Frances’s eyes narrowed. “Viv, this is Arnie Wolfowitz. He’s my agent.”
Agent? Since when did Frances have an agent? Vivian shook the man’s hand.
“Arnie knows David O. Selznick and is getting me an audition for Scarlett O’Hara,” she said, leaning toward Vivian, her eyes wide with genuine excitement.
Vivian held back a smile. “Well, isn’t that interesting,” she said. “Because I read that it’s already down to Vivien Leigh and Paulette Goddard. They’ve done screen tests and everything.”
“Simple gossip,” Arnie answered, darting an anxious glance at Frances. But Frances was paying him no mind. She glared at Vivian for a moment longer, then smiled tightly.
“Where’s Graham tonight?” she asked, her eyes lingering on Charlie.
“He’s working on The Pimpernel, Frances. You know that as well as I do.”
Frances’s smile didn’t falter. “While the cat’s away…” she said in a singsong voice.
Arnie suddenly thrust his hand out to Charlie. “Arnie Wolfowitz.”
Charlie shook it grudgingly. “Charlie Haverman.”
“Say, Charlie Haverman?” Arnie rolled the name around in his mouth as he thought, then pointed a stubby finger at the detective. “You’re that private detective that was consulting for The Darkness Knows, aren’t you? I read about you in the papers.” He peered more closely at Vivian. “I read about both of you in the papers.”
Charlie glanced at Vivian with suspicion. She shrugged. The man didn’t wait for Charlie’s confirmation. He looked from Charlie to Vivian and back to Charlie. Then his eyes narrowed in calculation. “You have a real Nick and Nora Charles thing going here, don’t you? Rich society dame and a private eye? You know, that’s a popular idea right about now. I could do something with that…”
Vivian felt Charlie’s arm tense under her hand at the backhanded compliment. Nick and Nora Charles were the main characters of the popular series of Thin Man books and the even more popular movie series of the same name. Nick, a somewhat washed-up, mildly alcoholic detective was wholly supported by his rich society wife while they stumbled onto crimes and solved them by happenstance. Vivian supposed the dynamics of the couple did bear some resemblance to Charlie and her on the surface, and she was positive that it wasn’t meant as a jibe. But she also knew that the comparison to gadabout Nick Charles had Charlie’s ire up. Vivian squeezed his arm in warning to check his temper.
The man focused his attention on Charlie. “Ever think of taking up acting?”
Vivian watched Frances’s smile disappear as she tugged on the fat’s man sleeve. “Sorry to dash, but we’re off to the Aragon for some dancing,” Frances said. Then she looked pointedly at Charlie, and her radiantly fake smile reappeared in a flash of perfect white teeth. “Lovely to see you again, Mr. Haverman. It was an unexpected treat.”
Vivian watched the mismatched pair walk away, Frances’s hips twitching under her too-tight skirt.
“If that man is a legit talent agent,” she said, “I’ll eat my hat.”
Then she turned, took a deep breath, and yanked open the door to her past.
Chapter Twenty-One
The cocktail lounge of the Green Mill was a cramped shoe box of a room. It looked roughly the same as the last time she’d seen it. Of course, the mob no longer owned the place, or at least not overtly. Capone had been sent to prison in 1931—eight months after Vivian’s father died. Then Prohibition had ended, and most of the men involved had gone to the hoosegow or branched out into new lines of work. The establishment’s luster had faded since alcohol became legal. Now it was just one of thousands of places to get a drink in Chicago—if more elegantly appointed than most. She eyed her reflection in the mirror behind the bar as Charlie checked their coats.
Her eyes swept to a green velvet booth to the west of the short end of the bar—where she’d been told Capone liked to sit so he could keep his eye on both the front and back doors. Tonight, it was occupied by an amorous couple, the man’s nose nested in his companion’s cleavage.
Charlie tugged on Vivian’s sleeve and led her through the crowd to the bar that ran along the left side near the entrance. “A drink?” he asked.
She shook her head.
Charlie signaled for the bartender’s attention anyway. “Tell Caputto that Charlie Haverman’s here, would ya?”
The bartender nodded. Vivian watched him motion a large man over and talk right into his ear. A box of party hats and noisemakers behind the bar reminded her that tomorrow was New Year’s Eve. The end of 1938 already? How could that be?
“How do you know this man, this Caputto?” Vivian asked.
Charlie turned, taking her by the elbow, and led her to the far end of the bar, away from the band.
“Moochie—Caputto—is from my old neighborhood. I went to school with his younger brother.”
Who didn’t Charlie Haverman know? “Does he own this place?”
Charlie shook his head. “He’s the manager.”
She watched couples jostle for space on the tiny dance floor.
“And how exactly is he going to help me with my father?”
“Moochie’s been around. He knows a lot of people, Viv. And he knew a lot of the same people I suspect your father knew. He might have even known your father personally.”
Vivian opened her mouth to deny that her father ever would have associated with a man that went by the name of Moochie, but she held her tongue. She realized what Charlie was carefully not saying. Those people in question had not been the most upstanding members of the community—and neither had her father. And she and Charlie were here for corroboration of what his father had tried to tell her this afternoon. Moochie’s assessment of her father’s character was a foregone conclusion, and Charlie was subtly priming her for disappointment.
The band started up with “I’m in the Mood for Love.”
Vivian could feel Charlie’s stare, but she didn’t turn to look at him. After a moment, he leaned down, his lips brushing her ear.
“We can’t just stand here like cigar-store Indians,” he said. “It draws attention.”
He held his hand out to her and nodded his head toward the small dance floor.
“Oh no, I don’t feel like dancing.”
“C’mon,” he said, grabbing her hand and leading her to the edge of the dance floor. “You’re like a coiled spring. You can’t meet Moochie like this. Who knows what’ll come out of that mouth of yours?”
Vivian sighed. He was right. He raised her hand in his and paused.
“What’s this?” Charlie held her right hand out, palm up to show the bandage on the fleshy part of her thumb.
Vivian yanked the hand back down and glanced at the floor, hiding her blush of embarrassment. “I slipped and fell on the ice last night.”
He pulled her to him in response, his fingertips brushing across the bare skin of her lower back, and she sucked in her breath at his touch. “What have I told you about those heels?” he said into her hair. “You’ll break your neck.”
Vivian’s head was still bowed, but she could feel the heat of his breath on her bare flesh. His fingertips traced tight little circles on her back as their feet began to move to the music.
Charlie pulled her right hand back up into the hold. She looked up, forcing her gaze to meet his, the air thick between them. The hairs of her forearms stood on end. Electricity crackled in the air. She loved dancing with him. She’d thought she might never have the chance again. He smiled at her and she smiled back, the tension loosening—not disappearing entirely, but loosening. What was all that talk about the past being past? She didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know. Because the way he was looking at her in this moment was everything, and she didn’t want to spoil it.
She let her cheek fall onto his chest. It fit so perfectly there, she thought. Everything about t
hem fit so perfectly.
“Pop likes you,” Charlie said. His voice rumbled up from under his breastbone and vibrated against her cheek.
“Yeah?” Vivian said without lifting her cheek.
“Yeah. He said you’ve got spunk.”
She closed her eyes and smiled into Charlie’s chest as their feet moved in time to the music.
I’m in the mood for love, simply because you’re near me.
After one circuit of the floor, Vivian was contemplating telling Charlie to forget the whole thing. Forget Moochie. Call it off. She didn’t need to hear from another stranger about what a terrible person her father had been. She could forget the whole thing, and they could stay on the dance floor like this forever. That would suit her fine.
Then a large man stopped their forward progress with a beefy forearm to tell them Mr. Caputto was ready for them. However much Vivian might wish otherwise, it seemed already too late to call it off.
• • •
The man led them up a back staircase to the upper floor and the manager’s office. He knocked on the door and waited for a voice from the inside saying “Enter!” before opening it. The room was dark, most of it in shadow. One lamp on the corner of the desk cast a weak, greenish light. The man behind the desk stood as they entered, making his way around to the front, his face going from light to shade to light again.
He was dark, definitely Italian. Not attractive, but imposing. His hair was longish and slicked back behind his ears. When he smiled, his teeth glowed a muted white in the darkness of the room. Altogether wolfish, Vivian thought. Like he might lunge forward and take a bite out of her.
“Charlie, it’s been a long time,” he said.
“It has,” Charlie agreed, clapping the man on the back. He pulled away and held an arm out toward Vivian. “Vivian, this is my old friend Vincent Caputto.”
The man eyed Vivian up and down. And he took his time about it. Charlie shot him a warning glare, but he said nothing. Caputto just shrugged before taking a seat behind the large wooden desk. A man used to getting what he wanted, Vivian thought. He opened an Epoca box and removed two cigars, offering one to Charlie. Charlie waved him off.
“What can I do for you, Charlie?” Caputto asked. He made a quick hand signal to the beast of a man standing in the doorway, and the man retreated slightly to stand outside the open office door.
“I was hoping I could jog your memory.”
“My memory ain’t so good no more.” The tone was joking, but Caputto’s jovial smile had vanished.
“Not even for an old friend? Hey, remember that time Old Man Stiglitz caught you stealing penny candy and chased you all the way down Rose Street, and somebody tripped him right before he could nab you and give you the whupping of your life?” Charlie coughed lightly. “Seems like old friends tend to help one another out.”
Caputto smiled a slow, greasy sort of smile. He held his hands up in an “I surrender” gesture. He took a puff on his cigar to light it, then regarded Charlie through the haze of smoke. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about the Racquet Club.”
Caputto eyed Charlie warily. “What about it?”
“Did you know a lawyer named Arthur Witchell?” Charlie asked.
The man smiled slightly, but his dark eyes were hard. “Easy Artie, sure. He’s dead. Been dead a while.”
Vivian’s stomach clenched at hearing that nickname again unprompted. A confirmation. Easy Artie. Her father.
“What was his connection to the Racquet Club?”
Caputto exhaled in a steady stream and watched the smoke plume toward the ceiling.
“He sort of worked out of the back a couple of times a week.”
“Worked?” Vivian asked.
Caputto leaned back in his chair, threading his fingers over his midsection. He glanced from Vivian to Charlie.
“Who is she again?”
Charlie glanced to Vivian, his eyes narrowed, signaling for her to keep quiet. “Viv’s my assistant. I’m working a case.”
Caputto smirked, eyeing Vivian all over again. “Assistant, huh? Any more like you at home, honey?”
“What about Witchell?” Charlie said gruffly. Caputto’s eyes lingered on Vivian for another long moment before he turned his attention back to Charlie.
“What kinda case you workin’ anyway?”
“Divorce case,” Charlie answered. “Things have gone…sour…between the couple since—a custody thing. Witchell was the wife’s attorney before he died. I’m just checking all avenues.”
Caputto’s dark eyes narrowed with interest. “How sour? Like dead sour?”
Charlie nodded, and Vivian felt the side of his foot press against hers, signaling her to keep quiet.
“Divorce, huh? That guy handled everything, I guess.” Caputto shook his head and tapped his ash into the cut-crystal receptacle on his desk. “Artie sort of held court in the back room of the Racquet—had regular office hours, like. Anyone with a problem went back and got it taken care of.”
Vivian swallowed the lump in her throat. No problem with keeping quiet now. She couldn’t speak right now if she wanted to. Her father “took care” of problems in the back of a gambling house? How could that possibly be true? Why would he have done such a thing? This just got worse and worse.
“Anyone with a problem,” Charlie said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Like who?”
Caputto fixed Charlie with a level stare. “Anyone who got in trouble,” he said.
“What kind of trouble are you talking about? Big trouble? Jail kind of trouble?”
Caputto didn’t answer right away, but the corner of his mouth twitched as if in amusement. “Didn’t matter. Whatever size your trouble, Artie could fix it.”
Vivian glanced at Charlie. She could see the frustration flash over his features. Moochie was giving him the runaround, and he knew it.
“Was Witchell involved in the workings of the place?”
Caputto shrugged and glanced at his watch. “He was involved in all of it. He owned it.”
“Owned it?” Vivian asked.
“Well, he owned a share of it—along with a couple of other big shots. I don’t remember who.”
Vivian and Charlie exchanged a quick glance. Other big shots, she thought. She had a feeling that if they looked a little more closely at that ledger, they’d likely find her father’s name or some variant of it listed there—maybe underneath Al Capone’s. Vivian bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling.
“I think you do remember who,” Charlie prodded.
“Nah, my memory’s gotten real bad in the past few years,” Caputto said, puffing on his cigar. “Real bad.”
Charlie returned the frank stare. “You owe me, Moochie.”
“I can’t help you with this, Charlie,” Caputto said, his dark eyes cold.
“What about Freddy Endicott?” Vivian blurted out.
“Endicott?” Caputto stared at her for a long moment before cocking his head to one side. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Maybe Freddy had used some sort of nickname, Vivian thought. Her mind scanned through anything he might have used as an alias, but she came up blank.
“How about Oskar Heigel then?” Vivian asked instead, her voice strangely high-pitched sounding to her own ears. Charlie’s hard-soled wingtip was insistently and painfully pressing down on her toes, but she refused to acknowledge him. He was right, of course. Asking a man connected to the mob impetuous questions was a dangerous gambit, no matter how badly she wanted the information. She squeezed the edges of the chair and tried to keep her breathing steady.
Caputto turned to her, his brow wrinkled in thought. Then his face cleared as a memory came to him, and he smiled at her. He mimed a belly with his hands out in front of him. “Short guy, big, gray mustache?”
S
he nodded, feeling her stomach drop to the floor.
“Yeah, he was in the club a lot. He and Artie were pals.” His brow wrinkled. “He got something to do with this divorce case too?”
“Maybe,” Charlie said quickly. He glanced at Vivian, his brow furrowed.
Pals, Vivian thought, eyes trained on the floor. Oskar and her father had been in on the Racquet Club together. Oskar knew about the money hidden in the desk. She was sure of it. He’d taken it to keep her nose out of it, to make her lose interest, to keep Vivian from finding out about his past misdeeds. To keep her from souring her mother on him.
“When was the Racquet raided again?” Charlie asked.
Caputto’s expression didn’t change, but a warning flickered behind his dark eyes.
“I don’t know nothin’ more about it,” he said again in a low voice, pointing an index finger at Charlie. “What I will tell you is that I know Easy Artie was the keeper of a lot of confidences, and there were people that wanted to make sure he didn’t spill those confidences.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying there was talk that Artie was flappin’ his gums—that the big man wanted him out of the way.”
“Flappin’ his gums about what? To whom?”
“I’m saying that it’s a good thing he went and had that… What was it again? A heart attack?” He smiled, but his eyes were cold.
“Meaning?”
“Not a bad way to go in this game. I’ve seen a lot worse.”
Vivian’s stomach clenched. She looked at Charlie. He glowered back at her, warning her to keep her mouth shut.
There was a knock on the door, and a slim, blond woman sauntered into the room and made a beeline for Caputto, garnering every bit of his attention.
“What—” Vivian began.
But Charlie pressed his heel down hard on the toe of her shoe, and she squeaked before shutting her mouth again. The problem was, she didn’t need to ask. She knew exactly what Caputto had meant. Charlie shook his head slightly, but he didn’t look at her.
Homicide for the Holidays Page 20