by George Baxt
There was more to be told. Raft had been cautioned by the “man,” and there was hope that this time the cocky little bastard had learned a lesson. Furthermore, the biggest shipment the enterprise had ever attempted would be smuggled in on Saturday night. Would it be possible to plan an impromptu weekend at East Cove inviting Mrs. Parker and Woollcott and several others, thus bringing to a climax the magnificent venture that had required years of preparation and could now safely be closed down? Van Weber’s mouth was dry, his voice husky. He would do his best about the weekend. These people were like quicksilver. The voice at the other end was polite but firm. The impromptu weekend was a necessity, a cover for the arrival of the shipment. There was the promise that Van Weber would now be a very wealthy man, wealthy enough to return to Europe and there create a final identity for himself. Did Van Weber understand? Van Weber understood.
There was a gentle knock at the door, and his valet announced his bath was drawn. Van Weber shouted he’d be there in a few minutes. Into the phone he said goodbye, until later, and after hanging up, took a very deep draught of the drink and stared out the window toward the park.
Mrs. Parker. What to do about Mrs. Parker? What to do? What to do? I haven’t felt this way about a woman since … well, what does it matter? But Mrs. Parker is something else, and I don’t dare tell her. I don’t ever dare tell her. I must not care this much about Dorothy Parker.
Cora Gallagher’s lemon phosphate was growing warm. She hadn’t even sampled it. It just sat there on the table in front of her, ignored, unwanted, an orphan without prospects. She and Jacob Singer were sharing a quiet booth in the rear of the ice cream parlour, and after placing their order, Jacob hadn’t wasted words.
“Miss Gallagher, you have a record.”
“That’s not news to me. Is it news to you?”
She was prepared to brazen it out. Singer liked that. He wanted her to have courage because by the time he got through with her, she would need it. “Miss Gallagher, I stopped being surprised the day I found out me and girls were built different. I know you’re in a hurry and so am I, so let’s not waste each other’s time and get right down to it. Who was Horathy’s last patient the day before yesterday?”
“Vera DeLee.”
“I said let’s not waste time. There was a man. The elector operator put a fix on him. He came down the elevator with DeLee. They left together. They went to her place. Elevator operator there corroborates man went up to DeLee’s apartment.” The phosphate and the ice cream soda had arrived, and impatiently, Singer told the waitress not to fuss. She stopped fussing and vanished. Cora Gallagher wished she could vanish, but she knew she couldn’t; she worked for a doctor, not a magician. Singer spooned some ice cream into his mouth and decided she’d had enough time to think. “Don’t make me lean on you, Miss Gallagher. This man is suspected of murdering DeLee.” He waited twenty seconds. “When was the last time you saw your parole officer?”
“I don’t know the man’s name and that’s the truth. He’s one of the patients Horathy sees after office hours, like DeLee. He gives them their booster shots.”
“Give me a booster, Miss Gallagher. Describe him.” She leaned forward. “Will you please believe me when I tell you I’ve never had a good look at his face? Will you, please?”
“Why not?”
“He’s always got a handkerchief to his nose. He holds it so that it covers most of his face. Another thing, I’m not always there after six o’clock. Some nights I go and Horathy stays on and I don’t know what goes on then, that’s the truth, so help me Hannah!”
“I believe you, I believe you. Don’t you like your drink?”
“I’m not thirsty. Can I go now?”
“Not yet. I’m still lonely. How big’s this guy?”
“Well, he’s about your height.” Singer nodded and sucked on his straw. “Broad shouldered, I mean for real, not padded; I can tell those things.” Singer made gurgling noises with the straw. He’d made gurgling noises with soda straws since he’d first learned what ice cream sodas were all about. “No paunch. I’d guess he was your age.”
“What’s he on?”
“I don’t know.”
“Horathy keeps records, doesn’t he?”
“There’s a locked file I never get to see. He keeps the key. There’s only one key.”
“Didn’t the man give you a name the other night?”
“He said something like the man or Mr. Man. I swear, I couldn’t really tell what he was saying with that rag covering his mouth.”
“What his voice like?”
“Hoarse. Unpleasant. Honest to God, I was really in a state because I had DeLee passed out in the small office and I was afraid she was going to croak on me.”
“Does Horathy usually overshoot?”
“What do you mean?”
“Overdose.”
“God, no! He’s very careful. He doesn’t want a stiff on his hands. He …” She sat back, crestfallen. Singer had gotten what he was after. She’d talked too much. He was very pleased with himself and thought of adopting her lemon phosphate, but he was already feeling a slight discomfort from his ice cream soda. “Give me a break, Mr. Detective. If Horathy knows I’m with you, I could be singing the bye-bye blues.”
“Sister, you soon won’t have to be worrying about Horathy. Let’s get back to DeLee. The autopsy report says she was doped up past her ears.”
“We think she’d taken something before she came to the office. She’s done it before. Horathy warned her. But she had this kidney disease. I think it was killing her. She was in terrible pain.”
“What was Horathy’s relation to Rudolph Valentino?”
“I’m only guessing. I think they knew each other in Hollywood some years back. Horathy didn’t like him.”
“What about Ilona Mercury?”
“She was Horathy’s girlfriend then.”
“When she was Magda Moreno?”
“I don’t know anything about that. Ilona was a phony. She lived in some other world. She had lots of worlds. Some Hungarian. Some Russian. Once French. She was good with accents.”
“And imagination.”
“And imagination. We were surprised when she landed in a Ziegfeld show. I mean, she was at least ten years older than his other showgirls. But she had a magnificent body.”
“It didn’t look all that magnificent on a slab.”
“I don’t know anything about how she died, I swear on my mother’s grave.”
“Your mother lives out in Bensonhurst.” She had the decency to blush. “Swear on your husband’s grave.”
“I spit on that.”
“That’s what I like about some of you broads. All heart. What about Mercury and Horathy? Why was he paying her? Was it simple blackmail or something a little more sophisticated?”
“A tablespoon of each. She steered him patients.”
“Meaning dopers.”
“I suppose.”
“Do I have to say ‘pretty please’?”
“Aw, Christ, yes.” She slumped in her seat. “Will you believe me when I tell you I’ve been looking to get out? Will you?”
“I believe you, Miss Gallagher. I honestly do believe you. So why don’t you?”
“I’m afraid.” She looked around as though for the first time it occurred to her they might be overheard.
“Why’d you link up with Horathy in the first place?”
“Ever been on parole, Mr. Detective? Ever looked for a decent job when you got a record? Prostitution, petty larceny, what am I offered, the mangle in a steam laundry. I had enough of that in stir. I knew Sid Curley. You know him?”
“Knew him. He’s on the missing persons bulletin.”
“My God,” she whispered.
“We think he’s been planted in the middle of the Hudson. I wish they’d stop. It’s scaring the fish away, they tell me. So Curley fixed you up with Horathy.”
“Yes.”
“Who fixed you your nurse’s registrat
ion?”
“Somebody with a direct line to City Hall.”
“Like maybe Judge Crater?”
“Maybe.” She looked tired and spent. Singer didn’t peg her at being more than just a trace past thirty. Now she looked fifty.
“Do you know Lacey Van Weber?”
“Horathy’s mentioned his name.”
“Is he a patient?”
“No.”
“But they’re friendly.”
“I think so.”
Singer was growing impatient. “What do you mean, you think so? Horathy was at Van Weber’s party the night Valentino took the mickey. Valentino laid him to filth, your good doctor.”
“They didn’t like Valentino.”
“I’ll bet they didn’t. He knew too much about shoot-up parties back in Hollywood. He probably knew just as much about what’s going on here. Do you know if Van Weber’s a good dancer?”
She snorted. “What a dumb question. You been doing just great until now. How would I know if he’s a good dancer? He ain’t never invited me to any tea parties at the Plaza.”
“Maybe someday somebody will.”
“Sure. Cora Gallagher. The queen of the ball. What else do you want to know?”
“Beginning to enjoy yourself?”
“I’m out so far in the deep, I may as well keep swimming.”
“Tell me who he’s feeding dope to. I want big names.” She reeled off several names. “That’s real good, Miss Gallagher. Go to the head of the class. Who does he deal with in the police department?”
“That, I really swear to you, I do not know.”
“But there’s somebody.”
“There has to be, right?”
“Yeah. That’s the punch in the belly. There has to be. Cora, you’ve been a good girl. It’s a shame you wasted your lemon phosphate, but you did me good.” He told her how to contact him if she needed him. She hoped she wouldn’t need him, but they both knew better. “Now leave here by yourself. You can go home now.”
“I’m not going home. I’m going to see Gloria Swanson’s new movie. She makes me feel better. She gets into worse trouble than I do. So long. Thanks for the buggy ride.”
Tell him the man is here. Or Mr. Man. Or maybe Mr. Mann I wonder.
Mrs. Parker, fresh from her cooling bath, finally got through to Woollcott. “Your line has been engaged for almost an hour,” she scolded. “There was enough time there for me to have conceived and aborted.”
“And did you?” rasped Woollcott.
“I’ve had quite a day.”
“Nothing to compare with mine!” He impaled her ear with a dramatic recital of the attempt on his life which Mrs. Parker on her end punctuated with an occasional “oh, no!” or “dear me, no!” or “oh, poor Alec.” Finished, she heard Woollcott gasping for air and thought he certainly deserved a thunderous round of applause. She realized it was an opportunity to get her own oar in.
“I’m glad Jacob has assigned you protection.”
“Protection! I don’t even know what he looks like. I have a fear I’ll be spending the rest of my life looking over my shoulder!”
“Well, Alec, at last you’re a hero. And heaven knows we seriously lack for heroes. Have you any idea where Jacob is? I dutifully called him at the precinct at six, but he wasn’t there. He’s had me shadowed all day, too, by the way.”
“Well, I should think so, now that both our heads are on the chopping block.”
“I don’t quite see myself as Anne Boleyn, but I’m digressing.” She was also wondering if the man assigned to trail her had by some miracle managed to detect what had gone on in Lacey Van Weber’s bedroom. “I must see you both before Neysa’s shindig.”
“You are. At eight o’clock sharp, in your digs. Jacob arranged that with me at lunch.”
“Oh, how nice, you lunched.”
“It was very kind and thoughtful of him to rush to my side in my hour of need. Anyway, my tarnished tulip, it’s nast seven now and I haven’t quite finished my toilette. Release me and I’ll see you at eight.”
“Be very careful.”
“Now she tells me.” They hung up simultaneously. In a rare state of efficiency, Mrs. Parker phoned Charlotte Royce and just missed her. She had left for the theater. Mrs. Parker left a message and then asked the operator to locate a number for Lily Robson. The number was located, but Miss Robson was not at home either.
In a bedroom in the employees’ barracks of Van Weber’s estate in East Cove, the man with the steel plate in his head and part of his earlobe missing asked his roommate, the man with the scar on his right cheek running from his ear to his mouth, if he wanted to drive into Great Neck to see a movie.
“What movie?”
“I’m thinkin’ of The Black Pirate.”
“Who’s in it?”
“Douglas Fairbanks.”
“That fag.”
“He ain’t no fag. He’s married to Mary Pickford.”
“Lotsa fags get married.”
“Not to Mary Pickford. Y’comin’ or y’ain’t comin’?”
“I ain’t comin’. I’m too tired. Last night on the river knocked me out. Where do y’get your energy? Y’run around too much. Take it easy. Y’new around here, you’ll soon learn to take it easy. Like y’know we got a big Saturday night comin’ up. Lotsa kilos to unload. Did y’know?”
“I heard.”
“Y’still goin’ to the movies?”
“Sure I’m still goin’. It’s early, ain’t it?”
“Y’ll need a pass.”
“I already got one.”
“Okay. Don’t make no noise when y’come home.”
Yudel Sherman was exhausted. Tailing somebody in the city was one thing, peaches and cream easy, lots of doorways to duck into when you think the tail is getting suspicious. But out in the open there are no doorways, maybe a tree to hide behind, but not when you’re behind the wheel of a Ford with a rattling rumble seat. The only thing he enjoyed was the powerful pair of binoculars with which he had been provided. He managed to see a few things he didn’t expect to see, and enjoyed seeing Jacob Singer’s cheeks redden when he apprised him of what he happened to see in somebody’s bedroom in East Cove. “I guess they thought they didn’t have to pull down the window shades all the way out there.”
“Ain’t you got no respect for people’s privacy?” asked Al Cassidy.
“I saw them by accident,” explained Yudel.
“Don’t sound to me like no accident,” said Cassidy, “It was a head-on collision.”
Singer was typing up his notes on his interview with Cora Gallagher. Occasionally, Cassidy looked over his shoulder. Singer asked him to stop breathing down his neck. “Is there anything special on for tonight?” asked Cassidy.
“No. But keep in touch with the precinct.”
“Where will you be, Jake?” asked Yudel.
“I’m going to a party with Woollcott.”
“You two going steady?” asked Cassidy.
“No,” replied Singer, “he hasn’t asked me.”
“How come, I wonder,” pressed Cassidy.
“I think he’s just shy. Now why don’t you go get your dinner or go fuck yourself, whichever is the most pressing.”
“Okay. See you later.” Cassidy left.
“You want to hear more,” asked Yudel, “or have I told you enough?”
“You ain’t told me anything about that place we don’t already know.”
“It’s real pretty. Lotsa marble fauns and things like that there. A real shame it ain’t used for anything real useful.”
“By them it’s useful. Yudel, you don’t have to hang around.”
“I got no place to go.”
“Go home to your wife!”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot about her.”
“Why don’t you try calling her up? Maybe it’s still the same number.”
“Very funny.”
Texas Guinan’s apartment in Greenwich Village was a monument to bad ta
ste. Instead of doors, there were beaded drapes, which an old beau had suggested were probably inspired by her beady eyes. The furniture was frayed old plush, with oranges, reds and browns predominating. Strewn around the room was a variegated collection of Kewpie dolls and teddy bears. The grand piano groaned under the weight of numerous framed photographs of celebrities and relatives (she adored her brother, Tommy Guinan, a small-time hood in Larry Fay’s employ), some autographed, some bogus, such as one of President Calvin Coolidge wearing an Indian headdress. The windows were draped with velvet green materials artfully run up for her by two reformed prostitutes she had financed with sewing machines (actually conned out of a scion of the Singer family who owed her a favor). The carpet covering the living room floor was interwoven with fauns and satyrs, uninhibited, and Texas was now reclining on a chaise longue wishing George Raft would stop wearing a path in her favorite floor covering.
“So whaddya want me to do?” snarled Guinan as she reached for a bottle of gin to refill the glass she was holding.
“I want you to tell them to lay offa me. The son of a bitch almost bust my ribs! Supposing I had to dance tonight, just supposing!”
“Well, you don’t gotta dance tonight, and for chrissakes will you light someplace, you’re making me nauseous with that pacing up and down. You want to pace up and down, go over to Roosevelt Hospital and wait for some sucker to give birth.”
Raft sank morosely into a morris chair. “Van Weber promised me. He promised me a lotta things.”
“Oh, sure. Like Valentino promised you.”
“Rudy was setting me up a screen test, wasn’t he?”
“Was he?”
“He said he was.”