by George Baxt
Agnes turned to Seymour Steel Cheeks, who, standing with his arms folded, looked like an Academy Award. “Seymour, you talk to her. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”
“She don’t ever listen to me,” Seymour said forlornly.
“That’s because you ain’t got much to say. Now everybody snap out of it. What’s with the bodyguards, Jim?”
“You’re auditioning about a dozen at Hasseltine’s Gym in a couple of hours. Jake Hasseltine’s promised me some quality goods.”
Mae’s face turned dreamy. “Jake Hasseltine? Not old ‘One-Two’ Hasseltine?”
“It’ll please him that you remember him.”
“How could I forget him? Let me see ...” She gazed at the ceiling to stimulate her memory. “Chicago. Back in twenty or twenty-one. He fought ‘Glass Jaw’ Brogan, I think it was. Knocked him out in one round. Went to a party afterward for him at Collesano’s. We were introduced, the eyes connected, the hands connected, and then, ummmm, you can figure what else connected.” Agnes couldn’t believe her ears. The woman’s life was in danger and she reminisced about an ancient conquest! “Jake Hasseltine. Boy, he had one hell of a stiff uppercut.”
Timony cut in. “What about tomorrow night?”
“Well, what about it? I’m goin’ to the Hallowe’en party at the Tailspin. I’m makin’ up a small party. Seymour, the detectives and you’re welcome to join us if it won’t be too hard on your heart.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my heart.”
Nothing wrong, thought Mae, except that I’ve splintered it. “Agnes, will you book me a table. Since it’s so duhrigguh that you be there, I assume you’ve got clout with the place.”
“I’ll get a good table. What time?”
“When do you think the fun will begin?”
“Any time you get there.”
Mae smiled. “How’s about nine?”
“Nine. You’ve got it.”
Mae settled into an easy chair. “Say, Agnes, your clout at the Tailspin wouldn’t by any chance be Milton Connery?”
“He’s one contact there.”
“You know him a long time?”
“Three, four years maybe.”
“He interested in witchcraft?”
“Not until he met me.”
Mae smiled. “So you cast a spell over him.”
“It was the other way around. He’s a rat, but as rats go, he was plenty smooth.”
“Oh, yeah? You make it sound like he’s been partially misunderstood.”
“Spare yourself, Mae. Don’t get interested in Milton Connery.”
“Now, Agnes, stop tryin’ to read between my lines. I got enough on my hands without addin’ this here Connery or anybody else to my workshop. What I’m actually gettin’ at, Agnes, is bein’ how you go back three or four years with the bum, then you must have met Neon Light.”
“I met him.” Her voice was flat, unmelodic. Mae didn’t recognize it.
Mae crossed her legs. “Did you just meet him casually or did you get to know him?”
“Nobody got close to him except for Milton, and even that wasn’t what I would call close.”
“Tell me about Neon.”
“Well, you knew him too. What’s there for me to tell?”
“For cryin’ out loud, what’s for you to tell is how did he seem to you. Did he loosen up on his background? He never did with me so maybe he did with you. When people talk about a mutual acquaintance, you get to learn about the person from different angles. I suppose that’s how it works when you’re doin’ detective work.”
“For Pete’s sake!” Agnes said to Timony and Seymour. “Now she’s playing detective!”
Mae’s eyes smoldered. “I ain’t playin’. This is the real thing. I thought of askin’ if you knew Neon when the detectives were here because I figured if it was duhrigguh for you to be at the party tomorrow night, it was a long shot you knew Connery and since he was messed up with Neon Light then you’d have met Neon too. I just decided to wait and do my own cross-examinin’ as I’m gettin’ real interested in detectives. And the good Lord knows, I’ve known a small army of detectives in my time.”
“Amen to that,” said Timony.
“I don’t need no help from the second balcony,” cautioned Mae. “Okay, Agnes, spill.”
“Spill what? I never spent much time alone with the boy. The few times we were out together it was with Milton, and all they did was talk about drag and getting Neon into the big time.”
“Did Milton know the kid was sick?”
“He never said anything to me if he did know.”
“Did you know?”
“No, I didn’t know. What was it?”
“You name it. He had it. Top of the list was cancer, second in position was consumption. He might have also had a hang-nail, but that sorta thing never interested me. It’s why he was killed that interests me. Why kill a dyin’ man?”
“Maybe his murderer didn’t know he was dying.”
“Maybe his murderer wasn’t takin’ any chances. Neon wasn’t dyin’ soon enough. Neon knew a lot of things the police might be interested in bein’ in on. Like things about orgies and hidden cameras and blackmail. Y’know drag queens are shrewd, but they ain’t clever. And they talk too much, especially to each other. And too often what they learn they pass on to their johns, and that could get dangerous.” She took a moment to address Timony and Seymour. “If I’m keepin’ you gentlemen from anything until it’s time to go to Hasseltine’s,” she said regally, “you may take your leave.”
Timony remonstrated, “For cryin’ out loud, Mae!”
“Beat it.”
Timony clenched his fists. The kettle was about to boil over, but Timony knew better than to explode. She always bested him in an argument. He turned and, with as much dignity as he could muster, he walked out of the room. Seymour waited until Timony was out of earshot.
“What’s on your mind?” Mae asked impatiently.
“Don’t you like Mr. Timony anymore?” He sounded like a child suspicious of and fearing that his parents were contemplating divorce.
Mae shot a heaven-help-me look at the ceiling and then managed a sort of a smile for Seymour. “I’m a little exasperated these days, Seymour, what with these here murders and me feelin’ there’s a small army of undertakers rubbin’ their palms together at the prospect of winnin’ the job of embalmin’ me.” She refrained from adding there was a large army of women who thought she had already been embalmed. “And anyway, Seymour, us girls don’t really like any guys around when we’re havin’ our private”—she cocked her head toward Agnes— “tettertet.” Agnes choked on some cigarette smoke. “You understand, don’t you, honey?”
“Sure, Mae. I don’t need no mountain to fall on me.”
“Oh, well, let’s hope one doesn’t. Not that there are any in the neighborhood.”
She watched him go and then returned her attention to Agnes, who was recovering from her choking attack at the open doors leading to the balcony. “How’s for some tea?” Without waiting for an answer, she crossed to the hall leading to the kitchen and shouted for the tea. Agnes watched her and was thinking, Here’s one gal who’s got it all wrapped up in one package: smart, shrewd, and clever. She was wide open and she was all woman, but she laid it on the line and drove a hard bargain. If this was supposed to be a man’s world, then she challenged that. She didn’t need a manager anymore, she needed a good lawyer and a good accountant. She was her own manager. Timony had been reduced to a figurehead, and much as he once tried to fight it, he knew he was no longer needed and his days were numbered. They’d been friends an impressive number of years. Disloyalty held no place in Mae’s vocabulary. Soon she planned to level with him. She knew he would bow out gracefully, handsomely rewarded. In Hollywood, Jim was a fish out of water, Mae’s unneeded satellite. He was a throwback to honkytonks, vaudeville, the raucous Broadway theater of the ‘20s. Now only Broadway survived, and by the skin of its teeth. Movies were king, and
a cruel and demanding tyrant. Mae knew how to handle it, Timony didn’t.
She said to Agnes, “There goes that weird look on your face again. What’s it mean this time?”
“It means I think you should leave detective work to detectives.”
“Do my questions frighten you, Agnes? I thought witches were fearless, like Hollywood agents.”
“They don’t frighten me because they’ve been simple enough. Yes, I’ve known Milt Connery a few years and so I got to meet Neon Light. Yes, I know the Tailspin’s a hotbed of orgies and blackmail and God knows what else, but up front the place is as clean as a whistle. As your friend Herb Villon eulogized, it sounds even cleaner. I can’t tell you what goes on behind the scenes because I haven’t been behind the scenes. As for Neon Light’s murder, it’s tragic just like the other murders. I didn’t know he was seriously ill. He was always popping his pills and taking his own temperature, but I thought he was a hypochondriac.”
“How come you never volunteered you knew Connery a couple of years back?”
“It’s nothing worth crowing about. How many shady characters do you know that you’ve yet to admit knowing?”
Mae smiled. “You heard me drop a few for the rabbi. I’ll bet he didn’t recognize any of them names. You got no idea who might have killed Neon? No suspicion?”
“No, Mae, I don’t. Neon didn’t interest me. Nor do drag queens in general or female impersonators. To tell you the truth, they make me feel sad. They’re neither here nor there. Neither men nor women. I think they live in a twilight world of unreality and they’re acceptable only to each other. They love you because you’re larger then life, your own androgenous self-invention—”
“Andro … what?”
“Androgenous. Suggestive of both men and women.”
“Ah, come off it. That’s Dietrich you’re talkin’ about. She likes to wear pants. I tried it once and I looked like two packages of unshelled peanuts.”
Desdemona wheeled the tea cart into the room. Mae told her to place it between two easy chairs. “Muffins,” said Mae.
“Scones,” corrected Desdemona.
Hands on hips, Mae exploded. “Christ, but I’m gettin’ an education today!”
FIVE
HERB VILLON’S GIRLFRIEND, HAZEL DICKSON, sat across from him in his small office. Herb was on the phone talking to Mae, and Hazel, who made her living peddling gossip to columnists and various other forms of clients who rewarded her hand’ somely, was eager to know if he was hearing anything that she could use for a profit. She heard Herb saying to Mae “She’s delighted to join you for your sister’s opening night but I don’t know about tomorrow night. Thursdays she usually practices knife throwing with the other gossip hounds.”
“Very funny,” muttered Hazel.
“Miss West has a table tomorrow night at the Tailspin. It’s Halloween.”
“How much Tailspin can we take?” She thought a moment. “On the other hand, there’ll be a lot of Hollywood there letting their hair down and regretting it the next morning. And perhaps I can get a little chummy with Mae. She’s always turned me down for an interview. Sure, why not.”
“Okay, Mae,” he said into the phone, “we’ll be there at nine. Oh, I’m sure Jim would love it. What? Sure I’ll tell him. While he’s protecting you, you’ll be protecting him. See you tomorrow night.” As he replaced the phone in its cradle, he said to Hazel, “I wouldn’t count on getting too chummy with Mae West.”
“Why not? Isn’t she friendly?”
“She’s friendly, all right. But to a point. I don’t think she has many women friends.”
“You’re right. She doesn’t. There’s this Agnes Darwin you met today. The witch. Boy, if that isn’t a laugh.”
“Come to think of it, Hazel, what do witches do for a living?”
“Search me. What are witches supposed to do for a living?”
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you. You profess to know everything about everything and everybody.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, it’s unbecoming.” She examined her fingernails while thinking. “I suppose they’re paid to concoct love potions for the lovelorn, cast spells over people who are proving irksome to other people, or give lectures to women’s clubs.” Hazel scratched her chin. “Mae’s obviously good to her sister. And to the hired help.”
“Desdemona and Goneril worship her. What about this Jim Timony, her so-called manager?”
“He’s been around a long, long time but I hear tell she’s beginning to think a long, long time has been much too long. What about the muscle boy?”
“Seymour Steel Cheeks?” Villon laughed. “He’s like a puppy dog.”
“I’ve seen his picture. I should have such a puppy dog.”
“Tell me, Hazel, got any theories on these vampire killings?”
“It’s plain as the nose on your face. All bloodstained roads lead to Mae West.”
Villon sighed. “The majority rules, I guess.”
Hazel thought he looked tired. They’d been together, give or take a few arguments and subsequent short silences, for almost a decade. Theirs wasn’t a passionate relationship. They were in fact more like a childless couple who had their own professions to follow and every so often got together under covers just to keep the franchise. Both admitted to each other they dreaded the thought of ever living with another person and were glad to agree on keeping the status very quo.
Hazel asked, “Do you suppose our Mr. Timony might be behind these murders?”
“He’s too bulky.”
“Now what does that mean?”
Villon was familiar with Hazel’s tones of exasperation. “He’s too clumsy to have committed these killings. This murderer is quick on his feet. He’s damned fast. He creeps up on them. He slashes their throats and seconds later he’s plunged a knife into the heart. This kind of choreography calls for fancy footwork.”
“You think Fred Astaire did it?”
Villon smiled. “You might be close, you know. Someone lithe. Athletic. Young. Twenties to forties.”
“What about this Neon Light, heaven help me? No vampire bite. No knife to the heart.” She slumped in her chair. “I don’t envy a detective’s job.”
“Me either. Neon’s only link to the three others is that he impersonated Mae among others. I’ve got Jim looking up the files on the case right now. Neon’s manager was Milt Connery, and he functions out of the Tailspin.”
“Oh, good. All the more reason to go two nights in a row. Maybe he’ll get chummy with me.”
“I wouldn’t mind that.”
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“Trying to get rid of him. He’s a bad boy, and Mae just told me on the phone that he and Agnes the witch seemed to have had it off a few years ago.”
“Oh, I’m so glad witches have sex. I do so worry about them. I mean, it would be so dull just cruising around on a broom-stick especially in a rainstorm and then come home to a nice hot black cat and a kettle stewing with all sorts of offensive ingredients.”
“Agnes Darwin is quite a striking-looking woman. She should shoot her hairdresser, though.”
“Is she lithe? Athletic? Young? Twenties to forties?”
“She smokes too much.”
“Then she probably gets winded easily. Anyway, why would she want to murder West impersonators?”
“Search me. I don’t even know why the murderer wants to murder them. All I know is, three’s a crowd, and I’m not looking forward to any more victims.”
“You said three’s a crowd. What about Neon Light?”
“I just have a hunch somebody else killed him. The body was found in Griffith Park, but you find all sorts of queer things in Griffith Park.”
“Especially queers.”
“No, Neon Light was murdered elsewhere and then dumped in the Park at a safe hour in the middle of the night. The only real thing he had in common with the others was his profession. I do strongly feel there could be some other l
ink, but it’s going to take a lot of digging to find out what it is.”
“You think Milton Connery is some kind of link?”
“All the victims have appeared as headliners at the Tailspin at one time or another. You know, female impersonators and drag acts are limited in bookings unless they’re headliners, and there hasn’t been a genuine headliner in years. They get booked around the country in small venues. Mostly homosexual bars and clubs and occasionally sleazy joints that still offer some form of vaudeville. Some of them get lucky and are booked into Europe. They go over big in Germany and in Paris. Germany’s been an oasis for female impersonators for years. Also North Africa.” Hazel was engrossed. “Tunisia, Tangier, Egypt. It’s a big market for them. And let’s not forget the greatest haven for female impersonators is in the Far East. Japan’s Kabuki theater and the Chinese opera. Strictly female impersonators.”
Hazel sat up in her chair. “Herbert Villon, how come you know so much about them?”
“What the hell do you mean? I’ve been reading up on them. Research. If I’m trailing somebody killing female impersonators, then I’ve got to find out all I can about female impersonators.”
“You know there’s a rumor around that Mae West is really a man?”
“Hazel, take it from me, she’s all woman and a lot of yards wide.” He was staring out the window into an alley littered with cartons and garbage cans in one of which a striped alley cat was foraging. “I still keep going back to Milton Connery/’
“Have you ever met him?”
“Our paths have crossed, but our swords haven’t.” He turned in his chair and faced Hazel. “Try to get chummy with him.”
“If there’s an opportunity, I’ll try. I’m not exactly an accredited card-carrying femme fatale.” She favored him with a winsome smile. “There are those, on the other hand, who have been known to succumb to my charms, if only briefly. Say, we’re not supposed to be going in costume tomorrow night, are we?”
“I don’t really suppose so. But if I’m asked what I’m supposed to be. I’ll tell them I’m a detective.”