Jimmy and Fay (9 page)

“You've seen 'em,” I said. “I had an idea they might try to needle me, so I described them to Malloy and he said they were here, a kid and an older guy. Nursed beers at the bar.”

She sat straighter. “Those two! I knew there's something hinky with them. They were giving me and Marie Therese the eye the whole time they were here.”

“They say anything? Try anything?”

“Of course not. Frenchy saw what they were and took over that end of the bar.”

I asked what she made of them and she shrugged. “At first I thought they were just the usual lonely guys, but there was something more. I don't know, nasty, strange, something about them. A lot of guys come in and spend the whole time looking you over and undressing you with their eyes and pinching your butt, but those two, especially the older one, they were more serious. And I'm not just making this up now that you're telling me who they are. Marie Therese said the same thing. Ask her.”

“I told Malloy to ask Fat Joe why he let 'em in. We'll get something.”

She finished chewing and asked what was going on. “I don't get it. You say these guys have got dirty pictures of Miss Wray, but they're not Miss Wray. That doesn't make any sense.”

“I know it doesn't, and what's even crazier is that the two hinky guys seem to think that the pictures really are of Miss Wray. The kid doesn't know from Shinola, and the older guy isn't much smarter. My guess is they're doing what they're told, but, here, take a look for yourself.” I held out the book. “I warn you, they're pretty racy.”

She gave me another look, then took the book and went through it. I think that the last picture might have shocked her a little, but except for a faint blush, she hardly let it show. She was smiling when she handed the book back and said, “It's a very good wig, and she does have a nice figure.”

“Not as good as yours.” She gave me another look. “Well, it's not.”

“Don't try to sweet-talk me,” she said, half smiling.

“I'm not. I'm trying to figure out why you're mad at me.” And, boy, was that the wrong thing to say.

The half smile vanished and she said, “Just stop, you're only making it worse. I've got to get back to work.” She left without saying anything else.

I finished my sandwich, went over to the desk, and found the number of the Pierre Hotel in the telephone book. I called and asked for Ruth Rose, the name Miss Wray was registered under. The hotel operator told me that the line was in use. I told her to send a message to the room that Jimmy Quinn was on the way.

Before I left, I opened the safe and stowed the dirty book. Since so many people seemed to be interested in it, I decided it should stay there. While the safe was open, I took out the Banker's Special. It was a Colt .38 with a two-inch barrel, a nice little piece. I checked to make sure there was an empty chamber under the hammer and slipped it into my coat pocket. You hardly noticed the bulge in a properly constructed suit like mine.

The Thursday night crowd was still happy, noisy, and thirsty. As I was putting on my topcoat and hat, Fat Joe hauled his big lazy ass out of his chair by the door.

“Malloy says you want to know about those two fucking guys that was here tonight.”

“Right.”

“They was fucking cops. Well, one of 'em used to be, anyway.”

“You know them?”

“Yeah, but not for a long fucking time. The one guy used to come in when Carl owned the place, before you jacked up the fucking prices sos a regular workin' guy can't even afford to come here no more.”

“This cop, he got a name?”

“Sleepyhead Trodache. Worked the fucking Vice Squad with Chile Acuna.”

“Acuna? Did he get shitcanned when that bastard got it?”

“That was a fucking setup. Those whores had it in for him.”

“My ass. They didn't call him ‘Chile Acuna, the human spittoona' for nothing.”

That seemed to offend Fat Joe, and he started sputtering more about the raw fucking deal those guys got until I told him to shut up.

“Look, I don't care what happened or if he came here when Carl owned the place. I own it now, and he doesn't get in. That's it. Right?”

Fat Joe grumbled and cursed and said something that sounded like he agreed. I went out to the corner and caught a cab to the Pierre. Again, I told the cabbie to keep an eye out for a tail. He didn't see anything and neither did I. There was no sign of the Olds. Not then.

Chapter Eight

Riding uptown, I worried over what Fat Joe said.

When he testified a few years before, Chile Acuna was the guy who put the Seabury Commission on the front pages of all the papers. You see, Chile was the main stoolie who set up the innocent landladies and nurses to be framed as hookers and railroaded through the Magistrate's Court. Got his start working as a translator for the cops in the Spanish neighborhoods. When he became a stoolpigeon, he'd go to a rooming house, say, and tell the woman who ran it that he was looking for a place to stay. Once they were in a room alone, he'd signal the vice cops outside. They'd bust in. He'd show them some money and say the woman had “exposed her person” to him. Sometimes the cops would beat up Chile a little to scare the woman. Once they had her in Magistrate's Court, they'd milk her dry, just like they did with the real whores.

When Chile sang like a crooner to the commission, he fingered about forty or fifty cops that he'd worked with. And the funny thing is that he only ratted on them because the cops double-­crossed him and kicked him out of their racket. I didn't recall seeing the name Sleepyhead Trodache in the papers, so it was likely that he resigned before Chile appeared in court. He wasn't the only one. A lot of vice cops quit before they were fired or brought up on charges.

At the front desk of the Pierre, I told them I was there to see Miss Wray. They didn't believe me and they were pretty damn snotty about it until she told them to send me right up. Then they offered to have a bellboy escort me. I didn't need that, but on the way to the elevators, I had a thought and stopped by the concierge's desk. You see, the Pierre is a classy operation. They'd never let a couple of stumblebums like Trodache and the kid in the front door. I couldn't see them walking in and handing over a package that got to Miss Wray. But maybe somebody remembered something about whoever did bring it.

The concierge was a chunky-looking number who sized me up right away as somebody who wasn't important. When I told him I was working with Miss Wray, his opinion of me went up but not much. All the time I was talking to him, he was busy with other things.

“She got a small package about this big,” I said, showing him with my hands. “Thick, brown paper wrapping.”

“Miss Rose has been receiving a great number of items.” He didn't even look up.

“Maybe you or somebody else will remember this one. It came in this morning. If you can tell me anything about who brought it, I know she'll appreciate it.”

He nodded and that was that. I was dismissed.

The first thing I noticed about the place was all the damn flowers. Hell, you couldn't miss them. There were big bouquets on every flat surface, and the smell was enough to knock you over. Miss Wray still looked worried and wound up. She was still wearing the same outfit, too, and she kept sitting down and getting up and pacing and sitting down again as we talked. Her suite was about eight floors up on the corner overlooking the park to the west and south. Her view was probably about as good as Meyer Lansky's, but she was on the other side.

There was a moderately well-stocked bar, but it looked like she was sticking with the champagne. She offered me a glass, but I said no, hoping she'd try to ply me with something stronger. She didn't, dammit. She said Hazel was on the phone to her sweetie in California and asked what I had learned.

I took off my hat and coat and settled in an armchair. The card on the tub of roses on the table next to me said they'd come from her dearest friend Gary Cooper. She paced to the ice bucket, poured a thimble drop into her glass, and perched on the edge of the sofa close to me.

“I've been asking around,” I said, “and I found out a few things.”

She leaned forward, eyes wide, staring at me with an intensity I wasn't used to seeing in beautiful women, and said, “Tell me everything.”

Without going into needless detail, I said that none of the guys I knew were in on this deal. “I don't know if the name Charlie Luciano means anything to you. . . .” She shook her head. “He's the biggest bootlegger in town and he takes a slice of just about any other sort of illegal activity that folks like to indulge in. He doesn't know anything about the book, and none of the guys who work for him do either.”

“Is that good?”

“Not really. If we were dealing with Charlie's guys, we could probably be sure that they would take the money and turn over the rest of the books. Probably.” Sure, they'd keep a few, but I didn't tell her that. Instead, I got to the important parts and told her that I'd been braced by a couple of guys who said they had the books and knew enough details that I believed them.

That's when she interrupted, “But how did they find you so quickly?”

“I wondered the same thing myself and I can see two possibilities. First, after they sent you the book and the demand for the money, they watched the hotel, and when they saw you leave, they followed you to my place. Knowing who I am, they figured I was going to be the moneyman, and so they followed me when I went out. Or somebody inside the lawyers' office or one of the studio executives is in on the deal and tipped them off. You know more about the studio than I do. What do you think?”

Looking more worried, she sank back into the sofa. “I really don't know any of these people”—she paused—“but, you know, I've been thinking that whoever took those pictures must have seen our sets and costumes, and I don't know how that could have happened because the production was kept about as secret as it could be. They didn't want anyone to know anything about it. This isn't like any other picture I've ever done. The cast did most of our work years ago. I've made two more pictures since then. Or is it three? Golly, I'm not sure. It took that long to work out all of those effects and they were afraid word would get out and somebody else would get their big creatures on the screen before we did.”

“But somebody could have seen the photographs and drawings.”

“I suppose so, if someone on the crew let them in.”

But that wasn't what she was really worried about, so I told her that I might know who the two guys were. “Looks like it's a guy named Trodache, an ex-vice cop who has some experience with this kind of thing. I'm not sure that's really who he is, but we'll work that out by and by. The funny thing is that when he and his partner, a younger guy, were talking to me, they sounded like they believed that it really was
you
in the pictures. What I'm saying is, they don't know what they've got, and if they don't know that, there's probably a lot more they don't know. And there's a third guy involved, too. Didn't get a good look at him, but let's figure he's the brains. Any of that mean anything to you?”

She shook her head. I swear, the whole time I'd been there, she didn't blink.

“Anyway,” I said, “the guy said they'd be in touch tomorrow about the money. Did the lawyers say anything more to you about whether they're going to pay?”

“No.”

“One of the lawyers called me tonight wanting to know what I learned. I asked him what they were going to do. He didn't answer.”

She stood and paced behind the sofa. “They'll pay or I'll have their jobs. What did you tell him?”

“Not as much as I'm telling you. Just that it's not one of my known associates, as the papers might put it.”

She sat back down. “Oh, dear, this is not going well.”

“No,” I said, “and there's something you'll like even less.”

Tired of waiting, I went over to the bar, found a glass, and poured myself a tot of the studio's brandy. It wasn't as good as mine. I sat back down and said to her, “Do you know Saxon Dunbar?”

Her face went white and her voice was strained. “No, don't tell me that he knows. If he sees those pictures, it's all over.” She got up and started walking again.

“It's not that bad. He hasn't seen anything. He was waiting at my place when I got back. Somebody, and it's got to be the guys who braced me, called him and told him about the book and that I have a copy. Like I said, these guys don't really know what they're doing. You ask me, all they want is the money and they're afraid the studio won't pay. That's why they're trying to put more pressure on me. And it sounds like they fed Dunbar the same line about the pictures being you. And, I've gotta say, that's where I get lost in all this. I mean, anybody can see that it's not you, so why do you care anyway?”

She kept walking. “You don't understand. It's my husband. He's . . . He can be extremely jealous. And something like this, well, we've got to be sure that John doesn't find out, that's all there is to it.”

“Okay,” I said. “Would it make any difference if you knew who the girl in the pictures is?”

That stopped her. “It could change everything. Do you know her?”

“I've got a name, not a real name, of a girl who used to work for Polly Adler. Luciano, the guy I told you about, I showed him the book and he thinks he knows her.”

She sat back down, chewed on a thumb knuckle, thought for a moment, and said, “This is astonishing. Hazel! Come here, listen to this.”

I heard the sound of a handset hanging up in another room and Hazel came trotting in. “What is it?” She sounded worried.

Miss Wray said, “We may finally have some good news. Mr. Quinn thinks that he knows the woman in the photographs.” She turned to me. “Can you bring her here?”