Jimmy and Fay (10 page)

“No, all I've got is the name she used when she worked at Polly Adler's. She left there some time ago, I don't know exactly when or why. I might be able to find out, but I'll need to spread some cash around to get answers.”

She asked how much. I said a hundred in ones, fives, and tens ought to do it. She told Hazel to call the concierge and have it sent up.

Now, I've got to admit that impressed me. I knew some guys who could lay their hands on large amounts of cash on short notice, but I'd never been around anybody who could just say “bring me money,” like she was asking for a glass of water, and it happened. I guess if I'd thought about it, I'd have realized that RKO was probably going to take it out of her next paycheck, but I didn't think about that. Hazel made the call downstairs. I drank the acceptable brandy and tried to act like this kind of thing happened to me every day.

Miss Wray laid a warm hand on my knee. “What will you do now?”

I checked my watch. It was two in the morning. Things would be warming up down at Fifty-Fifth and Madison. “I'll go back to Polly's and see what else they can tell me. If I learn anything, I'll call in the morning.”

“No, please, you must learn all that you can and then come straight back here to tell us.”

“All right, if it's that important.”

There was a soft tap on the door. Hazel hurried to answer it. A bellboy handed her an envelope. For a moment, she was unsure about what to do, but she opened it and gave him a buck.

After he left, she handed me the envelope and said, “Is ninety-nine dollars all right? I think I've got some money in my bag.”

I told her it was fine and got ready to leave.

“One more thing,” I said to Miss Wray, as I put on my topcoat. “Earlier tonight in my place, you said that I wasn't what you expected.”

She nodded, still not giving anything away.

“What did you mean? It's flattering as hell to think that Jimmy Quinn's is so famous that Hollywood movie stars talk about it, but I'm not buying that. Why would you expect me to be anything?”

She drew out the moment longer than she needed to, then said, “You know my husband. Good night, Mr. Quinn.”

I had no idea what she was talking about.

Out in the hall, the bellboy who brought the cash was waiting for me. He was about fifteen years old by the look of him, and not much taller than me.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “I, ah, heard you talking to Mr. Phillip downstairs about a package for Miss Wray.”

“Yeah?”

“I didn't handle it myself, you understand, but I could ask around, you know, check with some of the guys who work days. I mean, if you was interested in flowers and telegrams, nobody could help you, but we didn't deliver many packages.”

I said okay and gave him another dollar, then made it two. Spread the wealth. “Yeah, ask around. I'm Jimmy Quinn. I'll probably be back tomorrow night. You learn anything before then, leave a message in Miss Wray's room.”

Chapter Nine

The same gray-haired colored man was working the elevator when I came in. He cut his eyes at me as he called upstairs. I guess he didn't see many guys visiting twice in one night.

He hung up the house phone, still giving me the eye, and said, “This way, sir.”

I winked at him and said, “They can't get enough of me.” He didn't think it was funny.

The place was a lot busier than it had been a few hours before. Polly was haggling over payment with a guy who was with a group of visiting firemen. They'd set up a phonograph in the mah-jongg room where three guys were dancing with a couple of girls. A projector was running in the dark library, and some of the others were watching a stag movie and yelling and stomping, making idiots of themselves. I got a drink and found Cynthia in Polly's office.

I sat at the chair opposite the desk. She fitted a thick stack of bills into a cashbox, put it into a bottom drawer, and locked it. I counted eight cards on the desktop, one for each girl who was working, and two that were turned up on edge in the card file for the ones that were available. I knew Polly's system. Usually when they got busy, nobody bothered with the cards, but whenever Cynthia was in charge, she kept all the girls and their times straight.

Her smile was forced, but she made it look real. She said, “I certainly hope you're here for the right reason, but I'll bet you still want to know about Nola. Well, the answer's the same as it was before. I can't tell you anything unless I get the word from Polly, and she's probably going to be tied up for some time. These firemen . . . Jeez.”

“Now, Cynthia,” I said, sounding reasonable as I slipped a sawbuck under her hand, “you know that Pearl, I mean Polly, and I are old friends, and I'd never ask you to do anything she wouldn't like, right? Just tell me what you can about this girl, what was her name? Nola Revere.”

She tucked the bill into her bra without missing a beat. “Well, I suppose there's no harm . . .”

As Cynthia put it, nobody knew Nola's real name or expected to. Judging by her accent, they thought she might be Polack. She said she'd worked in some dancehalls and she was so popular she decided she could do better. That led her to Minsky's burlesque, but she didn't like it there and a friend told her that Polly Adler's place was the best in town. She certainly had the figure. Her face was all right, but it was the figure that did it. As Charlie said, nobody forgot those tits. She started filling in on weekends. When one of the regulars left, she moved in and lived there from February to May.

“Why'd she leave?” I asked.

Cynthia shrugged. “Who knows? She waited until an afternoon when most of us were out, and then she packed up her clothes and left. The maid who was here said Nola told her to call a cab and left with her suitcases. All she left here were a few cosmetics.”

“Is it unusual for a girl to take off like that?”

“No, happens all the time. We have a lot of turnover.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “Hard to keep good help.” That made me think about Connie again, and I worried over whatever was making her so moody. What the hell was eating her?

“You said Nola hung around with Daphne. Where is she, anyway? I haven't seen her around.” After that afternoon in the Grand Central Building, the last time I saw Daphne was in Charlie's place at the Waldorf Terrace a year or so ago.

“She left, too.”

“Took off like the other girl?”

Cynthia shook her head. “She got out of the business, and it was good that she did. She and Polly had been on the outs. Daphne was the most popular girl here. She wanted more and Polly wouldn't give it to her. Don't tell Polly I said that. Anyhow, Daphne met a rich guy and he set her up in her own place.”

“No kidding,” I said. “I wonder if she could tell me anything about Nola.”

Cynthia started to say something but stopped and shook her head. “No, Daphne was as surprised as the rest of us when she left.”

I could tell she was holding out on me and she was worried at the same time. Well, why not? Most of the cops and thugs who came into the place thought that their position and their money gave them the right to do whatever they wanted to the girls, Polly and Cynthia included. They didn't talk about it, but I knew they'd been roughed up and the place had been tossed more than once.

Hell, it was the same for me, only not as bad. After all, in the eyes of the law, we were both trading in something that was illegal—booze and cooze. I had it easier since I didn't really have to hide what I did. If anybody complained to the local precinct cops that there was an establishment selling alcohol a couple of blocks off Broadway, they'd be laughed out of the place. For Cynthia and Polly, it was different. Somebody made enough noise about whores—even in a place as nice as Polly's—the cops would have to do something. And if some of Dutch Schultz's boys got carried away and knocked a girl around, Polly couldn't go to the cops.

Cynthia knew that if I decided to be a hard-ass, there was nothing to do about it.

I thought Miss Wray's money would be more persuasive and slipped her another ten. It smoothly joined the first ten-spot in her bra.

“Look,” I said. “I don't want to queer her deal. I like Daphne, you know that. I just need to talk to her a little, that's all. Hell, if she can help me, I'll make it worth her while. Even with this rich guy, I bet she could use a little folding money. What do you say?”

It turned out that Cynthia and Daphne had been pretty close pals, too. Polly and all the girls had been happy for Daphne when she told them that one of her regulars, a Wall Street banker no less, wanted a “more exclusive relationship.” They congratulated her and gave her a nice send-off. Daphne called Cynthia a few weeks later and said they should meet down in the Village for lunch, and that's what they did.

Cynthia said, “She's got a really cute little place. Hot water, her own bathroom and telephone, the works.”

I asked for the address and number. As she was writing them down, a worried look crossed her face and she said, “You got to promise me you're not going to make trouble for her. Daphne's a sweet kid. It was good for her to find this fellow. I'd hate it if you messed it up for her.”

“I'm only interested in the other girl, and I don't even know if it's that important I find her. This sure is a screwy business that I've got myself into.”

I didn't know how right I was.

Back out on Madison, I hailed a cab and told him to take me to my speak and to wait for me when we got there. I still couldn't quit thinking about Connie. If you'd asked me why, I probably couldn't have told you. Whatever the reason, I thought it would be good if she came with me to see Miss Wray again. If we weren't too busy. Or maybe I was just hoping that we'd finish the business and tell Miss Wray that, yes, we knew who the other girl was, and Saxon Dunbar wasn't going to screw her over, and Miss Wray would say that was great, and Connie and I would leave after ten minutes and spend more of Miss Wray's money on another cab back down to the Chelsea where Connie would invite me up to her room. Fat chance.

It was probably about quarter after three Friday morning when we got to the speak. The cabbie double-parked. I gave him a buck and he was happy to wait while I went inside and found that the damn Democrats were still whooping it up. Connie and Frenchy were busy behind the bar. Marie Therese was taking care of the tables. They needed help. I handed Fat Joe Beddoes another dollar and told him to give it to the cabbie and tell him I wouldn't be needing him. Then I headed upstairs to my office.

I called the Pierre, asked for Miss Wray's room, and Hazel answered.

I told her that I didn't have anything more, but tomorrow I'd talk to a friend of the girl in the picture book. Maybe tomorrow, I couldn't be sure.

“Fay would still like you to come over,” she said, sounding pissed, like people didn't say no to Fay very often.

“I don't have time to talk,” I said. “ See you tomorrow. Maybe.”

I shed my coat, rolled up my sleeves, and went to the basement where I helped Arch Malloy load a fresh keg into the dumbwaiter and send it to the bar. Then while Frenchy moved it into place, I stacked three trays of dirty glasses into the dumbwaiter and sent them upstairs to the kitchen of the Cruzon Grill. I ran the glasses through the washer and dryer and gave them a quick once-over with a clean towel before I loaded them back into the dumbwaiter and down to the bar.

Back in the basement, Arch and I stacked the night's empties, and he took boxes of cigars and the special ten-cigarette packs of Camels we sold upstairs.

It was sometime after four when we kicked out the last of the happy Democrats and started cleaning up. I took the night's cash up to my office. I made a quick count and was glad to see that it had been a very good night. Connie would do the real count for the books, but she usually didn't get to that until the next morning, so I locked up the cash in the safe with the dirty picture book. I considered taking the book with me to the Chelsea because I might want to show it to Daphne, if I could see Daphne tomorrow. But, no, too many people wanted to get their hands on that book. Better to keep it locked up. I went back downstairs and we finished cleaning up.

It must have been around five when Connie and I put on our coats and hats. She turned toward the front door, where we usually went out when we closed, but I locked it from the inside and said, “Let's use the back tonight. And, here, take this.” I handed her the little Spanish .25 automatic I'd just borrowed from Marie Therese.

Looking surprised and concerned, she put it in her bag and asked what was going on.

We went to the back stairs and I said, “I don't know what's going on. Nothing about this business feels kosher to me. I mean, for openers, any fool can see that it's not Miss Wray in the pictures, so why would anybody threaten her with them? And why is she worried about them? She says her husband will be pissed off anyway, and that doesn't make any sense either.”

“Sure it does,” Connie snapped back at me. “Some guys will use any excuse to get a girl under their thumb. Blame her for things that aren't her fault, tell her she doesn't look like he wants her to, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right.” We saw it often enough with our customers, swells and mugs, it didn't matter.

We went out the back door. I locked it and unlocked the back gate that opened on the alley behind the place. I made sure it was locked tight before we walked down to Broadway. I wanted to take her arm, but I wasn't going to let go of the Banker's Special in my topcoat pocket.

“And then there's the two idiots who braced me outside Lansky's place. They don't know what the fuck they're doing, pardon my French. But if Fat Joe's right and the old guy used to be a vice cop, then we've got to be careful.”