Last Stop in Brooklyn Page 5

  “You would,” Elizabeth snapped back. “You’re a dreamer just like him.”

  “Yes, Mother, and you’ve always belittled my dream. Yet, I seem to have created a very nice career from it.”

  “None of it means anything without family.”

  “If by ‘family’ you mean someone who criticizes your every move and declares your life’s ambitions utter garbage, then I can do without it, thank you very much.”

  Elizabeth did a slow burn as she rose from the table. “Jeffrey, did you hear what she said? Are you going to let her talk to me like that?”

  This time Jeffrey opted not to be the peacemaker. “What do you want me to say, Elizabeth? What did the girl say that wasn’t true?”

  By now, Elizabeth was livid. “For once in your life, show some backbone. You’ve always let these children step all over you.” With that, Elizabeth stomped out of the dining room to her bedroom and slammed the door. Stunned, Mary, Sean, and Jeffrey sat in silence for a moment until Mary broke it.

  “Are you okay, Dad?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks, Mary. It’s time your mother learned that she can’t speak to us like that without consequences.”

  “If I didn’t see that with my own eyes…,” Sean said in awe. “It’s always Mary who charges out of here in anger. Never Mother.”

  Mary sighed. “Don’t get too optimistic. I’m sure she’ll be back to her old self in no time. She defines ‘wet blanket.’ ”

  “Actually, I believe the term was invented because of her,” Sean said, kidding.

  “It originated in the seventeenth century, but I’m sure they were anticipating her birth.”

  Mary and Sean started to laugh. Jeffrey couldn’t help smiling, too.

  “Ease off a bit on your mother. She’s so frantic about my job she’s not herself.”

  “It’s a fine distinction, but I do see what you mean,” Mary said, then looked at her father with sympathetic eyes. “Do you think you have anything to be concerned about?”

  “I don’t know.” For the first time in their lives, Mary and Sean saw their normally upbeat and positive father look worried and a bit scared. They both moved toward him, hoping their closeness would soothe his upset. It didn’t.

  5

  Ameer Ben Ali wasn’t Mary’s only case, and the one involving Colleen Murphy had certainly become more personal. Sarah and Walter lived in the affluent residential section of Williamsburg. Since Sarah was her best friend, it was easy to invent an excuse to stop by her house, not that any excuse was really needed.

  Sophie, the live-in maid, let her in, and after the usual pleasantries she informed Mary that Sarah was in the backyard. As Mary headed in that direction, she spotted Walter on the telephone in his home office, wearing a Norfolk jacket and tweed trousers, indicating to her that he had either just finished or was about to be involved in some outdoor activity. He smiled and waved at Mary, then shut the door. His secretive nature prompted Mary to suspect he was arranging a clandestine liaison with Colleen. It was possible her imagination could have been running a bit wild, but she doubted it.

  Sarah and Walter’s home reflected how well his law practice was doing. Custom furniture from Europe adorned the spacious house and so did paintings from minor yet recognized artists. Sarah and Mary had grown up on the same street in Brooklyn and servants like Sophie had been as far from their imaginations as were charity balls and formals, which Sarah now regularly attended. The Coopers’ wealth was nowhere near the rarefied atmosphere in which the Rockefeller family or the Vanderbilts resided, but they were financially comfortable.

  Mary did find Sarah in the backyard, miraculously managing her four children. She viewed it as a miracle, because although she loved children and, in spite of her mother’s constant diatribes, wanted to be a mother one day, she didn’t know how any one person could keep four children of different ages occupied and happy for any length of time. Somehow Sarah was able to do it and make it look simple, while still remaining calm and beautiful.

  God, Mary hated Walter!

  Sarah was on the back porch playing house with little Lucy, at the moment pouring fake tea for their imaginary guests, as she kept an eye on Ginny, Harry, and James, who were engrossed in a game of tag. When she saw Mary, she quickly rose and went to hug her.

  “Mary, what a nice surprise!”

  Mary was Ginny’s favorite adult in the world except for her parents, and when she heard her name she immediately stopped to look, allowing James, who was “it,” to catch her.

  “Gotcha,” screamed a very happy James. “You’re it!”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not playing anymore.”

  “That’s not fair. I’ve been ‘it’ forever, I finally catch you, and—”

  “Can’t you see? Aunt Mary’s here.”

  Ginny’s words instantly stopped James’s complaint. In no time, all four children were huddled around Mary. Their adoration wasn’t completely selfless. Her presence usually meant they would be off on a fun outing like Coney Island or the park or something of that ilk. As the children jumped up and down declaring their preferred destinations, Mary immediately responded.

  “I’m sorry. I’m working on a case, I was in the neighborhood, and this is just a quick visit.” Their disappointment was instantaneous and quite vocal, but Sarah soon put a stop to it.

  “You heard Aunt Mary. You all know she’s an important detective.”

  “Yes,” Ginny piped up, “very important, and I’m going to be one, too, someday.”

  Sarah turned toward Mary, making sure the back of her head was facing her children, and whispered through her smile, “You see what you’ve done?” They both laughed.

  “Do only girls get to be detectives?” James asked. “I want to be one, too.”

  “Enough, children. Go back to playing while Mary and I chat for a bit.”

  Ginny, James, and Harry returned to playing tag, the three of them arguing over who was “it,” while Sarah suggested that Lucy bake a scrumptious apple pie. Excited, Lucy nodded and walked four steps to her imaginary oven to bake her imaginary pie.

  “So, what case is the famous Mary Handley working on?”

  “You know I can’t divulge too much,” Mary replied. And in this instance she really couldn’t. She decided to mention her other case. “I don’t know if you remember it but about three years ago Carrie Brown, an old”—Mary stopped, looked to make sure none of the children were close, and whispered—“prostitute was murdered in lower Manhattan.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Some crazy Arab did it.” And that was the crux of the uphill battle Mary was facing even if Ameer Ben Ali was innocent. Sarah didn’t have a prejudiced bone in her body, and yet even she identified him as a “crazy Arab.” It was almost impossible to undo an image the press had so firmly implanted in people’s minds.

  “I’m not sure how crazy he is but yes, Ameer Ben Ali.”

  “Is it possible that he’s innocent?”

  “Anything is possible, but I’m not far enough along to have an opinion as of yet. Besides, what I’ve discovered I can’t discuss, nor would you find it of much interest.”

  The conversation about Mary’s work was dropped, and they went on to their usual friendly chatter about what was happening in their lives. Mary was trying to glean if there was a hint of upset or unhappiness with Walter. There was none that she could perceive. It made her feel worse that Sarah was completely oblivious to his deception. It also made it harder for her to tell her about it. She was beginning to work up to it when Walter emerged from the house and headed for them. He had abandoned his rugged, outdoors outfit and was now wearing yet another fashionable summer suit, not unlike the one he’d worn at the Oriental Hotel. The same straw hat was tucked under his left arm.

  He held out his hand. “Mary, so good to see you. I’m sorry about earlier. I was on the telephone with a client.”

  As they shook, she replied, “No need to apologize, Walter. I know how important clients are.” Mar
y was being facetious, but he showed no sign of recognizing it.

  “Walter, darling, why are you so dressed up?” Sarah asked. “You haven’t forgotten that you promised to take the children hiking?”

  “No, I haven’t, dear, but unfortunately, some nasty business has arisen, and I must leave.”

  Yes, monkey business.

  “But, Walter, this is Saturday. Surely whatever it is can wait until—”

  “It can’t, Sarah. I’m sorry.”

  You ass!

  He shrugged. “The life of a lawyer.”

  If he’s a lying, cheating prick!

  “Oh well, the children will be disappointed, but business is business. Hope it goes well.” Sarah kissed Walter on the cheek, then he bid both of them good-bye and left.

  Mary did her best to hide her anger for Sarah’s sake as she expressed her regret that she, too, had to get back to work and also left. She felt some comfort in the fact that she wasn’t lying. Walter was her work.

  It was a bright and sunny Saturday. The temperature had already hit eighty-five degrees a few minutes before eleven A.M. People had come to Coney Island in droves to enjoy the beach and the amusements. Children’s laughter and screams of excitement permeated the air along with the sounds of parents issuing words of caution and barkers beckoning people to their booths.

  Edgar Jefferson was also in a jovial mood as he strolled along the beach near the midway. After all, he was a working actor, and he knew how difficult that was to accomplish. It wasn’t the type of role that excited him, but it was a job, and each time he went before an audience it was a learning experience. He was twenty-seven, and he knew that he might have to spend years before he achieved his heart’s desire, which was to perform Shakespeare in London and Europe like his idol Ira Aldridge. Aldridge had died decades earlier but not before he had achieved fame and considerable notoriety for his Shakespearean roles in London and throughout Europe. This was considered a great accomplishment, not because he was an American, which he was, but because he was black.

  Edgar was also black, and he had been born on the day Aldridge died, August 7, 1867. He felt Aldridge’s spirit had somehow passed into his body. He wasn’t consumed by this notion or the least bit warped about it. It was just a feeling that kept him going. After all, he had Aldridge’s deep, melodious voice, and there was no question he had the talent. Opportunity was another thing. In his day, Aldridge had had New York’s African Grove Theater in which to cut his teeth on Shakespeare, but that theater had closed decades before. Even though it was very popular, a bunch of rowdy white bigots had forced them to shut their doors.

  As he walked along, Edgar received waves, nods, and friendly hellos from the majority of the regulars who worked at the park. He had a very pleasing personality and a hearty laugh, which helped him transcend color and made him well liked by his coworkers. Much of Brooklyn, New York City, and the rest of the United States were not nearly as accepting.

  Edgar entered the arcade area and saw Arthur, the short, pudgy, balding white man who had hired him, pacing nervously. When he spotted Edgar, he heaved a large sigh of relief.

  “Stop cutting it so close, Edgar. You’re giving me heart failure.”

  “Please, the ungodly amount of food you ingest will get to you way before I do.” Edgar’s tone was friendly and Arthur’s anxiety quickly dissipated into a smile. “Besides,” Edgar continued as he posed in a theatrical stance, “you will never have to hold the curtain for me. Edgar Jefferson is a professional and is always on time.”

  “Good. Get out there and earn your money.”

  “As always, I will have them in the palm of my hand.”

  Edgar turned and went to work. He stuck his head through a hole in the canvas before him and saw the crowds passing by. Suddenly his voice became high pitched and he assumed the cliché accent and language that reflected how the white world thought all black people spoke.

  “Well, if dat don’t beat all. My massah said dere was all dese white folk out dere waitin’ fer me. I didn’t believe ’im. I shoulda. I always listen to my massah, except when it comes to white women. I loves them white women.” Then he licked his lips.

  Edgar had already drawn a crowd, most of them appalled at his words. At this point, Arthur stepped in front.

  “All right, ladies and gentlemen, which one of you is going to silence this savage from the wilds of Africa?” He pronounced it “Ah-free-ka.” “Step right up and kill the coon.”

  Edgar continued baiting the crowd and a line began to form. Arthur handed out three balls and collected a nickel apiece to give each of them three shots at the coon.

  Mary was very good at tailing a suspect, and Walter seemed completely unaware of her. She reasoned that it was probably due less to her ability than to his being blinded by his lust. She hoped that he was leading her to a boring meeting with a client but soon abandoned that hope when she found herself on a train heading to Coney Island. She had to control the anger she felt to avoid getting sloppy. Walter was in the next car, and it all would become a jumbled mess if she allowed him to see her.

  Coney Island was the end of the line, the last stop in Brooklyn. After that, there was only water. Moving quickly, Walter popped out of his car and made a beeline for the Oriental Hotel. He did pause a few times and looked around as if checking to see if he was being followed, but Mary was too good at what she did to be detected. The bastard!

  She had to wait a few minutes outside the hotel after Walter entered in order to avoid bumping into him and Colleen. She wanted to catch them in their hotel room together, so there was no chance they could feign innocence.

  It turned out Mary was able to spend that time judiciously. There was a store advertising the Kodak box camera. A photograph of their rendezvous would be irrefutable. She detested the voyeur element that it added, but this was her best friend and she needed solid proof. Mary bought the Kodak along with a roll of film.

  It was the Saturday of a holiday weekend, and the lobby of the Oriental Hotel was naturally buzzing with people. Seeing no trace of Walter or Colleen, she figured they had already gone up to their room. Last time they had been in room 424, and the clerk had seemed to indicate that Walter often took that room. She needed to be sure.

  A nicely dressed man in his midthirties was already at the hotel desk and the male hotel clerk was thumbing through the reservations book. Mary got in line behind him. Then the blond-haired man whom Mary had seen a couple of days before with Austin Corbin approached the desk in tennis attire, holding his racquet. He called to a female hotel clerk.

  “Barbara, my dear, please make a seven thirty dinner reservation tonight at the hotel restaurant?”

  “Certainly, Dr. Lawrence. For how many?”

  Dr. Lawrence smacked his forehead. “Yes, that would help. Four.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine, but I’ll check and be right back.”

  “That’s sweet of you, Barbara. Take your time.”

  She left as the male hotel clerk said, “Ah yes, here’s your reservation. Two nights, Mr. Burke.” And he pushed the reservation book over for the man to sign.

  “That’s it. Except my name is spelled B-e-r-k, not B-u-r-k-e. When my father came to the United States, the immigrant officers didn’t understand his name and shortened it from Berkowitz. I’ve had to explain that over and over again my whole life.”

  Just as Mr. Berk was about to sign, the hotel clerk pulled back the reservation book. “I’m sorry, but this reservation is clearly for a Mr. Burke. B-u-r-k-e, not B-e-r-k.”

  “Yes, I’ve explained that—”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  They went back and forth a few times, but Mr. Berk could see he was getting nowhere. “Okay, forget about my reservation. I’d like a room for two nights.”

  “Unfortunately, we’re sold out. It’s a very busy weekend.”

  “I know. That’s why I made the damn reservation in June!”

  “There’s no need for profanity, sir.”


  “I beg to differ.”

  Hoping to avoid any unpleasantness, the hotel clerk abruptly turned and disappeared into the back. At this point, Dr. Lawrence felt a need to interject himself.

  “Dear fellow, are you not aware that this hotel is restricted?” Mr. Berk didn’t respond or even look at him. “Surely you know what ‘restricted’ means.”

  Mary couldn’t help commenting. “Of course he does. It means only people with less than normal intelligence are allowed to patronize this hotel. Happily, Mr. Berk doesn’t qualify.”

  Mr. Berk looked at Mary, then at Dr. Lawrence, shook his head, and stomped off.

  Dr. Lawrence turned to Mary. “He could have avoided all this unpleasantness if he had simply checked in advance. Typical of his kind, but I applaud your humor. It was a valiant effort to deflate a messy situation.”

  “I was merely stating a fact.”

  “I do believe you’re pulling my leg, Miss—”

  “Handley. Shortened from Handelstein.”

  “Nice try, but your Irish heritage is too apparent.”

  “There are no Irish Jews?”

  “None who are female private investigators in Brooklyn.”

  “So your superior Aryan savvy didn’t give me away, but rather the daily newspaper.”

  “Why do I feel like we’re in a boxing ring?”

  “That wouldn’t be fair. You’re overmatched.”

  At that point, Barbara returned. “You’re all set, Dr. Lawrence. Four at seven thirty tonight.”

  “Thank you, Barbara,” he said with a smile, then turned to Mary. “Hopefully, my wounds will have healed by then.” And he walked off, leaving Barbara a bit puzzled.

  Mary decided to take advantage of her befuddled state. “Hello, Barbara, I’m supposed to meet Walter Cooper here. Is he in room four two four?”

  Barbara looked at the hotel register and confirmed that he was. “Thank you,” said Mary. “And don’t mind Dr. Lawrence. He’s a renowned joker.”

  “Really? Dr. Lawrence?” Barbara remained befuddled as Mary headed for the elevator.