Cold War Copa

by Phil Swann

  Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the Sands—still no sign of the black Caddy. It was nearing five o’clock, and the late afternoon sun was beginning its descent. I didn’t have much time to see who I needed to see, so I ran from my car into the hotel, making a quick stop at the hotel gift shop before bolting for the elevators.

  The Copa Girls were the brainchild of the Sands’ big cheese, Jack Entratter, which he based on Florenz Ziegfeld’s famous chorus line of beauties, the Ziegfeld Girls, which Ziegfeld based on the French lovelies of the Folies Bergère. But I digress. The point is, nothing happened regarding the Copa Girls unless Entratter approved it himself. For instance, when it came to becoming a Copa Girl, Entratter auditioned them all personally. He even had a very specific formula for what he was looking for too. A Copa Girl had to be five feet four inches tall, 116 pounds, bust thirty-four inches, waist twenty-four inches, hips thirty-four inches, with a small face more oval than round—ability to dance, not important; she just had to be beautiful. The man knew what he wanted. That being the case, if Lydia had suddenly resigned, it was a safe bet Entratter knew about it, perhaps even received her resignation in person. The most direct route would have been for me to go to Mr. Entratter and ask him if he had spoken to Lydia, but Mr. Entratter was a gig or two above my pay grade, and beyond shaking hands with him once at a backstage mixer, we’d never actually met. There was little chance I’d be able to walk into the man’s office and start bombarding him with questions about one of his beloved Copa Girls. But that was okay because I had another plan.

  I sometimes have a tendency to rub people the wrong way. But I can, when the situation calls for it, be as charming as Sir Lancelot and disarming as Merlin. It’s a prodigious kind of magic I wield, and I’m careful to only use my powers for good—that good usually consisting of my own well-being. Thus, it should come as no surprise Mrs. Madeline Mandelbaum would be a frequent beneficiary of my dark art. Mrs. Mandelbaum was the sixty-year-old—rough guess—payroll administrator at the Sands Hotel and Casino—that meant she was the person who wrote my paycheck every two weeks. A short yet intimidating old gal, Mrs. Mandelbaum had coal-black hair, cat-eye-framed glasses, and a voice layered with more sand than the Mojave Desert. Many feared her. I bewitched, bothered, and bewildered her.

  “Mrs. Mandelbaum, you look positively fetching today,” I crooned, entering the tiny third floor office and toting an impressive bouquet of red carnations.

  Mrs. Mandelbaum looked up from her desk, removed a Virginia Slims from her lips, and blew a puff of smoke in my direction. “Forget it, Callaway. I’ve told you a hundred times, no advance on your salary. Your check will arrive in the mail on Friday like mine and everyone else’s does.”

  As usual, the dear old minx pretended to be impervious to my silver tongue and did her best to convey annoyance, but I knew better. One look at the dreary cubbyhole the poor woman had to spend her days in and anyone could see a visit from Trip Callaway was synonymous with an open window, a ray of sunshine, and a breath of fresh air all wrapped up in one.

  “Mrs. Mandelbaum, why would you think I’m here to ask for an advance? Isn’t it possible I just wanted to drop in and say a friendly howdy to one of my favorite people?”

  “No,” she replied.

  “Now, Mrs. Mandelbaum, don’t be that way.”

  “What do you want, Callaway? I’m busy.”

  “First of all, these are for you,” I said, setting the flowers on her desk.

  “Take them away, I’m allergic.”

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. Is that why you moved to the desert? The climate? You’re from New Jersey, right? Hoboken?”

  “Hackensack, and no. I moved here because—it’s none of your business why I moved here. Now spit it out, what do you want?”

  See what I did? I got Mrs. I-Don’t-Talk-To-Anybody to tell me where she was from. She was putty in my paws. “Okay, Mrs. Mandelbaum, you’re too smart for me. They must teach you girls from Hoboken—”

  “Hackensack.”

  “Hackensack to be pretty darn sharp. I do need a favor, but it’s not an advance.”

  “What, then?”

  “Well, I guess you heard about Lydia.”

  “Lydia who?”

  “Lydia Starr. The Copa Girl.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” she replied, stamping out her smoke and going back to the spreadsheets on her desk.

  “It’s very sad, isn’t it?”

  “Why? The only reason any of those overpaid leggy-Lindas work here is to nab a Rockefeller. I suppose she got herself one. Mission accomplished. What’s it to you? You heartbroken, Callaway? Did you think you were going to be the one? Fat chance of that on what you make.”

  “No…Lydia and I are just friends,” I said, absorbing the fact Lydia had indeed resigned. “Mrs. Mandelbaum, did you see Lydia? I mean, did she come in here and tell you she was quitting?”

  “Of course not,” she said, going back to her paperwork. “When someone quits or is fired, I get a memo. You’re the only person from downstairs I ever see. Lucky me.”

  “Would you know who she told?”

  “Haven’t the faintest.”

  “I see.”

  “Is that all?” she asked, looking up. “Will you leave now?”

  “Well, actually, I have some record albums Lydia loaned me, and I want to get them back to her. I was wondering if you could give me her home address?”

  “No.”

  “Honestly, Mrs. Mandelbaum, there’s nothing untoward—”

  “If you two are such good friends, why don’t you know where she lives?”

  “I never said we were good friends, just friends…like work friends. You know how it is, you must have work friends.”

  “No.”

  “But it wouldn’t be—”

  “It’s against hotel policy to give out employees’ home addresses.”

  “But Lydia’s not an employee any longer, you wouldn’t really be breaking—”

  “Okay already,” she said, spinning the Rolodex on her desk. “What do I care? Those girls think they own this place anyway. Here,” she said, ripping a card out of the device and handing to me. “Now, get out of my office.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Mandelbaum, you are sweet. And you do look lovely—”

  “Get out!”

  As to what my big plan was, I didn’t have one. No scheme, big or small, and no expectation of a result. I only knew if I was to have any hope of making some sense out of all the senselessness, I needed to look deeper into Lydia’s life. For me, that meant going to where Lydia spent her time away from the glitz and glamour of the Copa Room. As it turned out, it only added to my bewilderment.

  I stood on the sidewalk and compared the address written on the Rolodex card Mrs. Mandelbaum had given me with the numbers stenciled above the apartment building I was looking at. Surprisingly, they matched. Surprisingly, because the apartment building wasn’t at all what I was expecting. Not that it wasn’t nice. It just wasn’t nice nice. Given her looks, occupation, and the men she typically dated, I envisioned someone like Lydia residing in a sprawling penthouse replete with round bathtubs, overstuffed couches, and lots and lots of pink fluffy things. This was just your average stucco apartment complex located a few miles south of town. Cacti and palm trees decorated the outside of the three-story structure, and through the wrought iron gate, I could make out a tiny courtyard and swimming pool. Like I said, it was nice, certainly nicer than Chateau de Trip, but it didn’t come close to rising to the level of fluffy.

  The directory hung on the wall beside the entrance. I located the number to the apartment manager, pushed the button, and was buzzed in. I was met in the courtyard by a weatherworn gentleman wearing cutoff jeans, a plaid shirt, and cowboy boots. That’s right, I said cowboy boots.

  “Can I help you?” Hopalong asked, moseying up to me.

  “Yes, I’m a friend of one of your occupants, Lydia Starr.”

  “Popular gal,” he
replied.

  “Really?” I responded like a dunce.

  “Are you with the police?” he asked.

  “No, no, I’m just a friend. Why would you think I was with the police?”

  “Because they were around earlier today asking about her too.”

  Of course they were. When I told them Lydia was dead, this would’ve been the first place they’d have come. “No, I’m just a friend.”

  “Yep, you’ve made that point a couple of times now,” Hopalong said, squinting the way an old cowboy does when some slick talkin’ tinhorn attempts to sell him a bull with udders. He continued, “I’ll tell you what I told the law. Miss Starr’s gone. Don’t know where she went, don’t know why she left.”

  “When did she move out?”

  “Sometime in the last couple of days, I reckon. I was up in Reno over the weekend. Left Saturday morning, got back last night, found her key in my box with a note saying thank you, good luck, and so long.”

  “And you don’t know where she—”

  “What did I just say, boy?”

  “Right, sorry.”

  “What do you really want, son?”

  Since moving out west, I’ve run across my fair share of Hopalongs. I’ve come to learn the one thing all these folks have in common is how much they value honesty and sincerity. As luck would have it, nobody fakes honesty and sincerity like Trip Callaway. “Well, you see…I’m sorry, I don’t recall catching your name. I’m Chester,” I said, offering my hand.

  “I don’t recall pitching it,” Hopalong replied, staring at me. I stood silently with my arm extended. Finally, after an awkward second or two, he took my hand, and with a ridiculously firm grip, shook it. “Name’s Dan.”

  “Pleasure, Dan,” I said back.

  I didn’t continue until the handshake was completed and the bonds of manhood had firmly been established. “Dan,” I said, coaxing the blood back into my palm, “I’m going to be square with you, ’cause at this point I got nothing to lose.”

  “Okay.”

  “Truth is, Lydia’s more than my friend, she’s my best girl. At least she was until I went off and did something so stupid I outta be horsewhipped.”

  “Catch you messing around with another filly, did she?”

  “Sort of. But it’s not what she thought.”

  “Never is,” he replied with a crooked grin.

  “You see, Dan, the rodeo was in town over the weekend, and I just love the rodeo. Reminds me of home. I was reared on a ranch back in Oklahoma. Anywho, I went and it turned out I knew one of the cowboys. Well, he and I went carousing, and I did a little too much drinkin’, didn’t check in with Lydia, and she came a-lookin’ for me.”

  “Uh-oh,” Cowboy Dan uttered.

  “She found me at the Desert Inn passed out with my arm around some cowgirl from Albuquerque. Dan, I swear nothin’ happened. Heck, I don’t even know the little lady’s name. But Lydia got all riled up, said we were through, and stormed out. I’ve been trying to find her ever since.”

  “I see. You want to tell me why the police were here looking for her?”

  “Because I told them she was missing. Wish I hadn’t done that, but I’m desperate. Anyway, that’s why they were here. And that’s why I’m here.”

  “I see.”

  “Dadgummit, Dan, I don’t know what to do. Lydia’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. If I lose her, I might as well just up and die.”

  “Now, now, don’t go talkin’ nonsense like—”

  “I have to find her, Dan. Can you help me, please?”

  “Son, I’d like to help you, I would. Lord knows I’ve stood in your mess of manure a time or two myself. But I got no idea where your little lady went.”

  “Well, I was thinkin’,” I said, hanging my head while twisting the toe of my shoe in the ground, “Could I see her apartment? I’m a-figurin’ she might have left something behind to give me a clue where she ran off to, or where I might start looking for her.”

  “She didn’t leave anything behind, son. There’s nothing in there except the furniture that comes with the place.”

  I kept my head pathetically hung and didn’t respond.

  You ever hear a cowboy sigh? It’s almost musical. “Aw heck. I guess there’s no harm in lettin’ you take a look-see for yourself.”

  I beamed. “I’m most appreciative, Dan. It’ll only take a minute.”

  I was prepared to follow Cowboy Dan into the complex, but it turned out Lydia’s apartment was only a few feet away, first floor, poolside.

  “I don’t recall ever seeing you around here, Chester,” Dan said, fumbling with a ring of keys attached to his wide leather belt.

  I was ready for this one. “No, sir, I’ve never been here before. Lydia and I weren’t married, and I don’t think it’s right for a gentleman to call upon a lady at her place of residence until they’re all legal in the eyes of the Lord.”

  That one earned me a most approving nod from Cowboy Dan. He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and allowed me to go in first.

  I suppose the best way to describe the one bedroom, one bath is it was exceedingly typical. Eggshell walls, cheap tan carpeting, and furnishings courtesy of Montgomery Ward. It wasn’t just un-fluffy, it was completely uninspired. I was having a hard time reconciling the Lydia I knew with the place she called home. That must have shown on my face given what Dan said next.

  “It’s not that bad, son. Safe, clean, and just a few feet from the swimming hole. It’s actually one of our most desirable units. In fact, I got a whole mess of people lining up tomorrow to see it. Nope, I won’t have no problems rentin’ this place, I reckon.”

  “No, no, it’s beautiful. Does all this furniture come with it?”

  “Yep. Even the pictures on the walls.”

  “That’s nice,” I lied, thinking to myself I’d have to be in a coma before I’d choose to live there. “Must have cost Lydia a pretty penny breaking her lease like she did.”

  “Your girl didn’t have a lease. She paid month to month.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “Not at all. Most people sign a lease because it’s cheaper. Miss Starr wasn’t interested though. She told me she liked to keep her options open. She was willing to pay a whole twenty dollars more a month for the privilege too. But that’s the way she wanted it. I did ultimately start giving her a three-dollar a month discount because she didn’t own a car. That allowed me to rent out her parking space to somebody else.”

  I nodded, thinking to myself if Cowboy Dan told the police the same thing, it only validated their theory Lydia had simply left town.

  “Well, you have your look-see. Let me know when you’re done.”

  I thanked him, and he left.

  I wasted no time. I started in the kitchen and moved like a thief from room to room. Even though I was much more respectful than the hooligans who invaded my home, I still looked in, over, and under everything. I opened drawers, cupboards, closets, and nightstands. I looked beneath the bed, between the mattresses, behind pictures, under cushions, and on top of every shelf. I left nothing unexamined. But in the end, Cowboy Dan was right, there was nothing of Lydia’s left in the apartment.

  I found my new cowpoke pal in the courtyard.

  “You didn’t find anything, did you, son?”

  “No, sir. Thank you for letting me look around. Guess I’ll try something else.”

  We shook hands, much gentler this time, and he turned to lock Lydia’s door. “One last thing, Dan. Did Lydia ever have any visitors that you can remember?”

  Dan turned, sighed, and shook his head. “If you’re lookin’ for ammo to use against your lady, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. I don’t recall Miss Starr ever having any company. Son, if you do find her, my advice is to take your lumps and beg for forgiveness. Don’t go try to get all scheming. It never turns out well.”

  “Yes, sir. Sound advice.”

  And that was that.

  I got in the car
and just sat. I not only felt defeated, I felt silly. What was I expecting to find anyway? A letter from Lydia explaining everything that had happened, including how she ended up dead in Ken’s swimming pool? If memory serves me, I actually slammed my hand against the dash—not a typical Trip move at all. I took stock of my disposition and realized I hadn’t eaten all day and was properly famished. This was by no means an excuse for my childish behavior, but at least it was a malady I could easily remedy.

  I shouldn’t have to rationalize heading back to The Jam Jar to satisfy my need for nourishment because a plate of vittles from Luther was as good as, or better than, any five-star restaurant in the city—and considerably less expensive. So if you’re thinking I only decided to go there because I was too chicken to go back to apartment E and spend the evening alone…well, you wouldn’t be completely wrong. I was still unnerved by everything and needed to be with people I trusted. Also, no one in their right mind would dare try anything with Luther Beaurepaire, the brown behemoth of B Street, nearby.

  Night had fallen, so I gave up on seeing if the black Caddy was following me. I simply soothed my soul by singing a verse of “Yes, I Have No Bananas” and turned it over to my Lord and Savior Henry Ford to get me to The Jam Jar unmolested. As usual, Saint Henry and his Falcon didn’t let me down.

  For a place like The Jam Jar, it was still quite early. Only a half dozen or so of the regulars were in the club. I knew most of them by name and said hello as I entered. I didn’t see Luther or Betsy, so I found a spot at the bar and ordered a brew from Shorty, The Jam Jar’s bartender. Shorty was a good-humored, middle-aged, white gentleman who walked with a slight limp. Though a bit on the geometrically proportioned round side, he wasn’t nearly as vertically challenged as his name implied.