Dial Me for Murder

by Amanda Matetsky

  “So, when do you start?” I asked, only half kidding.

  “Tonight,” Abby said, not kidding at all.

  Chapter 25

  “OKAY, WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON, AB?” I SAT rigidly in my chair, struggling to keep my voice down and my emotions under control. “You’re just playing games with me, right? You haven’t actually signed on with Sabrina, have you?”

  “Not yet,” Abby admitted. “She insisted that I think things over before making my final decision. I’m supposed to call her tonight and tell her if I’m ready to take the plunge.”

  “And what, may I ask, do you plan to say to her?” My voice was low, but my tone was scathing.

  “Nothing,” Abby said, smiling.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing at all,” she repeated, eyes gleaming.

  “What do you mean?” I pleaded, wondering if I’d live long enough to hear the whole story. “C’mon, Abby! Come clean! Are you going to call Sabrina or not?”

  “Nope,” she said, still smiling. “I’m not going to call her, you are.”

  If there had been any bedcovers nearby, I’d have pulled them over my head and nailed them in place. “I can’t take this anymore,” I said, too tired to shriek or screech. “Stop winding me up. I’m not a toy. Just tell me what’s going on in your twisted and perverted little mind.”

  “Oh, all right!” Abby scowled and smashed her cigarette in the ashtray. “You’re no fun anymore, you know that? I was just fooling around a little—trying to lighten things up and have a few laughs. And where’s the harm in that? A little silliness never hurt anybody, you dig? It might even help us put things in perspective! But noooo, that’s totally impossible now, thanks to you, because you’re so sensitive and serious and impatient and boring, a girl can’t even—”

  “Abby!”

  “All right, already!” she snapped, raising her hands in surrender. Then she took a sip of her drink, twirled a lock of ink-black hair around her index finger, and said, “Okay, here’s the skinny, Minnie. There’s a reason you need to call Sabrina, and it’s a good one. Remember I said I would get Jimmy to take us to the Copa tonight? Well, he can’t go. He’s got a poetry gig at the Vanguard. I called around for a substitute, but all my backup boyfriends are busy, so now we’re up the creek without a male escort.

  “And that’s not all,” she continued. “I also called a girlfriend of mine—a model who works the coat check at the Copa—and she told me the club is booked so tight tonight not even an ant could sneak inside. She said Corona has so many bodyguards standing around backstage his own mother couldn’t get anywhere near him.”

  Kerplunk. Our scheme to ambush Tony Corona in his dressing room hit the water and sank like a stone.

  “Well, that’s that,” I said, shoulders slumping in defeat. “It was a foolish idea to begin with, I guess. I should have known it wouldn’t work out.” My head was hanging so low it almost touched the table. “Now I’ll have to revert to my original plan and try to corner Corona at his hotel. It’ll be tough to crash his suite at the Plaza, and a heck of a lot more dangerous, but what other choice do I—”

  “Hold the phone, Joan!” Abby broke in. “Did you lose your faith along with your sense of humor? I told you I’d dream up a scheme to get us into the Copa, didn’t I? Where’s your confidence, babe?” She arched one eyebrow to the hilt, stuck her chin out, and said, “What would you say if I told you I know a way we can catch Corona’s show tonight, be treated to a free dinner and a slew of champagne cocktails, and then be invited—that’s right, invited—backstage to his dressing room?”

  “I’d say you’re playing poker with half a deck.”

  Abby stretched her scarlet lips from one earlobe to the other.

  “Then you’d lose the game, Mame. Because all you have to do to make this happen is call Sabrina.”

  IT TOOK A WHILE FOR ABBY TO EXPLAIN HER crazy plan to me, and even longer for me to accept it. After I thought it over, however, and realized how snugly the pieces of the puzzle fit into place, I came to the conclusion that Abby’s scheme was not only feasible—it was perfect. So, without further delay, I picked up the phone and dialed Sabrina.

  First I told her the truth about Abby: that the bold and beautiful brunette who had suddenly appeared at her apartment earlier today was my best friend and next-door neighbor—not a potential prostitute—and that she was helping me search for Virginia’s killer. Then, seeing that my broken secrecy pledge didn’t upset Sabrina nearly as much as I thought it would (it seemed we’d both become more trusting and forgiving since our chummy morning chat), I went on to outline the way that she could help us get in to see Corona at the Copa.

  At first she flatly refused. It was too dangerous, she said, and she’d never forgive herself if something awful happened to me or Abby as a result of her actions. But after I spoke to Sabrina awhile—pointing out that trying to hunt down a murderer was always dangerous, regardless of the methods used, and that the crowded Copacabana was probably the safest possible setting for such a venture—she agreed to set our scheme in motion.

  She said that as soon as she hung up with me, she’d call Tony (he’d been a client for so long she always used his first name). And once she got him on the line (she knew he’d take her call—he always did), she would tell him about the two gorgeous, shapely, incredibly sexy young women who had just that day joined her escort service. Then she’d offer him first dibs, saying she would send the two young ladies to the Copa this evening and—if he’d arrange for them to be admitted at the door and seated at a good table for dinner and the eight o’clock show—they’d be pleased to meet him in his dressing room afterward, where he could look them over and choose the one he wants for the night.

  (I would have been happy to forgo the dinner and the show, but Abby wouldn’t hear of it. “All work and no play makes Paige a dull detective,” she insisted.)

  I gave Sabrina Abby’s number and told her to call us back when she got off the phone with Corona. Then, while we waited to learn whether or not Corona would take the bait, I guzzled the rest of my Bloody Mary, lit up a cigarette, and filled Abby in on the earlier details of my day—my heart-to-heart talks with Charlotte and Sabrina and my explosive confrontation with Oliver Rice Harrington.

  “I told you not to bother with him,” Abby snorted. “Harrington’s not the murderer. You just got yourself fired—really fired—for nothing.”

  “I’m sure you’re right about my job,” I said, “but you could be dead wrong about Harrington. He’s a very brutal man, Ab. He’s a cold-hearted cutthroat, a ruthless tycoon, a merciless bastard who probably commits some form of murder every day. Look at how easily—not to mention guiltlessly—he killed my career!”

  “That’s not the same as killing a person.”

  “Oh, no? Well, you should have seen the way he reacted when I mentioned Virginia Pratt! He went insane, Jane. He was breathing fire! I swear, if he had gotten his hands on me, he would have killed me, too. He would have hauled me up under his arm, lugged me across the room, plowed my head through the glass of the penthouse window, and then chucked me— screaming and flailing—over the ledge.” (Okay, that was a pretty rash and gruesome conclusion, but what can I say? I was in a rash and gruesome mood.)

  The phone rang, and we both shot to attention. I sucked in a lungful of smoke, snatched up the receiver, and croaked, “Yes?”

  “It’s a go,” Sabrina said. “Tony wants to meet you and Abby tonight after the eight o’clock show, just as we discussed.”

  “Good,” I said, giving Abby the thumbs-up.

  “You should arrive at the Copa at seven sharp,” Sabrina continued. “Tell the man at the door your names are Gina and Cherry—those are the names I gave Tony. You can decide for yourselves who’s who, but make sure you remember the names and use them whenever you introduce yourselves to someone or speak to each other. Gina and Cherry. The doorman will be expecting you and the maître d’ will show you to your table.

  �
��He’ll probably seat you up front, near the band and the dance floor, so that Tony can watch you while you’re watching him perform. He likes to observe the effect he has on women. It turns him on. So, bat your lashes a lot and try to look as if you’re about to swoon. And show plenty of leg and cleavage. He likes to examine the merchandise closely before making a purchase.”

  Ugh.

  “Order your dinner as soon as you’re seated,” Sabrina went on, “and eat it as fast as you can, because once the show starts, you must give Tony your full attention. If you don’t, he’ll get miffed, and he might change his mind about seeing you after the show.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been through this before.”

  “A couple of times, with a couple of different girls. One of them ate a stalk of celery during his opening number, and he had her kicked out at intermission.”

  “Nice guy,” I grunted, mulling over this new information. “Did Melody ever annoy him in any way?”

  “Not to my knowledge. She was aware that Tony has a quick temper, so she was always on her best behavior. And as long as she was properly respectful of him, he treated her with the utmost respect in return. At least that’s what she told me.”

  I took a drag on my cigarette and exhaled loudly. “I wonder if she was properly respectful last Monday night.”

  “Good question,” Sabrina said, her voice turning to stone.

  “Did Corona say anything to you about Melody?” I asked. My pulse had quickened to a staccato beat. “Did he try to schedule a new date with her?”

  “No,” Sabrina said, sighing heavily. “Her name never came up.”

  Chapter 26

  “OOF!” I GASPED, AS ABBY FASTENED THE LAST hook on the back of the excruciatingly tight, waist-length, strapless push-up bra she was making me wear. “Undo this torture device immediately! I can’t breathe! My ribs are all crunched together, and my breasts are rammed so high they’re blocking my nasal passages.”

  “Stop whining, Paige! Sabrina said we have to show a lot of cleavage, and this is the only way you can swing it.”

  “Who cares about my cleavage? In that puny excuse for a dress you’ve got on, you’ll be showing more than enough for both of us.” (I wasn’t exaggerating, you should know. The scoop neck of her purple satin sheath was cut so low her own scoops were boldly bobbing in the breeze.) “And if you think I’m going to wear anything that revealing,” I added, “you’ve got another think coming. It’s cold out, Ab! I want something warm and cozy and—

  “Mmmmph!” I grunted, as she pulled a skintight, sleeveless, and, for all intents and purposes, chestless black cocktail dress down over my head and roughly zipped it up the back.

  “There!” she said. “Now turn around and let me see.”

  “Are you kidding? The skirt is so tight I can’t move.”

  “Shut up, or I’ll cut a slit up the side.”

  I groaned and turned around. “Forget about it, Abby. I’m not going anywhere in this skimpy thing. It’s nothing but a long swimsuit. Only Esther Williams would wear this dress! I feel like a goddamn mermaid, and I’m walking like one, too.” To prove the truth of my words, I took a few baby steps forward, waving my arms for balance and advancing about an inch.

  “Stop clowning, Paige!” she squawked. “It’s getting late. We have to be at the Copa in one hour, and I haven’t even put your makeup on yet.” She frowned intently, shoved my hair back off my face, and began rubbing pancake foundation into my skin so hard it hurt.

  “Ow!” I complained. “Now who’s being serious and impatient? You’re no fun anymore, you know that? I was just fooling around a little—trying to lighten things up and have a few laughs. A little silliness never hurt anybody, you dig?”

  If Abby noticed that I was mocking her and throwing her own words back at her verbatim, she kept it to herself. She just finished applying my makeup—pink rouge, red lipstick, icky blue eyshadow, etc.—vigorously and without comment. Then, after pinning my hair up in a taut little bun, she yanked a curly blonde wig down over my head and mashed it in place.

  “Ugh! Do I have to wear this mop?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer to that question. “It’s so uncomfortable! It feels like my cranium’s been carpeted.”

  “Would you rather have it shot full of holes?” Abby said, with a sniff. “If Tony the Tiger is the murderer, and if he recognizes you from any of your past newspaper photos tonight, your skull will be a bloody breezeway by tomorrow.”

  “I get the picture,” I said, wishing that I didn’t. The image was a bit too graphic for my taste.

  “Besides, you look really cute like this!” Abby bubbled, fluffing the short blonde curls and arranging them around my face. “You don’t look like yourself at all. You look just like Janet Leigh!”

  “Harpo Marx is more like it,” I grumbled.

  “Oh, hush. You’re such a kvetch.” Abby finished styling my fake hair and sprayed it with something smelly and sticky. Then she took a pair of sky-high black patent pumps out of her closet and insisted that I put them on.

  “But I don’t want to!” I whined. “My feet hurt. I’m going to wear my new ballerina slippers.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not,” she said. “You have to look really sexy tonight—like a hot, high-class call girl—not like a gawky, flat-footed preteen. Put those heels on, and come downstairs right now. We’ve gotta go, Flo!”

  Abby was having fun. You could tell by the way she bounced down the steps, slipped into her fur-trimmed purple satin coat (it came with the dress), and then twirled over to the door like an Arthur Murray ballroom dance student.

  I was in perfect misery. You could tell by the way I dragged myself down to the kitchen, shoved my cold, naked arms into the sleeves of Abby’s gray chinchilla jacket, trailed my former friend down the stairwell to the street, and then shivered, lurched, and wriggled—like a bare-breasted, fin-shackled mermaid out of water—toward the uptown IND.

  THE COPA WAS AT 10 EAST 60TH STREET, JUST a few steps off Fifth Avenue. When Abby and I turned the corner and headed for the entrance, we saw that the entire block was crammed with long, shiny limousines, honking taxicabs, and town cars discharging prosperous-looking men in tuxedos and bow ties, and beautiful women in jewels and furs. Scads of shouting newspaper photographers were engaged in fierce combat for position and the chance to pop another batch of blinding flashbulbs.

  Tony Corona was packing them in.

  “Follow me!” Abby whooped, happily pushing her way into the fray. I tucked my chin to my chest and stayed as close behind her as I could, hoping nobody would poke their elbow in my eye or—worse—take my picture. (When you’re on a dangerous undercover hunt for a killer—and trying to keep your mission hidden from your overly protective, short-tempered detective boyfriend—photographic exposure in the press can be hazardous to your health. Wig or no wig.)

  Jostling and shoving and yelling “Hot stuff!” at the top of her lungs, Abby thrust her way up to the entrance of the club with me wobbling right behind, huddled as close to her hindquarters as a kid riding piggyback.

  “Hi, handsome!” she hollered at the doorman. “I’m Gina, and this is Cherry!” She leaned to one side, forcing me to show my face (which was surely beet red from embarrassment).

  “You’re expecting us, right? We’re Mr. Corona’s guests for dinner and the show.”

  The doorman didn’t say a word. He just arched one skinny black eyebrow, nodded his ham-sized head, pulled the door open a few inches, and shooed us inside.

  I was shocked at how quickly we’d been allowed to enter. Abby and I were now sauntering—without male companions— across the luxurious, potted palm-lined lobby toward the glittering, welcoming gates of the most famous nightclub in the world, while scores of Manhattan’s most fashionable, celebrated, and properly escorted wives, girlfriends, actresses, models, and socialites were still being screened for admittance.

  It’ s cool to be a cookie with connections, I mused to myself, but being a cal
l girl with a well-connected madam takes the cake.

  AFTER BEING SEATED AT A FRONT-ROW TABLE (as Sabrina had predicted), and immediately ordering our dinner and drinks (as Sabrina had advised), I turned and swept my gaze around the glitzy interior of the club. The decor was classy and Cuban, with white tablecloths, red velvet chairs, and glistening mirrored walls. There was an elevated bandstand, a small hardwood dance floor, a lofty, wraparound mezzanine, and several enormous floor-to-ceiling columns shaped as palm trees. Their trunks were pure white and their leaves were bright gold.

  The band was playing a rumba, and the tables were filling up fast. Several couples ventured onto the floor to dance. “Hey, bobba ree bop!” Abby shouted to me above the music. Torn between watching the dancers and checking out the people who were quickly filling up the tables around us, she was twisting her head in all directions at once. “This is the living end!” she cried. “The air’s so thick with excitement you could slice it like a turkey.”

  “Right,” I said, feeling far more nervous than excited. I had been to the Copacabana once before—when I was working on my very first Daring Detective story—and it had been a crazy, dangerous, hair-raising experience. I hoped tonight’s expedition wouldn’t turn out the same way.

  “Hey, look upstairs!” Abby squealed, gaping toward the mezzanine in sheer delight. “It’s Gordon MacRae! Yummmm. He’s so handsome, it’s shameful. And what a sexy voice he’s got! Whenever he sings, my ovaries melt. He’s probably making the rounds tonight, showing up at the hottest nightspots to promote his new movie, Oklahoma! . . . Oooh! Wow! Guess who’s sitting over there!” she sputtered, eyes shifting toward a different spot in the balcony. “It’s Kirk Douglas! And he’s sitting next to Lana Turner! Holy smoke! Aren’t they both married to somebody else? I wonder if they’re having an affair!” She couldn’t have been more elated if James Dean had suddenly come back to life and sat down at our table.