The Winter of Her Discontent (27 page)

W
ITH OPENING LESS THAN TWO
weeks away, rehearsals had been pushed back to early evening, as though Friday didn't want to just get us accustomed to the play but also to the time of day we'd ultimately be performing it. Jayne and I hoped this delay meant we could catch a little shut-eye, but the city had other plans. During the wee hours of Tuesday morning we were awakened by the whine of the air raid siren. It was only a test, but that didn't mean our hearts didn't leap out of our chests. By the time the all-clear sounded, we were too wired to go back to sleep. We had a whole morning before us and an infinite number of things we could do. Things like going to Rikers Island and getting the truth out of a mob henchman.

On my advice, Jayne dressed to the nines for our visit to Al. She wore a silky red blouse that was surprisingly conservative for something cut to emphasize her cleavage, and a pencil skirt that hugged her hips and showed off her well-toned dancer's calves. While she got ready, I went down to the foyer and checked the morning mail.

“You're not funny.”

I turned away from my mailbox and found Ruby behind my left shoulder. “I'm not trying to be. When I'm funny, you'll know it.”

“You know what I'm talking about.” She was dressed for the day but looked like she'd accomplished that feat in a darkened closet after being blindfolded and spun around. Her blouse was wrinkled and untucked, her skirt bore a grease spot just north of the hem. Ruby was meticulous about her appearance, and seeing her so haphazardly put together made me feel like the earth had tipped the other way on its axis.

“Actually, I don't. It's early and I have yet to plot against you, but give me an hour or two.” Even if I hadn't just gotten up, it was doubtful I'd have any idea what she was talking about.

“Jealousy doesn't become you, Rosie.”

“I'll keep that in mind next time I go shopping.”

“Be glib all you want, but I'm warning you: if you continue this, you'll regret it.” With that she left the foyer and entered the street.

I stared after her, trying to figure out how I'd managed to offend her so early. Was it possible this was all because of our conversation the day before? While clearly I'd poked a wound then, it hadn't been one I was aiming for. Something was bothering Ruby, and it was looking more and more like I was getting blamed for it.

I went into the lobby with the intention of going upstairs to retrieve Jayne. Before I could, the dulcet tones of Belle grabbed me by the ear and held me in place.

“Were you raised in a barn?”

“No, but I do enjoy a good roll in the hay.”

She bent before the parlor wastebasket and retrieved a wad of paper resting next to it. With a grunt that would've been better suited for a day of pounding railroad ties into the sun-hardened earth, she put the paper where it belonged and once again became upright.

“Watch your aim next time.”

“You're barking up the wrong tree.”

She shook her head to reinforce that she didn't believe me, then disappeared behind the swinging kitchen door.

“Are you ready?” Jayne appeared on the stairwell. She looked delectable enough to be a Varga girl.

“You might want to go without me. Something tells me this isn't my day.”

“What's wrong?”

I listed the offenses that had already been levied against me. As I came to Belle's assault, I approached the wastebasket to illustrate her accusation. Since the offending wad was still there, I picked it up to prove the page and I were unconnected.

“It's Ruby's,” I said. “No wonder I got blamed for it.” I unfurled the paper to look at the rest of the note. It was brief and to the point:
Ruby, I know what you're doing. Stay away from Donald Montgomery or else
.

Jayne read over my shoulder and squinted at the words. “Who sent it?”

“It doesn't strike me as the kind of note that comes from someone who's willing to identify themselves.” There was an envelope in the wastebasket. No return address, though the postmark said it had come from New York the day before.

“You'd think they'd just hand-deliver it and save the postage,” said Jayne.

“What would Emily Post say about that?” I tucked the letter into my purse, and Jayne and I left the house. “At least now I know why Ruby's so sore: she thinks I'm behind this. And I'll bet my mother that whatever she was reading yesterday when we walked in on her was kin to this.”

“Why would someone threaten her?” asked Jayne.

“Why wouldn't they?”

“You've got to tell her you're innocent.”

“And ruin all the fun?” Jayne opened her mouth to protest, but I cut her off with a wave of my hand. “Ruby being mad at me is nothing new. Besides, if she's thinks I'm the one who did it, whoever is really behind these notes might start getting a little careless. Blaming me might be the best thing she could do.”

We took three subways and a cross-town bus to the Rikers Island ferry. There we huddled by the railing and watched as Manhattan disappeared into the fog. Our companions were few and kept to themselves, either dreading the return to a place they'd recently left or fearing whomever they had to encounter when they got there. In whispers punctuated by the ferry's whistle, Jayne and I went through what she should say to Al. She had to be emotional and pathetic, keeping up the ruse that she didn't want to tell Al any of this but felt like she didn't have anyone else to turn to.

“Make sure you tell him you and I aren't speaking,” I said. “That'll put him on your side out of the gate.”

“What if he doesn't take the bait?”

“Then it may be time to confess the feelings you've long harbored for him.”

She put out her hand like she was a cop stopping traffic. “You want me to tell Al I'm in love with him?”

“I want you to convince him he has a reason to want to be free. This is our last chance, Jayne. If you can't get him to talk, I doubt he'll be willing to see either of us again. He might spend the rest of his days behind bars.”

We arrived at the Island, and I navigated through the gates and guards and took Jayne into the little lobby where other family members and visitors signed in and waited their turn. Al was apparently anxious to see her, since ten minutes after her arrival Jayne was being escorted out of the hall and into the meeting room.

They had added an urn of complimentary coffee to the waiting area. I helped myself to a cup (weak as dishwater but chicory-free) and turned my attention to
Life
magazine and an article on Versailles showgirls who aspired to be army pin-ups. A quarter of an hour passed. It had to be going well; otherwise he would've said his time was up and told the guard he wanted to leave. I'd finally done something right. We were going to get the truth out of Al. We were going to secure his freedom.

I should've known that the minute I started feeling confident was the moment everything went haywire.

“Funny meeting you here.” Vinnie Garvaggio lurked near my chair, his enormous girth blocking my view of anything but him. He wore a pin-striped suit, and for a moment I was mesmerized by how much fabric it had taken to construct this single piece of clothing. Was there a shortage of pin-striped wool now? Was he the one to blame for the clothing ration?

“Hiya, Mr. Garvaggio. Sir.” I fumbled with the
Life
magazine and
rolled it into a tube in case I needed to battle him with it. Clearly, fifty pages of slick paper would fell a man his size.

“Whaddya doing here?” he asked. The cigar was in its usual spot. The teeth around it were the color of summer corn.

“Visiting. A…relative.”

“You got a friend in the joint?” As I noticed with him previously, his appearance was immaculate. I'm not one to go around smelling men, but I couldn't help but notice a sweet, manly scent hovering around him, obliterating the smell of his cigar.

“As a matter of fact, I do. Not a friend per say, but my pop. He's been on the Island for ten years now.”

He frowned. “Ten years? I thought the Island was for short-timers.”

“What can I say? He makes friends wherever he goes.”

He pulled up the chair beside me. Fortunately, it didn't have arms. “What's he in for?”

I searched the walls for the answer. “Robbery.”

“What'd he pinch?” He illustrated the question with one of his giant mitts. His nails had been buffed to a pink sheen. I was dying to ask who his manicurist was.

“Art work. High-end stuff. I'm sure you read about it in the papers.”

“Sorry, I don't know art.”

So I hoped. “Anyways, I come up here once a month and chat with him. What are you here for?”

“To see a friend.”

It was clear I was supposed to accept that answer and move on. While details might be expected of me, they were never expected of Vinnie Garvaggio.

“You know,” I said. “I heard Paulette Monroe's murderer is here.”

“That so?”

“That's what one of the girls in the show told me. I thought that was kind of strange myself. My pop made it sound like they didn't bring murderers to Rikers.”

He removed the cigar from his mouth and wiped his chin. “Not to stay, that's for sure. Sometimes people, like your pop, get special favors.”

I looked at my watch: Jayne had been gone twenty-five minutes. She couldn't be in there much longer. Even a guy who could pull strings wasn't likely to get a conference for more than thirty minutes. I was running out of time and conversation. You didn't have to be the secretary of war to figure out that Garvaggio's seeing Jayne here would be bad. When the guard escorted her back, he'd know she'd been to see someone, and claiming we were both visiting relatives at Rikers on the same day wasn't likely to float. Vinnie was swift enough to do the math before you even told him the numbers.

I would have to create a distraction and soon.

 

I picked up my lukewarm coffee and feigned taking a sip. As soon as it touched my lips, I yelped in pain and jerked the cup away from my body and onto Garvaggio's chest. A puddle of brown formed at the top of his belly before cascading like Niagara Falls down the rest of his once-crisp white shirt.

“Oh my gosh! I am so, so sorry!” I said.

Vinnie stared at the mess pooling beneath him. He didn't so much scowl at his shirt as recoil in horror.

“I bet it'll wash out,” I said.

He kept his hands as far from his body as possible, like his shirt wasn't covered in coffee but blood and guts. His horror became panic. Vinnie Garvaggio was not a man who could take looking like a mess, especially when he was about to confront someone.

If he'd killed Paulette—and it was looking less and less like he had—it was doubtful he'd done it himself. Just like with the horses, he had someone else do his dirty work.

There was a bathroom off the waiting area, and he staggered toward it like a poisoned man struggling to reach an antidote. As soon as he was safely behind the door, I approached the gal at the
desk and asked in a hushed voice if she knew how much longer Jayne would be.

She glanced at a clock on the wall and looked at the intake time Jayne had scribbled on the clipboard. “She should've been out ten minutes ago. Lemme call down.”

It wasn't necessary. With the kind of perfect timing Maureen would've sold out the Bund for, Jayne entered the waiting room with zebra stripes of mascara running down her cheeks. “Sign out,” I told her. “We've got to scram.”

“What's the rush?”

“Garvaggio's here.”

Jayne scribbled her moniker and we breezed out the door. As we rounded the corner to the exit, she took me in for the first time. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I've been better. Today I witnessed the loss of a man's best dress shirt.”

 

I got the scoop on the ride back to the Bronx. My plan had worked like a charm.

“The minute I told Al I was seeing Garvaggio it was like someone had electrocuted him. Every hair on his body was standing at attention.”

I should've been thrilled he reacted as I'd guessed, but instead I felt terribly guilty. Hadn't Al been through enough without having to worry about Jayne too?

“I tell you, Rosie—I'd hate to see what happens when Garvaggio shows his face. I don't think Al is going to take it well.”

“I wouldn't worry too much about that—something tells me that Vinnie decided to cancel his appointment after we left. He'd never confront someone wearing a stained shirt. He's obsessed with being spick-and-span. What did Al tell you?”

“Oh, that.” She sighed and I could tell that the tears she shed while she was in with Al weren't entirely being used as a persuasion
technique. She'd been rattled and good. “Keep in mind that the minute I told him I was involved with Garvaggio, all he wanted to do was keep me from seeing him. At first he was vague, telling me Vinnie was bad news and whatnot. I told him you could say the same about Tony, and look how that stopped me.”

I grinned. Jayne could be remarkably self-aware for someone who seemed determined to make poor choices.

“When it became clear he was going to have to give me details if he wanted me to back down, he told me the real reason he was in the joint: Garvaggio put a hit on him.”

Even though I'd predicted this very scenario, I still found myself gasping. “For what?”

“Tony asked Al to spy for him. Apparently Garvaggio was under-cutting his prices.”

So that was it. Tony didn't like Garvaggio, not because the guy was no good but because he was able to sell his black market meat at a greater discount, which meant more business and, ultimately, more profit.

“Garvaggio was getting a big piece of the restaurant pie, and Tony wasn't too happy about it. He told Al to find out how he'd managed to do it, and Al found out what you found out: Garvaggio was able to sell his meat dirt cheap because it wasn't beef. So Al tells Tony, and Tony decides he's going to shut Vinnie down.”