Noir

by Christopher Moore

  “Yeah,” said Myrtle. “Maybe we’ll have another glass of wine or two.”

  “One comes with the meal,” said Vinnie.

  “Fartin’ through silk, huh?” asked Myrtle, a drawn-on eyebrow raising sly-like.

  Vinnie shrugged, causing rolls of fat to bunch up on his neck like a stack of sausages below his chef’s toque, then grabbed the bottle from under the counter and filled both of their glasses. He was married to one of the daughters of the owners, had five kids, and the only thing he ever got out of flirting was a basketful of empty Chianti bottles, but hey, he was Italian, and there were expectations.

  “So?” said Myrtle, dragging out the so to invite a story. “The new guy?”

  “He’ll do,” said Stilton. “He’s nice. Funny.”

  “He’s cute, and you never had one come by work before, so he’s got that going for him, but a bartender? There’s no future in that, kid.” Myrtle had seen Sammy when he came by the five-and-dime earlier. So had the Cheese, but she’d bolted into the back and hidden, shy as a schoolgirl, before he’d seen her.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve had a future. I don’t need a guy to take me away from everything. I don’t need a guy at all. He’ll do, for now. Probably.”

  Myrtle cringed a little and took a sip of her wine. When she wasn’t crackin’ wise or slingin’ plates, Stilton carried a little sack of sorrow with her that could knock the sparkle out of her wide Lucille Ball eyes and the shine off her surprised hair. “Look, Tilly,” said Myrtle, “what I said about the war. I know it was harder for you. I didn’t mean—”

  “Forget about it,” Stilton said, and she was about to say how Sammy would do because he seemed a little broken, and that’s how she liked them, but then, being as there is no small town so small as a neighborhood in a big city, Sal Gabelli slipped onto the stool next to Myrtle.

  “Evening, ladies,” said Sal. “Hope I’m not bothering you.” He wore his overcoat over his white shirt and bow tie from the bar.

  Myrtle wrinkled her nose, thought she smelled vinegar on him, but it was probably just stale booze.

  “Hey,” said Sal, pointing at the Cheese, “didn’t I—”

  “Nope. Wasn’t me. I’m new.”

  “Don’t mind her, mister,” said Myrtle. “She’s got one of those faces.”

  “Right, right,” said Sal. “You ladies waiting for your husbands to get off work?”

  “Here on our own,” said Myrtle. “Just a couple of used-to-be Rosies trying to get by in the big city.” She meant “Rosie the Riveters,” as both she and Stilton had worked the shipyards during the war.

  Sal threw a nod to one of the cooks, who caught his eye and recognized him. “Well, maybe I could help you with that,” said Sal. “I might have an opportunity for you gals to make a little folding cabbage, if you’re interested.”

  “We ain’t floozies. Tilly, do I have a floozie sign pasted on my back? Sure, her, I can understand the mistake, but I’m wearing my waitress uniform, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Nah, nah, nothing like that,” said Sal. “This is completely legit, aboveboard, girl-next-door stuff. I just thought you might be able to pocket a little cheddar, if your husbands don’t mind, that is.”

  “We’re single and you know it,” said Stilton. “Spit it out. What’s the angle?”

  “Single gals? Well, that’s just aces. How would you ladies like to spend a little time with some very rich guys, cream of the crop, as they say, and make a little lettuce for your trouble?”

  “Yes!” said Myrtle.

  “Wait a minute,” said the Cheese. “With our clothes on?”

  “I swear on the Virgin, just be social and look pretty,” said Sal. “Dance a little, smile a little—think of it like you’re being USO volunteers for rich guys.”

  “Yes,” said Myrtle.

  “Not so fast,” said the Cheese. “What kind of money are we talking.”

  “Fifty bucks,” said Sal.

  “Yes,” said Myrtle. Fifty bucks was more than a week’s pay at the five-and-dime.

  “Each,” said Stilton.

  “Each,” said Sal.

  “Yes,” said Myrtle. “Let’s go. There will be food, right?”

  “I can’t,” said Stilton. “I have something to do tonight.”

  “I don’t,” said Myrtle. “Don’t worry about the food. I’ve eaten before. It ain’t strictly necessary.”

  Sal took his hat off, revealing his stripy comb-over. “No, no, you misunderstand me. I’m just setting this up for the end of the week. You ladies can take all the time you need. In fact, let me get your dinners for you.”

  “Seventy-five bucks,” said Stilton.

  “Wait. What?”

  “Each,” said Stilton.

  Myrtle grabbed her arm like she was digging for a vein.

  “Wait a minute—”

  “Look, you want us to block out our calendar a week in advance, we need to know it’s worth our time.”

  “Look, this is a very generous offer, sister. Most single girls would pay that much just to get in the same room with these guys.”

  “A hundred bucks,” said Stilton.

  “Holy shit, lady,” said Sal. “Who do you think you are?”

  “Yeah, lady, who do you think you are?” said Myrtle. She downed her cheap red in a gulp and proceeded to glare at Stilton as if she could weld her insane lips together with a gaze.

  “Seventy-five,” said Sal.

  “What?” said Myrtle. “I thought you liked dancing?”

  “C-note or nothing,” Stilton said.

  “Fine,” said Sal, “but you gotta bring eight, maybe ten friends with you. All lookers, too, if you can manage.”

  “That’s a tall order,” said the Cheese.

  “She don’t have ten friends,” whispered Myrtle.

  “Well, do what you can,” said Sal. “I got a backup angle. Let me get your number. I’ll call you with the when and where. In the meantime, except for the girls you recruit, keep this on the Q.T. These are some very important guys. They like their privacy.”

  “Give him your number, Myrtle,” said the Cheese. Then to Sal, “I got no phone. Disturbs my beauty sleep.” Then to Vinnie, “Vinnie, can we get a couple of more glasses of red? The gentleman is buying.”

  5

  Dames, They Come and Go

  Two hours before closing Stilton showed up again, looking somewhat more wobbly than when she’d left. Her red hat was a little cockeyed and she’d turned the veil back on itself so it looked like a big red eyebrow across her forehead.

  Sammy mixed a bourbon and ginger and placed it in front of her. “You bugged out of here pretty fast earlier. Something scare you off?”

  “Nah, the colored fella was okay, but that cop gave me the creeps, like he was suspicious of me or something.”

  Sammy looked at her, just looked at her. Raised an eyebrow. “Punani Toons?”

  “People always think that Stilton is weird.”

  “Yeah, smart to avoid that.”

  “Well, he’s as dim as a three-watt bulb, ain’t he? If you’re planning a caper, that’s the flatfoot you want flapping after you. That mug couldn’t catch a cough in a tire fire. Almost makes you want to go commit some crimes just ’cause you know you could get away with it. What about you, Hopalong? You wanna go perpetrate some crimes with me?”

  “Gotta finish my shift, but I’ll take a rain check on that, Toots.”

  “Don’t call me Toots.”

  “Hopalong?” The eyebrow.

  “Fair enough. Toots it is. Let’s drink to our future crimes.” She took a pull on her drink until it made a delicate slurping noise—the straw at the bottom of the glass like a tiny parched elephant. She slid the empty glass to him.

  As Sammy refreshed the drink he realized he really liked this broad. Really, really liked her. It wasn’t love yet, so he might still escape, but he didn’t remember ever liking anyone quite as much as he found himself liking this broad, and with that he smiled
like a dog at a barbecue for the blind. He set the drink down in front of her.

  She picked up the glass, then paused. “You’re not going to make a girl drink alone, are you, soldier?”

  He liked her enough to feel like he should really tell her that he wasn’t a soldier, had never been, but he liked her enough to not want her to go away. Not right now.

  “I guess not.” He poured himself a double and checked his watch. Two hours until closing. “To our crimes,” he said, raising his glass to toast.

  “Crimes,” said the Cheese, having a little trouble aiming her glass at his until the third try, when she managed to clink glasses. “Holy moly, I might need you to walk me home.”

  “I might be able to do that,” said Sammy. “But I don’t like to talk about the war.”

  “Don’t worry, pal,” said the Cheese. “That’s not going to be a problem.”

  * * *

  A cop was softly burbling the cleavage of a big blonde in the corner, holding his hat in his hand behind his back out of respect. The gentlemen scattered about the parlor were distracted from their own comely diversions, all draped in lingerie and painted just so.

  “Bess, take him in the back,” said Mabel, the madam. “The uniform makes the guests nervous.”

  Bess cracked her gum in salute and pulled the cop by his tie through velvet curtains.

  “You run a tight ship,” said Sally Gab. He was a head shorter than the madam.

  Mabel, packed into a green satin evening gown with her crimson hair spraying high and then splashing down over her shoulders, looked like a tube of red paint someone had squeezed hard in the middle. Standing next to her, Sal Gabelli, in his ill-fitting suit, looked like a black-and-white character that had stumbled into a Technicolor movie—like there was just not enough color and life in the joint for the both of them. He was carrying a camera, one of those small German jobs, down by his side like he was sneaking a pistol into a bank.

  “Pictures are gonna cost you extra, Sally,” Mabel said. “You hand me the film and I give you back what I see fit. No faces. I got a guy does the developing and printing.”

  “Nah, that’s not my game, Mabes. I need a dame.”

  “Color me surprised,” said Mabel. She fitted a cigarette into a long ivory holder and waited for him to light it for her. “No luck at the hardware store and the barbershop, then? Thought you’d take a shot in the dark and stop in to my joint?” She smiled—a little lipstick there on a front tooth—and blew smoke over his head.

  “Why you bustin’ my balls, Mabes? I’m trying to do business here. I need a specific kind of dame.”

  “Once again, you have come to the right place, Sal. I happen to have specific kinds of dames. What specifics were you looking for, specifically?”

  “I need a looker, but she can’t look too much like a floozie, no offense.”

  The madam clamped her back teeth down on her cigarette holder like a mug chomping a cigar. “Go on.”

  “She needs to be able to pull off the girl-next-door thing. Give up the goods in the end, but not make it too easy—you know, act interested in a guy, even if she thinks he’s a toad. Like a real dame.”

  “Pretend to be a real dame. Check.”

  “And she’s got to be smart, and a little sneaky. She’s going to be the one working the camera, but she has to do it on the Q.T. These guys can’t know she’s doing it.”

  “So, you are not just looking to get your ashes hauled, am I right?”

  “No, not for me. I’m working an angle.”

  “Not with one of my girls you aren’t. My girls, my angle.”

  Mabel turned and walked over to the bar, forcing Sal to follow or stand in the middle of the room holding his camera like a goof. He hurried after her.

  “I’m putting together a bevy of broads for the Bohemian Club, for their annual cookout or whatever up in that redwood grove they have in Sonoma County.”

  “Scotch and soda,” Mabel said to the bartender. “Vinegar and water for Sal, here.”

  “Hey,” said Sal, waving off the bartender. “Don’t be like that. This could be worth some serious cabbage.”

  Mabel took the drink from the bartender, sipped a bit through a straw, then wheeled on Sal, causing him to lean back like he was about to be snakebit. “Look, Sal, I got a good business here, but it only runs at the pleasure of the powers that be, from the mayor to the cops. Some of the city supervisors are my best customers, so I got connections. Connections I use and connections I need. But the Bohemians, that’s a whole different level of juice. Those guys got power that runs countries. They eat mugs like Pookie O’Hara and the mayor for breakfast. Presidents, princes, scientists, artists, Nobel Prize mugs, the whole kit and caboodle. They say they hatched the atom bomb up at their little cookout—you do not fuck with guys like that. And from time to time, they throw a little business my way, and they pay extra for discretion, which they don’t have to, because if I don’t have discretion, my business caves like an accordion. So tell me, Sal, why would I want or need you to pimp one of my girls to them? And before you answer, Pookie O’Hara came by yesterday to pick up his fee, and he made it clear that if you showed up looking to do anything but get laid, I was to let him know, so I got your discretion dangling, buster.”

  She handed her cigarette holder to the bartender, who removed the butt, stubbed it out in the ashtray, and returned the holder to her, reloaded. She waited while Sal fidgeted.

  “Can I get a seltzer, rocks?” Sal said to the bartender. Then to Mabel: “This ain’t about peddling tail, and you know it. I got a guy wants into the Bohemians. Wants in bad, but he can’t find an angle. So he wants normal Bettys, shopgirls and secretaries and whatnot, which I can find. I think I can find. Anyway, he’s paying a pretty penny over what the girls get, but I’d be willing to give all that lettuce to you, and you’re in the wind, clean as a whistle. I’ll work my angle from there.”

  “Which is blackmail?” Mabel smiled.

  “Have you heard what they get up to? Guys dressing up like broads? Secret rituals, naked dancing, singing show tunes, and that’s before they get rolling with the booze and the broads. I ran booze for those mugs during Prohibition, and they can put some away. I figure the right shot of the president of Lisbon dressed like Garbo while a dame yanks his crank could be worth some serious cabbage.”

  “Lisbon is a city, you dope, not a country.” She teed up her cigarette holder and waited while Sal dug his Zippo out of his pants and lit it for her. Mabel leaned back, elbows against the bar as she blew smoke out into the room. “I will not be a player in blackmail, Sal.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Mabel—”

  “But . . .” She didn’t look at him, just scanned the room as she spoke, looking out for business. “I have been known to make recommendations, arrange talent for someone who is perpetrating such a heinous crime.”

  “That’s all I’m looking for.”

  “Then what kind of talent fee are we talking about?”

  “Two G’s.”

  Mabel let the ash fall off her cigarette into the carpet, but did not look at Sal. “For one girl? For one night? Two grand?”

  “Less a few expenses. I might need a few more dames, for fill-in, in case my guy doesn’t come through. Nothing special.”

  “That’s a lot of folding money for one night.”

  “And their thing goes on for a week. If the girls work out, stay longer, there’s more.”

  “And you’ll give all that up?”

  “I figure I’ll get a fair stack myself, you know, for taking the risk.”

  “This blows back, Sal, those guys will have you put in a sack and dropped in the bay and be halfway around the world when it happens. They won’t even know the guy who knows the guy who ties the sack.”

  “That’s why I’ll have the pictures. Insurance.”

  “This blows back on me, Sal, I’ll have you put in a sack, and I don’t give a good goddamn about the pictures. Are we clear?”

  �
�So you got the right broad?”

  “Two G’s. One girl. One night. We never talked. I don’t know you. And if anyone asks, you’re a stranger and a douche bag, got it?”

  “Got it. She’s got to be fresh-faced. Like Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz.”

  “Call me tomorrow. Lunchtime. Give me a time and the place for the girl to be.”

  “And if I need a few more dames, all scrubbed-up Bettys from down on the farm, you can do that?”

  “Give me a time, a place, and how many farm girls you need.”

  “Thanks, Mabel. You’re the best.”

  “Get out of my place, before I change my mind and have you put in a sack on principle. And leave the camera.”

  * * *

  There were six boxwood bushes neatly trimmed into bullet-shaped pillars lining the walkway into the Victorian mansion that housed Mabel’s, so when a seventh shrub, taller than the others but bullet-shaped as well, stepped out of the dark to accost Sal as he exited, he was more than somewhat startled.

  “Christ on a crutch, Pookie,” Sal exclaimed, stepping back and gathering his wits, which had scattered like a handful of loose pearls when the big cop materialized. “What the hell you doing lurking out here in the yard like a goon? I coulda had a heart attack.”

  “Taxman,” said Pookie O’Hara. He snatched Sal up by the front of his coat and lifted him until he stood on tiptoes. “Nobody peddles tail in my town what they don’t pay the tax, Sal. Time to pay up.” Pookie pulled a leather sap out of his back pocket and pushed it up under Sal’s nose.

  “You got it all wrong, Pookie. What am I, stupid? I wouldn’t think of stepping on your action.”

  “That’s not what I hear from a little bird down to the Bohemian Club. I hear you’re setting up something for some military mucky-muck for their campout.” He dug the leather-wrapped lead sap into Sal’s cheekbone. Sal busted his lip trying to squirm away. Pookie shook him like he was a dishrag and popped him lightly on the forehead with the sap. The blackjack had barely moved, but Sal could feel the blow all the way in his back teeth. A full swat with that thing would put him in the drooling ward for good.

  “Ow! Fuck! Yeah! Yeah, I was talking about it, but it wasn’t me. I got nothing to do with it. I was just delivering a message.”