Manhattan Mayhem: New Crime Stories From Mystery Writers of America

  I heard Maddox’s voice in my mind: to be an only child.

  The little girl who’d been the object of Maddox’s murderous intent was now a grown woman with children of her own, and I had only to look across the table to reassure myself that I’d done the right thing in sending Maddox away. To have done otherwise would have put Lana at risk. Other children had done dreadful things, after all, and that searing episode in the subway station convinced me that Maddox was capable of such evil, too. She had declared what she’d wanted most in life and then ruthlessly attempted to achieve it. I had no way of knowing if she would make another attempt, but it was a chance I wasn’t willing to take, especially since the intended victim was my own daughter.

  “Maddox had to go,” I repeated now.

  Lana didn’t argue the point. “I remember the day you took her to the airport,” she said. “It was raining, and she was wearing that sad little raincoat she’d brought with her from the South.” She looked at me. “Remember? The one with the hood.”

  I nodded. “That coat made her look even more sinister,” I said dryly.

  Lana looked at me quizzically. “Sinister? That’s not a word I would use to describe Maddox.”

  “What word would you use?” I asked.

  “Damaged,” Lana answered. “I would say that Maddox was damaged by life.”

  “Perhaps so,” I said, “but Maddox had done some damage of her own.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that she stole an answer sheet at Falcon Academy,” I said. “One of her classmates saw her.”

  “You mean Jesse Traylor?” Lana laughed. “He just got caught himself. Cheating on his taxes.” She took a sip from her cup. “Jesse was the school apple-polisher, a tattletale who would have done anything to ingratiate himself with the headmaster.”

  Cautiously, I said, “Even lie about Maddox?”

  “He’d have lied about anyone,” Lana said. She saw the disturbance her answer caused me. “What’s the matter, Dad?”

  I leaned forward. “Did he lie about Maddox?”

  Lana shrugged. “I don’t know.” She glanced toward the street where two little girls stood outside a theater. “She apologized, by the way,” she said. “Maddox, I mean. For slapping me. Not a spoken apology.” She looked as if she were enjoying a sweet memory. “But I knew what she meant when she did it.”

  “Did what?” I asked.

  “Nudged me,” Lana answered. “It was a way we had of telling each other that we were sorry and wanted to be sisters again.” She smoothed a wrinkle from her otherwise perfectly pressed sleeve. “After we had pizza at Jake’s,” she said. “In the subway. We were running for the train, and Maddox gave me that hostile look she used when she was joking with me, and then she just nudged me, and that was her way of saying that she was sorry for hitting me, and that she knew I was sorry for what I’d said to her.” She looked at me softly. “And since we were both sorry, things were going to be okay.”

  With those words, Lana finished her coffee. “Anyway, it’s quite sad what happened to Maddox.” She folded her napkin and placed it primly beside her plate. “The way she never got her balance after she left us.” She smiled. “And so she just … finally … stumbled into the pit.”

  “Into the pit,” I repeated softly.

  Shortly after that, we parted, Lana returning to her husband and children, I back to my apartment, where, with Janice out of town, I would spend the next few days alone.

  I passed most of that time on the balcony, looking down at the tamed streets of Hell’s Kitchen, my attention forever drawn to families moving cheerfully toward the glittering lights of Times Square, fathers and mothers with their children in tow, guiding them, as best they could, through the shifting maze. I saw Maddox in every tiny face, remembered the tender touch of her small hand in mine, her quiet “Thank you,” for the little refrigerator magnet she had returned to me; the last bit of kindness I’d shown before sending her out of our lives forever.

  Had she been a liar, a cheat, a thief? I don’t know. Had I completely misunderstood the little nudge she’d given Lana that day as the two girls raced for the train? Again, I don’t know. What children perceive and remember years later can be so different from what adults know … or think they know. Perhaps she’d already been doomed to live as she did after she left us, and to die as she did in that bleak, unlighted space. Or perhaps not. I couldn’t say. I knew only that for me, as for all parents, the art of controlling damage is one we practice in the dark.

  THOMAS H. COOK is the international-award-winning author of more than thirty books. He has been nominated for the Mystery Writers of America Edgar Allan Poe Award eight times in five different categories, and his novel The Chatham School Affair won the Best Novel Award in 1996. He has twice won the Swedish Academy of Detection’s Martin Beck Award, the only novelist ever to have done so. His short story “Fatherhood” won the Herodotus Prize for best historical short story. His works have been translated into more than twenty languages.

  THE DAY AFTER VICTORY

  Brendan DuBois

  It was seven a.m. in Times Square, New York, on Wednesday August 15, when Leon Foss slowly maneuvered the trash cart—with its huge wheels and two brooms—along the sidewalk near the intersection of Seventh Avenue and West Forty-Sixth Street, shaking his head at the sheer amount of trash that was facing him and the other street sweepers from the Department of Sanitation. He had on the usual “white angel” uniform of white slacks, jacket, and cap—which was stiff and felt new—and never had he seen so much trash. It was almost up to his knees.

  Traffic moved slowly through the square—Packards, Oldsmobiles, old Ford trucks making deliveries—tossing up plumes of torn paper, tickertape, and newspapers that had been tossed around with such glee the day before, on V-J Day—Victory over Japan Day—the end of the war.

  His eyes darted along the sidewalk, taking in the Rexall Drugstore, a bar, a restaurant, and a joint called Spike’s Place. It had dark windows and an unlit neon sign overhead, and a small alcove with a closed door.

  A few pedestrians were moving along the cluttered sidewalks, but it seemed like most of New York was taking the day off after yesterday’s events, the biggest party since … well, since anyone could remember. And what a party, and he had missed every single second of it. Instead, he had listened to NBC Blue via his RCA radio in his third-floor walk-up in Washington Heights; he had no interest in catching the subway south to join the party. He had sat there in the tiny room, smoking a Chesterfield, listening to Truman’s flat Missouri twang go on and on, nothing like FDR’s cultured way of talking. Months after FDR’s death, he still missed That Man’s voice.… As he had smoked that cigarette yesterday and listened, his phone rang.

  “Leon?” had come a woman’s voice.

  “Yes, Martha, it’s me,” he had said, speaking to his sister. In the background were sounds of machinery. Martha worked at a war plant out on Long Island. “How are you doing?”

  “Taking a break, wondering how much longer I’ll have a job. Are you listening to the radio?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s finally over, then, isn’t it.”

  “That’s what they’re saying.”

  “Leon … you’re too old to keep at it. Let it go. It’s all over now. Please, stop working.”

  “Martha, it was nice of you to call,” he had said. “Don’t be late going back to the assembly line, okay?”

  And he had hung up and smoked the Chesterfield and listened to Truman some more.

  Now he started with his morning’s work, taking the big broom, pulling stuff off the sidewalks so the larger street sweepers could pick it up. Paper, broken beer bottles, broken gin bottles, copies of the Daily News and other newspapers, with their EXTRA headlines. Sweep, sweep, sweep. More torn pieces of paper. A uniform cap for a Marine. He picked it up, looked inside the brim, saw a hasty scrawl of some kid’s name on a piece of cardboard stuck behind the plastic. He walked down the si
dewalk a bit, carefully placed the hat on top of a blue and white mailbox, just in case the boy came back later to retrieve it.

  Just in case.

  Broom in hand, he went back to his cart to see another sanitation worker standing there, older, heavier, his white uniform stained. His face was covered with black bristle, and Leon figured that, in the rush to get to work this morning, he forgot to shave.

  “Hey,” the worker said.

  “Hey,” Leon said right back, and the worker said, “Christ, who the hell are you? You don’t belong here. I know all the regulars.”

  Leon lowered his broom, went back to work. “Look around, Mac. More trash here than any other place in the world, and it’s gotta be cleaned up.” Sweep, sweep, sweep. “I usually work on Staten Island. Boss called me yesterday, said to get to Times Square this morning, and here I am.”

  “Oh.” Then the guy leaned over and peered into Leon’s cart, and damn, Leon almost had a fit at that. But the guy leaned back without noticing anything and said, “Shit, you must have just started.”

  “That’s right.”

  The other sweeper started pushing his cart and stopped. His head rose to take in all the tall impressive buildings rising up from Times Square. “Greatest city in the world, ain’t it?”

  “No argument here,” Leon said.

  “Think about it. All those cities around the world, bombed, flattened, or occupied. London, Paris, Berlin, Moscow, Tokyo. Only one city didn’t get hit. Ours.” The man spat on the ground. “I spent a couple of years in Civil Defense. Got an armband and a white helmet. Did some drills about how to do first aid and put out incendiary bombs. Also knocked back a few beers. Christ, we was lucky. You know, I’m not much of a religious guy, but it makes you think God spared us, you know?”

  “Good point,” Leon said, still working.

  “All those lights back on, rationing ending, the boys coming back. My boy, too … he was stationed over in Belgium, and he’ll be back home soon. This place is gonna jump in the years ahead. Mark my words! Jump!”

  Leon gave the guy a cool brush-off smile. “Yes. Jump.”

  The worker shrugged, started pushing his cart. “See you around, bud.”

  “You, too.”

  And when Leon turned to keep on sweeping, there was a man standing in the alcove of Spike’s Place, smoking a cigarette.

  Leon froze, and then he went back to work.

  Sweep, sweep, sweep.

  More paper, more broken glass. There was a growling hum of a street sweeper at work on the other side of the square. Tickertape, some pages torn from a phone book. A woman’s pale pink brassiere. And then, a woman’s pale pink panties. A matching set? Maybe. He sure hoped they slipped off some pretty girl in a moment of delight and happiness that all the killing, wounding, and soldiers being made prisoner was over. That those long days of dreading the phone call, the knock on the door, the telegram delivery, the casualty lists in the newspapers, all those days were now, finally, behind you.

  Sweep, sweep, sweep.

  He paused in front of Spike’s Place, where the man was standing, still smoking a cigarette. He looked sharp, late twenties, early thirties, maybe. Nice shiny black shoes, dark gray slacks, and dark blue blazer. White shirt and a real snazzy tie, a snappy fedora. He looked at Leon and then looked away. Leon leaned on his broom. “Hey,” he said.

  The guy grunted back. “What a party, huh?” Leon said. “Biggest party in the world. Were you here?”

  The guy smiled for a flash. He had nice white teeth against a tanned complexion. “Nope. Was at some private function. Whooping it up.”

  “Ah, good for you,” Leon said. “More high class, more fun, I bet, than hanging out here in the streets.” He spread out his arm. “Here, it was jammed to the damn gills, you know? Could hardly walk around. Lots of people drunk and fighting; some of the girls kissing. Years from now there’ll be newsreels and photos, all saying what a great place it was … and they’ll skip over the fights, the bad breath, the drunks throwing up on your shoes.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Leon stood up from his broom and started to work. Sweep. And then stopped.

  “Hey,” he said. “I know you.”

  The guy took another drag. “No, I don’t think so. Don’t think we ever met.”

  “No, no, I never forget a face,” he said. “That’s what my wife, Donna, said, before she died a couple of years back. I never forget a face.”

  The man just stood there, looking slightly put off, and then Leon snapped his fingers. “Got it! I’ve seen your photo a couple of times. You’re Sonny Delano. Am I right?”

  Delano smirked. “What, you a cop under that garbage man costume?”

  Leon smiled back at him. “You think I’m a cop, Mister Delano? Ha, that’s a good one …” He took another sweep. “Don’t mean to be any trouble … it’s just that, well, hell, it’s you, Mister Delano. Over the past years you’ve been in the papers a lot, you know? You got pinched at least a dozen times, and each time you walked, am I right?”

  Same smirk on the younger man’s face. “That’s right. DA and coppers could never make anything stick.”

  “Good for you,” Leon said. He picked up his broom, knocked it against the edge of the curb. “Hard to believe, you know? Nearly four years on, and now it’s over. War is done. Peace treaty to be signed in a couple of weeks. Funny thing, ain’t it.”

  “Whaddya mean, funny?”

  Leon leaned against his broom once more. “Think about it, Mister Delano. Day before yesterday, if you were a Jap sailor or soldier, you could get killed, just like that.” Leon snapped his fingers for emphasis. “Now, no more killing. The war is over. In less than forty-eight hours, you went from being a target to something else. Same for you, too.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, no offense, Mister Delano, but you know … the stuff you were involved with … I mean, the stuff the coppers and the newspapers said you were involved with. Selling sugar and meat on the black market. Stealing rubber tires. Making fake gas coupons. A couple days ago, I bet, the coppers were still on your trail. But the war’s over now. I read that, pretty soon, all this rationing is gonna be over. You’ll be in the clear. You must feel pretty good about that. All the stuff you might have done during the war, well, you’re in the clear. Who’s gonna bother you about all that?”

  A funny little grin, a puff from his cigarette. Leon said, “So. What are you going to do now, Mister Delano?”

  He brushed some dust from one of his coat sleeves. “Who knows. The war over, lots of opportunities for sharp guys to make a buck. Guys coming home with money in their pockets, looking to get married, make babies, get new homes. Yeah, there’s gonna be a big boom coming, you just wait and see.”

  “And you’ll be there, making a buck, right?”

  “You know it.”

  Leon went back to work for a few seconds. Sweep, sweep, sweep. He caught Delano’s eye again. “You know, no offense, you look pretty healthy. Good shape. Why weren’t you in the service?”

  Delano’s eyes narrowed and seemed to turn from neutral to freezing cold. “I was exempt,” he nearly spat out. “Four-F.”

  “Oh. A doctor said that, huh?”

  “Yeah. I got a bad ticker. The hell business is it of yours?”

  “Sorry. My wife told me I always yapped. You know, you did what a lot of other guys did, am I right or am I right? You see that story last year, how the entire Penn State swimming team, they got medical deferments, too? Hey, that’s how the system was rigged. Some guys went out and served, and other guys, they could pull strings and stay home.”

  “Way of the world, pal.”

  “I guess so.”

  Leon swept up the sidewalk, leaving Spike’s Place behind him. His breathing was raspy, and his head ached. Too much coffee, cigarettes, and thinking last night had kept him up. Sweep, sweep, sweep. He worked his way back down to Spike’s Place, where Delano was still waiting. Of course, he was still waiting. L
eon was counting on it.

  “Some job you got there,” Delano said.

  He shrugged. “It’s a job. You know, I got kicked out of my other job because I was too old, too slow. But I like to keep busy, I like to contribute.”

  Delano grunted. Leon said, “Look at this city, will you? Best city in the world. You know why it works? For the most part, people get along, look out for each other, cooperate. Oh, they do business and make money and build things, but I’d like to think, for the most part, that people are honest, like to live on the straight and narrow. That’s how it works. That’s the only way it can work.”

  The man looked at his watch, moved his feet impatiently, looked at his watch again. Leon chose his next words carefully. “But there’s always the parasites, the sucker fish, the ones who ride along and get something for nothing, or for little. Like the draft dodgers, the hustlers, the thieves … like you.”

  The ice-cold look in those killer eyes had come back. “It’s time for you to get back to work, trash man.”

  Leon said, “You ever hear of Bataan?”

  “Who the hell hasn’t?”

  “Lots of people have already forgotten it,” Leon said, the words coming out hard. “My son was there, fighting for the Filipinos, fighting for the U.S., fighting for you, Mister Delano. Don’t you feel any sense of … oh, I don’t know, thanks for what he and hundreds of thousands of others did? Respect? Guilt?”

  Delano tossed his cigarette butt to the ground. “Clean that up, old man, and leave me the hell alone. I’m meeting someone important this morning.”

  Leon reached over with his broom, caught the cigarette butt, swept it back to him. “I bet you are. Let me guess. Ty Mulcahey, right? Connected with the dockworkers union. Was going to meet you because, pretty soon, lots of troop ships are going to come through this wonderful harbor, and you and Ty wanted to see what kind of action you could get from all those ships and soldiers coming here.”