Genuine Gold Read online

  Table of Contents

  Genuine Gold

  What Reviewers Say About Ann Aptaker’s Work

  By the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  About the Author

  Books Available from Bold Strokes Books

  Genuine Gold

  New York, 1952. From the shadowy docks of Athens, Greece, to the elegance of a Fifth Avenue penthouse, to the neon glare of Coney Island, art smuggler Cantor Gold must track down an ancient artifact, elude thugs and killers, protect a beautiful woman who caters to Cantor’s deepest desires, and confront the honky-tonk past which formed her. Memories, murder, passion, and the terrible longing for her stolen love tangle in Cantor’s soul, threatening to tear her apart.

  Book Three of the Cantor Gold Crime Series

  What Reviewers Say About Ann Aptaker’s Work

  Criminal Gold

  “A brilliant crime novel set in New York City in 1949 featuring Cantor Gold, dapper dyke-about-town, smuggler of fine art and saviour of damsels in distress.”—Curve Magazine

  “An author can make a time and place come alive and this was certainly true of Ann Aptaker’s book Criminal Gold. We’re plunged into the heart of 1940s criminal New York with a thrilling tale of murder and deception. …Aptaker has set herself up for a cracking series not only because of the character of Cantor Gold but for choosing a period of time that is fascinating to read about.”—Crimepieces.com

  “Cantor Gold is a woman ahead of her time. [She] insists on living openly; she is a free woman because she has taken her freedom and this is much unlike those of us who had to fight to live openly as we do. …This is author Aptaker’s first novel and if this is an indication of what she can do, we need to welcome her to the canon of gay literature.”—Reviews by Amos Lassen

  Tarnished Gold

  “Ann Aptaker delivers again in a great noir set in the world of 1950s art smuggling. …Be prepared for another noir where Cantor navigates through society, both high and low. This is another point in favor of the Cantor series: It shows the entire gamut of society—the rich collector as well as the nighttime smuggler—all of who might be involved in the smuggling of art.”—Curve Magazine

  “This is the magnificent follow-up novel to Criminal Gold, and it is delightfully even more engaging than the opening book. Once again, Cantor Gold is astounding as the primary lead within this splendid story. …Cantor Gold is an inimitable and larger than life tour de force. This is a triumphant second book in a series that is likely to be nonpareil! Provocatively formidable!”—Rainbow Book Reviews

  Genuine Gold

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Genuine Gold

  © 2017 By Ann Aptaker. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-731-6

  This Electronic book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,

  P.O. Box 249

  New York, USA

  First Edition: January 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Ruth Sternglantz

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Philomena Marano (www.philomenamarano.com)

  By the Author

  Criminal Gold

  Tarnished Gold

  Genuine Gold

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without the willingness of Coney Island’s veterans and boosters to share their memories, the generosity of others willing to share their expertise, and friends and family who made sure I could keep going.

  Stanley Fox, for sharing his memories of growing up in his family’s amusements and arcades in the 1950s.

  Dick Zigun, “Mayor of Coney Island,” Founder of Coney Island USA and the Coney Island Circus Sideshow, for his stories of—and introductions to—Coney’s notable characters.

  Richard Eagan, for sharing his memories of life as a Coney Island performer and games operator.

  Amanda Deutch, Coney Island poet and member of the Coney Island History Project.

  Alfie Cruz, for sharing his Coney Island fortune telling lore.

  Clare Toohey and Lisa Shiroff for sharing their Tarot card expertise.

  Paulo Tonn, for his technical graphics expertise.

  And…Stan Coplan, Jan Schleiger, Karen Lauria Saillant, Jacquie Hawley, Allan Neuwirth, and my wonderful sister Yren Berry, for their love and support.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to everyone who carries the magic of Coney Island in their soul.

  Chapter One

  Early January 1952

  Piraeus, Port of Athens, Greece

  Two a.m.…or so

  Someday, the people of Greece will demand their treasures back, treasures ripped from their ancient ground or pulled from their ruined temples by centuries of invaders and thieves. The invaders, at least, have been honest in their larceny, taking what they want as a right of conquest. The thieves are another story. A lot of them still kid themselves into believing that as archeologists they’re rescuing Greek antiquity by shipping it off, piece by uprooted piece, to museums or collectors in London, Paris, or New York. And sometimes even the thieves get robbed: maybe a statue, a carved panel, or an urn is destined for one museum or collector but another museum or collector wants it, and suddenly, under cover of night—whoosh!—the treasure’s journey changes course.

  Someday, the Greeks of Athens and Delphi, Corinth and Thessaloniki, and all the islands in Homer’s wine-dark sea will demand the return of their patrimony from the famous museums and private collectors who hire me to smuggle these treasures into their laps.

  But not today. Today a small piece of Greek antiquity is thickly wrapped in a canvas satchel slung over my shoulder while I sit and drink, and kiss a pretty woman at a corner table in a shadowy taverna in Piraeus. The taverna is a suitable stop on this little treasure’s illicit journey; the clientele here practice my kind of love, women with women, and the twenty-four-hundred-year-old treasure in my satchel, a small Classical period clay jar called a pyxis that I lifted from an archeological dig at the ancient town of Eleusis—dressed as a digger and with the cooperation of an American graduate student who needed cash—mimics that passion with steamy scenes of naked women dancing. It’s a rare intact piece of pottery by an unknown artist who seemed to specialize in such scenes, and who archeologists and art historians call the Dancing Goddess Painter.

  This taverna, like all the dives in Athens that cater to a preference for women, even the classier joints, is h
idden in a dark street to keep it safe from mischief by local thugs or raids by police. The ancient Greeks and their pantheon of gods and goddesses might’ve winked at Sapphic love from time to time—Greek men of antiquity certainly did more than wink at other men—but the old crowd of frisky deities has been replaced by a stern church, frowning above its beard. The patrons of modern Athens’s fancier woman-love places have a little easier time of it, their well-connected families paying bribes to protect the clans’ reputations. I’ve been to some of those places on previous adventures in Greece, had a swell time of it, too. Perfumed skin has its pleasures. But I’m shipping out of Athens tonight and need to stay dockside in Piraeus, ready to move at a moment’s notice.

  Meantime, the taverna, with its whispering crowd of savvy sweeties who recognize an American butch ripe for the picking, provides a satisfying end to a dangerous week of slipping my Dancing Goddess pot past cops and the Greek underworld. Both gangs would want to sell or smuggle it themselves.

  I’ve been lounging here nearly two hours, enjoying shots of pine-tasting ouzo and the hospitality of a dark-haired, dark-eyed, well-endowed local beauty whose name I don’t know but who gives off an intoxicating scent of ouzo and saltwater. She speaks no English and I speak just enough Greek to buy liquor and cigarettes and whatever else I need to buy around town, including the time and talents of this local beauty. My shots of ouzo are a restorative from the hour I spent partaking of the lady’s talents in a dingy room upstairs. The tender way she fondled my Smith & Wesson .38 revolver in my shoulder rig before she hung the rig on the chair where I put my satchel, the careful way she folded my khaki pants and rough sweater and placed them over the chair, and the sweetly sexy way she ran her fingers through my short but untamable tangle of hair—like a brown broom, some have said—were the last gentle things she did in that dingy room. The rest of her activity was a testament to the woman’s imaginative vigor.

  But down here in the saloon, she’s gentle now, kissing the scars on my face between downing slugs of ouzo. She uses the tip of her tongue to trace the curved scar above my right eye, travels down to the jagged scar on my left cheek, licks the straight-line scar on my chin, and works her way up to kiss the little knife-shaped number above my lip. Her lips are soft, her tongue is warm, knowledgeable, and tempting me to take her upstairs again. I consider it, or rather the tingle between my legs considers it, but a gruff, deep-throated call of “Cantor?” from the doorway intrudes on the erotic mood.

  “Cantor Gold,” the rough voice calls again. “It’s time you go now. It’s time.”

  The voice belongs to a short, beefy guy named Stavros. Stavros is a Piraeus dockworker with arms as thick as trees, legs solid as capstans, and a head lumpy as a boulder but filled with more gutter-smarts than a high IQ sewer rat back home in New York. Stavros always arranges my passage out of Piraeus, slipping me past customs officials and looking out for thieves who watch the docks, guys who hide in the shadows and pounce for a smuggler’s treasure, which they’ll sell fast and cheap to the local antique shops that cater to tourists. Sell enough of them, and a dock thug can earn himself a hundred bucks American in a couple of days, a fortune in these parts.

  The appetizing lady at my side earns one last kiss, well worth the money I slip into her cleavage, then I close my pea coat, adjust the satchel across my shoulder, and follow Stavros out the door.

  The middle-of-the-night air is cold and damp. Not as cold as an icy New York winter, but chilly enough for the seaside air to seep right through me and bite my innards along the way as Stavros leads me through cobblestoned alleys. Low whitewashed buildings, only partly revealed by the moonlight, are tucked deep in the alleys. They hide secrets as ancient and seductive as Athens itself.

  We finally reach an out-of-the-way corner of Piraeus, where a fishing trawler waits dockside, her gangplank extended. But no light shines from the trawler because the boat’s business isn’t strictly fishing. It’s a stealth ship, her captain and crew making spare cash ferrying people out of the Port of Athens, people like fugitives on the lam, revolutionaries on the run, and smugglers like me. The trawler’s been hired to catch up to a New York-bound freighter that sailed out of port minutes ago. I’ll board the freighter on the open sea, beyond Greek jurisdiction.

  Stavros shakes my hand, says, “Kaló taxídi, Cantor,” wishing me safe travels.

  “Thank you, my friend,” I say, and hand him an envelope of cash. He’s worth every drachma of it.

  With a nod from me and a wave from Stavros, I start up the gangplank, but halfway up I see the glare of a car’s headlights rake the trawler, then hear a harsh, strangled grunt behind me. I turn around and see a beat-up, prewar roadster, one of those small jobs Europeans specialize in, its door open, its fender-mounted headlamps silhouetting a thug running toward me. Stavros is sprawled on the ground. I don’t know if he’s dead or alive. The thug’s cap is pulled low, his face hidden in the shadow of the brim. He waves a knife; it glints in the light of the car’s headlamps. I go for my gun but the guy’s too fast, already on me before I can grab the gun from its rig.

  His knife keeps coming at me, missing me by slivers as I bob and weave away from the blade. He uses his free hand to try to wrestle the satchel from me. I don’t dare let go—it’s worth twenty grand to me!—and I don’t dare let it drop and break what’s inside, but the guy’s tough and relentless, jabbing at me, pulling the satchel, and bending away just enough to keep me from kneeing him.

  I’m losing this battle. I can’t hold this guy off much longer, can’t get a good grip on the satchel. But I can’t give up, because even if I let go, the guy might kill me anyway, knife me and toss me into the harbor. So I keep twisting my head away from the blade that comes ever closer as I get more tangled in the battle.

  I’ll be a goner any minute. I know it, because even through the stinging sweat dripping into my eyes, blurring my vision, I see the gleam of the blade heading right for my throat.

  The guy’s eyes open wide.

  He goes down. Stavros, pale and bleeding behind him, pulls his own knife out of the guy’s back.

  *

  New York City, a week later

  Eight p.m.

  The backseat of Rosie Bliss’s big Checker Cab is a lot more comfortable than the rusty cabin on the freighter that brought me home from Athens. By the time the Brooklyn beaches came in sight, my bones were so damp they sloshed. I was damn glad to jump ship and onto Red Drogan’s tugboat at the entrance to New York Harbor; it’s how I avoid the harbor police and US Customs. Red and I have danced that dance before. He’s a master at catching me dangling from ships’ rope ladders and ferrying me past the Law. I pay him well for those skills. He’ll get his cut of tonight’s job in the morning.

  After a quick trip to a rendezvous spot on an abandoned pier in an out-of-the-way arm of the river, where Rosie met me with her cab and drove me to my apartment to shower and change into a fresh suit—a double-breasted navy blue number, silk, like all my suits, and custom tailored to camouflage the gun in my shoulder rig—we’re tootling down upper Fifth Avenue on a cold winter’s night. My gray wool overcoat and gray cap, the brim pulled low, keep me warm. The satchel with the Dancing Goddess pyxis at my side reminds me to keep alert.

  Not that I expect any thuggery in this part of town. Even at night, upper Fifth Avenue is a golden street, glittery with high-hat apartment buildings on one side, Central Park on the other, and not a lot of pedestrians to dirty up the place. The shiny dimes who live along here have their chauffeurs drive them across the street into the park, where Victorian-era lamps throw a genteel glow across snaking paths. Out on Fifth Avenue, streetlights throw a patina on the late-model Lincolns, Cadillacs, Imperials, and other fat, pampered cars parked along the curb, their chrome glistening with the luster of money.

  At Sixty-Fourth Street, Rosie pulls up in front of a doozy of a building: fourteen stories of pale limestone, the lower floors shimmering in Fifth Avenue’s street lamps, the upper floors asce
nding into the moonlight. The entrance, with its carved Italianate molding around the door and its glass and wrought iron awning stretching to the curb, announces that only the city’s most highfalutin ladies and gents can live here. Money alone won’t get you an apartment in this joint. The right lineage has to ride along on the dollar. The longer the lineage, the higher the floor.

  Light from street lamps and the lobby of the apartment building seeps into the cab, touches Rosie’s pale blond hair, turns it into a froth of mist under her cabbie’s cap. It’s one of the delicious things I like about Rosie. I also like her blue eyes in a peaches-and-cream complexion, and the way every curve and mound of her luscious body accepts mine when we’re in my bed. I like her voice, mellow as warm, buttered brandy. I like her fondness for the scar above my lip. And I’m crazy about her skill behind the wheel. Even in thick New York traffic, Rosie can lose a cop car, or any other unwanted tail, with moves deft as a shell-game hustle. If I was smart I’d fall in love with her, but I can’t fall in love with Rosie or with anyone else. I’m still in love with someone who was taken from me, kidnapped more than three years ago and forced onto a flesh boat sailing God knows where and still not found, though I’m working on it. Meantime, I hold tight to my heart, protect its battered remnants.

  Rosie puts the engine in neutral and turns around to face me. The light drifting into the cab casts an alluring glow on one side of her face, leaving an equally alluring shadow on the other. I lean close to her, gently lift her chin. “I won’t be long,” I say. “How about we go for a drink, maybe spin around the dance floor at the Green Door Club when I come back?”