The Corpse in the Cabana

by Lawrence Lariar

  “I dropped my tired bones into the pool.”

  “Did you see Gloria?”

  “In and out of the cabanas.”

  “And after the cabanas?”

  “She was headed for the beach. “All alone,” she laughed. “Unusual for Gloria.”

  “Did you see her come back?”

  “Are you kidding? I was busy as a little bee after that, crazy man.” She sat there, no longer keyed up by the liquor, her face sobered and sane. She would be suffering by herself for a while, wondering about Gloria. It would be best to break it off now, leaving her with the crumbs. Her womanly curiosity was primed. From here on out she should break and run in an important direction.

  I marched out of there heading for the lights of the restaurant. Beyond the wall of the last cabana, just short of the fence, I ducked behind a convenient hiding place, a pile of deck chairs stored in the shadows.

  She came out on schedule. She tripped my way, her high heels setting up delicate echoes in the stillness. She passed me on the run and I had a good look at her face. It was loaded with worry. She turned to the right, bound for the outer row of staff cabanas. I was behind her on the sand, as quiet as a bird in the wind.

  She went directly to Pazow’s cabana, entered as though she owned the place. I slid in close to the south window.

  “Of course I knew it,” Pazow was shouting. “Who told you?”

  “The detective,” she said. “Gant. Just now.”

  “An idiot. I should have known he was a half-wit.”

  “Don’t sell him short. Did he know about you and her?”

  “Your mouth!” Pazow’s voice dropped to a surly level. There was the flat sound of a slap, followed by her feminine whimper. “Now get the hell out of here and go where you’re supposed to be—inside at the show. Keep your pretty mouth shut about this, you hear? If I find out you’ve talked to anybody else you’ll be back in Flatbush behind the stinking stocking counter, where I found you. Clear? Is that perfectly clear?”

  She came out faster than she went in.

  Then she was running toward the restaurant, a handkerchief to her face, hiccupping her sorrow as she ran.

  CHAPTER 6

  10:32 P.M.

  There was a door to the right of the stage, beyond the spot where Ziggi’s drummer sat. From here I had a good view of Chuck Bond at the mike, Ziggi before his band, and beyond, a generous slice of the audience. Chuck was throwing the lines at them, halfway through his opening monologue. He had won them from the very start, the women especially. In the beginning, a few minutes ago, his voice has been alive with professional push, too quick, too anxious to get them yakking, But the ladies were on his side right away, their frantic giggling an encouragement to the rest of the group who now roared their approval of every gag. Chuck enjoyed their favor. Already the nervousness was gone, the old mastery alive in every line. It did my heart good to see him succeed.

  But my heart held me only for a few minutes. My eyes were trapped by Jean Russicoff, standing against the broad window. Even in the costume of a waitress, this girl was a man-trap. She was a regal blonde, fantastically beautiful, fantastically young. From where I stood she came through clearly, her blue eyes all for Chuck. She simply stood there and worshipped him, no smile on her lips, but her face full of a deeper enjoyment. She was up there at the mike with him, worrying it through with him. You can read it fast in the eyes of the young. You can catch it in a gesture, the way she leaned forward when the laughs came, the way she clutched her tray in the pauses. One of the customers tapped her politely on the arm and she came out of her trance, smiled down at him, took his order. But she was watching Chuck even on the way out to the bar.

  I skipped back to catch her at the door.

  “I’m a friend of Chuck’s,” I told her. She stopped to eye me, still lost up there with him.

  “Isn’t he great?” she asked. “They love him. Don’t you think they love him?”

  “He’ll get by. Got a minute?”

  “I’m terribly busy. I mustn’t keep my customers waiting.”

  “Of course you are. But this is important. This concerns Chuck.”

  She had started away from me, giving me a gentle brush. His name stopped her, of course. For the first time she seemed to bring me into focus, to be aware of me. She gave her order to the bartender and then stepped back my way.

  “What about Chuck?”

  “You know him pretty well?” I asked.

  “I know him.” She had a good voice, a bit on the husky side, but feminine as the rest of her. Her smile was warm. She dropped the line quietly, thoughtfully, as though the three words had a deep meaning for her. “I know Chuck pretty well.”

  “Then I can talk frankly?”

  “Can you? Why?”

  “Because I may need your help.”

  “You’re rather a vague person, Mr. …”

  I told her my name. “I don’t mean to be stupid about this, Jean. Just call it the nonsense of an old, old friend. I realize that this is a crazy moment to talk to you. I know that you’re a busy gal, feeding those slobs out there. But I had to see you, even if only for a quick talk.” She was getting restless and I didn’t blame her. “Can I ask you something off the record? Just between us?”

  “Just between us.”

  “Sometimes an old, old friend like me can make a bad mistake,” I said. “But I’ve been hearing gossip about Chuck. Maybe I’m out of bounds on what I’m about to ask. But an old, old friend sometimes has to stick his ancient neck out.”

  The bartender was braying at her. She went over and picked up the drinks. She returned to me, balancing her tray with athletic ease. “I haven’t much more time,” she said politely.

  “I’ll cut it short, Jean. A little bird told me Chuck’s been making an ass of himself lately. With Gloria. Is it true that he’s gone overboard for her?”

  She fought hard to kill her surprise. She was too young for theatrics, too far gone for subterfuge. Kids like this always proved the old police rule about teenagers. They react out of the basic childhood instincts, unskilled at burying their emotions. They are the simple witnesses in any inquiry, usually quick to crack under direct questioning.

  Jean Russicoff still belonged to them, naïve and sweet, the girl with the open face.

  “Oh, no,” she said, her voice off-key. “I wouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t say that at all.”

  “And what would you say?”

  “You’re putting me on dangerous ground,” she laughed. Her anxious eyes skimmed the customers in the big room. She knew where her duty lay. Yet, she didn’t move in that direction. She was trapped, held by her obvious yen for Chuck Bond. “Actually, how can I give you anything but an opinion? I don’t know. It’s just my intuition that tells me the premise is crazy.”

  “Just intuition? Or have you been dating him?”

  “I’ve been out with him.” She blushed in a maidenly way. “Twice.”

  “And you like him?”

  “He’s very nice. He drove me home to New York. Twice. Those were the dates,” she said modestly. “Last week. But maybe Chuck didn’t even consider those times dates.”

  The head waiter was striding her way, hot-eyed. I didn’t want to cause her any misery.

  “Thanks, Jean,” I said. “I’m glad to hear you agree with me. Chuck’s young, but he’s got a big future in show business. I didn’t want him to louse it up. Not with anyone like Gloria.”

  “You’re a nice kind of friend to have,” she said, her smile bright and young again. “Good meeting you, Mr. Gant. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

  “I think so,” I whispered to her beautiful and distant back. “I think so, sister.”

  Chuck was going into high, into the guts of his routine, working the hot gags now, the zany songs, the incredible imitations. He had the true mime’s
perception of important details in projecting celebrities to the audience. He flipped his hands and screwed up his face, he muttered and mumbled, whined and giggled, selling off his interpretations with the ease of genius. And they were eating it out in the audience, holding their sides, abandoning their drinks for him.

  George Newberry sat up close, sharing a table with one of his sloth assistants. They were off-beat characters in the starched coterie. They were slobs among the elite. But Newberry felt no sting of embarrassment. Newberry was completely lost, his fleshy pan wide open in hilarity, slapping his partner with an occasional burst of enthusiasm.

  Behind him, tense and tight, Pazow cased the crowd. He seemed oblivious to Chuck Bond, alone in his commercial world, making frantic calculations as he squinted and stared around him. Or was he looking for somebody? From where I stood, the pattern of Pazow’s eye movements seemed aimed down a certain route. He started with Newberry. He held Newberry in focus for a quick moment. Then his eyes slid away, to the right, and broadsided the band. Ziggi? Was he watching Ziggi? He stayed with the band leader for only a split second. Then his square head shifted, back far enough so that he could case the other side of the room where Orlik sat. And after Orlik? Mari Beranville? Or was Pazow looking beyond her to his crocked secretary? Was it Linda who made him twitch?

  Linda Purcell leaned against an imitation palm, her body moving in a strange, slow rhythm, dreamy and ridiculous as she watched Chuck. She gulped at a tall drink, turning occasionally to say a word to a marauding wolf who had sneaked in close to her from the bar beyond. Could she see and hear Chuck through her alcoholic fog?

  On the rim of the floor, back toward the entrance, Mari Beranville decorated a ringside table. The man with her had a face full of vinegar. He stared at the stage, as happy as a Democrat in Eisenhower’s parlor. He was a skinny crud, lean in the jaw and completely bald, an anemic Yul Brynner with a surly eye. He abandoned the comedian to sneer at his table companion, his lips moving in a slow aside. And Mari gave up watching Chuck to listen to him. He rang a remote bell in my head. I had seen him somewhere, not too long ago. My mind fought to bring him into focus. My mind failed. I went over to where Linda stood.

  “The little sneaky man,” she gurgled amiably. “You like the show, Grant?”

  “Gant,” I said. “You’ll be on your knees soon, baby. Better stop now while you’re breathing.”

  “Go peddle your fish,” she smiled, and leaned over to grab me and kiss my cheek.

  “I’m leaving in a minute. Listen—who’s the character with Mari Beranville? You know him?”

  “Linda knows everybody here,” she giggled. “Didn’t I send out the invitations to this barn dance?”

  “Who is he?”

  “Guess, sneaky man.”

  “No time,” I said and pinched her where it would do some good. She reacted with a fresh burst of laughter.

  The wolf at her side stepped in to break up the tie ball game. He tugged her to one side and answered my question for me.

  “Hersh Saxon,” he said with a wink. “You know, the little louse who publishes that scandal magazine. Same thing happened with me. I looked at him and I figured I knew him, too. You know why? Because we both probably saw him on teevee a couple times. He’s been blowing his nose on some of the shows lately. With a face like his, he’d maybe better hide it in a toilet, know what I mean? A real, A-number-one, pure stinker, that Saxon!”

  He was right, all the way down the line. Herschel J. Saxon had earned himself a prize reputation ever since his first issue of “Ssssssh!” broke on the newsstands a few years ago. He had smeared almost every big performer in the business in his rotten pages. He spared nobody either in pictures or prose, loading his magazine with the type of filth degenerate readers pick their teeth over. His circulation rose to peak figures with each corroded issue of the rag, aided and abetted by his skillfully contrived publicity. And Hersh managed the circus all alone. His editors were culled from the slime of the literary beach, off-beat crumbs who would murder their mothers in print for the price of a drink, a bed and a can of beans.

  “You know him, Linda?” I asked.

  “Please,” she lisped in mock anger. “I pick my friends.”

  “Then who invited him out?”

  “Who do you think? Pazow, of course.”

  “Dirty wash,” muttered the wolf. “Pazow probably figured he better not get this shill angry at him. Pazow can’t afford to have his guts opened in that magazine. Right or wrong?”

  “I’ll let you know,” I said and moved away from there.

  I returned to my post after a quick detour to the bar. I had a double. The liquor warmed me, fought to wipe away the reflex wave of disgust that came with recognition of Hersh Saxon. The leech would be out there on the prowl for material. His talents could not be brushed away. Saxon could have been a master detective if he had the yen for the trade. He was equipped with all the tools for digging up the dry rot. He was as sharp as any routine dick, and twice as circumspect. He moved out of his own laws for ferreting. And his movements baffled the literary world, the police world and the world of normal humans. What would he find here? My gut buckled when I thought of what might happen to Chuck Bond if Hersh Saxon smelled the story. And tomorrow? Unless I could whitewash Chuck completely, the yarn would break in Newberry’s office.

  Or could it break sooner?

  From where I stood, the next second blossomed with sweat.

  Because Hersh Saxon was abandoning Mari Beranville.

  And hoofing it between the crowded tables, making a bee-line for George Newberry!

  CHAPTER 7

  10:52 P.M.

  Ziggi joined the group at the bar, dosing himself with long shots of liquor, probably one of the Cuban man-killers. He seemed unconcerned with the group around him. They were a cluster of columnists, all of them anxious for a special word from him, a fresh story; a news beat that would look well in their garbaged gardens of prose. But Ziggi shrugged them off curtly, giving them the back of his Cuban frame. He was pouting. His handsome, swarthy face lay under a cloud of gloom. Or was it anger that corrugated his brow? He banged a fist on the bar and called for more rotgut. He downed three more by the time I eased my way through the squirming group and reached his side.

  “It’s going good out there,” I said. “What’s biting your tail, Ziggi?”

  “Drop dead.”

  He bulled his way past me, letting me feel his elbow as he slid by. He walked stiff-legged, stiff-necked, an unusual stride for the slipperiest mambo man this side of Havana. He was known for his grace, had earned a reputation in many fields outside the music marathon. You saw him in the Sunday supplements, diving into the Caribe Hilton pool in Puerto Rico, his browned figure like something out of an ad for sunburn lotion. You caught him in the news reels, off the rocks at Capri, skin-diving with the socialites, always the cool one, always the lithe Latin.

  But right now he was violating his publicity shots. He stepped between the tables, scowling as he went. His eyes were aimed down a one-way street, a dead-end. Max Orlik was his target.

  There were heated words before I could snake my way alongside them. Then Ziggi raised his right and bore in. The jeweler tried for an amateurish parry. He failed. His chair slipped from under him, and he fell back, tail over teacups, clawing at air. Ziggi was on him like a dog after porterhouse. I stepped in beside him and nudged him off balance, forcing him to miss and miss badly. He would have cracked his head against the glass wall to the left but my fist grabbed him at the shoulder and he was light enough to hold.

  “Whadahellzamadda,” he grunted. “Goddamstinker, lemmelone.”

  His Cuban-American double talk didn’t move my hand. He swung at me drunkenly, an easy punch to duck, so easy that they began to laugh at him from the surrounding tables. Orlik had regained his poise and came at me from the other side, anxious to throw a fast one at
him, anxious to prove himself still the king-pin of bar-room brawling.

  “You little Cuban heel,” he spat. “Out of the way, Gant. I’ll tear him apart.”

  It was too late for Orlik to come through. Roger Pazow helped me tug Ziggi back behind the band stand, through the door and out into the hall.

  “Ikeelhim,” burbled Ziggi, straining to break loose.

  “Later,” I said. “Right now I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  I winked Pazow away and led Ziggi outside to a small secluded patio behind the dressing rooms. He collapsed. He dropped into a beach chair, overcome by a sudden surge of tropical despair. He buried his head in his hands and began to sob in the high, hysterical way a kid mourns a dropped ice-cream cone. He shivered and shook, hiccupping his grief into the wind.

  “Dirty dog,” he said. “Why you didn’t let me murder him? You know what he is? I know. He’s better dead, that one. This is the biggest night, so big for Gloria. And where is she? What did I do? I walk to Orlik and ask him one simple question. I say to him, ‘What did you do with Gloria?’ He say to me, ‘Scram, you Cuban bum!’ Then he call me something worse, a worse name. Can I take this? That was why I hit him, believe me. You made a mistake butting in. This man Orlik, he knows where Gloria is. Orlik took her away. You know why? Money is why.”

  “Simmer down,” I said. Pazow returned with a cup of coffee and watched me feed it to him. The Cuban gulped it tentatively, making ridiculous faces at it. I signaled Pazow to scram. He went out grudgingly, hesitating at the door, watching Ziggi in the way that a father watches an infant take his first step. The crying began again, frantic blubbering that interfered with the coffee and sent him into a paroxysm of coughing and spluttering until the cup dropped and cracked on the slates.

  “I’ll find Gloria,” I told him. “You really think Orlik would con her away from here? On her opening night? Why, for God’s sake?”

  “Money. You understand?”

  “It would take a lot of moola to pull Gloria away from this opening mob.”