Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (android e book reader txt) 📗

around much. Once or twice. She was quiet. Didn’t say much at all to my wife and me. I thought she was a little slow, if you know what I mean.”

“Did they seem happy together?” I asked, wondering how Darleen could seem slow when standing next to Joey Figlio. “Your son says they were in love.”

Orlando Figlio scratched his head, his scruffy eyebrows arching and eyes yawning wide open as if pulled up by strings. “What do kids know about love? Besides, Joey wouldn’t have told me nothing anyway. We don’t talk much.”

“What about his mother? Did Joey confide in her?”

He shrugged. “Sure, I suppose he did. Mother’s a boy’s best friend, after all.”

“Do you suppose I could speak to your wife about Joey?” I asked.

He eyed me with suspicion. “What do you want to know about Joey for anyway?”

“I’m not in love with your son, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said. “I’m investigating Darleen Hicks’s disappearance, and Joey told me they were planning to get married and run away together. Maybe he said something to your wife.”

Orlando Figlio thought about it then said he didn’t like the idea. “What do you mean, ‘investigating’? What’s a girl like you got to investigate? I just wanted to apologize to you for what my boy did. I didn’t think you’d want to start playing policeman.”

“I’m a reporter for the paper, Mr. Figlio, not a cop,” I said, reaching out and touching his arm. “Trust me. I’m looking for Darleen. I don’t want to investigate Joey.”

He smiled at me and blushed. His teeth were long and gray, but his crazy eyes sparkled, the result of my hand on his arm, surely. There was something about the soft touch of a girl’s hand that he liked. He said he would ask his wife.

“But she’s in Cobleskill visiting her aunt. That’s why she ain’t here. She’ll be home Sunday.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

FRIDAY, JANUARY 6, 1961

The next afternoon, I was at my desk, rolling another sheet of paper into the Underwood. Norma Geary was leaning over my shoulder, waiting for the final version of my story to spirit away to Composition.

“It’s not going to get written any faster with you hovering over me,” I said as I began to type.

“Harry’s waiting,” she said, referring to our typesetter. “If you want this in tomorrow’s edition, it’s got to go now. The entire paper is put to bed except your story and the basketball-game story, which, by the way, is also yours.”

“Jeepers, I must be good,” I said. “How much do they pay me?”

Norma feigned a smile. “They’ve left space for your basketball story. Harry said he’ll fit it in tomorrow morning before going to print. Now, about your Darleen Hicks story . . .”

There wasn’t much left for me to write about except the Trailways receipt and everything its very existence suggested. Once finished, my article would all but close the disappearance of the ninth grader.

George Walsh entered the newsroom and waddled over to his desk a short distance away. He threw a sour look my way then inspected the nibs of several pencils before finally selecting one.

“What are you doing here, Stone?” he asked as he scribbled something on a sheet of paper before him. “I thought Charlie sent you out on basketball duty.” He chuckled. “Better you than me.”

“Funny. That’s what Charlie said, too,” I answered, and George’s smirk vanished. Norma snorted back a laugh.

“Are you lost, Mrs. Geary?” he asked. “Mighty far from the steno pool, aren’t we?”

“Mr. Reese assigned me to Miss Stone,” she said. “I’m her assistant.”

George’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, and he could muster no speech. After huffing and puffing himself breathless, he grabbed a sheet of carbon and rolled it backwards into his electric typewriter—no accompanying paper—and began banging away.

“You’re going to be late for the basketball,” Norma said.

“Leaving now,” I mumbled. “This one’s not ready yet. Just notes, mostly. Take this one instead,” I said, shoving a two-page report on the city council’s last meeting at her.

Georgie Porgie noticed his blunder with the carbon paper and tore it from the machine. He glanced at me to see if I was watching and, like a snoozing cat that’s fallen off the sofa, pretended nothing had happened.

“All right, then,” said Norma. “You’ll have to finish the Hicks story tomorrow.” George Walsh’s ears pricked up. “It can wait one more day.”

I slipped what I had of Darleen’s story into the drawer of my desk, grabbed my coat and purse, and hurried out the door, trying to remember if I had enough Scotch at home for after the game. I turned to wish Norma good night, and noticed George Walsh glaring at me. I was sure he’d be complaining to Artie Short about my assistant as soon as I’d gone.

The New Holland Bucks and the Mont Pleasant Red Raiders of Schenectady took to the court at seven. A full house cheered them on as the boys ran through their pregame layup and passing drills. I was courtside, loading film in my camera and scouting the opponents as they warmed up, placing names to the skinny frames for my recap later on. Minutes before the tip-off, Coach Mahoney gathered his charges around the bench to review the game plan. Once he’d finished and the boys had broken their huddle, I corralled Teddy Jurczyk on the bench as he tightened his shoelaces. I introduced myself and asked if I could speak to him after the game for the newspaper. He looked a little frightened, but then smiled shyly and said sure. Just then, Ted Russell, of all people, tapped me on the shoulder.

“I’ve tried to phone you, Ellie, but you’re never home.”

Teddy Jurczyk blushed, and I cursed my bad luck for running into the music teacher.

“Yes, I’m on duty, Mr. Russell,” I said, now blushing myself and surely fooling no one.

“Working on the Darleen Hicks story?” he asked. “At the basketball game? Don’t