The music faded as the stage lights came up. A dancer sauntered on from the wings, introduced by the bassist as Lotta Cream. She wore fishnets, and her blonde bouffant stood taller than a ten-gallon hat. Strictly bush league, Jack figured. The club brought in some big names—Candy Barr had danced here, a week ago—but they saved them for later in the evening.
Lotta gyrated through her routine, to be followed by a raven-haired number named Faye La Folie. She looked like she might burst out crying any moment. Watching her dance, Jack felt his mood ratchet down. A sidelong glance showed most of the crowd were middle-aged men like himself; bleak, solitary. A well-dressed couple sat three tables over, but they seemed about as cheery as everyone else.
He tried to imagine Leslie Hough on stage. His imagination wasn't up for it. And the Scotch, he noticed, was depleting without much effect. His tolerance had been growing faster than his waistline, ever since he switched from beer to the hard stuff.
Panic set in. How would he make it to midnight at this rate?
The lights dimmed. A comedy act trotted out: a man in drag, wearing a grandmother's gray wig, trading jokes with a rail-thin violinist. They were either funny or the Scotch was finally kicking in. Before they left, the violinist gave a rousing welcome for the next dancer, Siti Exotique.
The stage went midnight black. A spotlight snapped on.
He sensed the crowd's anticipation just as an alto sax pealed an unseen lick. The velvet curtain rippled, stage left. A woman's bare foot poked out into the spotlight's rim. Toes wriggled. A clarinet laughed. Now a shapely calf slid into view, followed by a firm thigh. Flawless. Jack leaned forward, his drink forgotten. Pain flared in his left hand; the Lucky had burned down to the knuckles. He shook it out while the rest of Siti revealed herself, a dark-haired woman in a sequined bikini. All dancer's muscles and curves. Asiatic eyes.
His breath choked off.
Recognition spun him faster than the booze. He recalled a cold night in Longview three years before. The black fringe of an approaching storm; a blizzard, and a .22's report, strangely muted by the falling snow.
A drunk Marine from a forgotten war, breathing out his last.
Siti had danced under a different name back then, no less ridiculous.
Rosie Tokyo.
* * *
How long it took for the shock to wear off he couldn't say, but the act was still going when he found himself reaching under his jacket for his Colt. Instinct. He'd left the gun back at the office. And Rosie, Siti, whoever the hell she really was, could only see him as a shadowed figure among the crowd. She looked the same as the night he tried to shoot her in the back. Clean living? He doubted it.
The well-dressed couple three tables over were having a strong reaction, too. The man clenched his Martini glass, looking ready to throw it at the stage. The woman scowled. As soon as Rosie went grinding off into the wings, her exit heralded by the clash of a high-hat, the man shot up. He shoved chairs aside as he made a beeline for the stage, his companion right behind him.
They didn't make it. Bernie intercepted, joined by the burly bassist. Overhead lights came on. The angry man pointed, yelling, while the woman tried to circle around. She collided with the big musician, who shooed her back.
Bernie's smooth-talking seemed to blunt some of the couples' anger. After a minute of gradually lowering voices they slunk back to their table. The lights dimmed again, and Bernie leapt on stage to announce the next act would be starting in ten minutes.
Curious, Jack grabbed his drink and strolled over to the aggrieved party. They were leaning close, whispering.
"Mind if I join you?" he said.
A frown creased the woman's face. Up close, the two didn't look so fancy. Kind of shopworn, in fact. The man's beige jacket was going to threads at the sleeves. He had bags under his water-pale eyes, and nicotine tattoos on his fingers. The woman was probably in her mid-thirties but seemed older, homespun good looks fading under makeup. She wore a dead chinchilla across her shoulders. It was the only new thing she had on.
When neither of them spoke, Jack added: "I know a thing or two about that dancer you were trying to see. I've had run-ins with her myself."
It was the right thing to say. "I don't see why not," the man said, looking at the woman instead of Jack. She nodded.
"Obliged." Jack set his drink down. He took out his wallet and slid a business card across the table like he was dealing a hand. First time he got to use one of the damn things. The man picked it up, squinted at it.
"You're a private investigator?"
"Licensed in the state of Texas."
Now both of them were frowning. "We've had bad luck with investigators, Mr. Laramie."
"Call me Jack." He shook hands. Neither of them wore rings.
"I'm Tom Reiss," the man said. "And this is … Agnes."
Jack shook out a trio of Luckies and lit Agnes's for her. They puffed.
"You know Siti," Tom said, a little impatient.
"Met her three years ago in Kilgore. She went by the handle Rosie Tokyo, then." Jack tapped ash into a cheap tray. "She's a murderer."
Agnes and Tom were wide-eyed.
"Unproven, of course," Jack continued. "She was working a long con with a mobster named Ziegler. I don't suppose you've heard of him? He was a wheel at the time. She killed two men after the con went sour and got away. I involved the police, filed charges, but her mobster friend had good lawyers. The murders were pinned on a gunman named Scavo, who conveniently shot himself before he could be questioned."
"We'd figured her for a con artist," Tom said, his fingers trembling around the cigarette. "But not a killer."
"She's both. A complicated woman, I'd say."
Agnes took a long sip from her companion's Martini. "I knew it. I knew he was in real trouble."
"Who's in trouble?"
"A good friend," Tom answered for her, quickly. "He's vulnerable right now."
"Why the mystery?"
"Because you'd recognize his name. He's, ah, something of a celebrity."
"He was," Agnes said.
"And who are you to him?"
Tom stubbed out his cigarette. "Concerned parties. Let's leave it at that."
"You brought investigators into this? I take it they didn't do much."
"We scraped together some money," Tom said. "But both men we hired were either bought off or intimidated. No offense, but your profession seems to draw lowlifes."
"I wouldn't argue that."
"Anyway, it's a delicate matter. Agnes and I don't have any legal grounds to stand on. And I don't see the point of involving anyone else."
"Well, that's your call. For what it's worth, one of the people Siti killed was a friend of mine. I'd just as soon stop her before she hurt anyone else."
Agnes's face contorted. "For Christ's sake, Tom, tell him." She was looking past the man's beige shoulders, at a door set near the stage.
"I don't think it's a good idea."
Jack knew where the door led. "You two followed him here, huh? Tell you what. I'm going to do some investigating of my own. If I find something, maybe we can revisit the idea of hiring me. Meantime, keep that card handy. I've got an answering service if you need to call off-hours."
The lights were dimming again. Jack got up and wobbled back to his corner table. 'Wobbled' on account the Scotch was hitting like it should. Beyond that, he felt a little giddy to be working a case again. A sort of case, anyway.
He emptied his drink and told the rest of the bottle a firm 'no.' He had things to do.
The bottle had no problem with that.
"Ah, who the hell am I kidding?" he said, and poured himself another jolt, sans seltzer.
* * *
The next act was well underway; two women, a fat guy, and a mélange of G-strings. Jack didn't bother to try and follow it. Conscious his would-be clients might be watching him, he slipped over to the door Agnes had glanced at. Getting through it would require some finesse. He tried the shave-and-a
-haircut knock. After fifteen seconds the door cracked, revealing a narrow band of light. Cigar smoke, several times denser than the nicotine haze in the main room, came rolling out. A bloodshot eye pressed up against the crack.
"Yeah?"
"Jack Laramie. I'm a friend of Bernie's. Any action tonight?"
"Private party."
The door started to close. Jack yanked a fat roll out of his pocket and peeled off a couple bills. He pressed them against the narrowing slit. "I won't bother anyone."
The money made a snapping sound as it disappeared. Jack stood poised, ready to thrust with his shoulder if the guy tried to gyp him. The door creaked back several inches, and the doorman, a runt in a black porkpie hat, gave Jack the eyeball as he squeezed through.
Behind him, a short hall opened onto a cubicle with just enough space to hold a table and several chairs. The Carousel Club's infamous back room. Cubano smog made Jack's scotch-slicked throat burn. Seven men played poker under the glare of naked fluorescents, communicating in grunts and nods. They looked to be a better-heeled crowd than when Jack had played here before. These guys wore Botany 500 suitcoats and rumpled silk ties, but they didn't strike him as gangsters.
Not a single one acknowledged his presence, or even looked up from their cards.
"Call, Dix," said a gravelly voice.
"Ah, Christ. I'm out, gents." A chubby man fluttered his cards in disgust.
Then it hit Jack, who was playing here.
Dix Stricklin, the Poor Man's Elvis. Lord, he almost couldn't recognize him. In his prime, Dix had been a ramrod-slim Adonis, with sandy blond hair combed into a spit curl. His present incarnation had lost the hairline and gained another chin. How could this cherub be the same Dix who had wooed thousands of Cotton Belt girls, thumping on a double bass tall as himself, crooning out rockabilly wonders like "Mama's got a Roadhouse Heart" and "Grinding Love"?
He must've been gaping, because someone noticed him.
A tall man in a somber wool suit stood up. He inclined his sharp chin at Jack. "Who the hell let you in?"
"I, ah, thought—"
The doorman waded over. "He's a friend of Bernie's. A regular."
Gray Suit folded his arms. "I said no outsiders."
"Bernie's in charge when the manager's away," the doorman said, "so if he vouches—"
A chair scraped back. The meekest-looking member of the entourage, a balding man with narrow shoulders, set his cards down. He turned to Jack. "I'll take care of this shit-heel, doc."
"Go easy on him, Percy," Gray Suit said.
The back of Jack's neck went hot. "Now wait a minute. There's no call for names, here. I just wanted in on your game."
"Not tonight, shit-heel." Percy advanced.
Jack glanced at Porkpie for support, but the doorman had vamoosed. The professional part of his brain warned he wasn't being very discreet in his investigation. But hell, he'd had to swallow too much guff today.
"I'm a trained boxer, friend," he told Percy, curling his fists. "Take one more step …"
Percy stepped in like he'd never heard him. By reflex, Jack threw a straight right. Even as he did it, he marveled at how slow he'd become. Had to be the scotch. Percy twisted at the waist, a slight movement, and let the punch pass over his head. One hand grabbed Jack's wrist; the other snaked up his armpit. He bent and lifted with a soft grunt. Jack's momentum carried him across the little man's shoulders. The room whirled. He fell flat on his ass, the breath slammed out of him.
Laughter. Bright motes danced in the smoke cloud above.
He tried to get up. Too fast. His stomach hadn't fared well, doing the flip-flop. He vomited hot amber down the front of his shirt. More laughter. Percy loomed over him, smirking. Jack's vision tunneled, flashing crimson at the edges. He pushed himself up—
"Take it easy, now." A hand descended on his shoulder. Bernie's pink face swam into view. He was helping him up, but also keeping him away from Percy at the same time. His rage banked a little.
"Come on," Bernie said, handing him his Stetson. "Me and you are going to have that chess match early." He herded Jack towards the door. Gray Suit had lit a pipe and was watching his departure with an amused expression. Next to him, Dix Stricklin stared into space. His dissipated face looked blank.
Bernie opened the door to the darkened main room. Jack shook off his arm, wanting to walk under his own power. Bad enough he had puke dripping down his shirt. What a way to make an impression on his new clients.
But Tom and Agnes were gone. A knot of off-duty cops occupied their table, hooting for the next act to start.
* * *
"When you're in America," Jack said, daubing at his stained shirt with a cocktail napkin, "you're supposed to fight American. Did you see how that little guy threw me?" Bernie had found them a quiet spot in the club's coatroom. Over cups of black coffee, they were setting up chess pieces on an old enameled board. A couple pawns were missing, so they had to substitute pennies.
"Jujutsu," Bernie said. "Our man probably served in the Pacific Theater."
Jack messaged his sore shoulder. "Well, it isn't fair. And what's Dix Stricklin doing here, anyway?"
"His new girlfriend's dancing tonight, so he brought his entourage over for poker."
"His girlfriend wouldn't happen to be Siti Exotique, would it?"
Bernie's deadpan told him it was.
"He had a doctor there, too. Tall drink of water in a gray suit."
"Doctor Kind. Dix's got some health problems, but everyone's hush-hush about it. Whole thing's pretty hush-hush, so don't go blabbing this around, okay? The Carousel likes to keep things private."
"Don't worry." Jack finished straightening his back row pieces.
"Anyways, their hotel is across the street. The Adolphus. Pretty swanky, so Dix must still have some money left. You'd figure all the divorces would've cleaned him out by now."
"Or the lawsuits," Jack said. During his heyday, Dix couldn't seem to keep his hands off underage southern belles. "I think that was one of his ex-wives who tried to rush the stage."
Bernie whistled. "She sure had a hard-on for Siti. The guy, too."
Jack kept his face still. "You know much about her? Siti, I mean."
"Not much. She's got a contract with us and the Montmartre. Circuit dancer. Wouldn't mind finding her under the duvet, I'll tell you that."
Jack opted not to enlighten him. Rosie/Siti must've fallen on hard times if she'd gone back to dancing. "Any particular reason Dix would be stomping around Dallas? I always thought he was the Nashville type."
"Washed up stars got to drink somewhere, I guess." He waved at the board with a flourish. "All set. I'm going to let you go first, seeing as how you're in a compromised state."
"Go to hell, Bernie."
"Already have," he said, cheerful. "It's in the South Pacific."
* * *
Saturday morning Jack slept in late as he could, though only made it to 8:30. The older he got, the harder it was to catch much sack time. In his younger days he could sleep off a drunk till noon. Worse, he woke with a roiling stomach. No sense putting up a fight. He scurried to the bathroom.
"At least," he said, wiping his mouth afterward, "I'm not doing this out the back of a horse trailer."
A year earlier he'd 'inherited' a small fortune from a crazy old woman on South Padre Island, after nearly drowning in the Gulf. Among other things, he'd used the money to lease a nice apartment. Not a penthouse, but at six floors up his balcony afforded a nice view of the Highland Park district.
Some mornings he'd sit there with a cup of coffee and watch the rich folks go about their business. It was as close as he cared to get.
This morning he could only focus on the coffee.
His kitchen—big as some motel rooms he'd stayed in—had a brand new General Electric percolator. He measured out several fat tablespoons of grinds and set the pot to gurgling.
Mid-gurgle, the phone rang.
Since moving in, the only person wh
o ever called was his mother. And she usually waited till Sunday. Biting his lip against some disaster, he picked up the receiver.
"Ma?"
The woman's voice was decades too young. "This is your answering service, Mr. Laramie."
"Oh."
"You just received a message from a Mr. Tom Reiss. He'd like a call at your convenience."
"Let me get a pen."
Heart thudding like some rookie, he took down the number, hung up, and dialed. Tom's pained voice answered on the second ring.
"It's Laramie, Mr. Reiss."
A pause. "Well, you're certainly prompt. I'm afraid I might've been too abrupt last night. Agnes and I have had time to talk about your proposal."
"And?"
"We don't have a lot of money left, but …"
"I found out a couple things, might save you a breath or two. I know this is about Dix Stricklin. He's holed up with a private quack named Kind at the Adolphus Hotel. And he and Siti are an item."
"You discovered a lot in a short time."
"Thanks. I figure Agnes must be Strikclin's ex-wife—"
"First wife," Tom corrected.
"—and you're a former friend. Maybe pretty close, before the entourage muscled in."
"I used to be his publicist." There was heavy intonation on used. "Agnes and I like to think we've been a good influence, steering him away from some of his more dangerous vices. He's a weak-willed man, Laramie. Prone to bouts of melancholia."
"That describes just about every musician I've known, but go on."
"Dr. Kind was supposed to have been treating Dix. He abused his authority and became something of a business manager. In the process he ousted everyone close, including me and Agnes."
"And Siti?"
"Dr. Kind introduced her. Another corrosive influence."
Jack checked the percolator's status. "If I'm reading this right, you want someone to get dirt on the good doctor. Assuming he's licensed, you could try to sue him in civil court for breaching his responsibilities."
Two-Trick Pony (The Drifter Detective Book 8) Page 5