With a wave, Dana was gone. I locked the door behind her. But before I faced Bud and my aunt again, I paused. Something told me we were headed for real trouble. And that something was Jack Shepard.
There’s a Chinese angle on these Houdini acts, that’s for square.
“Chinese angle? You mean you think Dana Wu is somehow involved?”
Catch the lingo, babe . . . Chinese angle. There’s a bend in the road . . . Something’s not on the level with the Angel broad and the working square taking it on the lam.
“You suspect foul play?”
You got it. But keep things clammed until the pipes man Auntie is jawing with spits out more facts. The more people talk, the more you hear.
“What do you think is going on, Jack?”
With the dame, it could be like your Miss Wu said—our loose-limbed Angel is pitching woo in some hot-sheets love-nest even as we speak. But then why not return calls? Could be someone—maybe someone with a beef against Angel—did her in or is doing the Lindbergh snatch—
“A kidnapping!”
It happens . . . The dame’s got cabbage and plenty of it. Or maybe your working-class square-john bumped this Angel for his own reasons. Maybe the loving went sour. Or maybe he’s the snatchster who put the grab on her. Otherwise this Johnny’s just a rube who took a powder and Angel doesn’t fit into this picture at all—but I don’t truck with that since she’s out of touch.
“Huh?”
I said maybe Johnny-boy killed the filly and skipped town, or he’s the kidnapper . . . or he’s just a patsy who took the bus for another reason that’s not connected with Angel, which I don’t buy and neither do you.
“You’re jumping to some pretty drastic conclusions, Jack,” I scolded. “No doubt due to too many years among the riffraff of the New York streets. Don’t be an alarmist.”
Alarmist? Me? Ha! You just turn those sweet cheeks of yours around, plant them in a chair, and ask Bud why his nephew’s on parole, and we’ll just see who’s the alarmist.
“Well . . . I’ll grant you that I didn’t know Johnny had been in trouble with the law . . . and Dana does seem worried . . . so what should I do?”
Like I said, ankle over to Auntie and find out what the old geezer is bumping ivory about. You’ll learn more from a peepster than you will from this graveyard gumshoe.
“Peeper? Bud’s a nice old guy. He’s no peeper.”
PeepSTER. A witness. Someone who knows the score. Geeze, babe, you read enough of Tim Brennan’s Jack Shield dime novels based on my life. The least you could do is glom on to the natural flow of my discourse.
“I guess I should tell Bud about Angel’s disappearance . . . Maybe it would calm his fears a little to know that Johnny probably just ran off for a wild weekend of fun with a literary celebrity.”
Nix to that.
“Why?”
Because you don’t know that’s what happened. Even if you don’t truck with my dark scenario, I still think you ought to take my advice and keep your lips zipped and your wax bins open while Bud talks. Then we can both learn something.
Strategy set, I approached Sadie and Bud and cleared my throat.
“Sorry for the interruption,” I began. “There was some . . . business I had to take care of.”
“No, no . . . I should be apologizing,” Bud replied with something of his old demeanor. “Here I am costing you Saturday morning business, and I have to open my hardware store, too. Folks are depending on me . . .”
Bud started to rise, but I gently pushed him back into his seat. “Don’t be silly . . . We never see any real business on Saturdays until well past noon.”
Sadie spoke up. “Bud’s come over here to ask for Mina’s address and phone number. I told him we’d gladly give it to him, but Mina will be here soon anyway, so I told him to wait around.”
“I was hoping Johnny was with her—Mina, I mean,” said Bud.
I sat down between them and folded my arms. “Bud . . . You mentioned something about Johnny violating his parole. But neither Sadie or I knew your nephew was in any kind of trouble.” I looked to my aunt for support. “Isn’t that right?”
Sadie nodded. “That’s right, Penelope. Bud, what can you tell us?”
“Johnny was in just about the worst trouble a kid can get into,” he began, then his voice faltered. “But it’s his business . . . maybe I better not say . . .”
Goose him, Jack advised in my head.
“What!” I silently replied. “How?”
Keep the play innocent. Don’t threaten, just throw this out there easy: Should we call Chief Ciders?
“Should we call Chief Ciders?” I repeated to Bud.
“Call the chief!?” cried Bud, now visibly alarmed. “Why?”
“Jack?” I silently pleaded.
So he can file a missing persons report on Johnny Napp.
“So he can file a missing persons report on Johnny Napp,” I told Bud. “If it turns out he isn’t with Mina, I mean.”
Bud’s eyes went wide. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to do that! . . . Oh, dang it . . . I better tell you the truth. The kid’s name isn’t Napp. Johnny’s my late sister Rita’s kid. I told Johnny when he came to Quindicott that it would be better for him if he just used my last name instead of his own . . . so he could fit in better, and avoid any nosy reporters snooping around.”
“Why would a reporter be looking for Johnny?” I asked.
Good, doll, I heard in my head—and bit my cheek to keep from smiling, even as I lectured myself that being giddy with pride over a possible figment of my imagination was patently ridiculous.
Don’t start that possible figment of your imagination stuff with me, baby. You need a reminder I’m real? I’ll scare gramps into next week.
“No, don’t!” I silently reversed. “Just behave, Jack . . . Please.”
Bud, who of course had no idea I had been carrying on a conversation in my head about him with a ghost, rubbed his eyes. “Johnny’s father—my late brother-in-law—was an Italian contractor in Providence. Johnny’s real name is Napoli . . . Giovanni Napoli.”
I recognized the name immediately, and nearly gasped. Bud noted my reaction. Sadie looked at me, then at Bud. She hadn’t made the connection.
“Now you know why I told Johnny to use my name,” said Bud. “Too many people could find him if he used his own.”
“I don’t think I understand,” my aunt declared.
Me, either, doll. Enlighten us both.
I rose and walked to the New Releases table at the front of the store. I came back with a copy of Angel Stark’s All My Pretty Friends and handed it to my aunt. “Index,” I whispered.
“Rita died when Johnny was six or seven,” Bud continued. “I didn’t have much to do with his family after that—I frankly didn’t care for Johnny’s old man—but I heard his grandmother worked hard to raise my nephew right. She made sure he hit the books, and after school she taught him how to cook.
“The grandmother died when Johnny was just starting high school . . . I remember going up to Providence for the funeral. After that, I didn’t see much of him until his father died of a heart attack. I found out at the funeral that Johnny was accepted by the Culinary Institute of Rhode Island. Later I found out that when his old man died, the money for Johnny’s schooling dried up and he couldn’t go.
“But a catering company hired him full-time to work the high-society parties in the area. . . . From what I understand, things were going fine until my nephew hooked up with those rich society types—then everything went to hell.”