In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,58

face, and bruised ribs I was sure, but nothing was broken. I pulled out a handkerchief to dab the bleeding from the worst scratch near my left eye.

“Do you know this man?” the singer asked. His speaking voice was also a deep baritone.

A large crowd of onlookers now surrounded us. I stared at my assailant, now wedged between the brick wall and my rescuer. The culprit was a large man nearly six feet tall with a hefty paunch. His face was puffy and rough stubble covered his balding head as well as his chin. Though I searched my memory, especially for past cases, I had never seen him before.

I shook my head. “I take it you don’t know him, either?” I asked Isabella.

“No, I don’t,” she said.

“What’s your name?” I asked as I approached the attacker.

“None of your business,” he said—but the response earned him a sharp jab in the ribs from the singer.

“Think you’d better answer when a gentleman asks you something. Try again.” The singer glared down at the man he had pinned to the wall. If my attacker was about five feet ten or eleven inches, then my rescuer easily towered over him by another half foot. Plus, he was in excellent shape, I could tell.

“Hal Jones.”

It didn’t ring a bell.

“And what business you got attacking this gentleman?” My rescuer seemed as determined as I was to get to the bottom of this.

“None.” He stammered, growing more nervous as he seemed to realize the situation he was in.

“So you’re telling me you’re the kind of fellow who attacks gentlemen and ladies for no good reason? I don’t believe that for a second,” the tall singer said.

“Are you aware you have attacked a police officer?” I added, looking at my attacker sternly.

Now he was wide-eyed with fear. “He didn’t say anything about that. I just did it for the money.”

“What money? Someone paid you?” I asked, observing him closely.

“I got paid ten dollars,” he said. “A man approached me not half an hour ago as I came out of Moretti’s. I’d lost a bundle and I really needed the dough.” He glanced first at me, then at the singer. “Maybe you could put me down. This isn’t comfortable.”

“Nah,” the singer replied. “You’ll do as you are. Now pay attention to the officer’s questions.”

“He gave you ten dollars up-front?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. And he said if I got your bag, he’d find me and give me something extra.”

I looked around at the crowd surrounding us. Had Fromley been watching?

“What did he look like? And how did he describe me?”

He smirked. “He didn’t describe you, except for saying you’d be the man coming out of that building”—he pointed to Clara’s apartment building on the block behind us—“with a real peach.” He pointed to Isabella. “He looked—you know, ordinary. Brown hat, brown coat. Medium build. I didn’t see his face. He never looked at me directly.”

“Is this the man?” I showed him the picture of Fromley that we carried around.

“Maybe. I can’t tell. Look, mister, I needed the money. It wasn’t anything personal.”

At that moment two policemen from the Tenderloin precinct barged through the crowd and immediately made for the singer and his accompanist, brandishing their bully sticks.

“Let go of that man, now! And hands in front, where we can see them.”

Their prejudice was obvious—and I felt bad for my rescuers, who wore a look on their faces suggesting they were accustomed to this treatment.

I stepped in front of the officers and pulled out my own identification. “You’ve got it wrong. Those men are to be commended for helping me. You need to arrest this other man.” I gestured to the pudgy man still pinned against the brick building. “For attacking a police officer.”

“You sure?” The more senior officer looked around at the crowd, searching for anyone who would contradict me.

“We’re certain,” Isabella said, gazing at him with level eyes. “Everyone here who saw it will tell you the same.”

“All right.” The senior officer still looked suspicious, but he directed the singer to bring over my assailant, whom he promptly cuffed. “You’ll be pressing charges then?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

After once again thanking the men who helped us, Isabella and I followed the two policemen to the Nineteenth Precinct station house, where we made the statements necessary for the assault charges. From there, we walked to the subway station on Thirty-third Street and hopped on a northbound train headed back to the research center, where I hoped we would finally meet up