Conned: A Bureau Story (The Bureau Book 6) Read online

  Abe returned the rod to the table and closed his eyes. He put on a pained expression—not difficult at all considering the state of his head—and allowed his upper body to sway. “Ah,” he said. “Bárcsak levághatnám a fejem. Bárcsak levághatnám a fejem.” None of these people understood Hungarian either. They wouldn’t know he was simply complaining about the headache. He continued in English, dropping his voice to a whisper that carried. “I hear them now. I hear… some of them vould like to speak vith you.”

  He recognized Rosie’s gasp and had to hide a smile.

  With his eyes still closed, he placed the fingers of both hands on his brow. “Yes. I believe… this vas an older voman. A mother? No, a grandmother. She vas a little plump, vith a kind face. She vould like to tell her granddaughter that she still loves her very much. And that of course she forgives her for not visiting more often vhen she vas ill.”

  Rosie made another noise, this time a muffled sob. The people beside her bent close to give comfort, and while everyone was momentarily distracted, Abe chose one of the envelopes from the table. The small pencil mark on the flap—which he’d made while sliding it into his pocket—informed him that this question had come from Mr. Reed, a stooped man in his sixties. Abe opened the envelope, drew out the slip of paper, and memorized the words upon it. Then pretended to read: “I vish to ask my beloved grandmother if she forgives me for failing her ven she was dying.”

  Rosie outdid herself with a wail and a showy collapse. As the guests hurried to assist her, Abe, unnoticed, carefully arranged the envelopes so he could see the secret marks he’d made.

  Rosie let herself be resettled, and then Abe assured Mr. Reed that, yes, his late wife had been reunited with their daughter in heaven and was now very much at peace. As Mr. Reed sobbed quietly into a handkerchief, Abe opened a second envelope—Mrs. Coakley’s—but recited Mr. Reed’s question.

  It was, all in all, a very simple con. A skeptic would have seen the ruse immediately. But Mr. Reed and Mrs. Coakley and the rest didn’t want to see the ruse; they wanted very badly to believe that they were indeed communicating with the dead. That desire, combined with Rosie’s distractions and Abe’s ability for quick memorization, resulted in a successful show.

  After the séance was over, most of the guests bought magnets for a dollar apiece. They were identical to the ones he used in the show, except he’d paid to have these covered in bright blue enamel. He instructed the guests to carry them in a pocket or on a chain around their neck to ensure a continued connection with the spirit world.

  Everyone filed out, some of them still teary-eyed, all with a more satisfied air than when they’d entered. A few minutes later, Rosie returned and slipped back inside Abe’s house. He was waiting for her in the kitchen with a glass of Bacardi in his hand.

  “You look like hell, Abe.” Rosie took a glass from the cupboard, poured herself a healthy slug from the bottle, and took a big swallow.

  “You are always so kind with your compliments.”

  “And you look like you’ve been fished out of the Bay and toweled off. Your noodle giving you grief again? That’s the third time this month.”

  Hiding his pleasure that she’d noticed, Abe shrugged. “I drank too much last night.”

  “I was there, pal. I’d say you drank exactly the same amount as always, which woulda killed anyone but you. That ain’t your problem.”

  He shrugged again and pulled five dollar bills from his pocket. “You were hitting on all eight today, Rosie. Well done.” He handed her the payment, which she tucked into her bodice.

  “You want me for the show tonight?”

  “No. I’ll send for Roy or Helen.”

  “Got it. Don’t want to be seen with me.”

  Abe reached up to stroke one of her gingery curls. “You are the star of my séance. I don’t want to risk someone recognizing you the next time you pretend to faint.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Rosie finished her rum, set down the glass, and leaned back against the counter. She stared absently for a few moments, until Abe handed her a cigarette from the case in his pocket and lit it for her. She had long, slender fingers, like a pianist’s. He wondered if her dress was new. It was coral pink with a narrow black bow at the collar and a pleated skirt. The dress suited her, although if he said so, she’d complain that her figure was unfashionable: hips too wide, breasts too big.

  “I think I know what’s wrong with you,” she said after a few drags.

  “Oh?”

  “You need some company.”

  “You’re with me right now.” It was good to lapse back into his natural speech, contractions and all.

  She shook her head. “That ain’t the company I mean, and you know it. And I ain’t never gonna be that kind of company for you.”

  “I’m fine,” he insisted. To prove it, he stole her cigarette and took a few puffs before she snatched it back.

  “Head on down to Lower Market, Abe. Plenty of company there.”

  Abe thought about the last time he’d been there, a few months back. He’d found company all right—in the form of a handsome young man who’d tried to lift Abe’s wallet. Abe had caught him at it and told him he should find another line of work if he was going to be so clumsy. The man had laughed, kissed him, and slipped away. Abe went home with his bankroll intact and his balls aching. “Plenty of trouble, you mean,” he said to Rosie.

  She tsked, shook her head, and exhaled a stream of smoke. “Take some aspirin at least.” Then she stubbed out her cigarette in a glass ashtray and set her empty glass near the sink. “I’ll see myself out. Make sure you take that aspirin. And don’t overdo it on the rum.”

  “Thanks for looking out for me, sister.”

  “Somebody’s gotta.”

  After she was gone, he washed her glass and refilled his own. He spent a long time standing in the kitchen, drinking and smoking, allowing faint memories to float through his head like the spirits he claimed to converse with. Sometimes he massaged his temple, but it didn’t help.

  He should eat—he’d had nothing but rum today—but his stomach rebelled at the idea of food. If his mother had been near, he might have gone to her and begged for shlishkes, the potato dumplings that had been his favorite when he was a boy. But his mother was in New York City and, considering their history, wouldn’t cook for him anyway.

  Instead of filling his glass for the third time, Abe put it in the sink and left the kitchen. He didn’t look toward the parlor, where the chairs still sat in orderly rows, awaiting the next group of marks. He trudged up the creaky stairs, using the bannister to pull himself along, like an old man. His bed was unmade and the room smelled of stale smoke and night sweats. As he stripped, he was careful to hang his evening suit and white shirt on hangers, to set his white bowtie neatly on the bureau, to make certain his shoes retained their shine. He opened a window and let the moist, salty air creep in.

  Naked and goosefleshed, he sprawled on his back on the rumpled bedclothes and closed his eyes. He didn’t sleep.

  3

  Although the YMCA at the Embarcadero had been established a few years earlier for army and navy men on leave in San Francisco, others stayed there too. The modest rooms were clean and cheap, and it was convenient for anyone who arrived by ship or worked along that section of the waterfront. It was also convenient for anyone who wanted easy access to the men along the Embarcadero and Market Street. Thomas knew that much from reputation.

  But he also knew the Y personally because he’d been there a few times while investigating cases. It was a good place to search for wayward sons, for instance. And due to the visits by people from around the country and around the world, it was a good place to gather gossip. Thomas had made a point of becoming friendly with Frank Labhard, the blocky man who headed the Y’s meager security detail. Well, maybe friendly wasn’t the right word. Generous was a better one.

  As soon as Thomas entered the lobby, Labhard’s eyes lit up and he sailed over with surprising speed f
or such a large man. “Donne,” he grunted.

  Thomas nodded at him as he scanned the area. Not that he expected Roy Gage to be sitting in one of the chairs and reading the paper, but it paid to be aware of one’s surroundings—a habit Thomas maintained even when he wasn’t working. Right now the lobby was almost empty, with a bit of late-afternoon light angling through the windows and turning everything golden. “It’s quiet.”

  “That’s how I like it. Buncha sailors shipped out this morning. Didn’t none of them look like they was happy to be going.”

  Remembering long, queasy days and nights spent crossing the Atlantic, Donne suppressed a shudder. He’d paid for a third-class stateroom but found the quarters far too claustrophobic, like a slit trench but with clean bedding. He’d spent most of the passage shivering on deck and watching the gray water that stretched to every horizon.

  “I have a few questions,” Thomas said.

  Labhard jerked his big head toward a high table that stood against one wall, and Thomas followed him there. Faded, dusty religious pamphlets were scattered over the tabletop; Labhard rested his elbows on them. “Whatcha want?”

  “A boy named Roy Gage.”

  It was clear that Labhard recognized the name, but he pretended to frown in thought. “Gage.”

  “Civilian. Twenty or so. Chip on his skinny shoulder.”

  Labhard snorted like a bear. “Guess that’s a good enough description.”

  “Know where he is?”

  “Ain’t seen him in a while. Hang on.”

  As Labhard lumbered over to have a discussion with the man at the reception desk, Thomas wondered how many men had sat in the lobby chairs and where they all were now. Surely some of them must have been English and served during the Great War. Were their dreams untroubled, their waking hours clear and placid? He tried to push those thoughts away by reading a Bible study guide, but the earnest words only made him scowl. Thankfully, Labhard returned.

  “Ain’t here. He checked out three days ago.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “Nah.”

  “Does he have any friends or associates here who might know?”

  “Don’t think so. Keeps to himself mostly.” Labhard straightened a few of the pamphlets. “I’ve seen him bring company up to his room, but never the same goose twice.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “I don’t care so long as they keep quiet.”

  And probably so long as somebody passed him a few dollars now and then.

  “You don’t know why he checked out?”

  “Punks like him, they come and they go, mister. Maybe they find someone willing to pay their way somewhere else for a time. Or maybe they get so flat they can’t afford to stay here no more. Maybe they even get pinched and trade in our bed for one in the cooler.” He rubbed his jaw. “Some of ’em come back.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about Gage?”

  For a moment it looked as if Labhard was going to say no. But then he rolled his eyes upward as if performing maths calculations in his head and scrunched up his pale lips. “Yeah. Couple-three times, I seen a guy come looking for him, but they didn’t go up to Gage’s room. Guy had the desk call Gage down and then they went somewhere.”

  “Who was this fellow?”

  “Don’t know him. He’s, I dunno, thirty-five? He was dressed in glad rags, like for a big night on the town. Had some kinda foreign accent, but only a little one.”

  “What kind?”

  Labhard stuck a fat finger in one ear and dug around. “I dunno. I hear all kinds in this place but I don’t know any of ’em. Like yours.”

  “London.”

  “Well, his wasn’t like yours.”

  Thomas wished he’d been able to keep the photograph Townsend had shown him. And when it became clear that Labhard had shared everything he knew, Thomas shook his big paw, transferring a ten-dollar bill in the process. Labhard smoothly tucked the money into his pocket.

  “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Donne. You come back anytime.”

  Thomas strode over the pedestrian bridge to the Ferry Building. Along the way he glanced down at the building’s base, to the spot where Gage had been photographed. Now he saw a woman with two children, each carrying a suitcase. They all looked tired. A glimpse inside the building showed people hurrying back and forth along the Grand Nave, narrowly avoiding one another and the large potted palms. Donne stopped at a newsstand tucked next to one of the big arches and bought the afternoon edition of the Call and Post, then sat down on a bench to read it.

  He did this sometimes even when he wasn’t on a case. For no reason he could understand, the purposeful movement and meaningless noises of the Ferry Building soothed him. They reminded him that he was in the world, without forcing him to participate. So although today he had a reason to read the paper, he took his time.

  Sixty-two nations had signed an agreement in Paris to outlaw war. That made Donne snort. Five girls who’d escaped the California Girls’ Training Home and were captured the next day claimed they’d been starved and abused in the institution. Feminists in France were arrested when they tried to storm the presidential palace. Two men in Sacramento shot and killed four people. A rum-running ship had been captured by the Coast Guard and towed into port.

  So many people bashing their heads against the cage, again and again, until they couldn’t move any longer—as if there were any hope of battering through. As if there were any ending other than pain and death.

  Eventually he turned to the theater section and, ignoring the articles, scanned the advertisements. The city offered dozens of diversions every night—and those were just the ones legal enough to advertise.

  Ah, there it was, in a notice for Café de L’Ouest. Appearing tonight at eight: Abe France, Tsar of the Realm of Spirits, presents wonders and mysteries.

  The only wonder was that people paid good money to see that shite instead of blowing it on something worthwhile, such as booze, strippers, or whores.

  Which reminded him: he had money in his pocket.

  John’s Grill was an easy walk up Market Street to Ellis. Thomas had been in there only once before—tailing the philandering husband of a society woman who was paying his expenses—and he’d had a good meal. Now he entered the, long, low-ceilinged space where wood gleamed everywhere: floors, walls, columns, and a bar with no hooch in sight. They certainly had bottles somewhere, and likely the good stuff, if you handed the waiter an extra dollar or two.

  But Thomas didn’t bother with that. Not when he could find gin or rum cheaper from the long-coated men who paced the streets of the Mission and the Tenderloin. He splurged on the food, though: a dish of stuffed olives, mock turtle soup, a porterhouse steak with fried potatoes. Thomas was a big man and it took a lot to fill him, but even he couldn’t quite finish the cake he ordered for dessert. He lingered over coffee and cigarettes.

  Only a few blocks from the Army and Navy Y, Café de l’Ouest was on Spear Street just past Mission. Thomas had never been there, but he’d visited other establishments just like it. Places nice enough to attract a crowd with a little money, but seedy enough to be paying the local beat cops to look the other way. Tables were crowded together, customers openly drinking rum and whiskey as they laughed and talked. Some of the couples were queer; some of the men wore dresses, and some of the dames wore suits. Didn’t matter in a joint like this.

  Thomas paid a little extra to have a table to himself near the back corner. From there he had a good view of the door and of the curtained stage that ran along the far wall. He remained largely in the shadows, however, so nobody would get a good look at him.

  “What kind of coffee you want?” asked the waiter. Not rude, exactly, but he clearly didn’t have time to baby his clients.

  “Bacardi. Double.”

  “Got it.” Satisfied with their little exercise in make-believe, the waiter hurried off.

  Thomas rolled a cigarette and took a closer look around. He recognized a few people from spe
akeasies and clubs he’d visited, although he didn’t know them by name. That skinny person in the silvery beaded dress with the fringes and the fur-collared cape, for instance? Thomas had seen him a month earlier, performing in a drag show. Thomas tried to imagine pulling off a look like that himself and snorted out a cloud of smoke. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with the type of heavy body that might run to fat if he were richer. He had a blocky face with a straight nose and wide chin. He kept his dark blond hair slicked back from his forehead. Although he’d been called handsome now and then, nobody would ever call him pretty.

  Only a few sips into his rum, a man appeared on stage with flowery patter about how amazed they were all about to be. Then the house lights dimmed and the curtains drew back.

  Thomas recognized the magician at once as the man standing beside Gage in Townsend’s photo. The picture hadn’t done him justice, however. Without a hat and now resplendent in an evening suit, France was stunning. He had thick, dark curls that looked as if they’d defy taming with Brilliantine. His olive-toned complexion had a rosy tinge over his cheekbones, which might or might not have been makeup. Although he was short—five six, five seven at most—he had enormous presence and moved his tightly muscled body with the lightness and grace of a dancer.

  “Good evening,” France said. He couldn’t have seen much of anything beyond the stage lights, but he smiled and slowly moved his gaze as if personally greeting each member of the audience. “I thank you so much for joining me tonight. Together ve vill engage in a journey beyond anything you have experienced, to fantastic and extraordinary vorlds where the spirits speak to us and anything is possible.”

  Merely empty patter; Thomas knew that. And whatever that accent was, it sure as hell wasn’t French. The magician seemed to glow from within—undoubtedly a clever trick of the lights—and his large dark eyes appeared to absorb everything, as if Thomas might be drawn into them and lost forever.