Figuring I’d be waiting for quite a while (it’s a very long walk from Bleecker Street to the east Thirties, and there’s no direct mode of public transportation), I leaned against the wall of Binky’s building and surveyed my surroundings. Had Blackie or Aunt Doobie followed me here? I didn’t think so. I had checked my back many times on the walk downtown, and I hadn’t spied a single stalker in the shadows. And now, although the sidewalks were full of people-workers, shoppers, strollers, lunchgoers-they all looked quite innocent in the bright sunlight and their light-colored summer clothing.
But I kept my eyes peeled just the same.
And that’s when I saw it. A long black limousine! It came cruising up Third Avenue like a long black yacht, slowing down to rowboat speed as it approached Binky’s building.
Yikes! Is that Baldy’s limo? Did it follow me here? Who’s inside? Where can I hide? In the vestibule? No! Too Dangerous! What if Baldy’s bringing Binky home or something like that? I’d really be stuck then!
In a total panic-and for lack of a better alternative-I leapt over to the curb and crouched down on my haunches behind a parked two-tone Mercury (pink and white, in case you’re wondering). Then, hoping to get a glimpse of the limo’s passengers (and praying with all my might they would be strangers), I duck-walked up to the nose of the Mercury and craned my neck around the headlights, staring through the gap between the parked cars at the traffic going by on the street.
When the long black limo drove into my sight, I felt a surge of relief. At least it hadn’t stopped in front of Binky’s building. As I gazed up at the slowly passing vehicle, however, and tried to peer through the windows to see who was inside, I felt nothing but defeat. There were thick gray velvet curtains on the windows and they were closed.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing down there? Taking a leak?”
I turned my head and looked up. It was Abby. She was perched on a bicycle.
“Very funny,” I said, placing one hand on the hood of the Mercury and pulling myself up to a standing position. “For your information, I was hiding from a black limousine-which may, or may not, have been Baldy’s. See?” I said, pointing uptown. “It’s on the next block, headed north.”
One foot on the sidewalk for balance, Abby raised her head, shaded her eyes with her hand, and gazed in the designated direction. “Yeah, I see it. It’s stopped at the light on Thirty-fourth.”
“I can’t read the license plate, can you?”
“No, it’s too far. Should I chase after it?”
“Are you nuts? You’ll never catch up. Not unless that bicycle has a motor.”
Abby laughed. “No, but it’s got everything else. Red frame and red handle grips. Silver fenders. White plastic seat. This beauty is a Schwinn Jaguar Deluxe and it’s built for speed, baby!”
“You sound like a commercial.”
“Hey, I really like this bike! And it got me here on time, didn’t it?”
“Sure did,” I said, glancing at my watch. It was only ten after twelve. (Time crawls when you’re scared for your life.) “Where did you get the cycle, Ab? From one of Jimmy’s friends?”
“No, I borrowed it from Fabrizio, a kid who lives down the block from us. He got it for his birthday. Told me I could use it anytime I want to.”
“Nice kid.”
“Real nice,” she said, dismounting, popping the kickstand and chain-locking the bike to a lamppost. “I owe Fabrizio one.” She straightened up and wiped her hands on the sides of her plaid pedal pushers. “Is this Binky’s building?” she asked, flipping her braid off her shoulder and nodding toward the five-story tan brick structure behind me.
“Yep!” I said, thrilling to the chase. “Let’s get going.”
Chapter 34
I RANG BINKY’S BUZZER A FEW MORE times, just to be on the safe side. He still didn’t answer.
“Okay, he’s not home,” I said to Abby, who was busy reading the other names on the mailboxes. “Let’s buzz somebody on the top floor to let us in.” Remembering how Abby had tricked Willy into letting us enter Gray’s building, I figured we should use the same buzzer tactic again. “Since Binky lives on the first floor,” I said, “we might be able to get inside his apartment before the person we buzz on the fifth floor ever gets suspicious or comes downstairs to look for us.”
“Good plan,” Abby said. “Let’s try Mrs. Lettie Forrest in 5C.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it. Only what should I say when she answers? Should I pretend to be a messenger of some kind? Or say I have a telegram? Or maybe I should-”
“Oh, hush! I’ll do it!” Abby nudged me aside and pushed the buzzer for 5C without hesitation. “You always make such a
tsimmis!”
“Yes, who’s there?” came a tinny female voice over the intercom.
“Is this Mrs. Lettie Forrest?” Abby asked, answering the woman’s question with a question.
“Yes,” the woman tentatively replied. “Who’s this?”
“I’m from the flower shop down the street, ma’am. I have a delivery for you.”
“Flowers? For me?”
“Yes, ma’am. Should I bring them up?”
“Why, yes, of course!” she said, buzzing us in.
That was quick.
We pushed through the humming door and scurried across the tiny foyer to the apartment marked 1A. I gave the doorknob a hefty twist, but it was locked.
“Oh, no!” I whispered. “It’s locked!”
Abby propped her hands on her hips and gave me a weary look. “Oh, really?” she croaked. “What a shock! It’s so unfair the way people keep locking their doors these days! I don’t know what this world is coming to.”
“Shhhhh, keep your voice down.”
“I didn’t bring my purse,” she said, ignoring my plea for volume control. “Do you have a nail file or a bobby pin?”
“Yes, but those things don’t work! I’ve tried them in the past so I know. They only work in the movies.”
“Hand ’em over,” she said, holding out her palm. “Maybe I’ll have better luck.”
I opened my purse and fished out the items. Then, while Abby was down on her knees wriggling the hairpin in the keyhole and trying to trip the latch with the nail file, I rooted through the rest of the stuff in my clutch bag, looking for something else-
anything else-that might be useful. “Hey, how about this?” I said, removing an empty plastic photo holder from my new red leather Dale Rogers wallet (silly, I know, but they had a half-off sale in Woolworth’s). I held the holder up for her inspection. “I bet this’ll do the trick.”
Abby rose to full height and propped her hands on her hips again. “A piece of plastic?” she scoffed. “You expect to break open a door with a puny piece of plastic? What’s the matter, don’t you have anything stronger? A piece of gum, maybe? Or a Kleenex?”
“Oh, c’mon, Abby! I’m not fooling around! I wrote a clip story for the magazine about a cat burglar who used these things to break into people’s houses at night. No kidding! He told the police how they worked, and he said they were quiet, easy to carry, and practically infallible. I titled the story ‘Plastic-Packing Papa.’ Get it? It’s a play on ‘Pistol-Packing Mama’ and it-”
“Hello, flower girl?” Mrs. Lettie Forrest shouted from the top of the nearby stairwell. “Where are you? Are you coming up? Did you get lost?”
We didn’t answer her, of course.