Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter

by Tinsley, Theodore A.

  She murmured pensively: “So you’re the great Mr. Tracy!”

  “Am I a disappointment?”

  “No-o-o-o. I wouldn’t say that.”

  “What would you say?”

  She laughed. “Okey, Uncle Sam!”

  “Silly trade-mark, isn’t it?”

  “I think it’s cute.”

  That made them both laugh. He cupped the silken clad shoulder with his left palm. She said to him in a baby voice: “It must be something terrible to have the power you got, Mr. Tracy.”

  “Terrible?”

  “Yeah. Havin’ people’s reputation right in the palm of your hand—and all that. You know what I mean, Mr. Tracy?”

  “Terrible is no word for it—and the name is Jerry, sweetheart.” The cupped hand slid down her arm.

  When he left the apartment he was grinning like a monkey. He nodded genially to the man at the desk downstairs and went out.

  It was getting much colder outside; a windless, biting chill. He rumpled his overcoat collar about his throat and shoved both hands deep into his pockets.

  He was thinking hard. The time was a little after one o’clock. Eleven, twelve, one—three hours difference in time. Mmmm. … What the hell was the name of that movie director? He couldn’t remember. The Ball and Chain would know. Three hours. … Plenty of time to grab a bite to eat and still catch her when she knocked off for lunch.

  He grinned at the memory of lunch-time in Hollywood. He’d been out there once! He remembered the suggestion he had made to Old Papa Weintraub: Why not build a swell minaret, hire an extra with a white beard at ten bucks a day, dress him in robes and turban and have the guy blow the lunch call from a silver trumpet? Ta—ta—Whah! Papa Weintraub gurgled with delight at the idea and made a notation on his Nile-green memo pad. … Cr-raazy people. …

  For some strange reason Tracy was hungry. He went to a speako where they lost money on the food and made it on the drinks. He had an absinthe cocktail—millionaire’s dream. Then he polished off with leisurely enjoyment: antipasto, minestrone, spaghetti, veal covered with tomato sauce and strips of cheese and the whole baked to a glorious brown. He washed the meal down with a tall bottle of white wine and finished with Gorgonzola and crackers. Okey, Emil! Emil brought him a brandy and soda on the house and he toyed with the drink and thought some more about the Ball and Chain.

  She was the key to the whole thing. If she got wind of the conspiracy, the thing would flop like a house of cards. But Muriel and her gunman partner knew darn well that Harry Wexler would mortgage his house in Great Neck before he’d let them poison the mind of the skeptical old trouper out in Hollywood. But on the other hand, if Jerry got her ear—and got it first. …

  She was a good sport, the Ball and Chain. And the thought of a blonde wench rooking Harry of dough that ought to go to the seven little Wexlers would make the old girl snort like one of Jake Ruppert’s horses and reach for a meat-axe.

  Tracy sighed, patted his distended stomach and grabbed a cab back to Times Square.

  He picked up the phone and called the genius of the singing wires over in the Planet office.

  “Listen, Garbo! I want a long distance, person to person, Hollywood, Cal. Metwyn Studios. Sadie Hollister.”

  He heard her prompt laugh. “Well, well. … The famous old Ball and Chain!”

  “Sadie Hollister to you, maiden.”

  “Okey. Want me to drag her off the set?”

  “Dope! Time it for the lunch hour. And get busy—or I’ll get mad and agitate your permanent!”

  He slammed down the instrument, lit a butt, closed his eyes dreamily and allowed digestion to proceed.

  After a while the phone buzzed and Garbo’s professional whine said: “All set, Mr. Tracy. Here’s your potty.”

  He growled: “Hello? Sadie? Jerry Tracy.”

  A surprisingly distinct voice said: “Hello, you little rat! What’s the matter?”

  “Listen, Sadie! It’s about Harry! And for —— sake, hold your temper till I get through.”

  “Harry?”

  “He’s in a jam. He’s been put on the spot by a blonde.”

  The yelp she let out in Hollywood made him pull the receiver away from his ear.

  “Take it easy, Mama! Lemme explain. It’s a phoney—a plant—a job. Harry’s scared stiff; he doesn’t know I’m calling you. Shut up a minute, damn you!”

  He shot her the yarn with staccato speed and newspaper clarity. He heard her puffing and snorting clear across the continent. He stared at the flat surface of his desk but all he could see was the Ball and Chain’s fleshy, good-natured face—as clearly as though he were staring at an advance still from “Gum Drop Sadie.”

  “How much is the blonde —— into him for?” she barked.

  “Ten grand—she hasn’t got it yet, old girl.”

  “Ten grand! Oi, yoi! Ten grand! And me slavin’ out here with a lousy script to make money for mein babies. And then that fool husband of mine—”

  “Will you listen?”

  “Ten grand! She should deprive little Maxey of his pony-cart, hah? She should make little Holman give up his English tooter from Oxford! She should maybe—Ten grand! I’ll give the dirty yeller-haired —— skin treatment!”

  “Fine!” he sweated. “We can fix it, Sadie. I got it all doped out. Who’s that director with the speed job—you know—that low-wing thing? The fella that likes to take baby stars up and show ’em altitude?”

  “Morrie von Haldemann.”

  “Right. Grab him and talk turkey. You can start this afternoon the minute they finish shooting.”

  “Oi, would I love to! I can’t, Jerry. We’re behind on production.”

  “Nerts. It’s a racing ship, Mama old girl. You can be back on the set Monday. … Poor old Harry’s crazy with worry—it’s a lousy shake-down. Come on; I’m betting on you.”

  A long pregnant silence. Then: “You’re a good guy, Jerry. I’ll fade your bet.”

  He wiggled with relief. “I’ll meet you at Newark airport. Try and keep it under your hat. Gas up and scram the minute you can. You can wipe off the grease-paint going over the Rockies.”

  “You’re a good skate, Jerry. If Harry had a coupla more friends like you—”

  “Rats! Go on back to the sound stage and slay ’em for a couple of hours more. And—don’t worry, Sadie. It’s in the bag.”

  He hung up with a gentle, faraway precision. He said smilingly to the wall; “What a gal! When the old Ball and Chain quits Harry I’ll be writing clean serials for the Fireside Companion.”

  The well-groomed juvenile at the airport looked up inquiringly.

  “Ship due pretty soon?” Tracy said.

  The tailored shoulders shrugged prettily. “Sorry, sir. She’s grounded at Cleveland. Low ceiling; poor visibility.”

  For a second Jerry looked crestfallen and worried: then his eyes lighted.

  “What show are you talking about, sonny? You mean the regular passenger ferryboat?”

  “The scheduled tri-motor. Yes, sir.”

  “Phooey! What about the special—the low wing?”

  The man’s face turned eight shades more obsequious. He became aware he was talking to a big shot.

  “The private low-wing, sir? The job from the Coast? She’s coming through, sir—how, God only knows! Everything east of Cleveland has been grounded. Amazing performance. We’re all frightfully thrilled about it here. Do you realize that she’ll come damned—” He whispered it. “—damned close to breaking Doolittle’s record?”

  Tracy wasn’t interested.

  “We’ve been ordered to clamp down on publicity. Must be someone from the Industry.” He said the word reverently. “We’re all curious to know who’s aboard.”

  “Santa Claus,” Tracy said “I’m a friend of the family—one of his brownies.”

  He walked around aimlessly and people peered out of doorways at him. He was on his third cigarette when a signal sounded somewhere on the field, and the clerk crie
d out: “That must be her, I think!”

  He followed Tracy outside. Earth and sky were a gray, cheerless monotone. It was freezing cold. Airport employees stood around, stamping their feet and whacking their chests. The clerk at Tracy’s elbow was bareheaded and his teeth kept clicking like dice. His finger pointed but Jerry could barely see the ship. A tiny speck in the leaden half-light.

  It grew amazingly fast. He saw it whizz like a bullet till it was directly over his head. Life size. Roaring. A thing of streamlined beauty; a clean arrow from tip to tail. Silver wings with dappled red tips.

  Dark blobs appeared suddenly under the ship’s smooth belly and the man at Tracy’s elbow yelled: “Retractable landing gear! What a job! What a swwwweeeet job!”

  She circled the field twice and dipped. Touched the frozen earth and taxied into the apron. Her tail swung about and a hail of pebbles and sand stung Tracy’s shins. The engine blipped, the propeller kicked over stiffly—once, twice—and stopped. In the gray haze the poised blade was like a silver lance pointing skyward.

  The landing steps were trundled forward on a wheeled dolly. A man in uniform reached to open the door. He didn’t quite get there in time. Someone inside the ship flung the door open.

  The Ball and Chain stood in the gap, grinning. Her fat face was one vast smile. She stood there, arms akimbo, and her shrewd eyes lit on Tracy.

  “Whoops! Hello, and how are yuh, you little punk?”

  Her face jerked backward for a second, towards the unseen pilot.

  “If I ever buy one of these things, you’re elected, young fella! Thanks for the buggy ride. Whoops! Am I dizzy!”

  People were buzzing around like flies. Sadie Hollister! In the flesh—uh-huh—in from the West Coast on almost a record-breaking trip! A grimy grease-monkey ran alongside and howled, daringly: “Hello, Sadie!”

  “Hello yourself, sonny boy!” She ate up that crowd stuff.

  Laughter followed her like an eddy. Tracy hooked arms with her and got her away to the car. She was royalty—a rowdy queen kidding with her devoted subjects. Completely at ease and happy.

  She waved her beefy hand to the crowd as Tracy’s chauffeur meshed gears. “I’ll see the pack of you in ‘Gum Drop Sadie,’ kids! Don’t miss it if you have to go hungry!”

  As the motor spurted she dropped the professional gayety like a cloak. She looked suddenly older, haggard.

  “I’m a workin’ woman, Jerry. I got no time for long vacations. Where’s that blonde —— live?”

  “Take it easy.”

  “She’s got my diamond earrings, the dirty little trollop!”

  “Okey. That’s what we’re going after. Lemme tell you about Harry.”

  The blazing eyes filmed and softened. She patted his hand.

  “Harry’s all right,” she said. “I know what he’s up against. I keep him scared for his own good—the softhearted slob! Don’t you worry about us, Dirty Minded! You couldn’t pull old-timers like us apart with a tractor, sonny boy.”

  Her laughter bubbled oddly. “Can you imagine a little wart like Harry giving me seven beautiful kids? Mama loves Papa—and don’t you forget it! … Now shut up and let’s go places. I’m tired. … ”

  Neither of them said another word on the long drive to Muriel’s apartment. They got out at last, walked rapidly across the freezing sidewalk and ducked into the lobby.

  Tracy nodded, picked up the desk phone and told the clerk curtly: “Get Miss Slade’s apartment. I’ll talk to her myself.”

  He could barely hear the blonde when she came on the wire. She sounded muffled, like hot potatoes.

  She said: “The same Mr. Wexler? The nice Mr. Wexler from the Planet?”

  “In person, honey. Everything’s lovely. I’m coming up.”

  The low voice became urgent.

  “No, no. … Don’t—please don’t, Jerry! Make it tomorrow like a good boy. Be nice to baby and make it tomorrow!”

  “Fine. I’ll be right up.”

  He nodded to the Ball and Chain and they got into the elevator. As it rose wheezingly he could hear the phone on the desk ringing furiously. He grinned. Muriel wasn’t to stall Mrs. Tracy’s little boy!

  His grin solidified suddenly. She wasn’t stalling—she was scared. Maybe. … Good Lord, there wasn’t any maybe! A sickening picture flicked inside his skull. Frankie Stork! The gunman with the parchment skin and the arrogant smile. Upstairs—and in the complete dark about a guy named Jerry. The blonde was scared. She had tried to whisper Jerry away. That was it!

  The elevator continued to ascend wheezingly. Frankie and Jerry—it sounded like a song. The whining cable of the lift was pulling them together. No way out. Jerry couldn’t get out of it. He glanced at the Ball and Chain’s face. She’d crash forty Frankies to get her hands on the blonde. He hadda go through with it. Sweat gathered on his smiling face.

  “Corridor down to the left,” said the operator. He descended with a bored stare.

  Jerry’s rap on the apartment door was barely audible but the door opened instantly. A mere crack. Muriel’s face peered. She looked ugly.

  “Scram!” she whispered. “I tried to tip you. He’s in the bathroom, shaving.”

  The Bail and Chain gave the door a titanic shove and sent it crashing open. She barged in with a roar of rage.

  It all happened together. The blonde screamed shrilly, took a smack on the jaw from Sadie and went over backwards like a hosiery ad. Frankie Stork came racing out of the bathroom in a dressing-gown, his face covered with soap lather. He was almost blind with the stuff. He couldn’t see Jerry at all; the door screened the columnist.

  The soaped gunman bent over his piled garments, fumbling fiercely. As the gun jerked into his hand Tracy sprang from concealment and drove his fist into the stooping face. He heard a dull plop! as the blow landed, and blobs of white lather flew.

  Frankie Stork fell over the chair and dropped the gun. Jerry grabbed it, swung it upward like a flash and clubbed the gunman’s skull—twice.

  The startled Ball and Chain was standing like a mountain of frozen incredulity in the center of the room. The blonde had turned over and was on her hands and knees, glaring venomously at Jerry like a snake.

  She squalled at him: “Wait’ll Frankie comes to and sees who done it! Your life ain’t worth a dime no more, dearie!”

  Tracy shut the apartment door softly and locked it. He put the key into his pocket.

  “That’s right, beautiful. Frankie never did get to see me, did he? That’s a break.”

  He walked coolly across to the bed, yanked off the coverings, tore a sheet hastily into strips. The blonde didn’t hinder him. She was watching the Ball and Chain out of narrowed eyes. She got up and smoothed her hips. One look at the Ball and Chain’s famous phiz had told the blonde that the blackmail scheme was fatally queered. It was her personal safety now that was worrying her. She stood very quietly, watching the older woman.

  Jerry tied the gunman’s hands and feet, slipped a gag over his jaw, bandaged the closed eyelids. He dragged Frankie Stork across the rug and flopped him on the bed.

  He told the blonde: “If you’ve got any sense at all, lovely, you won’t remember a thing. You were clouted on the head and passed out in a flurry of undies before Frankie got his. It’s all a mystery to you, beautiful. Frankie Stork would be apt to misunderstand if he knew I was here.”

  She snarled: “Git outta here—the two o’ yuh—before I screech for the cops!”

  The Ball and Chain blinked and came suddenly out of her brown study.

  “I want two diamond earrings out of you, tramp! Hand ’em over!”

  “Haven’t got ’em. I pawned ’em.”

  “Hand ’em over!”

  Her hands sprang out and the blonde’s head began to wobble drunkenly. There was a ripping sound and Jerry pulled the old character trouper away. He threw a blanket at the blonde.

  “Is that nice, Mama? You’re making me blush. Don’t be like that. We’ll find the earrings ourselves.”


  “Damn’ tootin’,” she growled.

  She ranged around the room like a female rhinoceros, pawing furniture, pulling open bureau drawers, tossing stuff helter-skelter over her shoulder.

  “Ten grand! The gall o’ the skinny yeller carrot! Blush? She couldn’t make a door-knob blush—the skinny little whelp! Takin’ my diamond earrings! An’ me with seven kids and a swimmin’ pool not yet paid for! Ten grand! Looka this—got better underwear than I can afford! No wonder—stealin’ people’s diamond earrings!”

  She snorted and threw the offending garment aside.

  Tracy came in swiftly from the adjoining room. “This what you’re after?”

  She took the earrings from him with a grunt of satisfaction.

  “I’ll have to send ’em to the laundry for a scourin’ after the hands they been through!”

  Tracy piloted her to the door with difficulty. He unlocked it. The fettered gunman was still dead to the world on the bed. Tracy was shaking like a leaf with nervousness. He was trying to get Sadie away in a hurry and it wasn’t easy.

  The Ball and Chain turned for a parting shot. Her finger pointed disgustedly at the blanketed shoulders of the blonde.

  “Look at her! How Harry ever said hello to her is a mystery to me. Beanpole! She could double for Slim Summerville in the nude and nobody’d know the difference!”

  He said, soothingly: “Sure, sure.”

  They rode down in the elevator together and she giggled suddenly like a plough-horse. “Ain’t I the excitable old idiot! Wait’ll I tell Harry—he’ll split a rib!”

  Tracy didn’t witness the complete reunion of Papa and Mama. He saw only the overture. They stared at each other like two gray-haired kids.

  “Papa, I’m ashamed of you. You oughta be wearing diapers!”

  “Mama, you took the words right out of my mouth!”

  They didn’t miss Tracy for nearly twenty minutes. By that time he was back in his dingy Broadway office, pulling a sheet of paper from his typewriter.

  He read the typewritten squib with a mild grin:

  “What little blonde started to take a stroll up Easy Street and got all tangled in a Ball and Chain?”

  HELP WANTED