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

I drew duty covering the executive-board meeting of the local council of the Boy Scouts of America in Canajoharie. Not much less interesting than a City Council meeting, and it was short and easy to write for Monday’s edition. I scribbled the details in my pad and figured Norma could simply type it up without changes. I enjoyed the drive back to New Holland along the river, smiling to myself as I passed the turnoff for the Fulton Reform School for Boys. It warmed my heart to think of Joey Figlio locked up inside those walls. And if he were to escape and steal my car, I would never freeze to death on a glorious, sunny winter’s day like this one.

When I arrived back at the paper, the City Room was empty, except for George Walsh, who was typing away furiously at his desk. He saw me enter, sneered my way, then returned to his task. I left my story from the Boy Scouts’ meeting for Norma on her desk. That’s when I noticed a folder of her notes on the Darleen Hicks piece left open next to her typewriter. I picked up the first sheet of paper and read.

“Monday: Call CO at Fort Huachuca re. Wilbur Burch and Darleen Hicks. Confirm her arrival. Check bus schedule. E. S. to Arizona?”

There were phone numbers and names of army personnel, secretaries, and addresses. I hadn’t asked her to do any of these things, but my Norma was a self-starter, it seemed. I also had no intention of going to Arizona, even if Artie Short had been willing to pay my fare. For me the story was over. But I thought the answers might be of interest to Irene Metzger. She might want to contact her wayward daughter. I closed the folder and replaced it in Norma’s filing cabinet behind her desk.

“Why don’t you take a picture? It lasts longer,” I said to Georgie Porgie who, I noticed, was watching me.

I spent Saturday afternoon doing laundry and watching the NFL consolation game, the marvelously alliterative Bert Bell Benefit Bowl. A bit anticlimactic, but not a bad game. The Lions beat the Browns 17–16. After some ironing and some housework, I worked my way through a couple of crosswords I’d been neglecting. It felt good to be free of Darleen Hicks’s sad story, even if I had wasted a few days on it. I relaxed in front of the television, watching the news then Perry Mason. I kind of had a thing for Paul Drake. Something about his checked sport coats and white hair. After the wild courtroom confession at the end of the last act, I got up to pour myself a drink, happy to spend a quiet Saturday evening alone. But the cupboard was bare. Well, not exactly bare, but there wasn’t enough whiskey to see me through the night and Sunday, too. The prospect of a dry Sunday made me shudder. Damn blue laws.

Remembering Mrs. Giannetti’s admonition about the delivery boy’s gossip, I pulled on my coat and grabbed my purse. Clark’s Wine and Liquors on Brookside wasn’t the cheapest, but it was the closest to my apartment. Clark Robinson, a colored man with one arm, was the proprietor. He didn’t ask questions or make small talk. He just stuffed your bottles into a bag and took your money. Two fifths of Dewar’s would see me easily through the weekend, unless I had company.

I drove home and parked opposite Fiorello’s as usual. The place was hopping, with teenagers spilling out onto the sidewalk, enjoying the warm weather after so much cold. I thought I’d stop in to see Fadge at the end of the evening, but for now I had an appointment with a tumbler and some ice.

I climbed the stairs and paused at my kitchen door, fumbling with the keys, squeezing my parcel to my side so as not to drop it. It wasn’t until I’d unlocked the door and pushed my way inside that I noticed—too late— that I was not alone. From the dark of the vestibule, a thin figure slipped inside behind me. I shrieked, but he shushed me. I switched on the light, ready to bash that damn Joey Figlio on the head with one of my bottles. But it wasn’t Joey at all.

“Frankie!” I cried. The little JD who’d threatened my life at the reform school. “Stay away from me!”

“It’s okay,” he said, holding out his hands to indicate his good intentions. He looked small, scared, and hungry. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

We stood there frozen for nearly a minute, each terrified of the other. His chest rose and fell as he huffed for air, as if he’d just run a four-minute mile. I held my breath waiting for some kind of explanation of why he was gasping in my kitchen.

“Can I have something to eat?” he asked finally. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“Please, just give me a cracker or something. Then I’ll tell you.”

In the freezer, I found some Swedish meatballs I’d frozen in October after a truncated dinner date with a handsome young pediatrician who’d recently moved to town. After a few drinks, he made the mistake of sharing his politics with me. Not only did he not end up in my bed, I threw him out without his supper.

Frankie stuffed some potato chips into his mouth and washed them down with a beer as the meatballs warmed on the stove. I gave him some bread and butter to accompany the meatballs, wondering if he was going to kill me once his strength had been restored. I watched from a distance as he ate. The angry young man I’d met at the reform school looked more like a frightened boy in my kitchen. His greasy hair, wet with sweat, clung to his head making him look even smaller. His football mustache was gone, and his checked shirt was wrinkled and perspired. Funny