by George Baxt
Villon said to Mae, “Thanks for not giving it away.”
“Givin’ what away.7”
“The vampire ring.”
“You nuts or somethin’? Tell them about the ring and put the killer’s guard up? No way. Oh, for cryin’ out loud. Will you look at Goneril and Desdemona! What are those drinks they’re beltin’?”
Timony said, “From here they look like brandy Alexanders.”
“There’s gonna be a lot of Bromo Seltzer fizzin’ around the apartment tomorrow.” She said to the bodyguards, “How you boys doin’?”
Salvatore Puccini said, “I’ve had an awful lot of pieces of paper with names and phone numbers slipped into my pockets.”
“Well, just be careful they don’t slip anything out of your pockets. Especially your pants pockets. Say, Selma …”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Do me a favor. Go to the bar and see how Desdemona and Goneril are holdin’ up. They seem to be doin’ an awful lot of drinkin’.”
“That would be my pleasure, Miss West,” he said, flashing his two rows of perfect ivories.
Mae smiled back. “I thought you’d like that. Just remember, they’re God-fearin’ ladies. Well, well, well. What do I see approachin’?”
Three young men dressed in biblical garb came to the table and bowed in unison.
Mae said to the others, “Don’t you recognize them? Didn’t any of you ever read the Bible? These three are Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. They’re the Maggies, the three wise men who saw a star that led them to Bethlehem. Well, here they are again, seein’ a different kind of star. Boys, if they’re givin’ prizes tonight, you deserve one.” They giggled and asked for her autograph. She signed their programs graciously. After they left, she said to Herb Villon, “Agnes and Connery aren’t exactly breakin’ their necks to join us.”
“Don’t worry, Mae. The night is young.”
“Yeah, but from the looks of the two of them at the bar, they’re aging rapidly.”
FIFTEEN
THE TAILSPIN’S GARDEN WAS ALMOST DESERTED. Some stars and a crescent moon provided inadequate lighting. The tables and chairs were unoccupied. Simon LeGrand and Milton Connery had conferred about perhaps stringing Japanese lanterns and fairy lights and setting up a bar, but then decided there was not enough of a work force to police both the garden and the club interior. They weren’t concerned with the thought of some revelers using the dark garden for some censorable activities. They weren’t policemen and they weren’t censors. Halloween night in Hollywood meant “Anything goes.” And anything was going. Regardless of the fact the night was still young, there was some activity under way that would have stopped the heart of anybody’s Aunt Hattie in Peoria. But this wasn’t Peoria. This was Hollywood, Sodom by the Sea, condemned weekly from certain pulpits.
Billie Doux was getting an education that had no price on it. She had gone out into the garden for some fresh air and a cigarette while Simon LeGrand was leading Mae West up the stairs to the band stand. She was poking around in her small handbag for a cigarette while Mae was exhorting her audience to practice caution. She found a cigarette and put it in her mouth while she felt around for matches. The flame of a cigarette lighter startled her. She looked up at a masked man dressed as the caped crusader. Well, of all things, Superman wearing a blue mask dotted with red spangles was lighting her cigarette.
“Thank you, Mr. Superman,” she drawled a la Mae West. Having been working with her for the past three weeks, Billie had perfected a fairly accurate impersonation of the star.
She heard his hoarse voice cautioning her “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
“But I’m not alone. You’re here, handsome.” She hoped he was. The mask obscured his face. The cape obscured his body. “Can I offer you a cigarette?”
“No, thank you. I noticed you talking to those raucous black women at the bar.”
“They ain’t raucous. They work for me. One’s my cook, one’s my maid. Where I go, they go.”
“Do you imitate Miss West professionally?”
Billie was gay, feeling no pain. “Why, I’m an original. When they made me, they threw the mold away.” Billie gasped. She was feeling pain. Something had punctured her throat. She was too stunned to scream, yet her mouth was open and the cigarette fell to the ground. The knife thrust into her heart stunned her. She stumbled backward, thoroughly astonished. She wanted to say, “Hey! Lay off! I’m only kidding!” But her mouth was filled with blood erupting from her insides, leaving no room for words to form. Her knees were sagging. Her arms flailed about feebly. Superman watched her pitch forward. He wiped the fangs with the hem of her costume. He pocketed the bat’s head ring and glided away from the dead woman. He slipped back into the club unnoticed. It wasn’t a club any longer, it was the Tower of Babel. Everywhere he looked he was confronted with bedlam. The orchestra was belting out “The Music Goes Round,” the big novelty hit of the year with its deafening lyric “Yo ho ho ho ho ho and it comes out here.” It was coming out anywhere and everywhere.
Simon LeGrand wiped perspiration from his face with a napkin and wished he could get drunk. He saw Beverly West dancing with Jim Mallory, who had a silly grin on his face while her mouth moved as though it were well oiled for perpetual movement, and it moved perpetually. He dwelled on her opening the next night. There was a larger number of table reservations then Milton Connery had the right to expect. Such was the power of the name West, be it Mae or Beverly. It looked as though lucky Beverly would prove a profit in reflected glory. Mae didn’t seem to mind her sister trading in on her celebrity. Why should she? She was secure. She had it made. Her fame would go on forever and would probably linger a long time after her death. Mae could afford to offer a small piece of the limelight to her less fortunate sibling. Simon thought Milton Connery was ill advised booking Beverly without an audition. On the other hand, a friend whose taste he trusted had traveled from Manhattan to Coney Island in Brooklyn to catch Beverly’s act at a Gay Nineties’ saloon. His report to Simon was favorable.
Simon was mesmerized by Mae’s table. He hadn’t noticed Milton Connery and Agnes Darwin join the party. Connery was seated next to Beverly’s vacant chair. There was much to discuss with her. How many numbers would she do? How long was her act? Pray God less than thirty minutes. Nobody in Hollywood had much of an attention span, not even if the headliner was an Al Jolson or a Bing Crosby. What about her orchestrations? The Tailspin’s band was a small one. Here it is, that’s all there is. How much rehearsal does she need or want? Pray God again they rehearse after one o’clock. He needed sleep tonight. He need a lot of sleep. Connery had been riding him for the past two days. Nothing pleased him. He was jittery. He was on edge. Something’s frightening him. Agnes is as cool as a cucumber, although she’s chain smoking. Beverly and Jim Mallory were back at the table. He hadn’t seen Seymour Steel Cheeks join the table. Where’d he been all this time? Probably had trouble finding a parking space. Probably parked the car blocks away. Simon wondered if Mae West knew her Indian lover dropped into the Tailspin on his own on occasion to barter his body for trade. It looks like Connery is turning on that phony charm of his with Beverly. That Hazel Dickson doesn’t stop scribbling in her notebook. Nobody’s eating their club sandwiches. I don’t blame them. I doubt if I’ll ever find the appetite I lost an hour ago. Mae’s manager is none too happy. She’s too busy talking to the detective. Oh, my, my, my! Where did Superman come from? That mad mask, that crazy cape. He can’t fool me. He’s acting as though he’s fascinated by the nutty goings-on on the dance floor. He’s eavesdropping. He’s listening to every word at Mae West’s table. So what? No skin off my nose. I’m dying for a drink.
Villon was saying to Milton Connery “You read about Felix Dvorack’s suicide?”
“What’s so special about Felix Dvorack?” A waiter refilled his champagne glass.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten him so soon? He was the detective on Neon Light’s murder.”
Mae was fascinated by the knowing look on Jim Mallory’s face. He was recognizing what Villon was up to. The special technique she’d heard about that he used when subtly setting up an entrapment. Mae waved the waiter away before he could refill her glass. She’d had two, which was one more than usual, and Beverly was drinking too much.
Connery was thinking—a very good job of acting, thought Mae. “Dvorack, Dvorack, oh, yes. Slightly uncouth as I recall.”
“And now slightly dead,” said Villon. “I still don’t know if suicide is a work of courage or cowardice.”
“Any idea why he killed himself?” Connery felt Agnes’s eyes on him and darted her a quick look that imparted nothing.
“Oh, yes. I’ve got the inside dope. We were having a serious conversation a few minutes before he stuck the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”
“Oh, please!” exclaimed Beverly as she shuddered and pushed her sandwich aside.
Villon ignored her and continued addressing Connery. “Dvorack was on the take. He took a bribe for hiding Neon Light’s dossier in the station house basement. The deal ineluded Dvorack dropping the investigation altogether. Too bad about Felix, he was just months away from retirement and his monthly pension. He might have gotten away with it if the vampire killer hadn’t gone on his rampage. It was Mae who connected Neon’s death to the impersonator murders.”
Mae said to Connery, “You haven’t forgotten how close Neon and me was. Practically Siamese twins for a while there.”
Connery said to the others, “I always said Mae was a very clever woman.”
“So does Mae,” said Beverly. Mae shot her a look that was almost fatal. Beverly decided to renew interest in the sandwich she had so recently and cruelly rejected.
Connery said, “I still can’t figure out why anyone would want to murder Neon. He was harmless.”
Villon explained, “Not to his killer he wasn’t. It turns out Neon was something of a split personality. On the surface, all sweetness and light and a good entertainer. Under the surface, a bit of a nasty blackmailer. Which is why he was poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” Agnes had spoken up. “His skull was crushed.”
“Oh, that was after he was dead,” said Villon. “The skull was crushed in Griffith Park when the body was dumped there. Neon was poisoned elsewhere.” He looked around, hoping the bedlam wouldn’t permanently impair his hearing. There was so much he was planning to listen to. “Neon could have been killed here, here in the club.”
Connery betrayed nothing. Mae would later admit to Villon that much as she loathed the man, she had to admire Connery’s composure under fire. “Neon’s body, you read, was exhumed and autopsied. He was killed by a poison named oleandrin. Agnes can tell you all about oleandrin.” Agnes exhaled a smoke ring that flew past Villon’s ear. Lucky for Villon, thought Mae, it ain’t a bullet. “Very esoteric poison. Doesn’t surface too often. The last time my coroner heard about it was when Amanda Harbor poisoned her husband. She met him when she was a hatcheck girl. Name of Amanda Baker. I have an idea she might have worked here once.”
“Come to think of it, I think she did. Pretty but dumb.”
Villon now zeroed in on Agnes. “By the way, Agnes, thanks for sending me to Dwight Pratt. He was very interesting, wasn’t he, Jim?”
Timony looked startled but soon realized Villon meant Jim Mallory. Mallory said, “Very interesting. He made me sick to my stomach.”
“Connery, you met Neon’s adoptive parents, didn’t you?” Villon had everyone’s attention. Hazel had stopped scribbling and hung on his every word. She was hearing information that had not appeared in the newspapers. There was a dollar sign on every word Villon spoke. Hazel was contemplating a killing, a bloodless killing.
Milton Connery, thought Mae, is now very uncomfortable. He’s loosening his tie and collar. And what’s with Superman? He seems to be frozen in time and space. What’s going on behind that campy mask?
“Yes. The Williamsons came to some of his performances. They loved Neon. They were very proud of him.”
“My associate and I,” said Villon, “looked the Williamsons up this afternoon. Their house was a burned-out shell.” Mae had heard this on the drive from her apartment to the club. Villon had sent Mallory to escort Hazel while he met with Mae to tell her about the day’s discoveries. “We met a friend of theirs who told us there was an explosion that ripped the house apart. The Williamsons were trapped by fire. The friend suspects they’d already been murdered before the explosion, which was probably a coverup.”
“This is all news to me,” said Connery. “I don’t remember anything in the papers about it.”
“It happened about a week after Neon’s funeral. Their friend told us that Nicholas Williamson was planning on hiring a private eye to track down Neon’s murderer, he was so disgusted with Dvorack’s ineptitude. Now, Dvorack was anything but inept. He wasn’t very likable, but he was certainly very capable. Until he deliberately botched the investigation. It was obvious he’d been paid off. And it’s obvious the Williamsons were murdered because they wanted to keep the investigation alive, even if it meant spending their own money.”
Connery cleared his throat, sipped some champagne, and said, “Neon had a brother. What about him? He’s some kind of religious nut. He said Neon in drag was a sin against God. Neon told me all this. The son of a bitch was giving Neon a hard time.” Superman was staring at Connery.
“That’s not who killed Neon,” said Villon, nailing each word to Connery’s ear. “Neon was killed because he was threatening blackmail. Threatening to name names in a racket that linked orgies to hidden cameras and photograph negatives for sale to the highest bidder, that of course being the subject of the photograph.”
Mae interrupted. As far as she was concerned, she’d been silent too long. “Somebody once tried to blackmail me with some incriminatin’ snapshots. I liked them so much, I bought them to illustrate a book I was plannin’ to write about sex. Frankly, I didn’t realize I knew so many positions.” Villon could tell she was putting them on.
Villon was back at Connery. “There’s all sorts of rumors that your club is a hotbed of orgies, Connery.”
Connery laughed and waved a hand in the direction of the dance floor and the freelance photographers who were having a field day. Bulbs flashed, thighs flashed, a Mae West impersonator was doing a shimmy on the bar and then Mae’s eyes popped as Desdemona climbed onto the bar and stole the imitator’s limelight with a spirited cancan. Connery said, “There’s your orgy and there’s your photographers, and you can’t tell me it’s illegal.”
“This isn’t an orgy, this is a carnival,” said Villon. “The real stuff goes on elsewhere. Neon knew because I suspect he participated for a fee.” He leaned forward. “Neon was desperate. He was dying.”
Connery exploded. “That’s what he told everyone, but do you know the name of Neon’s doctor? No you don’t, because he didn’t exist. Neon was a liar. A pathological liar. And I’ll tell you something else. I don’t think there’s a brother. I think it was all in Neon’s mind. I never saw any brother and, Mae, I was a hell of a lot closer to Neon then you were!”
“Stop braggin’,” said Mae, “it’s unbecomin’.”
Connery ignored her. “Tell me, Villon, have you any proof these orgies took place.7”
“None.”
“Have you any proof Neon wasn’t killed in Griffith Park?”
“None.”
“Have you anything but a suspicion as to who might have killed Neon?”
“Stop right there, Connery.”
Mallory relaxed. He had feared Villon was painting himself into a comer. Connery was being astonishingly fearless in challenging Herb Villon. Mallory didn’t like the way the conversation was going until now. Hazel was back scribbling in the notebook. Villon was taking control again.
Villon said calmly, “My suspicions have a lovely way of coming home to roost. All my suspicions concerning Neon’s murderer are concrete.
They’re adding up. His murderer is going to slip up the way all murderers slip up sooner or later. Some murderers loosen their tie and unbutton their shirt collar when things are getting a little hot for them.”
Connery slammed a fist on the table. “Are you accusing me of murdering Neon?”
Villon said with a smile, “You’re the best candidate I’ve got.”
“You’ve got nothing on me. You can’t prove anything. You’re just a big bag of wind. I’ve had enough of your crap!” He pushed his chair back and Superman caught it. Connery rudely shoved Superman aside and began pushing his way backstage.
Mae said to Villon, “I think you’ve got his dander up. Say, Agnes, did he always have such a short fuse?”
Unruffled, having just lit another cigarette, Agnes said, “It’s Hallowe’en. These parties always have him on edge. Anything can happen and it usually does. It’s a little early but I can assure you, some faces are going to be slapped and scratched, a few brawls will break out, there’ll be screaming hysterics and possibly the arrival of a squad car or two. And on top of that, Herb more or less tells him he thinks he murdered Neon.”
“Now just a minute,” said Mae, as Superman, apparently bored with it all, wandered off. “Herb did not say Milton murdered Neon.”
“He might just as well have.” She looked at Villon, who was wondering whether to eat his sandwich or shoot it. “There wasn’t much subtlety emanating from our detective’s mouth.” Villon chuckled. “He was doing the job he came here to do. He came here to shake Milton up, and, Mr. Villon, you certainly shook him up.”
“Weren’t you a little shook up too, Agnes?” asked Mae.
“Why should I be?”
