A Cast of Killers

CHAPTER FOURTEEN



As soon as she saw the long line still snaking down the sidewalk toward St. Barnabas, she realized that they were in deep trouble and hurried inside. Nearly everyone should have been fed by now.

To her surprise, Bob Fleming had kept his word. Despite his own miseries, he was there behind the counter handing plates of hot food across to hungry patrons. Father Stebbins was back at work beside him, looking uncharacteristically subdued. Annie O'Day was sweating over one of the big industrial stoves in back, while the remaining volunteers fought valiantly to maintain order.

She saw at once where the confusion began. Auntie Lil appointed herself guardian of the silverware and napkins, then began to hand out trays. The logjam in the line cleared quickly and the flow of hungry people picked up their pace.

Thank God Adelle and her followers had already been through the line. Auntie Lil did not think that she could look them in the eye knowing that Eva was dead and that they were all about to be pulled off their unofficial positions on the case. Herbert was right. This was a job for him. He handled the dirty work so well.

Auntie Lil took advantage of a lull in the crowd to speak to Bob Fleming. She felt guilty for having been afraid of him at Homefront. "I must salute you," she began. "Being able to put your own troub—" She stopped. Bob Fleming had turned pale and was not listening. He was staring at the door behind her.

She whirled around. Little Pete was heading straight for them and his face was streaked with tears. Gone was the tough little man of the streets. He was a terrified child crying for help. At first she could not understand his words, he was emitting such an hysterical mixture of cries and bellowings. Bob Fleming was better at the translation.

"What?" He jumped over the counter and pushed a hungry customer aside. "What did you say?" he demanded of the terrified boy. Father Stebbins hurried around the counter and joined the tableau.

"He's dead," Little Pete shouted, tears streaking down his face. "I think he's dead. The man said to go get Timmy at Homefront and bring him to this old building but when we got there, Rodney started beating up on him. You should have heard the sound. I had to run away. He was too big." The boy held his hands over his ears and shut his eyes to erase the memory. "I didn't know where else to go. You wasn't at Homefront so I thought of here."

"Where is Timmy now?" Fleming shouted, pulling on Little Pete's arms. He screamed over his shoulder for Annie O'Day. Auntie Lil knelt down and drew the sobbing boy close. She was vaguely aware that a crowd had gathered around them, and that Adelle and her followers hovered on the outer perimeter watching and exchanging horrified glances.

"Where is he now?" Bob Fleming insisted again, before he was pushed aside by an efficient Annie O'Day.

"Pete, Pete, Pete," she repeated over and over until the boy calmed down. "Maybe Timmy isn't dead. Maybe he's just hurt. I want you to bring me to him. Okay? I'll come with you now and you show me where he is. Where the man left him. I'm a nurse. Maybe I can help Timmy." She spoke slowly and calmly until the small boy stopped trembling. The rest of the room waited quietly. She knew what she was doing.

"He's in that old piano warehouse along Eleventh Avenue," Little Pete sobbed in a tiny voice. He gulped. "There's a way to sneak in the back."

"He's talking about the building at Eleventh and Forty-Sixth," Annie told Bob Fleming sharply. "Call an ambulance and have them meet me there." She turned back to Little Pete and her voice softened to that of a mother crooning a child to sleep. "Can you take me there?" she asked gently. "I'll bring my bag and we'll see what we can do."

Pete nodded and waited while Annie grabbed her bag from a shelf in the kitchen, then took her outstretched hand. They walked calmly out of the basement and the crowd parted before them without comment. Even the most deranged of the kitchen's customers sensed that something terrible had just happened and that, whatever it was, it was bad enough without their help.

As soon as Annie and Little Pete hit the steps, they began to run.

Auntie Lil stared after them, only dimly aware that Bob Fleming had dashed upstairs in search of a telephone. She was startled back to reality by a terrible choking sound. Father Stebbins had turned pale blue white and was slumped against the counter with his hand on his throat, coughing violently. The cough turned into a rasping wheeze.

Oh, God, Auntie Lil thought. Not another.

"Asthma," Father Stebbins wheezed helplessly. "Medicine upstairs." Fran took off running up the steps without being asked, while Auntie Lil loosened his collar. He bent at the waist, trying to breathe. The mixture of choked air and garbled words was as terrifying as Little Pete's pronouncement had been. The priest sounded as if he were being strangled into silence.

"My fault," he whistled between whooping intakes of breath. "This is all my fault."

"Don't talk," Auntie Lil commanded, shooing the curious back. She exchanged a glance with Adelle and the elderly actress majestically wound her way through the crowd toward Auntie Lil.

"Help him," Auntie Lil said simply. "Fran is coming with medication." Without waiting for the reply, she turned and walked briskly out the door. She would see for herself what they had done to Timmy.

A block away, a running figure brushed past her. She stared after broad shoulders in a plaid lumberjack shirt. Bob Fleming was heading for the warehouse, too. He would get there well before she would. But she was hurrying as fast as she could.

When she finally reached the intersection of Eleventh and Forty-Sixth, it was marked by two huge abandoned buildings. She had no way of knowing which one was the right one until Bob Fleming burst out onto the sidewalk through the twin door of one of them, his shoulder tearing off the padlock from the inside like a battering ram. He had climbed in the back and blasted his way out of the front to create a clearer path for the medics.

"Stand there and wave down the ambulance," he commanded Auntie Lil. "I have to help Annie bring the kid down the steps."

Auntie Lil obeyed. The sound of sirens was still far away, wailing impatiently in short bursts of indignant bleating. The ambulance had gotten trapped in the heavier afternoon traffic along the West Side arteries and selfish drivers were blocking its path. Auntie Lil began to curse, unaware that Little Pete had returned to stand by her side. Then a small hand slipped into hers. It was trembling.

"Annie says he's alive," the small boy stammered. "Annie says he's alive."

"Of course he's alive," Auntie Lil told him crisply, though she was weak with relief at his words. "We aren't going to let Timmy die. And we aren't going to let you get hurt anymore, either."

The sounds of sirens grew louder, accompanied by flashing red lights and the sound of an angry man on a bullhorn.

"Clear the lane," a deep voice boomed. "Clear the lane immediately."

"Cops!" Little Pete shouted. It was a single but powerful word, and it triggered an automatic reaction in him. He jerked his hand from Auntie Lil. Before she could stop him, he darted across the packed lanes of traffic. She watched helplessly as the small figure ran down the opposite sidewalk. He turned up toward Tenth Avenue and was gone.

The door clanged open behind her again and Bob Fleming re-emerged, holding a small bundle of blood, flesh and ripped clothing in his hands. Annie O'Day walked calmly beside the human catastrophe, holding an I.V. drip bag in one hand. It was attached to a small, clear tube that snaked down into the gore. "Where is it?" she asked angrily when she saw no ambulance waiting.

"It's here!" Auntie Lil shouted as she stood on her tiptoes and waved her pocketbook frantically, putting her legendary cab-hailing skills to good use. Her gesture was answered by the stepped-up volume of a siren and, suddenly, the ambulance dispensed with the traffic jam altogether. It hopped the curb and came tearing down the sidewalk toward them, followed by two patrol cars.

The attendant was out of the passenger seat before the vehicle had stopped. Another pair of medics popped from the back with a stretcher. The small figure in Bob Fleming's arms was swiftly transferred to a stretcher and lifted into the back of the ambulance.

"What is it?" a burly paramedic asked quietly.

"It's a small boy," replied Annie O'Day.


Despite a cup of coffee and his resolve to puzzle out Worthington's motives, T.S. had not been able to stay awake long enough to get anywhere. His body had cried out for still more sleep and he had barely been able to make it to the living room couch before he was out again. He awoke hours later to the rude sensation of having his face scraped with sandpaper. He opened an eye and an enormous yellow orb stared down at him. Worse, something was nibbling at his toes.

He groaned and struggled to sit up. What was he doing asleep on his own couch? The murky light outside indicated that it was early evening; the behavior of his hungry cats confirmed it. He padded into the kitchen and fed Brenda and Eddie an entire can of cat food each. After scratching Sally St. Claire, they deserved it.

He checked the answering machine. There was a message from Auntie Lil, but the street noises behind her made it difficult for him to understand. The gist of the message seemed to be that she loathed his answering machine. He sighed and tried to reach her at home without any luck. She must still be busy at the soup kitchen, he reasoned. Perhaps he should stop by to see.

Lilah's coat still hung, untouched, over a chair. Where was she? What was taking her so long?

He made himself some plain egg noodles and nibbled at them tentatively. They went down smoothly and stayed there. In fact, he felt almost human again. He pulled out the envelope that Worthington had given him and reexamined the address and apartment number. It was not Emily's, after all, but the unit next door on the same floor. Why would Lance Worthington invite him to that particular apartment? What could be waiting for him there?

Of course. T.S. suddenly remembered the sounds he had overheard and the shadows he had seen the day that he and Auntie Lil had searched Emily's apartment. A young boy had run past them, followed by a red-faced man trying to hide his identity.

But surely Worthington didn't believe that he was one of those sweaty middle-aged men who—T.S.'s spoon clanked abruptly into the bowl.

Of course Worthington thought he was into young boys. The man's mind was in the gutter. In such a disgusting context, the producer's entire cryptic conversation that afternoon made perfect sense.

T.S. knew exactly what would happen. He would walk into the apartment and a young boy would be waiting for him. One of those tough, overused hardened street kids with a heart made of leather. In fact, the young boy could very well be Timmy. If so, it was the perfect opportunity for T.S. to speak to him alone. They'd been trying to contact the boy for a week to determine how and what he knew about Emily.

Even more significantly, Auntie Lil had failed utterly at this task. Finally, it was his turn to get there first.

Except that he wasn't going to be stupid about it. Being alone in a room with an underage boy who specialized in middle-aged men was far too indiscreet an act to attempt without a witness. And who could guarantee the boy would be alone? He needed a hidden observer, someone to protect his own reputation. It had to be a person who could be counted on to remain discreetly in the background shadows. Someone who would not try to butt in at a delicate moment and wrestle the conversation away from T.S. Which absolutely ruled out Auntie Lil. But left Herbert Wong. Herbert was agile enough to climb a fire escape, smart enough to stay hidden and easy to contact.

T.S. checked his watch. It was nearly eight o'clock, which meant that Herbert was conveniently at his post across from Emily's building already. Unless he was getting carried away again with his potted plant disguises, T.S. would have no trouble spotting him and enlisting him in the plan.

Four aspirins and another shower later, T.S. was on his way back to Hell's Kitchen.


Herbert Wong had heard about Timmy's injuries from Adelle and her followers at their afternoon meeting. He, in turn, had broken the sad news about Eva's death. Their reactions had, surprisingly, been muted. Until he realized that many of the old actresses may have been in shock. The more shaken women quickly returned to their tiny apartments or group homes where they felt safe. Three of the hardier ones, including Adelle, elected to accompany Herbert to Roosevelt Hospital where, they assured him, Timmy would have been taken. Herbert wanted to see if Auntie Lil needed him.

Their presence complicated an already chaotic scene. Timmy had been whisked immediately into the emergency room entrance, but the waiting area outside was jam-packed with the poor of the neighborhood, who considered the emergency room to be a de facto doctor's office. This annoyed the overburdened nurses and aides, who were forced to make such patients wait and wait while the more drastically injured were attended to. The medium-sized room was clogged with clusters of rejected and weary mothers holding ragged children whose running noses and frequent coughs rendered a diagnosis redundant. Interspersed among these contagious hopefuls were pockets of the more befuddled homeless, who came to Roosevelt for a kind word and, perhaps, the chance of being treated as a human being by an understanding doctor or nurse. They were also there for the warmth. The night outside had grown chilly and the waiting room cozy from the heat of many bodies. In short, it was a clean, well-lighted place.

Here and there among this noisy, angry crowd were real emergency-room candidates. They were in pain and outnumbered. A young man in athletic sweats slumped in a chair, his face contorted in pain and one ankle propped on a nearby coffee table. His girlfriend fussed around him, rubbing the injured joint and glaring at an oblivious nurse's aide. A basketball had rolled under his chair, forgotten by all but a young boy sniffling nearby, who eyed it with longing and hope. Against the far wall of the waiting room, a very young and very drunk Danish sailor, on leave from his ship berthed nearby, clutched a hand that dripped steady drops of blood onto his white uniform. The scarlet stain spread across his chest as if he had been pierced in the heart. But the nurses—who had already confirmed that it was a minor cut hand inflicted by a broken beer bottle—had decided that he deserved to wait.

The only respite from the madness of this hopeless system was a small cluster of waiting figures anchored by a waving Auntie Lil. They had pulled their chairs in a broad semicircle in front of the double-wide doors that led to the treatment rooms of the emergency facility. Every time anyone entered or exited the inner sanctum, Auntie Lil was able to peek inside and demand updates from whatever hounded medical professional had failed to move quickly enough to avoid her. One dashed successfully past just as Herbert, Adelle and her two consorts joined the group.

"Sir!" Auntie Lil demanded of the already departed doctor. He left a faint whiff of antiseptic behind.

"How is he?" Herbert asked Auntie Lil quietly. "Miss Adelle filled me in on what happened."

"He's alive. That's all I know," she replied miserably. She lifted her brows slightly and slid her eyes quietly to the right. Father Stebbins sat crouched in a chair beside her, a rosary clutched in his hands. His lips moved silently as he prayed and his eyes glistened with tears. He alone among the suffering had managed, at least in mind, to escape the stuffy waiting room. Fran sat next to him, tight-lipped and silent, her hand resting lightly on the priest's arm.

"What happened?" Herbert asked Auntie Lil quietly, aware that Adelle was listening in. "I heard very few details. Only that the young boy's friend ran into St. Barnabas shouting that Timmy was dead."

"We don't know yet," Auntie Lil told him. "He was lured to an abandoned building and beaten almost to death. Little Pete escaped unharmed, but he ran away before he would say who was responsible."

From long habit, Herbert's eyes slid from face to face in the dreary room. "That's the Homefront man," he confirmed in a low voice, indicating Bob Fleming.

Auntie Lil nodded. They watched the Homefront director quietly argue with a nurse at the admitting desk. He was obviously a veteran at negotiating quick settlements in the overcrowded, overworked atmosphere. He spoke quickly and firmly, but in a low voice, his finger frequently hitting the countertop for emphasis. Each time the nurse's face appeared about to cross over to anger, he would lean close and whisper something that triggered a quick smile.

"He knows what he's doing," Herbert confirmed.

"Let's hope so. He signed a stack of papers two feet high." Auntie Lil nodded toward the cold steel doors. "They let Annie inside. They seem to know her well here."

Herbert nodded and gently took Auntie Lil's hand. "Not your fault," he said simply and she replied with a weak smile.

"Miss Hubbert." Bob Fleming stood before them, looking tired but hopeful. "I guess they don't have time to read the newspapers around here. They don't seem to know I'm a pariah. They've agreed to admit him if Homefront guarantees the bill. I'm going to go down to the precinct now and talk to the detectives who questioned me about Timmy's allegations yesterday."

"Now?" Auntie Lil asked in surprise.

Fleming shrugged. "There's nothing more I can do here and I might as well volunteer for questions before they come and drag me down there. This way, it will look a whole lot better. I'm sure I'm the number one suspect in their book."

"I can certainly vouch for your whereabouts when this happened," Fran spoke up. Her voice was firm and calm; she remained in complete control. Father Stebbins, on the other hand, appeared not to have heard. He was still lost in prayer and worry.

Fleming nodded his thanks. "Good. You'll have to. But it's still better this way. Annie will be out in a minute with a progress report. They say he's not as bad as he looked, but..." He shrugged and headed for the door, leaving them to the same, dismal shared thought: the boy had looked dead. "Better" could still mean pretty awful.

They sat in silence, staring at the double doors, until a sudden moan from Father Stebbins made them all jump. "My fault," he said distinctly, before lapsing back into prayer. Fran patted his arm.

The others were not reassured. Auntie Lil met Herbert's gaze, their look interrupted by a quiet hiss from Adelle. The elderly actress rolled her eyes with exaggerated drama and motioned for them to join her in a far corner, where they were forced to evict a nearly incoherent homeless man in order to preserve their privacy. The odor he left behind mingled with the strong smell of hospital ammonia. Auntie Lil felt faint and wavered.

"You okay?" Herbert asked solicitously as he gripped her elbow tightly, ready to steady her in case of a fall.

She shook him off with a dignity and strength that she did not, in truth, feel. "Of course. It's just that… things seem to have gotten out of hand."

Adelle and her followers put their heads together closely, exchanging a private look. "One of my girls saw Father Stebbins with Timmy this morning," Adelle whispered ominously. "And look at him now, blubbering into his rosary."

They turned as one and stared at the distraught priest. Fran stared back at them without emotion.

"Discreet, discreet," Herbert muttered with a sigh. "Please, ladies. We must be more discreet."

"I saw him with Timmy the other morning, too," Auntie Lil admitted. "But he is a priest. Perhaps he was hearing his confession or offering guidance."

Auntie Lil and Adelle exchanged an even glance. Both had noticed that Father Stebbins had disappeared for long stretches of time. "Not enough time to run up Tenth Avenue and beat up a small boy and get back in time to pass the lemon sauce," Adelle finally admitted aloud, somewhat dejectedly.

"But enough time to tell someone else to do it," Auntie Lil pointed out. Despite Herbert's warning, they turned again as one and stared at the priest.

"Ladies, please." Herbert was clearly annoyed at their lack of self-control. "You cannot be good at this unless you can control your curiosity." He steered Auntie Lil firmly back to her seat.

"How much longer do we have to wait?" Auntie Lil complained, settling back into the uncomfortable hard plastic. It was just like the chairs at St. Barnabas.

A few minutes later, the swinging doors opened and Annie O'Day appeared. Blood had dried all over the front of her gray sweat suit, but her face and hands had been scrubbed clean. Even exhausted, her pink cheeks glowed with health.

"How is he?" they asked in near unison.

"His condition has stabilized. They're admitting him now. We're in luck. One of their better doctors took an interest." She pushed her short hair off her face with a weary gesture.

"I must see the boy," Father Stebbins insisted in an abruptly commanding voice. He stood and rushed for the door.

"You can't." Annie blocked him with one quick movement, her shoulder bouncing him into a nearby wall.

The priest stared at her, dazed, and rubbed his shoulder almost petulantly. "I have to talk to him alone," he contended. "Please. I'm his priest."

Auntie Lil popped up from her chair in a sudden burst of panic and stared between Father Stebbins and Annie. "No one sees him alone," she blurted out.

Annie nodded her agreement, crossing her arms firmly as she barricaded the swinging doors. Their eyes met and both Auntie Lil and Annie O'Day nodded: they understood exactly what the other was thinking.


St. Barnabas was dark and barren, the basement darkest of all. It looked as if no one had set foot inside for years. Both safety gates were firmly padlocked. Clearly, Auntie Lil was not inside.

T.S. stood on the sidewalk, his light coat wrapped tightly against the early autumn chill. He was wondering what he should do next. It was nearly nine o'clock. He would be secure with Herbert backing him up, but—on the off chance that Worthington was somehow involved with Emily's death—if something happened to both him and Herbert, no one would ever know who was responsible. He ought to get word to Auntie Lil. Or he'd end up like Emily.

He tried Auntie Lil again at home without success, dialed again out of pure stubbornness and listened to fifteen empty shrill rings before finally relinquishing the phone to an impatient teenager. The gaunt young man was hopping lightly from foot to foot as he tried to intimidate T.S. with a stern stare. T.S. ignored it, though he was shocked to see that the kid wore an electronic beeper strapped to his belt. Great, thought T.S. grimly, as he headed uptown one block, we're making progress with our young after all. We've introduced them to the miracles of science. A new age of technologically-advanced drug dealing is dawning.

T.S. was stalling for time and he knew it. He was heading uptown because he had a vague idea that his great-grandparents had once lived on the site of the old Madison Square Garden. The lot where the towering new skyscraper now stood. He felt alone and he felt abandoned. He needed their comfort before embarking on his uncertain task.

The streets of Hell's Kitchen were curiously deserted in the post-twilight hours between curtain rise and curtain fall on nearby Broadway. It was not late enough for the sleaze merchants to be peddling their wares; it was too early for the nightcrawlers to have yet emerged. There was an uneasy peace about the neighborhood, giving it more of an air of a destination, rather than just a stop along the way. Gradually, T.S. became aware that the sensation was not unpleasant. He felt at home.

He reached his block and stood in the shadows of the huge skyscraper at Forty-Ninth and Eighth, looking up at the sky. The big building was nearly dark at this time of night, only the lower residential towers displayed the occasional light. But across the street, a long row of older apartment houses bravely fighting dilapidation blazed defiantly at the steel and concrete intruder. The shabby exteriors proudly housed vibrant interiors: the street twinkled with the lights of many filled rooms.

This was the real heart of Hell's Kitchen, T.S. thought. He had been mistaken when he believed the neighborhood was losing its fight against change. It knew just what it was doing. The lifeline of Hell's Kitchen had not changed one iota since the days of his great-grandfather. It still drew its extraordinary energy from the thousands of lives hidden behind worn doors and thin walls. And not even the drug dealers or prostitutes could vanquish the spirit of the families and people who hung on here. They were tough, he realized, much tougher than he was. They avoided disappointment by not expecting too much of their neighborhood. And they had learned to recognize what was most important to them: a safe place called home, never mind the surrounding streets. Plus a job. Friends and family. Neighbors to nod to on the street. They had no patience or time for anything else. He would do well to remember their lessons.

His first stop was the Delicious Deli. He saw by the clock in the brightly lit but nearly empty restaurant that he would be a few minutes late for his appointment at Emily's building. No matter. He was mere seconds away.

"Help you with anything?" the proprietor asked. T.S. could not remember his name, it was something fairly common. Phil… Willy? No—Bill. Or, rather, Billy.

"I want to leave a message for my aunt," T.S. told him. Perhaps Auntie Lil would stop by here before she went home.

"That's real considerate of you. But this ain't a post office," Billy replied good-naturedly. "I can't guarantee she'll get it."

"It's my Aunt Lil. An elderly lady."

"Oh, her." Billy's eyes rolled back in his head and he sighed. "What's the message? She'll no doubt be snooping back around here soon enough."

"Tell her I went to the building. That I was invited."

Billy stared at T.S. "You went to the building invited," he repeated.

"No. The building."

This time Billy got the inflection right.

As T.S. stepped out again into the night, Billy watched him for a few seconds, then reached for the telephone.

T.S. had expected to see a few of the older actresses disguised as bag ladies scattered around, but Forty-Sixth Street was nearly empty. The long row of restaurants stretched in front of him quietly, seeming to breathe deeply in the break between pre-theater drinks and post-theater suppers. There was one old man parked in a lawn chair on the corner. T.S. checked out his enormous nose surreptitiously. Good heavens. What had happened to the poor fellow? He looked like he'd lost a fight with a meat grinder. T.S. continued down the block, still surprised at the lack of activity. Where was Herbert? Where was Adelle? Or even Franklin? What was this about a blanket of surveillance?

He walked all the way to the end of the block, passing the Jamaican restaurant where they had first discovered a clue about Emily. He reached Ninth Avenue without seeing anyone he knew. No one. Just a few strangers brushing past. He went back up the block and this time drew a curious glance from Nellie, the proprietor of the Jamaican restaurant. She was perched on her customary table, staring blankly out into the night and bobbing her many braids to some unheard rhythm. Her eyes took in T.S.'s returning figure without emotion, but T.S. had no doubt that she had recognized who he was.

One door down, he reached Emily's apartment house again. Still no sign of the ever-vigilant Herbert Wong. He stood at the front door, holding the key. Quite frankly, he was afraid to go in. He did not know if he was being foolish or brave.

A figure was hurrying up the block toward him. At last, he thought, one of the bag ladies. Probably Adelle. She was that tall. But he was very much mistaken. The willowy figure passed through a pool of light and he saw that it was Leteisha Swann, ubiquitous woman of the night. He remembered the morning she had stumbled into this very building and passed out in the closet. Oh, dear, she was no doubt headed home for a breather. And he was in no mood for witnesses. He was about to turn his back to the door when she breezed right past the building, her steady gait showing no sign of inebriation. She was heading quickly toward Eighth Avenue, her tall figure squeezed into a long-sleeved silver dress. She negotiated the spike heels like the pro that she was. Within a half-minute, she had disappeared into the shadows at the upper end of the block.

T.S. still lingered at the front door. He wondered briefly what Auntie Lil would do in such a situation, found his answer, and quickly inserted one of the keys. It fit. The tiny downstairs hall was deserted and smelled of sour cooking oil with a faint undercurrent of cheap wine. He hurried into the elevator and pushed the sixth-floor button, looking nervously around to see if he was being observed. He felt slightly ridiculous, huddled in the tiny elevator, his hands clutched tightly in the pockets of his trench coat. Who was he expecting, anyway? Peter Lorre?

The elevator car creaked and groaned its way to the top floor. That hallway, too, was deserted. He would use his wits well, he decided firmly. If he was taking a big chance, he'd best eliminate as many little ones as he could. He checked the stairway door. It opened easily, onto winding stairs and landings that, as far as he could see, were deserted and, thankfully, well lit. He inspected every corner of the hall and tried Emily's door. It was securely locked. That left only one thing to do.

He put an ear to the door of the apartment next to Emily's. There was a faint sound inside. A vacant hiss of static and garbled voices. Someone was watching television. Surely, murderers didn't sit and watch television while they waited for their victims? He inserted the key in the lock and turned it lightly. The bolts opened with a loud click. Immediately the television went silent. T.S. took a deep breath and slowly swung the door open all the way to the wall. If someone was hiding behind it, he wanted to know.

The inside of the one-room apartment was dimly lit by a single lamp that cast a pool of light across a cheap rug. In the center of the room stood a small black boy, hands jammed in his pockets. His head was ducked slightly and he stared up at the door with a furtive unease that exploded into fright once he recognized T.S. "You!" the boy shouted, dashing for the door.

T.S. responded automatically. He slammed the door shut behind him and stood against it, preventing the boy's escape. "What about me?" T.S. shouted back. This did nothing for the young boy's panic.

The kid backed away, eyes wide and voice trembling. "Stay away from me," he ordered in a trembling voice. A small hand darted into a jacket pocket and he pulled out a knife. It clicked open and gleamed in the dull light. It was a ridiculously small blade. On the other hand, no blade was ridiculous, T.S. reminded himself.

"Look, son, I'm not here to hurt you," he reassured the boy in as calm a voice as he could manage. "You have no reason to be frightened of me. No reason at all. Who do you think I am? I'm as confused as you are about this."

"I'm not confused. I know who you are," the boy spit back angrily. He took a step backwards and looked behind him. He was checking out the fire escape, T.S. realized.

"It won't do you any good," T.S. lied. "I have a friend on the fire escape." Sure, some friend. Herbert was probably at home in bed asleep, leaving T.S. to deal with this pint-sized homicidal maniac.

"Don't come near me," the boy warned T.S., moving back and forth in a semicircle with the blade extended in front of him.

"Son, please." T.S. held a hand up. "You've seen West Side Story one too many times. Put the knife away and tell me who you think I am."

The boy did not put the knife away, but he did lower it. He eyed T.S. suspiciously. "You're the man who had dead pictures of Timmy's grandmother," he said bitterly. "I saw you pick them up from the photo store. You were practically drooling over them. You're the man who killed her."

"Me?" T.S. stared at him incredulously, remembering the frightened child who had darted toward him before veering off into the shadows. He certainly looked a hell of a lot more grown up standing four feet away with a knife in his hand. "No, no, no, no," T.S. told him. "A thousand times no. I am definitely not the person who killed Emily. I took those pictures of her at the morgue, after she was dead. I'm trying to find out who killed her. Don't you remember the background of those photos? White? Like a hospital?"

The boy's eyes narrowed. He was, at least, considering believing T.S. "How do I know you're not lying?" he finally allowed.

T.S. remembered that the boy had talked to Auntie Lil. "Look, I'll prove it to you. Your name is Little Pete, right?"

The boy stared at him. "Maybe. So what?"

"I know all about you. You're Timmy's friend. You called Emily 'Grandmother,' too. She bought you presents on your birthday. You have nice table manners. You eat your green beans last. How am I doing?"

"How do you know those things?" Little Pete asked sullenly.

"You had dinner with my aunt. Auntie Lil. The old lady who bought you dinner at the Delicious Deli a couple nights ago."

"You're lying," Little Pete said. "That was Emily's sister."

"No, no. She was just a friend of Emily's. And she is my aunt. Here, look." He thrust his face into the light and Little Pete stared at it blankly. "See," T.S. said. "We've got the same nose. Big. Look at this." He turned his head so Little Pete could see his profile. "And check out these cheeks. They're exactly the same. And the hair. Face it. We're practically twins." He was desperate and sounded like a babbling fool, but it was better than grappling with a knife-wielding teenager.

Besides, it worked. Little Pete relaxed and folded the knife away. "You sure do look like her," he admitted grudgingly. "What are you doing here? You'd better leave. I'm waiting for somebody."

"You're waiting for me," T.S. explained. The look this statement inspired in Little Pete instantly shamed him. "But not for the reason you think," T.S. added quickly.

"The man is not going to like this at all," Little Pete answered. He moved to a large, sagging bed that dominated the bare room and sat on it dejectedly. "He'll beat me to death like Timmy."

"What?" T.S. moved toward him. "What did you say?" He knelt beside the boy and Little Pete buried his face in his hands. T.S. patted his back and the fatherly gesture summoned what was left of the little boy in Little Pete. The child began to sob and talk at the same time, his garbled explanation discernible only in bits and pieces. It took ten minutes for T.S. to figure out what had happened. And he finally had an idea of where Auntie Lil might be.

Timmy had been beaten up, Little Pete explained. On the orders of a man who used to be nice to Timmy and Little Pete. Because Timmy had done something wrong. At first, everything had been going well. The man had gotten them customers, clean ones. And paid them plenty of money. Given them clothes and shoes. Food. Then, a couple of days ago he told Timmy he had to do him a favor. Timmy never told Little Pete what the favor was, but it had something to do with a priest. Timmy didn't want to talk about it. He'd done what the man asked, but then he'd started to feel bad about it. So Timmy had changed his mind, Little Pete explained, and the man had sent someone after him. Little Pete was sure that Timmy had been beaten up to teach them both a lesson about crossing the man. They'd come and taken Timmy to the hospital and Little Pete didn't even know if he was still alive or not. Little Pete figured he'd been spared his own beating only because he had this job to do tonight. The man in charge had told him to come here and take Timmy's place. But now Little Pete was frightened. He'd been thinking about it. He was sure that once tonight's job was over, the man would send Rodney after him, too.

"Rodney?" T.S. asked, "Who's this Rodney guy?"

"He works for the man in charge sometimes. Tall dude. Skinny, but strong. He has an eagle tattooed on one arm."

The Eagle. He did exist. At last they had a name for The Eagle.

"Who's the man in charge?" T.S. asked him. "Who pays you and Timmy to come to this apartment?"

Little Pete shrugged. His tears had slowed to a trickle and T.S. saw with some dismay that the tough little street survivor was about to take over again. "I can't tell you. If I tell you, he'll have me killed."

"You told me about Rodney," T.S. pointed out.

"I don't care about no Rodney anymore." The boy looked up and fierce hatred twisted his face. "I'm getting me a piece from a friend. After tonight, the dude will be dead."

If it was true, T.S. would have to do something to stop him. But for now, he needed more information. T.S. knew that he'd never convince the boy to tell him who the top man was, so he tried another approach. "Look, if you won't tell me who the man is who hired Rodney, at least tell me why he has you and Timmy come to this room?"

"Why?' Little Pete spat the word out like T.S. was too stupid to live. "Why do you think?"

"No, I know that..." T.S.'s words trailed off and his face flushed pink. Then he swallowed and continued, reminding himself that the new T.S. was in control. "I know about that part. But why does this man want to make the men you see happy?"

Little Pete shrugged. "Guess they pay him money. They sure don't pay me. The big man pays me, through Timmy."

T.S. thought hard. Hustling two boys didn't seem like a profitable enough venture to merit renting an apartment like this. "What does this man tell you to do with the men?" T.S. was fishing and he knew it.

"Whatever they want. Look, you sure you know what goes on up here?" Little Pete's distress had turned to incredulity. Who was this pathetically uninformed old geezer? Did he know nothing about real life?

T.S. surveyed the room. There had to be another reason why everything took place here. Yet it seemed an ordinary, if drab, apartment. There was a chair, a bed, a coffee table, small refrigerator and a makeshift bar in the room. The door to a small, empty bathroom stood open. And there was a single large cabinet against one wall with an old black-and-white television perched on top of it. Not a very nice place for an assignation. But not very nice assignations, either.

"Where does all your, um… action take place?" T.S. asked.

"We do it here, in the room," Little Pete pointed out patiently.

"Where in the room?" T.S. stood in the middle, turning in slow circles. It was as bare as a prison cell and not nearly as charming. Why did the meetings take place here, instead of the homes of the men? Or a hotel? And why was the cabinet here? It was tall and a rather nice piece of work. It gleamed with a black enamel finish.

"Here on the bed," Little Pete answered slowly, as if talking to a particularly stupid individual. This old dude was hopelessly out of step.

"Always on the bed?" T.S. confirmed.

"That's what the man says. Says he doesn't want his apartment trashed. Keep it on the bed, boys, he says," the kid answered sullenly.

Trash this place? T.S. stood by the bed next to Little Pete. The cabinet was lined up directly against the far wall. There were two sets of double doors on the cabinet, one on top and one below.

"I heard music coming from this apartment one time," T.S. told Little Pete.

"Sure. Stereo's in the bottom of the cabinet there. We're always supposed to turn on the music and say it's because of the neighbors. We turn on the music and the lights."

"The lights?" T.S. stared up at a large fixture hanging from the center of the room.

"Yeah. They get off on it," Little Pete answered dully. "Like to see what's going on, the man explained. The lights come on with the music."

What? T.S. winced at Little Pete's matter-of-fact explanation of what went on in the room, but at the moment he was more interested in why the lights went on with the music. There had to be more to it than giving perverts an eyeful of their perversion. Why always music? And why was the stereo in the bottom of the cabinet, instead of the top?

Maybe the men who hurried up to this room for their fun were too blinded by lust to consider the odd setup, but T.S. was clearly not sidetracked and knew that something odd was taking place.

"Turn on the music," he told Little Pete.

The boy stood suddenly and stared at him. "Hey, man, you said that..."

T.S. was appalled. "I don't care about anything but the music," T.S. quickly assured him. "I would never lay a hand on you, son." He felt a little sick to his stomach. What kind of world did he live in, where trust was so hard to maintain?

Little Pete clicked open the bottom doors of the cabinet and pressed a button. Loud music filled the room and the light above came on, illuminating the room with an even glow that was somewhat discreet, but nonetheless very thorough.

"Can you turn that music down?" T.S. asked, wincing at the pounding beat. "And what's in the upper cabinet?"

Little Pete shrugged, twisting the volume dial. "Don't know. It's locked."

T.S. examined the wooden front. Though the bottom doors were secured with magnetic latches, the upper ones had not one, but two large traditional keyholes. And the upper keyhole had lost its center bolt. He looked at it closely. Of course. It concealed a camera lens. "Let me have your knife," he told Little Pete. Dumbfounded, the boy handed it over.

It took several minutes and, by the time he had finished, the front of the cabinet was splintered and ruined. Little Pete was moaning about what the man who called the shots would do to him as T.S. finally pried the upper doors open.

The device was surprisingly simple. Anyone with the money for a smaller lens could have set it up. The cabinet housed a video camera and the red light showed that the unit was busy recording. T.S. was sure it had been turned on as soon as Little Pete had flipped the music switch. Other equipment was stored in the locked cabinet— including an enlarger, chemicals and darkroom supplies—indicating that other photographic activity went on in the apartment. And there had been those strips of Polaroid paper on the fire escape shared with Emily's apartment, T.S. remembered.

Little Pete was staring at the camera. "It's on," he said, genuinely enraged. "The man's going to see you talking to me." He reached for the tape.

T.S. stopped him. "It's all right, son. He'll never know. We'll make it look like someone broke in and stole the tapes. He'll never even find out." T.S. was desperate, lying, promising anything he could. Because he knew that he needed that camera on. It had occurred to him that it was a very good time to have Little Pete go over what he could reveal about The Eagle. On tape. In case the kid decided to pull another disappearing act.

Besides, it was also a good way to preserve his own integrity.