Tender Is LeVine: A Jack LeVine Mystery

by Andrew Bergman

  “So you’re saying this whole thing is a sham?”

  “I don’t know what the hell it is. But I think this snatch has zippo to do with ransom and everything to do with the hotel business, and here’s another wild guess—you boys are in for a piece of the action, which is why you’re lounging around here in that lovely silk robe.”

  Aaron manufactured a look of disbelief. “NBC is in for a piece, that’s what you’re telling me?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. I think the ransom notes were bullshit, manufactured to leave a phony paper trail. The reality is that Lansky and Luciano want the old man to front a hotel they’re going to build which will legitimize this cow town forever.”

  Aaron unsuccessfully simulated laughter. “Is that what Meyer told you? Toscanini is going to front a Vegas hotel? Please. I thought you were an intelligent man, Jack.”

  “Why else would they schlepp him out here? To work on his tan?”

  “No, Jack. Maestro was brought to Vegas because Meyer has almost total control over the press here. He and Lucky didn’t feel they could keep the lid on in Havana much longer.”

  “Word would get out.”

  “Of course. One thing about this god-awful place: You want something locked down, it gets locked down.”

  I looked around the room. “Fine, I can believe that. But from the looks of this suite, Maestro’s set to hang around here for keeps. I have less furniture in my apartment, not that that’s any standard.”

  Aaron waved his hand impatiently. “Jack, we’re talking about one of the great artists in the history of the world, okay? What he wants, he gets, at least as long as I’m around. If he’s here for a day, a week, or two weeks, I make sure he has his comforts, his music, his ambience, okay? In the meantime, I’m trying to negotiate him out of here.”

  “So that’s why you’re here, to negotiate? I thought it was to protect him.”

  “It’s all the same, Jack. Jesus Christ! I’m just a middleman with a commitment to protect the life of a great man. Believe me or not, that’s what’s going on. When I sent you to Havana, I was desperate. But I’m glad that I did, because I think you flushed them out, forced their hand.”

  “I got bopped on the head, that’s what I did.”

  “You were a catalyst for all this activity.” Aaron rose from the piano bench. “You’d be well within your rights to ask for the twelve thousand bucks right now.”

  “I would be?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re saying you want me to go home?”

  “I think your work is pretty much done.”

  “What about Lansky?”

  “I’ll tell him to lay off you.”

  “Promise?”

  Aaron smiled and raised his hand. “‘Swear to God,’ as we used to say in Brooklyn.”

  “Great. And you’re just going to stay here and bargain for the old man to get out?”

  “I’ll do my best, within the constraints I’m under.”

  “What if NBC says it doesn’t care if he gets knocked off?”

  “I believe I can persuade my superiors otherwise. Principally on a public relations basis. If Maestro gets killed because of our inaction, Lansky and Luciano could run corporate blackmail on us that would be unbelievably destructive. They own reporters all over the world; that’s the ugly reality.”

  “So you think Sarnoff will pay the three million.”

  Aaron bowed his head, took a breath.

  “What …?” I said.

  “That’s where I misspoke, Jack. As of last night, they want seven million.”

  I almost whistled. “That’s a lot of cabbage.”

  “It’s an unimaginable amount of money. But I think I can persuade the general of the consequences if we don’t pay off.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I’ll need it,” said Aaron. “Do you want me to call you a car to get you back to the airport?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll handle my own arrangements, but thanks. First I gotta get back to the kitchen and return this outfit.”

  “It’s not a flattering look for you, Jack, I have to say in all honesty.” Aaron smiled and held out his hand. “Thanks for a tremendous job, pal; you were the right guy in a very tough jam.”

  I shook his hand. It was not a dry hand.

  “Appreciate it, Sidney. Thanks.”

  “Anytime,” Aaron said. “How about I give you half now in cash and then have Elizabeth mail you a check for the remainder?”

  “Six thousand in cash?”

  “That’s right. Too much?”

  “No. It’s the least you can do.”

  Aaron chuckled. What a terrific guy. “Hang on. Let me get at it.” He headed toward the second bedroom and I turned and walked into the living room. Toscanini was contentedly shmearing jam on a roll.

  I knelt beside him. “Maestro, I have to run.”

  He looked at me quizzically.

  “Boston Blackie,” he said gently. He looked around the room, then leaned closer to me. The look in those myopic yet infinitely expressive eyes flickered from contentment to uncertainty. “Is necessita?”

  “You mean, do I have to go?”

  The street-clothes muscle was sitting on a chair leafing through the morning paper. He turned a page and yawned.

  “Yes, I do. But I’ll be back.”

  Now his eyes registered a flicker of fear, for the very first time. “Is not right here. Capisce?”

  “Yes. And you’re correct; it’s not right here.”

  “Is not fascisti, I think.”

  “I agree.”

  “I want to go home.” The Maestro’s eyes misted over a bit. “To Villa Pauline.”

  “I’ll get you home.”

  Aaron was reentering from the next room. I patted the old man’s hand, gestured for him to lean toward me, and then spoke quickly and softly. “Whatever happens, try and stay on the grounds of the hotel. Okay?”

  The old man nodded. “Si. I try and wait for you, Boston Blackie.”

  “Hang in there, Maestro.” I got up and started for the door. The plainclothes man put down his newspaper and began to rise, but Aaron waved at him to sit back down. He walked toward me holding a thick envelope.

  “Again,” Aaron murmured, standing close enough to me so I could smell his stale morning breath, “thanks for some brilliant work.”

  I mumbled my gratitude and took the envelope, sticking it in the inside of my jacket. “See you back in New York.”

  “You bet, Jack. Let’s get some dinner when this is all over.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I told him, then walked to the door and opened it. When I turned around, I saw the three men in the room sitting and standing as stock-still as if they were having their portraits done, their eyes fixed on my departing self.

  I waved jauntily and took my leave. I figured that if I remained in Vegas I had maybe an hour to live.

  THIRTEEN

  I rushed noisily down the fire stairs and was panting like a spaniel by the time I reached my room. I cautiously opened the door, then double-bolted and chained it the moment I got inside. The room was just as I left it, with two significant differences.

  There was a fine leather valise on the bed and it didn’t belong to me.

  The shower was running.

  I walked quietly to the night table, pulled open the top drawer and removed the .38 I had pilfered from the driver, then crept toward the bathroom, finally nudging the door open with my left hand. I was instantly rewarded with the gratifying sight of soapy water cascading down Barbara Stern’s lustrous body. She screamed, of course, at the very sight of me.

  “Jesus!” she said, and yanked the shower curtain all the way shut.

  “I won’t bother asking how you got in the room,” I said, closing the bathroom door and pocketing the gun.

  “It wasn’t terribly difficult,” she hollered over the running water. “The bellhops here respond very well to minimal offerings of cash. Plus, I batte
d my eyes a little.”

  “I’m not registered under my name.”

  “Somehow ‘Buddy Barrow’ spoke to me. Sounded like something you’d dream up. Then I described you, and this kid—”

  “Name of ‘Happy’? On the short side? With overdeveloped shoulders and imagination?”

  “Happy, yes. Said there was a gentleman who fit the description, except the gentleman was wearing a cheap hairpiece.”

  “I resent that.”

  Barbara laughed and shut the water off, then poked her beautiful wet head out from behind the curtain.

  “Could you hand me a towel?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, you want to be like that.” She smiled demurely, then stepped daintily out of the shower, arching her leg high over the rim of the tub and affording me a momentary and heart-stopping view of the entirety of her. Barbara wrapped a bath towel around her waist and draped a face towel around her neck, leaving her full, elegant breasts exposed.

  “I called your mother,” I told her. “She said you’d gone to California. Imagine my less-than-delighted surprise.”

  “I had to tell her I was going to California.” Barbara began toweling her hair dry. “She would’ve had a breakdown if she knew I was flying here.”

  “So you came here straight from Havana?”

  “With a stop in Miami. I told Meyer I was going back to New York. Guess I’ve been lying to everyone.”

  “Including me that night in Havana.”

  She stopped drying her hair and looked directly into my innocent brown eyes. “No. I never lied that night. What happened to you was truly out of my control. You have to believe that.”

  “It’s an awful lot to believe.”

  “I know it is. But as God or whoever’s on vacation up there is my witness, I had nothing to do with it.” She peered at me from under the towel. “That thing on your head, Jack, please tell me it’s a disguise.”

  “You don’t approve?”

  “Looks like an otter pelt.”

  “I’m trying to avoid your old playmate.”

  “Well, a fella can’t blame you for that,” she said. She let the towel droop babushka-style over that magnificent head and took one step forward. “But it’s gotta go.”

  She leaned forward and lifted the toupee off my head like it was a loose Band-Aid. “Much better,” she murmured, then pressed her lips against mine. We kissed oh-so-softly, then she flicked her tongue up across my chin—don’t knock it till you’ve tried it—and kissed me a lot harder, uttering a low and incendiary moan. I could feel myself short-circuiting and took a step back.

  “Last time you made that sound, I got hit by a truck.”

  “You don’t trust me, do you?” She brushed her knuckles against my cheek. “How could you, after what happened?”

  “I don’t know what I think. You’re so gorgeous it really isn’t a fair fight.”

  “That night was totally mortifying.” She now took the towel and began to dry her breasts; I would describe what that looked like if there were words adequate to the task. “Those guys dragging you out of there, staring at me the whole time …” She sighed. “I think Meyer flipped is what really happened.”

  “Out of jealousy? Come on, he left us together, for crissakes.”

  “Obviously he didn’t think we’d get physical.”

  “Because why would you go for a moldy old Hebe?”

  She smiled. “You’re mature, not old. Big difference.” She lifted the towel off her head and wiped my sweaty forehead. It was plenty steamy in the smallish bathroom. “Fact is, I don’t think Meyer even considered what I might be feeling about you—no big surprise there. I’m also sure he figured you wouldn’t have the gall to seduce his old girlfriend.” I was sufficiently a sap to feel my robust heart ache at the mere use of the word “girlfriend.” It took Barbara approximately the speed of light to see inside me.

  “Don’t look so miserable, Jack. I was never in love with him, I told you that.” She put her arms on my shoulder and kissed me again. The towel fell from her waist and she ground herself up against me.

  “Baby, we can’t …” I told her while I could still form English words.

  “Afraid you’re going to get clobbered again?” She kissed my nose, my eyes, brushed her lips against my cheek.

  “I have to get out of Vegas.…” I stepped back, held up my hands. “We gotta stop.” I opened the door and walked out of the bathroom. Barbara followed.

  “You want to get out of Vegas? Let me call Meyer and arrange it.” She walked to the phone.

  “No.”

  “Don’t panic, he’ll listen to me.” She picked up the phone.

  “Put it down!” I yelled.

  She stood holding the phone, wearing only that little towel around her shoulders. “First time you ever raised your voice, Jack.”

  It was now all of seven-fifteen in the morning and I was trying to gather my wits before those wits got scattered to the desert winds. I wasn’t at all sure that I could trust Barbara Stern, nor could I trust my judgment when I was around her. I realized that for my protection, and probably for hers, I would have to hurt her very badly.

  “Sweetheart, Meyers not our friend here.”

  “I know he has schemes. He always does.”

  “No, baby, I’m not talking about schemes. Meyer had your father killed.”

  Fritz Stern’s daughter pursed her lips as if she were about to say something, then sat down on the bed and stared at her bare feet.

  “Whether he or Lucky gave the actual order is moot,” I told her. “He’s responsible.” Barbara didn’t lift her head. “Sidney Aaron’s version is that the intention was simply to scare your father, but the button man got carried away. I don’t believe that for a second. I don’t believe anything Aaron says. It was a hit, pure and simple.”

  “Meyer did it.” She mumbled this to herself in the form of a question that supplied its own answer.

  “It’s a nightmarish thing to consider, I realize that, given your history with him, but there’s really no time to dwell on it. Right this second, there’s gotta be a half dozen guys looking for me, and seeing how easily you tracked me down, I don’t have high hopes for getting out of here with my arms and legs still attached unless I start right now. And I don’t think there’s any way Toscanini gets out, either, not unless we do it—literally, you and I physically transporting him.”

  Barbara looked up at me; tears coursed down her cheeks.

  “They’re going to kill Toscanini. That’s so totally impossible for me to conceive.”

  “I didn’t say they’re actually going to kill him. I think the idea is to keep him in Vegas until he dies a natural death, at which point, or shortly thereafter, they kill the double. Or maybe they just stick the old man in a freezer for a while and continue the scam.”

  Barbara stared at me, not yet comprehending.

  “Why …?”

  “Did Meyer ever tell you about the hotel he wanted to build here?”

  “He mentioned something about it in Havana, said it was going to be gigantic.”

  “Beyond gigantic. He told me it was going to change the gambling business forever. And the live entertainment business.”

  “La Scala,” Barbara said. “That’s what he said it was going to be called.” She paused and then her entrancing mouth opened in full amusement-park wonder. “Holy smokes, how could I be so stupid? La Scala—like the opera house.”

  “Precisely,” I told her. “The Old World comes to the New World. Meyer’s front men erect Hotel La Scala and announce that the world’s greatest orchestra will be organized to perform here, none other than Maestro himself to conduct it. That’s what Meyer told me.”

  “Toscanini in Vegas.”

  “The faux-Toscanini leading the Hotel La Scala Orchestra. Except, of course, the old man would never agree to it; he just wants to get back to New York and lead the NBC Symphony. He’s up on the third floor, a prisoner in the Valencia Suite.”
<
br />   “So you’re saying this kidnapping is all about this La Scala Hotel?”

  “Totally. Lucky and Meyer build their hotel and this fake Toscanini is the big drawing card, plus NBC is in for a piece—probably a big piece through a phony corporation—and just like that the company’s out of its obligations to the symphony, which costs a fortune and isn’t worth it now that television’s here to stay. Aaron admitted as much, although he was pretending he was on guard against the barbarians. In fact, he’s the middleman here.”

  Barbara lay back on the bed, oblivious to her nakedness. I wasn’t.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said. “Even I’m surprised, and I don’t surprise easy.”

  “It’s a huge deal, with giant consequences for Vegas, which is why Meyer and Lucky had your inquisitive father eliminated. He was just the wrong curious guy at the wrong time.”

  “It’s entirely my fault.” Barbara lay unmoving.

  “No. It’s a hideous coincidence is all it is. Maybe your father gets killed earlier if it wasn’t for you. But we really don’t have time to discuss this. Get your clothes on. I never thought I’d say that, but I mean it from the bottom of my heart.”

  While Barbara started to get dressed, I opened my wallet and fished out the card that Kim the lesbian cabby had handed me.

  “What’s that?” Barbara asked, hopping into a pair of tan slacks.

  “I gotta make a call,” I told her, and picked up the phone.

  “To who?”

  “To the only person I’ve met out here who I’d trust with my life.”

  “What about me?”

  “I didn’t meet you out here.”

  “True, but I hope that’s not just a technicality.” She started getting into her brassiere, turning her back in a sudden show of modesty. I dialed the number on the card and after three rings, a very sleepy voice answered.

  “’Lo?”

  “Kim, it’s Lassie. I know I’m waking you.” Barbara threw me an appropriately disbelieving look.