by P. N. Elrod
“I snuck in. How we doing?”
Bobbi, who had come downstairs with me, patted my arm once, then went off to see to backstage things. The lobby doors were wide-open, lights blazed inside and out, and early arrivals were starting to outnumber the wait staff.
“Everything is going very well,” he said, sounding similar enough in tone to Bobbi to make me think they’d rehearsed together for my benefit. “Leon told me to tell you that the cement mixer finally arrived. He put it downstairs.”
“A milestone,” I grumbled.
“Mm?”
“It’s about time. Now they can finish that floor.” I started calculating how long it would take for the cement to cure so the crew could build the dressing rooms. Even paying them extra for working the weekend and evenings, I couldn’t see how they could get it all done by next Friday…
Made myself stop. Bobbi would have pinched me good for my getting distracted by things out of my control. I was supposed to enjoy tonight, not worry about tomorrow’s labors.
“What was that?” I asked.
Malone repeated, “Lady Crymsyn is here as well.”
I blinked in the direction he indicated. “Great. I see the dress got done in time.”
“Indeed, and the young lady inside it is doing an excellent job.” He drew me over to a delicate-looking delight of a girl with straight brows and striking hazel eyes. Her thick dark hair was swept up in a style identical to the Lady Crymsyn portrait, and she filled every inch of the blazing red costume as though it had been designed for her, not the other way around. “Miss LaBelle, this is Mr. Jack Fleming, the owner of the club. Mr. Fleming, Sherry LaBelle.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” she said, her bewitching smile uncannily like the one in the picture. I had to firmly remind myself that I was not exactly available as I took her hand and gave it a brief, polite shake. In no way would I attempt to kiss it. Escott could get away with those kinds of suave Continental manners, but not this Cincinnati-born mug. I’d just slobber on her knuckles or fall over or worse.
“Everything under control?” I asked, to linger a bit longer.
“Oh, yes. You’ve a wonderful place here. I almost feel like I am Lady Crymsyn.” She motioned toward the portrait that loomed behind her.
“You do acting the rest of the time? When you’re not doing this?” Good grief, I hadn’t been this tongue-tied since being in short pants.
“I try. Work is a bit thin, but it always is, so I do all that I can.”
“And you can come back again next week?”
“Yes, I’d be happy to.”
Malone gently led me away as a fresh group of patrons came up to meet “Lady Crymsyn.” The women complimented her dress, the men reacted about the same as I to the rest of the package. Sherry LaBelle gave them all her gracious attention and answered their questions about the club as though she owned it.
“It’s just as well she is able to return,” Malone said. “It would be a terrible mess otherwise. We’d have to find someone who not only looked right, but she’d have to fit the dress as well.”
I was glad he had such practical matters well in hand. Once out of the hypnotizing presence of Miss LaBelle I found myself better able to assume my own role as grand host. For this all I had to do was stand in the lobby and meet and greet dozens of familiar faces and the people with them. Not hard, not hard at all.
Many of them I’d met at the Nightcrawler, all come over to sample the potential delights of my place. Both clubs were alike in swank, but mine did not offer gambling in the back rooms. Gordy and I wouldn’t be in any serious kind of competition for customers.
Gordy himself finally came through the double doors, filling most of the space. On his arm was the radio actress Adelle Taylor, looking very edible in a cream-and-rose gown that set off her pale skin and black hair. Behind them marched a slow parade consisting of large-shouldered guys with grim faces, (Gordy’s bodyguards) and another, more ordinary, couple (Gordy’s lawyer and his wife). I welcomed them all, collecting pecks on the cheek from the ladies and handshakes from the men. The bodyguards held apart from this, keeping their hands free should they deem it necessary to draw forth the guns that threw off the hang of their suits.
“Kid, it looks like you’ve done it after all,” Gordy said, pumping my hand and almost smiling. For him this was really being effusive, but he relaxed a lot when in Adelle’s company.
“I hope so.” It meant a lot to hear him say that.
“You’ll get used to it.”
“Maybe.” I thought about what Bobbi had said about this kind of night happening only once. She was absolutely right. Better for me that I savor every moment of it and enjoy. “I’ll make a point to do so. I hope this isn’t taking anything away from your place.”
“It can run itself for one night,” he said. “And you’re located far enough away so I don’t have to worry much.”
That was a relief. I’d known it to be true, but it was good to have it confirmed.
“ ‘Sides,” he continued. “Wouldn’t be right for me to miss your opening. I feel like a godfather to this place.”
That comment inspired a double take from me. I sincerely hoped Gordy wouldn’t like my club too much. Ah, nuts. He was kidding. Yeah, he had to be kidding.
Malone turned up just then to escort Gordy and his party to their specially reserved table. I’d drop by on them all later and hope that the mantle of confident host would be firmly in place on me by then.
More arrivals, more smiles, more handshakes, more of a lot of good things. Everyone appeared to be in a light mood and highly impressed with the joint. I felt a return of that fullness of feeling that was pure pride of ownership. It even lasted through the arrival of Booth Nevis. Rita Robillard, his date for the evening, held his arm with one hand and a small bunch of flowers in the other. She wore black again, a long gown with skirts composed of layers of silky stuff that swirled around her ankles like smoke as she walked. This wasn’t the time or place, but I couldn’t help wondering if she’d left her underwear home again. Happy as that prospect might be, there would be no wild dancing on the tables here. Not tonight, anyway.
“How are you?” I asked her.
“I’m aces,” she chirped, looking happy. “This is some joint, Jack. It was nothing like this when Welsh was in charge.”
“Wait’ll you see the rest.”
“I’m going to give her a small tour,” said Nevis. “If that’s okay.”
“Just the public areas, if you don’t mind. The dressing rooms are pretty full right now.”
Rita shot him a tense, pleading look. “Booth.”
He nodded at her. “Uh, Fleming, Rita would like to, well, that place in the basement…”
“What about it?” I was missing something.
Rita held up the flowers. “I just wanna, you know, put these there. For Lena from me and Booth. You know.”
I leaned forward to peck her cheek. “Of course. I’ll have Malone show you through. Take all the time you want.”
“So Malone worked out for you here?” asked Nevis.
“He’s doing a great job.”
“I should hire him back, but I think you’re paying him more. He’s a good worker. Very honest.”
And wasted as a bartender at Nevis’s club. I kept my thoughts to myself, and called Malone over to see to things. Nevis was talking to him in a friendly way as they went into the main room. Jeez, Nevis was talking. After that polishing job he’d done on Coker, it was entirely possible he could persuade Malone into going back.
No, that was not going to happen. Nevis might win Malone over, but I’d still have the last word. I’d use hypnosis to keep him on my payroll. Nothing quite like fighting dirty, especially when the competition doesn’t know about it.
Time to play host again. The next wave brought in Tony Upshaw and half a dozen leggy women, with Ruth Woodring holding his arm in a casually possessive manner. They were all dancers if I could judge anything by their collective
look. Perhaps Miss Woodring was combining business with pleasure by showing off the best students from her studio. I had the feeling that Upshaw would be twirling each one of them over the floor tonight.
“Jack, you darling man,” she said, forsaking Upshaw’s arm to latch on to mine. She seemed to have forgotten that she’d been mad at me for all but openly accusing her precious Tony of murder. “I hope you’ll forgive me and let me in.”
She hadn’t forgotten, then. “Nothing to forgive. I was a louse, but it’s all over now.” It seemed wise to play the gallant with her in the interests of peace.
“Oh, you are a darling. Tony explained to me that you had only the best of intentions.”
“The only thing to pack on the road to hell.” She seemed confused, trying to work out if that was a barb or not, so I softened things with a smile. “You’re looking quite lovely tonight, Miss Woodring. I’m glad you’re here. You will make the place beautiful.”
She relaxed, but was somewhat nonplussed by the sincerity of the compliment. “Why, thank you. I needed to give this an airing.” She was dressed head to foot in some pleated gold gown that was vaguely Egyptian in design. It ended just at her shoulders, which were decked in a wide elaborate thing that looked like a cross between a flat collar and a necklace. It had a lot of beads, glass, and gold thread. Matching bracelets covered her arms halfway to the elbows. Her long shock of red hair was in a single braid that trailed down her front. She followed no fashion that I knew of, but everything looked good on her.
Upshaw was urbane and butter smooth, giving no sign that not too many nights back he’d been cowering on the stairs over there begging me not to hit his face. I shook his hand, welcomed him, and gestured for them to avail themselves of the main room within. It was all I could manage. I still had a very strong desire to punch that Roman nose of his around so it would stick out one of his ears.
That image put me back in a cheerful mood again.
Joe James turned up, shook my hand quite a lot, and introduced me to some theatrical types with whom he’d been staying. The woman looked like a Valkyrie minus her spear and horse; the man had a flowing black beard like a cartoon Russian. Actors in search of a stage, I thought, greeting them. They both enthusiastically dragged Joe off toward the bar. Yes, definitely actors.
Another wave of motley people hit, Escott standing out from them because of his height and manner. It wasn’t something you could catch with a photograph, but tonight he looked decidedly more English than usual. He’d taken some trouble with his preparations: a haircut, his tux was postcard perfect, and I caught a distinct whiff of shaving lotion as he came over to shake my hand.
“Congratulations, old man. Looks like you’ve a real success on your hands.”
His open enthusiasm really meant a lot to me. “So I’ve been told. I just hope the place is packed like this every night.”
“Indeed. And where might I find—ah.” His gaze froze in the direction of Sherry LaBelle, who was busy doing a slow turn in front of Joe James’s critical eye. He seemed pleased. Considering his likes and dislikes, the approval had to be for the dress, not the girl.
Escott had a clear field… and he was rooted in place, his jaw uncharacteristically dragging in a floorward direction. This was interesting; he always had something to say.
“Hey,” I said.
No response. Good grief. She was a dish, but he was a big boy. He knew how to deal with beautiful women. At least I thought he did.
“Hey. Charles.”
I’d heard the term poleaxed before, but had never actually seen it in action. He was showing all the symptoms.
“Charles. Charles—wake up before I have to stuff you with sawdust and put you in a corner.”
“If it is next to that charming creature, I shouldn’t mind a bit,” he murmured dreamily.
He could still talk. “Come on, you’ve never even met her. She looks like the painting, she might not be like the painting, not for real.”
He darted a surprised glance at me. “Yes, of course. And fish are allergic to water. Stop wasting time, man, and introduce us.”
As there was a break in the line, I took advantage of it and did my social duty toward them both. Escott executed the slight bow-and-hand-kissing routine, only he made it seem like she was the only woman he’d ever tried it on. She responded with a smile, to his full-force, but under-control charm, keeping in character until I mentioned that Escott was my best friend and occasional partner in business ventures. She took this to mean he had an active interest in the club and warmed up a bit more. Knowing how I’d feel were the situation reversed, I retreated quickly from the picture so he could get on with things.
My retreat took me straight into a gaggle of reporters, and without warning at least three flashbulbs went off in my face. The scribblers then moved in, calling questions on top of one another while I dealt with temporary blindness.
Huh. I’d expected them to be here much earlier.
They were new faces, not the ones I’d put the evil eye on a week ago. The papers they represented had long been informed of the club’s private opening. My plan had been to gain publicity for the club of the right kind, for them to write about the entertainment, not corpses in the basement. These guys had other ideas, though, and hammered away about Lena Ashley. I said I was satisfied that the police were doing a good job and pretended ignorance on the progress of the investigation. Not what they wanted to hear, but an invitation to a round of free drinks softened them quite a lot. After a third round was made to disappear they promised to write a glowing report about the club and mention its public grand opening next Friday. I was too smart to give them unlimited drinks for the evening; they’d have put me out of business.
That problem solved, I returned to my unofficial post by the doors to greet more people and was pleased when Shoe Coldfield turned up. His skin color brought an instant halt to most of the conversation in the lobby. It resumed again with whispers and not a few looks of horror, but they could go to hell. This was my place; all my friends were welcome.
“Good to see you,” I said. More handshaking and grins.
“Well, I had to find out what the new kid on the block was doing. Charles wasn’t exaggerating. This is one nice shack you’ve set up.”
Before I could ask what Escott had said about the place, Coldfield introduced me to a stunning woman with cocoa skin and melting eyes. I didn’t catch her name, only that she was a singer at his club, and I promised myself I’d come listen to her at the first opportunity. She had a deep contralto speaking voice, and I knew she’d look perfect in that blue satin dress sitting on a piano picked out by a single spotlight. Like Gordy, Coldfield had a couple guards with him, only they’d brought dates along. It was a subtle point no doubt planned by Coldfield. A man on his own can be a target for trouble; a man with a woman along was only looking for a good time. I signed to Malone to escort them to their reserved space.
“Where’s Charles?” Coldfield asked.
“He’s just over—” No, he wasn’t. Miss LaBelle was on her own, but positively glowing from more than what was required by her role. Good, he’d made progress with her but wasn’t overdoing things. “Probably inside by now. I put him at your table. If he looks like a stunned pigeon, there’s a reason for it.”
“What reason?”
I nodded toward Sherry LaBelle. Coldfield looked ready to burst into laughter.
“Okay, I won’t rib him too much. It’s about time he discovered women again.”
Some ancient history—the bad kind—had turned Escott into something of a recluse for several years. He was gradually breaking free of it.
“I’ll see you later,” said Coldfield, and allowed his group to be led away.
The next one through the doors was a surprise. Lieutenant Blair sauntered forward, putting out his hand. The illusion of a perpetual smile lent to him by the trim of his mustache was very pronounced. He seemed most pleased with himself.
“You’ve go
t quite a gathering here,” he said. “Haven’t seen so many of the wise crowd in one spot since Big Al was in town. What are you trying to do here?”
True, more than three-quarters of the people here were in the mob or connected to it. I’d have to widen my circle of friends. “Show everyone a good time. That’s all.”
“Of course, of course. But you’ll have to excuse the men I’ve got outside if they note down the names of some of your customers—it’s only in regard to the Ashley case,” he lied.
So he wasn’t here as a mere guest, but then I’d not expected that. “I thought you’d closed it.”
“Not completely. I’ve got a new angle. We were able to take some prints off those books you gave me.”
The noise around us seemed to fade as I focused my undivided attention on him. Hypnosis was unnecessary, though, he was eager to talk. “What about them?”
“We identified her. It just came in today. You probably know something about it. You were in New York at the time.”
“About what?”
“Lena Ashley’s real name was Helen Tielli.” He gave the name an emphasis of importance.
Almost familiar, but my memory didn’t toss out anything useful. “Was she an actress? With the mobs?”
“Close enough. I got some extra wire photos of the newspaper articles. Thought you’d like to see them since you’ve a vested interest in the case.” He drew a narrow envelope from his inside pocket and gave it to me. “Consider it a thank-you for your help.”
I sorted through the articles—one of them was from the paper I’d once worked at—and the general facts of the whole monstrous story came back to me. “You sure Lena was this Tielli woman?” I asked, feeling disturbed and not a little sickened.
“The general description of Lena and Helen match, same as for a thousand other women, but fingerprints don’t lie.”
“But how could she be? From what I heard from her friends they really liked her. Loved her, even. How could she have been that way and do something like this?” I indicated the papers, wanting him to gainsay their facts.
