Morris PI

by Dion Baia

THE WHALLEY ROOM

  Walter, escorting Tatum, climbed the long and elegant flight of stairs and entered Whalley’s ballroom off of Broadway. It was an enormous room and had a large stage at one end where a big band was playing mellow dance music. Atmospheric string and track lighting outlined the dance floor, the dining area, the stylish trim along the walls, casting the ballroom in a soft and radiant glow. Cigarette and cigar smoke added to the fantasy-like setting, rendering it magical. The far end of the ballroom had large windows that showcased a commanding view looking south over Times Square. They were fitted with navy blue velvet drapes on either side that could be drawn in case a more intimate setting was desired.

  Walt and Tatum checked their coats and Walter turned his hat in with the cloak room attendant. With her hand gripped firmly around his forearm, they strolled over to the maître d’ stand.

  Tatum smiled up at her date. “You sure know how to court a girl, Walt.”

  He smiled. “Luckily I have my good friends Mister Washington and Mister Lincoln backing me up.”

  “Mister Washington and Mister Lincoln?” Tatum looked puzzled

  One of the hosts approached Walter and they shook hands. Walt palmed him a five-spot and whispered, “Something nice, please, with a good view of the stage and the band. My boss here…,” Walter gestured to Tatum behind him, “…she likes to be able to see the fellas as they play.”

  “Well,” the smug gentleman looked down at his tip and back up, “I have the perfect table then, sir, for you and your boss.” He winked. They followed after him.

  Walt smiled “You know the greens, young Tatum….”

  Tatum laughed. “Ah yes, that Lincoln.”

  Couples danced, swaying the music, while others dined at the many tables and booths lining the rear, elevated sections encircling the center of the hall. Walt and Tatum were seated at a table next to the dance floor.

  Eyes wide, Tatum gazed around her at the high-end clientele socializing. “Look, it’s Robert Moses over there,” Tatum leaned in close and spoke softly so only Walter could hear her. “And there’s no guff about a white woman and black man sitting together in a club like this?”

  Walt looked around. “With any high-class place, if you can actually get in and look like you belong, they don’t care if you’re black. Or if you’re black and white and sitting together, or even if you’re a homosexual. With friends like Jackson, Grant, and Franklin, the world is your oyster.”

  “What a bunch of hypocritical…” She smirked. “You got to be pretty connected to know the Franklins—or the Grants, for that matter.”

  Walter grinned. “Yep.”

  His looked toward the stage where Laszlo was playing with the big band. The piano player had his back to the couple and performed a much more sedate and slow accompaniment, in stark contrast to what Walter had seen him do at The Creo Room.

  Walter scanned the many faces bopping up and down in the crowd.

  A waiter approached them. “Good evening, can I start you off with a drink tonight?”

  “Sure.” Walter smiled. “Dewar’s, on the rocks.”

  “A glass of champagne for me please, Moët perhaps?” Tatum asked softly.

  The waiter nodded and walked away.

  “This night is gonna cost, yeah.” Tatum winced. “I can tell already.”

  Walter removed the silverware from his napkin and placed the cloth across his lap. “Well,” he chuckled, “luckily, this falls under what we in the business like to call ‘expenses.’”

  Walt took notice of a large booth on the other side of the dance floor. Seated there were three sinewy gentlemen, who all looked rather out of place. The two at the ends didn’t give the impression that they belonged at such a toney establishment, even though their luxurious tuxedos said otherwise. Their faces displayed the wear and tear of life, as though they’d been paid to play the role of a punching bag at the local gym. In the center of the booth was a man in his late fifties, to whom the others listened intently.

  “Well, look what we got here,” Walter muttered.

  “What?”

  “Red booth, at the far end over by the bar, the fella in the middle of the two guys who look like they haven’t had a woman since the war broke out.”

  Tatum laughed and surreptitiously glanced around. “Who is it?”

  “That’s Rory Caven. He’s the top man running the Irish mob in Hell’s Kitchen. The Cavens are the only syndicate to give the Italians a run for their money. They have a reputation for being a little crazy. The guy next to him, I’m pretty sure that’s his right-hand man, Seamus O’Shaughney. They call him Fingernails, and it’s not because he likes to paint them.”

  Tatum pouted in confusion.

  “He likes to use bolt clippers for fun.” Tatum’s eyes widened. “Merciless, that guy,” Walt whispered.

  When the song ended, Laszlo stood and bowed along with the rest of the band. They walked offstage, passing a smaller group who had arrived to give them a break. The new band started with a slow waltz. Laszlo made his way offstage and shook the hands of a few admirers, then made his way over to Rory Caven’s table.

  The waiter put their drinks down on the table. Walt waited until he left then said to Tatum, “This could be getting interesting. Let’s check it out. Would you care to dance?”

  “I just got my drink….”

  Walt practically dragged her out of the booth. “I bet it’ll be a slow one.”

  They walked onto the dance floor together and drifted toward the other side, placing themselves as close as possible to the Caven table without being noticed.

  “Do you think they’re friends?” Tatum asked, with her back to the table so Walter could observe over her shoulder.

  “Don’t know.”

  Without getting up, they had all shaken Laszlo’s hand, only Rory making eye contact with him as he did so. Laszlo moved a nearby chair and sat down. He put his hand up to flag down the waiter.

  Walter and Tatum danced together smoothly. They moved in and around the other couples with ease, not making it obvious what they were up to. A mixed couple dancing on a Saturday night would always attract attention. At least in a high-end ballroom like Whalley’s where some of the biggest stars of stage, screen, and radio could be seen, Walt was betting they wouldn’t cause much more than the occasional double take. This was the only venue that it would be deemed appropriate because for all anyone else knew, he and Tate could be the latest couple from Gay Pareé or the newest hot pairing from Tinseltown. They could be the next Nick and Nora Charles in their own Republic serial. As long as they remained low-key, they could go unnoticed. Luckily, no one seemed to care.

  They moved a little closer and Walter got another vantage point of the table from over Tatum’s shoulder to try to “read” what was being said.

  Tatum saw the look of concentration on his face, his lips moving slightly, mouthing the conversation. “How did you learn that little trick of yours?” she asked, her eyes diverting to the bruise on his cheek.

  “Well, I was always very nosy growing up. I wanted to know what the girls were saying about me across the room.”

  “So that’s the line you feed to everyone who asks you then, yeah?” She was half kidding. Half not.

  Walter smiled and really looked at her for a moment. He had never been comfortable divulging personal information. But he liked Tatum, and more importantly, he knew her question was sincere.

  He looked up to the ceiling then back at his quarry across the floor. “Okay…growing up, my little brother was deaf and mute, so while my mom was out working in some hellfire factory all the way out in Brooklyn, killing herself to keep us fed, it was up to me to take care of him, to watch him.”

  Walter paused after saying that last part, absorbing his own words.

  He hadn’t spoken about his mother or his brother since the first conversatio
n he’d had with his future business partner, Jacob Roland the night Walt saved his life on the RMS Olympic. Then Hayden mentioned it the other evening. Walt didn’t like being pushed to speak about his brother.

  “Dad wasn’t around?” Tate queried.

  “Yes and no. He was around, but almost never home because of work. He was a Pullman porter and then a brakeman on the New York Central. So, he was always away, riding those iron horses all over Oshkosh B’gosh.” Images of his hardworking father came into his mind, but Walt shook them out.

  He held her tightly during a slower and more intimate dance number, “…I learned the best I could how to communicate with my brother in order to keep him safe from the bullies in the neighborhood. Sister Janice at Saint Stephens—when Sister Marilyn-Paul wasn’t beating us with the back of her yardstick—taught us sign language, which was a tremendous help. A breakthrough for me.” Tatum smiled warmly at Walt, who reciprocated. “I guess I just picked up reading lips like he did. Like riding a bike; you never forget. But it takes constant practice.”

  Tatum didn’t respond. Walt was too busy watching the events taking place over her shoulder. She gazed up at his face, lost in her own thoughts.

  “I like this,” she said quietly.

  “What,” said Walt, “coming on this job with me as my cover?”

  “I don’t mean that, I mean…,” Tatum flushed demurely.

  “What? Are the bubbles getting to you already?” Walter grinned and raised an eyebrow and smiled.

  She didn’t reply or look up, just continued to smile, her head resting on his shoulder. Walter watched as a waiter approached the booth and placed a drink in front of Laszlo, who lit a cigarette.

  The one in the middle was speaking, the boss, Rory Caven.

  “Fair play to ya, Laz. You certainly can carry a tune. I hear you give those jungle bunnies in Harlem a run for their money as well, eh?” He grinned.

  “’Course, why you’d even play up there with them is anyone’s guess,” Seamus added, trying to get a rise out of Laszlo, who ignored him.

  “I couldn’t say,” Laszlo said, ashing his cigarette. He brought the lit end up to his lips and shaped the cherry at the end into a little red glowing ball with his smooth blowing, giving more attention to the head of his smoke than the conversation he was in. “It’s great work if you can get it, my pale friend, and gives a guy like me a good cover.”

  “Let me ask you a question…they pay you in bananas or do you gotta take a cut out of the jungle pussy they throw at you?” Seamus had a huge grin on his face, again daring to poke the piano player.

  Laszlo turned his head sharply and his eyes narrowed when they found Seamus and his taunting smirk. “You know,” Laszlo said, turning back to Rory, “it’s not true what they say about the Irish. That the habitual drinking ruins your brains. Look how intuitive you can be when you just apply yourselves.”

  “What?” Seamus cut in with a fury, his smirk gone.

  “I just gave you a compliment, Mr. O’Shaughney. That being a drunkard you are still luckily able to form coherent sentences.”

  Seamus’s face turned red, and he reached into his coat, placing his hand on the gat under his arm.

  The smile dropped from Rory’s face. He put his hand out toward Seamus, a single finger pointing low against the top of the table, causing the hothead to immediately back off. Rory’s warm demeanor was now gone. “I’ve killed men for less than that, you fucking little bottom-feeder.”

  Laszlo winked at a female onlooker that passed by then lit another cigarette. He waved over another waiter who was waiting in the aisle. The young man hurried over and brought his tray to Laszlo. On it was a thin cardboard tube a little over a foot long. Laszlo carefully picked it up and in its place, put two folded bills on the tray. “Thank you, Jonathan.”

  The waiter smiled and walked away. Laszlo handed the tube over to Rory. Without looking at it, he passed it to Ernie, a heavyset, red-haired man seated immediately to his right. Ernie took his reading glasses from out of his pocket and put them on. He discreetly placed the tube low between himself and Seamus so prying eyes couldn’t see what they were doing.

  Walter swayed and shifted positions on the dance floor to avoid detection.

  Ernie opened the tube and very carefully pulled out and examined what looked to be mechanized schematics. The man checked them over, verifying their authenticity, then nodded to Rory.

  Laszlo smiled. “I told you I’d deliver. The blueprints to practically every Grisham Company vault across the fruited plain of this country. They’re like the Ford or Packard of the vault makers.”

  Ernie nodded. “They’re everywhere.”

  Rory wasn’t buying it. “You trying to impress us here, Laz? Your lot try to out-do Dillinger and throw in a touch of Howard Hughes for theatrical flair. Just so every single Joe Q. Public takes notice? I’m glad you’ve all figured out the angle on good public relations.”

  “I don’t follow,” Laszlo responded, his demeanor suggesting he was bored by this chitchat.

  “You think we’re stupid? That we don’t know how you got your hands on these? A simple bloody burglary would have sufficed, not the goddamn Normandy invasion.” Rory pointed a finger at the piano man. “You got your men parachuting off the tallest skyscraper in the world during a dim-out? You know the heat that’s on these schematics now? Why don’t you just pull a fucking Hindenburg and burn one of them zeppelins up there too, ’cause I don’t think you got enough attention. You want the ones overseas fighting the war to put down their guns and swastikas to take note?”

  “Fuckin’ hell,” Seamus piped in, “You were even able to push the goddamn New York Ripper off the front page.”

  Laszlo narrowed his eyes. “When the adults are talking, little boy, I suggest you keep your mouth shut and go back to polishing your tree trimmer or whatever the hell it is you like to use.”

  Rory had his hand on Seamus’s arm even before the latter had time to rise. The table moved as Seamus knocked against it, but he restrained himself at his boss’s behest. Rory looked over at Laszlo, who seemed unaffected. “What in the fuck is wrong with you? If you’ve got a death wish you should have stayed in Germany.”

  “Don’t lecture me about geopolitical shit. We’re all still in Europe. You got the blueprints you wanted, who cares how we got them?”

  “Because we don’t appreciate the attention. That kinda heat went outta style in the twenties, along with shooting it out with the cops in the streets for a bag of money with dollar signs on it. Now every copper and G-man in the country knows. They are all busy contacting the owners of Grisham vaults.”

  “That is not our concern.” Laszlo shrugged. “The people I do business with fulfilled their end of the bargain. We want payment.” There was silence at the table as the men sized each other up.

  Finally Rory relented and nodded to his friend who had the blueprints. Ernie reached under the table and pushed a briefcase over to Laszlo. He took it and placed it under his chair, between his legs.

  A couple whirled into Walter’s field of view, blocking his eyeline. The lady was dancing with a shorter partner and he had his back to Walter, his head on her shoulder. She opened her eyes and saw Walter was looking her way. She threw him a flirtatious, inviting smile, but Walt was looking beyond the lady, trying to keep up with what was happening at the table.

  “Damn it.”

  “What?” Tatum said with concern.

  “Hard to read them in this crowd. Too many people and distractions.”

  His line of sight cleared, and he moved Tatum a little closer so fewer people could pass through. In this low light he was happy that his eyes were still good, but it wasn’t enough. “I’m only kinda getting pieces.”

  Laszlo rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky you’re still even being considered for our next venture.”

  The Irish men all la
ughed. The slow song ended and a faster, more foot-pounding beat commenced.

  Seamus put both his elbows on the table and leaned in. “Considered for your next venture? Are you balmy?”

  Rory was having a hard time through his laughter figuring out if Laszlo was serious. “What, are you serious? This is on the level?”

  “Serious as a heart attack, Mister Caven. And we’d like to cut you and your leprechauns in, fifty/fifty.”

  Rory grinned. “Oh really? Who else do you think you’re gonna get? You think the wops or Jews are gonna drop everything and help you and your—” Rory made air quotes, “—mysterious friends in the shadows and won’t even take a meeting? You may not have noticed while you’ve been living it up in your windowless bars and juke joints, but there’s a war on. It’s not a freelancer’s market. Especially dealing with partners you don’t even get to meet. Having to go through a slimy piano player. Very dodgy times, mate.”

  “It ensures security and anonymity for my employers. Something that working with you seems to be hard to keep in check.” Laszlo’s spoke in a monotone.

  “This coming from the guy whose crew kills two workers and jumps off a ledge?! Hell, the air wardens thought we were being invaded! We should really cut ties with you, permanently.”

  Seamus interjected. “You’re about two seconds away from being dismembered in a bathtub and sold to feed them off the boat down in Chinatown.”

  Laszlo smirked. “Mister Caven, must every road lead back to impotent intimidation? I have been instructed to make you privy to a plan that would make the Empire State job look like mere chump change. You see—”

  A visibly drunk couple accidentally bumped into Walter and Tatum, momentarily distracting Walt.

  “Sorry, fella,” the man said. “She’s a wild one.” They stumbled on, dancing and laughing.

  Walter looked back at the table of men and tried to pick up on what he’d missed. Laszlo was mid-sentence.

  “—these are my employer’s wishes.”

  Rory leaned back, lit a cigar, and narrowed his eyes at Laszlo. “Tell me more about this scheme, and I’ll tell you if we go forward on the little problem of yours that we currently got on ice.”