The Corpse in the Cabana

by Lawrence Lariar

  He stepped away from us, weaving drunkenly to the band stand. He said a few words to his pianist, waved a hand and went out through the door on the other side. Orlik watched him go sadly.

  I said: “How come the buddy-boy stuff, Orlik? A few hours ago you were ready to lacerate him.”

  “Oh, that? What the hell, I had to defend myself, didn’t I?”

  “And now? Ziggi loves you now?”

  “What difference does it make?” he shrugged, trying to convince me that he only brawled with his best friends. It didn’t come off. “After all,” he added, nervously, “you’ve got to admit that he’s one of the top musicians in his field.”

  “I admit nothing,” I said. “You’re not a good liar.”

  “Easy,” he said, angry now. “I insult fast, Gant.”

  “And I don’t make a practice of insulting my clients. But you’re asking for it. I keep telling myself that you’re on the level. I keep reminding myself of your name and reputation. You’re clean, Orlik, you’re clean in business. I knew your reputation before I took your money. But something’s happened, something no investigator with any conscience can swallow. You’re playing games with me. You’re out on a special limb and you want to be alone. That kind of behavior I don’t take. If you want to buy me, you get the whole package, all the way, and no detours.”

  Orlik’s eyes were on skates while he listened to me. He kept twitching in tempo to my monologue, continually casing the room as if some sudden threat might appear out of the black walls. He seemed fascinated by one spot in the place. This was the door through which Ziggi had vanished a while ago. Orlik stared at the door anxiously, testily.

  “Aaaah,” he breathed. “You know why I’m here, Gant.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “Gloria, of course. I’m worried sick about her.”

  “And you thought Ziggi might know where she is?”

  “Why else would I come here?” he asked himself sadly.

  “You want me to guess?”

  “Where else could she be? Where in hell could she be?”

  “You’re not with me, Orlik,” I said angrily. I got up and moved into the chair that would block his line of vision to the damned door. He caught the hint, his face covered with confusion. “I’m going to hit you right on the head with it. This whole deal is opening up for me. Fast. And you’re in it—up to your nose.”

  “In what?” he said with manufactured befuddlement. “What are you talking about, Gant?”

  “I’ll start with Saxon’s crummy magazine. Did you know that you’re a featured hero in one of his forthcoming sagas?”

  “Impossible. Who told you that?”

  “I saw it. I saw your name in a manuscript headed for Saxon’s desk.”

  “No.” His voice dropped on the word, a sigh, a whisper, loaded with honest surprise. He leaned in closer to me, frightened. “Where did you see this … this manuscript?”

  “You didn’t know that it was stashed in one of the dressing rooms? Last night? At the opening?”

  “I swear I didn’t.” He lifted his heavy hand in a reflex gesture of Boy Scout integrity. His manner changed, shifted into high, working to sell me fresh honesty. “Who had the manuscript, Gant? Who’s the dirty louse Saxon’s using as a shill?”

  “A good question,” I said. “But I’ll give you a better one Orlik. What damned fool would try to steal that manuscript? Why steal it? It would only mean a slight delay. Obviously, there’s a carbon of the thing. Obviously, whoever wrote it will certainly deliver the carbon to Saxon, don’t you think?”

  “Of course,” he breathed hopelessly. “But who? I don’t want my name in his cheap sheet, Gant. I’ll pay. I’ll pay plenty to buy the louse off. But who is it? I can’t pay until I know.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “In time? In time to kill it?”

  “I hope so.” He was trapped in the corner where I needed him, tortured by something new in the game. He was hit, and hit hard by my bad news. “You’re willing to pay for the article?”

  “Anything. Anything within reason.” He reached for his wallet and plucked at his wad. “How much, Gant? A grand? More? You tell me.”

  “Stuff it,” I said. “If I find it, you’ll get the article as a premium—at no extra charge. If and when you begin to level with me, Orlik.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “I’ll paint it for you with a big brush. It’s as simple as this. I think you’re holding something back from me.”

  He opened his face for me, filled it with mock incredulity. “What would I hold back?”

  “Mario Tomaselli!”

  The wallet dropped from his nervous fingers. He made a feeble attempt to regain his poise. It fell flatter than the wallet. Then he tried for the liquor bit, drinking a hooker fast. It stuck in his throat, blocked in his gullet by the rising tide of his discomfort.

  “What about Tomaselli?” he asked weakly.

  “You hired him, didn’t you? You sent him over to Gloria’s flat, to break and enter, to find something for you. Why did you send him out, Orlik? Don’t phony it up, I’m warning you. Think it through clearly. If you try to sell me anymore corn-ball stories, you’re in this thing on your own, is that clear? Unless you level with me now, you can get yourself another boy.”

  The combo rifled into an upbeat jazz improvisation, giving the lead to the drummer again. He began to slam it out on the deep drum, a heartbeat of sound that matched my mood. Orlik spoke when the piano took over.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said, getting up wearily. “But not here, for God’s sake. This noise is killing me.”

  “I haven’t time to move, Orlik. It’s later than you think. Now talk!”

  He sat down, reacting to my bark. I had no time for horsing around. It was after three and I was only starting to run. My mind was full of a confusion of pictures. I was thinking of Chuck Bond’s face, the last time I saw it. I was remembering his panic, the same frantic despair he had known as a teenager. He would be in real trouble, and soon, unless I could redeem him, unless I could bring in a pigeon for Newberry. Nine hours to go? I was on a merry-go-round, grabbing for a gold ring and finding nothing but cheap tin. And Orlik?

  “Spill it fast,” I told him. “Right from the beginning so I won’t have to interrupt with foolish questions.”

  Orlik started to talk, in low gear, fumbling and groping for the right words.

  “I guess everybody knows how I feel about Gloria,” he said. “Oh, as a bachelor I’ve had a lot of women in my day, Gant, all kinds. You squire them around to the shows, the fancy eating places. I’ve always been content with just being seen with the prettiest women in town. Why? God knows the reason for that kind of stupidity. There are lots of others like me, men like Pazow, and even that heel, Saxon. Maybe that’s why it changed when Gloria came into my life. She hit me hard. I fell in love with her, all the way.”

  He continued on this tack, making his affection clear by small examples. I heard him out, not wanting to fracture his monologue. At the bar, over his shoulder, Linda was making impatient faces at me, showing me obvious yawns.

  “After I got her the spot with Pazow,” Orlik was saying, “I began to notice a subtle change in her. She would go out to rehearsals and meet me later, always nice to me, always trying, but somehow different. The big romance was laying an egg and I thought I could guess the reason. It was Ziggi, of course. I saw it one afternoon, out there at the club, the way she looked at him; the way he tried to help her with her music. It upset me. It killed me to see her going his way because I knew his reputation, knew that he was no good for her. I spoke to her about him. I tried to warn her. And that was where I made my big mistake.”

  His description of Ziggi’s background followed the usual line, the news reports of the Cuban’s zany life. Orlik described his competitor in detail.r />
  Up at the bar, Linda no longer scowled at me. Instead, she made subtle gestures with her finger. She was pointing to the door on the far side of the club. She was mouthing a name in pantomime. Mary? Mari?

  “But my efforts laid an egg,” Orlik continued. “Last week, Gloria broke two dates with me. Then, suddenly, she came my way again. We went out together, a few nights ago. I felt wonderful. I gave her one of my finest bracelets and she was thrilled. Everything looked rosy for me. Until the night before last.”

  “She came up to say goodbye?” I asked.

  “How did you know?”

  “Mari Beranville.”

  “Ah, yes. The contemporary Duse.”

  “You don’t like her?”

  “I can take her or leave her … I could never quite understand Gloria’s affection for Mari. Some women go well together, you know, sort of think the same way, dress the same way. But Gloria and Mari are poles apart in taste, in ambitions, in everything. Still, Gloria thinks Mari’s the world’s best dramatic actress.”

  “Then they’re very close?”

  “Oh, yes. They’re roommates, for real—on the college girl level.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “I’ll have to talk to Mari again. She might have the inside track on Gloria’s whereabouts.”

  “Quite possible.”

  “You were telling me about the night Gloria came to say goodbye to you.”

  “Ah?” He frowned at his memory, not enjoying it. “Night before last, but it seems like an eternity right now. So much has happened. So much began to happen from the moment she walked into my apartment. You see, she came up to give me her final goodbye, Gant. Oh, there was no doubt about it, from the very beginning of the evening. Gloria doesn’t hide her emotions, never did. You must remember that we were pretty close, really close, up until a little while ago. She knew how much she meant to me, but this didn’t stop her from getting down to business right away.”

  “What time did she arrive at your place?”

  “At about ten.”

  “Did she tell you where she came from?”

  “I didn’t ask her …” He paused, eyeing me curiously. “Why do you ask? What difference could it make where she came from?”

  “Travel arrangements,” I lied. “I wondered whether she might have been arranging for her trip before she saw you.”

  “Possibly, I suppose.” He scowled, upset suddenly. “But the whole business of her leaving this way makes no sense, no sense at all. It isn’t in character for Gloria. When I saw her, I couldn’t have guessed she meant to walk out on Pazow. She was excited about her opening night. That much I can guarantee. It had nothing to do with our breaking up, don’t you see? We talked about the beach club opening pleasantly. It seems incredible that she was planning to desert the show. I had brought her a gift for the occasion, a pendant from my shop. In a way, I was using it to hold her, of course. Anyhow, it was quite obvious to her. She turned me down.”

  “You and the pendant?”

  “She accepted the pendant—as a gift.”

  “A practical woman,” I said.

  “Precisely.” He fidgeted, struggling to go on. “She shocked me, Gant. After she left, I mean. It was then I discovered a package of gems missing.”

  “A package?”

  “Just that,” he explained. “It was a bundle of jewelry, several priceless rings, a necklace, two bracelets—all of them diamonds, worth hundreds of thousands.”

  “You keep stuff like that around the house?”

  “Not usually. Nor do I ever deal in that kind of merchandise.”

  “What kind?”

  “Stolen goods,” he said. He held his head. He was suffering deeper worry than he could tell me. It rocked him, froze him as he meditated his troubles. “They were sent up to me to examine before making an offer. It’s something I’ve never done before, Gant, believe me.”

  “And you think Gloria took them?”

  “I’m sure of it, because I had shown them to her before. She knew I had them. Only Gloria knew about them, Gloria and the fence who delivered them.” He was levelling with me, his wide-open face bright with honesty. “That was why I hired Tomaselli, don’t you see? I wanted him to search Gloria’s apartment, to find those jewels and return them to me.”

  I whistled. “You certainly hired yourself a Boy Scout, Orlik. What makes you think Mario would deliver if he found a bundle like that?”

  “He came well recommended. And I offered him a tremendous fee for the job. I promised him ten grand. You don’t think he’d cross me?”

  “I’m going to find out,” I said.

  CHAPTER 14

  3:54 A.M.

  Linda stopped me at the bar.

  “I’m positive I saw Mari Beranville walk in, Steve. A few minutes ago.”

  “In?” I asked. “Where?”

  “The side door. Outside.”

  “She’ll have to keep. We’ve got places to go.”

  “You wear a girl out. I can use a quart of coffee.”

  “You’ll get it, but later.”

  I drove across town, digging deep into my memory for a fix on Mario Tomaselli. An investigator’s mind is a bottomless pit of cross-indexing, a statistical morgue of strange names and stranger places. You point your nose in the direction of your quarry. You sniff and smell for a lead. You stand flat-footed in the biggest city on earth, staring up at a thousand-thousand windows, doors, flats and cul-de-sacs. You ponder the million hideaways into which a man can scramble and lie low. You scratch your head and meditate. Then, out of the miasma of useless information, your brain picks up the only worthwhile avenue. You begin to think of people instead of places. Once over this hurdle, you move.

  I remembered Mario Tomaselli out of his hot-head days as a local tough. The city police are experts in tracking down all criminals who are artful dodgers. There was a city dick named Caldwell who introduced me to the game a long time ago, in the days when Safe and Loft played hide-and-seek with Mario and his brothers in the heist business. They were ordinary citizens in many ways, with ordinary habits and ordinary tastes. They conducted themselves normally in the selection of drinking companions, bars, amusements and pastimes. I had seen Mario often in a public park near the Bowery, playing bocce with his friends among the older generation of Italians. I had run into Mario at Corbino’s, glutting himself with the finest pasta this side of Rome. And now? At this hour?

  I drove for Lucca’s automatically, down Third Avenue into the neighborhood where the elevated had created New York’s original sin strip. Here the old street still featured a close-up of humanity’s dregs; casual bums asleep in shrouded doorways, all-night beaneries open for business, bars alive with the roistering of the veteran alkies. Off to the left, in the deep and dismal area of the bridge, a row of ugly warehouses rimmed the pavement. Here the quiet rose up to stab at you. Above, on the steel strip of the bridge roadway came the perpetual dull hum of truck traffic bound for the hinterlands of Long Island and Queens. From the river, a muted hoot of a belligerent tug. But on these streets, only the emptiness of fright and dirt. In these alleys, the threatening menace of mayhem and murder.

  Lucca’s was an ancient building, a deserted corner of the city, avoided by anybody proud of his intelligence. Lucca’s was a front, a face, a dirty window that bore the legend:

  FRANCISCO LUCCA

  Hemp and Twine

  On the street side, only a dull blue light glowed in the entrance, an evil eye looking out at the river. I parked in the end of the block, under the shadow of a loading shed.

  I told Linda to stay put.

  “Good God,” she whispered sleepily. “You’re not leaving me here alone whilst you go in there?”

  “For a while,” I said. “Lock yourself in, Linda. Nobody’ll bother you.”

  “And you?”

 
“I’ve got to see a man. I’ll be out in a little while. Routine.”

  “And if you’re not?” she asked.

  “Call the marines,” I laughed. “Listen, sweetheart, I’ve been in this dump before. It’s nothing but a card hole. Some of the choicest uptown characters come here to gamble. Poker, mostly. Lucca’s is a front, a filthy location to frighten away the sissies.” I pointed to the collection of Caddys and upper class sports cars parked along the pavement. “Rumor has it that most of the Hollywood boys come here to throw their dough away.”

  She shivered. “Be careful, crazy man.”

  The man on the door, shift gave me only a casual glance. He had a trained eye only for certain members of the city police. For all others he was just a standing dummy. I recognized him as one of the old bunch, a pock-marked gunsel out of the heist mob.

  Once inside the vestibule, the character of Lucca’s emporium smacked you in the eyes. It was an archaic nest, rigged to feature the sawdust and cuspidor type of decoration. There was a long mahogany bar, against which a few strays leaned and sipped their alcoholic balm. Beyond the bar, the main room featured three tables, each of them large enough to accommodate kibitzers as well as players. Two games were in progress. In the foreground, a group of middle-aged gents, their coats off, sleeves rolled, their eyes puffed and soggy from the rigors of heavy-handed poker. Smoke lay like a gray blanket over the room. There was no noise at all except for an occasional grunt or cough. And nobody gave a damn about me. At the far table, five characters played. These were a more primitive bunch, the leather-faced tribe that Mario called his chums. My head sought to sift them, catalogue them. They were nameless to me, but could come alive suddenly out of their background of association with Mario.

  He saw me as soon as I stepped up to the table.

  He began to cough at once.

  “A card-playing dick,” he said to his hand. “What’ll they think of next, boys?”

  The boys regarded me with the open disdain of a pack of thieves viewing a lay preacher. One of them said a dirty word and I caught him in my memory trap at once. He was Manny Bader, a young punk out of the numbers business. He would be running with Mario now, probably a bodyguard. Mario always favored the very young. It saved him the bother of moving his skinny muscles in emergencies.