Ness carved a path through a wall of people in the opposite direction. He knew there were probably a dozen guns trained on him. He tried not to let it bother him.
At least they'd been right about one thing. Frescone was here. He stood by the band wearing another of his tailored pinstriped suits that probably cost more than Ness made in three months.
"Mr. Ness. So good to see you again."
"Can't say the same. Where'd you stash the gambling equipment?"
"Gambling?" He frowned. "Mr. Ness, are you not aware that gambling is illegal here?"
"Everyone in town knows this is the premiere gambling parlor."
"Would your informants be the same ones who told you I was smuggling alcohol last September?" He turned, addressing the audience. "Instead, our distinguished safety director managed to seize a lifetime supply of cold cream."
A few titters rapidly developed into full-out boisterous laughter that filled the room. People shook their heads in disdain and elbowed one another in delight.
Ness did not like being laughed at. Never had, not even when he was a child and the other kids called him "Elegant Mess" because of his unique combination of snazzy attire and social awkwardness. He was always careful not to make too much of himself; he knew immodesty could blow up in his face. But he still wanted people to take him seriously. He needed that.
"This isn't the end," Ness said. His voice was soft-spoken, as always, and just this once he wished it had a little more grit in it.
"Yes, you've said that before, haven't you? Your predictions aren't worth very much."
"You lost a big stash of liquor last week."
"Who did? Certainly you're not claiming you've been able to link that contraband to me?"
Frescone obviously knew Ness had not. Who told him? "You're smart, Frescone. I'll give you that. You learned from your previous mistakes. Reinforced the door. Barricaded the skylight. Figured out a way to hide all the gambling jiggery, fast. But I will get you."
"Mr. Ness, I am a private citizen and I am entitled to the same rights as other private citizens. This continual harassment is unacceptable. I will be calling the district attorney, who you may know is my personal friend. I will proffer charges against you, Mr. Ness. And that goes for your little lapdog, Chief Matowitz, too."
Every head in the room turned. Standing by the door, Matowitz looked as if he wished he could crawl into a hole and die.
"You know," Frescone continued, lowering his voice a notch, "I could find a place for you in my business organization, Ness. You don't have to be saddled with these-" He glanced contemptuously at Matowitz. "-civil servants."
Well, Ness thought, Frescone was a snappier dresser. And quite possibly more intelligent. But no. "I don't think so."
"Why be a patsy? This safety director routine is for losers. Give it up now and save yourself a lot of anguish."
"Thank you for your sage advice," Ness replied. "But I like my job just fine. And I will be back. Mark my words."
"As you wish, Mr. Ness. You'll be just as successful as you were tonight. But next time, I'll have my attorney waiting."
Ness turned silently and headed toward the door. He felt as if he were passing through a gauntlet, brushing against the shoulders of privileged and wealthy patrons who either sneered at him or ignored him altogether. They were no better in his mind than the criminals who ran the place. Maybe worse, since they didn't need this to make a living. They thought breaking the law was fun.
As he passed, the Banker subtly slipped a business card into Ness's pocket. He was looking away as he did it. He obviously didn't want Ness to make contact. Now.
"Will I be reading about this raid in the newspapers tomorrow?" Frescone shouted after him. "Or will this story be... untouchable?"
"I don't know," Ness said, just before he reached the door. "Can you read?"
He tipped his hat slightly and left The Thomas Club, feeling much more like The Elegant Mess than a renowned crimefighter. He would have to reverse this setback, as soon as possible.
He had to. So much depended upon it.
13
"You must be kiddin' me. Fifty dollars?"
"Swear to God."
"I could live two years offa fifty dollars."
"I know you could."
"And all I gotta do is come back to your place?"
"That's all."
"There must be some catch."
"Not at all. These are hard times. We have to help one another whatever way we can."
"That's good of you. But you know-a lady's got to be careful. There's been creepy stuff goin' on around here."
"I know that, too."
"How do I know this won't turn into something weird?"
"Do I look weird?"
"Nah. You're not from around here, are you?"
"Not originally."
"Let's just do it. I could really use that dough."
"Follow me."
It was so easy here. Almost too easy. Kingsbury Run teemed with the disaffected, the lost, the penniless. It was not a challenge at all. There had to be something more...
That was what his wife had said. That was what she always said. Always pushing him. Do this, do that, do more. A staff position at the hospital wasn't enough for her. Start your own practice. See patients of your own. Why? What was the challenge? How would that give him what he needed?
Curse the woman. He was better off without her.
This one was so stupid she wasn't suspicious until he had her tied to the chair.
"Hey, I said I'd let you have a little fun. I never said I'd let you tie me up!"
"Perhaps there was some miscommunication."
"Get me outta this. Now!"
"I believe you have misunderstood the nature of this visit."
"I know I don't want to be tied up. Have you heard about those people! Those corpses?"
"A little bit."
"So you see what I'm sayin'. Let me loose."
"I'm sorry. I can't. Not now."
"Then when?"
Hesitation. "When you least expect it." He shoved her forward onto the table. Her head dangled off the edge.
"Hey, what's this? What are you, some kinda pervert?"
"Some kind."
That was what his wife had said when she walked out on him. Of course she was bitter. She had not gotten what she'd bargained for. She wanted an uptown respectable citizen, and she got someone who would... never be that. Never wanted to be that.
Fine. But notifying the authorities-that was too much. Why had he endured all those twisted inquisitioners, would-be Freuds, trying to pry inside his head? They reached their verdict-but what did they know about it? He didn't need that job; he knew he would be provided for. Ignorant panel of so-called experts. Did they know what he knew? Had they glimpsed his destiny? The thought of so many unworthy people casting their aspersions on him-it made him angry. It made him want to hurt someone.
"Cut me loose and I'll give you something you'll like."
"I'll just use my imagination."
"Let me go!"
"When the time comes."
"What does that mean?"
"It means-hold still. If my aim is off, it will hurt a great deal more."
Back in school, they had told him that pain was to be avoided at all costs. Modern science had given them a solution. Anesthesia. We could numb the pain. Eliminate the suffering. People could undergo all kinds of mutilation and dismemberment and never feel the agony. This was a great advance for medical science, they had told him. But even while they were saying it, he felt a loss deep within the core of his being. Science had taken so much from him. Science needed to be put back in its place.
"Hurt? What are you talking about?"
"Let's hope nothing. I'm a lot better at it than I used to be. And more careful."
"What are you talking about?"
"Good night, Sleeping Beauty."
He swung the axe. It cut clean. He was definitely getting better at this.
And then it was over. So soon. Much too soon. It had barely begun to move him. There would have to be more cutting. Much more cutting.
He couldn't wait until the next time. And all the other times thereafter.
14
JANUARY 26, 1936
Whose idea had it been to move to Cleveland?
Angela Felice rolled over in her bed. Her hands and feet felt like ice. No quantity of blankets-not that they had that many-would be sufficient for a night such as this. It had been years since they could afford heating, and never once in Cleveland. She was grateful that Johnny had found work, such as it was, but she would never be accustomed to these unbearably freezing nights, so harsh she could hear water crackling into icicles and could feel every year of her life aching in the marrow of her bones.
She had not slept all night. Bad enough that Johnny snored louder than thunder. No matter how many times she kicked him and shoved him and pushed him onto his stomach, he always rolled back over and started snoring again. And then there was the dog. She belonged to that boy, Nick, over on Charity Avenue. Why wasn't he caring for her on this terrible night? She had been howling mournfully, uninterrupted, as if she desperately wanted to get someone's attention. And then, bizarrely enough, just as the sun was beginning to rise, Angela heard footsteps, loud footsteps, and a pounding, as if someone was beating on a nearby door. She thought she heard voices-or was it a single voice? She couldn't make out many of the words; her English was still so imperfect.
"Johnny? My Johnny?"
It was useless. He would wake when it was time to go to work and not a moment before. He had always been the soundest sleeper-and snorer-she had ever known. Nothing could rouse him before his time.
Enough. She rolled out of bed and gathered her tattered bathrobe. She was not going back to sleep. Perhaps she could at least chase that dog away. Even if she was not destined for slumber, she could do something to assist the sleep of others.
Her neighbors had told her that this neighborhood, surrounding East 20th and Central Avenue, near Charity Hospital, had once been quite respectable, even prestigious. No longer. The buildings had decayed and so had the people living and working within them. The streets were lined with a ramshackle collection of shops and manufacturers. Every other building was closed. The homes were weathered and the apartment complexes housed the worst possible neighbors, far too many children crowded into too little space, families with both parents and sometimes children working and still only a step away from Shantytown. They had prostitutes now! Women of ill fame and their filthy brothels, rubbing shoulders with family dwellings.
But it was all she and Johnny could afford and the sad fact was, she knew they were fortunate to have it.
She started coffee, then slid into her boots and her only overcoat, the fraying tan one with patches over the elbows. When she opened the door, a burst of frigid air slapped her like a fist across the face.
She stopped in her tracks, trying to catch her breath. She had forgotten how cold Cleveland could be in the early morning. And she had complained about how cold it was when she was in bed!
Angela steeled herself and stepped out into the street. Her body tensed. She imagined she could feel her blood turning to ice within her veins. Snow had fallen during the night and the bleak whiteness of the landscape made it seem even frostier than it was.
"Lady! Lady!"
She was trying not to shout. It would do little good to shoo away the dog if she woke all her neighbors in the process. She followed the sound of the barking until she found herself in the yard behind the Hart Building. She shopped at the White Front Meat Market on those rare occasions when she could afford such luxuries as meat.
"Lady! Go home. Go home now!"
The terrier made a whimpering noise but did not move. Angela noticed that there were two large half-bushel baskets beside the dog.
There was something inside the baskets.
She stepped closer. The dog barked louder.
She nudged the burlap bag covering of one of the baskets and saw the contents were wrapped in newspaper. The Plain Dealer-she recognized its distinctive typeface.
Her mother had always told her that curiosity would be her undoing. That might be extreme, but she found she couldn't stop herself from unwrapping the careful folds of the newspaper.
Lady barked as if her tail were on fire.
At first, Angela thought they must be hams. The market must've had some leftovers, or tainted meat, something they put away that naturally attracted the attention of a hungry dog.
Then she looked closer.
She felt her knees buckle. She fell forward, first against the wall, then down into the snow. She knew the wet snow would chill her skin, but she could not feel it. She could not feel anything except a sickness that started in the pit of her stomach and radiated throughout her entire body. She was glad she had not eaten, because she was certain that if she had she would have lost it. She was desperate to move away from the baskets, but found that her body would not respond. She could not move a muscle. She was forced to remain there, staring at the hideous contents of those baskets.
Mother of God! What has come to our neighborhood now?
15
Given that it was just after three in the morning, Ness tiptoed as quietly as possible through the front door of his Bay Village home-but he was not quiet enough.
Edna was waiting for him, sitting upright in an easy chair in the living room. All the lights in the house were off. He knew Edna was there because he could see the disembodied flare of a cigarette tip hovering in the air.
"Surprise, surprise. My hero husband home. And it isn't even dawn."
Ness walked toward the light. "Edna, what are you doing up?"