She goosed me and I jumped almost as high as those kids on the stage. Then she turned her back to me and she and her magnificent rear end headed down the aisle, and I’m sure she was confident I hadn’t seen her smiling.
In the lobby I indeed found Mel Norman. The diminutive impresario was sitting on the red-and-black-striped carpeted balcony steps next to a big glass display case where a Tall Paul poster loomed, an incredible Hal Rapp drawing of virtually every character in the Catfish Holler universe chasing after poor Paul, with voluptuous Sunflower Sue closing in. If I cleared Rapp of this, I’d ask for the original to hang in my bachelor pad.
Norman was a slender little guy in a yellow sportshirt with a pink sweater knotted around his neck, gray slacks and Italian loafers with pink socks. His face was round, his eyes small and blue (but made bigger by thick-lensed, dark-rimmed glasses), his brown hair cut short to the scalp to minimize incipient baldness, and he had retained a deep Hollywood tan here in the wilds of Manhattan.
He was smoking a cigarette. Two dead butts were squashed on the floor not far from where he sat on about the fourth step of the balcony stairs.
“Mr. Norman?” I asked.
He looked at me the way you do an insect that lights on you. “Yes?”
“We’ve met. I’m Jack Starr? Maggie’s—”
“Stepson! Yes, and partner in the syndicate, right!” He started to rise.
I held up a palm. “Don’t get up, sir.”
He obeyed, beaming at me, all friendly now. “I’m nobody’s ‘sir,’ Jack. Call me Mel. Your stepmother’s amazing, a real trouper. My God, she’s beautiful, and how old is she, anyway?”
I grinned. “Why don’t you ask her? That’s possibly her favorite question. Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.”
The steps were plenty wide for two backsides.
He reached for a package of Chesterfields in his breast pocket. “Care for a smoke, Jack?”
“No thanks, Mel. I quit those when I got off the sauce. For me, the two went together and I couldn’t ditch just one.”
He gave me an astounded look. “You don’t smoke? You don’t drink? What do you do?”
“I’m considering taking up girls,” I admitted. I nodded toward the theater. “And this show is full of possibilities.”
The round face split into a grin that displayed a gleaming grand’s worth of dental caps. “I always try to give the people what they like—nobody in show business ever went broke serving up hunky boys and busty girls.”
“Amen.” We could hear the muffled voice of Childe screaming from inside the theater. “You know, I really like your movies.”
His smile turned shy, almost embarrassed. “Well, thanks.”
“I think both Bob Hope and Danny Kaye make their best pictures when you’re writing and directing.”
He chuckled, drew in on the cigarette and sent smoke out his nostrils. “I’m only willing to listen to this kind of thing for another four or five hours, Jack. But, uh . . . I really am sufficiently buttered up. What’s on your mind?”
“It’s the Fizer murder.”
He frowned, and he had plenty of forehead to do it with. “Isn’t that a suicide? That’s what the papers say—‘apparent suicide.’ ”
And they indeed said that: Captain Chandler had taken my advice on handling the press.
“Well, it isn’t suicide,” I said. “This isn’t for public consumption, Mel, but Sam Fizer was almost certainly murdered. And Hal Rapp is the suspect the cops are looking at hardest.”
He blanched. “Oh, Christ. Just what we need. That’ll kill us! Our box office will—”
“Die? You mean, like Sam Fizer, Mel? I thought he was a friend of yours. But you seem to be over it.”
Now he reddened, from white to red in a heartbeat; if he could turn blue, he’d hit the whole patriotic spectrum.
“You’re right, Jack,” he said feebly. “I’m a typical low-life Hollywood schmuck, thinking only of me and my bank account, and a friend getting himself killed doesn’t even get my attention. . . . I’m not proud of it, Jack. It’s that town.”
“Hollywood?”
He nodded emphatically, sighing smoke. “It is the rat race you hear it is.”
I gestured to the Tall Paul poster nearby. “But this is Broadway. You’ve finally made it to Broadway, Mel.”
He was looking up at the poster like King Arthur seeing a vision of the Holy Grail. “I have, and that’s always been my dream. So you’ll have to excuse me for being so insensitive about Sam’s passing.”
“That’s okay.” I shrugged. “I figure you didn’t like Sam much.”
“Well . . . actually. . . I didn’t.”
“But you played poker with him, regularly.”
He nodded. “I have been, last four or five months, whenever I’ve been in town, which has been quite a bit, putting this show together.”
“High-stakes game, I understand?”
He rolled his eyes. “Highest I’ve ever been in! Brother, it got rough. You should see the way Candy’s husband, Charlie, bets. My God, he’s a lunatic! I’ve seen him bet five grand on an ace high. Hell, I’ve seen him call on an ace high!”
“Who else was in that game?”
I knew, of course, but I was just checking to see if Mel Norman would level with me. Or maybe he’d add a name to the list.
“I don’t know who sat in my seat when I wasn’t available,” he said. “But Charlie Mazurki, as I say, was a regular; so was Ray Alexander, the cartoonist who does Crash Landon, classy guy, very suave, droll as hell; and this kind of scary underworld character, Tony Carmichael—looks like he stepped out of Guys and Dolls, only not so good-natured and bighearted as Nicely-Nicely and Sky Masterson.”
“How did you do in the game?”
Behind the thick lenses, his eyes grew even larger. “Over the course of the months, broke even, and felt lucky to. Both Carmichael and Alexander were winners, Carmichael more so. Charlie Mazurki is a terrible, stupid gambler; he’d chase a losing streak to hell and back. He was so bad he lost to Fizer! And Fizer lost big. Real big. He owed probably, oh, man, I can’t even guess . . . fifty grand to Carmichael?”
I let out a slow whistle. “Last time I played poker, I lost five bucks and was depressed for ten days.”
Norman shifted on the balcony step. “Yeah, I have to admit, I was uncomfortable in that game.”
“Then why were you in it?”
“Why? Well . . . I don’t know. Something to do while I was in town, I guess.”
Now there was a great reason.
“Come on, Mel,” I said, with a familiarity I didn’t begin to deserve. “Why did you play poker with Sam Fizer? My understanding is that he was a thorn in your side—that he was threatening to shut down your musical with an injunction, claiming plagiarism on the Tall Paul characters.”
His expression darkened; he stared numbly across the lobby toward the box office. “. . . That would never have gone anywhere. It would never have held up in court.”
“No, but that injunction might have happened; and in any event, the publicity would be lousy. Mel! Why were you hanging around with Fizer, a man who was threatening to sue your ass?”
He drew in smoke. Let it out. Said, “Jack, we had history, Fizer and me.”
“What kind of history?”
He swung his head around and met my gaze with an earnestness a Hollywood guy shouldn’t have been able to muster. “Jack, Sam’s frustration with the Tall Paul musical. . . and he would’ve been frustrated about that, in any case, Hal Rapp having a Broadway show? . . . Well, that frustration was multiplied by a couple of other factors.”
“Like Rapp getting you to cast Misty Winters.”
His eyebrows rose above the dark-rimmed glasses. “Misty is a talented girl! She’s going to break out as a star with this production, you wait and see, Jack, and—”
I patted the air with a traffic-cop palm. “Yeah, okay, fine, I agree. But she slept with Hal, and H
al pressured you to hire her, Mel. Let’s move on.”
He didn’t argue. I’d deflated him somewhat. His voice cracked a little as he said, “It was more than just Misty Winters. You see, about five years ago I took an option on Mug O’Malley, to make it into a musical.”
Now my eyebrows went up. “This I didn’t know.”
“We never went public. Sam may have been concerned about possible royalties due to the Starr Syndicate, and so never mentioned it to you . . . but I in fact held an option for a year, and tried to develop a book and songs and, well, the Mug musical just didn’t come together.”
“Which isn’t unusual, right?”
“Not at all.” He gestured to the looming poster. “Hell, I’m not the first to try to make a show out of Tall Paul, either—Rodgers and Hammerstein gave it their best shot, and so did Lerner and Loewe . . . and got nowhere! Anyway, I dropped the option on Mug O’Malley, and then, a few years later, I started working on Tall Paul. And Sam really blew.”
“And began threatening to sue.”
Norman nodded. “That’s right. Of course, Sam knew it was just nuisance stuff; but nuisance suits can be costly, they can even shut down a show.”
“So when Sam invited you, you played poker with him.”
Another nod. “That’s right. Just trying to rebuild our friendship.”
I studied the director. “What was Sam up to, Mel?”
After another big sigh of smoke, Norman said, “He was working on me to fire Misty. Whether he wanted to get back at her, or hoped to get back with her, it was still just that simple—if I would fire Misty, Sam would drop any lawsuit. He actually never filed, you know.”
“And you, what? Strung him along?”
A bunch of nods now. “That’s right. I had this fantasy that Sam would lose big to me, like he had with Carmichael, and I’d hold all this IOU paper on him, and use that to get him off my back. But it was a fantasy. I won off Sam, but nothing to write home about.”
In the theater, Childe was screaming.
“Listen,” I said to Norman, leaning in confidentially, “do you know anything, have you heard anything, about Hal getting overly frisky with your female cast members, specifically these younger chorus girls?”
Norman smirked. “Well, let’s just say for a guy with a wooden leg, Hal gets around.”
“Did Fizer mention anything about ‘having something’ on Rapp? Like maybe he had private-eye photos and statements indicating Rapp might be looking at charges of sex with a minor? Mann Act kind of stuff?”
This appalled Norman, who had turned white again. “My God, you really do want to ruin my day, don’t you, Jack?”
“Nope, Mel, I’m your new best friend. I’m the guy trying to keep the lid on.” I put a hand on his shoulder, or on the draped pink sweater, anyway. “If you know something on this subject, spill—it’ll strictly be between us underage girls.”
Norman took a couple nervous puffs, let them out and said, “I know of four or five dancers he’s had . . . flings with. I don’t know of any who aren’t eighteen or over, though. And Fizer never told me, or implied in any way, that he might have that kind of smear ready for Rapp.”
“Okay.” I gave him a changeup pitch. “You were at Hal’s Halloween party, right?”
“Yes. I came as, uh, Dennis the Menace.” He grinned. “Right down to the slingshot.”
“Were you with anybody?”
“No. I came alone. My wife’s out in Hollywood, and, believe it or not, I don’t run around on her in public.”
That left private, but I let it pass.
“So, then, Mel—you mingled at the party?”
“You could say that.”
“And if you’d slipped out, maybe nobody would have noticed. That possible?”
His eyes popped behind the lenses. “Christ, are you saying . . . I’m a suspect?”
“Yeah,” I said, as if that were no big deal. “You had reason to wish Fizer dead. You have plenty of company, but I won’t be the last detective you’ll talk to about this.”
He was squirming. “I already talked to that Captain Chandler, after the party!”
“That was just the newsreel and cartoon. The feature attraction will show sometime today, you can bet.”
Shaking his head, he tossed his spent cigarette to the floor and let it sizzle there on the painted cement. “Oh hell. Will this hit the papers?”
“The cops are playing it close to the vest. It will hit the papers, but with any luck, I’ll have this thing solved before then.”
He looked at me with renewed interest. “You’re solving this?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Why you?”
“Self-preservation. Fizer was the Starr Syndicate’s top story-strip cartoonist, and we’re negotiating with Rapp to do a new strip with us. I’m hoping to clear Rapp, and if Fizer turns out just a tragic victim of murder, that would be nice.”
“Would be nice?” The little eyes behind the glasses were huge. “My God, Jack—you’re worse than the Hollywood crowd.”
“It’s a rat race on Broadway, too, Mel. It’s just—here, it’s real rats.”
I thanked him for the time, stopped to stamp out his discarded cigarette and strolled back into the theater. Seated right in back was a character who’d leapt her curvaceous way right out of a comic strip, specifically Tall Paul,
Namely, Sunflower Sue.
Actress Candy Cain, in her pink-with-purple-polka-dots low-neck blouse and her sawed-off black skirt and bare feet (actually in pink bunny slippers right now), was sitting rather glumly in the back row.
The Batch’ul Catch’ul Ballet was still in rehearsal up on stage, with choreographer Childe continuing to crack the whip, and the piano starting and stopping its hillbilly stomp according to Childe’s whims.
“Miss Cain?” I asked, leaning in.
The peaches-and-cream, blue-eyed blonde turned and gave me a pleasant if cool glance. “Yes?”
“We were introduced, but you may not remember me . . .”
Her smile was guarded but warmer than her glance, anyway. “You’re Maggie’s stepson—Jack. Sure. I remember.”
“You mind if I come sit with you for a few moments?”
“No. Not at all.”
I settled in next to her.
Candace Cain had been married to Charlie Mazurki since they teamed up on radio and television in Philadelphia around 1950. Mazurki had a surrealistic sense of humor that Candy’s corn-fed innocence played off of nicely. In her own right, she was a gifted singer and comedienne, one of the best female impressionists (her Marilyn Monroe takeoff was an Ed Sullivan Show favorite), and when she wasn’t appearing on her talented husband’s various wacky TV shows, she traveled with a successful nightclub act.
Appearing in a Broadway show was a financial comedown for her, but Miss Cain had made her first notable non-Charlie-Mazurki-related success as an ingenue in a Broadway musical a few years ago, costarring with Rosalind Russell, and now she was top-billed in one.
Candy was about five-six and nicely curvy with lovely legs and lots of platinum hair; for rehearsal she wasn’t in full makeup and her pleasantly pretty face seemed very youthful. But then she was probably only about twenty-five.
“You’re very good in this show,” I said. I knew from Maggie that Candy was not happy with her part; but she really was perfect as the wide-eyed innocent, Sunflower Sue.
“Hardest thing I ever did,” she said with good-natured disgust. “I have to stand there clasping my hands and saying, ‘I loves you, Tall Paul. I loves you, Tall Paul,’ until I think my eyes will cross.”
“It’s a fun, funny show, and you’re great in it.”
Her expression was gently amused. “You’re sweet. But I’m a married woman.”
“I know you are. I’m not making a pass. I just think you’re swell. Would ‘gee whilikers’ be the appropriate thing to add at this point?”
She laughed and it was a nice, musical laugh. “Sorry. D
idn’t mean to assume the worst of you. But it seems like ever since this thing started, I’ve spent half my time trying to make a silk purse out of my sow’s ear of a part, and the rest of it fending off stupid passes from overgrown boys who should know better.”
“Like Hal Rapp, maybe?”
Her expression was a frown with a smile stuck in its midst. “How the hell did you know that?”
I shrugged. “He put his hand on Maggie’s thigh.”
“Who could blame him? Your stepmother’s a real doll.”
“Yes, but Rapp’s lucky he still has all his fingers. She respects him as a talent, I guess, and cut him some slack.”
Candy watched the stage, idly. “I suppose I did the same. You know, I thought the Great Hal Rapp would ride in at the last moment and revise this script and take out some of this country-fried slapstick and put in the sharp satire and biting wit that the newspaper strip is famous for. But, no—all he wants to do is seduce young women.”
“Well, everybody needs a hobby. How bold did he get with you . . . if I’m not too bold asking?”
She shrugged; her shoulders were every bit as nice as Maggie’s. “We went out for dinner—Sardi’s, of course. Charlie was out in Hollywood, doing a bit part in a service comedy. Here I am a married woman, former Sunday school teacher from Ohio, and Rapp’s putting the most amateurish moves on me, making the most adolescent pass. You know, I really admired him, and his work! I went after this part, lobbied for it, because I was such a fan of his darn strip!”
“You must’ve been furious.”
She shrugged again. “I wasn’t. Just disappointed. But if my husband knew?” She rolled her big blue eyes. “It would’ve been Hal Rapp who lost his life the other night, not Sam Fizer.”
“Could Charlie have found out Hal got too friendly?”
“Not from me he wouldn’t! And I’ve been discreet about it.”
I didn’t point out that I was pretty much a perfect stranger and she’d just told me the whole sordid story.
“Speaking of Sam Fizer,” I said, “are you aware that his death was a murder, not a suicide, like the papers say?”
She nodded. “I chatted with Maggie about it this morning, a little bit. You know, Charlie and Sam were friends. Played poker together.”
Strip for Murder Page 14