bore red and white checked tablecloths and fat red or white candles. Billy - whose real name, Guillermo, wouldn't fit on the restaurant's menus, served heaping plates of spaghetti topped with sauce that had simmered for hours before being offered to customers.

"The best I've ever tasted," Althea told him, and Bambino Billy beamed with pleasure.

He produced bowls of spumoni for dessert and somehow Christopher and Althea ended up feeding each other spoonfuls of ice cream.

They took the long way to Indian Mounds Park. The theater was situated at the edge of the park, close by a bakery. The fragrance of bread baking for tomorrow's early-bird customers vied with the odor of fish, mud, and lubricating oil arising from the nearby Mississippi River. A switch-engine rattled and chuffed in railroad yards they could see if they climbed one of the mounds.

Twinkling lights in a fountain design crowned the Mounds Theater marquee. Larger-than-life posters of Rudolph Valentino hung in the lobby's display windows. Christopher pretended not to notice the look Althea shot him when he asked for seats in the balcony.

"So kids can't drop popcorn on us - or worse," he said as he escorted her up the narrow staircase, but they both knew the real reason dating couples asked for balcony seats was to neck.

They arrived in the middle of a newsreel, which was followed by a Felix the Cat cartoon. Christopher would later recall not a single scene from Valentino's latest movie.

What he did recall was the aroma of popcorn filling the theater. Althea's perfume. The way they laughed at Felix's antics. The theater pianist's obvious delight in finding music to match the action on the screen.

Christopher finally risked draping his arm around the back of Althea's seat. He was thrilled when she leaned closer and rested her head against his shoulder. She uttered a soft little sigh he would remember to his dying breath.

He turned to whisper something to her just as she turned to say something to him, and that easily their mouths came together. Her kiss was warm and sweet and somehow conveyed a wistful yearning for him to kiss her again, this time not by accident. He was more than happy to oblige.

… … … … … …

They kissed goodbye - again - in the car so no one would see them. He'd parked half-way down the block, to have an excuse to hold Althea's hand a little longer as he walked her to her door.

"I had a wonderful time," she told him as she removed the house key from her purse.

"Me, too," Christopher said. "Maybe we could do it again some time." Like tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that.

The lock was being stubborn. Althea gave him a helpless look. "I can't get the key to turn."

"Let me try."

Christopher reached for the key. As he did, a wave of dizziness swept over him. He blinked it away and reached again for the key. Pain like the stings of a thousand bees swept him from scalp to toes. It settled in his head, in his mind, and he heard himself yelling through clenched teeth.

He heard Althea screaming, crying out for help, and wondered if this was how a bullet to the brain felt. If another Macklin hit-man had recognized Althea. Was she hurt? If he'd failed to protect her, he'd never forgive himself. Then the world around him went black and he guessed he'd never know.