The Corpse in the Cabana

by Lawrence Lariar

  “Money,” he said again. “You know Gloria very well? Ah, this is a girl who loves money. I know her very good.”

  “How good?”

  “Sweet. This is a girl for me, you understand? How can I tell you? You meet them all the time coming up between numbers. They look at you, they make the eyes, they ask for a special number. All of these I know pretty good, the quick ones, the easy lays, the girls who hang around the smart Jazz spots. But Gloria? This is different, from the start this is a special kind. Americans, maybe they can’t understand us. Americans, they go a different way, boxes of candy in the beginning, meet the Momma, the Poppa, everything formal, everything by the book. You think I could act this way? A girl like Gloria, she is the big thing, all of a sudden, quick, all the way. Listen. When this happens, it is like two and two makes four. How else can I tell you?” He lifted his head and gave me a sick-eyed stare. “You come from New York, Chicago? Maybe Cleveland?”

  “Brooklyn,” I said.

  “Of course, of course. In Cuba, it is different. When the right woman comes along, we go for the girl, all the way. Like I go for Gloria. And now, where am I? Because Gloria is maybe from Chicago, or New York, she must think that way. You follow me?”

  “I’m ahead of you, Ziggi. You think she slipped you a Mickey because of Orlik’s dough?”

  “What else? What else can she find with Orlik, I ask you? Only money! This makes me see red, understand? To a Cuban some things are bigger than the lousy money. Love is bigger. Corny? But to us, it is the best, the most important thing.” He wrung his hands and muttered a silent prayer to the clouds, his eyes pinched tight, his lean face muscle-bound with emotion. “Next time, next time I see that Orlik pig, maybe I get a better crack at him.”

  “Why blame Orlik? Gloria’s a big girl, Ziggi. If she walked out on you, she did it under her own steam. And you’ve got a few bucks yourself, haven’t you?”

  “Bucks?” he moaned. “Not like Orlik, my foolish friend.”

  “Forget Orlik. She didn’t make the switch for him.”

  “For who, then?” Suddenly the mask of sorrow cracked. Quick, fresh hate flared. He was on his feet, making a grab for me. “Who else?”

  “I don’t know. Not yet. But I’ll keep you informed, Ziggi.”

  One of the band men stuck his nose out, sniffed the strange fresh air, and informed Ziggi that the break was over. The Cuban waved him away, still foggy with liquor, but struggling to right himself. When he stepped back into the hall, his gait was normal, swinging free and easy in the shoulders, as graceful as a cat in an alley.

  CHAPTER 8

  11:06 P.M.

  Pazow and the girl singer stood in the corridor. She was a very young girl, the fresh Irish type, afflicted with a fresh Irish attack of pre-performance jitters. Pazow held a glass of brandy to her lips. She sipped, sighed, shivered and shook. He mumbled the usual words of encouragement, gently pressuring her into forgetting her fright, cajoling her with promises of the future. And managing to run an exploratory hand along the slim edge of her attractive torso. She shrugged away from him after a while, swallowed hard, gritted her pearly teeth and allowed him to lead her to the stage door, where Ziggi had already segued into the slow beat of her intro.

  Pazow went up there, behind her, to watch her go to work.

  When I heard her hit the first note of “Night and Day,” I slipped back to the end of the corridor and Ziggi’s dressing room.

  Ziggi’s nest was the twin of Gloria’s, on the far side of the building, separated from her place by the intervening main dressing room where the blondes hung out. The door knob moved easily under pressure. The door was open, a fact that challenged me. It didn’t fit my mental picture of the Cuban. He was known for his personal habits, a little man with a big yen for privacy, for consistent isolation when on a job. In the music business, he was considered one of the moody types, an oddball genius who always wanted to be alone. And now? His open-door policy mystified me.

  Until I walked inside and saw Jean Russicoff bend over Ziggi’s desk.

  “We meet again,” I said.

  Her answer was something out of the shock and shudder school of madness. She stepped back, knocking her tray off the desk. It fell to the floor with a high and musical clang, a loud smack of metallic noise, as disturbing as an upset garbage can on Sunday morning. She held her throat, gasped, no words ready on her pretty lips.

  “You found it?” I asked.

  “Found what?”

  “The thing you came in here for, Jean.”

  “Oh, no, no. I thought he might want a drink, you see.” She was improvising quickly, the fright no longer ruling her. “Ziggi loves to have a couple of drinks between numbers. Thought I’d come back here and check him.”

  “Sure you did,” I said. “And why didn’t you bring him a drink?”

  “I didn’t know what he’d like.”

  “After serving him for over a week?”

  “He changes,” she said lamely. “Ziggi is quite erratic in his drinking habits, one day Vodka, the next day Scotch.”

  “A thoughtful thrush might have brought him both.”

  “Well,” she sighed, running her hands over her hips in a girlish gesture, straightening the seams of her cute uniform. “Guess I’d better get back to my tables.” She picked up her tray and approached the door, waiting for me to let her by. I stood my ground. “I’ll be late,” she said with a touch of impatience. “Please.”

  “Maybe I’d better tell Pazow you were here?”

  “Why? Why would you do that?”

  “Get you a raise. Shows thoughtfulness, real service on your part, Jean.”

  “I don’t want a raise,” she said. “Why don’t you just forget you ever saw me here?”

  “I don’t forget easy. Things like this keep me awake nights. Why don’t you level with me? Tell me the real reason you came back here?”

  “Please,” she tried for dignity, for shocked virtue. It was pretty bad. She was no Mari Beranville. “I know what you’re thinking. But you’re wrong. I didn’t come here to snoop,” she insisted. “And now, if you’ll let me out, I’ll thank you.”

  “You didn’t want to see Ziggi’?” I asked. “To talk to him?”

  “Only to let him order a drink.”

  “And you didn’t see his fight with Orlik? You didn’t see me drag him off the floor?”

  “Fight? What fight?”

  Somewhere, back in the earlier moments of our dialogue, I had lost the chance to pin her down. Right now she was aware of her victory. She would continue to press her advantage, sure of herself because of the logic of her alibi. I stepped aside.

  “You win,” I said. “The first round, baby.”

  “Oh? It’s a contest?”

  “Better than that,” I told her eyes. “It could be a life and death affair.”

  She walked down the hall nimbly, hurrying to return to her tables. I closed the door on her and explored Ziggi’s room, dousing the lights so that nobody could see me from the little terrace.

  I groped and fumbled in his luggage, running my fingers through the leather goods. Ziggi preferred the elegant type of valise, the big-pocketed suitcases built to hold a thousand odds and ends. There was a tremendous suit and shirt carrier, equipped to handle several changes for him while on a job. I avoided these and ran hands through the sports items in the rear of the hanger compartment. My fingers paused at a lump in a sports jacket. My fingers had found a sheaf of papers, not many, but enough to smell like important papers, important bills, or an important manuscript.

  There was a feeble glow from the terrace lights at the window. Enough for me to begin reading the manuscript:

  THE NEW GLADES CLUB—SEX AT THE SURF!

  Just forty-five minutes from the heart of Manhattan, close to the whispering waves of the Atlantic, lies the latest brain-chi
ld of Roger Pazow, called The Glades. The cocky millionaire merchant prince has advertised this latest enterprise as “A Family Club for New York Folks,” and hopes to attract the upper-class groups from Manhattan, Long Island and points west.

  Or is Pazow interested in other types of customers and only using the slogan as a blind?

  Our scouts report some pretty strange goings-on at The Glades, even before opening night.

  Let’s start with Roger Pazow himself. He has always had a yen for certain types of womanhood, especially girls who volunteer to sample his new bedroom equipment in the lush cabana he calls his “office.” Rumor has it that several of his attractive waitresses do double duty for Roger by functioning in his bedroom as well as his restaurant.

  This routine seems to please Chuck Bond, too. Chuck is the young comic who hopes same day to replace Bob Hope, Jack Benny and Red Skelton. Perhaps the lad has made a mistake in signing to do Pazow’s summer shows. Perhaps Chuck spends too much time chasing girls and too little finding gag material?

  The background of both of these gentlemen suggests a reason for the hi-jinks at The Glades.

  Let’s begin with Pazow:

  I was about to flip the first page when the axe fell. Somebody had slid into Ziggi’s room, somebody with a sly step and strong arms. The hammer blow struck against my right ear. I was hit and hit bad, too far gone to turn and fight, too far gone for anything but the floor. It came up to meet me, hard and flat. The room faded for me, and the world slipped and skidded away, my mind lost in the black box into which I was falling, falling, failing …

  CHAPTER 9

  12:35 A.M.

  Rain from the open window woke me. It dripped off the venetian blinds and down to my face, a gentle splatter, not cold but wet enough to douse me well, to bring me out of the black pit.

  There was a hammering behind my ear, the dull beat of pain that comes after attempted mayhem, the throbbing of impossible pulses. I felt my head. There was no blood from the lump. My arms were as strong as reeds when I tried to lift myself to the window. After a bucket of sweat I made it and the wind slapped my face in great gusts, a tonic that made the sap flow in my bones again.

  12:38!

  My watch told me I had been out only a little while. Through the window, swept my way by the skittering breeze, the high and twittering notes of the Irish thrush rode the wind. The show would be over soon. They would be heading back here to their dressing rooms, all of them. It would be best to crawl out of here now.

  And then I was almost butting one of them in the hall.

  “What the hell?” he asked himself. “What happened, Steve?”

  “A peachy question,” I said, angry with him because he was Chuck Bond, shrugging him off because he could do me no good. “The show over?” I asked.

  “Not yet. They like the girl singer. She’ll be up there for a little bit yet. Then I go back to close it.”

  “The hall,” I said. “Did you see anybody walking through a few minutes ago?”

  “Orlik.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I was at the door,” Chuck said. “How could I miss? He came out in a hurry.”

  “And Ziggi?”

  “You’re sick, Steve. Ziggi’s up with his band, naturally.”

  “My aching head,” I said. “Maybe I need more air.”

  “You look green.”

  “And you look dead,” I said. His face had lost all life since early evening. It could have been the tension before his audience that sucked him dry. Or was it the deeper, more annoying worry about Gloria? His eyes stared at me hopelessly and there was a funny new tic up near his cheek, a muscle he couldn’t control. “What’s happened?” I asked. “You couldn’t get that shade of magenta from performing?”

  “Nothing, Steve.”

  “And nothing brought you back here?”

  “Just thinking,” he said glumly. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

  “When does the show end?”

  “Another half hour, maybe.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’m going back to town,” he said. “I couldn’t stand another second out here after I’m finished.”

  “And stay in your apartment—for the rest of the night, Chuck.”

  “I’ve got no place to go.” He walked me back to the tiny terrace, behind the dressing rooms, obviously worried about me. The rain was gone, the sick moon back again among the fogged clouds. “Why don’t you just squat for a while, Steve?”

  “Forget it,” I told him. “I’ll be all right.”

  But it took time to regain my love of life. The wind was colder on the beach. It was a real effort to walk, to remain upright in the sand. All these things worked my muscles until I returned to earth, felt the beach under my feet, tasted the salt in the air. The storm had brought whitecaps, great surging piles of water, hissing and rolling up the shore. Far to the east, the lights of East Beach township flickered against the sky. I leaned my head into the wind and began a quiet walk along the edge of the sand. In the pale glow of the moon, the ridge of the water came alive with a strange white aura. Even the sand seemed rich with color, an eerie gray-brown hue. I began to see shells around me, seaweed, flotsam from the cracking waves.

  And then I saw something else.

  It was a black rubber flipper, part of a skin-diver’s foot equipment.

  CHAPTER 10

  12:57 A.M.

  Linda Purcell started after me from the bar. She was responding to my wink and gesture, still high and happy among the group of admiring males. The show was over. There were people on their way out, friends she owed a handshake and a kind word. They stalled her near the main lobby, holding her with them for a final wise crack, a last drunken laugh. But her eyes were on me as she suffered the delays. She was trying hard to play it my way.

  “You want me, sneaky man?” she laughed, fingering my lapel in the shadow of her cabana door. “Pazow won’t like you for this. I should be back there, speeding the departing guests.”

  “Pazow can wait. His show was a big hit—even without Gloria.”

  “You asked the critics?”

  “I could read it in their soupy faces. Pazow loaded them with enough liquor to make them headline his show. You going to ask me in?”

  “I didn’t think you cared.”

  “Open up. I care.”

  She opened the door and let me in. When I showed her the skin-diving flipper she reacted with the emotion of a clam. She handled it, examined it and shrugged it off.

  “Question?” she said.

  “Who’s is it?”

  “That’s like asking a woman to identify an earring. This flipper is standard equipment for anybody who dives. Pazow has dozens of them here, waiting for customers who want to borrow them.”

  “All of them black?”

  “All of them.”

  “Which girls dive?”

  She named them. Most of the waitresses were addicts, including Jean Russicoff. Jean led the kitchen brigade, a veteran from a college swimming squad where she had learned the fundamentals from an expert. Jean was instructing her sister waitresses in the art. She held classes every morning, off the jetty. Mari Beranville, too, was an enthusiast, and also Gloria.

  “Gloria?” I asked. “Rumor? Or did you see her at it?”

  “Of course I saw Gloria at it. And she wasn’t bad at all. You see, I’m qualified to judge, because I consider myself quite a fish. Did I ever show you my pectoral fins?”

  “It can wait, Linda. Tell me more. The men?”

  “All of them,” she said thoughtfully. “I’d say Ziggi is the best, but my boss isn’t too bad in the water, either. And Chuck Bond likes the sport, too. He’ll be really good one of these days.” She crossed the room for a drink, but I stepped in to block her way to the bar. She surveyed me coldly. “Boy
Scout stuff?” she asked. “You counting my drinks now?”

  “I need you sober. You know the cast,” I said. “You handled the details on Pazow’s opening, didn’t you?”

  “Everything, including the kitchen help.”

  “You and I are going visiting, Linda.”

  “Now?” she pouted. “What will you feed me? Benzedrine? Marijuana? How do I manage to keep my eyes open?”

  “Coffee, later.”

  “And what do I tell Pazow? He won’t like it if I walk out, even now, even after the party’s over. My instructions were to hang around until he told me to leave.”

  “To hell with Pazow. You can blame it on me.”

  We detoured away from the almost empty lobby, taking the long way around to the parking lot.

  CHAPTER 11

  1:46 A.M.

  Max Orlik lived on the money side of Washington Square in Greenwich Village. His dump was one of the ancient mansions in the area. He had hired one of the avant garde architects to refinish the front, converting the ancient facade into a simple surface of brick and windows. On the ground floor a stone porch led to the main door, a simple slab of color under the glow of the street lamp—bright red against the gray of the bricks. Up on the second floor a giant picture window ran the full width of the house. Behind the drapes a dull light shone. But down on the street it all looked dead and dismal from where we sat in the human.

  “He’s certainly in,” Linda whispered “You joining him? Or do we sit here all night?”

  “Patience and fortitude,” I told her. My eye was on the car parked ahead of us. The license plate was already engraved in my memory, a habit I had learned a long time ago when I earned all my money as a skip-trace expect. It always paid off to memorize the little things. When we rounded the corner, a few minutes ago, a man had stepped out of that car and walked up the steps of Orlik’s house and disappeared inside. He had obviously been waiting for Orlik to return from the beach club. He had marched to the door with a deliberation that challenged me, a way of walking that rang a bell in my head. “Our friend Orlik has a visitor.”