Violence in Velvet

by Michael Avallone

  Benny plodded over with my martini and a smile, and the two dames, both blonde, had suddenly become aware of my presence and gender and had begun to act accordingly. I felt sorry for them. Bluenose me. I can’t stand a loaded dame. Especially one that acts self-conscious about it. Their voices, which had been loud, suddenly fell to whispers, and they busied themselves with comb and lipstick repairs. I couldn’t blame them though. I was the only other person in the bar, and they had both been probably crying in their beer until I came.

  “Good to see you, Ed,” Benny rumbled tiredly out of his comfortably padded fat. “These two quiff been wearin’ me out with their cryin’ jag. What’s new?”

  “It’s all old, Benny. I’m in business again though.”

  “I hope you’re savin’ your money, kid.” Benny sighed. He’s one guy that wants me to retire from my chosen profession. Because he’s one of the few people that really likes me. “What’s it this time?”

  I sipped my martini, letting some of the gin take hold.

  “Upper crust stuff. This actor Guy Prentice. His wife was shot dead this afternoon and somebody took a potshot at him tonight while he was singing on stage. Now, I’m his bodyguard.”

  His eyes got round. “Good deal. Some dough in it, I hope.”

  “Five hundred green men. I can use it too. My rent is due this week.”

  One of the blondes tipsily asked for another drink. I grinned at Benny. “Tell them I’m waiting for my wife. Otherwise I’d be glad to join them. I don’t want to insult your star customers.”

  He moved away with a throaty chuckle. I got busy thinking again. I was tired now too. I dug into my pocket, found some coins and went over and fed the jukebox. I’m one savage beast that music really soothes. I had to laugh though. Benny changes his record selection about once every four years. Just as well though. Most of them were good solid numbers instead of the novelty junk that is currently the rage.

  Time lagged, records changed and the blondes went back to their former loud harangue and Benny let me be. He had started to check his cash register. I kicked around some ideas about the Prentices, Lucille, Helen Tucker and Wally Wilder but I couldn’t come up with anything. I must admit I thought mostly about the Tucker dame. It always gets me when I’m attracted to a gal that’s really out of my league. Especially when she’s got class and breeding and is real high horse. I really have no use for high horse people. Because nobody has the right to be like that about anything. I idly wondered if she could fire a .45 from a moving high horse. Then I caught myself. Knowing the martinis were catching up with me.

  The martini is a before-dinner drink, a cocktail, but somehow I just drink them when I feel like having them. Well, I was having them now and somewhere I had lost count.

  It must have been an hour or more later when Benny came over and joined me. I looked up from my glass. The jukebox had gone silent, the blondes were still arguing about something and my glass was empty.

  “One for the road, Ed.” He winked and gave me a refill.

  The gin swished silently in the glass.

  “What day is today?” I asked.

  “Thursday. The Seventh.”

  I groaned. “Police Headquarters. Ten o’clock. Brrr.” I had a bad taste in my mouth.

  I fumbled for some coins. Then I stopped. Past Benny’s mountainously round shoulders, I could see somebody coming into the bar. I sat up straight.

  Wally Wilder looked twice as big and twice as awesome now that I was a little the worse for wear. The sight of him sobered me up faster than a toss into the East River.

  “Say, Ed,” Benny was saying. “That little girl that come in here lookin’ for you. This new job have somethin’ to do with that kid?”

  Wally Wilder had seen me. His square-jawed All-American-Boy face didn’t relax about it either. A grim smile lit up his eyes and he moved closer. I got up off the stool slowly. Nobody was going to hit me when I was sitting down.

  “Later, Benny. Not now. I got company. Enter Walter Wilder, the Third Robber.”

  He came to a full halt in front of me. His big hands came out of his coat pockets. He wasn’t wearing a hat. Clean-cut All-American boys never do. Their full, wavy heads of hair like to swirl cleanly, honestly in the fresh night air. I was drunk.

  “Hello, funny man. Can we talk now?” His voice was as friendly as a Beware-of-the-Dog sign.

  “Carrying the white scarf for Helen Tucker into the field of honor, Mr. Wilder?” I couldn’t help needling him. “Wally, why don’t you grow up? She’s not the girl you think she is. She never will be either.”

  He bit his lip and waited. The two blondes flung me a contemptuous look now that my “wife” had shown up. They made a great show of paying their bill, struggling off their stools and staggering out indignantly. One of them muttered something undignified out of a lipstick-smeared mouth before they left.

  Wally Wilder got back to me.

  “Helen told me how you insulted her today. And you’re going to apologize and forget about that check in the morning. We don’t want you in this, you money-hungry bastard—”

  He got one huge step nearer.

  “What happened to your bodyguarding chore, Wally? Leaving your post in the face of the enemy. Tsk, tsk.”

  He took another step.

  “The cops are on duty and Guy told me to get some sleep. But I had to see you first, hotshot. We’ve got some things to settle.”

  I shook my woozy head.

  “For the author of a pretty fair show, you’ve got the I.Q. and instincts of a kid. And a not very smart one either. Can’t you see what a chump she’s making of you? Do I have to remind you that you’re mixing yourself up in a murder case? Forget all this school tie and chivalry junk. You’ve lost the lady’s fair hand anyway. Why make it harder on yourself?”

  “You don’t have to remind me of anything, you sonofabitch,” he rasped. His face mottled like chemicals in a test tube and his hands reached out and grabbed my collar and twisted. “You talked big in front of Lucille. Now, you’ve got this coming, pal. It’s long overdue—”

  “Sure it is,” I agreed mildly enough, but I could feel the blood inside of me start to churn crazily. I let him have the rest of my martini right in bis big, fool face. The gin stung, smarted his eyes. He fell back pawing at his face. He shook the excess away, roared in anger and then stared at me for one, full, heart-stopping second. He looked as big and as wide as the whole state of Texas.

  I put the glass down and moved away from the bar. I motioned Benny off who was just coming to the rescue with a bung starter.

  “Okay, Wilder,” I said, feeling every bit a Wild Bill Hickok now. “Come and get me. And it’s only fair to tell you in advance—it won’t be easy.”

  He laughed, go-to-hell style and came roaring back, in a rush. I felt like one of the goal posts on a football field.

  He got the first punch in. And it was a lulu. I was just testing him with a teasing left hand, looking for an opening, when he saw one first. I hardly saw it coming. Quick like lightning, his meaty fist pounded past my guard and roared into my jaw.

  I went backwards a helluva lot faster than I moved forward. A chair went with me as I slammed up against the rear wall of Benny’s bar. I hung there vibrating like a tambourine, the effect of the martinis and Wally Wilder’s right cross doing their damnedest to drop me. But I can take it. I’ve been around. And I had had my chin buried down into my chest like it was supposed to be.

  My head cleared and I braced myself for his follow-through. But I got the most pleasant surprise of the year. Bar none.

  There he was, still standing, like the champ in a neutral corner, dancing around like a wonderful sportsman à la Marquis of Queensberry. I nearly laughed as I got back into the ring. I had him now. College medals, good clean living and a real square Joe. He’d never fought with anything but his hands in his life.

  Well, I was from a different school—a jungle. And I was giving away about sixty-five pounds as it was. Maybe
I’m just alibi-ing, but he was much too big for me in the first place. Even David had to use a slingshot.

  I used the chair.

  FOURTEEN

  I swept it up as I went past it and shot it at him along the floor. He wasn’t expecting it at all. His surprised face told me he thought I wasn’t that kind of a guy. The kind that fights with furniture. Well, I had news for him. I was going to use every chair and table in the joint.

  He stepped aside to let the chair sail by and collided with the jukebox. I rushed him before he could get his hands up. I tattooed him two times with a left and a right to the head. He staggered a little but not much. I jumped back as he recovered just a mite disappointed with my Sunday punches.

  He charged me this time but still in the best boxing tradition. I boxed with him but two or three near misses convinced me I wasn’t in his class at all. A big sappy grin spread across his face as he realized I wasn’t in his class. After all, I’m a six-footer myself and he might have had his doubts. He came in flailing away. His left hand was as murderous as his right. It raked my middle cross-handed and my ribs almost left home.

  I hurdled a table, got behind it and advanced on him like a juggernaut. He got out of the way and cursed.

  “Damn you, Noon—” he roared hoarsely. “Drop that and put up your hands like a man—”

  For answer, I upended the thing at him, scrambled around it and closed in, leading off with a haymaker. I took a chance and brought it all the way around. It thudded off the side of his jaw, slammed him up against the bar.

  He rocked and weaved but refused to go down. I really started to get worried. The guy seemed to be put together with steel rivets. He just wouldn’t come undone.

  He bobbed his big mitts and eyed me warily like an animal trainer with a pesky tiger. I didn’t feel too good about anything any more. My head was still on fire and my ribs felt like so many razor blades. My arms were starting to get heavy. And what was worse, Wally Wilder still looked pretty much in the pink.

  There was only one last card in the deck. I had to try it. Otherwise, I’d need the Marines or Benny and his bung starter. Benny still wanted to mix in but I had kept waving him out of it.

  Wally Wilder moved in for the kill and I let him get real close. Then I surprised the hell out of him. I flipped onto the broad back of the bar and flipped right back at him. Feet first. I was crazy about parallel bars in the school gym. Pushups and all that body-building junk.

  Wilder had been expecting more tricks but nothing like that. My size-nine soles catapulted against his high chest and I went with them right into him. The air rushed out of his lungs and we went down together with me on top. He rolled away from me easily and lurched to his feet. But I was up alongside of him, waiting, fist cocked.

  I brought my fist up from the floor and spun on my outside heel like Ted Williams taking his full cut at the ball. I followed through.

  My knuckles cracked into the base of his chin, lifted it and nearly turned his head off his shoulders. That did it. There was a sickening crunch of noise. He fell as if a horse had kicked him, spreading arms outstretched across the floor in a horizontal crucifixion.

  I went down on one knee in sheer exhaustion. I shook my head for what seemed like a year. Then I straightened out, staggered to a chair and crash landed into it. I shut my eyes. Shut them tight. The blood rushing around in my head was making one hell of a racket.

  When I opened them again, Benny was standing over me, wiping my face down with what looked like his bar rag. He thrust a glass of cold water at me. I washed it down gratefully.

  I looked around. Wally Wilder was still on the floor, looking like he’d been massacred.

  “How is he, Benny?” My voice sounded like Rice Krispies. Snap, crackle and pop.

  Benny was dumbfounded.

  “He’s still breathin’, if that’s what you mean. I thought that last one killed him. All I could see was a manslaughter rap—”

  “Glass jaw, Benny,” I said. The water felt good. “He’s as big as Christmas but he’s got a glass jaw. I was counting on that.”

  Benny was looking around, worried. The bar was empty. But I knew what was bothering him.

  “Geez, Ed. Help me get him to one of the booths. The beat cop might come by and ask a lotta questions—”

  I nodded and got to my feet again feeling like the oldest young man alive. Wally Wilder was dead weight at our finger tips, but between the two of us we got him over to a rear booth and propped him upright. I held him from falling on his face while Benny dug up some smelling salts from his musty little back room.

  We got Wally Wilder back to normal in about fifteen minutes. He was a young, healthy animal anyway. He coughed and spluttered when the bite of the salts tickled its way into his breathing apparatus. Then his head lolled back against the padded wall of the booth and his eyes opened wide. I had to laugh. He had beautiful baby-blue eyes. It was the first chance I’d had for a good look at him. He had a strong, sun-browned puss and a high forehead neatly capped by a well-thatched mass of wavy blonde hair. His teeth were pretty good too. All in all, throwing his Atlas proportions in, he would have been a dandy ad for one of those health magazines.

  He rumbled angrily in his bronzed throat when he saw me staring at him only a table distance away. But Benny, with the native wisdom of good bartenders had hurried up two drinks for us. Wilder grabbed his without waiting for a toast in any language and got it down fast. He moaned as the effort reminded him of his bruised jawbones.

  “Look, Wally,” I said quietly. “Before you decide to take up where we left off, hear me out. I got a .45 trained on you under this table. Don’t make me use it. I want to talk. Oh, how I just want to talk.”

  He cursed. “Put the damn thing away. I’ve had enough of you and your furniture.” He didn’t even bother to look under the table. I brought out my cigarettes and held the pack out to him. Grunting, he took one. I lit it for him. “Nice trick at the bar though. That was a good one. Though it’s not exactly by the book.”

  “The guys that wrote the book never did much fighting, Wally. But you—you know how to box. I couldn’t stay with you. So you write hit plays, box like a pro and live the full life. What else can you do?”

  He knew what I meant. Because he suddenly looked sheepish. Not offended by my patter at all. The way people usually are.

  “I fall in love with a ritzy, first-class female that can’t see me for apples. That’s what I do.” He stared at me suddenly. “Tell me something, Noon. You’ve been around. Why does a girl like Helen go for a smoothie like Guy? Not that he isn’t a swell egg and all that, but he’s not right for her. He’s—”

  “How about another drink?”

  He nodded as if there wasn’t anything else for him to do. I thumbed Benny for two more. Funny thing. But when two guys who really have no good reason to brawl tangle hot and heavy, they chin like lodge brothers when all the shouting and mauling dies down. I sensed that right now.

  Wally Wilder did too. He grinned suddenly.

  “Bet you think I’m a big jackass.”

  “Not necessarily. I go for Tucker too. I could go very large. But like you said, I’ve been around. So I know what the score is. I know she’s not my cup of tea. She’d want to change me around, pick out my ties, tell me what books to read. A guy like me could never be happy under those conditions.” I looked at him evenly. “A guy like you couldn’t either. That’s why you’re so miserable now. And jumping like a puppy when she snaps her fingers.”

  His big face flushed. “I’ve got that coming, I guess. But the torch is burning out my insides. Look, you’ve said it right. I was punching your nose for her sake. Okay. But what’s all this about anyway? Paula being brutally murdered like that. And tonight, Guy—”

  “I don’t know, Author. But you’ve just met a Critic.”

  His grin was puzzled but amused. “I don’t get you.”

  “I saw that bullet hole in Guy Prentice’s leg. It was practically a fleabite ev
en if he did lose considerable blood. I’d say it was done with nothing bigger than a .22 or a .25.”

  “You’re still way ahead of me, Noon.”

  I toyed with my drink. “I wouldn’t count on killing anybody with popguns of that calibre. Especially if I was sitting in the audience or firing from the wings or the balcony across a wide stage. You know, Guy Prentice getting shot like that sort of takes the curse off him as far as the cops are concerned. Now wouldn’t Guy be one clever murderer to have a crony pop him with a dinky .22 just to throw the cops off?”

  “Or a .25.” I saw all of his teeth in a wide grin. “You really do a little detecting, don’t you?”

  “I have to if I want to stay alive. Tell me something about Paula Prentice.”

  He shrugged. “Not much to tell. Guy married her on the rebound after the death of Marion Prentice, Lu’s mother. What do you think of the kid? Smart as hell. Paula wasn’t too much. Just a pretty, healthy animal that Guy thought he needed. Then Helen came along and—well, everybody fell in love with her. Including me. You know, she can be plenty regular. When she climbs down off her high horse.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I agreed, wanting to help him feel better. “How did Paula take the idea of losing Guy?”

  “She didn’t. They had some stormy sessions, I can tell you. Lucille began to suffer for it. Guy didn’t have time for her any more, what with the bad marriage and Helen and all. Finally, Paula started looking around. And then Stanley Breen came into the picture.”

  I looked at him. “You mentioned him in the dressing room. I thought then you had more to say but you didn’t.”

  He shrugged. “I’m the only one that knows. Paula and Breen have been holding hands almost since Guy and she went pfft. But this is just between us, Noon. Maybe you can work on him.”

  “Some understudy, Mr. Breen.” I said. “He even understudies Guy as a husband.”

  “Lovely world, isn’t it?” was all Wally Wilder had to say.