Girl Running
Page 20
I said: “You were going to fill me in on what you know about Mari Barstow.”
“Of course. I’ve attended to that. I’ve dictated a complete summary of my experience with Mari—where I met her, what I know about her background, and so forth. Miss Calabrese has it all typed up for you, Conacher. If there’s anything else you need just call me.” He shook my hand with a firm but hasty Madison Avenue grip. Then he was back at his papers, digging into his delayed work. “Get going fast, Conacher,” he said without looking up at me. “Speed is essential.”
I got going right away.
I went out into a small and empty office and phoned Max Ornstein.
“Max,” I said, “I need you.”
“You’re out of your mind,” he said, chuckling the way he always did when warmed by the challenge of his former business. “I’m in no position to go assing around with you, Steve. I’m a Main Street man now, remember?”
“Money isn’t everything, Max.”
“It’ll do until something better comes along, this I’m positive.”
“Can’t the restaurant survive without you?”
“Survive it can. For how long?”
“It’s tricky,” I said. “But it’s the kind you like.”
“You’re twisting my arm. And what kind do I like?”
“A paying case, Max. Ever hear of Mari Barstow?”
“Don’t tease me. I’m sitting out here in Lynbrook and I’m running a fancy dogcart with bagels and lox for the local yokels and a terrific trade with the hamburgers of the truck drivers. What do you think I am, the chief cook at Chambord’s? This Mari Barstow is maybe a public figure? The only public figure I know is the goniff cop on the beat out here. You forget who I am now, Steve. You forget you’re talking to Max Ornstein, a small-time member of a small-time chamber of commerce. All I know is what I read in the papers. Which I don’t have time for anyhow.”
“Listen to me, Max. This one is crazy, a young and pretty television singer walking out of a big money deal and staying there. You curious?”
“Maybe next week I’ll be curious,” Max said apologetically.
But I knew he was playing games with me and would come my way eventually. He pretended to assume the air of a simple man, a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker. It was an old habit of his, this Main Street dialogue. He had dreamed for years of settling down somewhere in the suburbs, to own a shoe store, a candy store—or a small restaurant. It was an ambition born of a great weariness with the city. Max had been brought up on the lower east side of New York. He managed to get through part of high school, but eventually abandoned it because of his family’s need of him. He worked at all kinds of things, reading as he worked, soaking up knowledge in spare moments, always seeking new horizons for his thinking. And his nimble brain paid off for him when he finally entered the business of private investigation. He soon became famous for his thoughtful stubbornness in the skip-trace business. You went to Max Ornstein when all hope was gone. You gave Max Ornstein the complete story, the intimate details, the odds and ends, the trivia. And Max would find your man. It might take weeks, or months, or even years—but Max Ornstein almost always made the locate. He had done it for me, a long time ago when I was green in the trade. He had opened up the way for me.
I could use his brain now, approaching the dead end.
“Now,” I said. “I need you now, Max.”
“Now? Now is today and today a painter is coming in here, Steve. He hopes to paint up this place so it should look respectable and maybe I can get some of the mink momsers from Rockville Centre to come in here once in a while they should sample my dinners. I can dream, can’t I?”
“I can’t use you dreaming,” I said.
“It can’t wait till, next week?”
“It can’t even wait until I see you,” I said. “You start when I hang up.”
“You’re a nudnik, Steve. I got a red-hot meat man coming later today. It’s a steak deal, for the Rockville Centre trade. This man I must see.”
“Then see him by all means,” I said. “But after you see him, will you come in?”
“Could I ever say no to you, you little character, you?”
“I’m getting you full pay plus expenses, Max. And there may be a bonus in it if we come through for my customer.”
“Sold,” he laughed. “Where do I start?”
“Light a cigar and listen. Did you read today’s paper? The murder of a man named Jan Flato? You start there, Max—with Cushing.”
“Cushing, for God’s sake? What am I asking him?”
“You’re playing it from left field,” I said. “This Flato was tied up in some way with the girl we want—with Mari Barstow. No, not Mary—Mari. She was laying around with him from time to time. You making notes? She lived at The Ridge Apartments, midtown on the East Side. Sure, I’ve been there. But I want a double check. Go to Cushing first. Make it a social visit. Then check The Ridge Apartments. Nose around there. When you finish, call my office. If I’m not there the telephone service will tell you where to reach me tonight. Reach me.”
“I’ll reach you.”
“See you later, you old bagel-hound.”
I hung up and walked into Helen Calabrese’s office. She was primping, readying herself for lunch.
I took her to lunch with me.
Silverton’s information on Mari Barstow was typed up like an official office document:
MEMO: to S. Conacher
FROM: Oliver Silverton
Mark: PERSONAL-CONFIDENTIAL
RE: MARI BARSTOW
My work as head of Public Relations involves me in all types of activity, both during office hours and afterwards. My experience in show business includes a stint as talent scout for Westerly Films and I often visit small clubs, shows and entertainments on the prowl for fresh and interesting faces. When Tony Granada opened in The Palms last year, I made it my business to visit him. Granada has the ability of gathering talented youngsters around him, and I wanted to be on hand for a first look at his people before other talent-grabbers might make an important find. Accordingly, I visited Tony the afternoon before he opened at The Palms. His vocalist was Mari Barstow and from the moment she began to sing I knew that she had a rare and wonderful talent, plus the provocative beauty of face and figure, to make the grade in television.
I invited her out to my place on Fire Island along with Tony Granada. But I also signed her to a tentative contract which secured her as a network property should I decide that she was good enough to promote. I had gone out on a limb because I felt that Mari must become an important new find. The breaks were with me because I had discovered her as she was about to make her first important step into big money. What I mean is, she was completely unencumbered, so green that she had no representation, no agent. She looked to Tony Granada for important advice. Tony, of course, advised her to sign with me since he knew that any step into a network deal must prove helpful to her. I was able to offer her five times the money Granada paid her, and since she had no contract with him the negotiations were fairly simple.
I arranged my Fire Island party so that I could avail myself of a reasonable check on my conclusions. Sometimes you can go off the deep end when estimating talent. Sometimes the personal point of view is affected by an emotional reaction that may be unimportant when assessing talent. What I mean is, Mari Barstow undoubtedly appealed to me on other levels. She was obviously one of the most beautiful young women I had ever seen. I hesitated to allow her physical appeal to influence me on a company level. For this reason I staged the Fire Island soiree very carefully. It is part of my business to think this way.
I invited several people whose opinions I valued to attend the Fire Island party; among these, Arthur Haddon, Jan Flato, and my secretary Helen Calabrese. All agreed that Mari Barstow would be a great star. I booked her at once for a guest spot
on the “Sunday Shindig” variety show. She was an immediate success. Tony Granada wanted her to finish her engagement with his band at The Palms and Mari consented. After that, I saw her occasionally in the office and at a party in Greenwich Village. She was being escorted that night by a man named Jeff Masterson, whose name I knew vaguely as an avant-garde writer.
Tony Granada and his band left for Chicago and Mari was busy making arrangements to furnish her new apartment. She stopped by for an occasional chat with me about the type of songs she intended to sing for the Flato show.
I saw her last two months ago, on a Friday afternoon. She seemed quite happy, perhaps a little drunk. She talked only of her apartment, feminine talk about furnishings and the like.
That was the last I saw of Mari.
Oliver Silverton
os/hc
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About the Author
Lawrence Lariar (1908–1981) was an American novelist, cartoonist and cartoon editor, known for his Best Cartoons of the Year series of cartoon collections. He wrote crime novels, sometimes using the pseudonyms Michael Stark, Adam Knight, and Marston la France.
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