The Corpse in the Cabana

by Lawrence Lariar

  “Why not make it a party?”

  “Sit tight.”

  He was coming out, a tall man, skinny as a pole. He was tucking away something into a jacket pocket, sniffing the air and looking around. He stepped down from the porch and paused to cough. It was at that moment I recognized him. There was only one man in New York City who coughed that way, as though he would bring up a lung, high and wheezing and full of asthmatic overtones. He was Mario Tomaselli. I jumped out of the Hillman.

  “Mario Tomaselli,” I said.

  He studied me with the slow, careless disregard of a man who is never surprised. In the half-light, I saw his face break into a smile, enough to highlight the gold in his uppers. The grin came and went like a push-button reflex. I had seen the same lack of sincerity several times, under strong lights, back in the days when I visited Safe and Loft. Mario Tomaselli was a well-known con then.

  But he had come a long way. Somebody must have taught him how to play it safe. He had graduated to higher society, the upper-class coterie of gunsels who worked at newer games.

  He came down the steps and ambled over to me. He squinted at me under the street light.

  “Who in hell are you?” he asked.

  “Gant. Remember?”

  “A dick?”

  “Safe and Loft.” I said. “Maybe three, four years ago?”

  “A dick,” he muttered again, no longer smiling. “Get lost.”

  “I’m on my way, Mario. How about you? Working for Orlik?”

  “Get lost.” He put a hand on me, up high, near the collar. “Am I bothering you?”

  “I only asked a simple question.”

  “I’m giving you a simple answer. Blow.”

  “Still a great talker.” I jerked his skinny hand away and stepped back, aware that he might move again and not wanting to encourage his idiot anger. He stood there, sucking at his teeth and saying nothing. You could almost hear the little gears in his brain tick. He considered me a waste of time. He did nothing at all but stare.

  “What’s your angle?” he asked.

  “I’m working for Orlik.”

  “Aagh?” Something stirred deep behind his flat eyes. He had no brain for fancy figuring. The facts of life were clear to him, the simple mechanics of breathing and moving. He would always register surprise this way, by dead-panning it. He coughed a few times. Then he stuck a fresh cigarette in his mouth to encourage more hacking. “A joker,” he said. “Now I remember you. A real joker.”

  “Ask Orlik the next time you see him.”

  “Sure. Sure. You going in there now?”

  “Right now,” I said. “Where are you going, Mario?”

  “Ask Orlik,” he grunted.

  I walked into the small vestibule and waited in the shadows. Mario stepped down to the curb and turned his eyes toward my Hillman. He coughed at it once or twice. Then he crossed the street and walked toward the neon sign at the far corner, a bar: ABE’S GRILLE. He hesitated for another cough, then entered the place.

  I went back to Linda.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. “I thought you wanted to see Orlik.”

  “Later,” I said.

  “Sly fox,” she said. “I don’t understand you.”

  “It takes time, baby. Time and lots of study.”

  I jerked the Hillman away from the curb. Fast. I shot it down the one-way street a few hundred yards and then parked it behind a Caddy, just short of an apartment house. From this vantage point I could watch Abe’s Grille through the left fender mirror.

  “Why are we sitting here like plucked ducks?” Linda asked.

  “Abe’s Grille,” I said. “There’s a man coming out. Soon. We need him.”

  “He’s out,” she said.

  She was right. In the tick of time while I was talking to her, Mario had come out. There was no mistaking him. He was standing on the sidewalk back there, sniffing and hacking. He drew a deep breath and then tried to get rid of a lung. When this ritual was finished he studied the street, giving much time to the front of Orlik’s house. Then he crossed to his car and buzzed off, coming alongside us at a leisurely clip. I gave him the lead he deserved and followed him.

  Mario drove with a cautious hand. He circled the Village, headed uptown on the East Side Drive, left it at the United Nations exit and proceeded up First Avenue toward the lower fifties. When he slid toward the West, I nudged Linda.

  “Which one of our chums lives in this area?” I asked.

  “Two of them. Gloria and Mari.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Please, lover. I’ve visited Gloria She lives in the vomit-colored duplex at the end of the block.”

  I left her in the car and skipped down the darkened street. It was becoming fashionable in New York to paint the old houses a sickly green. Gloria’s place stood out as clearly as a black eye on a blonde. Mario had parked on the other side of it, close to Second Avenue. He approached it with the dignity of the seasoned heist man. He cased it, studied it and coughed at it.

  Then he disappeared down the alley alongside it.

  CHAPTER 12

  2:03 A.M.

  I needed no Boy Scout merit badge to follow his trail into Gloria’s house. He took the natural route, a drop into a cellar window, then up the service stairs to the kitchen. Beyond the edge of the open kitchen door was a small hall, mistily lit through by the dull and foggy light from the street lamp outside. I slid a chair under my tail and sat there listening to the muffled sounds upstairs, a sly footfall now and then followed by the suggestion of drawers opening and closing. He would be moving fast, an experienced prod and pluck artist. Out of his years of experience, he would know the likely places for searching. But why here? What could he want in Gloria’s nest?

  His feet marched toward the back of the house, padding on something hard up there, (Wood? Stone?)—a clearly defined step that carried him almost out of earshot. I stepped into the hall and found myself a convenient closet close to the front door and opposite a vague flight of stairs. He came through clearly to me now, his movements setting up more obvious noises, probably heightened by the arrangement of the rooms up there and echoed down to me.

  There was a loud crash and I heard him mutter a fine Italian curse. An upset lamp? Perfume? It did not slow him at all. Instead, the pull and push sounds came faster. He had slipped into high gear, no longer caring about the noise he made.

  And he was coming down now.

  From where I stood, he appeared in a narrow slit of open closet door, still a dignified, cautious prowler, his hat tilted sportingly on his lean head, his hand sliding the balustrade as he moved down. He crossed before me, so close that his sick cough sounded like a minor blast. He continued to cough his way into the living room beyond my line of vision. For a skittering second the temptation to follow him hit me.

  Until I heard the key turn in the front door.

  Until Mari Beranville walked in.

  She stood for a moment in the dim light of the doorway and I saw her throw her keys to the table beside her. She seemed frozen in the pose, alert, listening. Did she hear Mario? He must have stopped his tour in there. He must have heard her come in. The silence lay around my ears like a wall, so tight, so quiet that I could hear her breathing a few feet away from me.

  Then there was a cough, from inside.

  She took one step forward, hesitated, then crossed to the wall and flipped on the lights.

  Her scream was throttled before it could build. Without seeing them, the scene became obvious. He must have grabbed her as she stepped into the living room. He must have been waiting in there, hidden at the edge of the doorway, so that he could get her as she walked inside. The skirmish didn’t last long. It was over before it began. The dialogue painted it for me, as clearly as the lines in a movie script.

  “Sit quiet, lady, and yo
u won’t get hurt, understand?”

  “What do you want?” (Tremulously, frightened)

  “Never mind the questions. Do like I say.”

  “There’s nothing here to steal.” (Honest, pleading)

  “Don’t make me laugh.” (A cough, loud and rasping, followed by his racking laugh and movement on the far side of the room)

  “Please. Here, there’s money in my bag. You won’t find more than this in the whole house.”

  “Don’t open that bag, lady.” (Hard, mean)

  “I tell you—”

  “Drop it!” (Coughing the line, tough and staccato, followed by a flat slap and a thud) “A neat trick, lady. But old. (Laughter, low and husky) You carry a gun, hey? What for? How come a nice babe like you carries a heater?”

  “Why not? With apes like you around? (Gaining confidence, poise, alive with scorn)

  “Smart, too.”

  “Why don’t you get out of here? There’s nothing of any value.” (No longer afraid)

  “You can shut your trap now, lady.” (Movement, on the far side of the room … the sound of a desk drawer opening, closing, and a metallic noise) “You got a wall safe in the dump, lady?”

  “You think I’d tell you?”

  “You’re damn well right you’d tell me.”

  “Never, you ape.”

  (Quick steps, followed by a resounding slap, flat and cruel … her breath sucked in, a sighing sob breaking and dying … and another slap, this one with more violence … a gust of sharp, sick noises from her … and still another slap.)

  “Now, maybe you’ll give me an answer, lady?”

  “There’s no safe.”

  “That’s more like it. (A loud coughing laugh) I got to hand it to you, sister. You got plenty of moxie. Too bad I got no time for hanging around. You and me could get along. Real fine.” (The sound of more patting, this time gently, like a massage)

  “Please. I can live without that.”

  “Sure. Sure you can. Now get off your pretty tail, lady. You and me are taking a walk. Upstairs.”

  “What for?” (Alarmed, her voice high and shaking)

  “Ah—not what you think, sister. (Laughter again) “I need you to show me around, understand? Make out like I’m buying the dump. Everything. I got to see the works.”

  “But there’s nothing …”

  “You want me to slap you around again?” (Footsteps, approaching the hall, and loud coughing)

  Then they were back in my line of vision, both of them. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, half turned his way. Her eyes seemed composed, under control. Her cheeks were flushed, still smarting from Mario’s slaps. She was struggling to do battle with him, fighting for a clever line, a way to get him out of the house. His face was hidden from me. He stood with his back to the living room, one hand up, showing her his gun. She was hypnotized by the automatic, her eyes glued to it in a snake-and-rabbit fascination. It would take courage for her to forget herself now. It would take histrionics right out of The Actors Studio to make any headway with this hood. In the pause, she seemed groping for a line, like a raw ham actress in her first important role. But she was making the grade. It came through in the slow change in her, the way she began to smile at him.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” she said.

  “More talk? Move, sister. Upstairs.”

  “You don’t look like a common crook. Maybe my deal will interest you.”

  He began to laugh, setting up a wave of hacking noise that made her pull back from: him.

  “Deals?” he roared. “Spill it, sister. What’s the big deal?”

  “I can get you some real money.”

  “I’m listening,” he said. “Break it down.”

  She measured him carefully, accenting the pause like the true actress she was. The next line would be valuable, the way to reach him. “I think we can do business,” she said.

  “The pitch? What’s the pitch?”

  “Just this. Tell me who sent you here.”

  “Smart as hell,” he coughed. Suddenly his hand went up and he slapped her across the cheek. It was a hot crack, a flat clap that sent her reeling back. She fell on the stairs, holding her cheek, not whimpering, not moving at all, but staring up at him in horror.

  “On your feet,” he snarled. “And no tricks, you hear? Or I’ll level you the next time!”

  “You filthy swine,” she said, biting the words.

  “Up!”

  I wasn’t at all worried about her. I knew Mario’s background. He would never do real damage to any woman. He belonged to the old-line school of gunsels. He had been weaned in the thirties, a graduate of the prohibition era. He was equipped with a good and faithful wife, kids, and enough sentiment to hold him in line as a family man despite his trade. There were no female assaults in his record. And once he had almost killed a henchman who stepped out of line during a heist to attack a typist. Mario might slap her silly upstairs. He might give her a Turkish facial, search the place and walk out, that was all.

  I left ahead of him, leaving Mari in his loving care.

  CHAPTER 13

  2:55 A.M

  When the city fathers sold the Third Avenue Elevated Railway for junk, the face-lifting startled the world of New York business. After the death of the noise and clatter, the ancient saloons died and in their place something new was added. Almost overnight quaint gourmet joints sprang into being. Steak houses flourished. The neighborhood blossomed with deluxe structures, office buildings and apartment houses, fancy stores and fresh facades. The center of night life shifted slowly but surely. Fifty-Second Street found itself overrun with bump and grind establishments catering to the tourists and featuring enough bad food to damn it forever. The sophisticates moved to the East. Third Avenue soon featured a variety of bistros, catering to all pockets and tastes from the jazz loving intellectuals to the sedate caviar munchers who preferred Viennese waltzes played by young girls with high bosoms. Scattered throughout the new frontier were the off-beat Calypso dives, refurbished saloons decorated with Caribbean taste.

  In the mid-fifties the street still buzzed with stay-outs. They would squat over gloomy tables until the last note. They would favor certain hang-outs, where jazz was primitive and top musicians banged it out. Such a place was the new Ziggi’s—a funereal canopy over the sidewalk, and only his name in gold on the blackened window.

  “This is a night club?” I asked. “It looks more like a place to bury your mother-in-law.”

  “Or Ziggi,” Linda said. “The smart talk in the music business says he’ll lay an egg here. Hardly enough room to swing a hep-cat in. The last time I counted the tables, there were just two dozen. The take can’t be much for Ziggi unless he’s selling reefers on the side.”

  The place was rigged for midgets, exactly twenty-one tables, most of them barren. A few of Ziggi’s devout followers nestled close to the tiny band stand, slurping their liquor and staring foggy-eyed at the group performing. The combo was sweet and simple: piano, sax, licorice stick, bass and drums. Right now it was all drums, Elmer Briggs sweating over the skins, giving his usual maniac performance, his skinny head on a weak hinge, his eyes shut, pounding out an impossible rhapsody.

  We stood back in the shadows near the bar, fondling our drinks.

  Up forward, Ziggi himself sat alone on the right side of the group. The glow from the candle on his table lit him with an eerie light. Usually he would be reacting to the beat. Usually a band man of his sensitivity responds by tapping a finger, a shoe, or burbling the mumbo-jumbo rhythm to himself. But Ziggi was lost in other horizons. The bottle on the table must have sent him an hour ago. His heavy lidded eyes were all gone, the way he had looked not too long ago in the beach club. He lifted the glass to his lips jerkily. He gulped a mad dose.

  “On the other side of the room,” Linda said, nudging me with
her delicate elbow. “He just came out of the john—friend Orlik.”

  “I saw him go in. There should be a floor show now.”

  “Crazy man, you. I thought you wanted to talk to him?”

  “You’re a clever kid. Drink your drink and watch.”

  Orlik hesitated on the far side of the room. He was making up his mind about Ziggi. It didn’t take long. He threaded his way through the tables and stood over the Cuban muttering words we could not hear. The pantomime went into gear right away. Ziggi half stood, his face hot with anger. Orlik paid him no mind, talking fast, talking quietly, his hand up in an Indian gesture of peace. Slowly Ziggi lowered his tail in the seat. More slowly his face relaxed into the tolerant, fish-eye regard a drunk gives to any passing stranger. Orlik leaned in. He was exchanging a real confidence now, working to convince Ziggi of his sincerity. It began to look like old home week.

  So I left the bar and joined them.

  “It’s a small world,” I said.

  “Gant!” Orlik’s eyes gave me an erratic wash. He was the little boy caught at the cookie jar. “Sit down. Have a drink?”

  “If it’s all right with you, Ziggi?” I bowed.

  “For me, it is all right if you drop dead.” Ziggi muttered.

  “Thanks. I’ll have a shot of what you’re drinking.”

  “Without me.” He started to get up, curling his lip at me. I bounced him back, caught off guard so that his head jerked when he landed. He was covered with Cuban confusion. He breathed a curse at me, twitching and turning to shake my hand loose. “You and Orlik,” he said. “The bottle is yours. Me, I got things to do.”

  “Relax, Ziggi,” Orlik suggested. “Gant will be leaving soon, won’t you, Gant?”

  “Eventually.”

  “Ziggi and I were just discussing a party I’m throwing,” Orlik said. “Thought I’d like to have him and his boys for the music.”

  “Later,” Ziggi said, on his feet again. “Listen, me, I had a tough night. The opening out at the beach, the rehearsals and all that crap. Now, look at my club. Business stinks. I got things on my mind, Orlik. See me tomorrow. See me next week. What’s the rush?”