Dial Me for Murder

by Amanda Matetsky

  “Of course I mean it, you kook! It’s the most! I really dig it.” Abby led Jimmy back over to the table and put his martini in his hand. Then, still standing, she picked up her own glass and raised it high in the air. “I propose a toast,” she said, “to Jimmy Birmingham, a brave and brilliant new artist whose understanding of the human condition is beyond compare!”

  She could say that again (except for the brilliant part).

  “I’ll toast to that!” Jimmy said, lifting his glass and clinking it against hers.

  “Me, too,” I mumbled, raising my martini in the air for a second, then taking a drink. (Well, I couldn’t stand up! Otto was still sleeping in my lap.)

  “Hey, thanks a lot, ladies,” Jimmy said, plunking his glass down on the table. He squeezed one arm around Abby’s neck, planted another sloppy kiss on her lips, then released her like a hot potato. “Wake up, Otto,” he commanded, snapping his fingers and strutting over to retrieve his peacoat off the back of the loveseat. “Let’s make like a tree and leave.”

  Otto popped to attention, jumped off my lap and skittered over to stand at Jimmy’s feet.

  “Where do you think you’re going?!” Abby cried. (Now she was the one who was whining.) “I thought you’d want to stay for a while! Aren’t you even going to finish your drink?” (Translation: Aren’t you going to take me upstairs and ravish me?)

  “Don’t have time,” Jimmy said. “I’m meeting some cats down at the Houston Street pool hall. We’ve got a hot bet going.” He put on his peacoat and scooped Otto up in his arms. “I might swing by the San Remo later. Wanna come?”

  “No, thanks,” Abby replied, in a huff. “I think I’ll go to bed early—with a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets. They really turn me on.”

  If Jimmy felt the sting of her snide remark, he didn’t let it show. Hugging Otto tight under one elbow, he swaggered over to the open door, bade us both a good-natured good night, then scrambled down the stairs to the street.

  Chapter 16

  ABBY WAS FUMING, BUT I WAS TICKLED PINK. “Thank God Jimmy’s gone!” I blurted, unable to disguise my delight. “I have so much to tell you, Ab, I’m bursting at the seams.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she said, pacing around the kitchen, cartoon steam coming out of her ears. “Well, I’m bursting, too, but for a different reason. Do you believe the nerve of that putz? How could he run out on me that way?” (Abby was so gorgeous and sexy and desirable to men, she wasn’t used to being rejected— by Jimmy Birmingham or any other putz.) “We listened to his stupid damn poem, didn’t we?” she shrieked. “I even praised the silly thing and raised a toast to Jimmy’s brilliance! Would it have been so hard for him to show me a little respect in return?” (Translation: shtup me before he left?)

  My reply wasn’t very sympathetic, but I simply couldn’t resist: “If you want to get beat,” I quoted, “hang around Sucker Street.”

  “Oh, shut up!” She pulled her wild black hair into a ponytail and tied it with the blue silk scarf she yanked out of a kitchen drawer. Then, shoving up the sleeves of her tight, black scoop-neck sweater, she grabbed the martini pitcher off the kitchen counter and refilled our glasses. “So, what did you want to tell me?” she said sulkily, plopping down at the table and lighting up a cigarette. “This better be good, or I’m gonna hit the sack with Shakespeare.”

  “Oh, it’s good, all right. It’s top, top secret, and incredibly shocking, and I couldn’t breathe a word of it in front of Jimmy. Or anybody else, for that matter.”

  “So, how do I rate, Kate?” She was getting interested in spite of herself. (Abby’s sense of curiosity is as well developed— okay, overly developed—as my own.)

  “You’re my best friend,” I said, “and I need somebody to talk to. And you’re the only one I can trust to keep all the secrets.”

  “All the secrets?” She was growing perkier by the second. “How many are there?”

  “Too many to count. But I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  “Then start blabbing, babe!” she urged, eyes sparkling with excitement. “And don’t leave anything out. I’ve got all night!”

  “Okay, but hold on just a second.” I jumped to my feet and quickly gathered all my things together. “I’m gonna drop this stuff off in my apartment and pick up something I want to show you. And I want to leave my door open so I can hear the phone if Dan calls.”

  Abby shot me a dirty look. “Well, you’d better make it quick, Slick. I haven’t got all night, you know!” If she had any notion that she’d just contradicted herself, she didn’t let on. Fretfully tapping one foot on the floor, she took a drag on her cigarette and blew an irritable whoosh of smoke in my direction.

  Not wanting to lose Abby’s attention (she has the patience of a gnat), I darted next door, let myself in, tossed all my stuff on the living room chair, kicked off my high heels, snatched Sabrina’s list from its hiding place in the bookcase (inside my beat-up paperback copy of Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon), and scooted back to Abby’s in a flash.

  “You are not going to believe everything that’s happened to me in the last two days,” I blustered, out of breath. “I don’t believe it myself.” Sitting down at the table, I put the lavender list on my lap and took a big gulp of my martini. “I’m working on a new assignment, Ab, and it’s the most atrocious, sinister, and scandalous murder case I’ve ever been involved in.”

  She flipped her ponytail over one shoulder and—trying to look bored even though she clearly wasn’t—took another puff on her ciggie. “Is this the assignment that has nothing to do with Daring Detective—the story you’re not going to write?”

  “Well, yes, but how did you—?”

  “And does it have something to do with a woman named Sabrina?”

  “Er, yeah, but—”

  “And are Oliver Rice Harrington, Sam Hogarth, and Tony Corona somehow connected?”

  “Jeez, Abby!” I screeched. “How the hell—?”

  “And what about the three girls who each have two names? Lemme see now . . . there’s Jocelyn/Candy, Ethel/Brigitte, and Virginia/Melody. I’m figuring they’re either models, actresses, strippers, or whores. Am I right?”

  I groaned out loud and downed the rest of my drink, including the gin-soaked olive. “I get it,” I said, annoyed. “I spilled the beans when I was drunk last night, and then you read my notes after I passed out. I wondered how they got out of my purse and onto the table. Very tricky. But now, since you know the whole story already,” I added, deciding to play the game her way, “I might as well go home. I’ll catch up on my sleep and let you catch up on your Shakespeare.” I rose to my feet, held the folded lavender list high overhead, and—guiding it through the air like a paper airplane—headed for the door.

  That got her. I knew it would.

  “Stop!” she cried. “I give up! Get your stupid damn tushy back in here and tell me what’s going on!”

  I didn’t need any further persuading. I bounced back to my place at the table and spilled the beans again. All of them this time.

  ONE HOUR, FOUR CIGARETTES, AND TWO MARTINIS (each) later, I had disclosed all the details of the whole shocking saga to date—from the moment I first read about Virginia’s murder in the paper, to my lunch at Sabrina’s Gramercy Park apartment, to my visit to the DA’s office, to Pomeroy’s strange behavior and my getting fired from my job, to my forays into Saks Fifth Avenue and Hell’s Kitchen to interview Jocelyn and Ethel (aka Candy and Brigitte).

  “See what I mean, Ab? This is the most complicated, evil, and dangerous murder case I’ve ever even thought of trying to solve.”

  “Yeah, but it’s also the most interesting.” She was practically licking her chops.

  “Interesting?!” I squawked. “What a mean and thoughtless thing to say! Aren’t you the least bit worried about me? I’m playing with fire here, and I could get burned to a crisp! I’ve already lost my job. What’s going to happen to me next?”

  “Oh, can the rage, Paige. Your getting fi
red may have nothing to do with the case, you dig? Maybe the only reason you got axed is because you decided to play boss and let Lenny go home early.”

  “No. I’m certain there’s more to it than that. I’ve never seen Pomeroy so upset. His cousin has to be putting the heat on him for some reason. And since Harrington was one of Virginia’s major clients. . . .”

  “Oh, don’t waste your time worrying about him,” Abby said. “He’s the least likely suspect of all.” She lit another cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. “Virginia was obviously murdered in the heat of passion, and Harrington’s too old for that.”

  “Are you nuts? He’s only fifty-two. And if he’s too old for passion, why would he hire a call girl?”

  “To have her stroke his male ego and make him feel young again.”

  I wasn’t buying her reasoning (if you could call it that), but I didn’t want to argue. “What about Sam Hogarth?” I probed. “Don’t you find it a teensy bit hard to believe that the Manhattan district attorney could be a murderer?”

  “No way, Doris Day! In fact, I’d lay you ten to one right now that he’s the one who did it.” (Abby’s a charter member of the National Jump to Conclusions Club.)

  “How on earth can you make a rash statement like that?” I sputtered.

  “I have a strong hunch,” she blithely replied.

  “Based on what, exactly?”

  “On the fact that the man is fiercely attracted to the world of crime. Why else would he want the job of DA? And from what I’ve seen, the act of fighting crime is just a few steps away from committing it. Look at Joe McCarthy. He’s so bent on catching Commies that he’s become a traitor himself. He’s done more to destroy American liberty than J. Edgar Hoover and his FBI spies! And a heck of a lot of firemen commit arson, you know. And some creeps become cops just so they can carry a gun.”

  On the one hand, I agreed with her.

  On the other hand, I was so hurt and offended I was almost speechless.

  Almost, but not quite.

  “Are you telling me that Dan is just steps away from committing murder?” I screeched at the top of my lungs. “Do you think I write about crooks and killers because I’m lusting to lead a life of crime? Jesus, Abby! There is such a thing as justice, you know. And, whether you believe it or not, there are some people who are working to uphold it.”

  “Yeah, but I doubt if Sam Hogarth is one of them,” she said, totally unfazed by my noisy outburst. “He looks like a real schemer to me. I see his picture in the paper all the time— schmoozing with assorted big shots and celebrities at one ritzy nightclub after another—and he pops up on the radio at least twice a day to brag about his ‘tireless and fearless’ campaign against organized crime. I kid you not, Dot. Whenever Hammy Sammy spots a camera or a microphone, he steps in front of it. He strikes me as the worst kind of do-gooder—the kind who’s just doing good for himself.”

  Having recently been exposed to Sam Hogarth’s self-serving charm, I couldn’t argue with that.

  “So, how do you feel about Tony Corona?” I asked, moving on to the final suspect on Sabrina’s list. “Do you believe he’s capable of murder?”

  “Of course he is.”

  “For God’s sake, Abby! Couldn’t you at least think about the question for a second or two before pronouncing your verdict?”

  “Why should I think when I already know?”

  See what I was up against?

  “Then please tell me what you think you know,” I said, raising my empty martini glass to my lips, throwing my head back, and taking a great big slug of nothing.

  Abby put out her cigarette and fired up another one. “I know what everybody knows,” she said. “Tony Corona is a terrific singer, a pretty good actor, a big drinker and gambler, a notorious playboy, and the most popular and successful entertainer since Bing Crosby. The ladies all love him.”

  “So . . . ?”

  “So, he’s also the biggest snake in show business.”

  “Snake? What makes you say that?”

  “Oh, come on, Paige!” she snapped. “Stop playing dumb.

  You’ve read the gossip columns and heard the rumors! He lies to his friends and screws his business associates; he cheats on all his wives. He climbed to the top by stomping on everybody in his path, and he stays on top by playing footsie with the mob. He’s a rattlesnake, and you know it.”

  “Well, since you put it that way. . . .”

  “And that’s not all!” she barreled on. “He has the hottest temper in town. He beat a porter at the Plaza to a pulp last year, just because he didn’t deliver his bags to his room fast enough. The poor guy almost died! They kept the episode out of the papers, but a friend of mine is a desk clerk there, and he told me all about it.”

  “But that was an isolated incident,” I said. “Maybe he was just—”

  “Having a bad day?” she scoffed. “Not a chance, Vance. Hedda Hopper’s written tons of blind items about Corona’s uncontrollable anger. She calls him ‘the Crooner,’ but it’s obvious who she’s talking about. She says he’s always causing trouble in Las Vegas when he plays the Flamingo. As soon as his last show is over, he throws down about ten shots of bourbon, lights up a cigar, sticks a gun in his pocket, and hits the blackjack table. And the house knows he’d better win, because if he doesn’t, he goes berserk and threatens to shoot the dealer.”

  “Maybe he’s just suffering from a neurotic fear of failure,” I quipped.

  “Or a psychotic urge to kill,” she replied, in total seriousness.

  I gave her a puzzled look. “So, what are you saying? Now you think Corona murdered Virginia?”

  “No, I still think Hogarth did it. But Tony the Tiger’s running a close second.”

  I was about to bring up the subject of Sabrina Stanhope when my phone started ringing.

  “That must be Dan!” I whooped. I jumped to my feet and darted into the hall before she could object. “Stay there or be square,” I called over my shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

  Chapter 17

  I THREW MYSELF DOWN ON THE COUCH, tucked my icy feet under my bottom, reached for the ringing phone, and snatched the receiver up to my ear. “Hellohhhhh,” I cooed, breathing directly into the mouthpiece, doing my best to sound sexy but probably sounding like a hoot owl with a head cold.

  “Hi, babe,” said Dan. “You sound terrible. Are you drunk again, sick, or just tired? I hope you haven’t caught the flu from Lenny.”

  (See, I told you!)

  “I’m not drunk or sick,” I said (although I was probably a bit of both), “but I am pretty tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Really? That surprises me. The state you were in, I figured you’d be down for the count.” I couldn’t see Dan’s expression, of course, but I had a strong suspicion he was grinning.

  Struck with an overwhelming desire to feast my eyes (and lips) on his gorgeous face, I said, “On second thought, I am feeling a little feverish, Doctor. I think you’d better hurry over here and take my temperature right now. I’m hot all over and I might need a thorough examination.” I was shocked by my provocative response. All of a sudden I was sounding like Abby.

  Dan let out a deep, slow, sensual moan. “Don’t tempt me, babe. You have no idea how much I’d rather be with you than where I am. Can’t do it, though. I’m working on a big case, and I can’t leave my station.”

  “What? You’re still at the station? I thought you were going to be out tracking some Mafia goons.”

  “I didn’t mean station house, Paige,” he said, chuckling. Then he lowered his voice and confided, “I’m doing double-duty surveillance tonight, and I’ve stationed myself in a certain place where I can keep an eye on some underworld hotshots. I’ll be here for another few hours at least.”

  “Oh,” I said, embarrassed that—after my brief but bold career at Daring Detective (not to mention my brief but bold romance with Detective Street)—I wasn’t an expert in police jargon. �
��So, where are you?” I asked, growing curious about his location and concerned about his safety.

  Dan laughed out loud. “You think I’m crazy enough to tell you that? Next thing I know, you’ll be rushing uptown in a trench coat, wig, and sunglasses to take over the investigation.”

  “Hardeeharhar.” My ego was sagging, but my curiosity was climbing the rafters. So, he’s uptown, not down, I noted, stationed in ‘a certain place’ where mobsters tend to congregate. I screwed my ear tight to the phone, listening for more clues to his mysterious whereabouts.

  There was a lot of noise in the background: people talking and laughing; faint scraping, knocking, tinkling, and whirring sounds. I could hear glasses clinking and fingers snapping. Was he in a bar? Music was playing in the distance. A jazzy saxophone riff. Was it live or coming from a jukebox?

  “You can’t fool me, Dan Street,” I said, acting mad, pretending that I’d flown into a jealous tizzy. “I hear people laughing and music swinging. You’re not working on a case! You’re carousing in a nightclub!”

  Dan laughed again. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know,” he said, inadvertently answering my unspoken questions. “But I can assure you there’s no carousing going on. Not on my part, anyway.”

  “That’s what they all say,” I grumbled, continuing my petulant charade, still straining my ears for acoustical clues. The band was in full force now, and a strong male voice was belting out the lyrics to a popular song I’d heard before but couldn’t name.

  “Cut it out, Paige,” Dan said, getting annoyed. “You have no reason to be upset. I’m working, not playing—and you know it.”

  “Well, couldn’t you knock off early and—”

  “No, I couldn’t.” His breathing was heavy and his voice was stern. “I have a job to do, and I’m not leaving here until it’s done.”

  The vocalist began singing the song’s familiar chorus, and a portion of the audience chimed in.

  “Will I see you tomorrow?” I asked.