The Winter of Her Discontent (24 page)

No, you dumdora. Of course they knew. That was the point.

The guy with the gat entered the room they had taken the horse into. The door closed and a sharp crack echoed throughout the basement. A loud thump followed. From the truck came a chorus of sympathetic whinnies. They may not have been able to fight their fates, but the other horses certainly weren't happy about it.

I knew I should've been relieved their cargo was horse, not human, and yet the lingering stench of death filling my nose and my head seemed incapable of discerning between the two. Garvaggio was in the murder business no matter how you sliced it.

Try as I might to rationalize that this was part of the natural order of things, I couldn't help but transfer this cold-blooded execution into human terms. Was this what prisoners of war suffered through? Did the men on the Bataan Death March have the same vacant expressions on their faces when they were about to meet their ends? And what of the German soldiers? Suffering was suffering no matter who you were doing it for.

The longer I sat there, the more dark places I began to probe until I worried I wasn't going to be able to ever leave that basement again. I had to, though. I couldn't sit through a dozen crackles of a shotgun followed by the lifeless thump of a body hitting the floor. And I certainly couldn't sit through the emotionless dismembering of the animals, as they were transformed from once strong, graceful creatures into steaks, chops, and ground meat.

I was going to throw up if I didn't get out of there soon.

As the men prepared to lead the next horse into the room, I carefully made my way out of my shelter. I had positioned the opening of my hiding place toward the cross-under and now, while the men were distracted, it was easy to slip out unnoticed and creep toward the darkened tunnel. As I stepped into it, the second horse struggled and the men's voices rose and fell in a series of instructions of how to tame it. I began to run. I didn't want to be around for the second gunshot. If I didn't hear it, maybe it would never happen, and if it never happened, maybe I wasn't guilty of sitting back and doing nothing while two helpless animals died.

 

I left the theater and entered the street. I rushed away from the building until there was no way I could possibly hear what was going on in the basement. I paused beside a trash can and inhaled a deep breath of cold night air mixed with the sweet stench of rotting food. I was all right. It wasn't my fault. There was nothing I could've done.

I stepped backward into the privacy provided by the door to a haberdasher and focused on slowing my breathing.

Even though the lights had been dimmed for almost a year, I'd never gotten used to seeing Broadway dark. It wasn't completely pitch-black—dimmed lights from the lobbies leaked onto the street and provided the smallest bit of illumination under the marquees—but there was barely enough light to navigate by. In the dark, the theaters became hulking dinosaurs, the lampposts barren trees. And the people became much quieter, aware of the dark's peculiar ability to amplify every word and footfall. No one could talk loudly in the dark. It seemed like a kind of sacrilege.

“Any change, Miss?”

Startled, I turned and found I wasn't alone in my hiding place. Beside me a man extended a can hoping for a little bit of tin. It used to be that he'd make his request silently, knowing the power of the can to tell his story, but now that night prevented us from making out
all but the faintest hint of a human being, his approach had become more brazen, his shame masked by the same shadows that beckoned us to be more cautious.

I gave him a nickel. I needed to do something good no matter how small the gesture.

I continued on, weaving a path down streets I normally avoided. I didn't want to go home yet. I needed to clear my head.

I passed a post office with windows plastered with pleas to buy war bonds. Beside it a butcher shop demanded that passersby “Share the Meat as a Wartime Necessity” and in smaller print explained the government-mandated allotments for beef based on your age. A five-and-ten hawked pastel-colored Easter baskets and candy eggs. Not chocolate ones—those were extinct—but dyed sugar confections that looked much better than they tasted. Last year at this time Bugs Bunny had offered Hitler a grenade in lieu of an egg. I wondered what he would offer him this year.

“Excuse me. Don't I know you?”

For the second time I jumped at the sound of a voice and backed into the shop window. When no one attacked, I turned and found a vaguely familiar face staring out from beneath an air force–issue hat. It was Ruby's pilot, the very tall fellow with the nice smile.

“You do know me,” I said. “I'm Rosie Winter. A friend of Ruby's.” I hoped he didn't realize what an exaggeration that claim was.

“That's right. It's awfully nice to see you again. I'm Donald Montgomery.” He gave me his hand, and my fingers took a swift journey up and down. “Are you okay? You look like you're about to be sick.”

“I'm fine.” I forced a smile. There was no way I could share the horrors of witnessing an equine execution with this man. “What are you doing out here?”

“Doing a little sightseeing before I meet Ruby. I haven't gotten a chance to see much of the city and decided there was no time like the present. Are you headed home?”

I nodded.

“Mind if I ride with you?”

“Not at all.” We started walking together toward the Times Square station. He had a loose, leisurely stride that made it seem—even when he had a purpose—that he wasn't in a rush to get where he was going.

I needed a distraction, some innocent diversion to keep my mind out of the basement. “So where are you taking Ruby tonight?” I asked.

“I'm not sure yet. I want it to be someplace pretty special, you know? You got any ideas?”

I searched my mind for places that would sound fabulous to him but horrible to her. “How special?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“It's what I'm known for.”

He patted his overcoat and located some unseen item. “I'm proposing tonight.”

“Proposing what?”

“Marriage, of course.” His hand disappeared into his pocket and emerged with a tiny oval, iced with a much tinier diamond.

I took the ring from him and pretended to ooh and ah over it. It was nice, if small. I certainly couldn't see Ruby proudly dangling it in front of our faces. She demanded ostentation.

“It was my grandma's,” he said. “I thought about buying Ruby a big new one, but I figured this would mean more, being an heirloom. She always tells me how much family means to her.”

I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Ruby hadn't talked to her family in over a year. “It's very nice,” I said. The longer I looked at it, the better it seemed. I don't mean the stone looked bigger or the ring more expensive, but I suddenly wanted to cram it on to my finger and close my hand so he couldn't take it back. “Don't you think it's a little soon? I mean you and Ruby just met.”

“We've been writing each other.”

“For what? A month?”

“Five weeks. Long letters. I think I knew just about everything about her before I saw her the second time.”

Somehow I doubted that. If he had, surely he wouldn't be proposing marriage.

He put the ring back into his pocket. “So you can see why I want to go someplace nice tonight.”

“Absolutely.” The irritation I'd felt at Ruby the last few days returned and multiplied. Who was she to tell me that I had no right seeing someone when she was toying with this pilot's heart? Sure, she might've waxed philosophic about meeting the man of her dreams, but it was clearly just talk. The minute he tried to turn the relationship into something more, he'd get a chance to meet the real Ruby, the one who was convinced she deserved the sun and moon and who wouldn't let anyone stand in the way of her receiving either.

We reached the station and boarded our train. I gave him the names of a couple of nice joints—places with good food and great atmosphere. At least, if Ruby turned him down, he'd get a nice meal out of the deal.

For the duration of our ride he praised his queen, telling me things about her I knew weren't true, things he cataloged as being among the many reasons he loved her. I listened stoically, curiously aware that it wasn't my place to tell him the truth no matter how badly I wanted to. His description of Ruby gradually changed into a prediction of their future together. The war would end and they would come home and start their life together in Goshen, a little town an hour and a half north of the city. He wanted children right away—a whole houseful. They were, he thought, the reason for living.

I stifled a snort. “That'll be a challenge with Ruby's performing schedule. At the very least you might want to keep an apartment here.”

He cocked his head to the side and looked at me. “Come again?”

“Ruby's still going to act, isn't she?”

“I don't know about that. I suppose there's always community theater. Of course, I can't see her doing anything like that until the children are bigger.”

Most actors are driven to do what they do the same way artists
have to paint and composers have to write music. Theater wasn't a temporary placeholder until something more stable came into our lives—it was what we lived and breathed for, and anything else we did had to complement that effort. I knew women who'd left the stage, gotten hitched, and settled down with a brood, but I can guarantee every one of them felt the familiar pang of hunger whenever they encountered an actress they once knew on the radio or in the lingerie ads in the
Brooklyn Daily Times
. I'd almost quit the stage a half dozen times, but even I knew it would be like losing a limb. Sure, I could learn to function, but who wants to go through life with only one arm when they don't have to?

I couldn't tell him that, though. “I'm sure you'll work it out,” I said. “Love overcomes everything.”

At last we pulled into the Christopher Street station and the evening performance of
One Hundred Reasons Why Ruby Priest Is the Perfect Woman
came to an end. I let out a sigh of relief that continued as we climbed out of the station and into the Village. I was home. I was safe. I hadn't been shot in the head and divvied up for dinner.

“D
O YOU HAVE ANY IDEA
how worried I've been?” Jayne launched herself across our room and slammed into me. I almost toppled beneath her weight, but I steadied myself and gave into the half-hug, half-strangle she greeted me with. “Don't ever do that to me again.”

“I won't.”

“I'm serious. You've been gone two hours, Rosie. I thought you were dead or worse.”

I didn't ask what worse was. I didn't have to.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Things took longer is all.”

Jayne scowled. She clearly wasn't buying what I was selling. “I do hope you're going to tell me more than that.”

“I know your foot is bad, but can we go somewhere? I don't think I want to tell you what I have to tell you here.”

“Why not?”

I didn't have an answer for her. I wanted to keep our home sacred, free of the taint of everything I'd just witnessed. If we didn't talk about it there, maybe the Shaw House could remain a refuge from the awful things that men did.

We hoofed it to Rothco's All-Night Pharmacy, where we huddled side by side at the red laminated counter and ordered milkshakes. I needed something sweet to counteract the story I was about to tell.

“I know what Garvaggio's up to,” I said at last.

“What's it going to take for you to spill?” asked Jayne. “I'm dying over here.”

“Believe it or not, his men were unloading retired race horses into the basement of the building.”

“He's running horses? Out of the Bernhardt?”

“Not exactly.” I took a long sip of soda, then pushed the glass away. “He's in the black market meat trade.”

She wasn't getting it. That was clear. “So the blood you found downstairs was from meat?”

“Sort of.” I willed her to pick up on what I was saying without making me spell it out. “I think he's using the Bernhardt as a temporary butcher shop. His guy kills the animals and slices them up in the hall of horrors, then gets rid of whatever he doesn't need by burning it in the boilers. The evidence goes up in smoke. He has people pick up their orders the same day or soon after.”

“And nobody notices?”

“It's a theater. Of course it's going to have a lot of traffic going in and out. Who's going to think that it's people going in there to pick up meat?”

“No wonder the place always smells like steak.”

“It's not steak you're smelling.”

Jayne emptied her black cow before asking the obvious. “What do you mean?”

“I said they were retired race horses.”

Her eyebrows met her hairline. “No!”

“I saw them with my own eyes.” I told her about the slaughter I'd witnessed the hour before.

She pushed her glass away. “That's disgusting.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Those poor horses. How does he get away with it?”

“It's the black market, Jayne. There's a reason they call it that. There's no regulation. There are no rules. Ten to one the markets and restaurants he's selling to know the score but pretend ignorance. All that's important to them is the meat comes cheap and comes often. They jack up the prices and the customers buy it, accepting it is what it is because it would never occur to them to think otherwise.” And I was willing to bet a week's pay that one of those places was Mancuso's Deli.

“I think I'd know if I were eating horse.”

“People can convince themselves of anything. Believe me. Especially when the last time you had real meat was before Pearl Harbor.”

Jayne's pale face turned a lovely shade of green. “But wouldn't you get sick?”

“From horse meat? It's doubtful. The cow just lost the lottery on what animal we eat. I think the bigger issue is Garvaggio's butchering and storage methods. While his personal hygiene is beyond reproach, I doubt he applies such standards to his meat.”

Jayne spun from side to side on her stool. “So why would Garvaggio want to shut down the show?”

I searched the counter for the answer. My eyes lighted on a copy of
The Times
left by a previous customer. The news had been all aflutter about meat being sold through the black market. There had to be a connection “Well, if it's meat Garvaggio's dealing, it's illegal for one.”

“What isn't?”

“No, the government really has a bee in its bonnet about beef.” After two years of being at war, I was finally figuring out how the government worked. If they were telling us something, it was only because they'd been aware of it for quite some time and had decided it was safe to share it with the public at large. “The feds are introducing all these measures to curb the black market, including staging raids at places suspected of being part of the trade. Garvaggio isn't just selling meat illegally; he's selling the wrong kind of meat, so he might be nervous enough that he wants to change locations to keep them off his tail. If that's the case, he has no reason to want to continue financing
Goin' South
.”

Jayne nodded at the counter. “I could buy that. But what does this have to do with Paulette and Al?”

That question again. “I'm not sure. Logic tells me one of them figured out what I just put together and threatened to squeal to the authorities.”

“So you think Paulette saw the horses and Garvaggio took her out?”

Perhaps Paulette had the courage to do what I couldn't: she'd tried
to stop what was happening and paid for it with her life. “It would make sense, wouldn't it?”

“But then why would Al be in jail?”

“I'm not there yet.” Maybe I was wrong before when I thought Al had confessed to keep himself safe from Tony. Maybe it was Garvaggio he was hoping to protect himself from.

“What do we do about all of this?” asked Jayne.

“I don't know about you, but I'm not eating beef for a while.”

“Rosie…”

I finished my malt and searched my pocketbook for enough tin for a tip. “I need to think about this some more. I can't stand the thought of what's happening to the horses, but you know as well as I do that messing with the mob never ends well.” What we needed was for the government to get wind of Garvaggio's operation and shut it down, but we couldn't do that without running the risk of Garvaggio finding out we were the ones behind it and demanding retribution. While I felt bad for the horses, I wasn't willing to put us in jeopardy. Yet. “As for Al, the only thing we can do is try to talk to him again.”

We wrapped ourselves in our coats and exited into the street. As we walked, my mind kept drifting back to the basement of the Bernhardt where a dozen horses were meeting their ends.

“Don't think about it.” Jayne squeezed my hand and then looped her arm in mine.

“I'm trying not to.” Our steps fell into the rhythm of my thoughts: Don't think about the horses. Don't think about the horses. Don't think about the horses. I shook my head, but the thought remained firmly planted. “I forgot to tell you about my escort home. I ended up traveling with Ruby's new beau.”

“She's going to be thrilled to hear that.”

“She has nothing to worry about. Our young man is quite enamored with Miss Priest. He's planning on proposing to her tonight.”

Jayne stopped walking. “They just met!”

“A fact I pointed out to him. Several times. He's not as smart as I assumed, though, because he's planning on moving forward with it.
Oh, and he expects her to end her acting career, at least temporarily, so she can take care of the children.”

“Children? Ruby? I always thought she'd eat her young.”

“Didn't we all.”

“She'll never say yes,” said Jayne.

“You and I know that, but he doesn't.”

“Boy I wish I could be a fly on the wall during that proposal.” I did too. It would be an infinitely more pleasant way to spend the evening than lamenting all the deaths I should've prevented.

 

I couldn't sleep that night, not that I tried too hard. I wasn't sure I wanted to doze for fear of what I might end up dreaming about. Once again I went downstairs determined to feed my insomnia something other than all the unpleasantness I had bottled up in my head.

Just like the time before, Minnie was sprawled on the sofa, flipping through a copy of
Time
magazine with Harry S. Truman on the cover.

“Hiya,” I said. She looked up and smiled, as unsurprised to see I'd returned as I was to see her. “Ruby not home yet?”

“Nope.”

It was only going on one, an early hour to end an evening by anyone's standards. I sat on the wingback by the fire and stared into the flames. The whole house smelled of burning meat. “I think you might be waiting a while,” I told her.

“Why?”

I spread a red, white, and blue afghan on my lap. “Her pilot had big plans for her tonight, and I don't think they'll be done until sunrise.”

“Isn't he tired of her yet?”

I was surprised by her reaction. Sure, I could imply Ruby's date was counting the minutes until he didn't have to see her again, but Minnie doing that was unthinkable. Perhaps she was finally catching on to the real Ruby. “Actually, I think he's the exact opposite of tired of her. One might even call him addicted.”

She raised an eyebrow to beckon me to continue.

“This is between you and me, but I have it on good authority that he's going to propose to her tonight.”

Minnie inhaled sharply. “Did Ruby tell you that?”

I snorted. “Definitely not. I said it was a good source.”

Minnie's eyes dropped to her lap and remained there.

“Why do you care, Minnie?”

“They just met…and Ruby…she's…”

I couldn't stand to watch her struggle to find words. “Your only friend?” Minnie nodded. I would talk to Jayne. If Ruby didn't have time for Minnie anymore, maybe she and I could. “Don't worry: as well-intentioned as he may be, Ruby would never go through with it.”

Minnie lifted her head. “Why not?”

“Look, I don't want to tell tales out of school, but you should know Ruby's favorite thing in the world is Ruby, and I don't believe for a moment that she would willingly change from a me to an us. Especially when she gets wind that her husband-to-be expects her to drop the theater so she can drop some babies.”

Minnie smiled and her plainness momentarily evaporated. She could be a pretty girl. Who knew?

“How was the Canteen the other night?” she asked.

“Oh, that.” I swatted at the air as if a fly was buzzing about me and I wanted to silence it for good. “It was fine.”

“Did you meet anyone?”

I was too tired to object to the topic of conversation. Besides, it was infinitely more pleasant than reliving the horses' deaths. “I danced with one fellow a few times. I'm supposed to meet him there again tomorrow night.”

“Aren't you going to go?”

This girl was perceptive. “I'm going to agonize over whether or not I should.”

“Why the agony?”

I shifted my position until my legs were bent beneath me. “I get
the sense he expects this to turn into a romance, and I don't think I'm ready for that.”

She nodded knowingly. “Because of your missing boyfriend.”

“Because of many things, including I, unlike Ruby, believe a relationship consists of more than a few love notes and a handful of face-to-face meetings.” I had the floor and decided to run with it. “I just find the situation the war put us in so desperate. I mean, look at all the war brides. Some of them, I'll grant you, married their longtime sweethearts, but most of them barely know the guys they're getting hitched to. Why should we let the war rush us into decisions we wouldn't otherwise make? What's going to happen when all these men come home and find strangers in their beds? Because that's what they are. It seems like a recipe for disaster to me.”

Minnie stared into the fire. “You're assuming they're coming home.”

“I have to, don't I?”

“You might, but that doesn't mean their wives do.”

“That's an optimistic outlook. Why would someone get married if they didn't believe they were going to survive long enough to be reunited?”

Minnie shrugged. “Why does anybody do anything?” She thumbed through the pages of
Time
. “You're right, though. About not going to the Canteen. I'm not sure I would either in your shoes.”

The conversation died a natural death as the fire died into embers. I left Minnie and went back to bed, where the horses were replaced with the question she'd given me. Why would someone make a commitment to someone who might be dead tomorrow? Perhaps it was for the same reason I knew I'd show up at the Canteen the next night—to give a soldier a little bit of happiness to carry him through whatever awful thing he had to face. Maybe I was too cynical to accept that love could come fast and furious and didn't need the long-term nurturing I assumed it required. It was very likely that everything I thought I knew about love—the stuff I learned from my relationship with Jack—wasn't true at all but merely the data I received from an experiment that wasn't performed correctly to begin with.