Her Winning Ways by J.M. Bronston (5)

 

Sergeant Bart Hardin tossed his helmet into the in basket, spun the swivel chair around into position, and dropped his long frame down into it. A white straw shoulder bag had just been turned in and he held it in his hands as though it might contain something really precious. He smiled, took one deep breath, and he set the bag squarely in the center of the blotter that covered the desktop. Then he leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk, on either side of the bag, and drummed his fingers thoughtfully. For a long time, he just stared at the bag as though it held the answer to the most important question in the universe.

“Hey, Bart.” From across the room, his partner’s voice chided him playfully. “You expect a genie to jump out of that bag?”

“You never know, Max. You just never know.” Bart kept looking at the bag, his brows drawn together in concentration. “I got a look at the woman who lost this bag.” I got a look into those eyes when she was hanging on to Lindy’s bridle. And jeez, the feel of her against my arm, when I grabbed her. “She just might be a genie,” he said thoughtfully. “Just might be a little something—” he paused, “—something special.”

Max came over to Bart’s desk and parked himself on its corner edge.

“I got a look at her, too. Cute little number in a pretty dress. Flowers all over.” He smiled at his buddy. “Go on. Take a look in her bag. See who she is. Maybe she’s married or something. And if she isn’t, well, you never know about magic genies—”

“Yeah, I know. They grant your wishes.”

“I’m just saying—”

Bart’s short laugh acknowledged Max’s friendly needling. At the same time, he fingered the clasp at the top of the bag, and wondered why he was hesitating. A cop often has to cross the barriers of a stranger’s privacy. Why should it be different just because this girl had eyes like sunlight filtered through sea foam and hair so rich he wanted to bury his hands in it?

“All right,” he added, squaring his shoulders and drawing the bag close to him. “Let’s see what we can find out about her.” He opened the clasp and looked into the depths of the bag. Max leaned across the desk, also curious.

“Well, she’s a tidy type,” Max said. “Her bag’s not a mess. Some of them I’ve seen—” Max’s eyes looked inquiringly as Bart removed a tooled-leather wallet. “And that looks handmade.”

“Looks like it.” Bart paused for a moment and then flipped the wallet open. From a window panel on one side, a Wyoming driver’s license displayed a pale replica of the face that was still reverberating in his head.

Wyoming!

Now that’s a coincidence.

“Little girl from the wide open spaces, all alone here in the big, bad city. And she walks right into that crowd scene. Must have scared the hell out of her.”

“Well, she sure got a taste of the big city today,” Max said. “What else does it say?”

Bart kept his eyes away from the name on the license. As though knowing her name would remove the last veil of her privacy. Instead, he read aloud: “Height, five feet five inches; weight, one hundred and twelve pounds. Blond hair and hazel eyes.”

“Yeah, blond hair, hazel eyes. The picture’s no good, but that’s the one. The girl in the flowery dress.”

He read out the birthdate and did a quick calculation. “Just turned twenty-six.”

“What’s her name?”

Bart hesitated, then read it off.

“Cornell, Annika Elizabeth.”

He took a breath while he let the name flow through his head, filling his senses, creating a memory.

Her folks probably call her Annie.

“Triple C Ranch. Route 287, Laramie, Wyoming. She must be visiting. Or maybe she’s here on business.”

He flipped through the plastic inserts in the wallet, stopping for a long time at a snapshot of two little boys, ages about six and eight.

Bart felt the beginnings of a painful disappointment tighten his chest.

“Anything else?” Max asked.

“I’m looking. Some kids in a picture.” He poked through the items in the bag. “Just the usual stuff. A lipstick. Car keys.” He held up a plastic card and a folded piece of paper. “A hotel room entry card. And a letter.” He unfolded the letter from Lady Fair and scanned it quickly. “How about that? She won some kind of contest—”

“Better give her a call,” Max said. “Let her know we have her bag.”

“Yeah—”

“Give you a chance, maybe, to find out about those kids.”

“Yeah—”

 

Headquarters, Troop B, was on New York’s West Side, close to the Hudson River. Only a few blocks away, in a tiny, three-room apartment on the sixth floor of a very old and very seedy walk-up building, a meeting was about to take place. At the same time that Bart was looking into Annie’s handbag, two men were puffing painfully as they climbed the last rickety flight of stairs, holding their hands flat against the peeling walls to steady themselves as they ascended. The first man, carrying his more than two hundred fifty pounds with difficulty on his short frame, came to a gasping stop at the top step. He was bent forward, bracing his splayed-out, pudgy fingers on his knees, fighting to catch his breath. Perspiration streamed down his plump face, drenching his thick mustache and running down to the soggy collar of his shabby shirt.

The second man, his head hanging low as he dragged himself up, reached the top without seeing that his companion had stopped, and he blindly butted the rear of the man ahead of him. The impact tumbled him back a step or two and he grabbed frantically for the wobbly railing. The first man was almost thrown to his knees and his brightly embroidered black cap was pitched forward over his forehead.

“Idiot!” The first man whirled angrily, grasping his skinny friend by the front of his shirt. “You can’t see your nose in front of you?”

“But Leon.” The man behind clutched at the other’s wrist, trying to loosen his grip. “It wasn’t my nose I ran into. Let me go.” He was panting. “I can’t breathe. These stairs. I thought everywhere in America is elevators.” He continued to try to pry himself loose. “Let go of my shirt, Leon. It’s the only one I have left.”

“Already you have forgotten. We use only code names. I am not Leon. I am Larry.” With a last twist of exasperation, he released the other man. “And you are Harry. Remember that. Harry.”

“I remember.” He was still puffing. “I remember. Code names.” With a couple of shakes of his head and a wiggle of his skinny shoulders, Hugo replaced his shirt in its proper position. He ran his hand tidily down the front of his bony chest a couple of times, and then smoothed his thick mustache with his fingertips. I am Harry and you are Larry. And Boksmer is Barry and—”

“Enough! You want to tell the whole world?” Larry pointed at the closed doors down the length of the hall. “The walls have ears! Just be quiet a few minutes for a change.” He took off the black cap and brushed gently with the tips of his fingers at the bright cockade of feathers before he resettled the cap neatly on his thinning hair. He tiptoed to the nearest door and knocked three times, waited a moment, then knocked twice more. He put his ear to the door.

“Who is?” came from behind the door.

“We have come to fix the grandmother’s broken cuckoo clock.”

Muffled voices could be heard inside and then the sound of multiple locks and chains and bolts being undone. The door cracked open a thin slit and a beady eye and part of a mustache were visible. Leon and Hugo were being inspected. Then the owner of the beady eye stepped back and pulled the door open to admit them into the small room.

Dusty lace curtains filtered the late afternoon sun as it dappled the potted plants and the ragged plush seats of several old straight-backed chairs. Except for a large dining table and a worn sideboard on which a crocheted runner and some chipped, once-pretty china were now gathering dust, the room was almost bare of any furnishings. A couple of roughly lettered posters had been tacked on the old-fashioned paper that covered the walls. From across the room, a harsh voice sliced angrily at them.

“You are late!”

At the far end of the table, a very tall, very thin man looked up from the piles of papers scattered everywhere in front of him. His embroidered cap sat on an absolutely bald head and he was entirely without eyebrows. Had it not been for the thick, luxuriant mustache filling the space between his sharp nose and his thin, tightly pursed lips, he’d have looked like an egg wearing round, steel-rimmed glasses. An empty teacup was on the table in front of him, and he tapped his pencil impatiently on the cloth, waiting for an explanation.

“We got lost. We went to 408 East instead of 408 West.” Leon removed his cap respectfully while he mopped his face with a handkerchief.

“And the traffic.” Hugo was almost invisible behind Leon and he had to crane his neck around, peering out from behind his fat friend while he added his excuses. “So many automobiles. We couldn’t cross the streets. Is not like at home.”

“Of course is not like at home!” the seated man snapped at him. “At home are goats and geese walking in the streets! Of course New York is not like at home!” In irritation, he tossed the pencil onto the pile of papers and it rolled away from him. He remembered that he had only one pencil and he grabbed it before it could fall to the floor.

He pursed his lips even more tightly. “That is why we are here. In New York the people never heard of Buljornia. In all America no one ever heard of Buljornia! Even here, where is home of United Nations, Buljornia is unknown!” His eyes began to glitter intently and his voice grew more impassioned. “We must change that! We must find a way to force people to know who we are and what it is we demand!” He motioned at everyone to sit down at the table. He motioned at his wife, a small woman with huge round eyes, who was peeking around from the edge of the kitchen door, to bring him more tea.

“And today, in this demonstration, our leader is arrested!” His clenched fist pounded the papers on the table. His eyes glistened fervently as he grew more and more impassioned. “We must find a way to free him! We will find a way! We will force them to free him! We will bring them to their knees!”

He paused and searched the faces of the men around the table.

“There is but one task before us. We must think of a plan that will compel the people of New York—and the nations of the world—to take us seriously! We will make them listen to us. We will make them yield to our demands!”

His wife brought him the tea, and he rapped his pencil on the table.

“So! I hereby declare that the first meeting of the Ad Hoc Committee to Bring New York to Its Knees is now in session!”