by Bill Moody
I look at the photo. I wouldn’t have known either of them. As we leave, Louise says her good-byes to Natalie but pulls me back for a moment as Natalie walks toward the car.
“You hang on to her, you hear,” Louise says. “That’s a good woman.”
I give Louise a hug and join Natalie, and we head back for the expressway, both lost in our own thoughts for a few minutes.
“Well, what do you think?”
“I think Louise had an affair with Tony Gallio’s brother,” Natalie says, “and maybe Pappy Dean.”
“Yeah, but where is he?”
“What do you mean? Gallio’s brother?” Natalie glances at me sharply.
“That’s the part I didn’t tell you about Pappy. He thinks he killed some guy at the Moulin Rouge, right after Wardell’s death. I think it was Gallio’s brother.”
I can feel Natalie tense and turn toward me. “Oh my God,” she says. “He told you that?”
I nod and ease onto the expressway. I feel Natalie watching me. I glance at her, see her frown in the glow of the dashboard lights.
“Isn’t it time to tell Coop all this now?”
“Maybe,” I say, “but first I have to get that other diary from Rachel.”
“I thought you’d say that,” Natalie says. “I can help you with that.”
Louise was right. Natalie is a good woman.
And I wonder if the man Pappy thinks he killed is Tony Gallio’s brother.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I take the expressway down to the I-95 interchange and head for the Strip. At Sahara and Las Vegas Boulevard, the Strip, ablaze with lights and crammed with tourists and bumper-to-bumper traffic, beckons to our right. I turn left, back toward downtown, past Bob Stupak’s Vegas World Hotel-Casino, into a maze of streets that covers several square.blocks. The Naked City. Images of the old television series flash through my mind as I start looking for street signs.
“Maybe we ought to come back in the daytime,” Natalie says.
Maybe she’s right. The Naked City is an area of low-income housing, drug deals, heavy gang activity, and a few small, run-down shops and stores.
When I turn the first corner, the headlights pick up a group of teenagers standing around in a small park, laughing, talking, slapping hands. Young black dudes in baggy pants and baseball caps on backwards. Some wear scarfs tied on their heads.
I skirt the park looking for Boston Street, wishing we’d looked at a map first. Natalie holds the scrap of paper with the address John Trask gave me. “Twenty-six-ninety,” she says, squinting at the paper. “If we ever find the street.”
I turn left again and get a flash of the street sign. “Here we go.” Twenty-six-ninety is a two-story apartment building halfway down the block, set back from the street and badly in need of repair. I park near the front behind two cars up on blocks and cut the engine.
A couple of dogs foraging in trash cans give us a look, then continue on their way. At the entrance a dim light illuminates the wall of mailboxes. A couple are standing open, their doors bent almost off.
“Let me try first,” Natalie says. “You didn’t make much of an impression on Rachel at Pogo’s. Maybe she’ll talk to me.”
I hesitate. I don’t want to pull any macho scene on Natalie, and she is after all a cop. “You sure you want to do this?”
“I can handle it,” Natalie says. “If Rachel is willing to talk, I’ll come and get you.”
I watch Natalie get out of the Jeep and check the mailboxes, wishing for once I was in the VW. In this neighborhood the red Jeep is as out of place as Thelonious Monk playing with Lawrence Welk. I hunker down in the seat and light a cigarette, watching Natalie climb the stairs.
She rings the doorbell, glances toward the car. The door cracks open, and a shaft of light spills over Natalie. A few moments later she’s inside. So far so good.
I check my watch and decide to give her ten minutes before I go in after her. Two girls walk by, give me the once-over, then continue on down the block talking loudly in Spanish. I scan the street, the rearview mirror, but see no one else until a man from the next building comes out to walk his dog.
I flip my cigarette into the street and check my watch again. No sign of Natalie. I’m just about to go in when the door opens and Natalie appears, says something to whoever is inside, then comes down the stairs and back to the car.
“Well?”
“She’s not here,” Natalie says, getting in. “That was the boyfriend. God, what a piece of work he is, zoned out on something. Doesn’t know when she’ll be back. I told him I was an old friend of hers and I’d come back tomorrow.”
“Well, that’s all we can do tonight, I guess. If we come back early we’ll have a better chance of catching her. I have an idea Rachel sleeps late.”
“I hope she isn’t sleeping with that guy,” Natalie says.
By seven-thirty the next morning we’re in the VW, drinking coffee out of paper cups from a 7-Eleven, back in front of Rachel’s building. Most of the neighborhood is awake. School buses are picking up kids, people are going back to work. The Naked City doesn’t look nearly so ominous in the light. Neglected is a better word. A few blocks away the Vegas World Hotel-Casino and Bob Stupak’s tower mar the skyline.
“I think I’ll go with you this time.” I lock the car, and going up the stairs we pass a man in work clothes, carrying a toolbox. He nods to us, and we wait a minute outside Rachel’s door until he’s out of sight.
Natalie rings the bell several times before a skinny guy with long hair hanging in his eyes opens the door. He’s barefoot and wears cutoff jeans.
“Yeah, what are you guys, Jehovah’s Witnesses?” He glances at me, then peers at Natalie closer, recognizes her.
“Hi, Rick,” Natalie says.
“Look, I told you Rachel’s not here.” Rick starts to shut the door.
“That was last night,” I say. I step in closer. “We’ll wait.”
Rick decides it’s not worth arguing about and opens the door wider. “Give me a break, man, I told you she’s not here.”
“What is it, Rick?” The voice comes from another part of the apartment.
“Rachel,” Natalie calls. “I was here last night. We want to talk to you.”
Rick shrugs, brushes the hair out of his eyes, and steps aside. “Sorry, babe.”
“Who’s we?” Rachel says. She comes into view, wearing an old robe, her hair sleep-tousled. When she sees me, she stops and glares. “What do you want? Don’t you get it? I told you the other night I didn’t want to talk.”
“Rachel,” Natalie says softly, “it’ll just take a few minutes. It’s very important.”
Rachel sighs but cracks a tiny bit. “All right,” she says, “if it’ll get rid of you. I’ll handle this,” she says to Rick.
“Wow, man, this is really a drag, can’t even sleep,” Rick says. He shuffles off to the bedroom and slams the door.
“Sorry,” Natalie says.
“He’ll get over it.” Rachel shrugs and sits down on the couch. She lights a cigarette from a pack on the table and shoves some newspapers aside until she finds a large ashtray full of last night’s butts. She rubs her forehead as Natalie sits down next to her. I lean on the wall near the door.
The apartment looks like it does from the outside. Besides the couch, a couple of chairs, and a dinette set near the kitchen-all hand-me-down furniture—there’s a small bookcase holding a suitcase-sized boom box. The shelf below is stacked with CDs and cassette tapes. Mostly singers, from what I can see—Billie Holliday, Carmen McRae, Sarah, and Ella. Rachel still wants to be a singer.
I let Natalie take the lead. “We saw your mother last night, Rachel,” she begins. “She’s still very worried about you, and of course she wants to see you. She didn’t send us, though.” She glances at me. “Evan has found out some things that you can help us with.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m doing fine,” Rachel says. She stubs out her cigarette angrily.
; “C’mon, Rachel,” I say, “you’re not doing fine. You’re living in a dump with a doofus. Stop beating up your mother for something that happened a long time ago.”
Natalie gives me a warning glance, but it’s already too late. “Yeah, something happened all right—me. It was me who happened. How’d you like to find out your father isn’t who you think he is. That he’s a—a fucking gangster. She lied to me all those years. Christ, I—”
I let her go. She has me there. I rarely see my mother and father these days, but I grew up in a fairly supportive environment. My mother encouraged my piano-playing ideas all the way, mainly because she played herself. My dad went along with it, although I’m sure he would have preferred I had chosen an athletic career. I watch Rachel, head in hands, no way to identify with her feelings. She’s got to get the anger out first.
When she looks at me again, her eyes glisten with tears. “Why did she lie, why didn’t she just tell me sooner?”
“She probably had her reasons. I know she didn’t want you to find out the way you did. She was trying to protect you.”
“Protect me. That’s a laugh. From what? Her screwing around when she was a dancer at some nightclub? I’ve seen it, written in her own hand. No, I don’t buy it.”
I glance at Natalie. She encourages me with her eyes. You’re doing fine, they say. “Whether you buy it or not, it’s done, and you may have some of it wrong.”
“Oh, really?” Rachel gets up and goes into the bedroom. She comes back and slams a small notebook down on the table. “See for yourself. It’s all there.”
Rachel gets up again and heads for the kitchen. “I need some coffee.”
I pick up the diary and thumb through the pages. Same neat script as the other one. I want to sit down and read it through start to finish. Pappy, Louise, Gallio, and maybe the answer to Wardell Gray’s death are in here. I know I’m not leaving without it.
I go in the kitchen. Rachel is slamming things around, getting the coffee started. “Well?” she says.
“Rachel, your mother could be in trouble. I need to take this with me,” I say, holding up the diary. That stops her. She looks at Natalie, who nods her head.
“What do you mean?”
“Your mother saw a lot of things while she danced at the Moulin Rouge. There’s information in here other people want.”
“Who?” Rachel says. She looks from me to Natalie, then smiles slightly. “Gallio, right?” When we don’t answer she nods and taps her fingers on the countertop, staring at the water dripping into a stained Mr. Coffee. Everyone is silent until the gurgling stops.
“Take it with you, then,” Rachel says finally. “I don’t want it.”
“Why have you kept it, then?” Natalie asks.
“What else have I got?” Rachel leans against the counter and throws her head back. Natalie moves toward her. As Rachel starts to cry again, Natalie reaches out and hugs her. It’s a few minutes before Rachel speaks again.
“Jesus, I don’t know. I always knew something was wrong, but I could never figure it out. This really hit me hard.”
“Rachel,” Natalie says, “your mother loves you very much. She can’t undo the past, but a lot has happened since then. It won’t ever be like you want it, but a lot of it can be straightened out. Give her a chance to try.”
Rachel wipes her eyes and gets a mug out of the cupboard. “You want some?” she asks. Natalie and I both shake our heads. Looking around the kitchen, Rachel manages a smile. “I don’t blame you,” she says, surveying the sink full of dirty dishes. “My mother would never allow a mess like this.” She takes a sip of coffee and looks at me.
“Is she really in trouble?”
“She could be. I know just seeing you would make her feel better.”
Rachel nods again. “Well, take the diary if it will help. I’ve got to think about all this.” She looks at me again, trying to come to some judgment. “Why are you doing this? Did you know my mother before?”
“It’s a long story. I’m trying to figure out some of the past too, but for different reasons. Can I tell her you’ll at least call her?”
Rachel takes a couple of deep breaths. “Yeah, you can tell her that. I’ll call her, but I’m not promising anything.”
After we leave Rachel’s, Natalie and I stop for some breakfast on the way back to the apartment. I stash the diary under the front seat of the VW. While we wait for the food, ham and eggs and coffee, I use the pay phone and call Louise. She’s very relieved to learn she’ll hear from Rachel and thanks me.
Neither of us talks much, but I know Natalie will push now for me to turn this all over to Coop and John Trask.
I feel her watching me as we eat, trying to decide what is exactly the right moment to bring it up. Over a second cup of coffee, I barter.
“Okay, I agree, Coop needs to be brought up to date, and I’m going to do that today.”
“Good,” Natalie says. “It’s really the only thing to do.”
“But you’ve got to do something for me.”
Natalie’s eyes widen. “What?”
I tell her about The Breeze, the lawyer-DJ, and what I want him to do. “It should be all public record, so there’s no problem, is there? We’re not breaking into anyone’s office or anything like that.”
Natalie is not so sure. She stares out the window. “No, I guess not, but why is this important?”
“I just want to have a handle on things before I give it all up to the police, and I still want to know what happened to Wardell Gray.”
“Maybe it’s in the diary.”
I shake my head. “I wish it was going to be that easy, but I don’t think so. There might be something, but from all the people I’ve talked to, I think I know more about it than anyone, and I wasn’t even around then. There’s one other guy I need to talk to.” I put up my hands before Natalie can protest. “Hey, Trask gave me the number. He’s a retired cop who was on Metro during the Moulin Rouge days.”
“And what if he doesn’t know anything?”
“Well, then I guess Wardell Gray’s death will remain unsolved.”
“Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be,” Natalie says.
I don’t answer that one because I don’t want to believe it. I pay the check and we head back to the apartment. Coop is gone but has left word with Ace he wants to talk to me.
“He seemed pretty serious,” Ace says. “Said he’d check back here later.”
“If he calls, I’ll be at the mall entertaining the shoppers.”
I shower and change into my tux. “You look mighty handsome,” Natalie says. “You sure I can’t come and watch you play?”
“No, you get hold of Breeze and try this retired cop’s number. See if he can see me later today, sometime after four, okay?”
“God, you need a secretary.”
“Don’t I already have one?”
“Get out of here,” Natalie says, laughing and threatening me with the back of her hand.
The mall is fairly quiet when I sit down at the piano. I decide to stick to ballads the first hour, a choice Brent Tyler seems to approve of. I’m just halfway through my first attempt when he shows up.
“What’s that called?” he asks as I go into the bridge.
“‘I Thought About You’. Like it?”
Brent looks at my hand. It’s still bruised, but the swelling is gone and I can move it fairly well if I don’t get too tricky. “Yeah, I guess. Still like to hear you try some of those Carpenters songs.”
“I’ll dig one out, Brent.”
He takes off and waves. “Good to have you back.”
I spend my first break poring over Louise’s diary. There’s some of the same stuff from the first diary, the excitement of the show, how she got hired, but in this one Wardell is very much in evidence from their L.A. days. When she gets to the part about rehearsals for the Moulin Rouge show and Wardell’s reappearance, there appears to be genuine surprise on her part.
They meet
several times for long conversations, but he warns her they can’t be seen together, and Louise seems genuinely disappointed at this until she realizes Wardell is trying to protect her. From what, she doesn’t know. By the time I get to the opening-night pages, it’s time to go back to work.
I’ve been too optimistic. My hand is functioning, but that’s all. I can struggle through some easy songs, but the ache is there, getting louder by the minute. Two songs into the set, I look up from the piano and see I have more than my hand to worry about. Directly across from me, seated at one of the tables, are Tony and Karl, sipping coffee and staring at me. Tony smiles and raises his cup.
Aching hand or not, I figure the safest place for me is right at the piano, until they both get up and walk toward me. They step under the velvet rope, one on each side, while I try to concentrate on the changes to “Everything Happens to Me.”
“Nice, Horne, nice,” Tony says. It’s only a distraction. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Karl move closer to the piano and reach out for the keyboard cover. I know he’s going to slam it right down on my hands. I start to pull away when another hand comes into view and grips Karl’s wrist tightly.
“Let’s take a walk, bozo,” Coop says. Before Karl can react, Coop has his thumb bent back almost to his wrist. Sweat breaks out on Karl’s forehead.
“Tony,” he gasps, his eyes wide with pain.
“Who the fuck are you?” Tony asks. I lean back, blocking his access to Karl, and keep playing. Nobody notices a thing.
“In the words of Virgil Tibbs, I’m a police officer,” Coop says, smiling at Tony. “Now shall we walk away from here, and not interrupt this gentleman’s performance?”
Tony backs off, and Coop, still gripping Karl’s thumb, pulls him behind the escalator. I glance over my shoulder: Coop has let go of Karl, who’s glaring and rubbing his hand. Coop flashes his badge too quickly for them to see it’s not Las Vegas; his shoulder holster registers much more clearly, enough to really back Tony off.
“The exit is that way,” Coop says, pointing toward the double doors leading to the parking lot. He stands there until they’re out of sight, then walks back to the piano and stands just outside the rope.