The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [133]
“Got a few minutes for an old friend?” It was Haggens, who had followed me to the bar.
“What old friend is that?”
“Follow me.” Haggens led me to a section of the room that, at least by comparison, was relatively tranquil. He walked over to a table for two, and waved his arm with a flourish at one of the occupants.
“I think you two know each other,” he said.
“Hi, Ephie.”
“Hello, Monique.”
She shook her head. “Got tired of Monique. I’m Collette these days.”
“Then hello, Collette.” I bowed. “And who is your friend?”
“She’s Danielle,” she said with a laugh, gesturing to the woman next to her. Danielle was flaxen-haired and thin, with the hardened look that was de rigueur at Bonhomme’s Paris Revue. I remembered her as the woman in the dressing room who had made no effort to cover her breasts.
“Am I allowed to just call you Brigid?” I asked “Collette,” remembering that Borst had told me that Brigid O’Leary was her real name.
“Well,” she replied, “seeing how you’re almost family …”
“And your friend?”
“Danielle,” she said coldly. “You’re not family with me.”
“Aren’t you dancing tonight?” I asked Brigid.
“Nah,” she replied. “Needed to be off my feet for a bit.” I let that pass. “Took a night off.”
“Very well,” I said. “May I join you?” Brigid might not have looked as good as the first time I saw her, but nor did she look as bad as the second.
“Of course, Ephie. You can always join us.”
As I pulled up a chair, a bottle of presumptive champagne arrived at the table. “On the house,” grunted the waitress who brought it.
Danielle showed more interest. “You could be family, though,” she said.
“Back off,” Brigid growled. “If he’d be anybody’s he’d be mine, but Ephie don’t go in for the likes of us. He prefers so-ci-e-ty types.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Word gets around,” she replied. “But why talk about such things now? Let’s drink.”
The champagne had not improved with age, nor had Brigid’s life. Recent events had brought her some unwanted attention from Sergeant Borst, while the attention she would have wanted, that of well-to-do males, seemed as elusive as ever. Danielle recounted similar tales of life’s cruelties. It was odd to be sitting with these two downtrodden women, little more than prostitutes, and feel quite relaxed and at home. I was ashamed for having judged Brigid without charity.
Haggens’ bigheartedness did not extend beyond the bottle at the table, but I called the waitress over and asked for a second on my tab, which brightened her considerably.
Soon, I turned the conversation to Turk. Perhaps he had preferred to boast to women. “I kinda miss ol’ Georgie,” Brigid said. “He was a mean cuss when you crossed him, but he was good for a laugh and he sure did know how to spend money.”
“Sterling traits to be sure,” I agreed.
“It’s a lot easier to spend money when yer making barrels of it,” grunted Danielle.
“Yeah,” Brigid agreed. “He was kinda our Carnegie.”
I laughed. Turk as a captain of industry—or robber baron—made a more persuasive picture than they knew. I then asked, as I had with Haggens, if they were familiar with Farnshaw, the other George.
“Sure,” said Danielle. “Don’t you think I read the papers? He’s the one slipped the arsenic to Georgie. He was kinda cute. Was in here about two months ago.”
It seemed, however, that, like Haggens, Brigid had seen Farnshaw but the one time. “Danielle would know better though,” said Brigid. “She and Georgie was tight.” She smiled. “Really tight, if you get my meaning.”
“So, you would know if he had … uh … associates in his business?” I asked her.
“Not personally. The one time I needed services, Georgie did it himself,” she answered. “I was lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“Yeah. Georgie wasn’t real good at it. Word was