Lady in the Lake(73)
“I’m not authorized to pay you overtime,” he told her, ever suspicious.
“Not looking for OT,” she said. “Mr. Heath is on vacation for the next two weeks and filed his column ahead of time, so there’s only so much I can do.”
He gave her press releases to rewrite. Maddie found that even Cal Weeks had a few things to teach her, such as words to avoid. “Be careful with terms like first and only because they’re often inaccurate. And the word unique never takes a modifier.” He also had insights into the city around them, who the real players were. And he liked her. Men always did, if Maddie wanted them to. So when she saw that Ezekiel Taylor was going to be opening his sixth dry cleaners, on Gwynn Oak Avenue, she offered to cover it.
“I don’t know, Maddie. He’s one of eight candidates in the Fourth. Might look like favoritism.”
She had prepared for his objections. “It’s at four o’clock today. I skipped lunch, so I’ll be off the clock, more or less. What if I go by and see if he makes news? Like a policy position? Or something about Senator Welcome?”
Weeks snorted. “Your time, your dime.”
She would not expense the cab she took to Gwynn Oak.
Maddie knew the signs that indicated a neighborhood was about to tip from white to black. The newest location of EZ Kleeners was next to a beauty shop in a neighborhood that was just beginning to change. The “Under Contract” and “SOLD” signs swinging beneath the original “For Sale” signs were covert code for Get out now. She couldn’t understand why whites in the city didn’t want to live next to black people, but they didn’t. The mass hysteria over the issue meant that values plummeted rapidly. Was it bigotry to want to live among one’s own? The Christian neighborhoods hadn’t wanted the Jews. Still didn’t, really. The white women walking into Pietro’s to get their hair cut and styled would be happy for the convenience of a dry cleaners in the neighborhood, but they wouldn’t want Mr. Taylor as their neighbor.
She had arrived in time for the ribbon-cutting, which she knew from Cal Weeks could never be considered news. But that was all there was—a ribbon-cutting, with a photographer from the Afro dutifully recording it. The Afro had different standards from the city’s dailies, apparently.
Mr. Taylor had that charisma that some successful men have, a way of making you think that you’d find him attractive even if he weren’t successful. Bulky, he moved slowly, spoke slowly and softly, but his eyes were sharp and watchful. Maddie could feel him assessing her quickly as she approached, reporter pad in hand.
“Madeline Schwartz from the Star,” she said.
He smiled, but it was a smile that showed no teeth. “Glad to know the Star thinks this is news.”
“Well, you are running for state senate. Although I suppose if you win, you’ll leave the dry-cleaning business behind.”
“Maryland has a part-time legislature, miss, as I’m sure you know. It would be an honor to represent my district, but I still need my job.”
She did not, in fact, know that Maryland’s legislature was considered a part-time office. It had never occurred to her to think about it. But she did not intend to dwell on politics. She had other topics to discuss with Ezekiel Taylor.
“One thing I did want to ask you—did you know a young woman, Eunetta Sherwood?”
“Eunetta—” His brow furrowed.
“Most people knew her as Cleo, but her parents preferred her given name, Eunetta.” She wanted to remind him that Cleo was someone’s daughter. “She worked at the Flamingo. You know, Shell Gordon’s place over on—”
“I am familiar with Mr. Gordon and the Flamingo. The young woman, however—”
“After she went missing, her mother found clothing from your dry cleaners in her apartment. Lots of clothing. Even a fur.”
“Obviously, I don’t know all my customers.”
“Obviously. But Mrs. Sherwood, Cleo’s mother—she told me that Cleo said she was going to marry you one day.”
There was a split second of hesitation—and then he laughed and Maddie was impressed. This was not an easy man to rattle. “The stories girls tell their mothers. I am married, Miss—”
“Mrs.,” she said. “Schwartz.”
“I do go to the Flamingo when they have musical acts to my liking. I tip well. Who knows what kind of story a young girl could build on top of a little folding money left on a table for a job well done. I’m sure Cleo Sherwood knew who I was. And I’m sure I saw her a time or two behind the bar. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
He walked to his car with an unhurried, unconcerned gait. Why should he be concerned? He had absolutely checkmated her. Or maybe the better metaphor was poker. Maddie had been so sure of her winning hand that it never occurred to her that she could be bluffed, stonewalled. The men made the rules, broke the rules, and tossed the girls away.
What had she expected? That he would sweat and stammer? That he would confess to her that, yes, Cleo Sherwood had been killed because she threatened his ambition, his livelihood?
She watched a Perry Mason rerun that night, an episode clearly modeled on Oliver Twist, only the Fagin character, played by Victor Buono, was killed. Mason defended the accused boy, one of the gang members. He sensed something good in him.