by Dion Baia
Laszlo exhaled unhappily. “It’s nothing that we can go into great detail about here.” He looked around him and back at Rory. “All I’m at liberty to say is it will be in the immediate future, and your cut will be around a hundred large.”
“A hundred large?” Seamus’s eyes were wide. “What d’ya want us to do, ransom the Queen Mary?!”
“Or the whole Cunard Line, eh?” said Ernie.
“I assure you, my simple friends, it really isn’t that complicated,” continued Laszlo. “But it will certainly be the most flashy job yet. So if you don’t like the proverbial heat, then get out of the kitchen. Remember the old slogan, ‘Freedom through Work.’”
“But one hundred large?” Seamus asked again.
Rory puffed on his cigar. “Well, you have my attention, Mister Strozek.”
“You see, Mister Caven, you are in a unique position as freelancers to be included—”
Another couple stepped in front of Walter and his view was again temporarily blocked. “Goddammit,” he uttered. He quickly moved with Tatum so they could find a clear sight line.
Tatum was restless. “Hey, the very least you can do is keep me involved here. Talk to me. What are they saying?”
“Extortion maybe, or another robbery.”
“Extortion, eh?” Tatum wanted to get a glimpse now. She smoothly spun them around to get a good look at the players seated across at the booth. This all happened before Walter realized what she was doing and because they were already committed, he had to let her spin so they could go back to their first position.
“It sounds like my guy there, the piano player, is a middleman for some syndicate.” Walter said softly into her ear. “He’s involved with the gang behind that Empire State building caper from the other night.”
“That was a big deal, front page stuff.” Tatum closed her eyes as they swayed.
“Yeah, and I don’t think the public knows the half of it. It’s all very baffling.” Walt looked away so it wouldn’t seem obvious he was staring at the table. “Maybe Caven’s West Side boys are muscle on this potential kidnapping I’m working?”
“Kidnapping?” Tatum opened her eyes. “It’s a kidnapping?”
“Ssshh! Well, it might not be a kidnapping. Still trying to figure that out. It’s a missing person that I am starting to get very worried about.”
Laszlo’s impatience overtook him. He looked back at the stage. “That’s all I can say at this time. I have to get back to the show. Please excuse me.”
Rory reached across the table and grabbed Laszlo’s arm before he could walk away. “This partnership stays together as long as we’re keeping our whistles wet. That dries up, especially with the heat you and your crew seem to have no problem attracting, then you and I are gonna have some problems. So let’s make sure we keep it all on the level, eh?”
“Of course, my friend,” Laszlo proclaimed, wearily. “Anything else would be bad for business and bad for the both of us. The results of our last enterprise should be an example of our integrity, eh? Let’s just hope you can play with us big boys now.”
Everyone at the table remained silent. It was clear that Seamus was biting his tongue.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Enjoy your whiskey.” Laszlo got up and headed toward the bathroom.
Walter continued to watch him closely. Once Laszlo was past the bar, two men who Walt instantly recognized got up and followed the musicians down the hall toward the bathroom. It was Walter’s stalkers, Ed and his hard-nosed partner.
“We got company watching Laszlo.”
“What?” Tatum said.
“Two fellas who were waiting for me in the office last night told me to lay off this piano player. They just followed my man to the can.”
The song ended, and the band announced they were taking a break.
“Who are they?”
“I think they’re the law, but I’m gonna find out. Excuse me for a minute, Tate.” Walter and Tatum stopped dancing, and she headed back to their table while he hurried toward the bathroom as fast as he could without being conspicuous.
The two men behind Laszlo were careful to keep an eye out, and as soon as Laszlo entered the men’s room, they followed him in and shut the door behind them.
Inside the lavish restroom, Ed flashed a badge and silently gave the attendant the boot while his partner made sure no one else was in any of the toilet stalls. Laszlo was at a urinal, so when he was finished and turned around, the surprise was evident on his face when he realized the bathroom door was now locked.
Walter came around the corner in time to see the bathroom attendant being pushed out and the door shut and locked behind him.
“Shit.”
“What’s the matter?” asked the washroom attendant with a level of concern as if this type of situation happened every day.
“I’m on a job, and I really need to hear what’s being said.”
“You a cop?”
“Private detective.”
“No shit? You putting me on, brotha?” the attendant said with a sly grin.
“I’m not, and I need to hear what they’re saying.” Walter sighed in defeat.
The older, bowlegged bathroom attendant stroked his thin mustache and gazed at Walter like he was sizing him up. He smiled. “How much is it worth to you, my young, overzealous friend?”
Without hesitation, Walter dug into his pocket and produced a crisp five-dollar bill. “It’s worth a whole lot to me, brotha.”
The washroom attendant’s eyes lit up when he saw the fiver, and he snatched it as fast as a magician palming a card in a magic trick. “Shit, Negro, all you have to do is ask, and the world shall be yours.” Coinciding with his last word, the man reached over to a large device on the wall and clicked on a dial, turning it to a number that lit up. It was an intercom system. At the desired number, the attendant held the button down. Immediately Walter could hear the echo and hollow-sounding voices of the three men speaking inside the lavatory.
He rushed over and pressed his ear against the small speaker mounted in the wall. The older man continued to hold the button down that enabled them to hear inside.
“This fancy contraption was put in so I can talk to the maître d’ or he can talk to me, so we can look after the big names that perform here. Any of the employees can stay in contact and be able to give a heads up to where the VIPs are in the club. They can also tell me when it’s time to get the VIP back onstage. Ya dig me?”
“Oh, I get you completely.” Walter angled his head in such a way that his whole ear covered the small speaker inside the wall.
“And,” the attendant continued with a smile, “anybody who knows anything knows all you got to do is flip the switch the other way round and the speaker inside becomes the microphone, you dig?”
Walter nodded in excitement. “Oh, I dig you, my brotha.”
The lavish, mahogany-colored and art-deco-styled speaker wasn’t the best microphone amplification system as was currently purported to be, but aside from making the three sound like they were in church, it got the job done. Walter listened intently, straining to distinguish the three different voices through the echoing of porcelain.
Inside, the partner stood in front of the locked bathroom door smiling at Laszlo. He leaned against the large counter that was next to the sink, knocking over the bottles of colognes and other tonics the attendant had laid out on the counter for patrons to use, ignoring the clinking sound the bottles made as they slid off into the sink.
“Pretty fancy place here, even for you, Strozek.” Ed had his back against the full-length mirror.
Laszlo shot back a condescending smirk in response. “I never thought you’d be admitted in a place like this on a salary like yours, Mister Helms.”
The other man, now behind Laszlo against the bathroom door, cut to the chase. “We want an updat
e on Overcast, music man.”
Laszlo turned so he was able to see both men on either side of the palatial lavatory. “It is an extremely delicate situation, and I don’t think pulling something this dramatic will do anything except blow the whole operation wide open. I mean, in the middle of everything else going on here, just to burst in so I can give you an ‘update’ could jeopardize it all.” This was the first time he was really showing his temper apart from the blowup Walter saw below The Creo Room. He could detect more of Laszlo’s German accent sneaking out, something Walter figured he probably strove to conceal, while the country was at war.
“Well, you’re such a hard man to get a hold of, Laszlo,” the man by the door said. “Why are you ducking us? Why, when this thing has gone live and we’re so close?”
Laszlo shook off his anger with a snap of his shoulders and straightened his tuxedo jacket. “I am not ducking you. Just trying to keep everyone happy.” Laszlo smiled, with a look of annoyance more than warmth. “Sometimes juggling these dogs in the air can be uncomfortable to the poodles involved.”
“What about Grand Central?”
Laszlo lit a cigarette, affecting a relaxed and cordial manner. “What about it?”
“Don’t screw with us, Strozek,” Ed Helms jumped in. “You know as well as I do that the OSS office wasn’t the only agency your boys hit the other night, and we wanna know why.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lazlo looked at the cherry on the tip of his cigarette. “One could only surmise, Agent Helms—mind you, this is merely unsubstantiated speculation on my part—that maybe they wanted some sort of additional collateral while they were there. Maybe they thought having a file like that would keep everyone from dashing out onto the playing field and blowing the game.”
Walter leaned in as close as he could, but it was getting harder to hear. He jotted down the name “AGT. HELMS” into his tiny notepad. A group of ladies chatted with each other on the way to the powder room, drowning out what was said next. Walt strained to follow the conversation.
The man next to the door was irritated, and it came out in the tone of his voice. “—is not enough, Strozek. Okay? You start pulling this kind of shit and the stipulations of our mutual agreement are gonna start disappearing. We can promise you that.”
Laszlo exhaled, beginning to get angry again. “Don’t threaten me. You want to start playing those games, I’ll start forgetting where people are hiding out and you’ll have nothing to—”
Someone from down the hallway shrieked with excitement, and Walter was again prevented from hearing the voices coming from the small intercom speaker.
He quickly turned his head, exchanging ears so he could keep a view down the hall of the club, and plugged his other ear with his finger so he could continue to eavesdrop.
“They are taking about an overcast day?” he said while scribbling it down into his pad.
“Overcast? Like it’s gonna rain?” the bathroom attendant echoed.
Walter made eye contact with the attendant. “Maybe a code name for something. You know, top secret stuff?”
The attendant shrugged.
“Maybe my guy is playing both sides?” Walter thought aloud.
“Could be,” the attendant agreed, which made Walter look at him again and pause. The bathroom attendant continued, “I always thought he looked like he could go both ways, that he straddled the fence, as they say.”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant.” Walter grinned. “I mean I think he may be playing everyone like a fiddle, not…never mind.” He trailed off realizing he was having an in-depth conversation with a total stranger.
“Gentlemen,” Laszlo said, dropping his cigarette and clapping his hands together, “as exciting as this chat is, I must get back to entertaining. I’m sure they’re looking for me onstage.”
The agent who was blocking the door didn’t budge. “You just remember our timetable. You are to deliver him and Overcast’s contents directly to us by the week’s end. That was the deal.”
Laszlo raised his hands palm up, giving the most innocent look he could muster. “Gentlemen, I am doing my best with what I have to work with. You want amateur hour, go hire Charlie Chan and his number one son. So, again, excuse me, please.”
“You just remember where your loyalties lie,” Helms said. “You double-cross us and I swear to God I will personally make sure you’ll be back playing bingo halls and bombed-out buildings in Berlin when the war is over, buster.”
Laszlo leveled a cold look of disgust at the two agents, then went to the door and got in the man’s face. “Excuse me, Agent Mathers.”
The attendant let go of the button and Walter quickly ducked into the ladies’s bathroom.
Mathers didn’t break his stare but stepped to the side and unlocked the door. Laszlo swiftly exited the bathroom, passed the washroom attendant, and headed back out toward the stage.
Moments later, Agent Helms and his partner Agent Mathers left the bathroom. They dug into their pockets to give the attendant a tip.
“Sorry, fella, here’s a little something for your trouble.” They each slapped a dollar into the man’s hand and walked back into the ballroom.
A few more seconds went by before the ladies’ room door inched open and Walter peeped out.
“You’re in the clear,” said the washroom attendant.
Walter nodded, added the name “AGT. MATHERS??” to his notepad, and left the women’s bathroom. “Thanks for all your help, my friend.”
He took the long way around the ballroom, staying close to the back wall. Tatum was waiting for him.
“There you are. Those gorillas you were scoping out paid their bill and left.”
Laszlo Strozek made his way back onto the stage and was met with applause. He waved at the crowd then sat down and started another set. A relaxed, romantic instrumental.
Walter sat down and tossed back his shot of whiskey. A thought popped into his head and he jumped back up. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “I gotta to check my messages. Sorry, Tatum. I usually work solo, you know.”
“I can see why.” Tatum sighed, settling back in her seat.
Walter waited for the phone booth near the bar to empty and dialed his answering service. “Any messages for Walter Morris, please?” He waited a few moments, and hearing the response, his eyes widened.
“Okay, um, thank you.” He slammed down the receiver, picked it up again, and rapidly tapped the switchhook to clear the line and get the operator. “Operator? The Hotel Claridge two-four-two-four.” He waited as the connection was made. “Yeah, connect me to the Hayden suite, please. Yes, yes, thank you.” He waited, tapping his foot.
Someone answered on the other end of the line. “Yeah, this is Walter Morris. I need to talk to Mister Hayden right away.” Walter cleared his throat and decided to stand up in the booth.
“Who is this? Crane?” His brow furrowed. “What the hell is going on? Where’s Hayden? Yeah, I got your message. So someone made contact with you? No!” Walter lost his cool and yelled, “Let me ask you a question. Why, for fuck’s sake, would you pay a ransom without consulting me first, the expert you hired?!”
Walter now looked as perplexed as he did worried. “But herein lies the problem. Verification, Crane. What incentive do they have to give her back to the fam… They’re going to leave her where? Okay, I’m going to drive out there now. But—Wha…? Crane, don’t hang up, you ignorant—”
The line went dead, the connection lost. Walter exhaled in disgust and slammed the receiver down on the hook.
On the other end of the call, at the Hotel Claridge, a black-gloved hand took the receiver away from Hayden’s trembling manservant. Crane was seated, paralyzed with fear. Beads of sweat poured down his temples, the color drained from his face.
His wide eyes followed the other gloved hand by his neck.
It held a large syringe filled with a glowing yellow liquid, its giant needle pointed into Crane’s jugular vein. The tip pierced the skin and a drop of blood appeared. He attempted to keep as still possible so it wouldn’t go in any deeper. The gloved hand placed the elegant telephone receiver back down on its cradle.
Walter rushed out and bounded down the long staircase, passing the many couples climbing up the other side of the center railing to The Whalley Room. Tatum attempted to keep up with Walt, but it was difficult in her heels, and she also had to dodge the people coming up the wrong side of the stairs. Walt was focused and had completely forgotten all about her.
“Goddamn it, Walter Morris, if I take a header down these stairs chasing your tail, I’m gonna be so mad!” Tatum belted out as she followed closely behind. This caught a lot of people’s attention and they turned their heads in her direction as she hurried past. They let her through. She caught up to him when they hit the sidewalk.
“This is just not fair, Walter,” she said, trying to slow him down so they could speak.
Behind them, crowds were flooding out of Madison Square Garden Arena looming over Eighth Avenue and Forty-Ninth streets after a night of boxing.
Walter didn’t want to be dismissive of Tatum, but he was worried. He got the impression the Cuthbert Hayden party was veering into bad territory. The really bad sort. Deep inside, Walt was fearful for the safety of his missing victim, Miss Caldonia Jones. She had her whole life ahead of her. He found it extremely odd that after almost two weeks of silence from whoever had snatched her, this was now a kidnapping. Why now a ransom? And from what he could get out of Crane, who himself sounded very strange over the line, no one had even attempted to talk to Caldonia to verify she was alive. In the short time he’d been out of the office and away from his phone, kidnappers had been in contact, demanded a ransom, and had already received payment from Hayden’s personal Mortimer Snerd, Garland Crane.
And now, the kidnappers were giving them an address where supposedly Caldonia could be picked up from? They weren’t even going to include Walter; he’d only gotten lucky because he called within minutes of it actually happening and, despite the stonewalling, got the address out of Crane.
