THE DEAD OF BROOKLYN
by Robert J. Randisi
~ 1 ~
It was what I call one of my “Brooklyn Blues” days. I was thirty-two, a bachelor, doing my own laundry in the neighborhood Laundromat. On top of that, I hadn’t had a case for a couple of weeks and money was getting tight. Did I say tight? It was damn well cutting off my circulation. The last five hundred dollars had made had not gone very far.
I have done laundry in Laundromats when being there was a bachelor’s delight. In fact, up until about six months ago there were these three girls who were roommates living in the neighborhood and they used to take turns doing the laundry. In the summer those girls would come in dressed in shorts and halter tops of bathing suits, and in the winter—when they took off their coats—they’d be wearing tight jeans and leg warmers. I mean, all during that time I looked forward to my time in the Laundromat, but they only lived in the neighborhood for a few months and then moved, and laundry went back to being a chore.
As a whole, the regular people who used this Laundromat were pretty nice, but they were no great shakes to look at. Mrs. Goldstein is a woman in her late fifties who sort of adopted me—telling me which detergent to use, and which fabric softener, and “Oy, boychick, don’t wash those in cold water!”—but she kind of resembled the south end of a battleship going north; Big “Mad Dog” Bolinsky, a bruiser who worked for the Department of Sanitation, looked like the whole ship; Mr. Quinn, the Greek grocer, was in his late fifties also, and don’t think Mrs. Goldstein didn’t know he was a widower, just as she was a widow.
And then there was Sam. Her real name was Samantha Karson, but she wrote her romance novels under the name “Kit Karson”—when she sold them, that is. I think she has sold three, so far, huge tomes with lurid covers showing big breasts on the women and bare chests on the men. Sam lives across the hall from me and takes time out from her computer from time to time to take in a movie with me, or to do her laundry. She’s not the neatest person in the world, but she’s pretty and easy to get along with. We’re very good buddies, and we’ve never slept together.
So it was on one of my Brooklyn Blues days, when I was feeling slightly sorry for myself, when Linda Kellogg walked in.
She had never been there before and naturally became the center of attention right away—with me because of her good looks, and with Mrs. Goldstein because she’s the neighborhood busybody.
Nobody spoke to her beyond saying hello because that wasn’t the way things were done. If she came back again, indicating that she might become a regular, then everyone would make an effort to get to know her. I would have made an effort right off the bat, but as she took the machine right next to mine I noticed that she was wearing a wedding ring.
I noticed a few other things too. She had a bruise alongside her left eye, and as she was putting her clothes into the machine I noticed a blouse with blood on it. When she turned my way at one point, I saw that her lip was split and puffed on one side. The lip and the bruise looked about five or six days old. Three days ago she would have looked a lot worse. This could all have been the result of anything from a mugging to a family dispute, and I really didn’t give it a second thought after leaving the Laundromat that day.
The second time she came around I found out her name—from Mrs. Goldstein, of course—and during the course of the next couple of weeks she came in every Tuesday and Friday—Friday being my regular day—and Mrs. Goldstein, who was at the Laundromat three days a week, busied herself getting all the dope. (Mrs. Goldstein was a widow who lived alone, so you know she didn’t have to go to the Laundromat three times a week just to do her laundry.)
Linda usually had a small bruise here or there when she came—she could have just been clumsy—but finally one Friday I noticed her talking to Mrs. Goldstein and crying, and that was when nice Mrs. Goldstein dragged her over to me.
“This quiet fella is Nick Delvecchio, Linda. He’s a nice enough boy to be Jewish.” That was the highest praise Mrs. Goldstein could have given me. “He’s also the best private detective in Brooklyn.” A dubious distinction at best.
Of course, Mrs. Goldstein is addicted to mystery novels that feature private eyes. She was always trying to get Sam to write one instead of those “meshugge” romance novels. At that very moment she had a paperback copy of something called Jackpot by Bill Pronzini in her voluminous purse.
“Hello,” Linda said meekly.
“We’ve met in passing,” I said. I was starting to get a picture I didn’t like.
“Linda has a problem, Nick,” Mrs. Goldstein said, “and I told her you could help her.”
“Is that a fact? What kind of a problem?” I asked, noticing the mouse she had beneath her right eye. The first day I had laid eyes on her was one of my Brooklyn Blues days, and I had the feeling this was going to turn into one, too.
I hate domestic cases. Nobody ever wins. What was worse, I couldn’t very well turn this one down with the rent coming due, and with Mrs. Goldstein looking at me the way she was. Besides, I had already turned down a case recently, for personal reasons. I couldn’t afford to take any more high moral stands, not at this point.
“Tell him, dearie,” Mrs. Goldstein was urging Linda Kellogg.
Linda looked from Mrs. Goldstein to me a couple of times and I said, “Mrs. Goldstein, isn’t your machine finished?”
“What?” the older woman said, looking behind her. Her wash was still being swirled inside her machine, but never let it be said that Mrs. Goldstein couldn’t take a hint.
“Hmm,” she said, giving me the eye. “You help her, Nick. She’s a nice girl.”
“We’ll see, Mrs. Goldstein.”
“Hmm,” she said again, and left us to go back to her machine and her book.
“She’s a nice old busybody,” I said.
“I like her.”
“Do you want to tell me about it, or do you want to let her think you’re telling me about it?”
“I think I’ll talk to you, Mr. Delvecchio. Even if you can’t help me, it might do me some good.”
“All right,” I said. “You don’t mind if I fold my shirts and . . . other things while we talk, do you?”
“Oh,” she said, as if the thought of a man folding his own belongings surprised her, “I’ll do that.”
She walked to my pile of laundry and began to talk and fold at the same time. I hoped she was using some sort of universal fold, and that I wouldn’t have to refold my things so they’d fit in my drawer.
Put succinctly—which she did not do—it seemed that over the past few months, since even before they moved to this neighborhood, her husband had taken to beating her up on occasion. That was what she said, “On occasion.” I asked her to define “occasion.” She said that sometimes he would come home from work angry and hit her, even if she had cooked him his favorite dinner.
“Is it always after work?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“But you can never predict it?”
“No,” she said. “Most nights he’s fine, very loving, and other nights the slightest thing will set him off. I can’t understand it.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Two years.”
“Do you have any children?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been pregnant?”
She frowned and said, “No, I said we never had any children.”
That wasn’t exactly what she’d said, but I let it pass. I figured there was no point in bringing up the question of miscarriages. I’d known men who beat their pregnant wives into miscarriages, but that didn’t seem to apply here.
“And this is only a recent development in your marriage?”
“Yes.”
“Had he ever struck you before these incidents?”
“No, never.” She answered all the questions without looking at me, but looking at the laundry she was folding.
“Linda . . . do you think he might have a girlfriend?” I was fairly sure that would be what was uppermost in her mind. I was wrong. She looked at me with shock written all over her face. I couldn’t believe that the thought had never occurred to her.
“I never thought of that.”
Was she on the level? Could she really be that innocent? Or was I just too much of a cynic?
Probably a little of both.
“Linda, what about drugs?”
“No,” she said firmly, “never.”
I shrugged to myself. She may have been sure that he had no girlfriend and no involvement with drugs, but to me they were very real possibilities for the cause of the problem she was describing.
“Linda, what is it you would like me to do?”
“I—I would want you to find out what is making him so angry,” she said, folding a pair of my boxer shorts. “You see, if he didn’t come home so angry, then it wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t have any reason to hit me. Do you see that?”
No, I didn’t see that. I didn’t believe in men hitting women for any reason. I felt that men who beat their wives shouldn’t have gotten married in the first place, but then what did I know? I’d never been married, I’d never even lived with a woman.
“Have you ever thought about leaving him?”
That shocked her as much as the question about a possible girlfriend. In fact, it shocked her into looking at me.
“And go where? I have no family. I barely have any friends. I wouldn’t have anyplace to go, Mr. Delvecchio. Besides, I love my husband. Will you help me? I can pay you.”
I almost told her not to worry about that, but since I was so short of money, I kept my mouth shut. Maybe I would just charge her one month’s rent and be done with it. I’d snoop around some, see if her husband had a girlfriend, or a nose-candy habit, see what was making him so mad. If I didn’t find something out in a day or two . . . well, that would be that.
She had finished folding my laundry and was just staring at me, waiting for my answer.
Helpless before the so completely innocent look in her eyes, I said, “I’ll try and find out what makes him so angry.”
She put her hand on my arm and said, “Thank you, Mr. Delvecchio, thank you.”
I smiled halfheartedly and said, “Call me Nick.”