The Gremlin's Grampa

by Robert L. Fish

  “A penny for your thoughts, Lieutenant.”

  Tom Bennett was watching him quizzically from across the table. The girls—aided by Dondero, who claimed he needed the practice—were clearing away the dishes. Billy Bennett had been excused to go back to his studies; Tim Bennett, a large blond man resplendent in his pilot’s uniform, was lighting his pipe. Tom Bennett was smiling at him. Reardon smiled back a bit ruefully.

  “Well, I suppose I was thinking of how envious I was of you …”

  Bennett nodded, accepting the statement as being a logical one. “I’ve much to be thankful for.” His smile faded a bit. “And some not to be, as is the way with most folks, I expect. However, it’s the way the Lord wants, or it wouldn’t be that way.” He took a deep breath and wiped away his serious mien; a twinkle came into his eyes. “How about an after-dinner drink, Lieutenant?”

  “I wouldn’t mind at—” Reardon stopped abruptly, and then laughed. “I have a better idea. Why don’t we go down to a nightclub? I was thinking of the Belly-Button.…”

  Jan was reaching over his shoulder for some silverware. She paused and stared. “The Belly-Button?”

  “It’s a place on Broadway,” Reardon explained. “They have an act there I’d like to see.”

  “On Broadway?” Jan’s eyebrows went up; a mischievous smile was barely held back. “I knew I was right the other night when I checked the bars there looking for you—”

  “Let’s keep our private quarrels to ourselves, eh?” He grinned at her. “Leave the dishes and let’s go—”

  Tom Bennett frowned. “They’re very expensive, nightclubs. And Tim here will be glad to mix up another batch of Bloody Marys. We don’t usually go to places like that …”

  “So tonight consider it in the line of duty,” Reardon said. “And as for the expense, this one will be on the police department. It doesn’t happen very often that they pay for drinks, but this will be one of those times.”

  “A Broadway bar on the swindle sheet?” Dondero was amazed. “How come?”

  “It’s a long story, but a true one, and I’ll tell you about it some time.” Reardon glanced at his watch. “Don, better call in and tell Communications where we’ll be, just in case. It’s a dive called the Belly-Button on Broadway near Kearny. One of Jerry Capp’s places.”

  “One of Jerry Capp’s old places, you mean,” Dondero said, and headed for the telephone. He suddenly paused, grinning. “Hey—you mean maybe we can check on Pete Falcone’s spots on the expense account?” He saw the look on the faces about him and shrugged. “Sorry. Bum joke,” he said, and went on to telephone.

  Tom Bennett looked around. “One car won’t do. I’ll take mine.”

  “Good,” Reardon said, and came to his feet, crooking his arm for Jan to take. “Well, folks? Shall we see how the other half lives?”

  Friday—10:30 p.m.

  The Belly-Button was neither the fanciest nor the sleaziest of the dives that lined both sides of Broadway in the North Beach section of town. It might well have fitted into the old Barbary Coast that once had provided the entertainment in that part of San Francisco. Actually, Reardon thought, following the sad-faced waiter to their table, take away the postage-stamp-sized stage and add a few lights and it really wouldn’t be much different than that old bar down on the Embarcadero where Jerry Capp was hit. You’d have to add a few tons of smoke to the old bar to give it the atmosphere of the Belly-Button, he thought; I wonder if they have machines to manufacture this smog, or if they buy it and have it delivered daily? In barrels, like beer? It seemed hard to believe the lack of oxygen could be attributed to the few customers the place was holding at the moment. He became aware of the waiter standing beside him and came alive to his duties as host.

  “What’ll you folks have to drink?”

  Jan started the ball rolling. “Scotch sour for me,” she said, and leaned back in her chair, inspecting the premises. They failed to impress her.

  The waiter marked down the order with the resigned air of one who hopefully waits for someone someday to order something unexpected, but who knows no one ever will. Reardon nodded. “Gabriella?”

  “I don’t know.” She turned to Jan. “What’s in a scotch sour?”

  “With luck, decent scotch,” Jan said, and smiled. “All I can say is it’s better than a Gremlin’s Grampa.”

  “A what?”

  Even the waiter lost a bit of his lugubriousness at mention of the drink; new concoctions were rare. Reardon laughed.

  “That’s another long story.”

  “Oh.” Gabriella frowned, trying to make up her mind. At last she looked at the waiter, hopefully. “Do I have to have something to drink?”

  “It’s your money,” he said. “Cover charge goes on whether you drink the minimum or not.”

  “Oh.” She thought and then found a solution. “Could I have a beer?”

  The waiter shrugged sadly and marked it down.

  “That sounds good to me,” Tim said.

  “I’ll have something a bit stronger,” Tom Bennett said, and looked at Reardon with a touch of defiance. “I’ll have a Bloody Mary, and heavy on the sauce.” He seemed to realize his words could be misinterpreted. “The Worcestershire sauce, I mean.”

  The waiter marked it down with a sigh. Why, his mournful expression seemed to ask, doesn’t anyone ever surprise me? Why doesn’t a woman ever order a boilermaker, for example; or a man a Pink Lady? Just to shake the world up a bit?

  “I’ll go for that Bloody Mary,” Reardon said.

  “And I’ll make it three,” Dondero said, and reached for a cigarette, intent upon adding his small contribution to the fog in the place. “Far be it from me to ease up on an expense account.”

  The waiter looked the table over sadly, as if trying to figure out why people who appeared reasonable enough on the outside, would want to waste either time or money in a place like the Belly-Button. He took a deep breath and started to move away. Reardon called after him.

  “What time is the show?”

  “Soon.” The waiter’s tone of voice indicated that anyone who called the entertainment in the Belly-Button a show, would probably be happy with their drinks.

  “I wonder what he drinks in this place,” Dondero said, looking after the bent-shouldered figure as it moved unhappily toward the bar. “Whatever it is, remind me not to touch it.”

  They looked about the place as they waited for their drinks; as if to prevent too close an inspection, the lights began to dim. A man went up to the stage, sat down at a piano, and waited, his hands in his lap. His tuxedo looked as if it had seen better days, as, indeed, it had. In a few moments he was joined by a young man in dungarees, with long hair and a guitar; he had the air of someone lost, and sat down and began to tune his instrument. The piano player sighed and gave him a note.

  “Just a fun place,” Dondero muttered, and watched.

  A bass fiddle player came to join the others, pulling his instrument from the wall and plucking on the strings; from the expression on his face as he leaned over the instrument, listening intently, the fiddle seemed to be telling him something, or promising him something. The drummer came up last, wearing slacks and a vest without a shirt; his hair was held in place with a headband. He sat down behind his traps and tapped restlessly with one drumstick against the edge of the piano; the piano player didn’t seem to object.

  “High,” Tom Bennett said softly, watching them. “All four of them.”

  “High as a kite,” Reardon agreed.

  The elderly sergeant looked at him, and started to rise. “You want me to call it in?”

  Reardon shook his head decisively. “No raids right now, please. And let’s not make like police tonight, or at least not right now. I want to see the show.”

  “But—”

  “Just remember it when we’re in the hall tomorrow; give it to Narcotics, then. Although God knows what they’ll do with it. My guess is we’d wait less time for a stick than for a drink in this place
.” He swung his chair a bit for a better view of the small stage as the lights dimmed further. Their waiter came back, placing their drinks on the table.

  “Show’s starting,” he said mournfully, and walked away as if he didn’t want to witness their response to the entertainment.

  A spotlight cut the darkness, revealing a curtained entrance to the stage at one side. Knowing the general size of the building, Reardon had a feeling the dressing rooms were a little less than commodious. There was a drum roll, ragged, trailing into silence. The piano player pulled the microphone toward him and spoke into it with a false enthusiasm he did nothing to mask.

  “Yes, sir, folks—here she is, the star, the one we’ve all been waiting for! Give the little lady a big hand, folks! Here she is—Miss Georgie Jackson!”

  There was a sudden stirring of the curtains, and a girl came out to be greeted by a few clapping hands that soon edged into silence. The band started to play; it was several bars before they had the same tune, if not the same rhythm. They were attempting a striptease number. Jan stared at Reardon in perplexity. He winked at her, gestured toward the stage and leaned back to enjoy the show.

  The girl was fully dressed in an evening gown that swept the floor; one of her gloved hands held a cigarette holder well over a foot long. She swirled her abundant shoulder-length hair and strutted across the small stage provocatively, her breasts pointed high, her hips turning sexily; at the far end she turned and strutted back, keeping an exaggerated swing to her lush body. The four musicians seemed to get their beat from her and managed to get together at last. Dondero leaned over the table, whispering.

  “I don’t want to be curious, but what’s a dame like that doing in a dump like this? And who is she?”

  “My competition, I gather,” Jan said with an archness that was meant to convey humor but failed signally.

  Reardon grinned. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

  “She’s got a lovely body,” Gabriella said; there was a touch of envy in her voice as she watched the girl. She sipped her beer, her eyes moving to Dondero’s face in the dimness of the room.

  “She’s more than pretty,” Reardon said with a grin. “She’s talented. Just watch.”

  Jan frowned thoughtfully and turned to the stage. The girl had discarded the cigarette holder and was drawing off one of her elbow-length gloves; there was a sensuous look on her face. The band started bump-and-grind music and she slowly began, beating the floor with the glove. All instruments fell silent except for the drums; she dipped and shuddered, hips gyrating in and out to the rhythm, and then with one final convulsion she stopped, in time, for once, with the band. There was a smattering of applause from the sparse audience; she held on to the curtain as if in post-coital release, dipped once and disappeared. A whistle—undoubtedly from an employee of the Belly-Button under orders—brought her back. The music began once more; this time she slowly unbuttoned her dress, pulled it enticingly over one shoulder and then—as if completely abandoning herself in favor of her audience—dropped it and stepped out of it completely. Revealed was a harem dancer; the full bosom was concealed by a bandeau that stretched from the neck to just beneath the hidden, jutting breasts; below she wore filmy harem pants. The music changed to harem music. She put one long-nailed hand before her face, palm outward, and started to do a belly dance, moving slowly, sensuously at first, and slowly building rhythm and speed. The music rose in volume with her, if not in skill; she began to move across the stage and back, her shoulders quivering at increasing rate, her hips jumping, her stomach twisting violently. The music rose to a crescendo, growing more frenzied together with the dance; despite the cheap decor of the room and the obvious exhibitionism of the performance, Jan could see how such pure sexuality could appeal. The band became almost lyrical, as the shaking slowly subsided and the girl draped herself to the floor, arms extended, feet folding upon themselves like flower petals, and then she had bent her head to touch the floor as the music drifted to silence.

  This time the applause was more enthusiastic. The girl came to her feet gracefully, breathing deeply, smiled in genuine pleasure at her audience’s reaction, and then touched her forehead, that deep crease between her breasts, her lips, and extended her hand to the darkness beyond the edge of the footlights. The applause grew as she disappeared, held until it became apparent the act was over and the full-bosomed girl would not return, and then died down sporadically.

  “She really was good,” Jan said, as if surprised.

  “She’s better than good,” Reardon said, and then fell silent as the piano player, the microphone once more in his possession, made intimate speech impossible.

  “And that was Miss Georgie Jackson, folks! Wonderful, wasn’t she? Well, she’ll be back with us for our next show-she has to catch her breath, you know—and she has such wonderful catcher’s mitts—what?” He paused for a laugh and went on before it could become obvious there wouldn’t be one. “Yes, folks—that’s got to be meat, because potatoes don’t shake like that …”

  Dondero groaned.

  “… And now, here’s Skeets Canfield! That funny, funny man you all love! Or aren’t you supposed to love funny men? Or men? Ah! That’s just for you ladies! Here he is, Skeets Canfield, named for the game of solitaire, because with his breath, ladies and gentlemen—believe me—well, you get the idea …”

  He dropped the microphone as if it suddenly had become hot, and attacked the piano in the same motion, followed at uneven intervals by the rest of his entourage. A man in a burlesque comic’s baggy pants and painted face came out, waited with tapping slapsticks for his musical introduction to end, and then started to tell dirty stories. Dondero was still staring at the curtain through which Georgie Jackson had disappeared.

  “I won’t even mention this comic,” he said, “and wash my mouth with soap and water if I say anything about the piano player, but this Georgie Jackson is something else again.”

  “She’s good,” Jan admitted.

  “Yeah,” Dondero said, “but that’s a striptease? No offense to the feminine mammals present, but here on Broadway, where usually even the bartenders are topless?”

  “Disappointed?” Reardon was smiling at him, a wicked glint in his eye.

  “Not so much disappointed as surprised,” Dondero said. “Come, James; you didn’t bring us all the way down here—and feed us bad drinks—just for that exhibition, did you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” Reardon grinned. “I wanted you to meet my date for tonight.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Jan.

  “Your date?”

  “Just for one quick drink,” Reardon promised her faithfully. “One fast drink. At the Cranston Hotel …”

  Intelligence finally came to those in the know. Tom Bennett nodded.

  “You think that was the dame—”

  Dondero stared. “You think she might have been the dame—?”

  Reardon shook his head, his gray eyes twinkling. “I think that maybe—and please note that I said maybe—he might have been the dame.” He grinned. “They don’t explain properly on the posters outside, but Miss Georgie Jackson didn’t strip to your satisfaction, Don, for the very simple reason that—if you’ll pardon me—he’s flat-chested. He was born just plain George Jackson, and he never bothered to go to Sweden for an operation, either. He’s a female impersonator.”

  Dondero stared. “That was a man?”

  “That was, and is, a man.”

  “Well,” Dondero said defiantly, “he could have fooled me!”

  “Ah! But could he have fooled Falcone?”

  Jan settled it. “He fooled me,” she said, taking Reardon’s hand fondly, “and believe me, I was looking for all the faults I could find.”

  Reardon became serious.

  “Look,” he said flatly, “how much fooling did Falcone need? He’d had a drink or two, and they never got to the strip bit.”

  “Yeah,” Tom Bennett said, “but I still can’t see any
weakling tossing Pete Falcone out of any window!”

  “No? You think that routine on the stage won’t keep you in good trim?” Reardon snorted and then glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get moving. I want to grab him—or her—before any costume change. I want the bartender at the Cranston Hotel to see her in all her feminine glory.” He thought a moment. “We can all go over there with her and have another drink there. These aren’t anything to brag about.”

  Dondero brightened and took Gabriella’s hand. “On the department?”

  “On the department,” Reardon promised, and came to his feet. He raised his glass. “Here’s to crime—may we always be on the right side of it!”

  “Whichever side that is,” Dondero said, and quaffed deeply.

  Friday—11:12 p.m.

  The passage to the single dressing room the Belly-Button could afford from its limited square footage, was narrow and getting through was further complicated by the fact that it was also used as storage space for beer barrels. A twenty-watt bulb, unshaded, hung from a cord, furnishing what little light there was. The stocky detective rapped on the door to which some humorist had attached a star cut from toilet paper. An even voice called out.

  “Who raps these days? On doors, I mean. Come on in.”

  Reardon opened the door. Georgie Jackson, seated at a dressing table and facing the mirror, was wiping make-up from his face. His wig was off and neatly placed on a mannequin head beside him. His eyes came up incuriously, studying Reardon in the mirror.

  “What’s your problem?”

  “Hello, Georgie. That’s quite an act you have there—”

  “Thanks.” Jackson’s voice was only slightly elevated; his tone was dry, his eye sardonic. “You don’t look like my usual appreciative member-of-the-audience club. So?”