Jimmy and Fay (15 page)

“Trodache and the kid must have followed Miss Wray to my place last night. I went out after we talked and they braced me on the street.”

Grossner interrupted me, “You're sure they're behind it?”

“They knew about the six thousand dollars, and they said they had more books. But they're not in this by themselves. There's a third guy, a younger guy. He was in the backseat of their car, and he's got to be the brains of the outfit.”

Sleave, the lawyer with the pince-nez, said, “Is this the way these matters are normally handled? I mean, I thought these blackmailers or extortionists would want to keep their identity secret. How did you learn this man's name? Did he tell you?”

“No. After they left me, they went back to my place. Fat Joe knows Trodache and let 'em in.”

I saw they didn't understand. “Fat Joe, the doorman. He probably told you to fuck off last night. Sorry, Miss Wray. He wouldn't say it to you.”

Hazel came in and sat next to Miss Wray on the sofa. “He certainly did not.”

“By giving me the business and then showing up at my place, they're letting us know that they're a step ahead of us. And why do they care if we know who they are? They didn't kidnap anybody, they've got dirty pictures. The monsignor gets steamed up about it but nobody else. What have they done?”

Nobody could answer that.

“The girl in the pictures used to work for Polly Adler under the name Nola Revere. She left Polly's without telling anybody why. Maybe she posed for the pictures before then. Maybe it's why she left. That I can't tell you.”

I decided not to mention the Wilcox Foundation or the stag movie for the moment. But Sleave still had questions.

“Still, how did they steal our copyrighted material? Those costumes and sets were kept under wraps.”

“Maybe they saw the lobby cards and posters like I did,” I said. “Maybe somebody working on the picture told them what it looked like, I don't know. But there's something else. Trodache and the kid think that the girl in the pictures really is Miss Wray. What do you make of that?”

Nobody said anything. Then Miss Wray said, “Oh, come now. How could anyone believe that?”

I shrugged and said, “Seems to me it's possible they didn't have anything to do with taking the pictures. Maybe they bought 'em or stole 'em from whoever did.”

“That doesn't matter to me,” she said, her voice hard and serious. “I want them destroyed. Does everyone understand that?”

She stood up and stared at the lawyers and said again, louder, “Does everyone understand that?”

They nodded and I went on. “And then there's Saxon Dunbar.”

At the mention of the name, the guy copying the serial numbers stopped what he was doing and stared at me. The lawyers didn't know who I was talking about. I said he was like Winchell and they understood.

“He came in my place last night, a few hours after you were there, and said somebody called him and said there were naughty pictures of Miss Wray floating around, and she was trying to get 'em back and I was the go-between.” Again, I decided not to go into the rest of it about Miss Wray's other “artistic” photographs or her problems with her husband. But what about the rest of it?

“Now, here's what's strange,” I said. “The guy who told Dunbar about the pictures also said that they were taken on the set where they made the movie.”

Miss Wray's big eyes got bigger. “You mean he suggested that I . . .”

“Yeah, with one of the black guys.”

Hazel jumped right up and said, “That's just . . . just . . . impossible. There were too many of the crew members on the set every night, and the only time the colored people were there was when we shot the altar scene and the rampage. You weren't even there that day.”

Miss Wray couldn't say anything and just stood there with her mouth open until she laughed.

Grossner paid no attention to either of the women. He said to me, “What did you tell him?”

“That Miss Wray had been in my place and I met her and anything that went on between us was private. If he knows about you and Sleave, he didn't say so.”

Sleave stepped in front of Grossner and declared, “All right, that's enough. This situation is becoming increasingly unpredictable. No more discussion. We're going to pay them, and Quinn and Detective Ellis are going to make sure that every bit of this horribly offensive and repulsive material is destroyed. The very idea of one of those savages and Miss Wray, it's unthinkable. When they call, we agree to pay and we end this. Detective, are you agreed?”

Ellis got up from the sofa where he'd been listening and said, “I'll talk to Captain Boatwright to make sure I'm covered this weekend, but I don't see why I couldn't be with Quinn when he makes the payoff.”

Sleave said, “Do you believe what he told us about this ex-cop and Dunbar and the salacious story? Can we trust him?” He turned to me and said, “No offense, Quinn. Your reputation and your associates precede you.”

Ellis gave me a thin little smile. He knew I wasn't telling everything I knew. “Yeah,” he said, “you can trust Quinn. For now.”

I asked how we'd get the books and Sleave said that could be worked out when they called.

Grossner clapped his hands together and said, “Excellent. We are agreed. Now, we have another engagement at the RKO offices and we're late already. It shouldn't take more than a couple of hours. You and Quinn can stay here and wait for the call. Miss Wray, are you ready?”

She held up a finger and said, “One moment. Mr. Quinn and I need to talk.”

The lawyers stewed in their boiled shirts and tails. She guided me into a sitting room and closed the door. “What else did you learn today? I know there's more.” She put a hand on my arm and nailed me with another wide-eyed look. It got warmer.

“First, like I told them, this afternoon I found out that the woman whose name I told you, Nola Revere, that's her in the pictures, for sure. And it wasn't the first time. It was some other photographs like that that got her into the business.”

“Have you located her?”

“No, she quit Polly's and nobody's seen her since. But I may have a line on the guy who took the pictures. Oscar Apollinaire. The name mean anything to you?”

She shook her head.

“It looks like he's not the third guy who was with Trodache and the kid. Maybe he told them the pictures were really of you and sold them, or maybe they stole them. There's a chance I can find this bird later tonight, but it's too soon to say anything, and that's not what's really eating you right now, is it? You're more worried about what Dunbar might write in his column than the pictures?”

She thought before she answered. “Yes, I suppose so, but we can't deal with one and not the other.”

“Suppose I could get Dunbar to lose interest.”

“But how?”

“Leave that to me.”

She said, “That would be wonderful,” and smiled like an actress.

I said, “And when this is over, we'll sit down and you'll tell me about your husband and how he knows me.” She stopped smiling.

Back in the flower room, as Grossner helped the women with their coats, Sleave came over and said, “Quinn, I hope you understand that I didn't mean to be insulting when I questioned your trustworthiness. We simply don't know you. We're really not used to dealing with situations like this, and your methods are, well, unorthodox. We do appreciate your help.”

“I'll appreciate it more after you pay me, but it's okay, no offense taken. I don't know you and I don't trust you, either. I'm working for Miss Wray.”

Surprised, he said, “You don't know her either. But you trust her?”

“Sure, I know her. I've been to Skull Island with her.”

The way he looked at me, he didn't understand.

After they left, I poured another brandy for myself and gin for the detective.

Ellis knocked it back and said, “What else do you know?”

I guess I could've mentioned that I just saw a goat being slaughtered in a Midtown office building, but I didn't know what the hell that had to do with anything else so I just said, “Not much. I'd like to know more about Trodache.”

Ellis muttered, “Goddamn vice cops. I'll find out about him, and there's a kid, you say? I know a couple of guys who worked with the Seabury investigation. If I can't get them, I'll have to find his file, and I won't be able to do that until Monday. And how the hell are we supposed to make sure the books are destroyed? Does anybody know how many there are?”

I found my stick and put on my topcoat. “That's not up to us. Let them figure it out. By the way, what're they offering you?”

He picked up his coat. “Retainer, nothing much. They're calling it ‘law enforcement liaison' with their people in California, or some such shit.”

Ellis and I were at the door when the guy who'd been copying the serial numbers got up and said, sounding nervous and edgy, “Uh, excuse me, gentlemen, you're not leaving, are you? I was told that someone would be here all night to handle the extortionists' call.”

I got my first look at him then. He was about my age and taller and plumper. His suit was new, his collar was too tight, and he had extra pomade in his dark hair. I asked him who he was.

He said, “I'm Abramson. Public relations. I'm, uh, new. What do I do if they call?”

Ellis said, “Tell them you've got the money ready and they should call back later.”

I gave the kid one of my cards with the office number. He took it and said, “Mr. Quinn, I couldn't help but overhear that you've been talking to Saxon Dunbar, and I just want you to know that, well, since I haven't been with the company very long, it would be a real leg up if you could introduce me to him. I know that
King Kong
doesn't need any help right now. We're selling out ten shows a day, but in a month or so, a little story about a star standing up for herself might be a nice little pick-me-up for the picture.”

“But what if we just pay them?” I asked. “That's not ‘standing up for herself.'”

“What really happens doesn't matter,” he said, almost laughing. “It's the story we make of it.”

Chapter Thirteen

Things had settled down by the time I got back to the speak, and I wasn't as spooked as I'd been at the Grand Central Building. A fair number of the Democrats were taking trains down to Washington for the inauguration, and so the crowd was light for a Friday night. It sounded different, too—not as jazzed, and a lot of people seemed to be talking about banks and holidays. Must have been about eight o'clock.

Frenchy said there had been no sign of the two guys, and there weren't any messages for me but he thought Connie had taken one on the office phone. Connie and Marie Therese were together behind the bar. Judging by their chilly expressions, I was back in the doghouse. I went around to Connie's end of the bar where we could talk and asked what had happened since I was gone. She was still giving me the shoulder and said I'd find the message on my desk.

Maybe I was tired and maybe I was still a little spooked too, but I said, “Dammit, what's the matter with you?” And I was loud enough that people turned to see what was going to happen next. Surprised, she stepped back quick and I couldn't read her face. I thought maybe I'd scared her and that was the last thing I wanted to do. But I was more embarrassed that I'd let anything show in front of customers. I wanted to pound the bar but didn't. So I went to the office and fumed.

This was ridiculous. I still didn't know what the hell I'd done to make her so damn mad and that made me even madder. I wanted to peek through the blinds over the window down to the bar, but I knew she'd be looking to see if I did. Dammit! She had me acting like some moony kid.

I collapsed in my chair and glared at the note on my desk. Saxon Dunbar called an hour ago
. Settle down
, I told myself.
Straighten out your mind. Quit thinking about the goat and the blood. Quit thinking about Connie. What are you doing? What are you trying to do? What comes next?
And when I thought about what came next, I thought about Miss Wray and the six grand for the pictures and the ninety-nine dollars she already gave me.

I found my notebook and started by counting taxi rides. Since she gave me the money, I'd spent seven on fares and tips, then twenty to Cynthia at Polly's to find Daphne, and ten to Daphne, and twelve fifty for the wine, rounded up to thirteen. That came to fifty bucks. Damn, it's easy to burn through somebody else's money.

I was still stewing about Connie, so I went on with the busywork that I needed to do if the screwy little plan that I had in mind was to work. First, I straightened up the room. Not much, not like anybody had really gone over it, but I threw away the morning papers and stacked the rest on the table. Used a bar towel to take care of the dust that furred the back of the divan, the leather chair, the tables, and my liquor cabinet. I took extra care with the leaded glass shade on the lamp. It was on the cabinet and I didn't use it much. That night I turned it on and took out bottles of good scotch and gin, and three short heavy glasses. Then I dusted and polished them and arranged them so the light hit them just right and glowed through the bottles.

It looked great until I remembered that Dunbar drank rum.

I went to the cellar and took my time going down the steps. Truth is, with my knee, I'm slow going down any stairs and that gave Arch Malloy a few seconds to put away his book and look like he was working.

When I got to the bottom, he was loading two cases of booze into the dumbwaiter. The copy of
The Story of Philosophy
he'd borrowed from me was open on a chair. He'd got farther into it than I had or probably ever would. I asked him where we kept the rum, the really good stuff.