The War Against Miss Winter Read Online Free PDF Page A

dropping at midnight, plane spotter stations filled the night sky with beams of light. The crowd watched in silent awe until the singer Lucy Monroe pierced the quiet with “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Everywhere we looked were soldiers with their girls, fiercely embracing, kissing, and dancing as though they had a lifetime of those activities to cram into one evening. As 1942 became 1943 my grief at not being able to kiss Jack at midnight was replaced by the awful fear that I might never kiss him—or anyone else—again.
    Everything should’ve looked brighter the next day, but my hangover and the P.M. papers conspired to ensure otherwise. The first German radio broadcast of 1943 had predicted that the war would last for at least twenty years. If that wasn’t enough to wipe the sun from the sky, the year’s casualty totals were out, hidden in articles that attempted to downplay their enormity by reminding us that ten times that number of people die every year in accidents.
    Jim’s obituary was also there, buried between a war bond ad and a public auction notice. The man’s life had been reduced to a trio of titles: private investigator, loving husband, former cop. On January 4, the day of the funeral, Jayne had a radio gig, so I called Agnes to see if she wasgoing to pay her respects. After six attempts and fifty-two rings, I decided to go stag.
    Jim’s festivities were at Lexington and Seventy-fourth Street at Brookside Funeral Home, a joint trapped in turn-of-the-century froufrou that was as appropriate for Jim as trench knives were for children. Heavy brocade furniture, faded by time, lined garishly papered walls turned dingy by decades of cigarette smoke. Knickknacks dotted every surface while floral arrangements exuding so much scent you would’ve thought there were midgets with atomizers in them towered above ornate marble-topped tables and delicate stands.
    The place was filled with people, none of whom I recognized. One side of the room held a group of uncomfortable-looking tough guys who were probably long acquainted with Jim’s fire escape. These men in their chalk-striped suits and pinkie rings hugged one another in greeting and then stood with their folded hands resting in front of their nether regions. On the other side of the room lingered refugees from the Times society column. The heavily made up women of this caste greeted one another with kisses that never quite made contact with each other’s cheeks. Tailored men exchanged equally sincere handshakes, their voices filled with the sort of exaggerated emotion you’d expect from bad summer stock.
    I couldn’t decide where I fit in, so I eavesdropped on conversations while feigning interest in a brochure. The tiny pamphlet advised me that as a soldier or the relative of a soldier “you never know when to expect bad news so be prepared and buy a plot.”
    The thugs didn’t talk much, and when they did, it was in low, hushed voices that forced whoever was listening to bend in close to them. Every once in a while they came up for air and remarked on the nice flowers, or good turnout, or some equally innocuous observation they hoped would make their presence seem as natural as the body’s. I’d given up trying to determine what their real topics of conversation were when a gentleman whose excessive jewelry branded him the ringleader took a lower-level thug by the arm and moved alarmingly close to me to have a private conversation.
    “Have we made arrangements to clean the office?” the boss asked. His voice plucked a nerve. I knew this mug—he was the Lisper!
    “Shouldn’t be necessary. I was assured no names were used.”
    The Lisper wrapped his arm around the goon’s shoulders. “He was a good man—we drank out of the same bottle–but nobody’s perfect. Let’s make sure there were no mistakes.”
    The thug pulled at his cuffs and nodded.
    The Lisper looked as if he were about to say more when a bruno with tiny, close-set eyes caught his