Dial Me for Murder (27 page)

Chapter 28

FROM THE MOMENT HE SAW ME APPEAR IN THE crowd and start working my way to the front, Corona glowered at me and sang louder. His angular, clean-shaven face turned hard, and his lean, muscular body grew tight with tension. Standing poised in the spotlight in his sleek black tuxedo, he looked like a panther preparing to pounce. Then—when I finally made it to the table and sat down next to Abby—he
did
pounce. He snatched the microphone off its stand and bounded over to us, aiming the words of his song, like bullets, at the target of my blushing face.

“So open up your heart and let this fool rush in,” he bellowed, making the final line of the ballad sound more like a fierce command than the tender appeal the lyricist had surely intended. Then he shot me another creepy sneer, strutted back to the center of the dance floor, and—as the spotlights began to spin and the band brought the song to a climactic close—took an angry bow.

The audience went wild. (Either Corona’s forceful voice and tough demeanor turned them on, or they got a kick out of watching me squirm.) The men whistled, the women squealed, and everybody clapped like crazy. Some people jumped to their feet and shouted, “Bravo!” I, on the other hand, sat quiet as a mouse in my chair, ducking the swirling spotlights and staring down at the white tablecloth, wishing I could crawl under it.

“Where the hell
were
you?” Abby cried, shouting in my ear to be heard over the crowd. “You missed Corona’s entrance and most of his opening number! How could you do that? Don’t you remember what Sabrina said about—”

“Hush!” I shouted back at her. “Something happened in the ladies’ room and I couldn’t leave. I’ll tell you about it later.”

She gave me a snotty look and then signaled our waiter to bring us two more champagne cocktails.

While Corona was taking a few more bows and basking in the glow of his standing ovation, I snuck a quick peek at the mezzanine to see if Manhattan’s deceitful district attorney was really there.

He was.

Sitting tall and proud at a choice table near the railing with his beautiful and elegantly dressed young wife, Sam Hogarth looked as if he were posing for an official courthouse photo—or, more precisely, a presidential portrait destined to hang on a wall in the White House. His wavy gray hair gleamed silver in the revolving lights, and his wide, toothy grin was so dazzling the glare hurt my eyes. I turned away to avoid serious ocular damage.

When the applause died down, Corona fired me another disapproving frown, then spun around and snapped his fingers at the band. They played the intro to one of his more current hits, “Hearts on Fire,” and—without a nod or a word to the audience or me (thank God)—he launched into the song.

I couldn’t put it off any longer. It was time to pay the piper. Knowing tonight might be the only chance I’d ever get to interview Corona, I had to do whatever I could to get back in his good graces. I hiked up my skirt, crossed my legs in plain sight, leaned low over the table, and—following Sabrina’s direction— showed Corona as much cleavage as was humanly possible (for me, I mean). Then I took a deep breath, batted my lashes like an idiot, and gave the cruel crooner my undivided attention for the rest of the show. I didn’t once avert my eyes, or smoke a cigarette, or say a word to Abby. And at the end of every song I whooped and shimmied and clapped till I thought my hands would fall off.

I was dying to drink my cocktail, but I didn’t dare. Partly because of Sabrina’s caution, but mostly because I was so repulsed by Corona and the sinister circumstances (and by my own sickeningly subservient behavior), I felt another sip of Copa champagne would make me puke.

 
WHEN THE ORDEAL WAS FINALLY OVER—WHEN Corona had left the stage, and the band had stopped playing, and the spotlights had stopped spinning, and the audience had stopped applauding—a huge gorilla in a tuxedo appeared at our table and introduced himself as Little Pete, Tony Corona’s main man.

“Tony wants youse to come back to his dressin’ room now,” he said, running his hairy hand down the front of his white pleated shirt, which was stretched so tight across his bulging belly I thought the onyx studs would pop off, blast through the air, and land like bits of shrapnel in my wig. “C’mon, I’ll show youse the way.”

Abby was on her feet in a flash. She couldn’t wait to go backstage and meet Corona in person. (If you haven’t already noticed, Abby goes crazy for celebrities. All celebrities. Even lechers and murder suspects.) I, on the other hand, was dragging my tail. As eager as I was to conduct a close study of Corona, I wasn’t cheered by the knowledge that he’d be conducting an even closer study of me.

Trailing Little Pete and Abby through a door tucked in an alcove near the bandstand, I straightened the girdle-like skirt of my dress and tried to strut instead of stagger. Ha! It was so crowded backstage, all I (or anybody else) could do was dodge, swerve, and waddle forward like a duck (or a mermaid in high heels). The narrow hall outside the dressing rooms was packed with beefy bodyguards in tuxedos, big-breasted Copa girls in various states of undress, restless musicians taking a cigarette break, and swanky VIPs waiting for an audience with the pope—I mean, Corona.

As Little Pete led us down the hall and up to the front of the line of people outside Corona’s dressing room, I spotted a couple of familiar faces. Comedian George Gobel was there, looking cute in his red bow tie and bristly buzz cut, and just a few feet up the line, in a yellow chiffon dress and a sable stole, stood Ann Sothern, the smart, wisecracking star of the
Private Secretary
TV series (which, due to its amusing focus on the plight of single working women, was one of my favorites).

Abby recognized the two stars before I did. She was right in front of me, so I saw her head snap in their direction as we waddled by, but—wonder of wonders!—she didn’t squeal, or stop dead in her tracks, or even ask them for their autographs. She was calm, cool, and collected, which was a heck of a lot more than I could say for myself. If the lurch in my walk, and the sweat under my wig, and the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach were any indication, I was—even without the second champagne cocktail—about to throw up.

Little Pete knocked on the door of Corona’s dressing room, then opened it and stuck his head inside. “I got the dames here, boss,” I heard him say. “You wanna see ’em now?”

“Yeah,” Corona answered, in a loud, spiteful tone that was audible to everyone in the near vicinity. “Bring ’em in. Then get me another bottle of bourbon from the bar. This one’s dead.”

Little Pete opened the door wider and—ignoring the impatient groans and glares of those at the front of the line—ushered us inside. (Moses couldn’t hold a candle to Abby and me. High-priced call girls—even fake ones—can part the waters in a New York minute.)

Corona was slouching indolently in a leather swivel chair on the far side of the small dressing room. His head was lolling against the backrest and one leg was flung wide over an arm of the chair. His jacket was lying in a heap on the makeup table, and his untied black bow tie was hanging down the front of his open-collared dress shirt. His dark brown hair was damp and disheveled, his smile was cold and crooked, and as he watched me and Abby enter his dimly lit lair, his big brown eyes turned small and mean. He didn’t stand up, or say hello, or offer us a seat on the black leather couch against the wall.

“Anything else, boss?” Little Pete asked, heaving his huge body forward, nabbing the empty bourbon bottle off the makeup table, and then huffing his way back to the door.

“A pack of weeds and a bucket of ice,” Corona said, still squinting at Abby and me, sizing us up as if we were horses (or slaves) on the auction block. “And two more glasses,” he added as an afterthought.

“You got it,” Little Pete grunted, turning to leave.

“Hold on a minute,” Corona said. “What’s the scene out in the hall? Anybody waiting to see me?”

“Sure, boss. Lotsa people, like always.”

“Any big shots?”

“Nah, just Georgie Gobel and some TV actress. The rest ain’t nothin’ to honk about.”

“What about Hogarth?”

“He’s still up in the mezz with the wife. They’re havin’ dinner. Said he’d see ya later.”

“Then you can tell everybody else to scram,” Corona grumbled, swinging his leg off the arm of the chair, leaning forward, and raking his fingers through his hair. “I’m not in the mood for visitors and ass-kissers. Tell ’em I’m not feelin’ too good and I gotta rest up for the next show.”

“Okay, boss.” Little Pete nodded and reached for the door-knob.

“One more thing,” Corona said, looking toward the ceiling and rubbing the back of his neck. “Did that dick come back tonight? The rat who’s been sittin’ lookout at the bar all week? He thinks he’s undercover, but he’s not. The bartender made him right off. Said his name is Street and he’s a hotshot in Homicide.”

Little Pete let out a booming laugh. “Yeah, I know the rat you mean. Buys one rye and ginger and don’t even drink it. What a tip-off. Don’t he know any better’n that?”

Corona didn’t laugh or even smile. He jumped to his feet and started pacing, like a caged animal, around the tiny room. “So what’s the story?” he growled. “Is Street out there again tonight? Because if he is, I want you to get rid of him. Once and for all. I’m sick of looking at his ugly mug.”

“No, boss, he ain’t here yet. He usually don’t show up till after the second show.”

“Well, if he does come in, lemme know right away.” Corona continued his feverish pacing, not looking at Abby or me, but brushing so close to us I could feel the heat coming off his body.

“Sure thing,” Little Pete said. “You want that bottle of bourbon now?”

Corona came to a sudden standstill, ripped off his loosened bow tie, and tossed it on top of his rumpled jacket. “Yeah,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt all the way down to his black satin cummerbund, “and don’t forget the ice.”

Chapter 29

I DIDN’T THROW UP, BUT I ALMOST PASSED OUT. A hurricane was howling in my head. Corona and his boys knew all about Dan! And about his stakeout at the Copa! And that meant the city’s most powerful crime boss and the secret owner of the Copa, Frank Costello, knew all about Dan, too! And since Costello was now under investigation in the city’s big crackdown on organized crime, there was a damn good chance that Dan’s identity and recent surveillance activities had also been brought to the attention of District Attorney Sam Hogarth.

My screaming thoughts were interrupted by Corona’s silky yet surly voice. “Glad to see you could make it,” he scoffed, walking up to me and screwing his mouth into an ugly sneer. “Which one are you? Gina or Cherry?” He was standing so close I could see every detail engraved on the gold St. Christopher medal visible through the gap in his wide-open shirt.

“Cherry,” I said, without hesitation. (My near-virginal state had prompted Abby to pin that alias on me, and—though I hadn’t appreciated her derisive snorts and giggles at the time— I was now grateful for the name. At least I could remember it.)

“Cherry, huh?” Corona said, changing his sneer to a lusty smirk. “Does that mean you’ve still got a cherry to pop? Because if you do, you’ve come to the right place, honey. Poppin’ cherries is my favorite sport.”

I knew this was my cue to start flirting with the man—to make nice and bat my lashes and shower him with suggestive come-ons—but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was consumed with worry about Dan. He was in danger, and I had to do something about it! I needed to drop the nauseating call girl act and get back to playing detective—
now
.

“I hate the name Cherry!” I snapped, face flaming. “It has nothing to do with me or my precious maidenhead. Sabrina just wants me to use it because she thinks it sounds sexy. I wanted to take the name Melody, but Sabrina said it belonged to another girl . . . a girl who was—”

Before I could say the word
murdered,
Abby shoved me aside and planted her own cleavage in front of Corona. “What about
my
name, Tony?” she said to him, pouting and striking a voluptuous pose. “Doesn’t it turn you on? I borrowed it from Gina Lollobrigida. She and I have a lot in common, you see. We’re both busty brunettes, and we both just luuuuuvvv to ride Italian stallions.” Abby was pulling out all the stops, doing her best to distract Corona from my ill-advised (okay, incredibly stupid) outburst.

It worked.

Corona’s eyes grew wide as quarters, and his lean, hard face (think Frank Sinatra with a touch of Victor Mature) turned a little pink around the edges. He stopped breathing and started panting. “I hear what you’re sayin’, doll,” he snorted, “and I like what I see. But I want to see more. Step out in the middle of the floor and turn around real slow, so I can get a better look.”

“Whatever you say, Tony,” Abby murmured, smiling like the girl in the Colgate toothpaste ads. Then she took a deep breath, puffed up her nearly naked breasts, and—writhing her shoulders and hips like a professional stripper—did as she was told. (Look, I understood what she was doing, okay? She was making a sexual spectacle of herself so Corona would get all hot and bothered, and forget about my uncooperative conduct, and let us both stick around long enough to observe his behavior and fish for clues to the murder. But here’s what I
didn’t
understand: Did she really have to have so much fun doing it?)

As Abby was making her third or fourth slow, sensual (and annoyingly cheerful) turn around the floor, there was a loud knock on the door. “I got the booze, boss,” Little Pete called out, opening the door about an inch. “You want I should bring it in now?”

“Yeah,” Corona said, motioning for Abby to stop twirling and move out of the way. “Come in and put it on the table. You got the other stuff, too?”

“Sure thing, boss.” Grasping an ice bucket in one hand and a bottle of bourbon in the other, Little Pete lumbered across the room and set down the items as directed. A waiter carrying a tray topped with three glasses and a pack of Chesterfields followed close behind him. After everything was deposited on the makeup table, they both returned to the door. “That all, boss?” Little Pete asked. “Got what you need?”