Laura smirked and wrote Dorothy’s ten years younger than you.
I couldn’t help smiling. “I wanted to let Dorothy know I’ll be attending the last show of Night Whispers after all. I’ve even been invited to the cast party.”
“So have we!”
“Wonderful.”
“Dorothy will be so pleased.”
“Until then.” I wasn’t interested in Dorothy or her mother but the man Mickey had no doubt called, Oliver Greenwoody. I thanked her and hung up.
I leaned back in the chair. “I don’t recall meeting the Greenwoodys at previous cast partys.”
“Things change in two years. Spencer likes to associate with powerful people—celebrities, politicians, war heroes. He introduced me to the Greenwoodys the night you were shot.” She sat on the edge of the desk, showing more leg than an engaged woman should. “How do you know them?”
“We shared coffee on the train. Dorothy thinks I’m really Blackie Doyle.”
I drummed my fingers on the desk next to her bare knee and tried to focus on the ashtray.
Smiling, Laura hopped off the desk. “Behind those big black glasses, Dorothy’s a real looker.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“You noticed.” She resumed filling the box with personal items from the desk.
I thought back to Mickey’s final words—the key … it’s … in the ashtray … in the ashtray. I turned over the empty ashtray. Green felt covered the bottom to keep it from sliding on the wood desktop. With a letter opener, I removed the felt. A tarnished brass key fell out.
“The key was in the ashtray.” Laura leaned closer and laughed at the engraved number on the end of the key—B36. “Bingo.”
I rose from the desk and grabbed my cane. “I need to catch a cab. Can I drop you somewhere?”
“I can take you. That’s my Packard out front.”
Laura had come a long way from our old neighborhood. She worked hard for what she’d accomplished and deserved Dalrymple’s money. He didn’t deserve her.
She carried the box to the door. “You need my help, or did you forget you’re recovering from a gunshot wound?”
Before she became a big-time actress, Laura often helped me with criminal investigations. She was good at it. Her acting came in handy, but she mostly worked two-bit cases. This case got me shot and Mickey killed.
I grabbed the cane, limped toward her, and snatched my hat from the coatrack.
She nodded toward the key in my hand and chuckled. “B36. Where are we going? A bingo parlor?”
“The bus station.”
I’d never ridden in a more luxurious automobile than Laura’s Packard. While she drove toward the bus station, I rubbed my throbbing leg. I reflected on what I’d learned and two questions I couldn’t answer. Was Mickey investigating one of the nation’s greatest heroes? Why had Mickey been killed?
A couple of blocks after we left, I glanced in the side mirror. A Model T I felt certain had been parked across the street from Mickey’s office followed behind. By the time we reached the bus station, I knew we’d been followed, but I didn’t want to alarm Laura.
I climbed out and followed her to the front door then risked a quick glance back. The black car had parked across the street. I didn’t get a look at the driver. A cop following me, or someone more sinister?
The lockers along the far wall stood next to a shoe-shine stand. Laura had been in lots of bus stations, but her stylish clothes brought plenty of stares.
On a row of benches, waiting for a bus, a mother tried to control four hungry-looking children: a baby, two twin boys, and an older girl, all ten or younger.
Since the Depression spread, I struggled with guilt over my success. I learned to ignore the poverty all around. What could one person do?
I limped to the lockers. I just wanted to get what Mickey had hidden in the locker of the bus station then decide on the next move.
Laura tore her eyes from the family and followed me. She pointed to B36 on the second row from the bottom. I bent down, ignored a cry of protest from my throbbing leg, and inserted the key. I lifted the handle and the door swung open.
Laura’s face dropped. “It’s empty.”
The locker certainly appeared empty, but I’d taught Mickey plenty of tricks. I felt along the top of the locker and retrieved a single item, a thin manila envelope.
“Don’t gloat. It’s not becoming.” Laura helped me up.
I lifted the back of my suit coat and stuffed the envelope in the hip pocket of my trousers.
Laura followed me toward the door. “At least your detective skills have improved in the past hour since you thought you caught me trashing Mickey’s office.”
“Like riding a bicycle, my dear.”
As we passed the rows of chairs for departing passengers, Laura stopped behind the woman and her children. She took a deep breath, reached into her purse, and pulled out several bills. She held her palm to me. “You have any extra cash?”
I pulled out my wallet. “Define extra.”
“Booze and dames money.”
I chuckled. “I don’t spend dough on dames.”
“I only meant buying a woman dinner from time to time.” She cocked her head and grinned. “What did you think I meant?”
I opened my wallet and gave her half my cash, a twenty and a Lincoln.
She counted the money. “Ninety, darling.” She batted her eyes, rested her hand against my arm, and smiled.
I handed her a sawbuck. “A few bucks won’t make a difference in this depression.”
“It might to her and those kids.”
Laura sat beside the woman. Careful not to display the dough in front of the other passengers, she stuffed the bills into the woman’s hand.
The woman’s eyes widened and teared up. “Why would you do this?”
“Because I’ve been where you are.”
The woman squeezed Laura’s hand. “Must have been a long time ago.”
The ten-year-old girl peeked around her mother and stared at Laura. “Are you a princess?”
“No I’m not.” Laura hugged the girl. “You are, sweetie.”
Laura’s smile reminded me of the sweet innocence she had in high school. Her eyes glistened as we headed for the exit. Her generosity and compassion toward the little girl and her mother reminded me why I always thought she’d make a wonderful mother.
Outside, I got a good look at the man in the black Model T. Tall, wearing a gray suit, he leaned against the car reading the newspaper. Must be either a cop or someone working with Jimmy Vales.
As we drove away, the Model T followed. Who was this guy?
Laura checked her watch. “I need to get ready for the theater. Can I drop you somewhere? Like the train station back to Florida maybe?”
“The Diamond House.”
She peered at me over the top of her glasses. “A little early for booze, isn’t it?”
“Scotch has well-known medicinal properties.” I grabbed the envelope and opened it. Nearly two dozen newspaper clippings were inside. One name in the articles stopped me cold. “Giuseppe Zangara.”
“Isn’t that the guy in Miami who shot and killed the mayor of Chicago a few months ago?” She reached over and squeezed my hand. “Jake, what’s wrong?”
Mickey had been in over his head. Hell, I’d have been in over my head. “A lot of people think his real target was Roosevelt, who was delivering a speech at the time.”
“What do you think?”
“I think Mickey was investigating the attempted assassination of Roosevelt.”
“Assassination? Even more reason to walk away from this.” Laura gripped the wheel and gritted her teeth. We drove several blocks in silence.
I unlocked the handle of the cane and removed the dagger.
Laura managed a smile. “I’m guessing Gino gave you that.”
I rolled each article tightly and slipped the cylinders inside the hollow cane. A blank sheet from a notepad sat behind the last of the article
s. I stuffed the paper into my suit coat pocket.
While Laura drove through the busy mid-morning traffic, I kept an eye on our tail. “What do you know about Oliver Greenwoody?”
“He’s a war hero.” She smiled. “Like you.”
“I wasn’t a hero.”
“You were mine.”
The minute the words left her mouth, her face showed regret at talking about her past feelings for me. Our arrival at The Diamond House saved her further embarrassment. “You should leave the investigation of an assassination attempt to the cops or the feds.”
The Model T parked halfway down the block.
“I can’t do that.”
“I had to try.”
Why was she trying to get me to return to Florida? I thought she understood why I wanted to find Mickey’s killer. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
For a moment, I thought she might level with me. The moment vanished with a smile.
“A lady always keeps some secrets from a gentleman.” She shifted gears and waved as she drove off.
Her words sounded like a line in one of her plays. I limped toward the front door of The Diamond House. Would the man in the Model T follow me inside or wait in his car? He pulled away from the curb, and a cold chill shot up my spine. He sped past without giving me a glance. He hadn’t been following me. He was following Laura.
Determined to find out the guy’s identity, I held up my cane and hollered as an empty cab drove by. I searched frantically for another. By the time a cabbie finally pulled up, several minutes had gone by and Laura and the man tailing her were gone. I’d never find them in this traffic, but I had to warn Laura.
Inside the speakeasy, I slipped into a phone booth and called the Longacre Theatre. Laura hadn’t arrived yet. I left a message for her to call as soon as she got in.
Well-dressed men and flashy women getting an early start on having a good time packed The Diamond House. The manager, in a tuxedo with a red rose in the lapel, approached with an Irish brogue. “ ’Tis Jake Donovan. It’s been a long time. Too long.”
I tried not to display my concern about Laura. “I’m expecting a call from Laura Wilson from the Longacre Theatre.”
“Of course. I’ll notify you as soon as she calls. Would you like a table?”
I’d come to find Frankie and spotted him alone at the bar, chewing on a toothpick and nursing a drink. “Jake!” He spit out the toothpick and downed the rest of his drink. He hurried toward me and pumped my hand. “The papers made it sound like you’d bought the big one.”
I owed Frankie my gratitude and my life. “I might have if it hadn’t been for you.”
The manager showed us to a table near the stage where a man sat with his back to us at the piano. He played a show tune from a play Laura and I had seen years ago, though no one paid him any attention.
I sat at the table and dropped my hat on the chair beside me. “Mildred told me she fired you.”
“It happens.” Frankie glanced toward a table on the other side of the stage where a buxom blonde in a tight dress sat holding the arm of a man twice her age. “Sheesh.”
“I like the way you handled yourself at The Yankee Club and when Mickey and I got shot. In my current condition, I need a driver. I’ll pay you fifty bucks a day.” I pulled out my wallet and slapped a fifty on the table.
Frankie let out a slow whistle. “That’s twice what Mildred paid me. Before you cough up some serious dough, I should come clean about some stuff. I did time in the big house, five years ago, for grand theft auto.”
“I’m sure it was a youthful indiscretion.”
“I wasn’t taking some dame for a joyride.” He puffed up with pride. “On a good week, I lifted a dozen cars.”
“Mildred told me you worked undercover for the police.”
He glanced around as if to make sure no one had heard. “Hey, not so loud. I’m no stool pigeon.”
I slid the money closer to Frankie. “You going to be my driver or not?”
Frankie stared at the bill then slipped the money into his suit coat pocket.
“We’ll need a car.”
“No problem. I know a guy.” Frankie headed for the bar.
Onstage, the piano player banged the keys in frustration. He snatched a smoldering cigarette from an ashtray on top of the piano. When he took a puff and blew out the smoke, I recognized the famous songwriter who worked with Laura on a couple of her plays before either hit the big time. Cole Porter. “Cole.”
He waved away a small cloud of smoke and crushed the cigarette butt in the ashtray. “Jake.” He hurried to our table, did a little soft shoe, and shook my hand.
Cole hadn’t changed much in two years. Thin as I remembered, his features pale and delicate. “I like your cane. It makes you look dapper and smooths out some of your rough edges.”
Rough edges?
With great theatricality he set a hand on my shoulder and hung his head. “I’m so sorry about you and Laura.”
“Thanks.”
Frankie returned and clapped me on the back. “All set, boss.” He thrust out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Porter. Frankie Malzone. I’m Jake’s driver … and muscle.”
Cole shook Frankie’s hand then squeezed his biceps. He winked at me. “Stay out of trouble, Jake.”
Frankie laughed. “Good one, Mr. Porter.”
“Cole. Let me buy you fellas a drink.”
My legged throbbed, but it wasn’t quite noon. “Too early for me.”
“Never too early for me.” Frankie signaled a waitress.
Cole ordered his usual, absinthe, and a scotch for Frankie.
“Jake, can we talk?” Cole nodded toward the piano. “Would you excuse us, Mr. Malzone?”
“Sure, and it’s Frankie.” He took a seat and watched a flashy redhead walk by. “Hey, doll.”
She shot him a look then stormed off.
On the way to the piano, I ignored a stunning blonde in a black dress cut way too low for a funeral. She winked as I walked past.
“You have an admirer.” Cole sat on the bench and stared at the keys. “Here’s the deal. Since the first of the year, I’ve struggled with writer’s block. I can still write music”—he played a catching melody I hadn’t heard before—“but with so much misery in the country, it’s hard to get inspired to write witty words people can relate to.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his suit coat pocket. “Seems to me you dealt with writer’s block a couple of years ago. I heard you have a new book coming out, so you must have worked through it. What did you do?”
“I moved to Florida.”
He let out a hearty laugh. “Linda would never go for that.” He lit another cigarette, blew out a puff, and set the pack of Camels on top of the piano. The troubled expression returned to his face. “Yesterday I met with a Broadway producer, Vinton Freedley. He’s pushing me to write music for a new musical next spring, but I’ve drawn a blank the past two months. If I don’t come up with something by Monday, he’ll sign Rodgers and Hart. If I miss out, I could be through.”
Like a lot of talented people, Cole Porter could be racked with insecurity. “Nonsense, you’re on top.”
“Success is a slippery slope, Jake. Remember that.”
“Inspiration sometimes pops up when I least expect it.”
“Hope you’re right.” Cole set the cigarette into the ashtray, played a few bars, then banged his forehead against the keys and didn’t look up.
Uncertain how to respond to Cole’s erratic behavior, I waved Frankie over.
Frankie, drink in hand, crossed the stage. He leaned against the side of the piano and nodded toward the pretty blonde who continued to give me the eye over the top of a champagne glass. “Nice gams. Looks like they start at her neck.” He took a sip. “You probably haven’t noticed how dames in this joint are dressed. Her plunging neckline looks like she scrunched her legs up and her knees are poking out the top of her dress. Sheesh.” He swirled the scotch in his glass. “In
the old days, just a glimpse of a stocking was, you know, shocking.”
Cole’s head snapped up from the piano keys.
Frankie took another sip of scotch. “Now, anything goes.”
“What did you say?” Cole asked Frankie.
“Anything goes.”
“No, no … before that.”
“I said in the old days if a guy caught a glimpse of a stocking, it was really something.”
“No, you said shocking.” Cole fidgeted on the piano bench.
“Yeah, so? It was shocking in the old days. My old man told me.”
Cole jumped to his feet and opened the piano bench. He snatched a blank sheet of staff paper, slammed the lid closed, and sat. With determination on his face, he took a pencil from his pocket and wrote a few lines. He stuffed the pencil above his ear then played a couple of notes on the piano.
Frankie nodded toward the blonde who continued to cast her eyes my way. “You should go talk to her. She likes what she sees.”
“She probably read my book.”
Frankie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, she looks like a real bookworm. Which reminds me. Edith had one of your books at the apartment, Blackie Doyle’s Vacation. I read it while you was in the hospital. Couldn’t put it down. Seriously.” He took another sip. “Last book I read would make a hooker blush. Authors should know better than to use four-letter words.”
“Writing prose.” Cole tapped his pencil on the sheet music.
Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Cole grabbed his smoldering cigarette and took a puff. His face flushed with excitement, he winked and read as he wrote. “Good authors … who knew better words … now use four-letter words.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m sayin’.” Frankie polished off the rest of his drink.
I’d seen Cole write songs before. A tiny observation often set him off. Apparently Frankie had helped him break through the writer’s block. I was a mere writer. Cole Porter was a genius. He played a few bars of the earlier tune.
A young man at least ten years younger than the blonde who’d given me the eye brought her a drink and sat at her table.
Frankie shook his head. “You lost your chance. I mean, I ain’t no prize, but come on, she could do better than that stupid gigolo.”
The Yankee Club Page 6
