The Yankee Club by Michael Murphy Page B

night?” She stepped back into the shadows when a cab pulled up.
    I waved the cab away. “That was my original plan.”
    “And now?”
    “You hungry?” She looked like it. “The Yankee Club has a good chef if you like Italian.”
    “Ain’t going no place people might recognize me.” She nodded in the opposite direction from The Yankee Club. “There’s a place that serves hot soup a couple of blocks away. No one pays you any mind.”
    “Let me carry your bag.” I hefted Belle’s bag on my shoulder. I kept between her and the street while we headed down the sidewalk. “What’s inside?”
    She flashed a wistful smile. “All my worldly possessions.”
    Belle tugged the scarf over her face on the street side and avoided eye contact with passersby. Two blocks later we reached a line outside of a soup kitchen, McCoy’s Hardware before the stock market went into the tank.
    Even my cheap suit looked out of place, especially behind a man in a frayed overcoat and a woman with two hungry-looking kids. Laura would’ve emptied her wallet. “Where have you been staying?”
    “The Grand.” Belle fidgeted while we waited. “Don’t suppose you have a cigarette?”
    “Sorry. I don’t smoke.”
    “Here.” The man in front of Belle handed over a Camel from a nearly empty pack.
    Her hand trembled when he held the match to the cigarette.
    Inside, the line stretched to a counter where a tired-looking lady handed us each a bowl of split-pea soup and a slice of bread. Belle and I carried our food to a table where dozens of people ate their meal with little conversation.
    I took the hint and ate without talking. I sipped the watered-down broth and tiny bits of ham. Whoever ran the joint stretched the soup for the many who needed a hot meal. I ate the slice of less-than-fresh bread. No butter. I’d tasted worse.
    Minutes later, Belle wiped the last of the soup from the bowl with a piece of bread. “Better than yesterday.”
    Her platinum appearance and flashy clothes were a mere memory. She glanced around and nodded toward an empty table in the corner where we could talk.
    She sat across from me, keeping an eye on the people filing in through the door. “I might beat it out of town. Got enough dough for a bus ticket. If you found me, the guys who shot you could, too.”
    “I’m a detective, or I used to be. I have a knack for such things.”
    Not even a hint of a smile. “Yeah, well …”
    “I’ll put you up at the Carlyle until this mess blows over.”
    “You’d do that?” Belle tugged on a thread unraveling from her sleeve then spoke in a hushed tone. “You trying to buy information?”
    “I’m trying to do the right thing.” It wasn’t her fault a couple of killers might want her dead.
    “Okay then.” She managed a smile. “You seen Frankie?”
    “He spent the day with me trying to find you. I hired him to drive me around until my leg’s well enough to push in a clutch.”
    “Or until you find the bums who shot you.” Belle had plenty of street smarts.
    “The cops are after a thug named Jimmy Vale.”
    “Sure, I know Jimmy, but he had nothing to do with shooting you and your friend. Guess if you’re putting me up in a fancy-schmancy place like the Carlyle, I should trust you.” She drummed her fingers on the table and glanced toward the line of people still making their way for the free meal. “If you find these guys, they’d get locked up and I could go back to being—”
    I whispered, “Belle Starr.”
    “Yeah.” She smiled. “You’re a swell guy, Jake Donovan.”
    “I know plenty of people who’d disagree with you. So why don’t you go to the cops?”
    Belle laughed. “Cops ain’t too sympathetic to girls in my profession.” She let out a sigh and lowered her voice. “I only know the driver, the man I chatted with outside the hotel. Paul Cummings. Good-looking, dark-skinned Jamaican.”
    “You sure he’s Jamaican?”
    Belle grinned. “I know my accents.”
    “What about the