Free Act of Fear by Dennis Lynds

had known something. I felt that it was about Tani Jones and her killer and why the killer would not fence his loot.
    There was something else in all this. A third force of some kind, you might say. I was sure of that now. A third force that had shown so far only as two shadows on a dark street and as two unknown men who had beaten a boy and asked questions. They could be the same two, or a different two. How many there were and who they were, I did not know. I did not like that. As I said, unanswered questions are like lurking monsters. I wanted the answers. At least, as I stood there in the sun I thought I did. It was not long before I was not so sure. I was about to get part of an answer sooner than I had expected.
    I went to find Marty. I needed company after Pete, and I wanted to talk about Tani Jones. Marty was out of bed now, and bushy-tailed. She had forgotten the two shadows. They were not in evidence. We went to the sidewalk café of O. Henry’s. Marty had a Pernod on ice. I had a beer and a good view of one of the best sights in New York: Marty in a short skirt.
    ‘You are a dirty old man, Dan Fortune,’ Marty said.
    ‘Is there another kind? You beautiful young girls won’t let us men grow old properly.’
    ‘Am I beautiful, baby?’
    ‘You are to me,’ I said, ‘and on stage. That’s what counts: to your man and in your work, you’re beautiful.’
    I got a nice smile. She’s not really beautiful. She’s pretty enough, and she has the body to make any man stare for at least a few minutes. But the real thing is that she is exciting. Pretty is a dime a carload, but exciting comes scarce. She’s alive. She never stops moving, not even when she is doing nothing. She keeps me busy – body and mind. But today I had some other problems.
    ‘Did you know Tani Jones, Marty?’
    She shook her head. ‘No. You know I don’t hang around with the girls. She was the girl killed by the burglar, wasn’t she? One of the girls was talking about her a few days ago. I never met her. The Blue Cellar is two blocks away. What a shame, Dan. I mean, what a stupid way to die for a young girl.’
    ‘Have any men been hanging around the girls?’ I asked.
    ‘Men are always hanging around, I …’
    Marty stopped. Her wide eyes became wider. She was facing Sixth Avenue, and I had my back to the avenue. I turned to look.
    ‘Hello, Danny.’
    He came up and sat down across from me at that postage stamp table. Andy Pappas. The innocent people strolled along only inches away, and Pappas sat there and smiled. Beyond the price of his suit, which had to be at least three figures, Pappas looked like any other man. His homburg was a dark blue, his tropical suit was dark blue with the faintest of conservative pinstripes and a natural-shoulder ivy-league cut. His shirt was good blue-and-white-striped oxford cloth with a relaxed button-down collar as befitted the afternoon and early evening hours of a businessman. His tie was a regimental stripe, and his shoes were a soft and informal black leather. No gun bulged under the slim suit coat.
    It’s good to see you, Danny. Share a round, right?’
    I’ve known Andy Pappas all my life. We’re the same age. We grew up together here at the edge of the river. We learned to like girls at the same time. We graduated from high school in the same class. We danced at the Polish dances and drank wine at the Italian street festivals. We stole together in those early days. Andy knows how I lost my arm. It was his tip that sent Joe and me to the Dutchman ship that night. It was Andy who would have arranged the fencing of the loot if I had not broken my arm.
    Maybe all of that is another reason why I tell stories about the arm instead of the truth – the fact that Andy Pappas is a major reason why I am still thought to be in any way regular, the reason I get the benefit of some doubt. In Chelsea no one would, or could, understand that a man could know Andy Pappas and not offer up prayers of thanks