“You got it. She says she wants to go on the Krumby Krackers amateur program tonight. Says you gotta give her an audition right away and fix things so she can go on tonight.”
“Isn’t that swell! But why does she come to me?”
“That’s just what I ask her right off the bat.”
“And?”
“She says it’s a matter of life and death. No kiddin’, Boss, that’s just what she said. She says she’s gotta go on the air—that you’re a good, kind guy—and please God, will yuh help her? And all the time she’s got them gummy eyes of hers glued tight on my pan—and she talks low and funny—it’s almost like she’s praying. … That’s her story, What’ll I do? Brush her off?”
Tracy’s contemplative smile deepened. “Cease kidding, Butch, my lad. Show her in.”
A moment later Butch said in a solemn tone: “This here is him, lady.”
Jerry Tracy’s eyes widened incredulously. The door closed.
“How do you do, madam. Sit down, won’t you?”
Her hair was orange, all right; and badly in need of a comb. She didn’t appear to hear Tracy’s polite invitation. She came towards him with a tremulous little rush and stood stock-still in front of his desk, pouring out words at him in a barely audible whisper.
“For Gawd’s sake, Mister Tracy, don’t gimme no runaround, will you? You’re the only man in the world that can help me. You’re a good guy—everybody knows that. You wouldn’t toin down a person who was on the level, would yuh? An’ I gotta go on the air tonight! I just gotta! You can do it if yuh wanta. You know all the big shots and the right parties. Please, Mister Tracy—please, please. … ”
She’s wringing her hands, Tracy thought dazedly. I’ve always wondered just what the devil that meant. And she’s doing it right here in front of my desk!
Watching her, he felt a queer chill of helpless compassion. Her dyed hair was streaky and stringy. Intuitively he guessed that she was nearer forty-five than sixty; but it was intuition, not observation, that told him. A bum, washed into his office from some doorway on the Bowery. In ashbarrel finery and dyed hair. Fantastically beseeching him—not for a dime, but for an audition!
He said, gently: “I’m not sure that I quite understand you, madam. You mean you want to go on the air? You want to broadcast?”
“Yessir. I—I—Yes!”
“Er—anything special you had in mind?”
“The amateur hour, Mister Tracy. You know the one—with the funny master of ceremonies and the Wise Cracker Band—and the Cracker Barrel Philo-philo-soffer at the end.”
“Of course.” Tracy nodded politely. “You mean the Krumby Kracker Amateur Hour.”
“That’s the one. Yessir.”
A gag, of course. A buildup. A comedy blackout. In a moment, if he played straight man and kept his pan wooden, she’d yank off that orange floor-mop and the door would open and spill in a bunch of hysterical wise guys with horns and rattlers—and the party would be on till 4 a.m. with the drinks on Tracy!
He said, in a thickish growl: “Nerts to you, baby. It’s a good act but I’m tired. Call in the gang.”
She leaned over the desk and her fingers hurt like hell. They bit into his forearm. He had to pry them loose.
“Can’t yuh write me a note—a little hunk of paper, or somethin’. So’s I can get in? It’s gotta be tonight—’cause I’m afraid I’ll die. Gawd wouldn’t let me die, would He, Mister Tracy?”
He walked deliberately around his desk, applied downward pressure until her knees bent and she sunk with docile obedience into a chair.
“What are you after sister? The ten buck prize?”
“Ten bucks. Yessir.” She didn’t look at him.
“What do you do?”
“Huh?”
“I mean, what’s your act? Do you imitate guinea pigs or play a xylophone—or what?”
“Well, I—I sing.”
“What do you sing?”
“Anything. Just songs.”
“What’s your name?”
Her eyes swung upward to meet his. By some miracle of nature color flooded faintly into her grimy old face.
“Angel La Farge,” she said, and outfaced him and made him look away.
“Ever been on the stage?”
“No, sir.”
“Mmmmm. … What’s your real name? I got no time to fool.”
“Will you help me?” she whispered, “if I tell you?”
“How do I know? Come on—what’s your name?”
“Annie Brenner.”
The name meant nothing whatever to Tracy. His smile hardened into Broadway gutta-percha.
“Okey, Annie. You want to go on the air. So why?”
“I—I wanta sing songs on the amateur hour.”
Tracy raised his voice. “Hey, Butch! Oh—Butch!”
Instantly Annie Brenner came springing out of her chair like a tigress. She clawed at his sleeve, clutched beseechingly at him so that he staggered and almost fell. He recoiled, his left arm shielding his face from her curved fingers.
“Something, Jerry?” Butch asked from the doorway.
Tracy stepped clear of the woman. Drew a deep breath. Straightened his tie, dusted a bit of imaginary fluff from the knife-edge of his trousers.
“False alarm,” he told Butch calmly.” No dice. Out!”
Butch stared, said “okey” in a puzzled voice and shut himself out.
Annie Brenner was weeping soundlessly—a pantomime of noiseless grief that was horrible to watch. The Planet’s dapper columnist leaned above the bedraggled forlorn woman.
“Annie,” he said slowly, “I’ve got a hunch or an idea—or something I thought for a minute you might be a Canadian dime, but I was wrong. The chances are I’m gonna help you. Maybe. If I do, you’ve got to play ball. Just what is this radio stuff? What’s your real angle?”
“I hafta see somebody,” she whispered. “Somebody I gotta see real bad. He makes lotsa money. He has bodyguards—men that push you away, knock you into the gutter if you try to get near him. But if I could get into the radio place, I—I could see him.”
“And it’s got to be the amateur show and none other?”
“Yessir.”
“Guy makes lots of dough, eh? Krumby Kracker show. Mmmmm. … Would it by any chance be the master of ceremonies, Annie?”
She nodded haggardly. “That’s him. The comedian. Willie Zigger. The man that makes all the jokes.”
“Zigger, eh?” Tracy’s gnomelike forehead wrinkled. “The little gag and patter man. Do you know him?”
“I usta know him. He wasn’t so—so famous then.”
“Correct. We’ll skip the part about low he got his break on radio. I know all about that—all the smelly details.” Tracy studied her with cloudy eyes. “Suppose I fixed it so you could get n the studio tonight. Would you say hello to him, shake hands, chew the at about old times?”
“I want to kill him,” she breathed.
“That’s what I thought. So why, Annie? Has he—hurt you?”
“Not me, Mister Tracy.”
“Whom?”
“Ruthie.”
“And Ruthie, of course, is?”
“My little girl.”
“Mmmmm. … How about a quick synopsis, Annie? I mean can you give me a rough outline?” He checked her suddenly with upraised palm. “Wait. I … Knowing Zigger, I think I’d like to make a guess. Ruthie is about—ummmmm—seventeen. Right?”
“She was not quite sixteen, Mister Tracy, when—”
“Yeah. Sounds like Willie Zigger. Where’s the girl now? Dead?”
“I don’t know. I think he may have her in his penthouse but I’m not sure. I tried to get in but his—his lawyer did something and they sent me to the Island. I couldn’t talk to anyone. No one would listen. I—I thought if I came to you—”
“You came to the right shop,” Tracy said curtly. “I never liked Zigger and his bum jokes. And I know what he did to get into radio. And about how long he�
��s going to last. … Tell me about Ruthie.”
Guided by the columnist’s gentle questioning, Annie Brenner’s husky voice supplied the familiar facts. Always so prosaic, Jerry thought, always the same! A year or so ago—on the Greer Turnpike. The Greer Turnpike was a state highway not too far from Philly. Mrs. Brenner ran a tourist camp; and sometimes Ruthie and her mother ate regularly and sometimes they didn’t. It was that kind of setup.
Willie Zigger arrived one warm, rainy day with a what ho! and a merry ha! ha! A great guy, Willie, in spite of his ups and downs. He blew into the tourist camp with a rented car and a pasteboard suitcase. He was stony broke and looking for a comfortable cyclone cellar. Radio was just around the corner for him—but Willie didn’t know it yet! His vaudeville act was stale and sour; and besides, the big movie houses had skimmed the cream off vaudeville and had thrown the rest down the sink. That’s where Willie and his pasteboard suitcase were—down the sink—playing quick tank hops for crullers and coffee. A threadbare personality boy looking for ease and entertainment. His canny eye told him instantly that in Mrs. Brenner and Ruthie there might be possibilities for both.
Ruthie had never met a free and easy little zany like Zigger. His worn-out comedy routine went over big. Ruthie gurgled at his gags, got to squeezing his hand timidly whenever Ma wasn’t looking, asked wistful questions about the Big Town and the Big Time. Zigger dramatized both. He eyed the taut outline of Ruthie’s figure as she stretched tiptoe, hair flying in the wind, to hang the family wash. The kid was sure a nice bet. And instantly, Zigger’s cheap and tawdry little mind whispered gloatingly: “Why not?”
When he breezed one night, he sneaked away with Mrs. Brenner’s pocketbook. And Ruthie.
Listening to Annie Brenner’s dreary narrative, Jerry Tracy frowned. He couldn’t place Ruthie in his gossip memory. He had never heard of her. Zigger must be a very, very wise gent. Radio success had lifted him to a spotlighted national pinnacle—but with no hint of a captive or—dead—Ruthie. Plenty of tales were current about the comedian; a few funny, most of ’em dirty. But Ruthie? Not the least hint. Nothing!
“Ever had a letter from the kid?” Tracy asked. “Not even a postcard?”
“Nothing, Mister Tracy. She—she just—disappeared.”
The columnist lit a cigarette and pondered.
“And you only got to Zigger once, eh? And that did no good because his hired gun gave you the old brush-off, had you vagged at the Island for a ninety-day stretch. … And then—times get tougher for you, eh? And you can’t do much about Ruthie, because your big job is just to keep alive. Long enough to get Zigger in a corner somewhere and make him talk! And that’s not so easy now, because Willie Zigger is on a solid-gold bandwagon, while you are just—”
“Just a bum,” she whispered drearily. “A frowsy old bum—that’s me.”
Tracy’s throat made a brief, growling sound. “Cut that out, Annie. I don’t like it and besides—it’s not true. Let’s see. … First of all, you’ve gotta have some dough. Just a small loan, eh?”
She pushed the roll of bills aside.
“Don’t want money,” she muttered. “Don’t need money.”
“Where have you been sleeping lately?”
“Municipal lodging house. Salvation Army. Last night I flopped in a doorway.” Her laughter made a brittle cackle in the room. “Somehow, it’s easier to remember things when you sleep in a freezing cold doorway.”
“Excuse me,” Jerry murmured suddenly.
He went into the outer office and dug a vicious thumb into Butch’s ribs. There was a brief whispered conversation between the columnist and his beefy shadow. The roll of bills that Mrs. Brenner had spurned went into Butch’s pocket. The ex-pug came into the inner office presently, hooked the old derelict’s arm under his, nudged her gently towards the door.
“You go right along with Butch,” Tracy reassured her. “Do whatever he says. Butch is a good guy.”
She nodded dazedly. “I’ll do anything you say, Mister Tracy, only— Do you think that, maybe, you can—”
“You leave it all to me, Mrs. Brenner. … Maybe I’ll have some news for you by tomorrow.” He jerked his head towards Butch. “Remember what; I told you. Some food first of all. Then the rest of it. And hurry it up back. We’re going places, sweetheart!”
Dusk was deepening into early evening When Butch returned. The Daily Planet’s, dapper little columnist; shot a piercing glance at him.
“Oke, little man?”
“Oke.”
“That’s very swell. Keep your hat: on. I feel in the mood for a social call.”
“Hey! Don’t we eat first?”
Jerry grinned at him. “You can buy a chocolate bar from that curved blond menace in the lobby downstairs. The one that’s been giving you goose-pimples lately. Come on. Let’s amscray.”
In the taxi Butch studied his employer covertly. He bit off half of his chocolate bar and made swampy noises with his lips. “Where we going, mongsoor?”
“We’re calling on a bigshot, my lad. A heavyweight customer. An important figure in the amusement world.”
Butch’s throat went zzzung! and the chocolate disappeared.
“Not Maxie Baer!” he gasped.
“I said amusement, dope. … Can’t you ever get fight out of your mind?”
“He socked me once,” Butch said dreamily. “I mean Maxie. Over at Stillman’s gym. Just in fun, y’unnerstan’. A little playful shove in the belly. Jeeze, I went cold all over.” Butch finished the rest of his chocolate and sighed. “What a man!”
“Ever listen much to radio, Butch?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Ever hear of a redhot named Willie Zigger?”
“Did I ever hear of him! You mean the Krumby Kracker program? Say, that guy is tops! I tune in for him every Thoisday night. I mean, the guy’s good. I wish I had the apples he shakes down once a week. He’s worth it, what I mean.”
Butch grinned sheepishly.
“I was in a delicatessen one night and I seen them Krumby Krackers on the counter—and darned if I didn’t buy a box. Can yuh beat that?”
“How were the crackers?”
“Lousy.”
Tracy shot a pinched smile at his companion. “By the way, Zigger is the lad I’m calling on.”
“No kiddin’ … Willie Zigger? Say!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Well—jeese. … Ain’t I been tellin’ yuh? Zigger is the nuts! The guy is reely funny. Did you hear the gag he pulled last Thoisday night? The one about the ——”
“If you don’t shut that trap of yours,” Tracy said with cold fury, “I’ll poke you right in the lip. Willie Zigger is a cheap little rat and his gags smell. And he won’t be so damn’ funny when I finish talking to him tonight.”
“Maybe I’m wrong,” Butch muttered.
“I’m damn’ well telling you that you’re wrong. We’re going over to his penthouse right now—nail him before he leaves for the broadcast tonight. I’m going to lay a finger on wise little Willie—and hold it there till it hurts.”
Butch nodded at Tracy, chuckled briefly to show his intelligent comprehension of the situation.
“Right with yuh, Boss. Only lemme get it straight. You want me to ice up Zigger wid a quick left an’ right?”
“No, dope. You stay downstairs. I go up. … Got the proper slant on things now, sweetheart?”
“Oh, sure. It’s like them crackers I bought, huh? Zigger’s lousy, too?”
“Too—and also.”
Butch studied the craggy fist in his lap. The puzzled look left his low forehead. “I’ll shove Zigger’s nose back in his hair any time yuh say. That little rat ain’t gonna get away wid nothin’.”
Jerry Tracy paid off the taxi driver at a certain roaring corner of the town; a section he had long since immortalized in his Planet column as the “Sexy Sixties.” With Butch hulking along at his side he walked west along a dark, canyon-like street; a place of swanky restaurant
s, a few not so swanky residential hotels; a couple of intimate theaters that had long since gone dark—and still were. Here and there a loft building stretched its gaunt, ugly length against the chilly stars of Manhattan.
It was in the shadow of one of these buildings that Willie Zigger maintained his elaborate hideaway.
An expensive foreign-built sedan stood empty at the curb, its parking lamps a dim, filtered glow. Zigger’s. The thing looked like a portable cathedral.
Butch glanced at it and said, “Uh-huh!” in awed admiration.
“Yeah,” Tracy said dryly. “You wait down here, Butch. And try and make that big shape of yours as inconspicuous as possible.”
“Kinda cold, Boss.” He pulled his coat tighter around his throat and blew on his numb fingers.
Tracy pointed towards a small concreted recess beyond, and adjoining the building wall. It was closed off in the rear by a grilled iron gate that gave access to the rear of a theater in the next block.
“In there for you, sweetheart. You’ll be out of the wind. Stick around. I may have to go other places. S’long!”
The dapper little columnist hunched his shoulder against a shabby-looking revolving door and shoved inside. There was nothing shabby about the lobby he entered. Dim lights, a tapestry that belonged in a museum, an oil portrait of a whiskered financial gent—a very notorious old boy away back in Grant’s administration; an oriental rug that you didn’t walk on—you waded.
Tracy strolled across to a small desk under the tapestry. A stout, sleepy-looking man in a grey suit of excellent cut smothered a yawn and glanced up. He smiled instantly—deferentially—as he recognized the visitor.
“How do you do, Mr. Tracy? Haven’t seen you in weeks. … ”
The columnist’s eyelids flicked. “This is a confidential call, Anderson. Has Zigger gone out yet?”
“Not yet. He should, pretty soon. Broadcast tonight, you know. Show doesn’t go on till nine-thirty—but they dress the show about eight-thirty, I believe.”
“Okey. I’ll shinny up the shaft and say hello to the bum. Don’t forget what I said about confidential.”
He swiveled on his heel, stepped into a tiny elevator, said languidly, “P.H., my lad,” to a pimpled youth in a tight plum colored uniform. The elevator whisked swiftly upward to the penthouse level. The operator lingered with his door open, staring at the most famous little personage on Broadway, until Tracy’s lips creased satirically and he murmured: “May I offer you a cigarette and a deck of cards, Egbert? Or are you just in the mood for a simple chat?”
Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter Page 23