I thumbed through my wallet and found the dog-eared card I thought I’d tossed a long time ago. I slipped it through the opening.
The door opened enough to reveal Danny had gained about thirty pounds of muscle and a tough-guy sneer I hadn’t seen before. Wearing the biggest tuxedo I’d ever seen, he stuffed the card into my hand and let us inside.
A framed photograph of Gino and Babe Ruth hung alongside the door. Ruth had scribbled Cheers, Gino. Babe #3.
I held out my hands and faced the main room crammed with a couple dozen packed tables on a black-and-white checkerboard floor. On a stage beside the dance floor a familiar-looking blonde in a white backless dress performed a bluesy rendition of “Body and Soul” backed by a three-piece jazz band.
“I’m a friend of Gino’s.”
“If you say so.” Danny patted me down and did the same to Frankie. He led us to a table in the center of the smoke-filled room. Frankie and I wedged our way into black lacquered chairs.
Frankie surveyed the crowded room. His uneasy expression told me he would’ve preferred to have the piece with him. Several sets of eyes took note of my arrival. A few cops, former cops, and a couple of gangsters I helped put away.
Gino Santoro sat at the bar. Thirty-four, like me, he still retained the boyish face I remembered. He wore a pin-striped three-piece suit and black-and-white brogue shoes like Fred Astaire. One hand rested on the knee of a redhead in a tight-fitting red satin dress with a slit up the side. My friend hadn’t changed much in appearance or his appreciation of flashy women.
Danny nodded toward the bar. “You want I should tell Gino you’re here?”
“Tell him it’s Jake Donovan.”
Danny paused a moment, as if searching his memory, then made his way through the crowded tables. He spoke to Gino and pointed to our table.
Gino jumped to his feet and grabbed his hat off the bar. He left Danny and the redhead and hurried toward us. “Welcome home, Jake!”
Home, that four-letter word again. I accepted the embrace.
After the hug, Gino kissed my cheek. “You ain’t staying at this crappy table wedged in like fuckin’ sardines.” He pointed to a corner table near the dance floor where two men, bankteller types with glasses, made eyes at the singer.
Frankie and I followed Gino. One of the men glanced up from the table. “Gino.”
“Beat it.”
“But, Mr. Santoro—”
Gino grabbed the man by the collar and tossed him against the next table, spilling drinks on a man who barely noticed.
The bank tellers retreated to the table we’d vacated, glaring like I was some hotshot who ruined their evening. Others glanced my way, including a fat red-jowled thug in a gray suit who gave me the evil eye from a table near the front door.
“Have a seat.” Gino looked at Frankie, as if seeing him for the first time. “I know you?”
“Frankie Malzone.”
“Yeah.” Gino’s eyes narrowed. “Weren’t you mixed up in the mess at the mayor’s office last year?”
Frankie held out both hands. “How was I to know his secretary was an embezzler? I never knew a dame could stuff so much dough into a brassiere. I shoulda searched her.”
“He a friend of yours?” Concern creased Gino’s brow.
I liked Frankie, in spite of his driving habits. “From way back.”
“I’m from way back, since what, we was like six?” Gino dropped his hat on the table and sat between Frankie and me.
He gazed around at three busy cocktail waitresses then signaled a cigarette girl wearing black fishnet stockings. “Doll, bring me three glasses and a bottle of scotch … the good stuff.”
“I ain’t your doll, Gino. Not no more.” She spoke in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. “Besides, I ain’t no cocktail waitress floozy. I’m a cigarette girl, and in case you didn’t notice, I work for tips.”
Gino waved her closer. “Here’s a tip. Bring me and my pals a good bottle of scotch and three glasses or you’ll be selling matches on a street corner this time tomorrow.”
She set both hands on her hips. “You’re still sore about the other night. It happens.”
Gino’s face flushed. He reached into the tray hanging from a strap around her neck, grabbed a one-dollar cigar, and stuffed it into his suit coat pocket. He tossed a five-dollar bill onto the tray.
“A Lincoln. Thanks, Gino.” She headed for the bar.
“She’s got a nice caboose, but she don’t seem to realize we’re in the middle of a depression here.” Gino ruffled my hair. “You come to your senses and moving back or just paying a visit?”
“Business.”
“Book-writing business.” Gino smirked.
I considered explaining the content issues with my editor that couldn’t be fixed over the phone, but he and Frankie didn’t seem too interested in publishing problems.
Gino slipped a silver case from his suit coat pocket and offered me a cigarette. I shook my head, and he nodded. “That’s right. You never was a smoker. You never drank too much or chased dames, except for Laura. Remind me again why we’re friends.”
Frankie removed a Camel and lit it with a match then held the flame for Gino. Gino lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and blew out a long cloud of smoke. “So, Jake, how’s life in Tampa playing shuffleboard with all the old folks?”
I laughed and explained how Tampa was everything I hoped it would be. Mildred was right. The city gave me a fresh start and allowed me to focus on writing. I described the apartment that overlooked the ocean, small but functional for a man who spent half his days in front of a typewriter.
Gino flicked cigarette ash into the ashtray. “You made it big, you lucky bastard.”
The cigarette girl returned with a bottle of scotch and three glasses. She set them on the table then turned on her heel and flirted with a customer a couple of tables over.
Gino’s flicker of irritation told me the girl meant something to him. He filled the glasses half full and raised one in a toast. “To lucky bastards.”
The three of us drank; then Gino asked the question I knew he’d get around to asking. “You seen Laura?”
“On a billboard outside.”
“Wiseass.” Gino shook his head. “It’s a shame. I always thought you two were destined to be together forever. You know, like Romeo and Juliet or something.”
“They ended up dead.”
“You sure?” Gino ran a hand over his slick black hair. “That’s right. Now I remember. You paid attention in class while I was out schooling the ladies.”
At the table in front, the fat man glared. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.
I didn’t want to talk about Laura. “How’s Mickey? He wrote and bragged about the success of his one-man detective agency and asked if I missed the line of work. I always wrote back, but the letters trailed off the last few months.”
Gino blew a puff of smoke in my direction. “How come you write Mickey and not me?”
I sipped the scotch. “Mickey can read.”
Gino pointed to Frankie. “Anyone else talks to me like that, he gets a fist sandwich. I ain’t seen Mickey for a month, maybe two. Come on. He’s right down the block, you know? Of course you do.”
Didn’t sound like Mickey. First his letters stopped. Now Gino hadn’t seen him. Something stunk, and I had to find out what. “You think he’s okay?”
Gino shrugged. “Maybe he got himself a new dish.”
Frankie polished off his scotch and refilled the glass. “I heard he’s working some big case.”
Gino raised an eyebrow. “You know Mickey O’Brien?”
Frankie crushed his cigarette into the ashtray. “Everybody knows Mickey.”
While the jazz band continued to play, the blonde singer crossed the dance floor and set one hand on my shoulder. “You probably don’t remember me. I wasn’t a blonde last time you were in.”
“Bridgette?”
“You remember!” She kissed me on the chee
k. Her perfume reminded me of blueberries and cut through the room’s cigarette smell.
Over her shoulder, the fat thug downed a shot of booze. He slid his chair back and bulled his way through the tables, his beady eyes darting between Gino and me. “I thought it was you.”
Bridgette retreated behind my chair. Gino started to get up, but I grabbed his arm. I didn’t want any trouble. He sat down and signaled to Danny at the front door.
The fat man stopped at our table and pounded a fist into one hand. “Jake Donovan.”
“That’s me.” I studied his face, which reminded me of a mug shot I’d seen. This guy was a two-bit thug. “Jimmy Vales, right?”
“I figured you’d remember, since it was you who sent me up the river for bank fraud.”
“The police did that. I just did the legwork for the bank that hired me.”
Jimmy grabbed the half-full bottle of scotch and cocked his arm like he’d shatter the bottle against my head.
Gino jumped to his feet. “Not my good stuff.”
The jazz band stopped playing, and the room grew quiet.
Jimmy set the bottle on the table. “I spent three years in the clink ’cause of you, Donovan!”
“I thought the judge gave you five.”
He cleared his throat and hawked a load of spit next to my shoe. “Good behavior.”
“Of course.”
“Wise guy.” Jimmy clenched his fists. “Get up.”
“Take a powder.” Gino dismissed him with a wave.
“This don’t concern you, Gino. And get away from Jake, Bridgette, you tramp.”
I’d had enough. He could insult me because we had a history, but I couldn’t let him give Gino the business and offend a swell girl like Bridgette. I rose from my chair and gestured toward the fat man’s fly. “I have no respect for a man who walks across a place like this with his zipper at half-mast.”
When Jimmy glanced at his fly, I socked him in the kisser, a right cross that would’ve made Blackie Doyle proud. Two jabs to his face split his lip. Blood gushed from his mouth.
Jimmy stumbled backward. Frankie tripped him, and the fat man fell against a table. Gino slammed Jimmy’s face on the table, spilling our drinks and leaving a trail of blood. He fell on his back and cracked his head on the floor, writhing in pain. Like a Florida sea turtle trying to right itself, he thrashed and pawed at the blood flowing down his face.
Frankie stood and reached behind his back. He drew a pistol and aimed it at Jimmy. The same gun I saw him stuff beneath the car’s front seat? Danny’d even frisked him. I’d underestimated Frankie. He was good.
Danny slid to a stop and yanked the beaten man to his feet.
Shaking off Danny’s grip, Jimmy wiped blood from his face with the edge of his hand. As Danny led him away, he pointed a thick index finger my way. “I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch. I mean it. I’ll kill you!”
Frankie’s mouth dropped. “Whoa!” He stuffed the gun in his suit.
“Don’t sweat it. Jimmy rarely follows through on death threats.” Gino clapped me on the shoulder.
I hadn’t returned to the city to replay old times. As a detective, trouble had a way of finding me no matter how carefully I planned things, but I wasn’t a detective. I wrote mysteries, had a novel to finish, and, in spite of Gino’s reassurance, a vengeful thug wanted me dead.
“It’s like you never left, goombah.” Gino refilled my glass. “What a night. Booze, broads, and a barroom brawl.”
Chapter 2
The Lone Ranger
While Bridgette sang another jazzy number, Danny returned to our table and straightened his suit. “I gave Jimmy the bum’s rush, right on his can.” He studied my face until his lip curled in a sneer. “Now I remember you. You’re Jake, from school. You stole my bike.”
Gino chuckled. “That was a long time ago.”
“We gave it back.” I nodded toward Gino. “Besides, it was his idea.”
Danny’s face puffed up like an overripe tomato. His eyes turned into BBs as he glared at Gino. “That right?”
“I’ll buy you a new one.” Gino grabbed the scotch. He filled a glass and held it out to Danny. “I’ll throw in a bell.”
Danny tossed an empty chair against the wall and stomped off.
“Thanks a lot.” Gino downed the scotch and crushed out his cigarette. “Muscle I can trust don’t grow on trees, you know.”
I finished my drink and got up to leave. “Sorry I disturbed your guests.”
“No trouble. It happens.” Gino gave me a hug and walked Frankie and me toward the front door. “Don’t go back to Florida without stopping by. I’ll have the chef fix you a good Italian dinner.”
“You have a chef?”
“Hey, this ain’t no clip joint. If they repeal Prohibition like the scuttlebutt says, I’ll reopen The Yankee Club as an Italian restaurant with the best cook anywhere. Probably have to change the name to something Italian.”
“How about Gino’s?”
“Gino’s. Sure.”
He pulled me aside and lowered his voice. “I didn’t want to say nothin’ before, but Jimmy’s been in before talking about how he’ll take care of you if you ever show your face. Be careful while you’re in town.”
I nodded toward Frankie who smiled. “I got Frankie. Besides, I don’t plan to get into any trouble.”
“Any more trouble.” Gino shrugged. “Watch your back is all I’m saying.”
Outside The Yankee Club a soft evening fog had settled over the streets. Frankie surveyed the block and lit a cigarette. The glow from his match illuminated his worried brow. “It wouldn’t hurt to be careful the next few days.”
Frankie had consumed a couple more scotches than a driver should, so I suggested a walk. I checked my watch. We were two blocks from Mickey’s office, and knowing him, he’d probably be asleep on the couch.
I straightened my hat, and we headed down the sidewalk. Frankie took a deep breath and let out a retching cough. “Nothing like the air in Queens.”
“Nice move carrying a gun inside The Yankee Club. I could have sworn I saw you stuff the piece under the front seat.”
“You did.” He stuck a toothpick in his mouth. “I always carry two.”
“Where’d you learn that trick?” I stepped around the feet of a man sleeping beneath a sidewalk bench.
“I spent a couple months as a … security guard.”
Sure you did. I had to find out more about Frankie before I could trust him. “What’s with the toothpicks?”
“Edith’s been nagging me to quit smoking. Helps me cut down, you know?”
The fog thickened as we made our way down the sidewalk. Our footsteps echoed along the nearly deserted path. A dog barked in the distance, a siren wailed from a couple blocks over, and a man yelled at his wife through the open window of a nearby house. My neighborhood hadn’t changed at all. Had I?
Less than a block from Mickey’s office, Frankie and I stood on the corner and waited for the streetlight to change. A flashy young woman stepped from an apartment building wearing the fog like an overcoat draped around her shoulders. She wore a tight-fitting, low-cut satin dress in a shade of red that matched her full lips. Smoke curled from a cigarette that dangled from one hand. “Frankie? Frankie Malzone?”
Her Jean Harlow–like platinum hair shimmered beneath the streetlight. She smacked his chest with one hand. “It is you, Snuggle Pup. Whatcha doin’ this side of town?”
Snuggle pup? Frankie?
“Belle.” Frankie ran a finger around the collar of his shirt. “Long time.”
“Too long.” She kissed his cheek then gave me the once-over. “Who’s your tall, good-looking friend?”
“Jake Donovan.” He nudged me with his elbow. “You’ve probably heard of him. He’s a famous novelist.”
Belle took a drag on her cigarette and blew a puff of smoke into the fog. “Sorry. I ain’t never heard the name. I’m behind in my book reading.” She ran a hand along the lapel of my
suit. “Hey, Daddy, you’re kind of cute.”
“Hands off the merchandise, Belle. Jake here’s a regular Joe.”
“Oh and I guess I’m a regular stinker.”
“I’m just saying …”
I always felt compassion toward women when desperation drove them to work the streets. Everyone had a right to make a living. In her twenties and attractive, this doll had a well-built chassis her customers no doubt appreciated.
Belle dropped her lipstick-smeared cigarette butt in front of Frankie. “You still tied down to Edith?”
Like a dance step in a movie, Frankie crushed her cigarette. “Last time I checked.”
“Then quit checking.” She patted his cheek. “Call me when you wise up, baby. You always were my favorite.”
“Sure I was.” Frankie shot me a look and flicked his cigarette into the gutter.
Her cheek dimpled as she flashed me a playful smile. “We ain’t been properly introduced. I’m Belle. Belle Starr.”
I chuckled. “Like the Wild West outlaw who hung out with Jesse James and the Younger brothers?”
“Yeah.” Belle grinned proudly. “My kind of gal.”
Frankie let out a bark of laughter. “Your parents named you after an outlaw?”
“Naah. Before we met I heard the name in a movie. I liked it better than the one my old lady hung on me.”
Frankie scratched the side of his head. “So what’s your real name?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s Belle Starr, now clam up about it.”
I made a slight bow. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Starr.”
“Charmed.”
Down the block a sedan parked along the curb, its engine running. Belle squinted into the haze. “Since you two look like you’re going somewheres, I think I’ve spotted a customer. Give me a jingle sometime, Frankie.” She winked at me. “Nice meeting you.” Her shapely hips swayed as she crossed the street and disappeared into the fog.
Frankie followed me toward Mickey’s office building. “Me and Belle go way back, before Edith.”
“No need to explain.” I couldn’t help but smile. “You’re her favorite, Snuggle Pup.”
We reached the familiar four-story brownstone office building. Across the street a tin can clattered down the foggy alley next to the Reed Hotel.
The Yankee Club Page 2
