Mary Jenkins - Innocent in Chicago Volume Two

"I suppose so, Paul, but it's too late now. Really, I was too panic-stricken to know what I was doing. My only thought was to get out of there. I was so sure that Gypsy would try to drag me into it."

"Yeah. Perhaps she would have, if she's as nuts as she sounds. But I don't quite see how she could implicate you. After all…"

They sat in silence, looking worriedly at each other.

"Anything in the papers about it?" she asked.

"Not in the morning editions. Probably discovered it too late for that. Maybe in the afternoon ones."

"So now what'll we do?"

"Well, for the time being, you stay right here and don't show your nose out of doors. I'll go out and buy some papers."

He got up and started to leave. She called after him.

"Paul! I've got an ideal."

He stuck his head in the door. "What?"

"Hand me my purse a second."

She rummaged around in its depths, noted that the capsules had disappeared and found her address book. She thumbed through it. "Here, call this guy and ask him to come over."

"Who is it?" he said, as he took the book.

"Friend named Al. He used to be a newspaper reporter and still has lots of friends there. Maybe he could inquire around and find out what's going on – I mean stuff the police haven't officially let out yet."

"Good idea," Paul said. "I'll call him up right away."

He left the apartment on the run. Cynthia burrowed down under the blankets and began quietly weeping.

In less than an hour Paul returned with Al. Cynthia heard them talking in the hall in low voices before they came into the bedroom. She told Al the story, begged him to find out all he could and he left, promising to do his best.

After he left, Paul sat across the room from her, sympathy in his eyes, hoping that Al would come back with good news.

"You want to tell me the whole story now, Cindy," he asked softly.

"Yes, I guess it doesn't make any difference anymore… you'll find out all the sordid details in the paper shortly."

Tearfully she went back to the first time she had met Frankie, telling him how full of hope she had been, so sure that she could conquer the big city all by herself, and how it just hadn't worked out that way.

It hurt her to remember all the good, sweet, tender times she had had with Frankie and she broke into sobs several times before she could get the whole story out.

"He introduced me to many people, some kooks, some influential, but every one of them was involved in the rackets somehow."

"Sounds like you have had quite a time, but everything will be all right now. Don't worry, I'll stick by you."

"Dear, sweet Paul. I don't know what I would have done if I couldn't have come to you."

She told him about her involvement with Harris, the threat of exposure, his lining her up with Johnson, the parties, the dope, everything, not holding back any detail she could think of.

He listened in silence, not really in a state of shock, but with a realization that these things really do happen. She looked so lost, so helpless, that he wanted to go to her, put his arms around her and hold her, but he knew that the timing was bad.

It was early evening before Al returned.

He dropped wearily into a chair by the bed while Paul and Cynthia waited anxiously for what he had to say.

"Thank God I quit the newspaper racket," he said. "My feet are killing me!"

"For God's sakes, tell us what you found out," Paul interrupted.

"Well," he said, looking seriously at Cynthia, "I'm afraid it's not very pleasant."

They looked at him in silence.

"The papers say hardly anything about it, as I guess you know," he went on, "only that Frankie was murdered and they're holding Gypsy." He paused. "But I found out from some pals on the police beat that the cops have a dragnet out for you." He stopped to light a cigarette and took a deep drag.

"But why?" Cynthia said, "I wasn't even there when it happened."

"Yeah, I know. But Gypsy seems to have a beaut of a story. She may be nuts but she sure can think fast. Anyway, her story is that you were there all the time, that Frankie had just told you he was going to leave you and go off with her."

"What?" exclaimed Cynthia, "but…"

"Now wait a minute! Let me finish with the gruesome details… that he was going to go back to Gypsy and you then got so insanely jealous and furious that you attacked Gypsy and during the scrap you gave her a black eye – and they say she's really got a beauty. Then, Gypsy says, she drew out her gun in self-defense against you as you were so hysterical she was afraid you were going to kill her. Frankie battled you apart, but you broke loose and attacked Gypsy again. She still had the gun in her hand, with no intentions of using it, naturally, but in the scuffle you knocked her about so hard that the gun went off and accidentally killed Frankie. So, although she was technically holding the gun when it went off, it was purely accidental on her part and she's innocent of blame! It was really you who was responsible for his death – having started the fight and knocked her around so much it went off."

"But… but… but that's ridiculous!" Cynthia stammered.

"Yeah, I know. But you got anything to prove it? It's her word against yours."

She looked at him blankly and then said, horrified, "No. Absolutely nothing. I didn't see anyone while I was out."

"Of course, there's another thing that might back up her story," Al said. "I mean the part about Frankie leaving you to go back to Gypsy."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's been common talk around the club that you and Frankie had split up, you know – or didn't you? Some were saying that you left Frankie, others that Frankie had left you. Unfortunately, Frankie never said anything about it, so who's to really know?"

"My God," Paul said.

"But Al!" Cynthia said. "Frankie and I made up weeks ago." She swallowed hard and then went on in a small, broken voice, "He even said he wanted to marry me."

"Yeah," Al said, "fat chance the cops will believe that, on top of everything else, when you tell them you'd just been off spending a week with Paul." They sat in silence, looking at one another.

"Well, God knows what we can do," Al said. "But you'd better hole up here for awhile, it's as safe as anyplace, because no one knows you know Paul. In the meantime, I'll snoop around some more and see what else I can pick up."

He grabbed his hat and left.

Cynthia felt as though she had aged ten years in the last twenty-four hours. Even Paul, his face white and drawn, looked years older. Following so soon after Frankie's death, this new, apparently unsolvable problem made her alternately burst into uncontrollable tears and then into hysterical laughter.

In a moment of comparative calm she said to Paul, "I swear to God if I ever get out of this mess, I'll never go back to that kind of life – never as long as I live! I'll never make love for money, never smoke a joint, never shoot horse!" She smiled at him wanly. "And if I do, you can strangle me yourself – that is, if you haven't already given me up for lost."

It was Paul who, late that evening, thought of Conrad Harris.

"Say, what about that Harris guy? Isn't he a big cheese around here? Maybe he could help you."

"Conrad! Of course!" she said excitedly. "Oh, Paul, get him to come over. Right away! He'll know what to do."

"Maybe I'd better go over to his place, instead of calling. He doesn't know me from Adam."

"Good idea. Here, I'll write him a note, saying I've got to see him."

Paul dashed off and Cynthia waited impatiently. She slipped on Paul's dressing gown and paced up and down the living room.

Conrad arrived, but without Paul, explaining that he wanted to see her alone. Although he had read in the papers that Frankie had been killed and Paul had filled in the details, she told him the story all over again.