by P. N. Elrod
Really close old friends from the look of things, if he was the man I’d seen with her.
“He heard she was here and decided to look her up. We got to talking, one thing led to another, and they asked about working here. Before you arrived, they did a free show early on as their audition. Went over great.”
“Roland’s still talking with Adelle?”
“They had some catching up to do. They used to be married.”
I blinked. “Married?”
“It was years back. They’re over it now.”
Apparently not quite. Was that going to be a problem? The none-of-my-damned-beeswax tune played through my head again. I’d have to talk to Bobbi about this.
She beamed a smile at Faustine. “When can you come by tomorrow? We’ll have to sort out the contract, schedule, rehearsals, and get some publicity photos for the ads and so on.”
“Roland takes care of those t’ings. He come in vhenever you vish.”
“One o’clock, then,” Bobbi said decisively, softening it with an ingenuous smile. She seemed extremely pleased with herself. They must have really impressed her.
“Before you leave, I’d like to meet him,” I put in.
Faustine favored me with a smoldering eye. “I vill get him. Once he is talk-ink, is difficult to drag avay, but I know how.” She made a smoky smile and a sly wink, then undulated off. Hopefully, Adelle and Roland would be able to pry themselves apart before she walked in on them. The fewer people to gossip, the better. I stifled the urge to glance over at Gordy, waiting until Faustine was out of earshot.
“Iz that for reeel?” I asked Bobbi.
“Who cares? It works. Had you drooling.”
“I was not drooling, just slightly fascinated. I never heard a Russian speak like that before, like Bela Lugosi crossed with Garbo. What’s the real story?”
She shook her head. “What I told you is what I know, and they really are good dancers. Roland used to be in Hollywood, that’s where he and Adelle met. She vouched for him so far as his talent goes. He sings and dances, has done plays and musicals. He got supporting romantic roles in some smaller films but never really hit the big time. Drink, according to Adelle. That’s why she went to Reno a year into their marriage. That was ten years ago. He swears he’s cleaned up his act since.”
“I hope so. No room in this place for boozehounds breathing sour on the customers.”
“Like that drummer?”
“He’s at a safe distance and sober for now. What do they expect me to pay them?”
“The standard rate.”
“Faustine won’t be buying diamonds on that.”
“You thought those were genuine?”
“I guess the accent blinded me. Won’t hoofing in a nightclub be a comedown for them?”
“It’s work. There’s not a lot of it around these days, and there’s always been more actors than acting jobs. I think they’re trying to build up a grubstake before moving to New York or to Hollywood. That or hoping to carve a place for themselves in this town.”
God, I wished Bobbi would listen to herself. She might think twice about going into the movies. There was plenty for her to do in Chicago. It wasn’t that I wanted her to give up her dream, I just didn’t want to lose her to it. We’d had that conversation more than once; this wasn’t the time to go through it again. I shoved the old ache back into its rickety box and slammed the lid.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
It was terrifying how well she could read my face. What was unsuccessfully hiding there must stay put. I had a different problem all primed, anyway. “Listen, I saw this Roland with Adelle in her dressing room wrapped in a clinch that looked a lot more serious than old friends saying hello. They were more like honeymooners than a divorced couple.”
“You sure?”
“I know a love scene when I see it. That one would have Will Hayes dropping dead of shock.”
She shook her head. “But they only smiled and shook hands earlier.”
“Saving the best for later. What with Adelle and Gordy doing a two-step for all this time, I thought one of us should—”
“Jack, it’s none of our business.”
“So I tell myself, but Gordy might not care for a moocher on his territory.”
“That’s Adelle’s choice,” she said archly.
“Not really. Gordy’s not just any guy. You know what that means.”
She started to say something more, then visibly changed her mind. When we first met, Bobbi was mistress to a mobster and had had damned little choice about much of anything in her life. “Okay. I get it. But Gordy’s a friend.”
“Who kills people. Don’t ever forget that. Adelle can’t be completely ignorant of what he does, but she may need reminding. If she’s going to run around on him, she won’t like the consequences when he learns about it, and don’t kid yourself that he won’t.”
“You wouldn’t tell him.”
“No. But he’d find out. It’s what he does his whole life: find out things. Sometime soon take Adelle aside and give her the straight on what it means to date guys in his line of work.”
“She won’t believe it.”
“Give her a chance; she might. For her own good, she has to.”
“And if she doesn’t . . . you’ll talk to her?” Bobbi knew what that involved.
“I won’t tell her who to be with, just help her understand things.”
“I don’t like that.”
“Me neither. I can also talk to this Roland, suggest he make himself scarce around Adelle, but one or the other has to lay off before there’s a disaster.”
“Why not talk to Gordy?”
She caught me flat-footed there. It never once occurred to me that I could also do a Svengali act on Gordy, and I didn’t like it any more than she did. “All right, touché, ya got me square in the gizzard. I don’t wanna interfere with any of them, and this ain’t anything I should poke my nose into, but when I see a train wreck about to happen . . .”
“Okay, I’ll give Adelle a heads up, pretend I was the one who saw her with Roland. Maybe there’s a perfectly innocent reason why they were kissing.”
She wouldn’t have said that if she’d seen their level of osculation. Roland looked like he’d been mining for tonsils. “You could drop a hint to Roland about Adelle dating one of this town’s top mob kingpins. Mention the possibility of broken legs.”
She relaxed a little. “I could work it into a conversation . . . I don’t want anyone hurt, but getting involved without an invitation is always a mistake. For all we know, there’s nothing going on.”
“All the same, I wanna avoid trouble. There they are. Introduce me, my sweet.”
Bobbi made a sound suspiciously like a growl. When we turned to face them, we were close enough side by side for me to give her an easy-does-it pat on the rump. A little one, just to let her know that everything would be all right, no hard feelings. The growl abruptly choked off. She shot me a “don’t be a wiseacre” look, recovered, and did the formalities. I shook hands with Roland Lambert.
3
ROLAND was in his late thirties, with matinee-idol looks, a steady, honest eye, and a firm hand. I wanted to not like him, but his smile exuded the sort of winning charm politicians tried to project and so often failed to fulfill. It wasn’t anything you could fake; you either possessed cheerful, wholesome sincerity naturally or you didn’t. This man looked like he’d never had a bad day in his life and never would. He was formal in an impeccable tuxedo, and I could tell he was also careful about details. There wasn’t one trace of Adelle’s lip rouge or face powder on him.
“Faustine tells me you’re going to give us a trial run, Mr. Fleming,” he said. “I can’t tell you how grateful we are for the chance.”
“We’ll see how things work out. You planning to stay in Chicago?”
“For the time being. We’ve only just come from Europe, and this is Faustine’s first time in the States. She’s hardly had a cha
nce to see anything. Soon as we were off the boat, we got a train out here to look up one of her cousins from the old country.”
“Did you find him?”
“Yesss,” said Faustine. “Ve talk of dead family an’ bad times since death of czar. So bourgeoisie of him to live in past, so bor-ink, zo ve leave. Some family is better at distant, yesss?”
If she’d said elephants were purple, I’d have agreed with her. “How did you two team up?”
Roland beamed down at her. “We met at a backstage party.” He put an arm around her waist. “It was love at first sight.”
Faustine beamed up at him. “Roland iz such a roman-tik. He sveep my feet out.”
Until now I thought they were just working partners. They didn’t seem a match, him being so all-American and her being . . . her. I glanced at Bobbi, but she kept her smile firmly fixed in place, and it looked genuine. She liked a good love story.
Roland went on. “I’d made a niche in English theater playing Americans, but we couldn’t stay, the way things are going. Soon as my latest play’s run ended, we hopped a boat. The captain married us right after we cleared port.”
“Zo roman-tik,” Faustine added, tilted eyes glittering.
With her gloves on I couldn’t see a ring on her finger, but Roland sported a discreet gold band. Had Adelle noticed, or did it matter to her? Bobbi didn’t seem surprised at this news. Maybe it had come up earlier in the evening.
“What a trip, too,” said Roland. “Cold as hell, everyone seasick with the high waves, and they ran submarine drills the first day out. Didn’t call them that, of course, people were nervous enough. We crossed our fingers against being another Lusitania. There’s going to be war in the rest of Europe soon, not just Spain, you mark me. We got out just in time.”
“I’ve seen the newsreels,” I said. “Hitler’s full of a lot of air, but that’ll be the limit. He won’t be so stupid.”
Roland shook his head. “They’re taking him very seriously over there. Have those reels shown the English parents training their kids about wearing gas masks?”
“Yeah, but that’s an overreaction. The news plays it up because it sells papers and packs the theaters. Don’t know why they’re worried. Hitler would have to fight his way through France first. He’s not going to risk going up against the Maginot Line. He just likes to hear himself talk.”
“But too many others are listening to him. Lemme tell you about the German influence on—”
“Pol-i-ticks.” Faustine sneered. “Are an utter bore, dar-link. Let us speak of more pleasant t’ings.”
He shot her a rueful look. “You’re absolutely right. I forgot that ladies are less devoted to America’s other favorite pastime than are gentlemen.”
“Vat more other pastime? Zex?”
I liked her way of thinking.
“Baseball,” Roland answered, unperturbed.
“Ah!” she brightened. “I berry much vould like to see a baseball game. Iz possible?”
“In a few more months when things thaw out. You’re going to love Wrigley Field.”
“And hav-ink a hot dog? More months to vait?”
“I’ll buy you one tomorrow.”
“I loff Amer-i-ka!” She didn’t beam so much as glow. Very easy on the eye.
By the time they were ready to leave I certainly didn’t believe in Faustine’s accent, but listening to her was too much fun. Bobbi’s entertainment instincts were exactly right; these two would draw people in and keep them happy. Roland would get the women to swoon over his grin alone; Faustine would flatter the men into jelly just saying, “Good even-ink.”
We said farewells, and I escorted them out, unlocking the front door. They’d been in the country long enough to buy or hire a car, a new-looking green Hudson. Roland handed Faustine into it, and off they drove. I went back for Bobbi and to see if Gordy was close to shutting things down.
Adelle Taylor emerged from her dressing room, having apparently been busy changing. I never understood how women could switch stage costumes in a few seconds but take half an hour to put on regular clothes. It was a nightly ritual for Adelle, but she was beautifully turned out. Her dark hair was drawn up under a fancy hat; gloves, bracelets, coat, and all the things in between were decked out better than a Macy’s window. She was enough to distract Gordy’s attention from his guest. His otherwise impassive face shifted into what for him was a big, approving smile. He was gone on her, all right.
I hoped Bobbi was right about me keeping clear. Adelle, seeing Gordy wasn’t ready, went over to the bar to talk with Bobbi. They were both acquainted with the basics of mob etiquette, and interrupting a private powwow, as Escott might have said, was “not the done thing.” I hung by the entry under the portrait and hoped Bobbi would take the opportunity to let Adelle in on the specialized etiquette of dating mobsters. Gordy would never do anything against his girl, but Roland was fair game for rough stuff. I’d not been kidding about broken legs.
Gordy turned back to his table company, said something I couldn’t catch, then they both rose, the man unsteadily but sweating hard to master himself. All six bodyguards rose as well, regarding one another with restrained distrust but behaving. I had the feeling that if I coughed too loud, a shooting war would break out.
Anticipating their departure, I’d left the front open and followed them. Gordy’s boys went along outside with the rest; Gordy hung back. His guest glared at him, reddened eyes annoyed.
“What gives?” he demanded, his gaze shifting suspiciously from Gordy to me. “You two conniving?”
“I’m driving my girl home,” Gordy replied evenly. “She’s waiting for me.”
“The canary?”
“The canary.”
The man snorted disgust, then rounded fully on me. I got an up-and-down and didn’t impress him. “Who’s the snot-nosed kid?”
I was thirty-seven; I just didn’t look it. A mixed blessing at times. Certainly I was old enough to know better than to react. He was throwing out a challenge to see which way I’d jump, but my night had been busy enough. “I’m Jack Fleming. This is my club.”
Another snort. “Who bought it for ya? Some kind of bar mitzvah present from your daddy?”
I smiled as though he’d been witty. “No, I earned it. Thanks for asking.” He was too drunk to be hypnotized, or I’d have given him a flying start on his future hangover. With enough emotional force behind the suggestion, I could drive him or nearly anyone else insane. Having that kind of power and having seen its effect on others usually kept me from getting pissed with people, even the ones actively seeking a kick in the ass. “I hope you enjoyed your evening.”
“Go to hell, punk.” He waited, maybe thinking I’d take a swing at him or at least frown. When I didn’t, he threw a puffing laugh of contempt at my face and left. I was glad about not needing to breathe. His secondhand booze would have put W. C. Fields on his ass.
“Should I lock it?” I asked, once the door had him on the other side with the bodyguards.
Gordy seemed pleased. Since nothing had happened, that made two of us. “Nah. My boys will see him off.”
“Good.”
“He’s a bastard.” Gordy’s way of apologizing.
“In two minutes he won’t remember any of it.”
“Don’t underestimate him.”
“Who is he?”
“Hog Bristow.”
“His mother hated him that much?”
“Got the name when he worked in meat packing, killing the pigs. He liked it. Word got around, one of the old bosses asked if he could kill men just as easy. He could. He liked that, too. His other name is Ignance.”
“His mother did hate him.”
“Don’t ever let him hear you call him Hog unless he likes you.”
Gordy knew some real pips. “What’s he doing here?” Meaning in Chicago over New York. There’d been a Hell’s Kitchen accent under Bristow’s drunken slur.
“Business.”
Which could
be just about anything in the rackets. Gordy frequently kept me wise to what was going on, simply because I was on the outside of his mob-centered world and determined to stay there. He knew the value of a neutral ear combined with a shut mouth. “Why at Crymsyn instead of your place? Not that I mind the extra business.”
“Whole town knows you’re not on anyone’s side but your own. It’s safe to come here.”
“Safe?”
“For talk. Started when this joint first opened. You invited everyone to the big party. It crossed borders. We found we could do stuff here and not have to worry about trouble.”
Good grief. Lady Crymsyn as an underworld League of Nations. Not something I’d planned on. I’d noticed a lot of gangsters coming in, but until now thought it’d been for the shows and quality booze.
“The boys in the business agreed to keep the shooting in the streets. Place like this is too useful to mess up.”
There were times when I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. This was one of them. “Bristow coming back?”
“Tomorrow.”
“What’s his problem?” With that kind of man there was always a problem.
“He wants a piece of my territory. I don’t want to give it to him.”
“Doesn’t New York decide those things?”
“He’s got ambition. Figures if he can take it, he can keep it. They’re letting him try because they like him. He’s a funny guy. They think.”
“Because he’s funny they’re going to risk a war if you slug it out with him?”
“He’s got ideas, too. Told them I’m too soft, don’t make as much money as I should. There’s a depression going on, what the hell do they expect? NRA programs don’t go to booze, houses, and gambling. Bristow says he can change that, bring more cash. He harped for too long. You harp too long on something, they either shoot you or listen. They didn’t shoot him.”
Regrettable. “What are you going to do?”
“Talk him out of it.”
“Just talk?” Gordy was a persuasive man with a subtle intellect, but Bristow didn’t look the type who would hear anyone but himself. Drunk, he struck me as having less brains than your average rabid dog.
