Work Text:
Elizabeth watched as the staff filed out for the day. Sitting at her desk, she allowed her eyes to flit between the stairwell door and her coat on the hall tree. She wasn’t quite ready to head home yet. Her dinky apartment by the park was just starting to feel like home before the break in, but lately she didn’t feel safe in most places. It had been made abundantly clear that someone who was after her knew where she lived. The phone calls earlier in the day had only cemented that feeling. In need of some methodical process to calm her nerves, she made her way down to the ground floor. Tucked away, the darkroom at the Gotham Times was cramped, just like everything else in the aging building. She had always enjoyed the solitude; the acrid smell of the chemicals reminded her of a simpler time. In the compact space, she would be able to collect her thoughts and figure out what to do.
She pulled the bottles of chemicals off the shelf, desperately seeking a distraction from the runaway train that had replaced her mind. Her troubles over the past weeks kept compounding: the “mugger” who had tried to kill her, Jessica Taylor’s sudden death, her ransacked apartment, the shootout at the theater, shadowy figures tailing her, Rio Rossi breathing down her neck, and her parents’ lives at stake. And then there was him.
Mr. Puzo.
Reaching for the file cabinet where White had told her the developed negatives were stored, she found the date of her interview with Nino Ricci at Sky Tower. Kane had praised the article, but her photographs had proved unnecessary. She hadn’t taken many, but now she was curious. She gave the negatives a once over, taking stock of what she captured that day. There was a snapshot of the construction site, the ornate, albeit unfinished, entrance of Sky Tower, a man that was either Mr. Ricci or the insufferable Alvaro. The last of the negatives gave her pause. It was him—taller than both of the other men, no hat, and just barely in frame, as if he had wandered into the shot of the Vosse building across the way unintentionally. Her interest piqued, she removed the negative and brought it over to the enlarger.
Unsure of what exactly compelled her to print the image, she laid out the trays, removed her watch, setting it on the table and began pouring the chemicals. She flicked off the overhead lamp and let the red glow of the safelight engulf her. She tried to focus the image as much as possible. It didn’t need to be perfect; she just needed to see it—to hold it in her hands. As if printing the photograph would bring the man to her. She nestled the paper into place and counted quietly to herself as she exposed the image and submerged it in the tray filled with developer. Gently rocking the tray back and forth she let her mind wander as Vittorio Puzo began to appear.
His image brought her back to the halls of the movie theater where he had pulled her close to keep her quiet, and safe, during the shootout. She recalled now how it felt to be pressed against his chest with his gloved hand gently covering her mouth. She could feel the flame of desire spreading all over her again. There was warmth beneath those gloves, so much warmth that with the combined total of their body heat, the whole projection room was at risk of combustion. What an idiot she had been, parroting the professor who had taught her the ins and outs of newsreels during a crisis. It was stupid and embarrassing. The heat turned unpleasant, stinging her cheeks when he asked if she would stop her little lesson in film technology. Even here in the stuffy darkroom she could feel the intense blush, just as she had that night.
She gripped the paper with the tongs, moved it into the fixer and began the rocking motion again, waiting a moment before flipping the lights back on with her free hand. While she had very few details, it wasn’t hard to fathom what line of work Mr. Puzo was in. All the same, she felt incredibly drawn to him. Four times she had crossed paths with him and, with his business card burning a hole in her coat pocket, she had a feeling they would meet again. In spite of it all, she could trust him. A man with his power and influence just might be able to help her smooth things over. He must know Rossi. His name had come up that night, and Mr. Ricci had been there. She rinsed the photo and hung it up to dry, resisting the urge to run her finger over his silhouette. She would have to call him. Who else could she turn to at this point? Why her heart thrilled at the thought of hearing his voice, she couldn’t quite tell.
She was beginning to need a distraction from her distraction.
Elizabeth left the darkroom intending to fetch an apple and revise some articles while the photo dried. So much for clearing her thoughts. Conjuring Vittorio Puzo, even just in an image, was enough to throw her thoughts off balance. Up the flight of stairs to the second floor, she paused at the door. Canned laughter roared from the radio… Amos and Andy? Or maybe the Fleischmann’s Yeast Hour? She glanced at her wrist but only saw bare skin. Who had turned the radio on? She had seen everyone leave for the day. The laughter from the program died down as Rudy Vallée introduced a Gershwin piano concerto. It was beautiful, but off putting when played to her frayed nerves. Too many notes competing for her attention—its unevenness recalling the cacophony of the city. The tempo only accelerated her heart rate.
Rossi. He knew where to call, he knew she was here, she had told him as much that night at Wellmer. She thought he would give her more time; he had only called this morning. Unless it was someone else. Her apartment had been ransacked before she even met Rio Rossi, and she had never managed to see the face of the man following her. There could be multiple men following her. She seemed to be ruffling a lot of feathers these days. Why hadn’t she left work with everyone else? It would already be dark out, but in the tight stairwell she didn’t stand a fighting chance.
She saw the doorknob begin to turn and froze, pressing herself into the small space next to the door. Her eyes searched frantically for a weapon of opportunity, but she came up empty. Bracing for the worst, she clapped her hands over her mouth and made herself small. The door swung open in front of her, missing her face only just. Then she laid eyes on the culprit: Davis starting down the stairs, two at a time. She heaved a sigh of relief that caught his attention.
“Hello, Miss Reporter! I was just looking for you…” He trailed off as he registered the shock on her face. “Is everything alright, Liz?”
“Yeah, no, umm, I’m fine. Swell.” She nodded quickly, gathering her composure. She refocused on him as the concerto took on a more pleasant pace. He wore no jacket, his waistcoat and bowtie were undone, shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows. Relaxed.
“Are you still shaken up from that mafia shootout? That was weeks ago, Liz!” Elizabeth never really knew what to think of Edmund Davis. At this moment, she wondered if he recalled that evening’s events correctly. When they found each other after the shooting, he had been the frantic one. She had felt surprisingly at ease after parting ways with Mr. Puzo.
“I just thought I was the only one here. You scared me is all.”
“I swear, how much taller does a fella have to be for you to notice him?” She looked at him quizzically, narrowing her eyes. “All that aside, I saw your things and thought I’d bring you a veritable feast! Chop suey. Chinese, it’s...” he paused to find the right word. “Comforting.” He led her through the door, to her desk where he had laid out a couple of oyster pails. “I figured you would be trying to pull an all-nighter and that you might like some company… and sustenance.” He pulled out her desk chair and motioned for her to sit.
“Thanks, Davis. This was real sweet of you.”
“Any time. I’ve found myself forgetting to eat sometimes when I’m chasing a story too.” He leaned back on White’s swivel chair, raising his legs to rest his heels on the corner of Elizabeth’s desk much to her annoyance.
“Well, I—I didn’t forget. I was heading up from the darkroom to get a snack.” She said between bites of vegetables and rice, pointing her chopsticks at the apple by his feet.
“Colvin! Were you playing photography without me?” he gasped, sitting upright in a flash, a hurt look on his face.
“What on earth are you talking about? Playing photography?” It had to be a set up; she could already tell from his shifting expression.
“You know… When you turn off the lights and see what develops.” He winked as he fiddled with his pinky ring.
“Oh Davis,” She sighed with a grimace. “You disgust me.”
“Fine, I’ll save it for someone who appreciates cleverness.” He almost pouted. “But really, what were you doing in there?”
“Just thinking—the process helps me think,” she explained, “and it had been a while since I tried my hand at it.”
“Any of that ‘thinking’ have to do with those phone calls you got today?”
She looked at him quickly, took another bite before she heard a new act begin on the radio and tried to change the subject. “I don’t know why I never figured you for a Rudy Vallée type.”
He fixed her with a stare. “Would you rather we listen to the Grand Ole Opry? We might have to get out of town for that.” She rolled her eyes at him. “Elizabeth. What’s going on?” He wasn’t giving up. “You’ve looked a mess all day ever since you got those telephone calls.”
She could ask him for help. Edmund had a grand lifestyle. Three thousand dollars was probably nothing to sniff at in his world. A world that somehow allowed him to chase his dream of being a reporter without subjecting him to a life of squalor. He could run to mommy and daddy when he needed cash or a different color convertible. But the issue wasn’t just money. Could she draw him into a world of shady figures, where he was just another person whose safety Rossi could use against her? She couldn’t risk it. It didn’t matter how much money Davis had. He seemed the type that solved all his problems by flashing his billfold. If her problem required more finesse than money could buy, she figured someone else was better suited to the task.
“It’s nothing really, just my dad. He’s not doing so well. But I’m sure he’ll be fine.” She gave a small smile.
“Anything I can do to help?”
He asked so earnestly. She could say it was just hospital bills, on top of a rough harvest, on top of what had been a bad year thus far. She didn’t have to mention gambling debts and threatening phone calls from a mafioso. It wouldn’t be the first lie she told. Or the last. But she already owed him for her job—what more could she really ask for? She brushed the rapid-fire thoughts aside.
“It’s more of a waiting game at this point.” She muttered before taking the final bites of her chop suey and placing the empty carton on the desk.
“If anything changes, you’ll let me know?” he asked as he rested his hand on top of hers. She nodded and they exchanged smiles as the radio played another convoluted comedy. “Alright, let’s say we get you home, Miss Reporter. Would you like a ride?”
“That would be grand.” She grinned. She couldn’t turn down safe passage home, not after the day she’d had. She collected her things and Davis, ever the gentleman when he wanted to be, helped her into her coat.
As they made their way down the steps, Davis willed himself to follow Elizabeth’s cautious pace. Just as they reached the door, it occurred to her that she had left the darkroom in a state of disarray. “I just need a moment, Davis! I forgot something in there.” She said quickly as she rushed into the room, leaving him by the door.
Inside, she fastened her watch back to her wrist, flipped the trays over to dump the chemicals down the drain, and replaced the bottles on the shelf. She didn’t give herself time to linger on him before she plucked the photo from the line where it was drying and tucked it into her notebook. She returned the negatives to the cabinet before remembering that she had left one in the enlarger. And although she hadn’t dwelled on him this time, she heard his voice in her ear, as if he were in the room with her.
Some things are not meant to be reported, Miss Colvin.
Those words had echoed in her mind whenever she thought of that evening at the theater, whenever she thought of him. Those very words had kept Vittorio Puzo’s name out of her mouth when she gave her account of the shooting to Prosecutor Boseman. Without a second thought, she pulled the negative from the enlarger, thrust it into her purse, and pushed the filing cabinet closed. She shut off the lights and met Davis at the door.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Holding conversation in Davis’s Duesenberg with the chilly night breeze encircling them was nearly impossible and they quickly gave up the attempt after exchanging a few shouts. As they crossed into Brooklyn on the Williamsburg Bridge, Elizabeth shoved her hands into her coat pockets and felt the crisp edge of the business card. She thought of the photo in her notebook and the negative sitting at the bottom of her purse. Vittorio Puzo looked to be her best option.
The car slowed to a stop in front of her building. Davis turned to look at her, placing a hand gently on her arm. “Really, Elizabeth. I know I kid a lot, but you’re one of the best we’ve got—after me of course—and it’d be a shame to lose you to the farm. Of course, family is family and if they need you, I completely understand… but if there’s anything I can help with, and I mean anything. I’d be happy to.”
“You already got me the job, Davis. And you fed me and drove me home tonight. What more could a girl ask for?” Before she could move to open the door, he slid in his seat and reached over her to open it himself.
“Allow me,” he smiled. “And I didn’t get you the job. I just pointed you in the right direction.”
“It was more than enough.”
“Just one more question, Miss Reporter…”
“Shoot.”
“How were you planning on getting out of a locked building?”
“Good night, Davis!” she turned and bolted up the stoop.
“See you tomorrow!”
She crept up the stairs, hoping to avoid Mrs. Johnson. Once in her apartment, she put down her things and fished the business card out of her coat pocket before hanging it up by the door. She wrapped her fingers around it gently while she glanced at her watch. Was it too late to call now? It seemed that she had already waited long enough to take action today. The longer this went on, the more she was putting her parents at risk. She slipped out into the hall, peeking around corners and down the stairwell to be sure that no one would overhear what precious little she thought herself capable of divulging. Careful not to knock the telephone off the rickety table where it sat, she picked up the receiver.
“Number please,” the operator intoned.
“Hello, umm… Judson 6-0967, please.” She read from the card.
“One moment, please.”
The line rang and rang. Perhaps it was much too late to call. She could still hang up. She could. She played with the possibility, idly running her thumb along the curves of the receiver. The line stopped ringing, but no voice came through.
“M-Mr. Puzo?” she stammered. “It’s Elizabeth Colvin. You gave me your number a few weeks ago… Said I should call if I ever needed anything?” She waited for a response, unsure that there was even someone on the line.
“Yes, Miss Colvin. How can I help you?” That voice. She found herself taken aback at his lack of surprise to receive a late-night call on what may have been his personal line.
“It’s a little more complicated than a telephone call allows, I’m afraid.”
“That’s quite alright. Can we meet for dinner tomorrow night?”
“That would be perfect.”
“I’ll have someone pick you up at seven.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Puzo.”
“I have yet to do anything. However, I will do whatever I can. That I promise you. Cu beni fa, beni trova.”
“I’m sorry, I- I don’t—”
“Whoever does good will have good done to them, Miss Colvin… Goodnight.”
The line disconnected abruptly before Elizabeth could respond.
She returned the receiver to its cradle and started back to her room. He agreed so easily. It dawned on her that she had never explicitly told Mr. Puzo where she lived, but he seemed to know where to send a car. She was confused by the sense of security brought about by the realization that he must have been keeping an eye on her. Her eyes fell on her notebook, and she retrieved his picture from the safety of its pages. She kicked off her shoes and sat on the bed, drawing her legs under her. This time she couldn’t stop herself from running her fingertip along his squared shoulders, the hazy lines of his tailored suit, his profile.
Whoever does good will have good done to them.
Had she done something good? She had saved his life, but was he… good? She didn’t care to dwell on it any longer and placed the photo in the mystery novel on her nightstand. Uncertainty tainted everything these days. Elizabeth could never decide whether she was doing the right thing. But somehow, something assured her that calling on Mr. Puzo for assistance would be the right choice. He could be trusted.
She readied herself for bed, rinsing her face and wrapping herself up in nightgown and robe. Arranging her notes for the next day’s work, she rummaged through her purse and drew out the negative. She knew what she had to do. She had known it from the moment she decided not to return it to the safety of the file cabinet.
Some things are not meant to be reported.
She pushed the window up and perched on the sill. The late spring air would soon give way to the warmth of summer, but tonight the chilling bite remained. She pulled the negative out of her robe pocket along with a matchbook from the kitchenette. She struck the match and brought it up to the negative. It caught fire instantly, forcing her to release it. She watched it curl in the air and disappear before it could reach the metal grating of the fire escape, leaving nothing behind but a noxious odor. She backed away quickly to close the window before it could follow her inside.
Settling into bed, she picked up the novel from her nightstand and opened it to the worn page where her only evidence of Vittorio Puzo’s existence now served as a bookmark. She considered what she could see of his face before shutting off the light, knowing she would see him come tomorrow evening.