by P. N. Elrod
“He’s just over—” No, he wasn’t. Miss LaBelle was on her own but positively glowing from more than what was required by her role. Good, he’d made progress with her but wasn’t overdoing things. “Probably inside by now. I put him at your table. If he looks like a stunned pigeon, there’s a reason for it.”
“What reason?”
I nodded toward Sherry LaBelle. Coldfield looked ready to burst into laughter.
“Okay, I won’t rib him too much. It’s about time he discovered women again.”
Some ancient history—the bad kind—had turned Escott into something of a recluse for several years. He was gradually breaking free of it.
“I’ll see you later,” said Coldfield, and allowed his group to be led away.
The next one through the doors was a surprise. Lieutenant Blair sauntered forward, putting out his hand. The illusion of a perpetual smile lent to him by the trim of his mustache was very pronounced. He seemed most pleased with himself.
“You’ve got quite a gathering here,” he said. “Haven’t seen so many of the wise crowd in one spot since Big Al was in town. What are you trying to do here?”
True, more than three-quarters of the people here were in the mob or connected to it. I’d have to widen my circle of friends. “Show everyone a good time. That’s all.”
“Of course, of course. But you’ll have to excuse the men I’ve got outside if they note down the names of some of your customers—it’s only in regard to the Ashley case,” he lied.
So he wasn’t here as a mere guest, but then I’d not expected that. “I thought you’d closed it.”
“Not completely. I’ve got a new angle. We were able to take some prints off those books you gave me.”
The noise around us seemed to fade as I focused my undivided attention on him. Hypnosis was unnecessary, though; he was eager to talk. “What about them?”
“We identified her. It just came in today. You probably know something about it. You were in New York at the time.”
“About what?”
“Lena Ashley’s real name was Helen Tielli.” He gave the name an emphasis of importance.
Almost familiar, but my memory didn’t toss out anything useful. “Was she an actress? With the mobs?”
“Close enough. I got some extra wire photos of the newspaper articles. Thought you’d like to see them since you’ve a vested interest in the case.” He drew a narrow envelope from his inside pocket and gave it to me. “Consider it a thank-you for your help.”
I sorted through the articles—one of them was from the paper I’d once worked at—and the general facts of the whole monstrous story came back to me. “You sure Lena was this Tielli woman?” I asked, feeling disturbed and not a little sickened.
“The general description of Lena and Helen match, same as for a thousand other women, but fingerprints don’t lie.”
“But how could she be? From what I heard from her friends they really liked her. Loved her, even. How could she have been that way and do something like this?” I indicated the papers, wanting him to gainsay their facts.
Blair shrugged. “I’ve seen enough, so I know it’s not impossible for someone like her to have a good side. They commit a crime that would make a mortician vomit and then forget about it ten minutes later like some animal. Except an animal has a reason for its actions. Helen Tielli had no such excuse.”
I shook my head. “The world’s in a toilet.”
“Yes. Too bad we couldn’t have caught up with her. Someone else did instead. It was a hideous way to die, but with her history . . . I’d say justice was served. And”—his teeth glinted and his eye was hard—“don’t quote me on that.”
“I’m not with the papers anymore. Just a humble saloonkeeper, now.”
Blair looked all about him, making a show of it. “You’ve made up a whole new meaning for the word humble, Fleming. Better send it in to Webster’s, and quick.” Blair went off to pay his respects to “Lady Crymsyn.” I hoped he wouldn’t be sharing his information with the now-drunk reporters. Probably not just yet. He’d more likely be checking on any men he’d posted inside.
“Where’d that dinge and his buddies come from?” a man asked, jarring me from my reading of the articles. “I didn’t know you had the place that much open.”
Hot flare of anger. I looked down at Gardner Pourcio. He was in a sharply cut suit, big cigar at a defiant angle between his lips. Had to let my eyes slide past for a second as an unpleasant picture flashed through my mind. Damn, I could still smell the burned flesh.
“His name is Shoe Coldfield,” I said evenly.
“Oh, so that’s him. Heard he was running things in the Bronze Belt. What are you doing mixing with the criminal element in this town, I ask you? He’s one tough mug.”
Considering how he made a living, Pourcio had no business turning his nose up at criminal elements. “He’s one of my good friends. Understand?”
“Oh, okay, I get it, takes all kinds, I guess. So, where’s the action here?” He glanced around expectantly.
“I told you the club is on the up-and-up.”
“Come on, no one opens a joint like this without having something on the side. Is it upstairs?”
Sighing, I fixed him with a look. “No gambling here, Pourcio. Just good booze and a great show.” Release.
He shook his head. “Well, that’s a crock. How’s a guy supposed to earn a living? Saa—aay, who’s the pippin in the red dress?” He craned for a look at “Lady Crymsyn.”
“She’s spoken for, so don’t even try.” He had enough wives.
“Just my luck. I better stick to cards tonight, then. You sure done a job here, though. I wouldn’t a known the joint, ’cept for right over there.” He pointed at the lobby bar, which was doing good business. “That’s where the lady bartender got it when they croaked Welsh. Myrna. She was a hot little pippin, too, the poor kid.”
Behind him, the bar light went out. The bartender there absently turned it back on again and took another order.
“Caught it right inna throat, boom. But it was quick, I’ll say that.”
Out again. This time the bartender mouthed annoyance as he slapped the toggle.
“She maybe din’ know what hit her,” Pourcio went on, oblivious of the show.
Out.
“You were friends with this Myrna?” I asked.
He held up crossed fingers. “Hey, me and that sweet twist were this close.”
The lobby lights went out, causing a slight stir with my guests.
I showed my teeth. “Pourcio—you are a goddamned liar.”
Without hurry I went to the wall panel and flipped the switches back up once more. I stared at the bar. Nothing visible behind it except the flesh-and-blood hired help.
Pourcio followed the direction of my stare and misinterpreted. “Good idea, Fleming. Don’t mind if I do.” He strolled over in search of a drink.
Would that I could have one, too. A double. “Myrna?” I whispered, experimentally.
No reaction from the lights. If not for the show that had taken place while I’d been bleeding out over the floor with a broken back, I’d have put this down to coincidence. Not anymore. Well, if there had to be a resident ghost in the club, at least it—she—had a sense of humor.
16
LONG after Pourcio drifted off I stood in the middle of the lobby, reading the murky copies of what had once been fresh, screaming headlines. The passage of time had not moderated the—well, what could I call it? Not a tragedy, for those are usually the result of random accident or poor decisions. Crime was too mild a descriptive. It was vile, and it was vicious, the result of the kind of stupidity and selfishness and, perhaps, insanity that is beyond any understanding; yet there was a perverse logic to Lena’s—Helen’s—actions.
So absorbed was I that I didn’t notice when Malone came up. I started slightly upon suddenly noticing him at my shoulder. He flinched with one of those tics, and we both traded grins at this mutual show of nerves. Mine felt
sickly.
“It’s time for the show to start,” he said, giving what seemed to be a reproachful glance at my distraction.
I pulled myself together and hastily shoved the papers away in my pocket. “Okay, let’s break a leg.”
He’d had enough contact with the performers to understand the theatrical version of warding off bad luck and trailed a half step behind me.
Lady Crymsyn was already in the wings waiting for her cue from me. The waiters and waitresses were busy darting around the tables, making sure everyone got well oiled. The guests were lively and talking, some circulating to greet friends, others on the dance floor. A party mood suffused the whole huge room, as it should. I noted that the air circulation was working, visibly drawing the smoky by-product of hundreds of cigarettes and cigars upward.
One part of my mind was pleased at how smoothly things were proceeding—and they’d damned well better be smooth considering they’d been planned down to the last martini olive. Another, much more anxious part, was trying roughly to calculate how many drink sales it would take to pay for everything tonight. I consciously shoved the worrywart into a cash drawer and locked it fast. An unfortunate image, considering the fate of Lena Ashley.
Helen Tielli. I remembered the baby teeth Rita and I had found and realized who they’d really belonged to. Had they been keepsakes or souvenirs?
Wiping off a scowl before it could form, I kept moving until the smile I pasted in its place became genuine.
I was greeted a second time as I moved through the crowd—and it was a crowd—affectionately hailed by dozens feeling the effects of drinks and a good time. Some wanted to be known as friends of the owner, no doubt, but it felt immensely satisfying all the same to step up on the stage and tap the microphone to see if it worked. Filtered through the loudspeaker system, the taps turned into minor explosions, startling a few and gaining the attention of all.
Maybe I should have been nervous; I was never much for public speaking until taking a couple of debating classes in college. Those removed the terror of being the focus of an audience. Most of it, anyhow. But this was different. I was in charge, everyone was smiling and on my side, and it made me feel light yet powerful. No wonder Bobbi was so addicted to the spotlights.
The orchestra leader nodded at my cue and wound down the current song, allowing the dancers to find their seats. Several of the women were with Upshaw’s party, looking very decorative. I was curious about Upshaw’s whereabouts and interested to see him seated at Booth Nevis’s table. So my hypnosis had worked. Neither of them recalled any attempts to kill the other.
A sprinkling of applause brought me back to the business at hand, which was to introduce myself (more applause), compliment the audience, and thank them for being there (and more applause). Damn, but this was fun. I caught a glimpse of Bobbi shimmering in the wings. She grinned and gave me a double-thumbs-up sign.
As I didn’t want the focus of the club to be on me, I’d created the mythical character of Lady Crymsyn to fill that part. She was a rare and mysterious creature deigning to share a few moments with lesser mortals. I used words to that effect as part of my introduction before finally calling her forth to present her formally to the house.
Applause. Lots of it. I wasn’t sure if anyone understood the idea I was trying to get across, giving the club a personification, or if they thought she was the real owner of the place. It didn’t matter. Lady Crymsyn was beautiful and gracious, and their response to her was gratifying. I slipped off the stage to allow her the freedom to get on with her mistress of ceremonies duties. Bobbi, having a lot of experience in the area, had written out what was required, and Sherry LaBelle flawlessly got through it without making it seem rehearsed. She also acknowledged the orchestra, called attention to the outstanding efforts of the staff so as to encourage tipping, then introduced the first act, a local radio comedian who strongly resembled Eddie Cantor.
The spotlight shifted to him, and Lady Crymsyn faded back to the wings. I wanted to go there myself, but Bobbi had forbidden it for the sake of the performers. “They know their business,” she said. “If you turn up, they’ll think you don’t trust them.” Not willing to add to their opening-night jitters, I climbed to the top tier where my reserved table was, shaking hands along the way as the comic started raking in his first laughs.
Escott was installed between Gordy’s mob and Coldfield’s party. Smart thinking on my part. Gordy and Coldfield did know of each other, but rarely did their worlds overlap. Escott was the perfect go-between for both. I wasn’t exactly trying to form a League of Nations among the various elements of Chicago’s underworld, but it wouldn’t hurt for these two to socialize.
Coldfield’s presence garnered continual looks, some of curiosity, others of disgust, but I made a point of shaking his hand again. He was well aware of what I was doing and played along, barely hiding his amusement at my efforts to improve race relations.
Gordy had also been briefed about who he’d be in close proximity to for the evening. If he had objections, he was canny enough not to voice them, and sometimes Escott had to lean back out of the way so the two gang leaders could exchange a comment. Escott finally gave up and excused himself so he could speak to me.
“She said she would join us later,” he began, not bothering to identify which “she” in the room. It was unnecessary. “How long will she be involved with the show?”
“You’ll have to be patient; she’s got a full card for most of the evening.”
He looked mildly disappointed. For him that was his version of having a boulder dropped on his head.
“I’ll see if she can’t come up and take a long break later on,” I added, trying to be kindly.
A visible brightening. “Excellent. It seems we have some friends in common in the profession. She’s been in a few plays with one of my old cronies. We can compare notes.”
The excuse was as long as a boardinghouse reach to me, but if he was willing to use it to get to know her better, then what the hell, why not? “You’re being a complete idiot, you know.”
“Yes, it’s quite refreshing, don’t you think?” As he looked down toward the stage where Miss LaBelle lurked, there was a decided glint in his eye and a predatory cast to his face I’d never seen before.
Good grief. I had no idea about this side of him. Escott the wolf? Escott the ladies’ man? On the other hand, he was a gentleman.
This would be interesting.
The comic ended his routine, having worked his audience up to a roomwide belly laugh. I’d heard the act before at a dress rehearsal, but it was still damned funny. He bowed out, and Lady Crymsyn returned to introduce a blues man named Jim Waters I’d discovered a couple months back. He’d been playing in a small tavern trading his songs for tips from impoverished college students and other riffraff.
At the time, Waters had not entirely believed me when I said I’d wanted him to work at my club, but all doubts were gone now. He was already seated on a tall stool, his guitar in hand, the orchestra backlit behind him. He composed his own music, and they’d done sufficient rehearsal to make it seem like they’d been playing together for years. Mindful of the legacy left him by the comic, he plunged into a fast-paced number, his grin enough to let everyone know he was having the time of his life. That got the house warmed to him. The next song (after the applause died) was more moderate but emotionally intense. He speeded up again for his third piece. His fourth and final one for this part of the show was a slow ballad about lost love. It was his best work, deeply moving, and gave him the wistful I-want-to-comfort-you attention of every red-blooded female in the room.
The response as he took his bow was such that I knew he’d be headlining here shortly, if he wasn’t snapped up by some other entrepreneur in the meantime.
Then it was Bobbi’s turn. The red velvet stage curtains had been drawn shut to allow Waters to exit and the orchestra members to change their sheet music. When the curtains next opened, Bobbi was seated on the white b
aby grand piano, a single spot picking out all those rhinestones on her gown, making them ripple and spark. She seemed to be framed in silver fire. I heard a gleeful exclamation and single hand clap from one audience member: Joe James, who looked unconscionably pleased with himself at the effect.
Bobbi’s accompanist, Marza Chevreaux, did her job with her usual expertise, making it look easy. She framed the music around Bobbi’s singing, complementing rather than competing. She idolized Bobbi but didn’t much like me, though her attitude had guardedly softened over time. Bobbi and I had been together nearly a year now, and so far I’d not made her cry, something Marza had not expected.
They worked to good effect for the first few bars, then the orchestra leader gradually brought in more instruments to fill things out. I’d not been awake during the rehearsals, so the end result was a knockout to me. Bobbi was definitely the star of the show, not merely background music for the customers. No one was dancing; they were too busy listening.
Timed down to the minute, the lights came up at the end of Bobbi’s set, and the orchestra struck up a number chosen to coax people out of their applause and onto the floor. I figured it would be safe for me to venture backstage now and did so. Escott unobtrusively tagged along.
“You’ll chase her off if you’re too eager,” I told him out the side of my mouth.
“Nonsense. All performers appreciate congratulations from their peers.”
I grinned and left him to it, hunting around for Bobbi in the backstage melee. She was busy with one of the stage crew, gesturing at the curtains, then pointing toward the lights in an authoritative way, very much in her element. I waited until she was finished to offer her my own congratulations. They had to be brief; two other people came up to claim her attention, and she had to hurry off. She did cheerfully comment that I seemed a lot more relaxed. What pleased her, pleased me. I even caught Marza looking at me with—well, if it wasn’t exactly a benign expression, at least it wasn’t openly hostile. Maybe in a couple of decades she might even work up to a smile.
Escott returned wearing a peculiar face, as though he had a pineapple lodged halfway down his throat, but was strangely smug about it. “She’s agreed to a late-night dinner after the show.”