A Real Gone Guy, page 6
The dining room itself was built in tiers with heavily carpeted steps leading down to a small dance floor. The tables on each tier were huddled closely together, leaving barely enough room for the waiters to come and go between them. Almost everybody in the room was in evening dress, all seemed to be trying to talk at once.
Ernie selected a table set back from the dance floor and sheltered by a large, artificial palm. “Will this be all right? We’re pretty full,” he smiled apologetically.
Liddell nodded. “We’re not hard to get along with.”
The man in the blue tuxedo looked relieved. He signaled for a waiter who was hovering nearby, fussing with his cuffs as the redhead and Liddell were getting settled.
“Mr. Liddell is the guest of Mr. Carter,” the headwaiter informed the waiter in a tone that implied being Mr. Carter’s guest was next to being God.
The waiter failed to be impressed, nodded. He waited until the fat man had started picking his way through the tables on his way back to the entrance. “Fat bastard,” the waiter commented. He turned to Liddell. “What’ll it be? Champagne and caviar?”
“Two bourbon on the rocks,” Liddell told him.
“And?” The waiter poised his pencil over his pad.
“That’s all.”
The waiter shook his head. “This I don’t get. The boss is going to pick up the check. Me, he picks up my check, it’d be so heavy it’d rupture him.” He leaned over, dropped his voice. “You think he couldn’t afford it? How about a nice sirloin, maybe? Two inches thick with all the trimmings and—”
“Two bourbon on the rocks.”
The waiter broke off, stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Me, I’d rupture him.” He snapped his pad closed, walked off shaking his head.
“I’m glad you didn’t accept the invitation,” Muggsy whispered when the waiter had disappeared in the direction of the bar. “It’s going to be tough enough working off a couple of bourbons, let alone caviar and champagne.”
“Stop being such a pessimist. Carter’s an old friend of mine.”
“You know it, and I know it. What’s worrying me is, does Carter?”
Liddell’s eyes wandered around the room, catalogued the familiar faces at the various tables bordering the floor. “He really gets quite a play here.”
“This is The Spot for the Cafe Society mob this season.” Muggsy dug a package of cigarettes out of her oversized bag, dumped two loose. “Your girl Denny Lyons is hotter than a fifty cent pistol. I take it you’ve never caught her act?”
Liddell shook his head. “They don’t have a floor show in my favorite Third Avenue hideaway.” He lit a match for the redhead, picked up the other cigarette, lit it for himself. “According to your hears all, knows all, spills all buddy, Marty Graham, la belle Lyons was trying to fit Tommy Lorenzo’s nose with a ring.”
Muggsy grunted. “She and every other babe in town.” She squinted into the spotlight. “Don’t look now, but a buddy of yours just came in. He’s talking to your friend, the headwaiter.”
Liddell followed her glance. A heavy-shouldered man with a thick pompadour was standing at the entrance with Ernie. As the headwaiter spoke, the other man glared over toward where Liddell sat. “Danny Herrick,” Liddell grunted. “What’s he doing on this side of town? He used to be strictly West Side. Used to peddle muscle to the beer boys. He looks a little out of character in a tuxedo.”
“He worked for Lorenzo. Sort of glorified bodyguard. He went everywhere Tommy went,” Muggsy filled in. “As you must have guessed by now, Lorenzo’s personality wasn’t the kind that helps a guy break a hundred.”
“I wonder where he was the night Lorenzo got mugged?”
Muggsy shrugged, blew a stream of smoke ceilingward. “I don’t know. But it looks as if you’re going to have an opportunity to ask him personally.”
As they watched, Herrick pushed past the headwaiter, started across the room toward where they sat. His shoulders bulked out the tuxedo jacket, tapered down to a thin waist that gave the effect of an inverted pyramid. From across the room, his face was a pale blur, his heavy beard a dark smudge along the jaw line.
“I hope he’s a friend of yours, too?” Muggsy murmured.
“I wouldn’t know,” Liddell grinned. “I haven’t seen him since I arranged to have him sent up for five years.”
Muggsy groaned. “How to make friends and influence people!”
The waiter was back with the two drinks. He set them down on the table. “You’re sure there’s nothing else you want?”
“Just one thing,” Liddell nodded. The waiter’s face brightened, then dropped when Liddell finished, “A private talk with Denny Lyons.”
The waiter shook his head. “This, mister, is definitely not on the house. Champagne, caviar,” he shrugged, “that you can have. The broad?” He shook his head again. “This I can’t help you with.”
“Look, I’m not trying to move in on anybody’s private stock. All I want to do is talk to her.” He reached toward his pocket. “About Tommy Lorenzo.”
The waiter shook his head firmly. “You’re wasting your time, mister. I couldn’t do a thing. Not without I got word from the boss. Us, we got orders. Nobody, but nobody talks to nobody about Tommy Lorenzo. Nobody.”
The waiter hadn’t noticed Herrick’s approach. He jumped when the bodyguard stepped up behind him.
“That makes you smart, meathead.” Herrick’s voice was harsh, gravelly. “Get back to hustling your drinks. I’ll take care of this character.”
He waited while the waiter backed away, pulled a chair back and sat down.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Have we a choice?” Liddell wanted to know.
“No.”
“Then be my guest.” Liddell looked the man over. The broken nose, the bulging eyebrows and heavy cheekbones tagged him as a professional brawler. “It’s been a long time, Herrick.”
Herrick twisted his battered features into what was meant to be a grin. “Not long enough.”
“Last time I saw Herrick, he was on his way to do five years at Danbury, Muggs. He must’ve had friends. That was only three years ago.”
“What do you want around here, Liddell?” Herrick growled.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I dropped by to have a little talk with Denny Lyons. Why?”
“Stay away from her. We don’t like our stars annoyed by peepers.”
Liddell raised his eyebrows. “Our stars? Does Dutch Carter know he has a partner?”
“Carter doesn’t know a lot of things. Like for instance you’re supposed to be a friend of his.” He curled his lips. “So, okay. You hustled a free drink. Be satisfied. Drink it and blow.”
Liddell took a sip from his glass, studied the other man over the rim. “I guess pounding your head against the stone wall up in Danbury injured your hearing, eh, Herrick? I told you I came here to see Denny Lyons.”
“And I told you to forget it. She don’t want to talk to you.”
“So you did. But then, you always were a liar, weren’t you, Herrick?”
The color drained from Herrick’s face, the right end of his mouth twitched upward, baring his teeth in a snarl. His voice went low, hoarse. “Don’t count on it because the joint’s crowded, peeper. I knew a guy named Chink Sherman got it in the belly in a joint called the Club Abbey with every table full.”
Liddell grinned at him. “Then it couldn’t have been you that gave it to him. Not even you can shoot a man in the belly from the back.”
Herrick half pulled himself out of his chair, his knuckles were white where he gripped the table. His eyes met Liddell’s, were first to drop. He got to his feet, kicked back his chair and stalked toward the dance floor, pushing paying customers out of his way.
Muggsy released her breath in a soft whistle. “Do you have to do that? Do you have to needle characters like him? It’s safer playing handball with an atom bomb.” She drained her glass, set it back on the table. “I could do with another of these.”
Liddell waved down the waiter, indicated a refill of both glasses. The waiter nodded, shuffled over. At the table he looked around, dropped his voice. “Mister, even if it wasn’t on the house, you wouldn’t get no check from me. The way you told that gorilla off.” He rolled his eyes ceilingward. “It did me more good than a hot foot-bath.” He made sure no one was within earshot. “That guy, he’s the one Dracula threatens his kids with when they’re bad. A real no-good.” He picked up the glasses, swept some imaginary crumbs off the table with a flick of his napkin. “I’m not promising, but I’ll try to get you backstage.”
On the floor, the band blared out an introductory chord and the lights dimmed. A yellow spot probed the darkness, picked up the wasp-waisted figure of an effeminate master of ceremonies. He was tall, thin and his blond hair looked as though it had been waved. From where he sat, Liddell thought his shoulders were too broad and his teeth too white to be real. He told a couple of off-color jokes, sang two choruses of an old song nasally, then raised his hands to cut off the almost nonexistent applause.
He pulled the mike toward him, put his face down to it. “And now to bring you what we’ve all been waiting for, the star of our show, the incomparable, the breathtaking—Miss Denny Lyons!”
An expectant hush fell on the room, conversation died away. A piano was wheeled onto the floor, a pasty-faced man with a wet smear for a mouth and aggressively curly hair appeared from nowhere and took his place at the piano.
The spotlight shot to the far side of the bandstand, picking out a rhinestoned curtain. At the fanfare, the curtain parted and a tall full-breasted blonde walked onto the floor. As she walked toward the piano, the audience applauded and pounded on tables.
She was poured into a white satin gown that seemed to have been pasted to her body. Her hair was blue white, complementing the deep tan of her face and bare shoulders. As she walked, her every movement was sensuous, suggestive. She seemed to flow as though her body were completely boneless. Her breasts traced designs on the satin as they swayed, her small waist hinted at long legs and full hips concealed by the fullness of her skirt. Her mouth was a vivid, moist slash of crimson against the cocoa color of her skin. Even at this distance, the blueness of her eyes was startling.
She leaned against the piano, her breasts thrust forward against the fragile fabric of the gown as she waited with a tolerant smile. As suddenly as it had begun, the applause died away, leaving a tangible void. The occupants of the room seemed to be releasing their collective breaths as the music started and the blonde began to sway in rhythm.
Her voice was husky, the kind that plays on the spinal column like a xylophone. The lyrics were blue and off color, but she managed to retain an expression of untroubled innocence despite the bursts of laughter some of the lines drew. At the end of the song, she grinned her appreciation of the thunderous applause and the scattered wolf calls. She permitted herself to be coaxed into an encore.
Liddell looked from the singer to Muggsy, pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. The redhead grinned, leaned across the table and whispered. “Remember what the man said. You can look, but don’t touch.”
The encore was greeted with the same enthusiastic response, but this time the blonde refused to do another number. She blew kisses at the occupants of the ringside tables and undulated back to the rhinestoned entrance. She stood there for a moment drenched in the spotlight, then suddenly the light was doused. When the floor lights came up, the floor was empty.
The master of ceremonies was back. He told a few more jokes to an audience that had already lost interest, then introduced an adagio team of questionable ability.
They were halfway through their number when a uniformed page boy stopped at Liddell’s table. “Are you Mr. Liddell?”
Liddell nodded.
“Miss Lyons will see you in her dressing room.” He looked directly at Muggsy. “Alone.”
“Don’t worry about me, Junior,” the redhead purred. “I just came along to help him cross the streets.”
Liddell drained his glass, set it down on the table. “I told you she was the shy type, Muggs.”
“I could tell that by her number,” Muggsy retorted.
Liddell followed the page boy around the back of the room to a door leading backstage. The glitter and tinsel of the Silver Swan out front had no counterpart backstage. A dingy, uncarpeted corridor ran the length of the backstage area, lined on either side with doors to telephone-booth-sized dressing rooms. It had a characteristic backstage odor compounded of about one part perspiration to three parts perfume.
Denny Lyons’s door was identifiable by a peeling gilt star. The page boy rapped at the door, waited expectantly.
“I’m decent, come on in,” a sultry, disturbing voice invited.
She was sitting on a straight-backed chair in front of a make-up table. She had exchanged the tight fitting white satin dress for a light blue dressing gown that made it obvious that her assets were as liquid—and probably as negotiable—as those of the First National Bank.
She grinned at the wide-eyed, slack-lipped stare of the page boy, winked at him. “You remember what I said, Larry. You come back when you’re a big boy.” She motioned for Liddell to come in.
When the boy had closed the door behind him, Liddell waited for a moment. Then he opened the door a crack, and satisfied himself that the corridor was empty.
The platinum blonde watched with an amused smile. “Cautious, aren’t you?” Her full lips were peeled back from a perfect set of teeth. From close, her eyes were a cerulean blue, crinkled when she smiled.
“I didn’t want us to be disturbed.” Liddell closed the door, grinned at her.
“Why? What are we going to be doing?”
“Talking.”
The girl got up out of her chair, motioned him into it. She perched on the edge of her dressing table. She made a halfhearted and ineffectual effort to pull her gown closed. “The message said you wanted to talk about Lorenzo.” She twisted her lips as she said it, as though the name were a dirty word. “What about the creep?”
“You were the last one to see him on the night he was killed.”
“With the exception of the public benefactor who did the job,” she corrected him. “What’s your interest in Lorenzo?”
“I’m a private detective. An insurance company I represent is trying to find a loophole in a double indemnity policy he carried.” He picked up a cigarette from the dressing table, smelled it. He dropped it back into the box. “You ought to try tobacco some time.”
“What’s your insurance company trying to prove? That Lorenzo died of old age?” She helped herself to a cigarette, lit it. Smoke dribbled from her half-parted lips. “Anyway, why come to me? The police have the whole story. He took me home that night the way he did every night. After he left me, some guy tried to stick him up and Lorenzo made a fight of it.”
“He had a bodyguard, I understand. Where was he?”
The blonde grinned at him. “Tommy came up for a drink. That was one thing he didn’t figure he needed a bodyguard to help him with. He sent him home.” She speared a fleck of tobacco from the tip of her tongue with a long nail. “I don’t get this pitch of yours, mister. Unless it’s a brand-new way to get acquainted. What’s the gimmick?”
Liddell shook his head. “No gimmick. I’ve got a client says Lorenzo wasn’t killed the way it’s down in the book. I’m just asking.”
The blonde stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean? Stop talking like a mainliner. The cops know how Lorenzo got it. They got his killer. Isn’t that good enough for you?”
“It would be if my client said so. But my client says that’s not the way it happened.”
“Then your client’s nuts, too. I don’t know what you’re trying to prove. Maybe you think Lorenzo’s not dead.”
Liddell grinned. “For his sake I hope he is. They buried him.”
“Very funny.” Expertly tinted lids half veiled her eyes. “I’ve got some good advice for you, mister. I know just how you can find out exactly what happened that night.”
“How?”
“Keep bothering people. They’ll fix it so’s you’ll be able to ask Lorenzo personally. And you won’t even need a ouija board.”
CHAPTER NINE
Neither Johnny Liddell nor the blonde heard the dressing room door open. Danny Herrick’s raspy voice broke in. “You sure can’t take a hint, can you, peeper?”
The blonde swung around, her eyes flashing fire. The full, red lips thinned into an angry line, the color drained from her face leaving the eye shadow and rouge like angry shadows in the deep tan. “I told you before now to knock before you come in here, Herrick. You’re going to pull that stunt once too often and I’m going to scream my head off to Carter.”
“That’s gratitude for you. Here I do you a favor by coming in to get rid of this bum while he’s giving you a hard time—”
“How do you know he was giving me a hard time?”
The bodyguard’s battered face broke into a grin. “I always listen outside the door before I come in. It sounded like he was bothering you.”
“Okay. So he’s bothering me. So are you. Get him out of here and get out with him. And stay away from my door.”
“You heard the lady, peeper,” Herrick growled. “Outside.” He pulled his hand out of his jacket pocket far enough to reveal that it held a .38.
Liddell grinned at him. “You ought to know better than that, Herrick. Carrying that’s a violation of your parole. You could get in trouble.”
“You’re already in trouble, peeper.” He caught Liddell by the arm, swung him around. “First, I’ll take your iron.”
Liddell permitted the man to fan him, shook his head. “What kind of manners do you think I’ve got? Do you think I’d go calling on a lady with a gun?”
Herrick snorted his annoyance, pushed Liddell toward the door. The private detective stopped with his hand on the knob. “If you get around to deciding you’d like to finish our conversation, Denny, look me up. I’m in the phone book.”
