by George Baxt
“Sit down. This won’t take long.”
“Well, I hope not. I’ve got a late date at the East Five Five and I have no intention of keeping him waiting.”
Singer referred to a memo on his desk. “Mister Thrum, it says here you’ve had seven arrests over the past six years for soliciting in public toilets, attempted extortion … and rape?”
“I can assure you it wasn’t worth the bother. How was I supposed to know he was a rabbi?” Thrum the Third finally sat. “I hope it says on that sheet I beat the rap on all seven counts.”
“You must have a very smart lawyer.”
“My sister.”
“Tell me what happened in the steam room.”
“So I go in, there’s nobody there but the stiff, except he don’t look dead when I get in. Anyway, the place is so dimly lit and full of steam I could have made a pass at and laid my father without either of us recognizing each other.”
“You’re positive there’s nobody else in the steam room when you’re there?”
He smiled “Honor bright There’s very little action there so early in the afternoon—it’s too soon for the ribbon clerks and too late for the night shift because by noon they’re on their way home to their wives or whatever.”
“So what were you doing there?”
“Looking for a leftover or a stray. You know, potluck.”
“Who’d you see when you checked into the place?”
“The guy who rents the lockers and the roomettes, period. There wasn’t a soul on the premises. I looked in the pool and the game room and the refreshment … ha … bar, and oh yes, there was the guy who does the coffee and goodies, but he’s been there for years—the only thing he’d kill is your appetite.”
“When you were entering the place, did you perhaps notice anyone leaving?”
“You mean like coming out the door?”
“That would help.”
“Listen, that place is located in the heart of the shmotter district …”
“The what district?”
Thrum the Third rolled his eyes with exasperation and explained, “Shmotter … rags … garment center, get it? I mean the crush of humanity there from nine to six is unbelievable. Face it, I’m a lousy witness.”
And that’s how it was with the steam-bath personnel when Singer got around to them. But someone had entered the place and plugged Lester Miroff between the eyes. How, Singer wondered, did the murderer know where to locate Miroff? Easy. He’d tailed Miroff from the singer’s apartment. He’d phoned him from a nearby booth, gambled Miroff would panic and very soon come flying out the door looking for someplace to hide. And the gamble had paid off. If it hadn’t, well, thought Singer, he’d be having dinner right now with Tallulah and Mrs. Parker.
Tony’s Restaurant on West Fifty-second Street between Fifth Avenue and the Avenue of the Americas was a reformed speakeasy located in the street-level basement of a brownstone. After prohibition, Tony, the owner, had converted to a restaurant club where the food was sometimes good and the black singer Mabel Mercer sang nightly, except Mondays, before a legion of loyal fans. It was a celebrity hangout, although Tony’s daughter, who was recently married to the film director John Huston, was never seen there with her husband. The tiny stage on which Miss Mercer reigned with her pianist had been constructed against what had once been the windows overlooking the street. The small dining room stretched to the bar area, which commanded an unrestricted view of both entertainer and diners, the diners frequently providing more exciting divertissement.
Such as when among the diners present were Tallulah Bankhead and Dorothy Parker.
“Dahling,” said Tallulah to a young man standing near their table with his hands in his pockets, “get us another round please.”
“I’m not an employee, Miss Bankhead,” he said politely.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, dahling. You were standing there doing nothing, so I assumed you work here. Well, be a dahling and find our waiter, will you dear?” Mrs. Parkers attention was directed elsewhere. “Who you looking at, Dottie?”
That old broad across the room there with the two beautiful young men.”
Tallulah recognized the woman. “Oh, dahling, don’t you know who she is? She’s Rosie Dolly Netcher, the surviving Dolly Sister.”
“But all those emerald necklaces around her neck, and those ruby and diamond bracelets”
“I know. We should genuflect. She got it all from the husband, Irving Netcher, Chicago millions. Goddamn it, Dottie, were two of the smartest girls in the business. Why haven’t we snared our millionaire? Why must I work for a living? And why are you always broke?”
“I’m not always broke, Tallulah. I was quite rich these past years in Hollywood. I made a hell of a lot of money.”
“So where is it?”
“Oh, Tallulah, darling, life is such a bottomless barrel.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“How do I know? I’m not a philosopher.”
The waiter brought their refills and said they were from the young man Tallulah had sent to summon him. “Oh, isn’t that dahling of him? Where’d he go? Oh, there he is! Young man!” He turned and smiled at her. She lifted her glass in a toast. “Happy hunting!” He winked and resumed conversation with a naval officer at the bar.
“Dottie, you’ve got to write me a play.”
“Tallulah, I meant to tell you earlier, I’ve agreed to collaborate on a play with Arnaud D’Ussaud, Ladies of the Corridor, and, darling, there is no star part. Actually, we’re thinking of one of the leading roles, a divorced midwestern housewife living in a hotel for women, for Katharine Cornell.”
“Well, she only does star parts, for crying out loud.”
“On the contrary, Tallulah. Remember that marvelous revival she did of Chekhov’s Three Sisters? She was just one of the ensemble. That was truly an all-star cast. I think Katharine Cornell could use my play.”
“Katharine Cornell could use a blood transfusion. And I could use a career transfusion. Mcnc mcne tekel. The handwriting’s on the wall I know my radio show’s not long for this world, which means the wolves are going to be at my door and howling.”
“Don’t kid me, Tallulah, you’ve got plenty of money.”
“Money, my dear Mrs. Parker, has a strange way of running out when you’re a long time between jobs, and I have had very long times between jobs.”
“Why don’t you revive The Little Foxes?”
“What? Are you mad? Get involved with that Hellman bitch again?”
“She’s in bad trouble.”
“Is anyone ever in good trouble?”
“I know.” She snapped her fingers.
“If you say Clifford Odets, I’ll savage you.”
“You reading my mind? Joe Savage, he’s the one to write a play for you.”
“And what exactly is a Joe Savage?”
“A very talented young writer, who, come to think of it, was another one condemned by Lester Miroff.”
“Christ, how did Miroff miss fingering the Vienna Boys Choir?”
“They weren’t in town. Joseph must be around somewhere. I’ll start tracking him down tomorrow. I’m going to bring you two together and that’s my mitzvah for the week. He’ll write you a marvelous comedy about a star in trouble with the blacklist. Where does that hit you?”
“Too close to home, dahling. And, dahling! There’s Lewis Drefuss! Who’s he with? Lewis! Lewis!”
Lewis recognized the voice immediately, as who wouldn’t, and turned and waved.
“Come join us, dahling! Bring your friend, I’m feeling tolerant.”
Seated with the ladies, drinks having been ordered, the friend introduced himself.
“George Baxt?” said Tallulah. “Any relation to Leon Bakst, the great designer?”
“That’s B-a-k-st. I’m B-a-x-t. Anyway, Leon Bakst is a pseudonym.”
“Not really, dahling!”
“Really, dahling,” riposted Baxt in a perfect imitation,
and she roared with laughter.
Lewis spoke. “George was Abner’s agent.”
“Oh, darling Mr Baxt, how sad for you.”
“How sad for Abner. I’ve still got some living numbers, may God have mercy on their souls. And how sad for Martha.”
“You knew Martha?”
“Not well, but I’d met her through mutual friends. She was a friend of Jean Muir, who’s a good friend of mine.”
“Poor Jean,” said Mrs. Parker, “what the blacklist did to her.”
“She was the first to be shafted,” Baxt reminded them.
“She won’t be the last, dahling. Well, Lewis, I assume you’ve heard of Mr. Miroff s late unpleasantness.”
“And of all places to get it, gay steam bath.”
“I’ve heard of lots of people getting it in gay steam baths,” said Baxt.
Tallulah asked Baxt, “Did Abner or Martha speak much about their son?”
“Was there a son? I think I’d once heard mention of a child that was dead, but I don’t know the gender. You know anything, Lewis?”
“I only know Miss Bankhead should be heading home for her beauty sleep. She has a picture call tomorrow morning.”
“Stop being a spoilsport, Lewis I’m now involved in detective work. Dottie and I have been helping Jacob Singer in his investigation.” She explained to Baxt, “Jacob Singer is a detective, dahling, and Mrs. Parker once assisted him on a case back in nineteen ten …”
“Nineteen twenty-six, August to be exact, the day of Rudolph Valentino’s funeral …”
That’s interesting Sounds like there might be a book in that,” said Baxt. “Why don’t you write it, Mrs Parker?”
Mrs. Parker demurred, feigning modesty. “I’m getting busy with a play.”
“George writes,” said Lewis.
“Oh really, dahling,” said Tallulah, bored
“What do you write?” asked Mrs. Parker.
“Plays, screenplays, television plays, poison-pen letters.”
“Then why are you an agent?” asked Tallulah.
“Because I’m an unsuccessful writer.”
“That’s not true,” said Lewis, “you had a play on tour a couple of years ago.”
“Four to be exact,” said Baxt, “and Miss Bankhead, it starred your friend Estelle Winwood.”
“Good God no, dahling!”
“Good God yes, dahling. It was Laughter of Ladies.”
“Of course, dahling,” now looking on Baxt in a more favorable light, “her husband directed it.”
“That’s what he said he was doing,” said Baxt dryly, “but he couldn’t direct you to a toilet.”
Said Mrs. Parker with underlined incredulity, “Estelle Winwood has a husband?”
“Indeed she does, dahling, and don’t ask me why.” Tallulah was lighting a Craven A and eyeing the waiter for refills.
“She told me why,” said Baxt. He had their undivided attention. “She explained at her age she needed someone to call her taxicabs.” He appreciated the laughs the line got.
“My dear Tallulah, exactly how old is Estelle Winwood?”
Said Baxt, ‘I’m sure she remembers the Maine.”
“Dahling, she not only remembers it, she sailed on it.”
Lewis excused himself and went to the men’s. Baxt looked at his wristwatch and made small noises about having to leave soon. “Oh, don’t go yet,” urged Mrs. Parker, “have another drink.” He had another drink He never needed much urging to have another drink. They talked about actors and the blacklist, about suicides and betrayals and murder “Did you know Lester Miroff?” Mrs. Parker asked Baxt.
“Well, actually, he came by my office a couple of months ago asking if I was interested in representing him. I knew Leona Clystir was his agent and we’re old friends. Besides which, I don’t client-jump. And especially not a blacklisted client. I’m having enough trouble with some of my own, though so help me Hannah, I finally broke it for Axel Dourly. I got him on the Kraft hour next week and I’m sweating out any repercussions. I just hope the show’s director stands his ground and refuses to replace him should the demand be made. I didn’t like Miroff anyway.”
“Dahling, who do you know who might know more about the identity, the fate, possibly the whereabouts of the Walsh child?”
Lewis now returned to the table and gave Baxt the high sign it was time they were leaving.
“A few years ago I met someone at Abner and Nanette’s Christmas Eve party. Oliver Sholom, he’s a director. From the way he and Abner were reminiscing about the good old days, I’m pretty positive the two of them went back a long long time.”
“Oliver Sholom, Tallulah,” said Dorothy, “at first took the Fifth, but when he couldn’t get work, he recanted and spilled his guts.”
“He still can’t get work,” said Lewis. “He’s been driving us nuts trying to get a spot with the show.”
“Never!” said Tallulah sharply. And then she went strangely silent, even for Tallulah. Oliver Sholom. Perhaps he knew something valuable. She might be a help to Jacob Singer. She liked Jacob Singer. She liked him very much.
“I can see it’s time to go home,” said Mrs. Parker. “Tallulah has a very silly expression on her face.”
“Can I drop anyone?” asked Baxt. “I’m on East Fifty-eighth and Sutton.”
“You can drop me, dahling. I’m at the Elysee. Dottie’s at the Volney. Lewis, be a dear and sec Dottie home. And Dottie, don’t forget the Savage person.”
“What, dear?”
“The writer. Savage. Play. Me. Tallulah.”
“Oh, of course, Joseph. I’ll get on it first thing when I wake up tomorrow afternoon.”
Jacob Singer was not happy. It was three in the morning and the few people whom he had reached had told him nothing of much use, unless, he wondered, was he getting old, stale, forgetting the fine art he had honed decades ago of listening between the lines. Some were even shocked to learn Lester Miroff had been a homosexual.
One of his associates poked his head in the office. “Wait till you hear this one. A dame on West Fifty-fifth got herself raped by an intruder coming through the window from the fire escape while she’s practicing her yoga. It’s the first I ever heard of a dame getting fucked in the Lotus position.”
Singer waved him away. Somewhere there was someone he should talk to who was not on the list Bankhead and Parker had given him. It was a gut feeling, and his gut was the one thing he could still trust. He yawned and stretched and decided it was time to go home. He wouldn’t sleep, he knew that for certain, until his gut gave him permission to do so. He wondered if he dare phone Tallulah Bankhead at this hour and brazenly invite himself over for a drink. The idea and the challenge titillated him, but then out of cowardice he scrubbed it. Singer, he said to himself, you’re a chicken-shit detective.
Tallulah reclined on the chaise longue in her bedroom, smoking a Craven A, nursing a scotch and water, and wondering if fantasies were ever fulfilled. If Detective Jacob Singer would phone and invite himself over for a drink. The phone did ring and she leapt for it. “Yes, dahling?” she asked eagerly.
The voice at the other end was faint and disguised. “Miss Bankhead, don’t get involved.”
Click
SIX
“Hey, Miss Bankhead!” asked the gabbier than usual young cab driver, “what do I have to do to get into the theater?”
“Take a vow of poverty, dahling.”
“I’m studying with Sandy Meisner. Tomorrow I’m doing a scene for him from Streetcar’”
“Dahling,” said Tallulah at her most bored and deadliest, “I cahn’t quite see you as Blanche.”
He went mute until they reached Jacob Singer’s precinct on West Fifty-fourth Street. For the woman who a few hours earlier had received a death threat, Tallulah was unusually high-spirited and gay, skipping up the steps to the police station like a young girl trysting with her first beau. “I’m not afraid of dying, dahling,” she’d said to Singer over the phone whe
n she finally reached him that morning, “I’m afraid of living. What, dahling? Why, I’d adore seeing where you work. I’ve never seen the inside of a police station, dahling, although I’ve been threatened with the prospect often enough, God knows. No, I’m not rehearsing today, and no, I’m certainly not attending Lester Miroff’s funeral. Noon sounds fine. See you then, dahling.”
“A cop!” screeched Patsy. “What are you doing getting mixed up with a cop?”
“Miss Kelly, mind your own business,” cautioned Tallulah as she dressed for the noon date. “You volunteered to tidy up my closets and dresser drawers today, Why are you spending so much time opening that bottle of scotch?”
“The cork’s stuck, damn it.” The phone rang.
“Get that, will you, dahling?”
Patsy crossed to the phone and barked into it, “What?” She listened. “Just a minute.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Hey, Tallulah, you know a David Carney?”
“No, what’s he selling? The damned switchboard’s supposed to screen my calls. So what do I get? A death threat and a David something. Never heard of him!”
“She never heard of you, Mr. Carney.” She listened. “Let me ask her. Hey, Tallulah! He’s written a play he wants you to read. He says he wrote it just for you.”
“I’ve heard that song before. Oh, tell him to leave it at the desk.”
Patsy relayed the message and hung up. “Sounds like another nut case to me.” She watched Tallulah arranging a gossamer stole around her shoulders in front of a floor-length mirror. “Say listen, Tallu …”
What, darling?” Tallulah wasn’t satisfied with her reflection. She continued fussing with the stole.
“I think you should hire a bodyguard. I don’t like you going out alone in the streets after that nut call last night.”
“That was a caution, dahling, not a death threat.”
“There’s a thin line between the two, Tallu. I’m a street kid. Brought up in Hell’s Kitchen. Let me tell you, it’s a short walk from a threat to curtains.” Her screech softened to the sound of a nail being drawn across corrugated tin. “I love you, girl. I don’t like the idea of ever mourning you.”