I popped a cold sweat as my legs went numb. Not just because of what Hauser had said, but because of what I’d just noticed under a pile of playing cards scattered all over the poker table.
Matchbooks. I pushed the cards out of the way and picked up one of the books. It was brown. With a golden VL on the cover. The matchbooks had looked vaguely familiar when I’d found them at Jack’s apartment and again at Chamberlain’s hovel at The Chantilly Club. I knew I’d seen them somewhere before, but couldn’t place them.
But Hauser telling me that Smith Brothers Holdings owned this place changed all that. And I realized how much of a dope I’d been all day. Smith Brothers Holdings was an old name from my past. As old as the VL on the matchbooks. The whole goddamned thing came together in a rush. It had all been so simple and so complicated all at the same time. I’d been carrying the answer to this entire mess all day in my pocket.
I pushed my hat back on my head and suddenly felt like I was going to throw up.
Loomis propped me up. “What is it?”
My mouth had gone dry, so it took me a couple of seconds before I could spit it out. “Smith Brothers Holding is a dummy company.”
Loomis asked, “How do you know?”
“Because Danny Stiles owns it.”
“The gambler?” Loomis asked. “Are you sure?”
“He’s been using that cover name for years,” I said.
“That means he owns this building. If we check, I’ll bet we’ll find he owns Jack’s apartment building, and The Chauncey Arms, too. The fact that Enzo does muscle work for Stiles from time to time seals it.”
Hauser wasn’t convinced. “That doesn’t mean anything. Smith Brothers could be anybody.”
I took the matchbooks from my pocket and threw them on the poker table with the others. “I found these at Jack’s apartment and at Chamberlain’s place earlier today. They’re the same matchbooks these clowns were using. VL stands for The Velvet Lounge. It’s a gambling joint Stiles ran years ago.”
Loomis picked up one of the matchbooks and compared it to the others. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I closed it down. Got paid well for it, too.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Hauser said. “Why would a gambler be wrapped up in something like this?”
“I don’t know, but that’s what I’m going to ask him when we find him.”
“Good luck,” Hauser said. “Stiles has been hiding out from Sally Balls for the past month or so. No one knows where the hell he is.”
“Good thing I know someone who might.”
AND AN ANGEL SINGS
THE TANGIERS Cabaret was on Forty-Sixth Street off Second. The sign out front had a curved sword as the ‘T’ in Tangiers. It had been the place to go a couple of years ago, back when people had money and not a care in the world.
The tables at the place used to be booked weeks in advance, and drew some of the best acts around: Gene Krupa, Jack Teagarden, Glenn Miller, even Al Jolson once or twice. But the glory days were a distant memory. Now it was lucky to get two-bit lounge singers to even walk in the place, much less perform there.
Lucky for me, Alice Mulgrew was such a singer. When we pulled up in front, a round, swarthy little guy was sweeping the street.
Heat waves bounced up from the pavement, making the sweaty little bastard sweat all the more. Being the owner of a place called The Tangiers, most people took him for an Arab and he didn’t tell them any different. He was actually a second-generation Greek from the Bronx named Nick Pappas.
As I stepped out of the car, Pappas recognized me right away. After all, I used to shake him down for protection money when I worked Vice.
“How’s every little thing, Nicky Boy,” I said as Loomis and Hauser joined me on the street. “Been a while.”
The Greek didn’t let up with his sweeping. “Not long enough.” His accent was more Morris Heights than Morocco, but that was because there weren’t any customers around. “Go away, Charlie. Leave me alone. I don’t have any money anymore, anyway.”
“Who said anything about money? I heard Alice Mulgrew sings here these days. I’d like to talk to her for a minute.”
Pappas leaned on his broom. “Oh yeah? What about?”
“Can’t tell you that, Nicky. Police business.”
The Greek laughed. “Police business my ass. If it was police business, they would’ve sent a real cop. Not some goddamned hack.”
I laughed, too, then knocked the broom out from under him and shoved him to Hauser. Nick cursed at me while Loomis and I walked inside.
The place was dark and cool, a welcomed relief from the heat outside. It was made out to look like some kind of large Arab tent — or at least what a Greek from the Bronx thought an Arab tent would look like.
Sheer fabric was draped across the ceiling and down to the walls. The walls themselves were covered in large carpets.
Not too long ago, the colors in the place were bright enough to make you dizzy, but years of smoke and use had given the furnishings a yellowish, faded patina, like just about everything else in New York in those days. The Greek made up for it with low lighting and lots of candles all around. I helped a little, but not enough.
A woman’s voice came from the bar. “Hello, Charlie.”
Loomis and I pushed through a beaded curtain and found Alice Mulgrew sitting alone, nursing a glass of what looked like gin. It could’ve been anything, really, but I knew it wasn’t water. Water wasn’t Alice’s style.
It was hard to peg exactly what Alice’s style was, and I think that’s what made her appealing. She didn’t have the best singing voice in the world — in fact, it wasn’t very good at all. But the way she moved when she sang more than made up for it. She sold you the words, not just the song. Alice probably could’ve been a star if she’d given herself half a chance, but that wasn’t in the cards for people like her. Or me.
She was a hard luck girl who things just sort of happened to, maybe because of the kinds of men she liked. Maybe it was because of the kinds of men who liked her. Or maybe she wasn’t as brave as she should’ve been when it counted most.
The city was filled with people like her. People who were biding time, hoping another sweet-talking joker with deep pockets would walk in one night and sweep them off their feet again. I knew Alice had been lucky that way before, if you could call that being lucky.
Hope springs eternal in people like Alice, until that one morning when you wake up and take a good look at yourself in the mirror. You look hard and realize that this is as good as it’s probably going to get. And it’s not that good. That’s when you begin feeling sorry for yourself. You give up the fight. You settle. You look for reasons to fail and convince yourself you were never that good to begin with. You aim lower and justify it. You go on living out of habit, and nothing more. I knew the feeling.
Alice was wearing an off-white cocktail dress that was cut lower than I dared to look. I worked hard to keep looking at her eyes instead, which was a pleasant alternative. They were the color of dark honey, and just as distracting as the rest of her. As tall and curvy as she was, I never thought she was as pretty as she was supposed to be or could’ve been. Like she made an effort to stay just shy of beautiful on purpose. Like she was holding something back from the world. Something of herself for herself — and we were all the worse for it.
Alice sat up a little straighter when I came closer, showing how long and elegant her neck really was. She knew what she was doing, and I know she got a kick out of doing it. She looked me up and down.
“All black, Charlie? In this heat? Jesus, you look like an undertaker.”
“Or a butler,” I said.
Her expression darkened when she saw the bruises on my jaw and temple. “What happened to you, anyway? You look like shit.”
“I’m not very tall either. But I’m working on it.”
She jerked my chin aside for a closer look at the bruise. She smelled like rosewater and cheap gin. Two of
my favorite things. “Must hurt like hell. Let me get you some ice.” I gently eased her hand away from my face and lied. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“How did it happen?”
“I got mixed up in that brawl up at the Van Dorn house a little while ago,” I let it go at that. There was no reason to tell her that Carmichael had given me the jaw.
“I saw your picture in the paper this afternoon. I was glad to see they finally gave you something big to work on.”
She looked at my bruises again. “You sure you don’t need any ice?”
“I need something better. I need information.”
“That so?” She looked over at Loomis, who’d been standing off to the side, taking it all in. “What’s with your friend? He doesn’t look so good, either.”
“Don’t worry about him. He always looks like that,” I said. “My partner, Floyd. He usually works nights. Sunlight doesn’t agree with him.”
“Two cops?” Her eyebrows rose as she straightened in her seat again. “Then I guess this ain’t exactly a social visit after all.”
“I wish it was. It’s about Danny Stiles, honey. I need to find him and fast. It’s important.”
Those brown eyes flashed before she looked away from me. “Oh, that son of a bitch.”
“Any idea where I could find him?”
“Lots of people have been asking me about him lately. I’ll tell you the same thing I’ve been telling them: I haven’t seen the lousy bastard in months.”
I hadn’t walked in there thinking this would be easy. The more I kept her talking, the more she was liable to say. “Who else has been looking for him?” She frowned and shrugged, but that’s all.
“Sally Balls sent some guys around, didn’t he?” I asked.
Alice looked at Loomis again, then at me. “Danny owes money all over town. Lots of people are looking for him. I can hardly keep track of them all. And get with it, will you? No one calls him Sally Balls anymore. Everyone calls him Charlie Lucky now.”
So now Salvatore Lucania was called Charlie “Lucky” Luciano. I bet a newspaper man came up with that. The ink boys loved alliteration. But there was something about the way Alice was acting that made me think she was holding out. I wondered if Floyd hanging around was what was throwing her off. Alice never liked talking in front of strangers.
I gave Loomis the sign to go outside. He took the hint. Now that it was just the two of us, I fished out my pack of Luckies and offered one to Alice. She pulled one out of the pack and I lit it for her. The glow of the flame looked lovely against her skin in the dim light of the bar.
Then she noticed the matchbook I’d used to light her cigarette. Dark brown with golden VL on it. From Danny Stiles’ Velvet Lounge. I made like I didn’t notice she’d seen it. I took one for myself and lit it, tossing the matchbook on the bar.
“Sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot in front of Floyd.”
She blew a quick, angry stream of smoke through her nose. “Who the hell do you think you are asking me those kinds of questions in front of a stranger? You want to give me a snitch jacket? Christ, Charlie. The only reason I’m still alive is because Lucky’s boys don’t think I know where he is.”
I didn’t have time to argue. I swallowed my pride and asked for mercy. “Loomis is a square guy, but I should’ve known better. I’m in a rush and wasn’t thinking. Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Alice took a deep drag on her cigarette. “Fuckin’ Danny. Bastard is more trouble than he’s worth.” She took a good belt of gin and didn’t even wince. My kind of girl. “You want some?”
“Yeah, but I’d better not. I need to keep a clear head.” Her slender white shoulders sagged a bit. She pulled the VL matchbook closer and lightly spun it with her finger.
“I’ll bet this Van Dorn thing’s got you in a real bind, huh?”
I figured the sympathy angle might get me somewhere, so I played it up. “Yep. Carmichael made it clear he’s going to hang me with this one way or the other. If the kid turns up dead, I catch the blame. If he’s alive, he’s going to blame me for the riot that happened this afternoon. Heads he wins, tails I lose. I might as well try to bring the Van Dorn brat in alive. That’ll count for something, I guess.”
Alice pushed the matchbook away and pawed at her gin glass. I’d never noticed how long and thin her fingers were before. “That ain’t right, Charlie. You used to be Carmichael’s right hand.”
“Times change, I guess.”
Alice bit her lip as she thought it over. “It ain’t right that people like you and me always get kicked around by people like that. It’s like we never even have a chance, like the whole game is rigged somehow.”
“No sense crying over it. Like it or not, you and I picked ‘the life.’ When it was good, we didn’t gripe. Now that it’s not so good, we have to live with it. Everything balances out in the end.”
Alice’s smile damned near made my day. She rocked over to the left and nudged me with her shoulder. “Gettin’ awfully philosophical in your old age, aren’t you, Charlie.”
I found myself smiling, too. “Plenty to get philosophical about these days.”
She grazed a fingernail through the sweat on her glass and I’ll be damned if it wasn’t the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.
She fidgeted in her seat and said, “You really think Danny’s mixed up in this, huh?” A
lice wasn’t the smartest girl in the world, but she was as smart as she needed to be. I had a hunch she knew where Stiles was, but she wouldn’t just give it up without a damned good reason. No matter how mad she might be at Stiles, Alice was a loyal girl. Sometimes to a fault.
“I made a couple of calls before I came down here, and City Hall checked the records.” I began counting off on my fingers. “Danny owns The Chauncey Arms where the Van Dorn girl was killed, the apartment building where Jack lives, the place where Van Dorn was held, and The Chantilly Club, where the kidnappers planned all this.”
I pointed at the matchbook on the bar. “Not to mention I found these everywhere I went today. Any way you cut it, Danny’s already involved in this thing up to his neck. If I’m going to find Jack Van Dorn, I’m going to have to find Danny first.”
But Alice was a stubborn girl. “Danny’s a gambler and a cheat and a liar, but he’s never hurt anyone. Not like that, anyways. Why, I never even saw him hit anybody unless they owed him money.”
“Times are tough. They change people.” I paused for effect. “I guess we’ve both learned that the hard way, haven’t we?”
Alice quickly looked away and flicked her cigarette into the ashtray as the corners of her mouth twitched. Her eyes welled up a bit. Something was bubbling up. I just hoped it was something I could use.
“Danny’s not much, but he’s all I’ve got, Charlie.” A single tear ran down her cheek. “He’s been good to me, in his own rotten way.”
“I don’t believe he’s all you’ve got. Why, I’d think a girl like you would have your pick of the litter.”
“Sure, if you mean litter as in garbage.” She stopped laughing and looked at me, really looked at me for the first time since I’d gotten there. “Everyone else who’s been around looking for Danny has just been looking for something they said he owed them. But you’re looking for him because you want to help someone he might’ve hurt. That kinda changes things.”
She waited for me to say something, but I didn’t. I just smoked my cigarette, waiting for her to tell me whatever she was going to tell me in her own time, and in her own way.
“People like you and me need breaks every once in a while, don’t we, Charlie? Maybe finding Danny is the break you need, so I’m gonna tell you where I think he might be. After all, if we don’t help each other, who will?”
She surprised me by grabbing my hand and holding it tight. “But you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone you heard it from me, understand? Charlie will kill me for holding out on him if he finds out.”
I didn’t take back my hand, but she didn’t move hers, either. “No one’ll ever know. Just you and me.”
She nodded as she wiped away a tear with an elegant motion of her other hand. “Danny’s hiding out from Lucky in the basement of the Roosevelt Hotel.” She nodded at the VL matchbook. “That’s where these come from. He started up the old Velvet Lounge again.”
I let her hand go. Stiles’ old Roosevelt Hotel operation was one of the first rackets I’d closed down over a few years before. A high-stakes gambling den that Stiles had run out of the hotel’s basement. Since the hotel was right next to Grand Central Terminal, high-rollers from across the country came off the train, walked up the railway and into the basement without ever going above ground. Nice and private. A real cozy set-up. It had been a hell of an operation: Roulette, black jack, craps and even a pool table, where swells gambled thousands on the roll of the ball or a turn of the dice. Stiles only allowed the wealthiest to attend the games, which kept it exclusive and kept it quiet.
From the cops. From rival gangs like Doyle’s and Rothman’s. From Tammany, too.
It had been a beautiful set-up until one of the customers felt he’d been cheated and complained to the mayor over dinner one night. Mayor Walker told Chief Carmichael, who told me: shut it down. So I did.
“Danny always had more balls than brains, didn’t he?” I said.
Alice gripped my hand with both of hers again. “Promise you won’t tell anyone I said anything?”
For the first time in a long time, someone was asking me for something, not ordering me around. Not threatening me. It felt good, especially coming from a girl like her.
“I promise. No one’s ever going to know.”
I got off my stool and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She surprised me, putting her hand on the back of my head while I did it. “Us hard luck cases have to stick together, don’t we?” she whispered in my ear. “Just promise me that you’ll come back to see me after all of this is over.”
“Sure. I’d love that.”
“So would I,” she said. “Because I got a feeling you won’t have too many friends left after this is over.”
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