by P. N. Elrod
Ruth pursed her lips. “Oh, dear, I’ve embarrassed you, I’m sorry. Please sit down and have a drink.”
Her two errand runners were back with filled glasses; she slid one in front of the empty chair next to her.
Mindful of the dirty looks aimed my way by the other men, I sat, putting my fedora on the table. “Just for a minute.”
“Ah, but I’m your hostess; you have to stay at least two minutes. Rules of the party. I was frightfully rude just now, so you must let me make it up to you.”
“You’ve got bodies in your cellar?” asked Darla brightly, leaning forward on her elbows, chin resting on her doubled fists.
“Just one body,” I repeated. “And it’s long gone. The cops took it away.”
“How’d it get there?”
“The papers had the whole story,” I hedged, wondering how I could escape without actually vanishing.
“Who reads those? Do tell us—”
Ruth narrowed her eyes. “Darla, if you chase this scrumptious specimen off, I shall hide your douche bag.”
Darla subsided with an impish smirk.
I tried to not let my jaw sag.
Ruth beamed a warm, comforting look at me and patted my arm, leaving her hand in place. “Don’t mind her, Mr. Fleming. She’s a born troublemaker. I’d throw her out, but she’s too good a dance instructor. Do you dance?”
“Nothing fancy like what you were just doing, but I can keep off my partner’s feet.”
“Then you must give me a demonstration.” She stood. “I’m sure we can both learn something from the experience.”
She had a crystal-clear double meaning under that one, but what the hell. It was more appealing than waiting for Darla’s next purposely awkward question, and not to accept would peg me for a heel. All that aside, Ruth was quite a dish, and I’d learned a long time ago never to argue with redheads. I took her arm and escorted her onto the floor. The music was slow enough to allow for conversation.
“Quite a gathering,” I said once we’d settled together into the rhythm. She was light enough that I didn’t feel like I was leading so much as floating with her.
“One of Tony’s more successful accomplishments—Mr. Upshaw, that is to say.”
“So was this whole clambake all his idea?”
“Actually, it was Royce Muldan’s—the guest of honor?”
I nodded to indicate I knew him.
“But Tony made the arrangements. He’s very good at that sort of thing.”
“Not bad.” I wondered how attached Upshaw really was to the silk suit boys. This seemed a pretty elaborate show for a part-time hanger-on to produce on short notice.
Ruth continued. “It’s great publicity for the studio. We may get dozens of new students out of this.”
So that was the why of the big exhibition number. “You’re a friend of Muldan’s?”
“Oh, I never mix with that element. I think you must know him, though.” She flicked her sharp gaze over my suit, suddenly having a lot in common with little Norrie Malone when it came to making deductions based on a man’s taste in clothes.
“I’ve only just seen him around,” I said. “Heard he was going off to Havana. Real sudden.”
“And silly. It’s far too hot this time of year, but boys will have their whims. At least he’s footing the bill for this, which is a relief. Tony’s a sweetheart, but spends too much on parties. Never has more than two nickels to rub together afterward.”
“You couldn’t tell that from the way he was turned out. Looked like he got that tuxedo right off a movie screen.”
“Oh, dear, you’re not interested in him instead, are you?” She looked more bewildered than distressed at the prospect.
“Not at all.”
“Good, I didn’t think I could be that wrong about a man.”
“How long have you been partners with Tony?” I asked, wanting to shift the subject back.
“About six years now.”
“You’ve known him that long?”
“We go back before that, centuries at least. When did you meet him? He’s not said anything of it.”
“Just last night at the Flying Ace. He’s quite a hoofer.”
“He should be, I taught him everything.” To judge by her expression she’d thoroughly enjoyed having Upshaw for a student.
“Lucky man.”
“You know all the right things to say, don’t you?”
“I read a lot.” Her smile and the spark in her eyes nearly made me miss a step. She wasn’t the only one gifted with native charm. If I wasn’t so crazy about Bobbi, I might have been tempted to do more than merely dance with the delectable Miss Woodring. I made myself return to business. “Tony was there with a gal named Rita Robillard. You know her?”
“Is she the friend you came to meet?” No approval or disapproval in her tone, just curiosity.
“Yeah. I need to talk with her.”
“Oh. Is that what they’re calling it now?”
I smiled. She could draw her own conclusions.
“How disappointing pour moi,” said Ruth. “Not to mention for yourself.”
“You’ll get no arguments from me, but I do need to find her.”
“She’ll be lurking around the party someplace. I remember her coming in with that Shivvey fellow, but I’m not sure when.”
“Shivvey Coker’s here, too, huh?” It was good to know that Malone’s information had been solid.
“There’s no accounting for some people’s taste. Is he also a friend of yours?”
“Enough so I wouldn’t turn my back on him.”
She laughed. “Does this talk with Rita have to do with the woman’s body in your cellar?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because Tony told me they were once best friends. The dead woman’s name escapes me…”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Mm. Clever fellow.” She gave a careless one-shoulder shrug of dismissal. “Lena Ashley, then.”
“What do you know about her?”
“Not a jot more than her name.”
“Which Tony mentioned to you?”
“He may have casually dropped it when we rehearsed today.”
“Now why would he do that?”
“Tony likes to impress people, the poor dear. He shouldn’t try so hard. If you talk to him about this, then I want to watch. He’s so delightfully cute when he’s squirming.”
That was more than I wanted to know about him. “How far back does Tony go with Lena and Rita?”
“A few years.”
“How many?”
Ruth ceased to float and came to a decided stop. “What is this? All these questions—”
“I’m just being social, Miss Woodring.”
Her pleasant expression did not change, except in the eyes. They went hard. “The hell you are. Tony’s one of my best friends, and I know him better than I know myself. There’s not a mean bone in his body, and if you think he could have anything to do with what happened to that woman, then get it right out of your head.”
“Are you sure you know him all that well?” I stared at her, putting a little pressure on, but uncertain if it would get past her recent drink. “Absolutely sure?”
She didn’t react to the hypnosis so much as my question. The way I’d said it would make anyone think twice.
“No matter how close we are to them none of us can ever really know what’s going on in another’s head.”
She was well aware of that to judge by the flash of dislike and anger in her eyes. She kept it in control, though, and didn’t belt me one.
“Maybe he’s a nice guy now, but what was he like five or six years ago?”
Her lips tightened into a caustic smile. “Thank you, Mr. Fleming, it’s been most diverting, but your two minutes are long up. Good-bye.”
She swept away, as adept in the art of making a graceful exit as she was at dancing.
I believed that she believed Tony was on the up-and-up. She w
as on the up-and-up as well, or she’d have stuck around to try getting more information from me. Her pretending not to know Lena’s name was odd, but I figured it to be either a ploy to induce me to talk about the murder at the club or part of her flirting game. Which I’d thoroughly spoiled. There would be no more conversation with her until she got over being mad at me, which might not happen for a few decades. But I had learned more from her questions than she had from mine. Until now I’d not considered Tony Upshaw as being even remotely connected to Lena’s death. That lounge lizard polish of his was sufficient to divert anyone from taking him seriously.
One of the errand runners from her table sauntered over with my hat. He gave me an insultingly obvious appraisal and made sure I saw that he was unimpressed. He even held the hat out and tried to let it drop to the floor before I could take it. I saw that one coming, though, and plucked it from midair in plenty of time. Anyone else who was sober could have done the same thing; I just did it a whole lot faster and smoother so it seemed like I hardly moved. That, and my friendly grin seemed to unsettle him quite a lot. Then I noticed he was no longer looking right at me, but at some point behind and beyond.
My back was to the mirrors. Oh. So far he was the only one to notice. That was lucky.
“Thanks, pal,” I murmured while he goggled. “Tell Miss Woodring for me that I said I’m sorry about upsetting her.” I gave him no time to reply and walked off as though nothing was amiss.
I glanced around after putting a crowd of people between us. He was still rooted in place, in the same posture, staring at the mirrors. After nearly a full minute he hurried off to the bar, not hearing the calls coming from his friends at the table. It was better that way.
The tune changed and picked up the tempo as I continued in the opposite direction toward the bank of windows. I thought I’d glimpsed a particularly flashy tuxedo among those seeking a fresh-air respite from the cigarette smoke. Instead, I found more of the theatrical types freely mingling with the mob boys. It seemed a peculiar combination until I recalled how much Capone liked opera. Maybe these guys were also patrons of the arts.
Bunched in the far corner was a small congregation in a rough circle around the guest of honor, Royce Muldan. I moved close enough so he noticed me, but got no sign of recognition from him. Good.
He had a cigar in one hand and a heavy arm draped over a short, lush-figured strawberry blonde with an exaggerated sulky mouth. He was holding forth, gesturing a lot with the cigar, an indication that he was pretty well oiled. Each of his broad movements was conveyed to the pliant girl, her smooth young face showing no reaction as she was wobbled around. Her blue eyes were quite glazed, and I wondered if she’d had more than just alcohol tonight. I’d seen those kinds of eyes during the war when the wounded were given a dose of morphine to keep them quiet.
Muldan laughed heartily to some comment and shook his head. “No, that’s not it at all, I just wanna get away for a while. Havana’s real nice this time of year.”
Jeez, he sounded exactly like Gordy.
“Then you ain’t been there at this time a year,” responded a heckler. He was about a third of Muldan’s height and reminded me of one of the seven dwarfs from Snow White, but I couldn’t recall which. “I think your little twist has got you running scared. She wants a ring an’ her old man’s ready to get a shotgun to—”
“A ring? Hah!” Muldan doubled over, consumed by booze-enhanced hilarity. He lost his grip on the girl, who woke up a little. She blinked, set her sights on a bottle standing on a table next to her, and picked it up, precise fingers delicate on its neck.
“Yeah, a ring,” said the heckler. “An’ her old man’s—”
“Nothing to me. She wants a ring from me like I want another nose,” Muldan countered. “Lemme tell you what she really wants…”
The girl raised the bottle to her lips, upended it, and drained off what little remained. “Yes?” she asked in a loud clear voice, addressing no one in particular, her gaze fixed on nothing at all.
“What?” echoed Muldan, his attention momentarily snagged.
“You’re saying… saying you know what I want.”
“Yeah, honey-bunch, and it’s not a ring. Why don’t you tell the nice man what you want from me.”
That was a surprise. I’d instructed him not to go near the girl. She must have sought him out, instead. Nothing I could do about that, though maybe I should have anticipated it.
“What I want from you?” she queried blankly, still not looking at anything.
Muldan flashed his handsome idiot’s grin toward his audience, inviting them to join in on the pending laugh at her expense. This brought on a few early snickers as they waited for her response.
“You tell them.” He pointed. “What you want.”
“I’m better at showing,” she stated, finally turning her deep blues on Muldan. She leaned hard against him, nearly falling over. He braced her as they swayed, taking the opportunity to squeeze one of her breasts with his free hand.
More laughter, ugly and suggestive. It seemed about time for me to move in and get her out of there.
“Yeah, you sure are. Show us, honey-bunch,” Muldan urged.
“We-eell… oka-aay. You stand there.”
Muldan took a small step to the side as she indicated, his own arms spread and ready for her. He was half-turned toward me, eyes and face screwed up with barely restrained mirth. It was interesting how he held unchanged to that expression even after she slammed the bottle against his head. She had a powerful arm. She landed a substantial wallop. And she did it lightning fast. The hollow thump of impact was painful to hear. Everyone winced in sudden sympathy.
Muldan dropped instantly, strings cut, and didn’t move. Amazingly, the bottle was unbroken in the girl’s hand. With great dignity, she placed it back on the table, then addressed the hushed crowd.
“He said to show you,” she stated, lifting her chin. She made a small shooing-away gesture with both hands, which cleared her a hasty path in their midst, then strolled off. They eventually closed ranks, staring down at the utterly immobile Muldan. A sharp-featured bearded guy in a brown suit bent to check his pulse. Evidently there was still one to be found. He straightened and rubbed the back of his neck, tsked, and blew out a long breath from puffed cheeks.
“Son of a bitch,” he said with some awe.
“What do we do with him now?” asked the rotund heckler, genuinely puzzled.
“Leave him. His driver’ll put him on his train in the morning.”
“You sure?”
“That’s what he’s paid for.”
“But Royce is gonna remember this. He’s gonna be plenty mad.”
“He won’t remember a thing.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you didn’t when she did it to you.”
The heckler thought a moment, then nodded with profound understanding. He and the bearded man dispersed with the others to greener pastures.
Muldan remained solidly inert on the scuffed floor, cigar still in hand. I decided to be kind and plucked it clear before it could burn down to his fingers. I was about to toss it out a nearby open window, but one of the seedier artistic types came up and stopped me.
“That’s a real two-bit smoke,” he said with no small reproach. “Ya don’t wanna waste those.”
“I don’t?” He was string thin with a young, sly face and the lank white hair of an old man. Half-inch-thick horn-rims rode low on his pointed nose. The only thing that kept him from being scary to kids was the benign gaze behind them. Right now it was fixed on the cigar.
“You seen Tony Upshaw or Rita Robillard?” I asked without much hope. I held the nearly whole smoke like a biscuit for an eager puppy. It had about the same effect on this guy.
“Tony?”
“The man in the tux who danced with Ruth Woodring a little while ago.”
“Oh, him? Behind the band. Maybe. I think.”
Good enough. I gave him the cigar. He
was happy.
As no one seemed too worried about Muldan, I moved on. It happened to be toward a fresh knot of party nonsense. This one was a lot noisier owing to its proximity to the music, which had turned fast and furious, all drums and horns. A couple had cut away from the main dance floor and were giving an impromptu exhibition of their own.
The chorus girl in tap shoes I’d seen earlier was being thrown around by a short, muscular boy. Literally. They were in step with each other, but their dance required a lot of acrobatic movement. He swung her one way, pulled her another, lifted her high, then dropped her to the floor to slide between his feet, and swung her up again, her legs in the air and kicking. People on the edge of things applauded and cheered them on to more daring stunts.
A distinct, uninhibited laugh in the din caught my instant notice. Rita Robillard was just on the other side of the circle, whooping her delight at the dancers. She didn’t see me at all.
I made a beeline toward her, but had to dodge the chorus girl’s flying feet as her partner swung her bodily in a wide turn. He pulled her back again, the momentum curling her around his right side, then with a deft spin, she was curled around on his left. I hadn’t seen anything like it since my last visit to a circus, and that act had had a safety net.
Rita still missed spotting me, busy in the process of being helped up onto a table by two red-faced men. She flailed her arms, unsteady for a moment, then got her balance and the rhythm. Encouraged by the approving growls from her helpers, she began tattooing her heels against the wood table while they clapped time for her. Caught up in the music, she squealed like a maniac, going into a kind of rumba step, her eyes shut.
Tonight she wore a long black dress which she grabbed by the skirts and hitched up to show her long legs. We were all treated to a damn good look at her stocking tops and garters and—unless I was really mistaken by a trick of light and shadows—the fact that she had absolutely nothing else on above them. The men by the table had a better view of things. From their pleased leers, I’d gotten it right the first time, no mistake at all.
This time avoiding the dancers, I managed to push my way around into the table group. The blood in my veins might not have been all my own, but it was just as red as the next guy’s. Why should those tipsy mugs be the only ones to enjoy the view?