Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (great novels of all time txt) 📕

her cheeks fallen, hollow, and ashen. Her lips quivered and tears overflowed her eyelids. She began to sob, her entire body convulsing with each breath she drew and expelled. I squeezed her hand gently and, bowing my head in grief, wept with her. Mrs. Sloan continued her whispering, soothing Irene with her warm, rhythmic voice. Then I felt a hand on my head. I lifted my eyes to see Irene gazing down upon me, patting my head so lovingly, so maternally, that I pressed her other hand to my cheek and held it fast. I muttered over and again how sorry I was, and we remained that way: I, at her knee, she, stroking my hair, for several minutes. Finally, Mrs. Sloan offered me something to eat, but I declined, rising from the floor and wiping my sloppy face with the back of my hand. I touched Irene on the shoulder, my weepy eyes holding hers for one more moment.

I left the house in a rush and ran into Dick Metzger as he came up the porch steps. He caught me briefly in his arms, and I nearly fell, his rough hands groping my waist and my breast. I was sure it was an accident, a mistake caused by our collision and my subsequent loss of balance. But then, for just a split second, as I found my legs beneath me and no longer feared a fall, I felt his right hand slide down my back and take a firm grip of my behind. My body was pressed against him, my face inches from his. I saw his dead, lizard eyes staring at me. No expression, no embarrassment, no apology for his straying hands. I wriggled free and ran. He called after me, but I was gone. Moments later, I roared away in my car, barely able to see through the windshield.

The Figlio house was a brick duplex on the west end of town, a few blocks from the railroad tracks and St. Joseph’s Hospital. I had been neglecting my planned interview with Joey’s parents. I particularly wanted to talk to his mother. The weather was dry and cold as I climbed out of my car and onto the stoop. Orlando Figlio answered my knocking in a flannel shirt and gray trousers.

“Miss Stone,” he said through the storm door. “What are you doing here?”

“You told me I could talk to your wife. Remember?”

“Today’s not a good day. She’s very upset about last night. Wouldn’t even go to church this morning. And now I have to apologize to you again for that no-good, little crook bothering you.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Figlio,” I said. “Actually, Joey kind of saved my life last night. I think we’re over the worst, he and I,” and I smiled.

“Saved your life? The cops said he busted in and held you hostage or something.”

“We had supper,” I said. “That was all.”

“Chief Finn says he killed that girl. Darleen. He says he’s asking the DA to file murder charges against him.”

I was shivering on the porch. “May I come in, Mr. Figlio? Can we talk inside?”

He nodded and stood aside to let me in. The place was dark and smelled of tomato sauce, meat, onions, and garlic, all fused together and absorbed by the fabrics and rugs. There was a human smell as well, trapped in clothing and drapes, like when a place smells of dog. Not that the Figlio home smelled bad or dirty or in any way like a dog, but the clinging odor betrayed the presence of people living inside.

“You’re welcome to stay a few minutes, Miss Stone,” he said, motioning to the roll-arm sofa, upholstered in a faded, worn tapestry. “I could offer you a coffee if you like.”

I declined.

“I just don’t know what to do about that boy,” he said. “The day he was born, his mother’s only prayer was for him to stay out of prison. Then, when he started getting into trouble with the law, she prayed to all the saints that he not end up in the electric chair. Now look. Murder.”

“I don’t believe Joey murdered Darleen,” I said.

“Maybe not. But he sure tried to murder that Mr. Russell. Twice.”

He had me there.

“I don’t know where we went wrong with him,” he continued. “Maybe he was just born bad.”

“Perhaps if I could speak to his mother,” I said.

Orlando Figlio frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know. Like I said, this is a bad day.”

“It’s okay, Lando,” came a voice from the hallway. I looked to see a thin, gray woman of about fifty, dressed in a housecoat, her hair disheveled and eyes pink. A smoldering cigarette dangled from her right hand.

“My name is Eleonora Stone,” I said, rising to extend a hand to her. She waved me off and took a seat in the armchair next to the sofa.

“You’re the girl the police say Joey tried to kill last night, aren’t you?” she said.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Figlio. I was just telling your husband that Joey actually saved me from an attack last night.”

“Then why do the police say he killed Darleen and tried to kill you?”

“They’re looking for a simple conclusion,” I said.

“A scapegoat, you mean. Lando,” she called, leaning back and craning her neck to make eye contact with her husband, “it’s Sacco and Vanzetti all over again.”

“He did try to kill that teacher,” her husband pointed out gently.

“He’s a good boy,” insisted Mrs. Figlio. Then turning back to me, she asked what would happen to Joey.

“Since he’s a minor, he won’t go to prison for the attack on Mr. Russell,” I said. “As for Darleen Hicks, I don’t believe he murdered her.”

“I know he didn’t harm her,” said the mother with sudden vigor.

This seemed a good opening to make the case for the true motive of my visit. I told her that I wanted to help Joey and was sure I could if she would help me.

“What can a young girl like you do?” she