Contact: norsebarddk@gmail.com
-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
DISCLAIMERS:
This homage to the hard-boiled detective novels and movies of the 1940s and 1950s is to be categorized as an Uber. All characters are created by me, though some of them may remind you of someone.
The story contains plenty of genre-typical profanity. Readers who are easily offended by bad language may wish to read something other than this story.
PLEASE NOTE: This story revolves around private investigators, gangsters, hoodlums and goons of all shapes and sizes and is therefore, by definition, violent at times. Readers who are disturbed by such themes are advised to find something else to read than this story.
All characters depicted, names used, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons is intended nor should be inferred. Any resemblance of the characters portrayed to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
The registered trademarks mentioned in this story are © of their respective owners. No infringement of their rights is intended, and no profit is gained.
-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:
Written: November 1st - 24th, 2022.
This story was written as a NaNoWriMo project.
As usual, I'd like to say a great, big THANK YOU to my mates at AUSXIP Talking Xena, especially to the gals and guys in Subtext Central. I really appreciate your support - Thanks, everybody! :D
Thank you very much for your help, Phineas Redux!
Description: For Sally Swackhamer, Private Investigator, and her secretary Vicky Prince, a four-day stretch in September 1947 turns into one of the most challenging periods of their professional lives. Sally is pushed from all sides when she's blackmailed into helping a crime boss recover something of great value to the Family, employed by a retired US Marine Corps General to find his runaway daughter and harassed by a shady police lieutenant who's far too interested in what she's doing - but her opponents all forget the old saying that Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman Throwin' Lead!
-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
*
*
CHAPTER 1
A small-scale tempest of heavy snoring filled the single-room office that acted as the base of operations for private investigator Sally Swackhamer. Though the morning sun beat through a pair of windows that offered a view of Eighty-seventh Street one-and-half floors below, it was clear the person responsible for the snoring had no intention of getting up any time soon.
Equipped with an old writing desk, a swivel-chair, two regular chairs, a slew of metal filing cabinets and a well-worn sofa bed, the office was cramped and anything but upscale. A hallstand carried a tan trench coat, a pale-brown blazer, a dark-brown fedora and a pair of leather holsters. Down on the dusty floor, a pair of proper gum-shoes had been thrown about in a haphazard fashion. The date was already on display on the flip-over calendar on the desk: Wednesday, September 10th, 1947.
Opposite the windows, a wooden door separated the office from a narrow hallway that ran the length of the dilapidated office building. A frosted pane carried Sally's name and her vocation as tradition dictated.
The door to a tiny bathroom just inside and to the left of the glass door stood ajar since it couldn't shut fully; the office was already home to countless unfortunate smells in the shape of old cigarette smoke, cheap booze and that special scent that exuded from buildings when they reached a certain age, so it mattered little if the typical smells of the bathroom showed up as well. A large fan had been installed in the ceiling, but it had stopped working not long after New Year's Eve 1946 - malicious rumors laid the blame on the legendary shindig that had taken place in the office over the course of December 31st and most of the following day.
The exact epicenter of the snoring turned out to be the old sofa bed. A lump in the shape and size of a human being revealed that it was in fact occupied by someone who had never made it further the night before. A fluttering newspaper covered the face of the individual, but the tan shirt, the dark-brown pants - where the belt and the button had been loosened to allow room to breathe - and the brown men's socks proved it was either a pint-sized gentleman or the female owner of the detective agency.
Screeching tires, a fender-on-fender crunch, shouting and persistent honking down on Eighty-seventh Street made the sleeping individual jerk around; the newspaper fell onto the dusty floor to reveal it was in fact Sally Swackhamer herself.
Now in her early thirties, the hazel-eyed, dusty-blonde private investigator sat up to get her bearings. Her complexion seemed grayer, or perhaps greener, than normal but some of her regular pink color was restored when she rubbed her face.
While the action had been a blessing, she had failed to take gravity into account. The second she moved her hands away from supporting her, she tipped over and fell back onto the sofa bed where she landed with a bump, a groan and a mumbled "Why, that miserable sonova…"
A second attempt at getting up proved more successful, and she was soon able to swing her feet over the side of the sofa bed and onto the dusty floor. She sat in a drowsy-eyed stupor for a few moments before she dared to get up from her temporary sleeping arrangements. The pants had soon been buttoned and the belt tightened, but the chill that rose from her left foot as it reached the section of the floor that didn't feature any kind of cheap rug made her grunt and look down - another grunt escaped her when she noticed the left sock had been all but pulled off her foot.
The grunt was followed by a deep sigh as she tried to hobble around while pulling up the rebellious sock. She came to the conclusion it was better to do it while seated, so she slapped her rear-end onto one of the regular chairs to carry out the assignment. Once the sock had been pulled back up, she scratched her hair and scalp. A string of moans and groans escaped her as the true level of her hangover became obvious.
Patting down her pockets didn't reveal any cigarettes, nor did a close inspection of her messy desk. She thought she had struck gold at one point, but it proved to be an empty pack of Serrano's Special Blend that only left her craving a smoke even worse.
"Damn… no cigs. No booze, no coffee, no newspaper, no nothing. And where's… huh… wotshername… Rosie? Daisy? Loretta? Penny? Somebody… damn." All this had come in a mumble, but the mumble turned to a grunt when she clapped eyes on a note that had fallen onto the floor by the sofa bed.
She got up and shuffled over there to pick up the note, but the lack of brightness within her mind meant she was unable to read it. "Later," she mumbled and put it on the sofa.
Shuffling back to the desk, she bumped down into her swivel-chair and began to shove aside a mountain of paperwork so she could get to the telephone - it was a chore in her present state, but she clenched her teeth and persisted like a real trooper. When she had finally liberated the receiver, she picked it up and dialed Zero to get in touch with the bookmaking office next door.
'Yes?' a female voice said.
The tone had been friendly despite the curt answer; hearing the velvety voice made Sally grin. She knew the brief response meant that Ira Birnbaum had already shown up for work and watched over their shared secretary Victoria 'Vicky' Prince in his typical eagle-eyed fashion. Although the bookie was a decent and square fellow who refused to do business with the worst of Mooresburg City's shady characters, he did have an old-fashioned approach to private conversations while at work, so Sally knew she needed to be brief.
"Hiya, doll," she said in a voice so rusty it didn't sound like hers at all. She had to cough up a couple of frogs before she could go on: "Listen… could I persuade you to make some strong coffee and bring over a pack of cigs?"
'You sound like you've had one too many already, Sally.'
"Please…"
'Oh, all right… if you insist. Mohican?'
"No, Serrano's if ya got 'em."
'Not sure we do. I'll have a look-see.'
"Gee, that'd be swell. Thanks, doll!'
'My name's Vicky,' the voice said before a Click ended the conversation.
Grinning, Sally put down the receiver and got up from the swivel-chair. The shouting continued down on Eighty-seventh Street, so she moved aside a section of the blinds to see better. The hubbub turned out to be a small-scale fender-bender that had already attracted the attention of a motley mob of spectators and a motorcycle police officer whose face proved he was beyond peeved at having to face such a nuisance at that time of the morning.
Sally chuckled before she re-arranged the blinds and stepped away from the windows. The silhouette that appeared through the frosted pane proved her trusty coffee gal had arrived, so she shuffled over there to release the safety chain and turn the two locks.
"Hiya, sugar!" she said with a grin as she whooshed the door open to reveal one of her best gal pals.
The twenty-eight-year-old Vicky Prince let out an impressive huff as she carried a tray featuring a silvery coffee pot, a mug, a napkin and a pack of Mohican cigarettes into the cramped office. As always, she crinkled her nose as her nostrils were exposed to the quality of the air. Standing at six-foot-two in heels - five-foot-ten on bare feet - Vicky was close to being a foot taller than Sally, but she didn't make the mistake of underestimating the firebrand who greeted her with a wide grin.
Vicky's auburn hair had been tucked-and-rolled into a stylish hairdo matching those presented in all the fashion magazines, but the nut-brown, ungainly spectacles that were perched on her nose seemed to lessen the impact of the surrounding parts of her face. The whiff of her exquisite, and expensive, perfume known as Midnite Starlite did in fact offset the dull glasses so it wasn't all bad.
"You obviously forgot my name. It's Vicky," she said in an icy tone of voice after she had deposited the tray on the messy desk. Turning around to face Sally, she put her right hand on the hip of her coffee-brown skirt-suit. A split second later, she let out a scandalized gasp as she noticed the private investigator in question had whipped off her shirt which left her in a grandpa-style undershirt.
Sally sniffed the tan shirt and threw it onto the sofa bed. "Doll, wouldya mind callin' Lee Wong's Laundry? I think something crawled into my shirt and died there," Sally said before she shuffled over to a tiny wash basin on the left of the door. Before Vicky could open her mouth to complain, Sally added a "Please?"
Vicky sighed and adjusted her glasses. "Oh, very well. Would you like me to give you a cigarette while you wash and shave?"
"Haw-haw-haw," Sally said and turned around to make sure her hazel wink would find its way across the office to Vicky's ice-blue orbs. "Now ya mention it… sure!"
While Vicky opened the pack of Mohicans and tapped out a cigarette, Sally grabbed a washcloth and soaked it in lukewarm water which was the only type the old plumbing could produce. The washcloth was soon given a quick tour of her face and neck before she reached for the towel next to the wash basin. "Okay, all done," she said as she dried herself. A moment later, a lit cigarette was pushed between her lips. "Gee, thanks, doll. Owe ya one!"
The characteristic wail of a siren could be heard from down on the street. While Sally searched for a clean - or cleaner, at least - shirt, Vicky moved over to the windows to peek out. "It seems one of the drivers needs an ambulance. Yes, he has a bloody nose."
"Huh… those palookas musta gone a couple of rounds down there. There wasn't anything wrong with any of 'em five minutes ago," Sally said which made the cigarette bob up and down. The tip of ash fell off and stained the cheap rug, but she sidestepped it with plenty of grace.
The cleanest of the well-used shirts was soon found and put on. Once she had buttoned it, she shuffled over to the hallstand where she took the empty shoulder-holster and the smaller one that fit around her ankle. The large one's leather straps were soon swept over her shoulders and the buckles tightened.
The coffee was next as she walked over to the desk and poured herself a mugful of the dark-brown liquid. "Any messages for me since last evening?" she said as she sniffed the contents to verify that it really was akin to nitroglycerine like she had ordered.
"No," Vicky said and stepped away from the windows. She opened her mouth to add a little more to the conversation, but a call of 'Vicky! Where are you? The phone's ringing off the hook!' from further up the hallway made her reconsider. Instead, she replied with a loud "I'll be right there, Mister Birnbaum!" before she turned back to Sally. "The Golden Crown event at the Fairgrounds on Saturday has everyone excited," she said to explain the unusual urgency.
"Bettin' on the ponies, eh? Well, to each their own," Sally said and knocked off some ash. "I prefer to spend my dough on worthwhile things like dames, booze and cigs. Speaking of which… thanks for these," she continued as she held up the pack of Mohicans.
"You're welcome. I better get back."
"Sure. Wouldn't want ya to get in trouble with the Big Bossman or anything. Thanks, doll- Vicky," Sally said with a grin.
Vicky let out a tut-tut-sound before she used her long legs to stride out of the office in a gait that wouldn't have looked out of place at a fashion show.
The lit cigarette let out a few puffs of gray smoke to show how much it - and its smoker - appreciated the efforts. Grinning, Sally allowed herself the luxury of taking in the scent of Vicky's perfume that lingered for a while after she had left.
The grin faded on her face as she sat down at her desk and opened the central drawer where two 9mm Browning Hi-Powers and an FN Herstal .32 pistol greeted her. After another long swig of her coffee, she took one of the Brownings, checked the magazine and inserted the firearm into the shoulder-holster. The gun's weight pulled the holster crooked, but she restored the balance by attaching three spare magazines under her right arm.
Moving her leg up so she could attach the smaller holster around her ankle took so much effort that an additional puff of the cigarette and a swig of coffee were required, but the compact Herstal .32 was soon in place and buttoned down tight. Once the brown pantleg covered it, only the crooks, the coppers and her fellow private eyes would know she carried a backup piece.
Ready for action of any kind, she headed off to war without further ado by reaching for a fountain pen and a couple of casefiles - it was time to catch up with the paperwork.
-*-*-*-
Half an hour went by in world record time. The coffee was all gone, the third cigarette had already reached its final three puffs, and the case reports had been filled out and only needed Vicky's skilled hands to be typewritten and filed in the appropriate cabinet.
Sally's empty gut was locked in a fierce competition with her fuzzy brains to establish once and for all which of the two was top dog when it came to drawing attention to itself. The empty guts won out, and she pushed the swivel-chair away from the desk to seek out some food that could work with her hangover.
The sun's strong rays that continued to beat through the somewhat filthy windows and the dusty blinds proved it would most likely be too warm outside for the trench coat, so she donned her blazer jacket instead. The fedora came last, and she ran her finger along the rim to make sure it sat just right.
Once she had locked the door to her office, she strolled down the nondescript corridor going past several empty offices that had used to house an import/export company and a drapery depot for a dry-goods dealer, respectively.
The frosted pane of the third door she reached carried the name Ira Birnbaum. Bookmaking had become legal in Mooresburg City after the war so there was no need to keep it discreet, but it was still possible to see the faint outlines of the old letters that spelled out the words Employment Office For Clerical Staff that had been the cover used during the Prohibition years and even the subsequent period.
After knocking, Sally stuck her head inside to see if Ira Birnbaum or Vicky needed anything from downstairs, but Vicky was busy on the phone and the Big Bossman - who had ventured out of his inner, bombproof office for a change - looked far too grumpy for any kind of conversation.
---
The sidewalk was soon reached; a moment later, she wished she had brought her sunglasses as the strong rays that illuminated everything to the Nth degree plowed deep furrows in her fuzzy, hung over brain. All she had to combat the glare was her fedora, so she pulled the hat as far down as it would go in the hope it would block out the sun. It didn't.
Shuffling along, she took a moment to look at the tow truck that had arrived to pick up the pieces of the fender-bender. The large vehicle filled up an entire quarter of the four-lane Eighty-seventh Street, so the surrounding motorists all grabbed the opportunity to test their car's horn.
The shrill noises only worsened her pounding headache so she upped the pace to get away from the mess. Crossing the street in a jog, she continued to walk south on Eighty-seventh Street to get to her favorite baker's shop.
---
Another cacophony of noises broke out when a black limousine came to a sudden halt in the middle of the street. Two men in dark-gray overcoats and black hats climbed out before the imposing car took off once more. They stuck their heads together to strike up a battle plan that involved several nods and a fair bit of pointing. A final nod followed before one of the men crossed the sidewalk and hurried down an alley adjacent to the office building. The other gentleman jogged across Eighty-seventh Street but soon slowed down to a regular walk.
---
Sweet scents wafted out of the bag from Zeligman's as Sally exited the bakery and strolled back toward the office building. Walking past a small wooden shed that was used as a newsstand, the typically dramatic headlines screamed out at her in two-inch-tall type.
She stopped for a moment to take in the day's news. As she did so, a man in a dark-gray overcoat and black hat came to a halt as well - it seemed he had found something terribly fascinating in a storefront window a bit further down the street.
The newsstand was owned by Allen Matzon who sat on a footstool in the corner of the wooden shed. Allen, a disabled World War II veteran in his late twenties, put aside the crossword puzzle he had been working on so he could serve his customer. He wore a leather apron over his regular clothes in an attempt to stop the printing ink from leaving too many stains, but the high volume of newspapers he handled every day meant it was a losing game. Since his left arm had been left behind somewhere near Cisterna, Italy following the landings at Anzio in early 1944, the sleeve of his green shirt had been pinned up on that side.
"Hiya, Allen," Sally said as she put down the bag from Zeligman's that contained three freshly-baked Jewish pastries.
"Miss Sally. Is life agreeing with you on this fine morning?" Allen said with a smile. His sandy hair, friendly eyes and dimpled cheeks offered the impression he was a kind soul who couldn't hurt a ladybug, but the three medals that had been framed and put on the wall proved otherwise - Allen Matzon was the recipient of a Bronze Star, a Silver Star for valor under fire, and, of course, a Purple Heart.
Sally shrugged and let out a grunt. "I'm hung over. It happens every stinkin' time I hit the cheap sauce. Never when I swig the expensive booze. There's a lesson in there somewhere, but I'll be damned if I know what it is," she said with a grin.
The Bugle, the Gazette, the Tribune, the Echo and the Times all carried headlines that were variations over a single theme: the anti-racketeering law that had been passed that gave various branches of law enforcement far greater powers to clamp down on Mooresburg City's shady individuals. The People's Voice - an independent, local newspaper - raised concerns over the risk of injuring civil rights in the large-scale sweep-ups conducted by the police, but its limited circulation meant it couldn't shout loud enough compared to the newspapers produced by the major conglomerates.
"Ya know, Allen, I think I'll take one of each today. The more the merrier… and besides, one of those journalists may even have stumbled over the truth for a change," Sally continued as she compiled a stack of newspapers. The People's Voice came last; she stuck it in between the bigger titles in case an ambitious G-man had his sights set on her. Grabbing her wallet, she pulled out a five-spot. "What owe?"
"Buck seventy-five," Allen said as he took the offered bill and put it in a cigar case that acted as his cash register. He had already scooped up the change when Sally shook her head.
"Naw, friend. Keep it. You need it more than I do," she said and grabbed the newspapers and the bag from Zeligman's. "Hi de ho, bub. Stay clean, yeah?"
Allen let out a long groan and put his right hand in the air - the fingers and the palm were covered in printing ink. "That joke wasn't even funny the first time!" he said after the chuckling Sally.
---
Sally knew something was amiss the second her nape hairs rose and her neck started itching. Eighty-seventh Street had turned busier while she had visited Zeligman's bakery and Allen Matzon's newsstand, so it took her a while to cross the four lanes without risking a career change - although hood ornaments were in vogue, she had no interest in becoming one.
As she jogged across the busy street, she juggled the newspapers and the bag of pastries while she slipped her hand underneath the blazer jacket. There were too many passers-by around to risk a shootout in broad daylight, but the sturdy hilt of the Browning offered plenty of comfort.
Having a gun but not using it had always been a better option than looking up at a headstone for Time Eternal, so she kept a firm grip on the weapon. Glancing around in a casual manner that wouldn't alert anyone but those in the business, she let her experienced eye scan her surroundings.
"Ooooh… gotcha. Why, if it ain't Mista Palooka," she mumbled as she clapped eyes on a shady fellow wearing a dark-gray overcoat and a black hat that covered most of his face. She cocked her head as she took in the man's slick exterior. "Not a flatfoot… not one of Ice-Pick McGarrigle's wharf rats. Definitely one of Don Scardamaglia's brilliantine boys. Now what the hell those palookas want? Damn, a gal can't catch a break here."
A group of yapping womenfolk walking past offered perfect cover. Being on the short side of things was suddenly a help rather than a hindrance, and Sally used the hubbub to slip away unnoticed. She followed along in their rapid footsteps for nearly a hundred yards before she made a ninety-degree right-hand turn and went into the mouth of an alley that ran adjacent to the office building.
She remained at the corner for just shy of ten seconds to see where the goon in the coat had gone. He was out of sight, so she took off down the alley. The final corner into the inner courtyard beckoned, and she took it with the speed of a race horse going for the Golden Crown out at the Fairgrounds - then she let out a raspy curse and reached underneath her blazer on the double.
Someone else had already sussed out the secret back door approach: a goon in a dark overcoat and a black hat like the one she had seen on Eighty-seventh Street. For a split second, she thought it was the same one, but a closer look at the fellow's square frame and ungainly features proved he was just a boorish foot soldier unlike the brilliantine boy out front.
A loud "Hey, you!" resounded across the office building's courtyard. The cry had come from the goon whose hand whipped inside his coat the moment he spotted Sally come racing around the corner.
"Aw, sonova-" Sally cried and mirrored the goon's gesture at once. The shorter distance to reach under the blazer jacket compared to the overcoat meant she beat her opponent to the punch. Unfortunately, it meant she needed to let go of the paper bag from Zeligman's - it tore as it thumped onto the ground which caused one of the pastries to roll out and get coated in the typical filth of the courtyard. "Lemme see yer hand, ya big lug! And it better be empty! I won't tell ya again! Reach for the clouds!"
When the square-built goon did as he had been told, Sally set off toward him while still aiming the Browning at his midsection. "Start spittin', fool. Who the hell sent you? And why?" she said once she was close enough to speak without straining her voice and thus her hangover.
"I don't-a say nuttin'!" the man said in a thick Italian accent.
Sally let out a knowing chuckle. "Now you don't need to, ya big dumbster. I ain't got no beef with Don Scardamaglia. Why the hell-"
The goon cut her off in a most impolite manner by jumping ahead and charging her like a raging bull. Roaring out loud, he ignored the Browning and stretched his arms out ahead of him like he was going to wring Sally's neck.
Instead of shying back, Sally calmly stepped aside of the bullish approach and brought down the hilt of the Browning at the perfect spot immediately behind his right ear - the bull continued on for two additional steps before he landed on the filthy courtyard like a sack of cement someone had tipped over.
"What a boob," Sally mumbled as she moved backwards from her fallen opponent.
The sound of a revolver being cocked not a foot behind her made her come to a halt and groan out loud.
"You know," a sophisticated male voice said not too far from her ear, "I was about to say the same about you. Holster your gun and turn around."
Sighing, Sally did as told. She rolled her eyes as she came face to face with the slick-haired fellow she had seen out front. She recognized him at once now he had come closer: Angelo Corrado, the top enforcer for Don Scardamaglia and his underboss Vittorio Grazziani.
The .357 Smith & Wesson he aimed at her was a large, brutish revolver - few came out of an argument with Corrado smelling of roses; nobody came out of an argument with a .357 with anything but an armful of white orchids.
The enforcer's exquisite features - dark-brown eyes, well-groomed eyebrows, an aristocratic nose and a pencil-thin mustache - proved he had class and style. The latter was illustrated by the black shirt and red silk necktie that were visible through the upper section of the dark-gray overcoat. The shirtsleeves peeking out of the coat carried golden cufflinks, and it even appeared that he had been to a manicurist in recent times.
"So ya got me," Sally said in a sour tone. "Now what? Like I told your sleeping associate there, I don't have no beefs or scrapes with your Don. Why all the hooplah, Mista C?"
"Keep quiet. You'll know soon enough. Walk back to the street. Now," the classy enforcer said - the way he waved his less-classy revolver underscored his words.
Sally clenched her jaw. The pounding headache meant that fewer neurons had showed up for work than usual, but even in a hung-over state, she knew there was little sense in starting a row with the Don's top muscle. Grunting, she turned around and began to stroll back toward Eighty-seventh Street.
---
A brand new, shiny-black Cadillac limousine approached on Eighty-seventh Street at the exact same time that Sally and Angelo Corrado reached the sidewalk. The huge, luxurious vehicle drove over to the curb and came to a gliding halt. No doors were opened but the engine kept idling to show it was meant to be one of those get-in-and-get-scarce deals.
Behind Sally and Corrado, the boorish goon stumbled along pressing a handkerchief against the back of his head - a long sequence of Italian curses of rural origin escaped him between the moans and groans he let out. The cuss words intensified when he caught wind of the blood that had been transferred onto the hankie, and he shot Sally a withering glare that would have made anyone else drop dead.
Although the enforcer had holstered his .357 so they wouldn't draw too much attention to themselves, he kept his hand on the hilt inside the overcoat. He moved ahead and opened the limousine's rear door. "Get in," he said in a no-nonsense voice.
"Gee, Mista, would it kill ya to say please just once?" Sally said as she ducked down to enter the black car. She was unprepared for the hard shove Corrado exposed her to, so she ended up with her knees down on the floor and her hands on the upholstery of a fold-down extra seat opposite the proper, leather-equipped bench. She recovered in a flash and spun around to look at the grinning enforcer. "You do that again, you sonovabitch, and I'm gonna read you a bedtime story!"
The threat had little impact on Angelo Corrado who went in behind the private investigator and closed the vault-like door with a soft phlum. A solid sheet of metal had replaced the regular pane of glass that kept the luxurious vehicle's passenger compartment fully separated from the driver up front. Privacy curtains held in burgundy and gold covered all windows so nobody could sneak a peek at the VIPs in the back.
Huffing, Sally turned around to glare at the fellow who had already been in the elegant car when it had arrived. It was impossible for her not to recognize the doughy mug of Vittorio Grazziani, the first underboss of the Calabrese family and thus second-in-command of all activities along the entire northern seaboard.
Supposedly a respectable businessman, Grazziani looked anything but. He was chubby though not quite fat; the bluish veins on his bulbous nose and ruddy cheeks proved he was a great connoisseur of Amaretto, vermouth and other Italian spirits. Although a faint smile creased his lips, his icy eyes negated any attempts at appearing human. In his late fifties or early sixties, his hair, mustache and eyebrows were all black which added weight to the notion of certain suspicious minds that his most trusted employee was his hairdresser who kept the dye flowing.
A rosewood cigar case, a briefcase, a black cane with a silver top and a black Borsalino hat occupied the leather seat next to the underboss. He soon opened the former to take a cigar and a clipper. Angelo Corrado reached for a lighter at once, but Grazziani held up his own, gold-plated one to show he had everything under control.
The underboss - who couldn't be called a gentleman despite his patent-leather shoes, black suit and silk vest - offered Sally a condescending smile before he smoothed down his well-groomed mustache so she would get a full view of the sparkling, diamond-studded cufflinks and rings on his fingers. "Welcome. Still preferring to dress down, I see?" Though his voice continued to hold traces of his native accent, he spoke in a deliberate, well-enunciated fashion that befitted his status within the Calabrese Family.
Never stumped in the ancient arts of trading barbs, Sally let out a brief grunt. "Why, yes. And you still pretend to be an upstanding citizen, I see." A moment later, Angelo Corrado gave her a hard thump over the neck for daring to speak out against the important man. Growling, Sally spun around on the extra-seat and returned the favor by giving as good as she got - she aimed a little lower and scored a direct hit on the enforcer's chest.
"Enough of this idiocy!" Vittorio Grazziani barked; the cigar was briefly yanked from his meaty lips so the words had enough room to carry the required menace. He glared at the people opposite him until they calmed down once more. "You have misunderstood my intentions. We want to hire your services."
Sally had to do a double-take at the news. Her knuckles ached after hitting the revolver under the enforcer's coat, so she reached down to rub them while she studied the underboss. "Is that a fact? Gee, ya shoulda called first. I ain't interested."
The condescending smile returned to Vittorio Grazziani's face as he reached down to tap an index finger on the lid of the briefcase. "I think you may need to reconsider. You can probably guess what I have here."
"I'm calling your bluff," Sally said in a dark tone. She stared at the briefcase and the folder she suspected was in it despite her bluster. A brief sigh followed as she backed down from her fiery stance. "You palookas can't hold that against me forever. Sooner or later, the statute of limitations will come into-"
"Sooner or later, yes. But not yet," Grazziani said as he tapped the briefcase once more; the condescending smile widened and turned nasty. "Are we bluffing, Angelo?"
"No," the enforcer said.
The underboss nodded. "No. We are not bluffing. All it takes is a stamp. If we mail the information to the police, you will have a nice, comfortable cell somewhere. They might even give you one with a grand view of Old Sparky. So, like I said, we want to hire your services."
A dark mask fell over Sally's face. The pounding headache returned with a vengeance which rendered her unable to do much beyond breathing and sitting upright. "All right," she said and let out a deep sigh. "What's it about?"
"I knew you would come around," Grazziani said and sat up straight to be ready for business. By locking eyes with his enforcer, he instructed him to leave them alone.
Angelo Corrado promptly exited the rear of the limousine. After speaking to the bleeding, cussing, boorish goon who had been outside standing guard, the enforcer opened the front door and sat down next to the driver.
"Your brilliantine boy there didn't take my shooting iron, pal," Sally said as she cocked her head. "What's stopping me from breathing heat on you right now?"
Vittorio Grazziani chuckled and reached for the black cane. Taking it, he tapped the reinforced butt twice against the metal wall which made the chauffeur drive away from the curb and onto Eighty-seventh Street. "Come now. Where would you go? Such nonsense. Cigar? Direct from Havana," the underboss said and traded the cane for the rosewood cigar case.
"No," Sally said and crossed her arms over her chest so she could keep her hand close to the hilt of her Browning.
"Suit yourself," Grazziani continued as he put down the cigars before resting his hand on top of the briefcase. The condescending smile made a return as he studied his guest from the soles of her gum-shoes to the top of her brown fedora. Once he had seen what he needed, the smile disappeared. "Let us talk business."
Even the Cadillac's exquisite suspension couldn't fully absorb the potholes and assorted other issues along Eighty-seventh Street, so the ride wasn't as smooth as it would undoubtedly be in the finer boroughs of Mooresburg City. A big bump made Sally grab hold of the fold-down seat; she had barely pulled herself back up into a better position before the vehicle slowed down and turned left. "Say, where are youse guys taking me, anyway?"
"Around."
"Where around?"
"Oh, just around. Maybe we are going for some ice cream," Grazziani said and broke out in a chuckle.
The dark frown between Sally's eyebrows proved she didn't see the humor. "Yeah? Well, then I suggest you better start flappin' your gums or my finger may get itchy. Ca-peesh, paesan?"
Vittorio Grazziani snorted at Sally's mangled Italian. "I think you have been watching too many gangster movies. Nobody outside of Hollywood speaks like that. And the correct word is paesano. But all right… let us get down to it," he said and clicked the briefcase open.
Sally caught a brief glimpse of a tan folder that made her furrow her brow even further; the folder meant the underboss hadn't been bluffing. She also caught a glimpse of a small, silvery pistol of some kind that made her wrap her fingers around the Browning.
Instead of taking the small firearm, Grazziani retrieved a photograph blown up to a size of four by six inches. He looked at it for a moment before he handed it to Sally.
It was a candid that depicted a gentleman who couldn't hide his Italian origin. Most likely in his early thirties, the fellow - who wore a dark suit - had a pronounced jaw with a cleft chin, elegant cheekbones and a nose that had never been broken. Those features as well as his tall brow and intelligent eyes gave him an air of being a classic, Romantic hero.
The black-and-white photograph didn't reveal the color of his eyes or his slicked-down hair, but while the latter seemed to be the regular dark tone found on most people of Italian or Mediterranean blood, the former were pale rather than brownish. The unusual feature made Sally narrow her own eyes while they took in the details. The candid had been snapped at a busy vegetable market, but the background was too out of focus to make out if it was in Mooresburg City's famed Little Italy quarter near King Street or somewhere else entirely.
"Handsome fella," Sally said as she held out the photograph. When Grazziani shook his head, she put it on the seat next to her. "Not your typical street thug. An accountant? A bookie? Your wife's stud of the week?"
The stinging nettle made Vittorio Grazziani send out a large plume of cigar smoke that swirled around the passenger compartment for a short while. As the smoke was absorbed by the privacy curtains, the underboss let out a dark grunt but chose not to make further comments.
"I'll take that as a yes," Sally said with a grin before she tapped her index finger on the photograph. "Why do his eyes look so pale?"
Grazziani let out another puff of cigar smoke before he crossed his legs in the other direction. "Because he has blue eyes. He is from South Tyrol. His name is Count Gennaro of San Bonnaccio-"
"Well, if ya already know who-"
"And he has stolen something from us. Something important that we need to get back. In a hurry."
"Ah. I see. And now you need me to find him for ya," Sally said and broke out in a wide grin. The Cadillac rumbled over a rough patch which caused her to hang on for a few moments. Once the choppy seas had turned calm, she leaned forward and put her elbows on her knees. "Gee whiz, Mista, that's what I call one helluva busted flush. Can't one of your own brilliantine boys corral this palooka? Sounds like something Mista Corrado up front would jump at given half a chance."
Vittorio Grazziani's jaw moved back and forth for a short while; the silent gesture produced plenty of smoke but little in the way of words. "We tried. We cannot find him," he eventually said under his breath.
"Huh. Ya called him a Count… did I hear that right?"
"Yes. Count Gennaro of San Bonnaccio. Old family. Old money. New problems after the war. He moved to the States and soon got in touch," Grazziani said before he knocked a tip of ash off the cigar into a silvery ashtray built into the armrest. A suicidal flake of ash dared to venture onto the black suit, but he flicked it away at once with a disgusted look on his face.
"Connected to one of the Italian Families, is he?"
"No. He is a blood relative."
Sally nodded and leaned back on the extra-seat. Taking the photograph, she studied it for a brief moment before she slipped it into her jacket pocket for safe-keeping. She kept quiet while her logical mind tried to punch through the haze created by the hangover. She pinched the bridge of her nose to ease the pounding headache, but it was to no avail.
Another few rocks and rolls that couldn't be contained by the car's soft suspension negated the work she had accomplished, so she let it be to get back to the business at hand. "See, Mista, here's what I'm thinkin'. Even if I was just a plain, ol' bub who got involved with the Calabreses, I sure as hell wouldn't go to any of the local dives after stealin' something valuable from you. Every Joe Schmoe in town knows that youse guys control ninety percent of the booze and the dames around here. No, I'd find some back-alley Hotel No-Tell somewhere and shack up until you found some other boob to blame. Yeah? Now… if I was a Count, see, I'd do the same… except I'd head straight for the classiest addresses in town. Yeah? The Majestic, the Oriental, the Excelsior, the Lanier, the Imperial. Those places. A count could blend-in there real easy, but your fat-headed soldiers would stick out so awful the lobby dicks and concierges would phone the fuzz in a flash."
Vittorio Grazziani narrowed his eyes as he looked at Sally. An "Mmmm… good point," eventually escaped him.
"I'll put it on my bill. Say, what did that fella steal, anyway?" Sally said and took off her fedora to wipe her brow. When Vittorio Grazziani didn't reply, she plonked the hat back onto her mop and pushed it back from her brow. "Something tells me all this hooplah is bigger than some charmer deflowering a precious virgin or some such. We gotta be talkin' a serious amount of departed moolah here. Yeah? Couple-a hundred grand or something?"
Grazziani continued to puff on the cigar while displaying a stony silence that couldn't have been bettered by the faces on Mount Rushmore. After a while, he grabbed his cane, leaned forward and tapped the butt twice against the metal plate. The Cadillac drove over to the curb at once and came to a rocking halt. The enforcer soon stepped off the front seat and moved back to the rear door where he stood guard.
"Gee whiz, I'm sorry… did I rub a raw spot here?" Sally said with a grin. "I'm askin' because I need to know what kind of defense your runaway is gonna put up. That kinda dough can buy independent contractors, see? I ain't ready for my harp lessons yet."
The underboss let out a long, slow sigh. The cigar was puffed on another couple of times before he shook his head in defeat. "We are not talking about money. We are talking about a book. An important book. We might even say the book."
"Holy Mackerel, your sunny-boy Count Wotshisname skedaddled with your ledger? Why, the noyve o' that guy!" Sally said and slapped her palms onto her knees in a mock display of shock. "He gotta be real desperate to pull a stunt like that. Why?"
"Why? I cannot say," Grazziani said and broke out in a one-shouldered shrug. "Perhaps to have a bargaining chip against us. Perhaps to get the FBI to reduce an outstanding sentence… I do not know and I do not care. He took it. That is all I care."
Sobering, Sally pulled her fedora forward so it lined up properly. "All right. I'll take a stab at the cherry. And Mista," - She pointed an index finger at Vittorio Grazziani before she moved it down to his briefcase - "youse guys better play it straight. Yeah? No double-crossing. Once I find this escapee of yours, whatever's in that folder down there is mine."
The underboss glared at Sally for a moment or two before a false smile spread across his meaty lips - it even reached up to his beady eyes which wasn't an everyday occurrence. "Why, naturally," he said and tapped the cane against the door.
The enforcer opened it at once and stuck his head into the passenger compartment to learn what he had been summoned for.
The false smile soon faded from Grazziani's chubby face. "Once we have solid proof that Count Gennaro is no longer a threat to us, of course."
In closing, he said a few Italian phrases to Angelo Corrado who reached for the collar of Sally's blazer jacket. The enforcer soon had a firm grip on the fabric and began to yank her toward the door.
"Wait! Will you wait a Goddamned minute!" she said as she tried to hold onto the seat, but the enforcer had a far better angle and soon yanked her outside. Growling, she pulled herself free of his grip, spun around and leaned back inside the limousine. "Grazziani, I'll find the fella and return the ledger… but I'm tellin' ya right now, pal, the day where I wax someone who ain't no threat to me ain't come yet! Ya hear?"
Before Sally could hear the underboss' answer, the enforcer had yanked her away from the car and thrown her onto her butt down on the sidewalk. As she jumped to her feet, the black Cadillac drove away from the curb with a roar. A few pedestrians had stopped to gawk at the unusual goings-on, but she had no time for nonsense like that.
The nearest street sign told her she had been dumped on Fifty-sixth Street, so - after checking her wallet and her firearms - she let out a piercing whistle to catch the attention of a cabbie.
-*-*-*-
Finally back on Eighty-seventh Street in front of the office building, Sally paid the fare and added a generous tip to award the cabbie's high-speed trip through town. The taxi cab from the J.R. Swift Cab Co. soon drove off which left her all alone amid a sea of people. She remained there for a few moments while she tried to listen to the signals her body sent her.
The hangover continued to create so much static she could hardly pick up the important elements of the transmission, but her guts were soon able to overpower the jamming station installed just below her dusty-blonde mop - they told her she needed something more substantial down there than the strong coffee she had enjoyed before she had started climbing someone else's Family tree.
It almost seemed appropriate to bare her head in mourning as a reminder of the dearly departed pastries flashed through her mind. Instead of moaning over spilled dough, she turned right and strolled back to Zeligman's to get a fresh batch of treats.
---
Round two saw her buy four sweet pastries, one of which was devoured on her way back to the office. It left just enough room for a bottle in the paper bag, so she made a small detour to a sneaky back-alley liquor store whose owner owed her a favor. The bottle of Black Knight scotch she bought could be classified as the type of cheap sauce that always got her hung over, but it was too soon in the investigation to go for the gold-rimmed brands.
When Sally returned to the hallway that ran alongside the offices, Vicky Prince stuck her head out of the door to the bookmaker's. The secretary adjusted her glasses like she was in a huff. "I thought I recognized your footfalls. What, did you take the scenic route to Zeligman's?"
"Kinda. I ran into some old chums. Anyway, I got pastries. Care to join me?" Sally said and held up the paper bag.
Vicky bit her lip as she studied the familiar bulge in the bag. She stepped into the hall and closed the wooden door with the frosted pane behind her. "It seems to me you got more than pastries in there. I've typed up the case files and letters you gave me earlier. They're ready for filing."
Grinning, Sally reached out with her free hand to pat Vicky's elbow. "Gee, you really are a swell dame, doll! I don't know what I'd do without ya."
Vicky adjusted her glasses again. "End up under a two-ton avalanche of unfinished paperwork, I imagine. My next break is in five minutes. I'll be by to file my work. That way, we both know it's been done right."
"Sure thing, doll! Has anyone been by to see me? Any messages?"
"No and no. And my name is Vicky!" - The statement was accompanied by a royal huff before the lady in question spun around and stomped back into the bookmaker's office.
Sally made sure to observe every part of her secretary's body language; then she broke out in an off-key whistling as she made it the rest of the way to her own office.
---
Seven minutes later, Vicky knocked on the door of the detective agency. Since no reply was given, she stuck her head inside to see what was going on. Sally was busy on the phone, but an enthusiastic wave gave the all-clear.
The bottle of Black Knight had already been opened and three fingers' worth of the amber liquid had been poured into a glass. Whisky and sugary pastries were perhaps strange bedfellows, but the paper bag from Zeligman's had in fact been pressed into duty as a makeshift plate for the sweet treats. A large bite had been taken out of one that was sprinkled with pearl sugar of the Kosher kind.
Vicky walked over to the filing cabinets and soon began to add the typed files to the appropriate drawers. She knew better than to listen in on any telephone conversation that didn't involve her directly, but the level of frustration in Sally's voice piqued her interest and made her pay just a little more attention to the events in the small office.
"All right, I'll hold," Sally said as she swung her legs up on the desk - she had taken her gum-shoes off so her socked feet were in full view. She had a notepad and a pencil ready, but the top page was less than half full so it seemed her endeavor hadn't struck gold yet. "Hiya, Larry. Yeah, it's me… who the hell else would it be? Listen, pal, I need a favor- oh, that's pitiful… wouldya stop cryin' in my ear, I ain't even asked ya yet!"
Sally rolled her eyes as her friend continued to weep and moan at the other end of the connection. When she noticed she had an interested spectator, she held out the receiver so Vicky could get her share of the operatic oratorium as well.
Red blotches exploded all over Vicky's cheeks as a result of being busted, so she redoubled her efforts with the files so she could escape the office without suffering further embarrassments.
Chuckling, Sally put the receiver back to her ear. It was soon pinned down between her ear and her shoulder so she could have a hand free for the real important tasks - like taking a long swig of her scotch and a big bite of the sugary pastry. "Larry, enough about your wife's swollen ankles, okay? I don't care! I'm gonna ask you a simple question and you're gonna give me a simple answer. I'm gonna describe a guy for you and I need you to tell me if he's a guest at the Oriental. Yeah? That ain't hard, is it?"
Vicky closed the drawers after filing the reports; she spun around and moved toward the door, but a brief whistle made her turn around once more to shoot Sally a look. The private investigator offered her a wink and a smile which took the worst sting out of the previous situation. Vicky kept waiting at the door for a moment longer before a friendly wave persuaded her to go back to the desk. She sat down on one of the chairs and crossed her legs in a proper, lady-like fashion.
Another wink followed before Sally reached for her sugary pastry and wolfed the rest of it down in a short sequence of chews. The dough was accompanied by a decent-sized swig of Black Knight - then she reached for her Mohicans.
"Okay, Larry, here's what the guy looks like," she said as she dug into a breast pocket to find her gas lighter. Once the cigarette had been lit, she flipped the lighter's lid shut and stuffed it back into the pocket. "Probably thirty, thirty-one. No more than that. Probably speaks with an Italian accent though I don't know for sure. Fairly handsome. Clean-shaven. Pronounced jaw. Cleft chin. Kinda feminine-looking cheekbones."
Vicky raised an eyebrow and adjusted her glasses at the unusual description.
Sally continued: "Don't know his height- no, I've only seen a photo of him. Yeah. He won't be using his real name so that's irrelevant. But here's the big thing, Larry… his eyes are pale. Pale-blue or perhaps pale-gray, ya know. Can't say. But pale. I'll bet he has an air of aristocracy about him- whassat? What, ya don't know what that means? It means he has class to spare. Stylish. Sophisticated- you don't know what that means, either? Maybe you oughtta invest in a dictionary, pal! No, no, no, don't you start that moaning act again, Larry. That's it for now. Oh, quit cryin', whydontcha? Call me when you know something. Hi de ho."
Sally puffed hard on the cigarette before she leaned over to slam the receiver onto the telephone. Another puff followed as she crossed out the name The Oriental on the notepad. She tapped the tip of the pencil against the top page and the names of six other exclusive hotels she had listed there. The situation called for a fresh glass of cheap sauce, so she chugged down the remains of the drink and poured herself a new one at once - to slow down a little, she settled for two fingers' worth on the second pass.
Vicky crossed her legs the other way. The gesture revealed a narrow stretch of her Nylons and the shapely thigh beneath the thin fabric, but the parted dress was soon re-arranged and put back in place. "Do you need me to take notes while you call?"
"Naw, I got it. Thanks anyway, doll- Vicky," Sally said with a smile. It faded as she propped her head up on her arm and looked out of the filthy windows. "The old chums I told you about were Don Scardamaglia's underboss Vittorio Grazziani and his number one enforcer Angelo Corrado. They hired me to find a fella who did a breezer with an important object."
"Oh! That sounds dangerous… why do you want to get involved with those hoodlums?" Vicky said and sat up straight.
Sally broke out in a shrug that made the tip of ash fall off the cigarette and onto her pants. It was soon brushed off before she took the final puff and stubbed out the butt in the ashtray. "I didn't. They kinda chose me. Eh. Long story."
Another swig of scotch was accompanied by another bite of the pastry. "And the cry-baby I spoke to just now was my friend Larry. He's a lobby dick over at the Oriental. The guy they have me looking for ain't one of the thugs, see? No, he's a Count. Can you believe that? Yeah, a genuine blue-blood who fell into the wrong pack of alley cats altogether."
"And you believe he'll be staying at one of the fine hotels?"
"Yeah. Wouldn't you? The Imperial, the Excelsior… one of those places. I have contacts in most of 'em. Not all, though. Mmmm." Falling silent, Sally reached for the glass to take a sip of Black Knight.
"Don't you think you ought to hold back a little? It isn't even lunch yet."
"It's five o'clock somewhere," Sally said and drained the glass in a single gulp. The cheap hooch required an active partner on its journey into her system, so she knocked another cigarette out of the pack and lit it at once. After an initial puff, she finished off the sugary pastry as well to complete the ensemble of vices.
The silence grew awkward, so Vicky got up and smoothed down her skirt. She cast a puzzled glance at the silent investigator for a brief moment before she turned around and headed for the door.
"Hey, Vicky," Sally said before her guest could leave the office. She swung her legs off the desk and sat up straight. "I got a little too much on my mind right now to be a fun dancing partner, but what do you say about popping back in at four or so this afternoon? We could order something from Norton's and have their busboy bring it up."
"Well…" Vicky said while her hand rested on the doorknob. Her eyes made a brief tour of the messy, smelly and generally uninviting office before they came to a rest at the surprisingly soft face of the bone-tough private investigator behind the desk. "If we make it five o'clock, I might consider it."
"Swell!"
Vicky nodded; a small smile spread over her features. "And a promise of eating down at Norton's instead of in here would be the last push I needed to accept the dinner invitation."
"Gee whiz, doll, you sure know how to drive a hard bargain! I'll roll over and put my paws in the air for ya. I accept your terms!" Sally said and broke out in a grin and a big wink.
The ringing of the telephone made further conversation between the two women difficult, so Vicky left the office while Sally grabbed the receiver and swung her legs up on the desk all over again. "Okay, talk to me," she said as she took the pencil and the notepad in case she needed to jot something down.
*
*
CHAPTER 2
Norton's Diner on the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Foulton Avenue was a traditional rail car-style diner complete with black-and-white checkered linoleum on the floor, red benches framing rectangular tables and a row of tall bar stools placed in front of a long counter. Eight large windows overlooked the two streets where the typically hectic city life went on as always. At ten to five in the afternoon, the number of customers had yet to reach full capacity so the old saying of A Crowd But No Crowding fit the bill.
Several coffee machines were in full swing while the gas rings on the two stoves glowed orange. Large pots of slow-cooking chicken broth and other types of heavy foods were being tended to by two middle-aged waitresses who both wore white dresses, aprons and chic garrison caps. A glass display case offered a selection of scrumptious pastries and cakes to tempt not only the weak-minded but those who claimed to have a stronger backbone as well.
Listings of the various dishes and beverages on offer had been hand-painted onto brightly-colored pieces of cardboard that graced the wall above the stoves. There were some misspelled words here and there, but it was all part of the unique diner experience so nobody complained about it.
The customers occupying the row of tall bar stools at the counter were mostly businessmen out for a quick cup of coffee, but there were one or two ladies who had dropped in on their way home after afternoon shopping sprees. The heavy-set owner of the diner, Clifford Norton, sat at the far end of the counter trying to get his inefficient spectacles to play along so he could read the Mooresburg City Gazette - all suggestions that his aging eyes were the real culprits were brushed off with a bear-like grumble.
Outside, Sally grabbed hold of the handle and held the door open for Vicky. A smile was exchanged between the two ladies before they stepped inside the diner and strolled up to the counter. Before they could make it there, Clifford hopped off his bar stool and went over to greet his long-time customer.
"Hiya, Sally! Put it there, pardner," Clifford Norton said and held out his meaty paw for the traditional shaking. Clifford's age was anyone's guess - a raffle that had been started among the patrons and regulars of the diner had him anywhere from fifty-five to seventy-five. His callused hands, fleshy face and meager tufts of grayish-white hair that acted as a laurel wreath to the bare top of his head didn't offer any clues, and he wasn't about spill the beans.
The reluctant spectacles were perched low on his nose in a cuddly, grandfatherly fashion, but the look was deceiving as he had been a prizefighter in the Roaring 1920s and could still pack a wallop if required to. He wore a tan short-sleeved shirt, high-waisted gray pants and a black belt that strained to make ends meet across his wide belly. On top of all that, he had donned a white apron that carried the logo of his diner across the midsection.
Once the greeting had been accomplished, he turned toward Vicky and hooked his thumbs into the straps holding up his apron. "And good evening to you, Fair Lady," he said while attempting to click his heels and take a small bow - the former didn't work as he wore soft shoes to take the load off his legs, and the latter almost backfired when he gained a little too much momentum on the forward motion. Chuckling at himself, he grabbed hold of the edge of the counter to stay erect.
"Whoa, fella! Careful… we'd need a crane to getcha back up," Sally said and mirrored the chuckle. She grinned even broader as she caught a glimpse of the wide-open expression on Vicky's face. "Anyhow, what's the highlight of the day?"
"Well, the meatloaf is a gold-rimmed affair," Clifford said and counted off using his fingers. "Spam and eggs are fine, too. The veggie omelet hits the spot. It was supposed to have been a bacon omelet but we got shafted. Yeah, long story. We have tomato soup, but that turned out extra-extra spicy, so… and of course, there's always the good, old corned beef hash."
Sally nodded before she turned to Vicky. "Sounds mighty fine to us, pal. It's corned beef hash for me. Vicky?" - Vicky nodded as well - "Make that two. I need a beer and I'll bet the classy Lady here would like some wine. Right?"
"Well," Vicky said and adjusted her glasses, "I'd prefer a pot of coffee over the wine, to be honest. Wine makes me say the silliest of things."
Clifford Norton grinned as he jotted down the orders on a small notepad he kept in the apron's bib pocket. "Okay, two corned beef, a beer and a pot of coffee. You betcha."
"Much obliged, Mista," Sally said and put a hand on the small of Vicky's back to guide her along. "I see number one is available… we'll sit up there," she continued as she pointed at the table the furthest away from the entrance.
---
Just over an hour later, Sally put an additional five-spot into a jar labeled Community Improvement Fund before she waved goodbye to Clifford Norton and the two waitresses. Vicky had already stepped outside and Sally soon joined her on the sidewalk.
As all the typical street scenes played out in front of them, Sally kept quiet while she gauged the mood of her friend slash secretary. She had known for some time that Vicky was curious about certain aspects of her personal life, but she also knew that introducing the elegant dame to the special bars and the secret meeting places where the curtains were always drawn would be too much, too soon and thus a sure-fire way to ruin their friendship.
A wistful smile creased her lips as she strolled over to Vicky and hooked her arm inside the taller lady's. "I had a swell time tonight, doll. Real terrific. I hope you did too."
"Oh, I certainly did. Thank you for inviting me," Vicky said and adjusted her glasses. The tip of her pink tongue came out to wet her lips almost as if she had more to say. When further words eluded her, she settled for a nod and a smile instead.
Sally mirrored the nod. "Aw, you're welcome. Great. Okay, let me catch you a cab. Do you have enough for the fare home?"
"Ah… home? Why, yes," Vicky said and shot her shorter friend a look that contained more than a little disappointment. "But aren't you-"
"No, I need to hit the pavement, doll," Sally said with a grin. She pushed her fedora back from her forehead. "The Schmoes I need to talk to only come out when day turns to night. I need to pound the beat and put my ear to the ground. The sooner I find this runaway Count Gee of theirs, the sooner I can escape their stink of garlic and brilliantine."
"Ah… of course. Of course. Well."
"All right?"
"Sure. Once again thank you for dinner. I'll see you tomorrow," Vicky said; a smile spread over her face, but it faded as soon as Sally went over to the curb to whistle for a cab.
A short minute later, Sally waved her fedora high in the air as the cab from the J.R. Swift Cab Co. drove off with Vicky Prince on the back seat. She stuck her hands into the pockets of her blazer jacket as she watched the cab disappear into the evening traffic - as always, Vicky's exquisite Midnite Starlite perfume lingered on for a moment reminding the world of her class.
Sally's game face soon replaced the satisfied smile as she pointed her nose in the general direction of her office on Eighty-seventh Street. She was accompanied by all the typical sights and sounds of early evening life in the big city, but her mind was already on the details of the case that had plenty of potential for turning nasty.
---
Dusk had fallen by the time Sally returned to the street. She had a full pack of Serrano's Special Blend cigarettes in her pocket, a taste of corned beef hash and Black Knight scotch on her lips, and an image of Vicky in her mind's eye - all in all, she was happy with how the afternoon had transpired.
The fedora remained the same, but she had changed into her gum-shoes and the tan trench coat. The former would help her feet after pounding the pavement for hours on end; the latter would help conceal the bulges created by the Browning Hi-Power under her left arm and the three spare magazines attached to the shoulder-holster under her right arm. As always when she worked cases that involved meeting up with the shadier elements of Mooresburg City, the FN Herstal .32 was tucked away in its ankle-holster for a little additional firepower.
Most of the stores and upscale establishments on Eighty-seventh Street and the nearby streets had closed for the evening, so she would need to cast a wider net in her search for the fabled Count Gennaro of San Bonnaccio. After pulling up the coat's collar to look the part, she began strolling toward the parking garage underneath the office building next door.
Before she made it too far, she came to a halt and put her shoe up on a bench. The old trick known as Pretending To Tie Her Shoelace had worked wonders since before the turn of the century, and she exploited it to the fullest by casting a string of inconspicuous glances up and down Eighty-seventh Street while she fumbled with the lace.
The other shoelace was given a thorough check as well just to be on the safe side. Everything seemed calm and normal, so she came to the conclusion that nobody had latched onto her coattails - at least not yet. Whistling through her teeth, she moved her foot down and continued toward the parking garage.
---
Five minutes later, she drove her dark-blue 1938 Ford Coupe up the ramp and onto Eighty-seventh Street. The traffic had grown sparse as the evening had settled in, so she was able to blend in without dramas. She drove north on Eighty-seventh past the intersections at Roosevelt, MacCaulin and Corniche until she made a right-hand turn onto Tulane. The street - that the smart-alec locals had redubbed Fourlane after the number of lanes it actually had - would eventually take her to the Majestic Hotel where she would begin the meaty part of her investigation.
-*-*-*-
Two hours and forty minutes later in a pitch-black alley somewhere off Forty-sixth Street, only the red glow from a cigarette proved that someone sat in the Ford Coupe. The red glow intensified as the final puff was taken; then the driver's side window was rolled down so the butt could go on a final flight over the edge and onto the gravelly surface where the car was parked.
A long sigh escaped Sally as she reached up to turn on the dim interior light. Once the murky, orange light had come on, she took her notepad and her pencil and struck yet another name off the list of hotels. Nine names had been on it when she had started. Two remained. One was the Imperial and the other was the Oriental that her supposed friend Larry, one of the hotel detectives, was supposed to have handled for her.
Sally picked up the photo that had been on the seat next to her. There was nothing to gain by studying it even further, but it was the only connection she had to the fabled Count Gennaro. It wasn't that the hotel detectives - or 'lobby dicks' as they were colloquially known - had been unwilling to help a colleague, but none of them had seen but a shadow of the aristocrat.
Rubbing her chin, Sally put the photograph away and switched off the interior lights once more. As an inky darkness fell upon her, she let out another sigh. "This whole deal stinks worse than last week's tuna sandwich," she said before she started the engine.
The elderly Ford creaked and groaned as it moved across the loose gravel. At the curb, Sally had already turned the steering wheel right to carry on with her investigation when she changed her mind and drove left instead - toward the notorious waterfront and all its bright colors and loud clientele.
-*-*-*-
The street that ran adjacent to the waterfront was known as the Naughty Mile. Always busy regardless of what the hands of time said, the range of businesses ran the gamut from deluxe entertainment palaces and upscale seafood restaurants past middle-class bars and cafes and all the way down to the seedy nickel-and-dime dives that were so popular among the sailors, dock workers and longshoremen.
Wires carrying multi-colored paper lanterns had been stretched out between the lamp posts to cast a symphony of light onto the sidewalk and the many revelers who walked there. The great Northern Sea stretched out to the horizon beyond a few stone dikes that had been placed in the shallow water immediately adjacent to the Naughty Mile; the street's proximity to the ocean's wide-open expanses and constant breeze meant the paper lanterns were never still.
It seemed that everyone understood that autumn was just around the corner and would soon spoil their fun, so the Mile appeared even busier than normal. Sally needed to swerve several times to avoid hitting inebriated, tuxedo-wearing gentlemen and party-clad ladies who paid no attention to where they walked, but she took it in her stride with a grin - the shoe had been on the other foot too often for her to complain about them.
The parking lots owned by the fanciest establishments were all packed to capacity, but she was in luck and soon eyed a spot just wide enough for a '38 Ford at the famed Lobster's Claw Seafood Restaurant. Driving over the curb and toward a lowered bar that blocked her passage, she had time to crank down the driver's side window before she was stopped by a parking attendant who came out of a booth.
"Hiya, bub," Sally said and put her elbow on the windowsill. "Say, I got an eyeball on that spot right over there. What'll it take for me to be allowed in?" As she spoke, a five-dollar bill appeared between her fingers. The bill fluttered this way and that to act as an incentive.
The attendant took a single look at the elderly Ford before he turned to glance at the luxury sedans and limousines that were already lined up in the lot. "Get lost," he said and moved back to the booth he had come from.
"Hey, that ain't no way to treat a customer, pal!" Sally said strongly to be heard over the hubbub behind her. The attendant had little regard for her feelings and simply slammed the door to the booth shut behind him.
Rolling her eyes, Sally backed up and returned to the Naughty Mile. She drove north for a few hundred yards before the next opportunity presented itself: her luck improved by leaps and bounds when she was allowed into the lot associated with the Rouge et Noir Gentleman's Club with no hassle. She gave the bored-looking lot attendant an additional five-spot as a down payment on the tip that would follow once she'd had her fair share of the classy entertainment.
That she had found a spot at the Rouge et Noir was a blessing in disguise as it was the esteemed establishment she had planned to visit. Strolling onto the sidewalk, she lost a step at the sight of the long line of well-dressed gentlemen who all waited for the overly large doorman to give them access to the promised land.
She was on the brink of changing her mind for a second time that night when the doorman spotted her: the six-foot-six fellow broke out in a wide grin and waved her closer. Always happy to comply with the wishes of her fellow human beings, Sally whistled through her teeth as she strolled past the line of waiting gentlemen. Several of them let out most un-gentleman-like phrases when she casually opened the double doors to the Rouge et Noir without being accosted by the big brute - or even paying.
---
The Rouge et Noir Gentleman's Club consisted of a single, large room that had been subdivided into three sections of irregular size. The section to the left of the main entrance saw a roulette as well as three round tables. Two of those carried green felt with markings for poker and blackjack while the third carried a red, unmarked piece of felt for all other types of card games. Only the roulette and the blackjack table were in use at present; the broad smiles displayed by the players proved they were in the middle of a hot streak.
The section to the right of the entrance was the most secluded and was home to several clusters of leather armchairs and matching footstools. Low tables made of the finest mahogany had been put between the chairs to provide resting spots for the inevitable drinks, newspapers and ashtrays. Two distinguished-looking gentlemen sat opposite to each other in the cluster of chairs placed the furthest from the hubbub near the entrance. Each smoked cigars and sipped a glass of imported cognac.
The third and final section was by far the largest. Mirroring the floor plan of the legendary Cantaloupe Club in Miami Beach, the central part of the Rouge et Noir stretched from the bar that had been put up along the wall just to the right of the entrance and clear across to the wall on the far side of the building.
Scores of chairs and tables framed a large stage that had been built in the exact center of the room, and three short flights of stairs allowed the dancers to move down among the spectators during the performances.
Sally pushed her fedora back from her forehead as she took in the sights. The ambient temperature in the club was pleasant so she released her coat's belt and let it hang loose. She wore the blazer jacket underneath to conceal her hardware, so it didn't take long before she swept the trench coat off her shoulders and folded it across her left arm.
A doe-eyed cigarette girl in her early twenties came toward Sally with a tray suspended around her neck on a leather strap. The tray featured various brands and types of smoking tobacco as well as snuff and oft-used utilities like cigar cutters, cigarette holders and elegant gas lighters. "Would you care for a smoke, Sir?" she said without noticing she was speaking to a lady rather than a gent.
"Gee whiz, doll, I don't mind if I do," Sally said and picked up a Cuban cigar. She cast a brief, but fascinated, glance at the cigarette girl's outfit - high heels, fishnet stockings, a skirt that barely reached her thighs, and a revealing top with short, puffy sleeves - before she sniffed the cigar and broke out in a grin at the excellent quality. "For later," she said and slipped it into her breast pocket.
"And for now," she continued as she scooped up a small handful of Leroy's Hi-Class cigarillos. Four of the brown cigarettes went into the pack of Serrano's that she had brought along while the fifth got stuck between her lips right away.
The cigarette girl snickered as she took a golden lighter and ignited the cigarillo. She winked at Sally before she and her tray of tobacco sashayed away to serve the next guest in the Gentleman's Club.
Sally kept track of the young lady's highly admirable gait for a short while before she moved over to the row of tall stools at the bar. Only half were in use so she had no problem finding one that would suit her rear end. After putting her coat on one of the other stools, she climbed up on the one she had chosen and made herself comfortable. The cigarillo was exquisite so she allowed herself the luxury of smoking it gently and with plenty of passion for a change.
As expected of such an upscale establishment, the bar counter didn't have a dull spot anywhere. Most everything was made of handcrafted wood save for the beer taps that were polished aluminum. Dozens of bottles containing liquors and spirits from around the world graced three shelves on the wall opposite the bar counter which promised much pleasure of the liquid kind. Apart from the colorful labels on the bottles, the bar's colors were subdued to maintain an air of upper-crust respectability with a deep shade of burgundy being the dominant component.
Four bartenders served the customers who sat at the long counter; one of them came over to Sally within moments. "Good evening, Miss Sally. Welcome to the Black and Red. How can we help you tonight?" the young man said with a smile. Like the other bar keeps, he wore black pants, a black vest over a white shirt and finally a burgundy bow tie. His sandy hair created a splashing contrast to all the subdued burgundy surrounding him.
"Hiya, Dave. How about a Showboat for starters? Three fingers' worth," Sally said and returned the grin.
"Very well," the bartender said as he found a mixer and reached under the counter to take the proper glass for the drink. Once everything was in place, he mixed two-thirds of Kentucky Bourbon and one-third of Dubonnet before finishing off by adding three dashes of angostura. A napkin soon accompanied the drink that was put in front of Sally.
An ashtray was pulled over so the cigarillo could rest by itself for a moment. "Thanks, Dave. Here's to you and all the world's pretty ladies," Sally said and took a probing sip of the Showboat. As expected from such a top-of-the-market establishment, the drink had been mixed perfectly. "Excellent. Just the way I love it. Okay… now that I have your attention, can you recall seein' this fella here at the club?" she continued as she reached into her jacket pocket to retrieve the photograph of Count Gennaro.
The bartender narrowed his eyes as he looked at the black-and-white picture. He needed a little more light to see all the details, so he moved over to the lamp that had been put up over a discreet wash basin where the dishwasher worked.
While that went on, Sally picked up the cigarillo and swiveled around on the bar stool. Her experienced eyes roamed across the three sections of the Gentleman's Club to catch an impression of the unfolding events. It seemed that an overweight fellow wearing a fake Western suit and an even faker ten-gallon Stetson had won big at the poker table. Elsewhere, the scantily-clad cigarette girl continued to serve the customers. The distinguished-looking gentlemen who had sat in the leather armchairs had left, but that particular reduction in the number of guests was offset by the fact that the chairs and tables near the stage were filling up. After checking her wristwatch, a smile spread over her features - the first stage show would start in less than five minutes.
When the bartender said "Miss Sally?" behind her, it prompted her to turn around once more.
"Yeah?"
The cigarillo had come down to its last so a final puff was taken before it was stubbed out in the ashtray. To keep her hands active, she picked up the Showboat instead.
"I haven't personally seen the gentleman in question," the bartender said as he put the photograph on the counter, "but Eduardo says the man in the photo resembles someone who was here maybe ten nights ago. It could be closer to two weeks, though. He wasn't sure."
Sally let out a grunt - 'ten nights ago' wouldn't help her any. "All right. Thanks, Dave," she said as she slipped the photograph back into her pocket. She found a ten-dollar bill and one of her business cards and gave them to the young man. "If you or any of your colleagues see him, get on the horn and gimme a call right away. All right?"
"Will do, Miss Sally," David said and put the business card into one his vest's four pockets; the sawbuck went into his rear pocket for safekeeping. "So you're looking for him?"
"Maybe."
"He looks Italian. A mobster?"
"Maybe."
The bartender glanced left and right a couple of times before he leaned closer to Sally so he could speak without being overheard. "You do know the waterfront and the Mile are controlled by 'Ice-Pick' McGarrigle's crew, right? Those guys have been at war with the Calabreses and the big boss Scardamaglia for years now…"
"Oh, I know," Sally said and took a long sip of her Showboat.
"They usually hate each other like the black plague, but scuttlebutt has it there's some kind of truce going on at the moment. I don't have any details, but… well, it's been strangely quiet in the past week or so."
"Like the calm before a storm?"
The bartender rubbed his chin. "Perhaps… it feels like they're deliberately keeping a lid on it so they won't attract attention to themselves."
"Mmmm. Thanks, Dave."
It soon became impossible to carry on the conversation as the assembled guests all gravitated toward the bar. Before long, David and the three other bartenders had their hands full servicing the customers so everyone would have their drinks ready for the grand opening of the stage show.
Never one for crowding, Sally took the rest of her Showboat and strolled over to one of the tall cafe tables that had been put up at the back of the main spectator area.
The dimming of the general lights heralded the imminent arrival of the dancers. Soon, a row of spotlights were turned on and the path to the stage was given full illumination. A door at the back opened to reveal a bevy of scantily-clad beauties of the most long-legged kind; the hundreds of little sparklies sewn into their costumes seemed to explode under the filtered lights that shone down from above.
As the dancers made their way to the stage, the spectators all broke out in frenzied cheering, whistling and applauding. Down at the back, Sally pulled over a tall bar stool and made herself comfortable - she had a show to catch, and there wasn't a crook in the world that could tear her away from it before the last dancer had performed her final high-kick.
-*-*-*-
Even the legendary Garden of Eden of yore could only keep its doors open for so long before it lost some of its luster for the people involved in it, so it was inevitable that something less pious would come to the end of the program before the eyes of the spectators had been sated. After what had to have been two thousand high-kicks and just as many thrusts, swings, tete-a-tetes, near-misses, saucy faux kisses and assorted other semi-naughty dance moves, the bevy of long-legged beauties sashayed off the stage and back to their dressing room for a hard-earned rest.
The applause rang out loud and clear and continued until well after the door had been closed behind the last dancing girl. Just when everyone thought the proverbial curtains had come down, a single spotlight was turned on that shone at the door to the dressing room. The leading lady stuck her head out and winked at the audience one last time to signal there would always be a next dance - the simple gesture caused another tidal wave of cheers and applause to fill the center section of the Rouge et Noir Gentleman's Club.
Down at the back, Sally emptied her second drink - a Bloody Mary, hold the celery - before she slipped off the bar stool and put it back at the table where she had taken it. The hands of time showed it was a quarter past midnight so the night was still young. The smile slowly left her face as she donned her trench coat and her fedora and made her way over to the main entrance.
Stopping just inside the double doors, she took a Serrano's from the pack and lit it. She briefly eyed the well-dressed gentlemen who continued to enjoy themselves at the gambling tables and the bar before she pulled up her collar and stepped outside into the night.
The lateness of the hour had brought out the stars high above, but Mooresburg City's light pollution and the rows upon rows of multi-colored lanterns along the Naughty Mile tried their worst to kill the tender, twinkling dots of light in the black cloth.
Turning right, she strolled past a few other bars and establishments along the Mile to absorb the final, few impressions of grandeur before carrying on where she had left off earlier in the evening. The level of noise pounding on her ear drums was massive as even in the middle of the street, the overly cheery revelers continued to party at two-hundred miles per hour or so.
She was in no mood to listen to their drunken singing and shouting, so she upped her pace and made for the parking lot where she had left her car.
-*-*-*-
An idea came to her as she and her Ford waited at a red light at the intersection of Forty-first Street and First Avenue. The bright marquee of an Italian restaurant on the opposite corner had caught her eye; although the restaurant had closed for the night, the sight ignited a spark that soon lit her fuse.
Once the traffic lights turned green, she slotted into the inner lane and began to look for a telephone booth. One appeared before long, and she pulled over to the curb to explore the idea while it was still fresh in her mind.
"Let's see if those Eye-talians have a consulate or an embassy in town," she said to herself as she dove into the booth and closed the folding door behind her. The lamp in the ceiling did in fact turn on, but the bulb was so dim from being exposed to the oodles of soot and dust sent its way by the traffic that it was no help. Undaunted, Sally took her ever-dependable gas lighter and flicked it on.
The directory chained to the shelf underneath the telephone itself wasn't in great shape as chunks of pages had been torn out and used for who-knows-what - which wasn't unusual in certain boroughs of Mooresburg City - but she pulled it up onto the shelf and started thumbing through the sorry remains in the hope the entry she wanted was still there. The page that listed the address and telephone number she needed had apparently been the target of something wet at some point as it resembled a napkin that had been used once too many times.
"Damn those vandals… buncha ne'erdowells and nincompoops," she mumbled as she held the lighter closer to the page. "Okay… no embassy in town… but here's the consulate," she continued in a similar mumble as her index finger reached the information she had been searching for.
Her notepad and a pencil were soon dug up from one of her coat pockets. After jotting down the address and what she thought might be the telephone number in the flickering glow of her lighter, she put the directory and the writing utensils away but remained inside the booth. It took a bit of rummaging around in her pockets to find a nickel, but a coin was discovered before long and quickly inserted into the public telephone.
Dialing the number she had just written down connected her to the consulate, but the call went nowhere. "Hmmm. All right," she said as she put the receiver back on the hook. She tapped her fingers on the shelf below the telephone for a moment before she took the receiver off the hook once more and dialed Zero.
'Operator,' a female voice soon said at the telephone exchange.
"Good evening. I need to have a telephone number verified. It's the number for the Italian consulate in Mooresburg City. I have it as Baker six-five, six-eight, two-two. Can you verify that?"
'Please hold, Miss.'
"Sure thing, doll," Sally said with a grin. A police car that raced past the telephone booth caught her eye. The black-and-white unit went around the corner on two wheels at a speed that would have seen everyone else arrested for endangering the public at large.
'Hello?'
"I'm here. Go ahead," Sally said, retrieving her pencil and the notepad in case she needed to update the information.
'The telephone number is the correct one for the Italian consulate. Baker six-five, six-eight, two-two.'
"Thank you. You wouldn't happen to know when their opening hours are, wouldya?"
'I'm afraid not, Miss.'
"All right. Thank you. I wish you a good night, doll," Sally said and depressed the hook. She stared at nothing in particular for a little while before she put the receiver back onto the telephone. "That'll hafta wait until tomorrow. Okay."
A quick look-see at her wristwatch proved the hands of time were creeping closer to twenty to one in the morning. She tapped her fingers against her leg a couple of times before she flicked off the gas lighter and exited the telephone booth.
---
She had almost made it back to her Coupe when she came to a hard stop in the middle of the sidewalk - the cause of her halted progress had been the familiar sound of a switchblade being opened. A hoarse "Step away from your car!" soon followed.
Time seemed to slow down to a crawl. The only thing that didn't seem affected by life's sudden foul ball was the myriad of thoughts that raced through her mind all at once. She was a rare guest in that borough so she had little knowledge of the street gangs that operated there, but that she should happen to bump into one of them wasn't even a fluke but a one-in-a-million long shot that nobody in their right mind would bet a penny on.
"Turn around! Gimme your wallet! Now!" the hoarse voice commanded.
A dark, gloomy mask fell over Sally's face as she turned around to see who and how many thugs had cornered her. The mask was instantly swept away and replaced by an incredulous glare at the sight of a lone knifer who seemed so jittery it was a miracle he could even stay upright.
In his mid-twenties, the street tough wore khaki pants where the legs had been folded up nearly five inches to compensate for his meager height. Further up, he wore a plain, white T-shirt and what could only be described as a delivery-boy cap that he had cut the shade off - either that or it was a yarmulke, but his flushed features didn't look Jewish.
Sally cocked her head and let her eyes drill into those of her attacker. As she reached into her trench coat, the jittery fellow looked as if he was about to pass out.
"St- stop… ju- just your wallet, Mista!"
"I ain't no Mista, Joe," Sally said in a menacing tone of voice. "And where'd'ya think I keep my wallet? In my shorts? Holdin' up perfect strangers in the middle of the street ain't no career… well, I suppose it is, but it sure ain't gonna be a long one. Yeah?"
"Sh- shut up… the wa- wallet…"
Instead of retrieving her wallet, Sally calmly pulled out the Browning 9mm and held it down her side so the street tough could see it - his eyes nearly rolled out of his head as a result. "Now, this is where I'm beginning to feel aggrieved with you, see? I'd find a new career if I wus you. Ya never know who ya might run into… like my little friend here. You really oughtta go home to your momma." As she spoke, she moved the Browning further and further up until it was aimed at his crotch.
The street tough finally did the sensible thing by letting go of the switchblade and taking off down the street at a speed that not even Jesse Owens could have bettered at the infamous 1936 Olympics in Berlin.
"Pitiful," Sally said as she holstered the Browning and secured the button that would hold the heavy gun in place. The switchblade couldn't be left on the sidewalk like that, so she kicked it out onto the street where it disappeared down a rain gutter.
She glanced up and down the sidewalk to see if anyone had witnessed the odd scene, but she was alone save for a boozehound down-and-out on his way to a flophouse to spend the rest of the night; he wouldn't remember a thing about it five minutes later.
The Ford beckoned, and she was soon back on Forty-first Street en route to the Majestic Hotel and the night concierge whom she hoped would know a thing or two about the fabled Count Gennaro of San Bonnaccio.
-*-*-*-
Walking through the hotel's revolving door and into the grand lobby, Sally couldn't help but come to a full stop and stare at the opulence on display - everything around her was decorated in crimson and gold from wall-to-wall carpets to huge chandeliers suspended from the ceiling on inch-thick wires.
The vast lobby was dominated by a sweeping staircase that was so wide the Mooresburg City Marauders football team could use it to practice their offensive game and still have room for the cheerleaders. A small and exclusive group of high-backed armchairs had been placed on the near side of the central staircase; a low table between the chairs offered the entire range of city newspapers for free. At present, only a handful of the late editions were still available, but it would only be a matter of hours before a full batch of the new day's first editions would be delivered.
The spot on the far side of the staircase saw a large aquarium that had become home to various tropical fish of the most colorful sort. The hotel's interior decorators had attempted to create an exotic, faux-Middle-Eastern oasis by wheeling in miniature palms and gum trees in portable flower pots. The carpet on the floor was a genuine Persian, and the furniture looked as if it had been bought in a bazaar somewhere in Egypt or the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.
The Majestic's regal-looking M-logo had been woven into the carpet and was thus repeated hundreds of times along the floor of the lobby. The breathtaking craftsmanship stretched from the double-doors leading to the dining hall all the way over to the wooden reception desk which itself was a study in splendor.
The soles of Sally's gum-shoes had rarely been in contact with such grandeur, but her task remained the same so she walked over to the reception desk and the hotel employee who manned it.
The night concierge - whose nut-brown spectacles reminded Sally of Vicky's though they were round rather than square - wore a crimson dress jacket over a white shirt; a golden necktie completed the ensemble. The fellow was only in his late thirties but his hair was already thinning, and what was left had been wet-combed into a taut hairdo that lay flat against his skull.
Sally cocked an eyebrow at the sight. The combination of the man's angular features and his colorful uniform made an image of a stereotypical German ringmaster appear in her mind's eye. A faint grin creased her lips as she dove into her jacket pocket to retrieve the photograph of the Count. "Good evening, Mista… or good morning, whichever way you see it. I'm a private investigator and I'm looking-"
The concierge held up his hands to stop Sally's flow of words. "Questions pertaining to our esteemed guests will not be tolerated, Miss."
"But you can look at a photograph, cantcha?"
"Please leave at once or I shall be forced to call the police," the fellow with the round glasses said.
Sally fell quiet; her eyes narrowed down into hazel slits. More than ever, the fellow reminded her of the type of Germans she had seen far too many of in the weekly newsreels earlier in the decade. Her jaw was given a workout chewing on her cheeks as she went through a long list of things she wanted to say but knew she shouldn't. "Listen, Mista, I ain't too sure what crept up your shorts, but I don't feel that simply looking at a photograph and saying yes or no would be too taxing, would it?"
Instead of replying, the concierge went directly over to the telephone and put his hand on the receiver. "Last chance, Miss," he said in a voice so full of disdain there was hardly any room for the vowels.
Sally put the photograph back into her coat pocket before she slammed her hands onto her hips. She counted to ten inwardly before she spun around and stomped away from the reception desk. Thirty paces on, she caught a glimpse of a familiar face and made a ninety-degree right-hand turn to catch up with him.
---
She finally caught her man in a corridor beyond the grand lobby. The well-dressed gentleman who wore tan pants and a dark-gray blazer jacket over a pale-gray shirt to blend in with the regular guests had stopped at a fire post to wait for her. Like most hotel detectives - a.k.a. 'lobby dicks' - his face was so bland and common that he would literally disappear into thin air whenever he was among other people. In a similar vein, the detective wore round spectacles that only held regular window glass that would enable him to gain additional distance to the people looking at him.
"Hiya. Sally Swackhamer, P.I. I need a little professional assistance," Sally said once she had intercepted her colleague. "You're Jack Costello, aintcha?"
"That's right."
"Been working here long?"
"A couple of years," Jack said with a shrug. "Before that, I was at Clarence-Fillmore and latterly at the Lanier Regal."
Sally dug her hand into her pocket and found the photograph of Count Gennaro. "Ya ever see this guy around these parts?"
"Maybe. Who's asking?"
"His Aunt Mary-Jane. She's very concerned," Sally said with a straight face although she knew that her colleague would recognize it as a nicer version of 'you don't wanna know, Jack.'"
The veteran hotel detective moved the picture over to the nearest light source so he could get a clearer view of the details. "Mmmm. I may have. Not recently, though. Weird eyes. Italian?" he said before he returned the photograph.
"From South Tyrol. Apparently."
"Where the hell is that?"
"No idea. Huggin' the backside of North Tyrol? Anyway, he's been here?" Sally said as the picture was pushed back down into the pocket.
"Yeah, but it's been a while."
"Alone, or…?"
"Can't remember. He got a name?"
Sally pushed the fedora back from her brow and broke out in a wide grin. "Why, he certainly does. All right… thanks, pardner."
"Did it help you?"
"Not in the least," Sally said with a grin; it claimed her colleague as well. "But thanks none the less. Hi de ho, Jack… catch ya around the big bend some time," she continued as she tipped her fedora.
---
A few minutes later, she leaned against her Ford's fender and lit a cigarette. As the pale-gray smoke rose from the glowing tip, she tried to work up enough enthusiasm to carry on her investigation.
She took her sweet time to make up her mind. During the break, she found her notepad and pencil and looked at what she had jotted down in connection with the case. The few items she had managed to add to the list seemed to mock her - with the Majestic scratched off the list as well, the number of potential hot spots came down faster than the Iron Curtain had done.
A yawn snuck up on her that cracked her face wide open without warning. The lit cigarette fell from her lips as a result, but she managed to take a quick step back so it wouldn't burn a hole in her trench coat or her pants.
Leaning down while uttering a mumbled "Tryin' to make a run for it, eh?" she reached for the glowing cigarette. As she did so, she happened to eyeball a fellow in a dark-brown overcoat and a hat in a slightly paler shade of brown. That wasn't unusual in itself given that she was in front of a hotel, but it became obvious that something fishy was afoot when the man tried to jump into a deep shadow over by the line of waiting taxi cabs.
The vacant cabs were nose-to-tail in a special lane so they wouldn't be in the way at the Majestic's main entrance itself. Four vehicles representing two different cab companies were present, and the uniformed cabbies had gathered at the head of the line to chew the fat and spin long yarns about their exciting, so-so or just plain dull shifts.
Sally picked up the errant cigarette and kept smoking until it was all gone. She didn't appear to be looking in the direction where she had seen the fellow, but she kept her eyes glued to the spot nonetheless. It took four minutes for the potentially adversarial gentleman to venture back out of the shadows. By then, only three cabs remained as the first one had been summoned to the main entrance by the hotel's usher.
Feeling a devil fly entering her ear, Sally decided to play a mean trick on the fellow in the brown coat. She whistled through her teeth as she strolled over to the line of waiting taxi cabs with seemingly no care in the world. "Hiya, Mista. Ya busy?" she said to the first of the uniformed cabbies.
The elderly driver offered the fare a wide smile. "No, Ma'am. I'm all ready to go. Hop in."
"Much obliged," Sally said and strolled around the cab to get to the right-rear passenger door. Much to her amusement, the fellow who had been watching her every move ducked back into the shadow with such force that she could hear a loud bump and the resulting 'Owch! Goddammit!' plain as day.
The cabbie started the engine and drove away from the staging area. Once he had driven around the central flowerbed in front of the hotel, Sally tapped his shoulder and held out a five-spot. "Thanks for the ride, Mista. This is where I get off. It's been a real pleasure… keep the change."
"Wha'?" the cabbie said as he came to a halt in the middle of the lot. Taking the bill out of sheer reflex, he stared at it and then over his shoulder at his odd passenger.
Sally had no time to reply: she tore from the cab and set off at top speed to intercept her watcher who had run out into the central area as his target had driven off.
The man in the brown overcoat cried out when he realized he was about to be bowled over by a fast-moving private eye. Spinning around, he tried to escape but ended up down on the ground after stumbling over his own feet - a second later, Sally was all over him like cheap cologne.
"On your back, pal! Hands where I can see 'em!" she barked while her hand rested on the hilt of her Browning - the man fumbled around to do as he had been told. His hat had fallen off in the tumble and took the opportunity to roll even further away. "Ya listen here and listen good, see? Ya got exactly three seconds to tell me who the hell you are and who ya runnin' with. Yeah? Tick-tock, Mista!"
"I'm a cop! I'm a cop, for cryin' out loud!" the man said in a high-pitched voice.
Sally furrowed her brow. On closer inspection, the early-thirty-something man did in fact resemble the typical Irish or Scottish plainclothes ground pounder with his broad face, coarse hands and reddish hair. "Prove it. You got your badge in your pocket?"
"Yeah…"
"Okay. Left hand only. Ya hear?"
"All right, all right," the man said and moved his overcoat aside using his left hand. It took a while for his fingers to reach into the liner pocket, but he was soon able to wrap them around a leather wallet that he flipped open. The silver shield that came into view proved he was a Detective, Second Grade with the Mooresburg City Police Department.
"My, my. Ain't that humiliatin'. For you, I mean," Sally said and took her hand off the Browning. She adjusted her trench coat to make everything sit right before she moved away from the police detective so he could get back up. "I suspect you got a name to go with that silvery thing. Care to share it?"
The police detective let out a string of unintelligible grumbles as he got to his feet and dusted himself off. He cast a dark glare at the woman who had caused him to play the part of the fool. "Sean McFarlane. Twelfth precinct. Organized crime task force," he said in a mumble.
"Gee whiz, Sean… may I suggest that you-" When Sally noticed they had several fascinated spectators - the cabbies and the usher - she whipped off her fedora and took a bow like a circus performer who had just aced a difficult equestrian stunt. "Why, thank you, thank you! Just you nice folks wait and see what we have for you at the matinee! You never know what's gonna happen in this crazy bizz, yeah?"
Sean let out an impressive snort at Sally's comments as he picked up his hat. He glared at the large amount of filth it had collected in a short amount of time - it was so bad he needed to slap it against his coat twice to remove the street dust before he could put it on his red locks. He let out another long groan when he spotted the black, unmarked police car driving into the area in front of the Majestic Hotel.
Catching the flatfoot's groan, Sally turned around to observe the unmarked Plymouth that made a quick U-turn before it came to a rocking rest in front of them. Nothing happened at first, but then the driver's-side door opened to reveal a middle-aged, square-built and above all angry-looking plainclothesman wearing a dark-gray overcoat and a pale-gray Borsalino hat that had a black silk band tied around its crown.
The latest person to arrive at the forecourt of the Majestic slammed the car door shut and moved around the front of the black Plymouth. The body language revealed him to be one to watch out for - despite his hefty appearance, every gesture and every step he made was deliberate, perfectly executed and highly reminiscent of a dangerous predator. Symptomatically, he closed in on Sally and Sean McFarlane like a lion on the prowl.
His dark eyes sent an angry glare at his subordinate who immediately looked down at his feet. "Get in the car, McFarlane," the middle-aged man said in a voice that may have been calm on the surface but that carried an undertone of an approaching late-summer storm.
Nodding, Sean hurried over to the police car and got in.
Sally knew when to crack wise and when not to; this was a good example of the latter. Keeping mum, she tied the belt on her trench coat and stuffed her hands into the large pockets. The imposing, middle-aged cop wasn't a complete stranger to her although she had never crossed paths with him before in such a situation.
Lieutenant Conrad Garrett had achieved remarkable success over the two-and-a-half years he had been the commander of the task force fighting organized crime, but scuttlebutt had begun to whisper that it was strange how the task force could bust dozens of low-rent, simple foot soldiers and yet never manage to catch but a single one of the gold-rimmed boys sitting higher up the family trees of either the Calabreses or the competing syndicates.
"Well, if it isn't Miss Slackbladder," Garrett said as he came to a halt mere inches from Sally. He planted his feet on the ground and crossed his arms over his chest to resemble a Bullmastiff that was ready to pounce.
Up close, Conrad Garrett's strong jaw, large ears, flat nose and ruddy cheeks didn't paint a pretty picture; his angry eyes and bushy eyebrows only made it worse. To cap it all off, foul odors of day-old sweat, stale coffee and cheap, bargain-basement-quality cigarettes exuded from his clothes and his breath. He had tried to keep the bad smells down by munching on a stick of spearmint chewing gum, but the remedy didn't work.
"No quips? I'm disappointed," he continued.
"What do you want from me, Loo?"
The commander reached out to poke Sally in the chest with a fat index finger. At the same time, his right hand disappeared down into his coat pocket. "That's Lieutenant Garrett to you, chump. And what I want from you? Nothing. I'm here to tell you something, though."
Another poke; a harder one. "We know you're working for Grazziani… and that means you're working for Don Scardamaglia. Anyone who works with those Eye-talian court jesters will get their ass in a vise sooner or later. Don't think for a second we'll treat you with kid gloves just because you're a woman pretending to be a man… or maybe it's the other way around, Slackbladder? Do you understand what I'm telling you? Eh?" A third poke followed. It was the hardest yet, and it pushed Sally backward.
"Quit pokin' me, ya sonova-"
"Or what?" Garrett said calmly. Moving with the speed of a striking rattlesnake, he grabbed hold of Sally's trench coat and yanked her toward him. A split second later, his right hand flew out of his coat pocket. Brass knuckles glinted in the lights from the hotel's marquee before they, and the fist they were attached to, were buried deep into Sally's gut.
The nasty sucker-punch caused her breath to rush from her, and she wheezed and moaned for several long seconds while trying to remain on her feet.
"That was what I call an attention-getter," Garrett said before he let go of Sally's trench coat - as a parting insult, he even tugged it a little to make it sit right. Moving back, he grinned at the sight of her beet root-red face. "I'll see you around town, chump," he continued before he moved over to the unmarked police car, got behind the wheel and drove off.
Sally tracked the black Plymouth for a few seconds before she hobbled over to her own car. Leaning against the fender, she reached for a cigarette and her gas lighter at once. Although inhaling set her abused guts on fire, she needed the kick the smoke would give her, so she persisted with the plan and simply ignored the aches and pains it created.
An urgent need to be pampered by a woman's gentle touch rolled over her like an avalanche, so she moved away from the fender and hobbled back to the driver's side door. Getting in proved to be a vaudeville act worthy of Bob Hope and Bing Crosby in one of their famous Road To films, but she got there eventually.
She glared at herself in the rear-view mirror. "That rotten S-O-B needs to watch his own ass. That's all I'm sayin'," she mumbled before she started the engine and headed onto the mean streets of Mooresburg City. Her destination: a special, members-only speakeasy hidden in the backyard of a rundown and abandoned auto repair shop on Sixty-first Street.
*
*
CHAPTER 3
The next morning was an exact recreation of the one from the day before. While the strong rays of the sun beat through the windows, the single-room office of Sally's detective agency on Eighty-seventh Street once again echoed with her snores. Like always, they came from the sofa bed that had seen a little more action than usual over the course of the night.
Mostly covered by a checkered throw, Sally was flat on her back with her jaw hanging wide open so the snores could pass through unhindered. Her right arm had slipped out from underneath the blanket and was close to reaching the floor; her hair was disheveled to the point of resembling a haystack that someone had turned upside-down while searching for the notorious needle.
A gentle knock on the door couldn't carve its way through the cotton wool that filled up every square inch of the void between her ears, but a more persistent follow-up could. As the knocking continued, an eyelid slowly cracked open to reveal a bloodshot orb - the shade of crimson wasn't too far removed from that seen in the color advertisements for The Glamorous Lady's Favorite Lipstick.
Sally tried to speak but couldn't produce as much as a croak. Wondering when - not to mention why - someone had fed her a sandpaper-sandwich, she grabbed hold of the throw and swung her legs over the side of the sofa bed to get her bearings.
'Sally? Sally, are you all right? I can hear you!' Vicky Prince said from beyond the wooden door to the hallway. The frosted pane that carried Sally's name and occupation allowed a look at Vicky's silhouette; it appeared as if she carried a tray of some sorts. The theory was confirmed a moment later when the secretary added: 'I've brought you some coffee and bagels… also a pack of cigarettes and the morning papers. Sally?'
The detective in question opened her mouth to reply but found her vocal cords still hadn't shown up for work. As the checkered throw fell from her shoulders, a large question mark replaced it. For some reason, she wore very little in the way of clothes. A closer inspection of this and that proved she wore none at all - everything she had worn the night before had been strewn across the floor in a most haphazard manner like she had been too busy when stripping to fold them up in a proper fashion.
"O… kay," she croaked as a few details bubbled up to the surface of the pit of mush inside her head. Her bloodshot eyes roamed across the small office while working to come up with a battle plan that didn't involve falling flat on her nose as a result of standing up too fast.
'Sally, are you all right? Wait… the door's not even locked! That's it, I'm coming in!' Vicky said in a loud and clear voice.
"Ohhhh, no-no-no," Sally croaked, but it was too late to do anything about any of it save for grabbing the throw.
Vicky only made it two steps into the office before she came to a screeching halt. The items on the tray went through a fair rattle as she stared wide-eyed at the clothes on the floor and the checkered throw that Sally had wrapped around herself. She opened her mouth to inquire about the unusual scene but closed it again at once - a few tell-tale scents that lingered in the air rendered the need for an explanation moot.
"Mornin', doll," Sally said in a croak. She tried to grin, but all that came out of was a cheap facsimile of a smile.
Vicky drew a deep breath but remained silent. Instead of speaking, she walked over to the messy desk and put down the tray. She eyed the garments on the floor before she turned to Sally. A few moments of undiluted awkwardness went by before she couldn't hold back a chuckle. "Tell you what," she said as she collected an empty bottle of Black Knight scotch as well as Sally's socks, pants, undershirt and unmentionables, "I'll put your clothes in the bathroom. Then I'll try to knock some sense into the mess on your desk while you get dressed."
Sally grinned and wrapped the throw around her a little better so all her ladybits were covered. "Sounds like a dream, doll," she said as she got up. She let out a long, pained hiss as her abused abdominal muscles made their presence felt. Turning away from her friend, she opened the throw to look at the sorry state of her stomach. "Damn… I hope that sonovabitch gonna choke on an anchovy some day…" she said in a hoarse mumble.
"Pardon?" Vicky said after scooping up the tan shirt as well.
"Nothin'. I'll tell you later. That coffee sure smells fine, doll. Okay, I better-"
The inevitable reply of "My name's Vicky," was soon uttered, but Sally had already spent too much of her meager supply of morning-energy staggering over to the bathroom to have the mental capacity to add one of her trademark quips.
---
Ten minutes later, a transformed Sally Swackhamer staggered out of the bathroom. Now fully dressed, she at least looked the part of a private investigator. Her hair had been wet-combed and the worst of the long night's residue had been washed off her face. She couldn't do anything about the three hickeys on her neck, however, so they were in plain view.
The cotton wool between her ears had given way to a pounding headache of the hangover kind, so she made a beeline for the serving of bagels and coffee that Vicky had lined up on the desk. Bumping down onto the seat of her swivel-chair, she let out another long hiss as another wave of infernal pain shot up from her abused stomach.
The hissing made Vicky's cheeks flush red. She covered her mouth with a hand almost as if she couldn't make up her mind whether or not to ask about it.
"It's not what you think, toots," Sally croaked as she poured herself a cupful of coffee. "I sure wish it was, but it ain't. I'm not gonna lie, though. I did have a ladyfriend over last night. A real doll, see. She helped me take my mind off the minefield I seem to have wandered into."
A brief smile fluttered across Vicky's lips. "I may not understand it fully, but I'd never judge you. I hope you know that," she said as she pulled out one of the regular chairs and sat down. Crossing her legs in a ladylike manner, she re-arranged the skirt that had slipped aside to reveal a little too much thigh.
"I do. Thanks, Vicky," Sally said and saluted her friend with the coffee cup. The sip brought instant gratification as her croaky throat seemed to enjoy being bathed in the hot liquid. A prolonged "Ahhhh," escaped her as she put down the cup. "Say, that's not your usual perfume. Are you wearin' a new one to brighten my day?"
"I am allowed to have more than one, you know," Vicky said and adjusted her glasses. "And yes, this is called Roses In Bloom."
"It fits ya," Sally said with a grin.
"Thank you."
The first of the bagels came next for the P.I. After she had cut it into two equal halves, she applied plenty of butter to both sides before she slapped them together like a hamburger. While eating, she took a look at the headlines of the first editions. They were soon put away for later browsing when nothing overly important jumped out at her.
"Oh, I nearly forgot," Vicky said and took her writing pad that had also been on the tray. After flipping the cover open, she found the page where she had jotted down the information she had been given by various people who had tried to get in touch with Sally. "You had four messages this morning. None of them would state their names… only their boroughs… but they all said it concerned the thing from yesterday."
"Count High-and-Mighty," Sally said and wiped her buttery lips on a napkin. "Okay, let me have 'em," she continued and leaned across the desk. Her abdominal muscles wouldn't hear of it and sent a spike of pain zig-zagging through her interior compartments that made her grip the armrests of the swivel-chair. A long, pained hiss escaped her as she sat up straight once more. "Wouldya mind reading 'em aloud, doll?" she said in a strained voice.
"No. And my name-"
"I know. Please?"
Vicky adjusted her glasses several times before she cleared her throat and began to read: "All right. The first one was from the fellow on the West Side. He reported no contact of any kind. The second was from the Heights. No return on any of the antennas. Antennas? What does that-"
"The grapevine," Sally said with a grin.
"Oh… I see. Well. Fascinating," Vicky said in a droll voice that proved she wasn't perhaps as fascinated as she let on. "The third one, from the overseas docks, also had nothing to report. And the fourth one… let me see… from the Prospects… oh, that's right. The fourth did in fact report a contact, but he was a bit vague on the details. He said he'd call again later today."
Sally swiveled the chair around so she could avoid a repeat of the belly ache; she cocked her head. "The Prospects? A Count hiding among the down-and-outs? No way. That can't be right."
"Well, that's what he said," Vicky said and adjusted her glasses.
Grunting, Sally wiped her fingers free of butter before she reached for her own notepad. She flipped through it to see which of her street contacts pounded the beat in the Prospects, but it wasn't listed. She pulled out one of the desk's drawers and began rummaging around in some of the old, unsorted paperwork and assorted casefiles. It took a while, but she found what she looked for without resorting to emptying out the drawer on the floor.
"Okay, let's see…" she said as she thumbed through the papers - the name was listed on the fourth page. "Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm… oh, right. We can forget that one, doll. He's a known juicer-"
"He's a what?"
Sally performed the age-old gesture of lifting her arm to pretend to drink from a bottle. "Yeah. I'll bet he's just fishing for a few greenbacks to feed the beast."
"I see. So if he calls again…?"
Sally sucked on her lips a couple of times before she said: "I'd still like you to make a note of it. Even a blind chicken can stumble over a grain… or whatever the hell the old saying is."
"Well, it's something like that," Vicky said in a deadpan - the tone caused Sally to shoot her a broad grin. Easing off on the attitude, Vicky offered her friend a genuine smile as she got up from the chair and smoothed down her skirt. "Thank you for last night. I had a really good time at Norton's."
"So did I. It was too bad it didn't last longer," Sally said and returned the smile.
Two things happened simultaneously that interrupted the friendly moment between the private investigator and the secretary: first, Ira Birnbaum's voice could be heard yelling 'Vicky! Your break's over!' - then, the telephone on Sally's desk started ringing.
Vicky and Sally smiled and nodded at each other before the former left the office and the latter picked up the receiver.
"Talk to me," Sally said and leaned forward to get her pencil and her active notepad. As she did so, her abused abdominal muscles caught alight all over again which made her wince and let out a long hiss. "Hiya, Larry. No, it was nothing. I stubbed my big toe. Yeah. Hate it when that happens. So… ya got anything for me from the Oriental? Yeah? The fella was there but not recently? Damn."
Sally tapped the butt of the pencil against the notepad while she listened to the update her associate offered her. When the brief newscast was over, she put the pencil and the notepad away without having written anything. "Thanks, Larry. I owe ya one. Huh? I know, I know… I owe you about five or six ones. We can discuss that at a later date. Hi de ho, pal."
Once the receiver was back on the hook, she reached for the second bagel and cut it in half with a swift move. Nicotine and caffeine were high on her list of requirements as well, so she lit a Serrano's Special Blend and poured herself a cup of coffee - it was a good opportunity to think everything through one more time, so that's exactly what she did.
-*-*-*-
An hour went by. Sally's eyelids cracked open once more when the familiar noise produced by a police siren raced past the office down on Eighty-seventh Street. "Damn… I musta fallen asleep," she mumbled and rubbed her weary eyes.
Sitting up straight on the swivel-chair, she let out a disdainful snort as she clapped eyes on the sorry remains of the cigarette. She had only taken three or four puffs of it before she had put it in the ashtray to take a bite of the bagel instead. Not only had the cigarette been reduced to an arrow-straight pile of ash, the much-needed coffee had turned cold and nasty - a quick sniff into the pot proved that it too had gone frosty on her. "Oh, for Pete's sake," she said as she swiveled around and put her elbows on the desk.
At least the well-buttered bagel was still in good shape. Taking a big bite out of it, she let her jaw muscles get a little workout while she tried to convince herself to get up from the chair to go next door to have Vicky make her a fresh pot of coffee. It would require all her charm and probably a bribe or two, but she needed the caffeine like rarely before.
Some of it could be replenished by smoking a cigarette, so she reached for the pack of Serrano's and lit it with her gas lighter. As the pale-gray smoke rose toward the ceiling, she gripped the armrests hard and inched upward. Despite her best efforts, her abdominal muscles still gave her a kick in the gut when she clenched them.
She had barely made it to her feet when her eye was caught by a classy, and classic, silhouette that appeared through the frosted pane in the door. The silhouette was undoubtedly shaped by a woman who wore a pointy-shouldered jacket or dress top as well as a very large, very round hat that sat cocked like the glamorous Hollywood actresses would wear them in all the popular potboilers and melodramas.
The lady soon moved up her hand to knock on the doorjamb. Before the precious knuckles could make contact, Sally said: "Enter!" in a strong voice that would carry through the door.
Happy for the reprieve, Sally lowered herself onto the swivel-chair once more. She took a deep puff of the cigarette to have something to work off, but the look of the lady who entered the single-room office caused her to take several more.
Dynamite Dame didn't begin to describe the woman whose elegance bordered on the regal. Standing at five-foot-eleven in heels, the woman almost seemed too perfect to exist in the world they lived in. The shoes, the Nylons, her shapely legs, the elbow-length gloves, a suede purse on a gold chain and finally the top-class, cobalt-blue skirt suit all came together to create quite a spectacle - the large, round hat was merely the cherry on top of the Sundae.
The lady waltzed into the office but stopped after a few steps to sniff the air. The regal brow furrowed - it sat atop two pale-blue eyes, a sculpted nose, a pair of lips that Michelangelo couldn't have drawn better and a mouth that held a tiny but certainly charming gap between the front teeth - but it didn't hinder her progress toward the desk.
Once she was close enough to see the odd, cigarette-shaped line of ash in the ashtray, a second bout of brow-furrowing was displayed. A brief smile played on her lips as she eyed the private investigator instead. "How do you do, Miss. My name is Geraldine Van Eyck," she said and put out her hand.
Sally realized she needed to get up after all, so she held her breath and clenched her jaw. The pain that shot up from her mid-section was as stinging as ever, but it seemed manageable in the presence of the mysterious Lady Geraldine. "Hiya. Sally Swackhamer. I run this joint. Real pleased to meetcha," she said with a grin. The situation called for it, so she took the offered hand and kissed it on the back - the tight glove negated some of the impact, but the intention was clear for all to see.
Before Sally and Geraldine could get any further in the conversation, they were interrupted by Vicky Prince who opened the door with her elbow and backed into the office holding yet another tray. "Sally, I've managed to get a few more- oh…" - Vicky piped down and came to a halt in the middle of the floor when it dawned on her that the detective wasn't alone.
Sally let out an amused chuckle at her friend's somewhat ill-timed visit. The chuckle deepened and grew saucy as she noticed Vicky seemingly sizing up Geraldine to gauge whether or not the well-dressed lady would be a direct competitor for the position of secretary - and possibly more.
"Miss Geraldine Van Eyck," Sally said and held out her hand at her friend, "meet Miss Victoria Prince. Nominally my secretary, but in reality my Tinkerbell and my greatest cheerleader."
Vicky looked down at the tray that carried two fresh bagels from the bakery around the corner. Although not as famous as Zeligman's, the cornershop bakery was popular and always produced high-quality bread. She had managed to buy the final two from under the nose of a pushy businessman who had subsequently tried to buy them back for twice the asking price each. "Ah… yes… hello, Miss Van Eyck. I'll just… ah… put this somewhere," she said and looked around for a good spot to park the tray.
The sofa bed seemed to be the best bet even though the cushions were rather thrown about after the nocturnal activities that had taken place there. Once the tray rested on the seat, she dusted off her hands and put her right one out for the traditional greeting.
The three women continued to stand around doing nothing until Sally pointed at the two regular chairs. "Please have a seat, Miss Van Eyck. That's what they were meant for, see?" she said before she held her breath and clenched her jaw all over again. The stinging pain seemed to have grown less since its last commando raid on her well-being, but it was still enough for a strong wince to race across her face.
"Why, thank you," Geraldine said and pulled the chair a bit further away from the desk so her legs would fit into the space. She crossed her legs in a feminine manner before she took off her gloves and reached into her purse.
"Cigarette? Cigarillo?" Sally said and held up the pack of Serrano's.
Geraldine briefly looked up to say "No, thank you," before she went to work digging through the purse to find the item she looked for.
Vicky chewed on her cheek as she strolled over to the other of the regular chairs. Mirroring their guest, she crossed her legs and promptly swept down the skirt that insisted on riding up each and every time she sat down. One of Sally's writing sets - a pencil and a notepad - rested on the desk within easy reach, so she took them and got ready to jot down anything that would be discussed.
The Serrano Special Blend cigarette was given several more deep puffs before it had reached the end of its life and was stubbed out in the ashtray next to the sorry remains of its long-forgotten brother. Sally leaned back in the swivel-chair while she waited for the classy dame to find whatever she was looking for in her purse. Noticing the stern expression on Vicky's face, she let out a quiet chuckle at the gal-pal drama that had suddenly invaded her life - not that she needed it on top of all the other problems she had.
A photograph was retrieved from the purse. Geraldine Van Eyck put it face-down on the desk almost as if she wanted to keep the identity of the person a secret for as long as possible. "Miss Swack-"
"Sally. It's my name, see? Please," Sally said with a wink. Another wink was aimed at Vicky as an apology for stealing her oft-used punch line; she grinned when her friend let out a huffed 'Tut!'
"Miss Sally," Geraldine said - it earned her an even stronger huff from Vicky. She leaned forward to tap a gloved index finger on the back of the photograph. "What I'm about to tell you needs to be dealt with in utmost and supreme confidentiality. If you feel you cannot provide such a service, I'll be forced to take my business elsewhere."
Knowing the time for joking around had been and gone, Sally sat up straight and assumed her game face. "Rest assured, Miss Van Eyck, my detective agency can provide such a service." Her eyes briefly met Vicky's who offered a supportive smile in return.
"Good," Geraldine continued; she didn't yet show the photograph. "I'm the personal assistant of retired Marine Corps General Everett Brazelton. You may recall his name from the Pacific Theater in the war."
"Naw."
The wind was snatched from Geraldine's sails for a moment before she recovered: "Oh… well, his daughter has left him in a rather embarrassing position by, ah… running away from home. General Brazelton wants to hire your services to locate her and to expedite her safe return."
Sally let out a grunt and furrowed her brow. She studied Geraldine Van Eyck's face for a moment to see if the woman with the classic features was trying to pull a fast one on her, but the sincerity that shone from the pale-blue eyes made it seem like a legitimate request. "Well… finding missing people is one of the cornerstones of my agency… and without bragging, let me say we have a pretty good success rate, too, but… the runaway daughter of a retired General?"
"Indeed."
"And you, or the General, suspect that she's here in Mooresburg City?"
"We know she is. We just don't know where exactly."
Sally paused to snatch another cigarette from the pack. After lighting it, she shot her visitor an intense gaze. "Frankly, Miss Van Eyck, there's a disconnect somewhere in this story. I smell that something was left on the table… literally," she said and pointed the cigarette at the hidden photograph. "Yeah? What ya need to understand is that somewhere between three and four million people live in Mooresburg City. At least half of those are gals. See what I'm gettin' at? I need to know everything for this to work. Did this General of yours remove her lollipop privileges or what?"
"It's not quite that simple," Geraldine said and finally turned the photograph over.
Vicky reacted first by adjusting her glasses and letting out an "Oh, my…" at the sight of a gorgeous blonde in her early twenties. The black-and-white photo was a candid taken at a garden party, and showed the young woman wearing a breezy summer dress and a chic hat. A wide, toothy smile was splashed all over her face as she held aloft an old-fashioned, tasseled umbrella from the turn of the century.
Sally reached for the photograph to study it. Her brow furrowed as she took in the details beyond the obvious. The mansion in the background of the picture was larger than most and hinted at an abundance of wealth. Most of the other people caught on the photograph were middle-aged or older; all were high-and-mighty, stuffy-looking types whose starched collars and dark dresses screamed Old Money. It all meant the spirited blonde formed the natural center of attention in more ways than one. "All right, scratch what I said about the lollipops. What are we dealing with here? A kidnapping? Did you get a ransom demand?"
"No. Nothing like that, thank God," Geraldine said and shot Vicky a glance as she noticed the pencil flying across the pages of the notepad to jot everything down in shorthand. "It's… oh, how can I put it… it's a matter of the heart."
"Mmmm! I should have known. Well, that only adds to my headache," Sally said and leaned back on the swivel-chair. Hearing the details had made her forget all about her aching stomach, but it wasn't about to allow her to do that so it sent a hard stab of pain all across her abdomen in retaliation.
The hiss that exploded from her created a large plume of cigarette smoke that rose toward the ceiling; a moment later, she wrapped her fingers around the swivel-chair's armrests while the wave receded. "Sorry 'bout that, Miss Van Eyck," she said in a strangled croak. "I had a little accident yesterday."
"Oh, that's quite all right."
Sally took several shallow breaths to calm her innards before she could go on: "What I wanted to say was, in nine cases out of ten when it comes to matters of the heart, the individuals involved just ain't interested in going back to their old life… they ran away for a weightier reason, regardless of the wealth, yeah?" Sally said and pointed at the mansion in the background of the photo. She took a deep puff of the cigarette
As she continued, the cig bobbed up and down in the corner of her mouth: "I need you to level with me now. This General Wotshisname, does he treat his daughter like he would a platoon of raw recruits? I'll bet he runs that mansion like a Marine Corps outpost. Lights out at eight or nine, up at the crow of the rooster and out onto the dewy lawn to salute Old Glory while someone plays the Star-Spangled Banner on a brass trumpet. Yeah? Does he keep her heart on a tight leash? Is he one of those fathers who demand to have the final say on the fellas his daughter might cast a lovey-dovey eye on?"
"Why, I beg your pardon, Miss Swackhamer!" Geraldine said in a voice that had gained half an octave from its earlier register. "I can assure you that General Brazelton only wants the best for his daughter. These are troubled times we live in. A gentleman surely cannot be faulted for wanting to protect his precious daughter's reputation!"
"Not to mention his reputation," Vicky added under her breath. When she realized she had said it out loud by accident, she hurriedly adjusted her glasses and shot Geraldine an apologetic glance - on the opposite side of the desk, a wide smirk spread all over Sally's face.
A cloud of embarrassment seemed to hover above the three women before Geraldine Van Eyck folded her legs in the other direction. "Miss Sally, your agency comes highly recommended. General Brazelton asked me to gather a few details about your business, and I have only found positives. Why do you and your secretary strike such an odd opposition to this particular case?"
Sally grunted. "Maybe we just look at it from a female point of view, I can't say. See, Missy, what I'm trying to tell you is that if this young lady really has done a runner to the big, bad city to share her heart and a pad with a nice fella, she doesn't want to be found. Not by her daddy, not by her daddy's own assistants and certainly not by a gumshoe her daddy has hired. We'd have to knock on every door in every borough… it would take us a year. And then we'd have to start over. Why? Because she'll have caught wind of the hooplah and moved somewhere else."
Geraldine let out a sigh. "You have the wrong impression of General Brazelton, Miss Swackhamer. I'm sure you'd change your mind if you were to meet him. He's genuinely concerned for his daughter's well-being. She means the world to him."
A set of fingers belonging to the private investigator tapped a fast beat on the desk top. Sally eventually cast a glance at Vicky who adjusted her glasses and broke out in a shrug. "Well… how far is it?"
"Forty minutes beyond the city limits. Just shy of an hour in total," Geraldine said in a voice that had grown more hopeful.
"Mmmm." Sally checked her wristwatch before she glanced over at Vicky again. "It's still early. I suppose talking to the old gent can't hurt. Sniffin' a little land air might clear our sinuses as well, yeah?"
Vicky shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't leave Mr. Birnbaum so early in the day. But you're right. I feel you should talk to the General. He might have an idea or a theory as to his daughter's whereabouts."
"Good point, doll. I love it when you use those big words," Sally said with a grin. That Vicky responded with a mumbled 'My name is Vicky!' didn't seem to register as she turned toward their visitor. "Okay… you convinced me, Miss Van Eyck. Let's go meet this big shot of yours. It's upstate?"
"Yes. The land borders the Hendrick National Park."
"Now I'm even more envious… beg pardon, interested," Sally said with a grin as she got up from the chair. The tiresome abs struck back as always, but she ignored them in the face of the fascinating development. "Toots, wouldya mind keepin' track of any calls that may come while I'm rubbin' shoulders with the upper portion of society?"
"Not at all," Vicky said and closed the notepad. After getting up, she adjusted her glasses and cast a disdainful look in Sally's direction. "However, may I suggest you find a clean suit of clothes to wear before you meet General Brazelton? Pardon the brutal nature of my statement, but your clothes do carry a rather strong scent of cigarette smoke, cheap liquor, even cheaper perfume, and… something else. You know how important first impressions are to good working relationships."
"Gee whiz, doll! Always speaking the truth… and always looking out for me," Sally said with a grin as she turned to Geraldine - the visitor's startled face proved she had a hard time deciding between letting out an amused chuckle or a scandalized gasp. "Tell you what, Miss Van Eyck… is your boiler parked out front?"
"My- my boiler?"
"Your car."
"Ah… yes," Geraldine said while the large question mark over her head slowly dissolved into thin air. "General Brazelton's chauffeur is waiting for us."
"All right. I'll be down in five minutes wearing something cool, clean and classy. I think that'll be best for all concerned," Sally continued as she put a gentle hand on Geraldine Van Eyck's elbow and guided her over to the door. "Just tell your driver to keep it idlin'. I won't be long. Yeah? Hi de ho-"
"Sally!" Vicky said in a sharp voice.
"Beg pardon, doll. Goodbye, Miss Van Eyck. We shall meet again… I do know where and also when," Sally continued without missing a beat. "Better?"
Geraldine just stared, but Vicky did one better: she rolled her eyes to such an extent they went on a long tour of the ceiling of the cramped office. When they returned to land on the P.I.'s wide, cheeky grin, she had to let out a sharp huff while she adjusted her glasses several times.
*
*
CHAPTER 4
Not even a blind mole could miss the dark-gray limousine parked at the curb on Eighty-seventh Street. The pre-war LaSalle Special - that featured tinted windows and plenty of chrome and brightwork - seemed to have been stretched even beyond its original vast length, and Sally's 1938 Ford Coupe could park between the axles and still have room to make a U-turn.
Sally put on a newer and less battered gray fedora as she stepped onto the sidewalk. The sight of the limousine made her let out a grunt, but it didn't break her stride and she was soon at the rear door. Before she could reach for the handle, the limousine's black-clad chauffeur jumped from the huge vehicle and raced around the front to open the door for her.
"Gee whiz! Thanks, Mista!" Sally said as she climbed into the enormous passenger compartment. Dwarfing even Vittorio Grazziani's Cadillac, the legroom inside the LaSalle was grand enough to hold the traditional Debutante's Ball in case the Orchid Gardens on the Upper East Side were ever double-booked.
The elegant Geraldine Van Eyck sat at the far corner of the plush back seat. Although she'd had plenty of presence up in the office, the vastness of the surroundings made her seem like someone had forgotten a life-like porcelain doll. She opened her mouth to say hello, but stopped short when she noticed what Sally wore.
Sally caught the puzzled look as she slid onto the back seat - she took a gander at her clothes to see if she had overlooked something embarrassing, like buttoning the fly. When nothing seemed amiss, she turned to her hostess. "Is something wrong, Miss Van Eyck?"
"No, but I… well… I expected you to change into a dress," Geraldine said and brushed down her skirt although it didn't need it. "Not a… well… men's suit."
Sally took another gander at her dark-gray pant suit. In perfect shape unlike many - or most - of her clothes, it was one she kept in reserve for the really important business meetings. It was her only tailor-made outfit, and she had paid through the nose to get the dame with the chalk and the scissors to make it just like those worn by Katharine Hepburn. "This is a suit for women. Or maybe you're referrin' to my white shirt and red tie?" she said and straightened the latter item. The gold tie pin sat slightly askew, but she gave it a little twist to make it line up just right.
"Just be warned… the General might not approve," Geraldine said in an embarrassed tone of voice.
"Oh, no… really? I wonder if I'll live through it. Look, if he don't, I guess my pre-conceived notions of him were proven right… yeah?" Sally said and made herself comfortable on the bench seat. "Does this thing move or is it just for show?"
Instead of answering, Geraldine pressed a button on the armrest which made a green light flash on the dashboard up front. Soon, the chauffeur blended into the mid-day traffic driving south on Eighty-seventh Street.
---
Just shy of an hour's drive later, the LaSalle turned onto a rural lane lined by dense, ten-foot tall evergreen hedges. The limousine continued onward for another couple of minutes until the chauffeur slowed down to make a right-hand turn off the lane.
A closed wrought-iron fence halted their progress, but two huge sections soon slid aside as if by magic. As the LaSalle drove through the gate at low speed, several beefy men wearing black suits and square haircuts appeared out of nowhere. Each had a German Shepherd or a Doberman Pincher on a short leash, and the fierce dogs had already begun to bark their heads off before they recognized their master's car.
Sally let out a grunt at the disconcerting sight. "Gee whiz, Geraldine… I coulda sworn ya said your boss was a Marine Corps General? That sure ain't the vibe I'm gettin' from clappin' my eyeballs on those palookas. I'm thinkin' another army altogether."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, nothing. Forget it. I guess this is how the real Daddy Warbucks lives, eh?" Sally continued as she looked at the park-like garden that surrounded them. "I'll bet they have a battalion of groundskeepers to beat this lawn into submission."
As the limousine picked up speed once more, it turned onto a driveway that snaked through the park until it straightened out on the final stretch up to a grand mansion.
Three storeys tall, whitewashed and pristinely kept, the nineteenth-century building featured several spires and even a bell tower. Each of the upper two floors had fifteen square windows that were lined up with military precision. The stately entrance on the ground floor had an echo of those found on the Southern mansions, but all in all, the building had been greatly influenced by the popular image of a generations-old manor owned by the British landed gentry.
Gravel eventually crunched under the tires of the LaSalle indicating the ride was about to come to an end. The chauffeur made a wide U-turn across an open courtyard to drive over to the stately entrance; the vehicle had barely come to a halt before he bolted from it and held the passenger-side door open for Sally.
"Golly Gee, pardner! Youse guys spoil me rotten… even a cynical dame like Yours Truly could get used to this kind of service!" Sally said with a grin as she stepped out of the ballroom-sized limousine. She performed a slow, careful turn to take it all in in a wide-eyed gawk while the chauffeur helped Geraldine Van Eyck out.
Two traditional stables that each featured six bays for horses had been built across the courtyard opposite the main building. A flat-topped garage with room for three motorized vehicles seemed no larger than a child's toy compared to the adjacent stables. A magnificent water fountain featuring an ancient Greek nymph holding a cornucopia had been placed at a central location so every visitor could admire the craftsmanship.
Three open-sided utility sheds that acted as storage facilities for feed and the many tools used by the ground staff had been erected a short distance down an offshoot to the courtyard; a pair of bare-bones, World War II-era Quonset huts next to the sheds looked out of place so close to all the splendor, but Sally surmised they were the guard rooms and kennels of the beefy men and their hounds that she had seen at the main gate.
The mansion's main entrance opened to reveal a stern-looking man in his late fifties or early sixties; he wore khaki clothes that could be mistaken for a uniform at first glance. Sally stopped exploring the buildings and their surroundings to give him a closer look - a moment later, she let out a chuckle. Even if she hadn't been told the fellow she was there to meet was a retired military man, his upright stance and striding gait as he approached the waiting Geraldine Van Eyck would have been clues enough.
Everything about Everett Brazelton matched the stereotype Sally had compiled during the long drive: even beyond his physical presence, the man's gruff expression, steely jaw and razor-sharp, intelligent eyes offered plenty of hints that he was used to having every single one of his barked commands carried out with no questions asked. His salt-and-pepper hair may have been thinning and a slight paunch had developed around the waistline, but they were the only attributes that revealed he was an imperfect human being - the rest was straight out of a Marine Corps recruitment poster.
She decided to wait for the formal introduction in case her outfit was considered so outrageous she'd be sent packing. Once the General had been briefed by his assistant as to the current state of affairs, he strode over to his guest and put out his hand.
"Pleased to meet you, Miss Swackhamer. I'm General Everett Brazelton. Formerly of the Second Marines, United States Marine Corps, presently retired."
Sally tipped her hat before she put out her hand for the traditional greeting. "Hiya-"
Before she could get any further, the General continued: "Miss Van Eyck told me you have doubts that need to be allayed before you can fully commit to the assignment. Understandable given the unusual circumstances. Very well. Let's relocate to my den so we can sort out the details you require." - Once he had finished speaking, he reached out to shake his visitor's hand.
"Ah… good. Let's do that. I've always wanted to see a den," Sally said with a grin. The handshake hadn't been as crushing as she had expected, but she still needed to flex her fingers a couple of times while they crossed the courtyard.
---
Sally had her hands behind her back as she strolled around the den to take in all the military banners, maps, ribbons, medals and assorted other souvenirs that graced the walls. A plush wall-to-wall carpet rendered her footfalls silent which gave her the impression she had wandered into an art museum - or a tomb - by accident.
A battlefield diorama depicting one of the battles of the Pacific Theater took up a great deal of space at one end of the den. The other end was dominated by a huge desk made of polished mahogany - the desk was ably supported by a high-backed armchair as well as two further armchairs of a regular design. A fireplace took up five feet of wall space at the den's halfway point. Though the empty burn-pad proved it had been a while since it had been used, a set of pokers and a basket full of kindling had been readied for when the weather would turn autumnal.
Opposite the dormant fireplace, a glass display case was home to a large collection of captured enemy weapons - the centerpiece was a Katana that had been pulled from its sheath so the blade could reflect the light.
"One of my field commanders took that from the body of a slain Japanese officer," Brazelton said almost like he could read Sally's thoughts. He strode over to join her at the display case. "It's called a Ka-"
"Katana. I know, Mista," Sally said as she looked at the sword and the other items in the glass display case. "I minored in Oriental Studies back in college."
"Oh… how fascinating."
Sally let out a chuckle. "What, that I went to college?"
"No, that you chose Oriental Studies. Too few are interested in that. It's vital that we as a nation understand what motivates and drives the people we've fought… and may fight again some day."
"So you're sayin' we haven't heard the last of the Far East, General? Even after we showed them we mean business by dropping the big ones?"
"There's plenty more to come. You can take my word for it," Brazelton said and pinned Sally to the spot with one of his typically steely glares.
"Now that's a comforting thought. And there I was, thinking the world was tired of all the killing," Sally said and moved away from the weapons. She made a beeline for one of the regular armchairs. The upholstery was a soft, inviting velvet rather than a cold, distancing leather, and that suited her just fine.
Everett Brazelton strode around the desk and sat down in the high-backed armchair. He looked at his guest for a moment before he pulled out a drawer and retrieved a tobacco case made of silver. "Would you care for something to smoke?" he said as he undid a small latch and opened the lid.
"Thanks. I never say no to a free cig," Sally said and leaned forward to take a king-sized Champion's Choice. The stinging pain in her gut bared its ugly claws as she did so, so she had to grab hold of the armrests while Brazelton used a Marine Corps-standard flip-open lighter to ignite the cigarette.
The first, deep inhalation was sweet and silky which went a long way to calm her frazzled gut. Leaning back on the chair, she crossed her legs at the knees.
"Just out of curiosity, Miss Swackhamer… what was your major in college?" the General said after huffing and puffing on a cigar to make it come alive.
Sally broke out in a lopsided grin. She rolled the king-sized Champion's Choice between her fingers a couple of times before she said: "Homecraft."
"Ah. The home front is perhaps the most important one of them all," Brazelton said as he leaned back on the armchair. "Did you start your business during the war when the boys were away?"
"No, I've been an independent operator since 'thirty-nine. But enough about me. Let's talk about your daughter, Mister Brazelton. For some reason I can't quite figure out, nobody has told me her name yet. Something tells me it's not because you've forgotten it."
Everett pinned his guest to the spot with a steely gaze; when he realized she didn't flinch, back down or even have any problems returning it in spades, he let out a quiet grunt. "No. It's because I wanted to make sure you didn't shoot off your mouth to the gutter press the first chance you got simply to earn a quick dollar, Miss Swackhamer."
"Fair enough. That's how some gumshoes operate. So?"
"My daughter's name is Maureen Alice Brazelton. She goes by Maureen."
"Thank you," Sally said and moved her hand like she tipped her hat. "I gather that you suspect she's run off to the big, bad boroughs because she went all a-flutter for a slick charmer who may not be as good for her as she thinks?"
A chuckle escaped Brazelton before he drew a deep puff of the cigar and let the smoke trickle out of his nostrils. "Well. You certainly have a way with words, Miss Swackhamer."
"It goes with the territory. How far off the bullseye was I?"
"Not far at all except that I don't suspect anything, I know. And I do so because Maureen called me to say that she had met a wonderful gentleman who treated her like royalty… well, and that she had moved in with him in Mooresburg City. Her words."
"I see. But no names were mentioned? Or an address? Perhaps just the borough?"
"None of that, I'm afraid," the General said with a shrug.
"Hmmm," Sally said and rubbed her chin. She took a couple of puffs of the king-sized Champion's Choice to get the nicotine to create new pathways in her gray matter, but the briar patch the hangover had left between her ears meant it was a little slow in doing so. "I won't lie to you, General. I can't see how we can find your daughter with so little information to go on. She could be absolutely anywhere. She might not even be in Mooresburg City despite what she told you. It could be a smokescreen. I'm pretty sure you know about those."
"Yes," Brazelton said and rose from the armchair. After a moment of rare indecision, he took a metal ashtray, moved around the large desk and went over to the window. He loosened the curtains to peek outside almost like he was trying to see if his daughter had set up a camping tent in the vast garden.
"Miss Swackhamer, I know I may come across as somewhat insensitive, but I am very concerned for Maureen's safety. She's a delicate flower who isn't ready to face the harsh realities of the world. She's obviously had a few summer flings over the years, but I can guarantee you that she's never as much as kissed a man on the lips. I'm afraid she might have been lured in by a scamming artist or a trickster of some kind… someone who might use her as a quick and easy way to obtain money."
Sally chewed on her cheek and furrowed her brow - it was obvious she had a hard time believing the part about never kissing anyone. "General, how old is your daughter?"
"Twenty-two. Miss Swackhamer, I understand how unlikely it must sound to someone as worldly as you, but it's the honest-to-goodness truth," Everett said and turned around so he could lean his rear-end on the windowsill. He took a deep puff of the cigar and knocked off some excess ash into the ashtray. "I do know my daughter. We often sit down for a heart-to-heart… or we did. She would have told me. We've been each other's closest confidants after her mother, my wife, died of cancer six years ago."
"I'm sorry to hear that, General. Did your daughter spend the war years here by herself?"
"No. She went to one of the finest boarding schools back east. She was there in a teaching and advisory capacity though she was only a year or so older than her fellow boarders," Everett said and moved away from the window. "Would you care for a brandy, Miss Swackhamer?"
"Why, I certainly would. Thank you."
Brazelton put the cigar back in his mouth as he went over to a fold-down drinks cabinet in the corner of the den. Made of polished dark wood, it had been well-camouflaged by a captured Japanese battle standard that had been spread over the lid. The tattered, battle-scorched banner was soon folded back to gain access to the bottles inside - before long, the familiar dark-golden liquor flowed from a crystal decanter and into a pair of glasses.
"Here you go, Miss," the General said as he handed Sally one of the glasses as well as a napkin.
Sally transferred the king-sized Champion's Choice to her other hand before she reached for the glass. "Thank you. To get back to the particulars… would you happen to know if your daughter kept a diary?"
"I believe she did. However, diaries are among the most private matters any individual can have, Miss Swackhamer. That would be akin to interrogating a Catholic priest about whose confessions he'd taken in the past week." As he spoke, Everett Brazelton sat down in the high-backed armchair once more. The cigar was soon resting in the ashtray so he could enjoy a sip of the brandy.
"Oh, very true. It may also hold the key we need to unlock the case."
Sally took her own first sip and marveled at the richness and the silky smooth texture of the high-quality liquor; it was as far removed from the cheap sauce she occasionally bought as a side of veal was from a can of baked beans. "Chances are she's doodled the name of the charmer a dozen times surrounded by plenty of little roses and cupids. If we're lucky, there may even be a telephone number."
Impressed by the drink, she held the glass up against the light to admire the deep-brown color - this was the real deal and not a cheap knock-off by any stretch of the imagination. Another sip followed that left her palate jumping for joy and the rest of her grinning.
"Roses and cupids," the General said and let out a chuckle. "Well. I can't say that such entries were in my diary when I was her age back in 'oh-nine. But all right. Girls are different."
"We sure are, Mista," Sally said with a wink.
Brazelton picked up the cigar and took a deep puff. "There's a problem, though. She took a lot of things with her when she left. Mostly clothes, but… several personal items are missing as well. Photos of her mother. Jewelry and smaller knick-knacks. Wouldn't you bring your diary if you were to leave under such circumstances?"
"Hmmm. Yes," Sally said in a dark tone. "Maybe she left an older one that she had already filled out? I still believe it would be our best angle, General."
A set of deep furrows spread across Brazelton's brow; he took several sips of the brandy and puffs of the cigar before he leaned to the side to pull out one of the desk's drawers. "We can speculate all damn day and end up with nothing more than what we had going in. Let's set some actual field reconnaissance in motion here," he said as he appeared to be pressing a button on some kind of apparatus installed in the drawer.
"Now who has a way with words, General?" Sally said and drained her glass of brandy.
Everett chuckled before he leaned down to speak into the small microphone in the intercom. "Miss Van Eyck, we need you in here. Thank you."
The door to the den opened before any of the people inside could count to three. As Geraldine Van Eyck walked across the plush carpet, Sally noted she had changed into a more subdued outfit that consisted of black shoes, a dark-gray skirt, a white O-neck blouse and a pale-gray cardigan that had leather patches sewn onto the elbows. The huge, round hat had vanished as well which revealed her hair was longer than it had appeared back at the detective agency's office: it had been rolled up into two discreet buns at the back of her head.
Sally's king-sized Champion's Choice was finally down to its last, so she reached for the ashtray and stubbed out the remains - a pale-gray wisp of smoke trickled upward from the crushed butt like it surrendered to the inevitable. Turning around in the armchair, she smiled at Geraldine who smiled back.
The General rose from his own armchair as the lady entered the room. "Ah, very good, Miss Van Eyck. Miss Swackhamer has brought up an interesting point that we need to explore at once. Would you happen to know if my daughter left any of her old diaries here? Perhaps one she had used up fully?"
"Oh… her old diaries?" Geraldine said and looked at Sally. She furrowed her brow and grew distant for a short while; then she turned back to the retired General. "I'm afraid I can't answer that, Sir. There aren't many personal items left in her room upstairs."
"I'm aware of that, Miss Van Eyck. I still want you and Miss Swackhamer to search the room. Maybe your women's intuition will come to our aid. Maybe even provide the solution, who knows."
Sally chuckled and scratched the side of her nose. She shot the General an amused look that he didn't catch - then she looked at Geraldine who let out a "We shall do our best, Sir," before she turned around and walked back toward the door.
"I guess that's my cue," Sally said and got up. "There's no need for you to come with us, Mista General, Sir. This is a job for wimmenfolk, see?" A smirk flashed over her face at the quip, but it faded when it came obvious the retired General had taken it at face value.
"Very well, Miss Swackhamer. Report back to me regardless of whether or not you find anything. We still need to discuss your fee."
"Yessir, Mista General, Sir," Sally said and smacked her hand against her forehead in a salute that wouldn't have passed the muster in any military academy.
---
Upstairs in Maureen Brazelton's former bedroom, Sally scratched her chin as she glanced around at a whole lot of nothing. A spring-frame bed had been placed in the center of the room, but while it was made and ready for someone to sleep in it, it was obvious nobody had been in there in the week and a half since Maureen's voluntary exit.
Two of the four walls were covered in photographs of movie stars and recording artists. Most had been scissored from various newspapers and magazines, but a special collection of eight ten-by-twelves were autographed hi-gloss promotional shots straight from the PR-departments of the various Hollywood studios. The third wall was home to a large wardrobe, but establishing that it was empty wasn't a difficult task considering the double-doors stood wide open. The fourth wall consisted of a pair of glass doors that led to a balcony overlooking the garden and the national park beyond it.
A chair of the four-legged, straight-backed kind had been placed in front of a roll-front bureau where the center section had been redone to create room for a makeup mirror. A shelf around the mirror's base had been emptied of items as had two of the three drawers. The third and final one only contained a wad of cotton wool and a half-empty tube containing a kind of solution used to remove stubborn makeup - not that Sally had much experience with such items.
Two strange, gum-like markings on the mirror caught Sally's experienced eye. Moving in close, she slid her thumb over the markings and came to the conclusion they were residue of some kind of adhesive. The most typical reason for having adhesive material in such a spot was to make sure that a photograph of a loved one would always be in the line of sight. "But who? Mommy, Big Daddy or Loverboy?" Sally said in a mumble.
She turned around to see what Geraldine was doing at that point in time - the General's assistant had stepped into the large wardrobe and seemed to explore the possibilities of false floors or walls by tapping her knuckles against every surface.
Sally turned back to look at the collection of autographed promotional portraits. Four of the eight were Hollywood's biggest male heartthrobs; two of the remaining four were top female stars while the final two were animal stars: Tarzan's overly cutesy chimpanzee Cheetah and, inevitably, Lassie.
"Miss Van Eyck, did you find anything over there?" Sally said and put her hands on her hips.
"Nothing," Geraldine said and climbed back out of the wardrobe - a cluster of stealthy gray dust bunnies that had become attached to her dark hair meant she was only half right.
Sally let out a grunt at the sight. "You might wanna brush your hair."
"Beg pardon? Oh…" Geraldine said as she ran a hand through her locks only to scoop up plenty of the gray dust balls.
"The General doesn't know everything about his daughter after all," Sally continued. "This isn't the room of a delicate flower unprepared to face the harsh world. Look at those PR photos. Hunks and heartthrobs all of 'em. And Lassie… all right. Everyone loves Lassie. She has a makeup table which means she's aware of the attraction makeup creates. Look at the corners of the mirror. Sticky stuff meant to hold down photos. Yeah? I'll bet she had sexy dresses and lacy underwear in that closet before she cleared it out."
A brief, scandalized stare flashed across Geraldine's face, but it was soon gone.
"And if the General was wrong about something as basic as that, chances are he's wrong about a great deal of things concerning his daughter," Sally continued as she dug into her jacket pocket to find her pack of Serrano's Special Blend cigarettes and her gas lighter. Once the cig had been lit, a column of pale-gray smoke rose toward the ceiling to prove she was puffing once more. "Geraldine, you better sit down before I ask you the next question."
"I do not like the sound of that, Miss Swackhamer," Geraldine said in a sharp tone. When she realized Sally wouldn't go on until the suggestion had been adhered to, she sat down on the bed. "Oh… all right," she continued while she folded her legs to the side in a most lady-like fashion.
"Was Maureen pregnant when she upped stakes and vamoosed into the dark of night?"
"Really! She most certainly was not, Miss Swackhamer!" Geraldine said and slapped her palms onto her thighs. "I spoke to her every single day. I would have noticed if she was pregnant!"
"I sure ain't no expert on pregnancies, but I do know that it's impossible to tell for the first several weeks. Perhaps even longer than that, I can't say," Sally said and took a deep puff of the cigarette - the Serrano's were regulars rather than the king-sized Champion's Choice she had been given by the General, so it was closing in on being half-smoked already. "Did she act funny at all in the days leading up to her vamoosing? And by that I mean did she seem different? Did she do less than normal? Back aches? Or perhaps-"
"Maureen wasn't pregnant when I saw her last. End of discussion," Geraldine said and crossed her arms over her chest.
"Well, I guess you'd know."
"Yes!"
Sally let out a grunt and cast another look at the room that an entire platoon of street sweepers couldn't have cleared out better. The closet was empty as were every shelf and drawer. "Hmmm…" she said and rubbed her chin. The cigarette reached the end of its life, so she gave it the last rites by puffing on it one last time. "Ya wouldn't happen to know where an ashtray might be hidin', wouldya? I don't wanna stub it out on the bureau there."
Geraldine let out a sigh before she walked toward the door. "I'll get one for you, Miss Swackhamer."
"Thanks, doll," Sally said to the empty doorframe. Once she was alone, she cast a critical eye on the few remaining items in there. "Okay, Sally," she said quietly to herself, "you have a diary with a ton of personal stuff in it… where would ya hide it? In plain view where Daddy-O could find it and read all about your wettest dreams and desires? Like hell you would. You'd keep it hidden somewhere."
As she spoke, she eyed the heavy spring-frame bed. Grunting, she got down on her hands and knees and peeked under the frame. Nothing. The bed was equipped with open-faced end boards so nothing could be taped to the back of them.
Activity behind her proved to be Geraldine returning with a porcelain ashtray. The assistant only had time to say: "Here you go, Miss-" before she cut herself off to stare at the odd sight of Sally with her head on the floor and her rear poking up in the air.
Sally got back up and dusted off her hands. "Gee, thanks, Miss Van Eyck. I just had a thought. Nothing yet, but it may still slice the bacon," she said as she took the ashtray and stubbed out the tiny remains of the cigarette. Once that had been taken care of, she went over to the bureau with the make-up mirror.
The wooden piece of furniture was less heavy than it appeared and she was able to pull it away from the wall with no hassle. Nothing had been sticky-taped onto the back or any other unseen surface on the exterior. Grunting, she pulled out all the drawers and ran her hands along the inner sections of wood without finding anything.
"Dammit… c'mon, Sally, think! Think, ya dumb broad," she mumbled as she leaned back on her thighs and dusted off her hands once more. The empty closet across the room caught her eye. Geraldine had already explored the interior, but it was equipped with a flat top and hand-carved, decorated moldings that ran between all four corners.
Sally picked up the chair that stood in front of the bureau and brought it over to the tall closet. As she climbed up onto its seat, she could heard Geraldine say "I've already been through the closet. There's nothing there," somewhere behind her, but it didn't stop her from carrying out her idea.
Even standing on the chair, Sally needed to get up on tip-toes to look above the decorated molding; with its height being two inches or so, the wooden board concealed the inner section perfectly. Igniting her gas lighter to see better, she let out a grunt of triumph when her eyes fell on a book that had been placed just behind the board to give it an extra level of secrecy. It didn't look recent and was in fact covered by a layer of dust, but its flowery, feminine design proved it was anything but the Book Of Psalms.
"Gotcha," she mumbled as she shifted the lighter to her other hand so she could reach the book better. Back down on the floor, she drew a deep breath and blew a gale across the book's cover to rid it of dust. The words Private property of Maureen Alice Brazelton - Keep Out! had been written on the cover in a neat, girly hand. "I think we may have it," she said and held it up so Geraldine could see it as well.
Unlike some that were protected by a lock, the book Sally had found was open so she thumbed through it at once to verify whether or not it was in fact a diary or simply a bust. The book contained seventy-five pages' worth of the same handwriting as on the cover; each page started with a date, the time of day and a brief description of Maureen's mood as she had written that particular entry. A quick look at the book's final entry revealed it had been written in February. "Feb nineteenth… too soon if it's a summer fling that turned sizzling hot," she said in a mumble.
"Is it a diary?" Geraldine said as she tried to look at the book over Sally's shoulder.
"Yep."
"Does it say anything that may help us find her?"
Sally chuckled and shut the book. "I'm a whole buncha things, Miss Van Eyck, but a spiritual medium sure ain't one of 'em. I only just found it. I need to read it cover to cover to figure that out."
"Well… all right…"
"I'd say we're done here. Let's go back to the den. I need to talk to the General," Sally said and strode over to the hallway door.
---
Geraldine shut the thick door to the den the second Sally had gone through it. Everything remained as when she had left earlier, except for an abundance of cigar smoke that hovered in the air over a small, portable table.
It seemed Everett Brazelton had needed to do something productive to take his mind off his daughter's disappearance, so he had cleaned and lubricated a large-caliber hunting rifle. Still in its stripped-down state, the rifle's various bits and pieces took up most of the space on the table top, but there was room for an ashtray, a crystal glass and the decanter of brandy.
"Ah, Miss Swackhamer. Was your reconnaissance mission successful?" Brazelton said and took a sip of the amber liquid.
"It was, General," Sally said and patted her jacket pocket. "I found a diary. Time will tell whether or not it's the clue we need to move ahead. Don't get your hopes up too high. It might just be a collection of babbles."
The private investigator had barely lowered herself into the same armchair she had used earlier when Brazelton wiped off his hands on a rag and slid a folded-up piece of paper across the smooth mahogany desk.
Furrowing her brow, Sally picked up the note and unfolded it - her eyebrows shot skyward at the sight of the figure that had been hand-written on it.
"Not enough?" General Brazelton said and picked up his cigar. Once it was between his lips, he returned to the high-backed armchair.
"Too much. This is three times my regular going rate, Mista," Sally said and tapped on the piece of paper. "How about we postpone the financial transactions for when your daughter has actually been found? First of all, see, it's still a long-shot regardless of what the diary might say. And secondly, note that I said found, not brought back. She may not want to."
"But I want her back!"
"She's an adult, Mista. She has to live her own life. You obviously love her, which is a great thing in anyone's book, but perhaps you need to realize that time has moved on. She's not twelve anymore. She's twenty-two with a mind of her own… and if she's anything like you, I'll bet she's a headstrong young lady. Yeah?"
Everett Brazelton shrugged. "I suppose she can be called that, yes. It runs in the family. That was why I loved her mother so."
"I'll do what I can, but don't expect any miracles," Sally said and got up from the chair. After donning her dark-gray fedora, she put out her hand and went over to the mahogany desk for the traditional handshake. "I think it's time for me to skedaddle back to my own world, General. I'll reach out to my contacts and set the big wheels in motion. I'll need a recent photo of your daughter so they'll know who to look for."
"Miss Van Eyck can provide you with one," Brazelton said; he seemed to deflate as he spoke which allowed the first glance at the human being underneath the typically strict and detached military exterior. He drained the glass of brandy. "I wish Maureen would call again. Maybe I could ask her what it would take for her to come home… or simply stay in touch. It's the uncertainty that's driving me to despair! I can't stand being in the dark like this."
"I understand, General. I hope she'll call ya. Talking is always the best starting point."
"Yes… well, goodbye, Miss Swackhamer. Thank you for your time."
"Nothin' to it. I'll find my own way out," Sally said and left the smoke-filled den. After she had closed the thick door to leave the General alone with his thoughts, she reached into her own pack of Serrano's and pulled one out. The pale-gray column of smoke that rose past her narrowed eyes seemed to signal the case would be a tough nut to crack - and she still had the other tough nut, the fabled Count Gennaro of San Bonnaccio, to deal with.
When Geraldine Van Eyck entered the outer room, Sally took a deep puff of the cigarette and walked over to the assistant to organize a copy of the most recent photo of Maureen Brazelton they had.