A Cast of Killers

CHAPTER SEVEN



The next morning, T.S. rose early out of long habit. He drank his coffee while staring out over York Avenue, trying to decide how he could track down Worthy Enterprises. Then it came to him in a flash of inspiration, fueled by years as a successful executive. He would get someone else to do it. Best of all, he had just the man for the job.

Each night before going to bed, T.S. emptied his pockets into a silver dish in the top drawer of his dresser. It was easy to find the card. Gregory Rogers, Dance Master Extraordinaire, would not be of much help in this task. But Lenny Melk, Dandruff Master Extraordinaire, just might. He scrutinized the phone number carefully, suspecting the prefix was a public pay phone. Really, what was he doing trusting someone he'd only met the day before? On the other hand, considering the maze of official departments and filings that awaited him—who cared?

It rang sixteen rings without an answer, but T.S. was not dissuaded. At this early hour, he had to be home. Sure enough, Lenny Melk finally answered the phone with a sleepy and suspicious growl. "I know, I know, Vinny," he said. "It was the spread that killed me. I'll cover it by the afternoon, I promise."

"It's not Vinny," T.S. replied crisply. Why couldn't people wake up ready and raring to function, their dignity intact? He always did. What the world needed was a little more self-discipline. "This is T.S. Hubbert," he said.

"I'm not buying anything," Melk immediately replied. "So don't waste your time."

"No. It's T.S. Hubbert. We met late yesterday. Around closing time down at 99 Centre. Remember, you helped me out and almost got me lynched?"

There was a silence while this information filtered through Lenny Melk's besotted brain cells. "Oh, yeah, the real persnickety guy in the yellow sweater," he finally said.

"Yes, that's me," T.S. was forced to reply. He tactfully resisted the impulse to describe Lenny Melk back. "I need your help again. Tracking down who owns Worthy Enterprises."

"Oh, yeah? This sounds interesting. It's gonna cost you. There's a shit storm of corporate filings involved, understand?"

"Of course. How interesting would you say it was?"

"At least two hundred dollars. And another thirty-five in… um, personnel expenses."

"Done. Can you have the information by later today?"

"Well…" Lenny's voice dropped dubiously. "I suppose so. Since you're getting to be a regular customer and all…"

"Fine. Please call me back and leave the information at this number. I trust you will trust me for the payment." There was an astonished silence and T.S. took it for agreement. "I have an answering machine, so leave a message if you need to. It's urgent." T.S. supplied him with the necessary information and rang off. He hated it when other people had answering machines, but he loved his own. Today was not a day to sit at home, waiting for a phone call back. He was meeting Herbert Wong at the soup kitchen just after the noon hour to help coordinate the surveillance of Emily's apartment building. Auntie Lil had prudently decided that she should lie low for a while, at least concerning St. Barnabas.

He checked his watch. It was only eight-thirty and he needed something to do. Now was his chance to show some initiative, come up with some good ideas of his own, stop depending on Auntie Lil for instructions. He began by dressing carefully in a casual yet authoritative sweater-and-flannel-slacks combination, then added a tie. He carefully smoothed his entire outfit twice with a sable clothes brush purchased on a visit to London seven years before. Those British really knew how to take care of their clothes. Decades of butlerism had refined it into an art. He keenly admired their precision.

Properly decked out, T.S. paused in front of the mirror. It was time for action. But no idea came and, in the end, he simply went downstairs to the corner newsstand. He purchased a copy of New York Newsday (having read the Times hours before) and settled in at a nearby coffee shop. He alternated between flipping through page after page of mayhem, horror, poverty and politics and watching frantic businessmen and grumpy businesswomen rush past the window, headed for a world he was no longer a part of.

It depressed him. He wondered what Lilah was doing today. She'd said something about helping to make arrangements for a charity auction, which probably involved hobnobbing with retired gentlemen of far greater means than himself. That depressed him even more. He returned to reading the newspaper and discovered, to his irritation, that his favorite local columnist, Margo McGregor, was on vacation. A vacation in September… she certainly had her nerve. If she'd worked for him, there'd have been none of that nonsense. He tapped the ink-smudged pages in aggravation, but there was no denying it. He missed the photo they always ran of her, right above her column.

Although well into her thirties, Margo McGregor looked exactly like the little girl that every boy had loved in second grade. At least he knew he would have, if only they'd allowed girls in his prep school class. Margo McGregor was petite, with a small moon face and shiny black hair combed flat against her scalp. The thin glossy strands fell straight down to just above her shoulders where they flipped absurdly up in a single neat wave. She had a pug nose, round sparkling eyes and a tiny, pursed mouth that the photographer had captured at the tail end of a sardonic smile. How such a delicate creature could be one of New York's most sarcastic investigative reporters was beyond him, but T.S. loved the unlikely juxtaposition of her physical innocence and extreme cynicism. The paper regularly advertised her as "the wittiest and most insightful columnist in New York." Which was a nice way of saying she was a smartass.

Oh, well, perhaps she would be back in print next week. He flipped the page and read about a snafu at the main post office, then stopped. He'd had an idea. Just like that. Emily must have gotten some sort of Social Security check from the government. Unless she had arranged for direct deposit, damn the convenience. But surely she'd have received a letter or two in her time. Or junk mail. Nothing could stop junk mail. If she'd so much as sneezed, she was on someone's list.

He slid off his stool, left an exactly correct tip—which would certainly not surprise the waitress—and headed for the door. If Auntie Lil could lurk about the streets of Hell's Kitchen, so could he.


Auntie Lil's idea of rising early was rolling out of bed just before the soap operas began. She managed it earlier than usual once again, thanks to an automatic timer on her coffee machine that sent an irresistible aroma throughout her apartment at exactly ten o'clock sharp. Unable to speak without a minimum of caffeine in her system, she downed several cups and dialed Detective George Santos.

Four officers and one public-relations liaison later, she was told that Detective Santos was not in yet and would she care to leave a message?

"Yes," she announced crisply. "Write this down." Satisfied with the rustling that met her command, she continued. "Lillian Hubbert called to ask, 'Have you found The Eagle?' Also, dead woman lived at 326 West Forty-Sixth Street on the sixth floor. Owner of Delicious Deli can confirm. Please investigate immediately.'" She demanded that her message be read back and, except for the part about whether Detective Santos had found her beagle, the obedient officer had approximated her intent.

Next she called Herbert Wong and Theodore to reiterate instructions. To her intense irritation, neither one was home. They were probably out running wild in the streets, with no regard for her master plan. Another cup of coffee later and Auntie Lil was ready to tackle Father Stebbins.

The priest answered the phone himself, as she'd suspected he would. St. Barnabas could not afford any office help. Father Stebbins was an all-purpose kind of guy.

"St. Barnabas," he boomed into the receiver. "May the Lord's blessings follow you all this fine day."

Fresh out of blessings, she cut to the chase. "Father Stebbins, it's Lillian Hubbert."

"Ah, Lillian…"

"I won't take up much of your time," she promised. "I know you're scrambling to make up for the loss of my culinary expertise and that you have more than enough on your plate to handle. I'm sure things have progressed right out of the frying pan and into the fire." He was not the only one who could deal in clichés. At least hers contained apropos allusions. "But I'm not one to sit idly by while others are suffering. I've decided to devote my talents to helping with the young runaways in the neighborhood until we can get this teensy misunderstanding straightened out. Whom do you suggest I call to volunteer my services?"

There was brief silence on the other end. Perhaps he was wondering if she was planning to dish out any more of her special chili to minors. "You might call a fellow named Bob Fleming," he finally said. "He runs a retreat for runaways a few blocks away called Homefront. They're small without a big fundraising staff and could probably use any help they could get." He paused, contemplating the tact of this last statement. "Not that you aren't a prized volunteer," he belatedly added. "Why, we're hardly getting by without you."

"I can imagine," Auntie Lil replied confidently. "But I suspect that dear Fran is working night and day to make sure that everyone gets fed."

"She's certainly been a help," he answered promptly. "But she does have problems of her own that sometimes prevent her from devoting her full energies to our own humble hunger-fighting endeavor."

Indeed? But surely a priest would be the last person in the world to gossip… still, it was worth a shot. "Problems?" she inquired lightly. "Could I be of help in any way?"

"Oh. No, no, no," Father Stebbins sputtered. "I shouldn't have said as much as I did. She'll be fine. I'm helping her and she's making great progress. I'm sure she'll be fine."

So the conceited old cassock wasn't going to spill the beans. She wouldn't waste any more time with him. "How can I find this Homefront fellow?" she demanded instead.

"I can call him for you right now, if you like."

Auntie Lil checked the clock. "Actually, I've got to run out. I'm meeting a friend at the Delicious Deli. Perhaps I could stop by later and find out when a good time to call him might be?"

There was another tactful silence. "I think it would be easier if you called me back instead of dropping by," the priest suggested diplomatically.

"It's a deal. I'll wait until after the rush."

"And, Lillian," he added in a voice that oozed concern and understanding. "That scene the other day with the authorities… I'm not quite sure what your troubles have been—I try not to judge my fellow man—but God forgives everyone. If you ever need a sympathetic shoulder, I'm right here."

Sure. But she'd have to pry Fran off that sympathetic shoulder first. She murmured something neutral and, after receiving another shower of blessings and pietistic clichés, rang off as quickly as decency allowed. My goodness, they all acted like she was some sort of pariah. And Father Stebbins seemed convinced she was on a sure road to Hell. It was no crime being smarter than Lieutenant Abromowitz. If it was, the city jails would be bursting at the bars.

But that was exactly what she was being ostracized for. And it left her no other choice. She'd just have to show Abromowitz up, if it was the last thing she ever did.


Waiting for the mailman on the steps of Emily's building seemed foolishly indiscreet, so T.S. searched the streets of Hell's Kitchen for men and women in blue. He soon heard an obnoxious high honking and, following the sound, discovered a slim black mailman impeccably clad in a summer post office uniform of navy shorts and a light blue short-sleeved shirt. Obviously determined to wring the last drop of summer out of the year, he also wore a regulation pith helmet and stalked confidently through the crowd, pushing a wheeled basket of mail while honking an attached bicycle horn incessantly. The horn had inspired a group of hungover winos leaning against a nearby deserted storefront to honk back. They sounded like a flock of inebriated Canada geese.

"Pardon me, do you deliver to Forty-Sixth Street?" T.S. asked him politely, ignoring the cacophony of birdcalls behind him.

The mailman paused with one hand poised over the bulb of his bicycle horn. "Why? Who wants to know?"

"I need to find out where someone lives," T.S. explained.

The postman eyed him carefully. Apparently, T.S. didn't look like a serial killer to him, since he then asked, "What's the person's name?"

"I don't know," T.S. explained patiently. "I just know her stage name, Emily Toujours."

"Is this a love thing?" the postman asked. "Cause if it is, take it from me—those actresses aren't worth the trouble. They're high-maintenance girlfriends. They need a lot of attention. I'd get yourself a nice librarian, if I was you." He honked the horn twice for emphasis and smiled.

Resisting the temptation to grab the horn and beat him over the pith helmet with it, T.S. gritted his teeth and asked patiently, "Do you deliver to Forty-Sixth Street or not?"

"Nope." The mailman pointed to a large military green holding box bolted to the sidewalk near the curb. "That would be Beulah. She'll be checking by in about fifteen minutes. Ask her. And good luck, brother. May love shine her blessings upon your brow." He beeped happily and wheeled his cart away, pedestrians parting before his raucous path like a multicolored Red Sea.

Beulah didn't show for a good half-hour and when she did, she wasn't much help. For starters, her feet were killing her and this occupied the first five minutes of their conversation. No, she knew of no one named Emily Toujours or anything else, who lived at 326 West Forty-Sixth Street on the sixth floor. "I never delivered no mail to that floor, not never," she insisted. "It's empty. They's probably warehousing."

She was probably being paid off, T.S. decided grumpily. He stomped away without a plan and stood at the corner of Ninth Avenue and Forty-Sixth Street, watching the downtown traffic. He heard a voice mumbling urgently behind him. "You can do it," it was saying, "This part is for you. You've got it. You're going to wow them. You were born to play this part. Just get in there and grab it."

T.S. stepped back against a nearby streetlight. The voice belonged to a middle-aged actor, who was mumbling to himself as he waited for the light to change. He clutched the Xeroxed pages of a script in one hand and was gesturing into the air with the other. "It's gonna be you," he told himself. "You're gonna knock them dead, Edward, my man. Success is just around the corner."

That did it. T.S. wanted to throw himself in front of one of the many trucks barreling down the avenue. It was all just too depressing. This neighborhood was one big stew of hopeless, naked, walking aspirations.

Except, of course, for the hopeless, naked, stumbling apparitions. Like the rubbery figure lurching up the sidewalk toward him.

It was Emily's building mate, the one who had passed out in the supply closet. She was obviously on her way home after a long hard night that had stretched into the morning. The preposterous wig had slipped to one side and her makeup was badly smeared, but she once again wore the orange mini-dress. It was cut to the crotch and ripped under one arm. No stockings. Just long coffee-colored legs that would have better fit the winner of the fifth race at Belmont. T.S. stepped back and watched her negotiate the corner near Emily's building. What a way to live, he thought sadly. Like a vampire, she was fleeing the light of day and seeking the sanctuary of the dark.

The dark. That's where he had seen her before. She had burst into Robert's during his dinner with Lilah and the bartender had bounced her right back out.

Well, he wasn't doing anything else at the moment. Perhaps it was time to pay Robert's a call.


Thanks to a subway power failure, it was nearly twelve-thirty by the time Auntie Lil reached the Delicious Deli. The owner, Billy, was hustling back and forth handling the small lunch crowd rush of construction workers, taxi drivers and deliverymen. He recognized Auntie Lil and gave her a wide smile, gesturing toward one of the tiny tables. She sat and, in between sandwich orders, he brought her cappuccino and cheesecake without being asked. The young man certainly had star potential. If justice prevailed, he'd own his own string of franchises one day.

"Nice to see you again. You just sit here and relax," he told her. "Stay a little while and you can meet my daughter."

Auntie Lil nodded back. She was in no mood for children, she never was, but she'd stay. The things she had to endure just to weasel a little information out of people…

There was a temporary lull in business and Billy rested his elbows on the counter. "Hey, you remember that old lady you were asking me about?" he said to Auntie Lil.

"Yes. Do you have something new on her?" Her cheesecake was immediately forgotten.

"No. But the cops are in on it now. They got a tip on where she lived."

"What happened?" Auntie Lil asked eagerly.

"My buddy, George, went to check it out personally and it turned out that someone was pulling his leg. Some young blonde actress was living at the address instead. Never heard of the old lady. Said she'd been living there for over three years herself. George was pretty steamed. He doesn't usually follow up on civilian tips, you know. He made an exception because the guy taking the message bungled it, said it was my wife who had called. George was pretty burned about it. Wouldn't even stay for his usual free coffee. Why? What did you find out about her?"

Auntie Lil stared bleakly at her half-eaten cheesecake. "Nothing," she admitted glumly and that was exactly as much as she was going to admit. She didn't believe it. They must have gone to the wrong address. She would call Det. George Santos back. "You know the detective on the case?" she asked Billy.

"Sure, I know everyone. Can you believe someone poisoned that old lady? Who'd do a thing like that?"

"Is this George Santos a good detective?" she asked.

"Well… he's a good guy." That was as far as Billy would go.

"Does he live in the neighborhood?"

"Sort of. He spends all of his time at the precinct or down at the Westsider."

"Is that a hotel?" Auntie Lil wanted to know. Perhaps she could talk to him there.

Billy laughed. It was not a happy sound. "Some people seem to think it is," he finally said. "Including George. But it's really just a crummy dive bar across from the Forty-Fifth Street Pier."


Robert's had a small lunch crowd and a slightly larger group of regular daytime drinkers parked at the bar. T.S. didn't recognize the bartender. He checked out the two waiters carefully. One looked familiar—a finely sculptured, well-built young man with a broad, handsome face and short brown hair cut closely against his head. He was leaning against one end of the bar, morosely staring out the picture window in lieu of staring at his mostly empty tables. He hardly moved when T.S. tapped him on the shoulder. But then, he was probably used to getting tapped on the shoulder by guys at bars. T.S. would set him straight. Quickly.

"Excuse me, I was in here the other night with a lady friend of mine," T.S. began.

"Congratulations," the waiter interrupted, still glumly staring out the window.

"You were here, too," T.S. continued.

The waiter shifted his stare to T.S. "What night?"

"Tuesday. A woman came in for a moment and the bartender bounced her right back out," T.S. explained patiently. "She was very tall. Dark skinned. With high-piled hair and lots of makeup. I'm interested in finding out who she was."

The waiter didn't answer and T.S. was forced to launch into a fashion forecast. "She was wearing spike heels and a silver sequined tube dress with long gloves..." His voice trailed off as embarrassment overtook him at last.

"What color?" the waiter inquired.

"What color what?"

"What color were the gloves?" He stared at T.S., waiting for an answer.

"White. What difference does it…" T.S. stopped. He was almost certain he was being teased. But in New York City, you never knew for sure. "Do you know who I'm talking about or not?" he demanded with reclaimed dignity.

"Sure, I know who you're talking about. But I'd get a different hobby if I was you."

"I just need her name. Forget the cute stuff." That sounded good. Tough. Very James Cagneyish.

The waiter looked T.S. over with amusement and held out a hand. T.S. sighed and handed him a five-dollar bill. Considering the name could be worthless to their investigation, he thought he was being generous.

"The name's Leteisha Swann," the waiter told him, smiling thinly as if he were enjoying a private joke. "Leteisha Swann is not a welcome person on these premises. She's a little too entrepreneurial for our taste. She was hiding in the bathroom one night. Damn near gave some old guy a heart attack when she jumped out of the shadows and offered to unzip his pants for him." The waiter winked at T.S. "For another ten, I'll get you her phone number."

"No thanks," T.S. replied stiffly. "I can unzip my own pants." Besides, he already knew where she lived. And that her phone number rang on a corner somewhere.

Patience exhausted, he left the sarcastic waiter behind with an overly polite bow.

Leteisha Swann… he'd lay ten to one odds that the name wasn't real. And the odds on her having known Emily were even less. He sighed and headed for St. Barnabas. No sense in letting Auntie Lil have all the fun.


The door chimes tinkled and a miniature lady stepped into the Delicious Deli. There was no other way to describe her as she was far too self-possessed to be called a child. The tiny girl wore a blue and green plaid Catholic-school jumper over a snowy white blouse with an old-fashioned Peter Pan collar. Her straight black hair was cut in a sleek cap around her face and her fine features stood out against a porcelain complexion. Irish beauty at its budding best. The girl was probably no more than six or seven years old, but she had the bearing of a fifty-year-old matriarch.

"Hi, Daddy," she called out to Billy, flipping her hair back with a practiced toss of her head. "I'll take a cappuccino, please."

"Oh, no you won't, Miss Megan Magee. Sit at that table there and I'll bring you a milk." Billy pointed out Auntie Lil and Megan dutifully sat next to her with a slight pout. But the grudge was soon forgotten, thanks to the girl's lively curiosity.

"Who are you?" she asked Auntie Lil, folding her hands primly in front of her and waiting expectantly for the answer. Auntie Lil had the uncomfortable feeling that she was at a tea party.

"I'm Auntie Lil. I'm a friend of your father's."

"You're not my aunt," Megan pointed out. "My aunt is young and beautiful and goes dancing every night."

"I go dancing every night, too," Auntie Lil replied grimly. She was suddenly reminded why she didn't like children.

"Magee, don't talk this nice lady's ear off." Billy set a glass of milk down in front of his daughter and winked at Auntie Lil. "Megan takes after her mother. Where is she, anyway?"

"Two doors down getting carrots. Yuck." Megan wrinkled her nose.

Well, Auntie Lil thought, thank goodness she still harbored some childish traits.

"What can I do for you today?" Billy asked Auntie Lil as he pulled out the chair next to his daughter and sat, wiping his hands on his deli apron. "I've got a couple of minutes before the next rush."

"I wondered if you knew these two young men." Auntie Lil produced the strip of dime store photos of the two young boys from her pocketbook, all the while keeping a close eye on her plate. Megan was staring at her cheesecake with undisguised interest and Auntie Lil wasn't about to give up the last bite without a fight.

Billy surveyed their faces. "Yeah. I've seen them. They're not allowed in here. They steal. Why are you looking for them?"

She could not think of a single plausible reply, but Megan made one unnecessary. "That's the guy that threw up," she announced proudly. She placed a small finger on the face of the white boy. "Remember, Daddy? You said it looked like he'd been eating pepperoni pizza."

"Megan!" Billy groaned and smiled an apology at Auntie Lil. "Both of these guys hang out around the neighborhood a lot. I think they work out of that run-down sleaze palace at Eighth and Forty-Fourth. They've been around here about a year or so. I give them another six months."

Auntie Lil was going to ask why, but the presence of Megan made her hesitate. Besides, she had a sad hunch that she already knew.

Billy was staring at her quietly. "Listen, I'm not quite sure why you're going around and asking a lot of questions," he said carefully. "But you seem like a nice enough lady and I just want to tell you that whatever it is you're doing, I'd stop if I were you."

When Auntie Lil said nothing, he continued. "I was born in this neighborhood. Practically on this block. I grew up here. I've seen it change again and again. I watched the Irish take over from the Puerto Ricans, who took over from the blacks, who got it from the Irish in the first place and around and around and around. Unless you know someone and you've got protection, this is a dangerous place to be messing with. The people you see on the street may seem nice enough, but it's the people you don't see that you have to worry about. I know. I know them. They're not fooling around."

"Has anyone been in here asking about me?" Auntie Lil asked quietly. She did not resent the warning, she just wished she knew whether it was sincere or an attempt to dissuade her from her task.

"No. Not yet. And like I say, I don't know what you're up to and I don't think I want to know what you're up to. Just be careful. Maybe you should find yourself a new way to pass the time." He held up both palms in apology. "Not that it's any of my business."

The door chimes tinkled again and a chubby man entered the deli. He was burly and of just below average height, with a scraggly beard that was beginning to go gray. His long, flowing hair tumbled to his shoulders in brown waves. He was dressed in a flannel shirt and baggy blue jeans. Altogether, he looked like he belonged on the outskirts of Anchorage, Alaska, rather than in the heart of New York City.

The man quickly scanned the store and his gaze settled on Auntie Lil. "Lillian Hubbert?" he asked politely.

"Yes, that's me. Who are you?"

"I'm Bob Fleming. From Homefront." He glanced at Billy, then looked away with a quick nod.

The deli owner acted swiftly. He took his daughter by the hand and pulled her away from the table toward the door.

"Where are we going?" Megan asked indignantly. "You didn't give me my cake."

"I'm going to watch you walk down the block to meet your mother," Billy answered back grimly. "Now. And don't talk back to me, either."

The atmosphere in the deli instantly chilled. Bob Fleming sat quietly at Auntie Lil's table. They both stared at Billy's broad back as the deli owner stood in the doorway, watching his daughter's progress down the block to where her mother was shopping.

"Careful father," Bob Fleming observed.

"Around here, I guess you have to be."

The man nodded in agreement and stared directly at Auntie Lil. "I've just been by St. Barnabas, dropping off some kids. Father Stebbins said you wanted to help me out, so I thought I'd try and catch you here. We could use some help. But you look kind of old."

"You're certainly direct," Auntie Lil admitted. "But don't worry about me. I'm strong and healthy."

The man nodded. "Sometimes an old lady is good." His voice trailed off. It was plain that Bob Fleming was not a happy man. His shoulders slumped from worry and fatigue. He had not chosen to take an easy path. Runaways in midtown Manhattan could be untrusting, unforgiving and unredeemable. "Old ladies don't usually remind the kids of anyone," he continued. "Except for maybe a long-forgotten grandmother. What can you do?"

"Anything you want me to do." Auntie Lil did not like lying to this man. He worked too hard and spoke too plain to deserve anything but the truth. What she really wanted was to show him the photos of the two young boys. But after Billy's warning, she was reluctant to bring them up again in front of the deli owner. "Can we go somewhere else and talk?" she asked Bob Fleming.

"Sure. We'll go to my office. I don't think that guy likes me very much, anyway." He cocked his head Billy's way and Auntie Lil found it hard to disagree. Billy was leaning against the counter shooting barely disguised glares Bob Fleming's way. He would not meet Auntie Lil's eyes and she finally marched to the counter, money in hand.

"How much?" Auntie Lil inquired politely. She would be back to find out what the trouble was between the two men.

"Three and a quarter," Billy mumbled, taking her money without his usual cheerfulness.

As she left the deli with Bob Fleming, Auntie Lil could feel the owner's gaze following them out the door. And no wonder—Billy stared after them until they were well out of sight.


His thoughts on Leteisha Swann, T.S. was not paying full attention to the midtown traffic swirling around him. First, he was nearly plowed down by a messenger on a bike—who slowed down just enough to flip an obscene gesture T.S.'s way—and then he took a wrong turn up Ninth Avenue and had to backtrack to St. Barnabas. He was still lost in thought as he ambled up the mottled sidewalk outside the neighborhood's huge new skyscraper. Suddenly, a strong arm gripped his elbow and a body moved in close behind him. T.S. did what any sensible New Yorker would do. He yelled, jumped two feet in the air and clutched the pocket that held his wallet.

"So very sorry, Mr. Hubbert," a distressed voice cried out. "I did not mean to startle you."

"Herbert!" T.S. rubbed his elbow and glared at Herbert Wong. "Why in the world are you skulking around like that?"

"I was not skulking," the retired messenger complained, spreading his arms wide. "I make very much noise. Please accept my deepest apologies." He bowed deeply.

T.S. did not believe him for a minute. Ever since he had, however briefly, questioned Herbert's prowess at martial arts, the elderly Asian man had embarked on a subtle quest to prove T.S. wrong. He was always sneaking up behind him or showing off his strength.

"I am forgiven?" Herbert asked, his face an impassive, dignified mask.

"Of course you're forgiven. I'm just preoccupied or I would have spotted you coming from a mile away." Herbert allowed T.S. this ego-placating fabrication and they walked toward St. Barnabas together, falling into a contemplative silence.

That was another thing T.S. really liked about Herbert Wong. Unlike certain other people, Herbert was perfectly content with quiet. T.S. had discovered this rare trait in Herbert years before, when he had interviewed him for a job at Sterling & Sterling. Herbert had entered the personnel manager's enormous office without a hint of nervousness, sitting down across the desk from T.S. in dignified silence. Nodding, he had waited patiently while T.S. scoured his application with customary suspicion. Unlike most other applicants, he had not blurted out incriminating details during this silence, nor revealed any desperation for a job. At the same time, he had not been secretive and had calmly divulged under questioning that his wife had recently died after a long illness which had stripped him of all his savings. He had lost his small dry-cleaning store as a result. He had no children and the rest of his family lived in Singapore, where he had been raised until he had emigrated to the U.S. as a young man. His only hobbies, it seemed, were traveling and the study of new subjects. He did not enjoy television.

T.S. had instantly felt an affinity with him and tried to steer him toward a more challenging job than the open messenger position. But Herbert had quietly insisted that he had tired of responsibility and that the messenger job was fine. He had put in fifteen good years at Sterling & Sterling before retiring the year before T.S. In those fifteen years, Herbert had never missed a day, never even reported late and had never botched a delivery. In fact, he had once kicked a mugger in the stomach in order to protect nearly one million dollars in bearer bonds for his employer, crippling the would-be thief until police arrived. Then he had insisted on such complete anonymity, for the firm's sake, that T.S. himself, personnel manager of all of Sterling & Sterling, had not heard about it until after his own retirement. Yes, Herbert was a rare man. He’d have made an excellent friend and T.S. was a little piqued that Auntie Lil had managed to practically steal the retired messenger from him.

Of course, Auntie Lil had never been much concerned with people's official standing in life and, if T.S. were to be completely honest with himself, he'd have to admit that a full friendship between a messenger of Sterling & Sterling and the personnel manager would have been deemed unacceptable by everyone, including himself. But now that he was retired, T.S. reflected, there was no reason why they couldn't be better friends.

"That man is gesturing wildly toward you," Herbert pointed out to T.S., breaking their easy silence. They stood at the corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-Eight Street, waiting for the traffic light to change. Across the busy roadway stood Franklin, the gigantic homeless man with the Southern drawl. His big burly body was still encased in old-fashioned overalls, but he was wearing a clean shirt and a new baseball hat. He was calmly waving at T.S., an action which, in Herbert Wong's book, qualified as wild gesticulation.

"That's Franklin," T.S. explained. "He's a regular at the soup kitchen. He knows Adelle and the other old actresses quite well. I wonder what he wants with me?"

T.S. soon found out. As they approached, Franklin bent over the small laundry cart he used as a portable storage unit and produced an armful of pocketbooks. For one wild moment, T.S. thought he was trying to sell him one.

"I have her pocketbook," Franklin told T.S. "I have been looking for your aunt so that I could give it to her."

T.S. stared blankly at the jumbled assortment of plastic, leather and straw bags. What in the world was he talking about? Auntie Lil's pocketbook was as big as a Buick and even harder to handle. These were wallets compared to her suitcase-like bag.

"Miss Emily's pocketbook," Franklin explained.

"I thought The Eagle had stolen it." T.S. stared at the bags. Which one was supposed to be Emily's?

"He did," Franklin explained. "But like most pocketbook thieves, he dropped it in a trash can when he was done going through it. I have collected these over the past two days. I suspect that Miss Emily's pocketbook is among them."

"There must be seven bags," T.S. pointed out.

Franklin shrugged apologetically. "There are many pocketbooks thrown in the garbage in this neighborhood. But I have developed an eye for these things. I threw away many more than this. Some had identification that made it clear it was not Miss Emily's. I whittled it down as much as I could. None of these have any identification and they are styles that Miss Emily might choose."

T.S. stared at the homeless man. "You have done a superb job," he admitted. "Auntie Lil will be delighted."

"I want to help," Franklin explained. "I have heard that you and your aunt are going to find Miss Emily's killer. I see many things out here on these streets. It is my job. I am always looking, noticing faces. I believe I could be of help."

"You can help me," Herbert Wong butted in. "I'm chief of surveillance. I could use a good pair of eyes."

Franklin nodded almost imperceptibly. "You will not be sorry," he said solemnly.

"What did you mean, it's your job to look?" T.S. wanted to know.

"I am searching for my friend who saw The Eagle breathing evil on Miss Emily. But much more important to me, I am searching for my little brother," Franklin explained. "That's why I'm here in New York City. I have promised my mamma that I will find him and bring him home to South Carolina. So, you see, I am always looking and watching anyway."

T.S. stood in silence. The man's dedication to his mother made him feel ashamed. Here was Franklin, living on the streets, eating handouts, in a city as foreign to him as Moscow, searching seven million faces in hopes of finding the one that would make his mother smile again. While T.S. could hardly stand to visit his mother once a week at the elder care facility.

On the other hand, T.S. reasoned sensibly, Franklin's mother was probably a whole hell of a lot nicer than his own.

"Excuse me, but I see many old ladies looking our way," Herbert interrupted politely. "In front of that church over there. I must surmise that the edifice is St. Barnabas."

T.S. squinted in the bright autumn sun. "You bet. And those old ladies are our other eyes. We might as well plunge in before the kitchen opens and we lose them to lunch. You come, too, Franklin. You're part of the team now."

They approached the long line waiting patiently in front of St. Barnabas. T.S. had not wanted to go inside and face questions from Fran or Father Stebbins, so he was perfectly content to plot outside on the sidewalk. He gathered Adelle and the other old actresses together after they had extracted promises that they would be let back in line at their regular spots. Together, he and Herbert Wong explained their task: for lack of a better plan, they were going to watch Emily's building and take turns following everyone who entered or left. Herbert had the master notebook—descriptions and destination addresses would be given to him. In this way, they hoped to determine who was a regular tenant, who was suspicious and who might be able to tell them more about Emily.

"You said you wanted to help," T.S. told the ladies when he and Herbert had finished explaining their plan. "Here's your chance. Can you handle it?"

"Of course! But we must disguise ourselves," Adelle declared.

"Oh, yes!" the other old ladies agreed and began to twitter among themselves. They were smelling the greasepaint and hearing the roar of the crowd once again.

"It's so no one will make us," Adelle insisted when she saw the look that crossed T.S.'s face. She turned to her group and explained, "That means no one will be able to recognize us if we're following them." Her superior air was met with an indignant murmur. Clearly the other actresses knew what "make" meant and who was she to lord it over them? Oh, dear, they had to have a clear leader to nip any mutiny in the bud, T.S. realized.

"Herbert will be the head of operations," T.S. emphasized. Another buzz ran through the crowd: how would Adelle deal with this usurping of her power?

She started with a ladylike cough. "I have a great deal of experience handling large group efforts," she began. "I've done some directing, you know."

Herbert watched her quietly. Only his eyes flickered lightly as he surveyed the faces of the assembled group. He was gauging their reactions and loyalty to Adelle. And he was probably doing a damn fine job of it. "I am sure you would make a fine leader," Herbert assured her in a courtly fashion, throwing in a short bow for effect. "And I am a great admirer of your work. But I find it hard to believe that a superior craftsman such as yourself should be asked to undertake the menial task of mere organization. No, you should be allowed to freely ply your craft, without any administrative cares."

"Franklin has offered to help us, as well," T.S. announced quickly, before Adelle could argue. "Herbert has assigned him to night surveillance. I cannot ask you ladies to roam these streets after midnight. It would put you in too much danger. So Franklin will detail the comings and goings between midnight and seven. He won't be able to follow anyone, but we'll still be able to keep an eye on the building's traffic pattern. Fair enough?"

They all agreed it was a workable plan and began to inch back toward their places in line. Sensing that hunger was taking priority over justice, Herbert and T.S. quickly emphasized the need for discretion, collected the assortment of pocketbooks from Franklin and beat a hasty retreat.

"You are in a hurry?" Herbert asked politely, scurrying to keep pace with T.S.

"You don't want to meet Father Stebbins," T.S. assured his friend. "So far, I have found your English impeccable and cultured. One conversation with Father Stebbins and you'll turn into a walking cliché factory."

Herbert was staring at T.S. strangely.

"What is it?" T.S. demanded, drawing to a stop at the street corner.

The retired messenger bowed deeply and reached for one of the pocketbooks slung over T.S.'s arm. "You must allow me to carry the brown one," he insisted, unsuccessfully hiding the twinkle in his eye. "It clashes with your shoes."