“I would not bother with her, if I were you.”
“Bother? I’ve got to bother.”
“She is married.”
“You know her well?”
“I do not know her at all,” said Romani, “but I have seen her husband. This is a type of man it does not pay to bother with.”
“I’d like to meet him,” I said. “Where does he live?”
“Frugi? You have only to ask for him on Blake Street, my friend. I can assure you he is well known there.”
“What does he do?”
Romani studied me. He appraised me in his own artistic way, taking note of my size, my weight, the cut of my face and the nervous anger that came through in my speech. He did this with an air of detachment that must have been calculated to throw me off the scent. He was weighing me against Frugi and finding me light for the job. He clucked at me sympathetically and then put a hand on my arm with a certain amount of friendliness.
“Listen, my friend,” he said. “I do not want you to feel that I am only an old man with a woman’s nose for trouble. This is not so. I will tell you now that your girl must have been concerned with Frugi. But that does not mean for you to rush at Frugi with stupidity. You will gain nothing by such tactics. I have known of Jake Frugi only through those stories, those legends one hears in sections like Blake Street. I have seen him once or twice, when he came here for his wife, after the classes. I tell you that he is an evil man, who will stop at nothing to defend what he has stolen. And if he has stolen your girl, you must appeal to her, not Frugi, for his ways are not decent and he is likely to do you great harm, do you understand?”
“What is he, a gangster?”
“Worse,” said Romani with a great show of seriousness. “There are men who will take a life as easily as we stand here talking. Do you begin to see what I am getting at? This Frugi has a reputation for violence. He is a brute who will fight you with cunning and skill. Why must you lay yourself open to attack by him? I tell you that you would be wiser to talk only to your girl. This would not reflect cowardice, but rather intelligence. You cannot convince a beast that he should drop a bone. You cannot tame an animal who has a mind for killing, and killing only.”
“What does he look like?”
“Frugi?” Romani went to the easel at his side and began to draw for me. I found myself fascinated by his agile hand. Under his fingers the figure of the man in the striped shirt came to life. He sketched the heavy torso, the stiff, planted legs, the thrust of the head; the tight confidence of the arms. There was a vagueness to Frugi’s head, but I recognized him in the square underdrawing and the caricatured muscularity.
I said, “An interesting character.”
“And dangerous,” said Romani, pointing his pencil at the drawing. “He is the type who carries a gun.”
“And his wife—what type is she?”
“A beautiful girl. Consuelo was quiet, almost shy, until the night I saw her fighting. She had little talent, but seemed to enjoy simply attending the classes. She spoke softly, sometimes with a certain bashfulness that suggested a gentle background. But this woman was not gentle, you may be assured. After that fight, I observed that she was concerning herself with a type of revenge—upon her husband. She had all the weapons for fighting this kind of battle—a well-rounded figure and a very beautiful face. How would a woman use these things? In the obvious way, my friend. Consuelo secured a lover for herself, an artist named George Barker—also a student of mine. She selected a man with great personal charm, an older man, equipped to handle himself in any emergency. And after she had him, I lost them both. They stopped coming to my little school.”
“Will you give me Consuelo’s address?”
“I do not have it. My students are not compelled to give me their addresses. This is not a formal school.” He tapped the ledger in his open palm. He winked at me. “You are interested in Consuelo?”
“She might be able to tell me things.”
“Quite true,” said Romani, becoming serious again, suddenly. “I would suggest, then, that you find Barker, my friend. You may be sure that he will know where she is. George Barker has a studio here—somewhere in the Village.”
“I’ll try him,” I said, and thanked Romani.
“All my best to Consuelo,” he said at the door.
I called Mama Frichio. She told me I could reach Abe Freedman at The Cellar, and he was there and alive with his usual heartiness.
“We’re on schedule, Steve. I got a lead down here.”
“Sit on it,” I told him. “I’ve got the man in the striped shirt.”
“You’re a wonder boy. Keep him there until I arrive.”
“I’m not that good, Abe.” I told him about Romani and the school. I started with Ken Sisley and Mrs. Monati, breaking it into small pieces, including Consuelo and George Barker.
“What’s his name?”
“Frugi. Jake Frugi.”
Abe whistled. “You’re sure?”
“It adds up,” I said. “Do you know him?”
“I’ve heard the name. He’s big, Steve.”
“Big? I was told he’s some sort of gangster.”
“Off and on, maybe, but never on the record. Jake Frugi is a big-time operator. I’ve heard the name in connection with gambling—the Jersey kind, with a false front and plenty of customers from the social register. This Frugi doesn’t play for peanuts, Steve. The last time his name was mentioned to me it had something to do with a chain of gambling joints he was running across the river. He’s in solid with the easy politicos and pays off a wad of money for protection. I don’t see him killing anybody in person, if you get what I mean. He’s well-heeled with professionals who would butcher their own family at his nod. I don’t see him using a knife, Steve.”
“A knife is quiet.”
“Find him,” Abe said. “I think we’ve got hold of two ends of a rope, Steve. We’ve got to follow through to the middle, even if my end leads to a detour. Listen, I’m here in The Cellar now, waiting for a little wren named Ann Black, a warbler who sings in this dive every night. The barman tells me this thrush knows everybody who is anybody in show business. She’s a middle-aged shouter, the type that went out with vaudeville, but she holds them in this nest with her dirty lyrics. And the barman is an old-timer, too. He knows Bert McPhail, the guy you remembered from show business. He’s seen him within the last couple of weeks. That places him for us, Steve. He’s local, and he may be ripe. I’m going to sit here drinking light beer until I get everything I want on him, right down to his address and his activities this afternoon.”
“What about Frugi? Can you give him any time on that end?”
“I’ll check him deeper as soon as I’m finished here. Meantime, this McPhail man interests me. Pretty boy, isn’t he?”
“Very pretty.”
“I like him, Steve. Stay with your lead and play it for all it’s worth. We may meet in the middle.”
“We’d better,” I said. “I’ll call you again at Mama Frichio’s.”
“Go slow,” he said. “We’ve got plenty of time on this.”
CHAPTER 6
I found George Barker easily. His studio was well known on Ninth Street and I made the locate by a simple contact with the first bar I walked into. He lived in a second floor apartment over a framing establishment, up two narrow flights of stairs, the first door on the landing.
Barker sat facing me in an ancient chair before his easel. I handed him Gwen’s small photo from my wallet. He squinted at it, smiling a secret smile that did not affect the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Relaxed, he had a face full of virility, a square and solid jaw, a classic nose and the clean, flat planed cheeks of an athlete. He was well built, not tall, not short. He had the build of a muscle man, broad in the shoulders and chest. Standing, he would be as tall as I.
He sa
id, “What are you—a dick, or something? How’d you get the snapshot?”
He was slow and deliberate in his speech, measuring each word before he mouthed it. He was measuring now. His heavy brows were down, scowling at the picture. Then he was finished with it and handed it back to me. I was impressed by his hands. He had huge paws, as artistic as a hod carrier’s.
“In my business you get them,” I said. “This one comes from the files of an office that hired her. When you skip-trace dames like this, you cover every angle, Barker.”
He tried that one on for size. It fit. He stared hard at me and seemed satisfied that I didn’t melt under his eyes. He was masculine. Very masculine.
He said, “And suppose I say I know her?”
“You could help me out,” I said, showing him a professional smile. “The Jonas Tripp Company always pays off after the customer collects.”
“How much?”
“It would be quite a sum, Barker. This subject had a habit of buying fancy stuff. She’s in the hole to a big department store for almost a grand. If we can catch her, we’ll collect. If we collect, I can guarantee you about a hundred.” I let it drop with a degree of earnestness. When I saw him take the bait, I pressed it. “Look, Barker—we’ll get her sooner or later, whether you help us or not. Ask people about us and you’ll see that I’m right. We’re the best skip-tracers in the country. We handle cases like this every day in the week. How about it?”
He made a ceremony of dropping his ashes on the floor. He brushed a few odd flecks off his knee.
“All right,” he said. “So I know the dame. She’s Gwen Hibbs. What else?”
I fought to bury my surprise. I lit a cigarette. It gave me time to think. Gwen Hibbs! I wondered now whether Gwen had used this name at Romani’s, too. It was her maiden name. She had decided to bury her marriage. She had rejected me completely among these people, these outside friends. How carefully she had arranged her life among them!
I said, “Fine. Where does she live?”
He laughed at that one. “Gwen? Who the hell can say? A dame like her is a floater.” He showed me a face full of experience. He gave me the confidential leer of the professional Casanova. “She’s the hottest doll this side of Seventh Avenue, mister. And easy as monkey fruit. I wouldn’t trust her as far as I can throw this building. You understand?”
I laughed because I knew he wanted me to. “A rabbit, eh? You boys in the art game must handle them by the gross. Where did you get to know her?”
“Over at art school. Brother, that’s the spot for ginch. You want to learn about women, just sign up with an art class.” He was warming to the subject, in the manner of a college freshman over a copy of Esquire. He got up and poured a pair of drinks. I had two. The liquor was cheap and raw. But it warmed me. I sat there listening to Barker recount his adventures at Romani’s.
“This Hibbs doll is a queer one, mister. If you catch her you can keep her. I picked her up at school. She played hard to get, at first. She wouldn’t drink, and she wasn’t at all interested in my etchings. But, what do you think happened the next morning? She’s up here early—to see how I paint.” He began to laugh at his memory of her. The glass sweated in my hands. I could have wrung his throat. “I had a model on the stand—a pro from the school. But the Hibbs dame wanted me to paint her in the nude. She insisted I do her. A commission, no less. So, what did I do? I let her pose, mister, I let her pose. For three mornings she came and let me do her, and mister, I did her.”
I said, “She sounds nuts.”
“Nuts? I don’t know. But she sure had a figure. She had the professional beat a mile.”
I got up and walked to the window. I tried for laughter at the window, but it would not come. Outside, the back alleys of Greenwich Village were lily white compared to my soul. “She must have been a pip,” I said to the alley. “I’m more anxious than ever to meet her now.”
“Listen—” he began.
But the door to the studio opened then. I saw it in the mirrored blackness of the window. When I turned, a girl stood near the easel. Barker got up and kissed her. He gathered her in his arms and lingered over the kiss. She didn’t seem to mind. She was wearing a small flowered hat. It fell off to the floor and rolled a little, incongruously. When he was finished with her she stepped back and began to fuss with her hair. She was a blonde. A natural. Her hair was a yellowish white, almost as white as her alabaster complexion. She had a classic beauty, blue-eyed, with hard, clean pencil strokes for eyebrows. Her lips carried the color in her face. They were blood red, small and delicate. She stood there, hands on her hips, estimating me. I returned the compliment. She had plenty to look at. But your eyes were held at her torso. She was built well, high-chested and soft around the neck and shoulders. She was Consuelo.
Barker said, “Say hello to Mr. McGrath, sugar. He’s what they call a skip-tracer. He traces dames.”
Consuelo said more than hello. She gave me her hand and there was a healthy pressure in it, as warm as her smile. “A what?”
“Skip-tracer,” I said. “Mr. Barker was just about to tell me where I could reach Gwen Hibbs.”
She dropped my hand as though it were needled. Her face clouded with emotion. She loaded it with malice, effortlessly, turned on as easily as her smile was shut away. But it was all over in a minute. She laughed a little. “How interesting, Mr. McGrath. Did you wise him up, Georgie?”
Georgie was enjoying the byplay. He must have told Consuelo his part of the Gwen Hibbs story. He must have used it as part of his sales routine. “What do I know about Gwen Hibbs, sugar? You’re the doll to tell him about her, aren’t you?”
“I could write a book,” she said.
Barker was in the closet now, getting into his jacket, putting on his hat. “Tell him, baby. I got to go out for a while.”
“What about our date?” she asked petulantly. “What about the Wagner cocktail party?”
“I’ll be back in time,” he said.
“What time?”
“Soon,” he said. “I got to get over to Romani now.”
“Romani? What for?”
“A job he’s got for me.”
She sneered at him. “Don’t make me laugh. Romani wouldn’t give you the janitor’s job there and you know it.”
He came out of the closet, batting his eyes at her. He put his hands on her arms and held her. “The old boy’s got a mural for me, sugar. No fooling—a new restaurant wants my stuff, something hot and fleshy like the one I did uptown. It’s meat on the table.”
She didn’t stir in his arms. She leveled her eyes at him. “What new restaurant?”
He danced away from her and paused in the door. “I’ll let you know when I find out. Stick around with McGrath here. Take him to Wagner’s if I don’t come back by nine. He’s going to pay us off for the inside track to Gwen. Isn’t that right, McGrath?”
“Check,” I said.
“I’ll wait until nine,” Consuelo said.
“I’ll be here before then,” said Barker. “Help yourself to some more rotgut in that cabinet over there.”
He went out. I took two bottles from the cabinet. She watched me dreamily. When I held up the rye she nodded and I filled two hookers. She took her glass and went to the window and sat down on the long seat, staring into the dusty yard, over the hills and far away. I sat beside her, not too close, not too distant. She sipped at the rye without straining. Up close she was a beautiful girl. I wondered about her. She dressed well, not overdone, not gaudy, not garish. She had on a simple black suit, cut in refined lines. There was a string of pearls, tight around her nick. Her posture complimented her. She sat with a straight back, in an attitude of studied ease. Her profile, against the black window, was something out of a cameo I tried to picture her with the man in the striped shirt. I failed. She would be incongruous at his side. She was somebody’s sister, the gi
rl next door, your best friend’s wife, a woman of refinement. And yet the illusion died when she turned to talk to me—
“So you’re out bitch hunting, eh, Mr. McGrath? Nothing trivial with Gwen, I hope.”
I told her what I had told Barker. She listened without looking at me. When I mentioned the fact that Gwen had bought a thousand dollars’ worth of clothing without paying for it, a thin and brittle smile curved her lips. I gave her Gwen’s photo.
She only glanced at it, and the pause brought color to her cheeks.
“That’s Gwen, all right.” She busied herself with a cigarette. “Would you call her pretty?”
“Attractive,” I said. “Don’t you think?”
“I couldn’t say. I’m prejudiced, maybe.”
“You know her well?”
“I used to. She used to be a friend of mine.”
“She looks clever,” I said, staring at the photo as though I were giving it the treatment. “She has the type of beauty that suggests shrewdness. In my business you have to be quite a judge of character. Looking at Gwen, I can’t imagine her getting along well with another beautiful girl—a girl like you, Consuelo. But that isn’t strange, is it? I’ve rarely seen two pretty girls become serious friends—there’s a sort or secret rivalry between good-looking women, a hidden hostility that has to come out sooner or later.”
I enlarged upon the theme, watching her over the edge of the photograph. Consuelo continued to smoke, nervously. She handled the cigarette amateurishly, puffing bursts of smoke, never inhaling, closing her eyes as she dragged at the butt, and finally flipping it away and watching the dot of fire fall to the yard below and die among the dirty weeds. She got up then and filled our glasses. She downed her hooker and had another. I continued to talk about Gwen. The restlessness built itself in Consuelo. She listened, on her feet now, at the easel, staring hard at the crayon drawing of a Barker nude, her pretty face heavy with annoyance. The liquor was working against her. She bit her lip and turned on me, interrupting my dissertation on beautiful women.
“That’s a lot of nonsense,” she said in an iced voice. “I’ve been good friends with plenty of pretty girls. I would have been a friend of hers now if she hadn’t turned bitch. Listen, McGrath—I hate her so much that I’m going to help you. I want to see her suffer. I want to pay her back for some of the things she did to me. I wish I could tell you where she lives, but I don’t know.”
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