by George Baxt
The girl burped and then said, “That son of a bitch. I knew them pills would make me sick.”
Mrs. Parker looked interested. “Ah. You took a pill “
“For my nerves. I was feeling nervous in the restaurant we were eating in up the block. So I took this pill my doctor prescribed. I knew it would make me sick.”
“Your doctor wouldn’t by any chance be Bela Horathy?”
“How’dja guess? He trying to get you hooked, too?”
Lacey Van Weber pounded on the ladies’ room door. “Are you all right?”
“We’re just dandy,” replied Mrs. Parker. “We’ll be out in a few minutes.” Satisfied, Van Weber rejoined Woollcott at the table. Mrs. Parker leaned against a wall of the squalid little room while Lily Robson stared at herself in the mirror and then began painting her cheeks with heavy layers of rouge. Mrs. Parker wanted to tell her the camouflage was unnecessary, that there was breathtaking beauty in her ivory skin framed by her blazing red hair, but she recognized that beauty was in the eye of the beholder, and Lily Robson beheld herself beautiful with heavily painted cheeks and lips. “If you know Horathy’s reputation, why do you go to him?”
“Because Ilona Mercury assured me he was on the up and up in his general practice. I trusted Ilona so I trusted Horathy.”
“Have you got any more of those pills on you?”
“Sure. In my purse. Help yourself. You ain’t gonna try one, are you?” Mrs. Parker was daintily probing the inside of Lily’s beaded bag. She found a vial of green pills. “You suicidal or something?”
Mrs. Parker managed to sound amenable. “I sometimes get depressed, but I’m feeling quite fit at the moment. I just thought I’d borrow one of your pills and have a friend of mine get it tested.”
Lily moved away from the mirror and reached for the beaded bag. “I don’t want to get into any trouble. Give me back those pills.”
Mrs. Parker had already dislodged one and was wrapping it in toilet paper. “Would you rather be dead? I won’t get you in any trouble. But if your doctor is a menace at large, then steps must be taken against him.”
“Listen, lady, I don’t hardly know you.”
“My name is Dorothy Parker. I write short stories, poems, articles and poison-pen letters. I am frequently quoted, though most of the time incorrectly. All sorts of supposedly witty bitcheries are attributed to me, but I can assure you, most of them are apocryphal.” The girl seemed perplexed by “apocryphal.” Mrs. Parker couldn’t resist what followed. “Surely you’ve heard of the four horsemen of the apocryphal.”
“Oh, yeah. I saw the movie.”
“You can trust me. In fact, you have to trust me. How many people do you know you can go to for help when you’re in trouble?”
“Now?” Mrs. Parker could read the fear and confusion. She wanted to reach out and take the girl’s hand and reassure her, but reaching out to another person was generally as alien to her as believing in an oath of undying love from a man’s lips. “I could go to Tex, she’d help me.”
“That’s all?”
“There was Ilona and Vera, but now they’re gone.”
“Lacey Van Weber?”
“I hardly know him. I was at a party of his a couple of weeks ago, and I put the make on. He called me for a date, and Texas said, sure go out with him, he’s a real good Joe, so here I am.”
“You also know my friend Marc Connelly.”
Lily brightened. “Oh, sure, I took him to the party. He hangs around the club sometimes. When he finally asked Tex to introduce us, Tex offered him a medal for bravery. Nice man. So he’s a friend of yours, huh? Say, you part of that Algonquin gang?”
Mrs. Parker was powdering her face. “They let me hang around every so often.”
Lily said wistfully, “I’ll bet some of them are your real good friends.”
Mrs. Parker replied acidly, “With that gang of bandits, a real good friend is somebody sitting on the sidelines waiting for you to fall flat on your face. Did Ilona take dope?”
“Hell, no!”
“But Vera did.” Silence. “Didn’t she?”
“She was on morphine. She had bad kidneys. She’d gotten beaten up bad once by some gorilla in Harlem. She needed the morphine bad, real bad.”
“She got it bad, all right. She’s dead. Don’t tell anyone I’ve got one of your pills.”
“I don’t dare.”
“You can trust me. You have to trust me.” She smiled a sincere smile. “I’m your friend now.”
“Oh, yeah?” She eyed Mrs. Parker suspiciously. “What’s the catch?”
“The catch is that we always tell each other the truth. Do you know if Mr. Van Weber is mixed up in drugs?”
“I told you I hardly know him.”
“But you could know about him. How’d you get to his party?”
“I was on Tex Guinan’s list. She’s always getting us asked to parties. It’s fun. We go to some real good ones. We get to meet a lot of swells.” She thought for a moment. “I’m making the most of it while I’m young. Pretty soon I’ll be yesterday’s fried potatoes. I see some of them back numbers that come into the club, still trying to look irresistible. That ain’t gonna be me. I’m saving my money. I’m gonna open a beauty parlour. I go to hairdressing school. I can give a pretty good manicure already.” She winked. “I know how to take care of myself.”
Sure you do, thought Mrs. Parker, like putting yourself into the hands of Bela Horathy. “If you really know how to take care of yourself, then find yourself another doctor.”
Lily Robson’s face turned grim. “First thing tomorrow afternoon when I wake up.” She looked at her wristwatch. “Oh, Christ, I got to get to the club. I already missed the first show. Tex’ll skin me alive!” Mrs. Parker followed her back to the table where Woollcott looked annoyed and Van Weber looked anxious. The men stood up as the ladies arrived.
“Well, you certainly look a hell of a lot better,” commented Van Weber warmly.
“Oh, thanks. I really thought my number was up.”
“I’m Alexander Woollcott.” He pointed at Mrs. Parker. “I’m with her, for my sins.”
“Now don’t be such an old curmudgeon, Alec.” She explained to Lily, “If you get to know him better, you find out Mr. Woollcott is mostly kitsch … and tell. Guess what, Alec? We’re really going to make a night of it. My new friend Lily Robson has invited us to Texas Guinan’s to see her perform. What do you do, dear?”
Lily Robson sounded vague. “A little bit of this, a little bit of that, with a lot of the old moxie.”
“In other words,” interpreted Woollcott, “a maximum of energy expended on a minimum of talent.”
“When Lily enters, she lights up the room. That’s all that matters.” Van Weber had his arm around Lily’s shoulder. “She’s incandescent. You can’t take your eyes off her.” Mrs. Parker couldn’t take her eyes off Van Weber. He was no prize you might find at the bottom of a box of Cracker Jacks. He was strictly from a glass case at Van Cleef & Arpels. That’s what she saw, and her eyes never lied. But something was wrong with her portrait of Lacey Van Weber. Somewhere there was a flaw, a dangerous flaw. She sensed it, her intuition cried out that it existed. But she didn’t care. She had to have him. She wanted to feel his arm around her shoulder, his lips on her lips, his body interlocked with hers.
“For crying out loud, Dottie, why the hell are you blushing?” Woollcott was paying the waiter, who suspected there’d be a meagre tip, and there was.
“It’s very hot in here. Can we be on our way?” Smiling gently, Van Weber took her arm, leaving Lily Robson to Woollcott. “Well, Mr. Van Weber, what a pleasant surprise running into you like this. Are we destined to meet accidentally, or can I pin you down to some time to discuss the profile I’d like to write for The New Yorker?”
“Are you free tomorrow?” Mrs. Parker almost tripped on the stairs leading to the sidewalk. “I have to drive out to my estate in East Cove to attend to some matters. I’d love you to see the
place.”
“We have a date, Mr. Van Weber.”
“If I pick you up at eleven, we could be out there in time for lunch. I know that doesn’t allow for much sleep tonight …”
Mrs. Parker laughed gaily. “Sleep? What is sleep? Who was it that said sleep was a little death?”
“Jack the Ripper,” snapped Woollcott from behind her. Lily Robson hailed a taxi. In the taxi, Woollcott told Van Weber there was a shortage of funds for Ilona Mercury’s funeral.
“I’ve already heard,” replied Van Weber. “I can assure you, Ilona will have a decent funeral.”
“Real bang-up,” added Lily, “with a blanket of tea roses for her coffin and a crucifix twined around her fingers, just like she always wanted.”
“You don’t know if she had any family?” asked Mrs. Parker.
“If I did, don’tcha think I’d have got in touch?” Lily nibbled at a fingernail. “Mine live in Youngstown, Ohio, and Lily Robson is my real name. My father’s Frank Robson, and he owns a feed and grain store. Now should anything happen to me, there’s three of you what knows where I come from.” Mrs. Parker patted her hand. “Sorry I took sick, Lacey. I hope it didn’t spoil your evening.”
“The evening’s just beginning, sweetheart. It all happens at Texas Guinan’s.” He spoke to Woollcott and Mrs. Parker. “Have you ever been to Tex’s before?”
“A few times,” said Mrs. Parker. “I find it a bit too frenetic. Me for peace and quiet.”
“Peace and quiet is very unlikely at Texas Guinan’s.” Commented Woollcott, “About as unlikely as a victim being murdered in warm blood.” He sniffed imperiously, and then asked, “Where’s she located this week?” Texas Guinan was constantly being victimized by the police. But every time her establishment was raided and padlocked, she surfaced at another location within twenty-four hours. Her talent for survival was a source of admiration, even to her most ferocious competitors. It was an open secret that she was bankrolled by gangsters, usually Larry Fay, who was also her sometime lover. Few people remembered that a decade earlier Texas Guinan had starred as a cowgirl in a series of two-reel Westerns.
“We’re on West Fifty-eighth between Seventh and Eighth. Been there almost a whole month now,” Lily Robson told them. Mrs. Parker was thinking cozily the location was just a short hop to the building in which she resided. “It’s real splashy. Lots of wild colours. There’s balloons on the ceilings and paper bags filled with confetti, and when the place is really getting steamed up, the balloons and the confetti drop, and wow, it’s like New Year’s Eve, only better!”
Mrs. Parker was wondering if Frank Robson and his wife had ever given their daughter a birthday party when she was a child.
Woollcott asked Van Weber, “Wasn’t that sad about Vera DeLee?”
“What? Oh, yes, very sad.”
“I hope there’s someone to bury Vera DeLee.” Mrs. Parker wondered if Woollcott had forgotten she was to occupy a portion of Mrs. Adler’s lot at Montehore, or was he just fishing?
“Polly Adler’s picking up the tab,” volunteered Lily.
“Did you know the deceased?” Woollcott asked Lily.
“You mean both of them? Sure, I knew both of them. I’m gonna miss them. I mean, they were real good friends.”
“Then you know Miss Mercury’s roommate, Charlotte Royce.”
“Yeah, I know Charlotte. She’s Flo’s girl … lately.”
“Wouldn’t you want to be a Ziegfeld girl?” asked Mrs. Parker.
“Ziegfeld girl, Guinan girl, any of the others like George White or Earl Carroll, what’s the difference? It’s all a show of skin. They all pay about the same, the difference at Tex’s being you can pick up big tips.”
Mrs. Parker told Woollcott Lily was saving her money to open a beauty salon. Woollcott nodded. Mrs. Parker wasn’t sure if he was silently acknowledging Lily’s wisdom or falling asleep. He wasn’t asleep. “One of these days,” Woollcott said to Lily, “you might write a book about your experiences.”
“Who’d want to read about me?” she asked shyly, though it was obvious she was flattered by the suggestion.
“I know I would,” said Woollcott. “Young girl afloat in a sea of show business, the underworld of gangsters and murders, surrounded by the debauchery of dirty old men and filthy dope peddlers. I’ll bet you’ve got a lot to tell.”
“I sure do!” She had leaned forward to tell him that, but then suddenly she sank back and in a small voice said, “But I won’t.”
“Here we are,” announced Van Weber. They got out of the cab and Van Weber paid the driver. He explained to Mrs. Parker as they crossed to the entrance of the club, “Sorry I’m without my limousine and chauffeur tonight, but my man’s wife was taken seriously ill and there was no time to hire a substitute.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” said Mrs. Parker. “I dote on slumming in taxis.”
At the door, Lily Robson identified herself. The doorman recognized Lacey Van Weber and tipped his cap. The door opened, and they were greeted by a blast of bedlam, a cacophony of saxophones, clarinets, drums and piano. There was the sound of dozens of pairs of feet punishing the dance floor. “Charleston! Charleston!” What presumably was a headwaiter recognized Van Weber and snapped his fingers, and soon waiters appeared carrying a table and chairs which were set up for them at the edge of the dance floor. Lily Robson hugged Mrs. Parker and then disappeared backstage. A waiter appeared at their table carrying a cooler containing a bottle of genuine French champagne. Woollcott looked at his pocket watch and sighed. Mrs. Parker hoped she looked sufficiently urbane and sophisticated as the cork popped and the wine was poured. She expected Woollcott to be grumpy and grouchy and completely out of sorts. But amazingly enough, he wasn’t. He was smiling at someone behind her, smiling like a good deed in a naughty world. “Why, will you look who’s here!” he exclaimed in a voice that belonged to Tiny Tim on Christmas morning. “It’s Jacob Singer! What are you doing here? Are we being raided or rescued?”
“Hello, Mr. Singer. Aren’t you a nice surprise?” Mrs. Parker meant it. She introduced him to Van Weber, who invited Singer to join them. The detective accepted with alacrity and didn’t refuse a glass of champagne. Woollcott explained to Van Weber that Singer was the detective investigating the two murders. Van Weber showed surprise followed by pleasure followed by a request he be excused while he went looking for the men’s room.
When the three were alone, Singer commented, “He’s a good-looking guy.”
“I’m spending the day with him tomorrow.” She seemed rather pleased with herself.
Woollcott scowled. “Red Riding Hood’s very words.”
“He’s a hell of an improvement on anybody’s grandmother.” Mrs. Parker was determined to enjoy herself and would have none of Woollcott’s or anybody else’s putdowns.
Singer won their attention by telling them about the reports from Los Angeles. Mrs. Parker explained some of that information had been given them by Nita Naldi at the Harlequin. Singer told them Naldi was here somewhere, but in this mob her location was anybody’s guess. He recited from memory the autopsy reports on Mercury and DeLee. “Mercury was clean. DeLee was drowning in morphine. She’d have died soon of kidney disease anyway.” Singer then told them about Yudel Sherman’s success with the elevator operators. There was a man with DeLee when she left Horathy’s, and the same man accompanied her to the apartment at the Wilfred Arms. “Did you connect with Sid Curley?” Mrs. Parker told him about that eccentric incident and repeated she was spending the next day with Van Weber and hoped it would prove to be fruitful, fruitful in which direction she hesitated to elucidate. Then she told him about Lily Robson’s sudden illness and her colloquy with the girl in the ladies’ room of the Harlequin.
“She’s not a stupid girl; in fact, she’s rather bright considering her environment. But I get the feeling she’s frightened—frightened, I think, about something she might know.”
This rankled Woollcott. “When you’re being oblique, D
ottie, you are at your most unpleasant. And kindly speak up; it’s almost impossible to understand either of you in this place. They should supply ear trumpets for those of us who care to converse.”
Mrs. Parker strained to raise her voice. “I think she heard things from Ilona and Vera that meant nothing to her at the time, hearing them out of context, so to speak. But now with both of them murdered, she probably feels someone thinks she knows more than she admits to knowing or even understanding and could be a threat.” She repeated to Singer Woollcott’s suggestion that Lily consider writing a book, a suggestion Mrs. Parker was sure had been made in unkindly jest (Woollcott remained placid) and Lily’s initial enthusiasm suddenly covered and suffocated by a blanket of obvious fear.
Woollcott interrupted. “Jacob”—his tongue caressing the name—“do you really think those drug deaths in Hollywood have any connection with those here?”
“There has to be. Ilona and Horathy are the links. As far as I’m concerned, the incidents are chained together.” He could see Van Weber returning and spoke hastily to Mrs. Parker. “Now you watch your step with Van Weber. Men of mystery are glamorous, but they can also be dangerous. Desmond Taylor was a man of mystery and look at the rotten can of garbage his murder opened. You hear me? You be careful.”
“I will be, too,” said Woollcott in a childish voice, not wanting to be left out.
“We’d better all be careful,” murmured Singer.
“Careful of what?” asked Van Weber as he sat down.
“Too much champagne,” gurgled Mrs. Parker as she raised her empty glass for a refill. “We were beginning to think you weren’t coming back.”
“I phoned East Cove to prepare a proper lunch for us tomorrow.” He refilled her glass, his own and the others, and signaled for another bottle.
“At this hour?” Mrs. Parker had a look of disbelief on her face.
“I keep a staff around the clock.” She was amazed at the amount of modesty with which he was able to make that statement. Woollcott couldn’t wait for lunch at the Algonquin the next day to paraphrase the statement with his own brand of deadly mockery. Singer was wondering if he could ever afford someone to clean his tiny apartment perhaps once a week. “I was also waylaid by Opal Engri for a few moments.”
