Lady Crymsyn
Chapter 8

At five minutes after nine, I broke off trying to explain my half-assed attempts at bookkeeping to a very patient and bemused Malone and phoned the Red Deuces for Bobbi. She answered herself.
"That was fast," I said after saying hello. "Were you sitting on it?"
"Almost. I've been hanging around the office during my break."
"What's going on? Charles mentioned something about the funeral."
"I've got it all arranged, but it's not going to be a real funeral, because the police haven't released that poor woman's remains yet, which is really stupid of them." She sounded huffy about the situation and gave me a thumbnail of her day's trials and tribulations. She'd juggled a truck-load of them. "In the end I had to settle for just a memorial service for Lena at the funeral home."
"Not a church?"
"I tried, but they were all strangely busy with other things."
"They must be allergic to the notoriety. What happens when the cops do release the body?"
Malone, who couldn't help hearing my end of the conversation, looked up from his work, wide of eye for a moment, then wisely bent back over the account books again.
"They'll do some kind of short service at the cemetery," she answered. "But that won't be for a while. I need your help right away."
"Name it."
"You're going to talk to Rita tonight?"
"I hope to."
"Find out from her whether I need a priest, minister, or rabbi to speak tomorrow. If she and Lena were best friends, then she might know."
"Yeah, sure, I guess." I'd picked up an edge to her voice, which meant she was working too hard.
"It's really important, Jack. The guy at the funeral home told me how people are very particular about that sort of thing. I don't want to muddle any of this up."
"Yeah, we wouldn't want her going to the wrong heaven after all this time."
"That's not funny."
"Yes, it is, when you think about it. It's not as though you have to wait to be buried first before you take off."
"Jack-"
"Do you really think anyone needs some kind of notarized statement saying 'Dear Saint Peter, here's another stiff, pass him through the gates, signed, Father McGonnigill.' "
"Jack-"
" 'PS: He once had a hot dog on a Friday, but don't hold that against him.' "
I didn't get much sense out of her then, but that was okay, a little profane release is always good for the soul. "Feel better?" I asked after a few moments of holding the receiver away from my ear.
"How is it you always know what I need most?" she demanded, sounding more relaxed.
"Native talent, my dear. Now what else can I do to you?"
"I can think of something, but you'll have to save it for later; I've still got grim reaper business."
"Shoot away."
She told me how much the services would cost, which included the graveside stuff and price of the coffin and headstone.
"Doesn't seem like a lot," I said. "Not that I'm complaining."
"The guy who runs the home knew me as being one of Gordy's friends, so he cut a good deal."
Fair enough. Over the years he may have gotten a lot of business thrown his way because of Gordy. I kept such grisly speculations to myself, though, since Malone was still in front of me. He already looked like he'd work out fine for the club; I didn't want to scare him off.
Bobbi told me the where of the service and when: tomorrow evening at eight.
"Isn't it unusual to have it at night?" I asked, scribbling it all down.
"Not for a memorial. Anyway, I figured you'd want to be there."
"I don't want to, but I will to see who turns up and why-and to keep you company," I quickly added.
"Smart man," she purred in a dangerously sweet tone.
"I don't need to be the undertaker's next customer. What about your job? Is there any trouble about you taking time off for this?"
"The boss won't short my check as long as I do my two sets that night. I'm swapping my schedule around with one of the other acts. As long as I'm back by ten, everything's jake. Now, it's too late to put an announcement in the papers, so I'll call Gordy to spread the word and you do the same at that going-away party."
"Yeah. Maybe they can break off their boozing long enough to put in an appearance."
"What if no one comes to this?" she fretted.
"You'll get a good turnout, angel; the place will be jammed with reporters."
"No, it won't." She sounded smug.
"How'd you manage that?"
"Not me, Lieutenant Blair."
"Oh, yeah?"
"I had a nice talk with him about all this, and he promised to have plenty of uniforms around to keep things in hand."
"And keep track of who comes and goes."
"Of course."
"I'll just omit that little detail from the invitations, though the smarter mugs will figure it out on their own."
"Which is why I don't expect a crowd."
"No need to worry about it, I'm sure the guest of honor won't notice a damn thing."
"Jack!" Exasperation. "I'm trying to be serious here."
"Don't mind me, sweetheart. I have to be an ass about it now so I can handle it later."
Pause. Then. "This is digging into you too, isn't it?"
"Enough so Charles had to comment."
"Oh. I didn't know. You going to be all right?"
"Yeah." I put in a note of reassurance. Some of it was genuine.
"Will Charles attend?"
"Hard to say. Right now he's on a train to New York, so I wouldn't count on it." I explained about the dognapping errand. Bobbi was disappointed, but because of her own precarious career understood the odd demands of Escort's irregular business.
When I hung up, Malone stopped pretending to work and put down his pencil. "I don't wish to pry, but..."
"It's okay. My girlfriend's making arrangements for the body they found in the cellar. There doesn't seem to be any family coming forward, the cops haven't traced them either, so it's sort of left up to us."
"But I thought the city took care of things like that."
No need for me to repeat all the points Gordy had cited on why I should take up the task. "Yeah, well, if I can borrow a phrase, it's complicated. I don't want people finding out we're doing this, either, so if some reporters ask, you don't know who's behind it."
"Reporters?"
"When you arrived, didn't you see a couple guys hanging around the front?"
"Yes, I'd forgotten about them. I thought they also might be here applying for work."
"Why didn't you wait with them?"
"I didn't like their looks. Rather scruffy and desperate."
"You're a good judge of character. I've shooed most of the others away, so you shouldn't have problems, but you might still have to fend off some phone calls until this sideshow settles down."
He didn't look too thrilled at the prospect, and I took it as a sign that he'd be suitably discouraging to members of my former profession.
"The foreman here, Leon, will help out if anyone gets pushy. Which reminds me, I need to let him know about hiring you on."
While Malone went back to making order of my chaos, I scribbled a note to Leon, explaining things. The phone rang; it was someone wanting a bartending job. Word was getting around, then. I told him what he needed to know and said he could come in tomorrow to talk to the general manager, then caught myself and put a hand over the mouthpiece.
"Can you be here on a Saturday?" I asked Malone.
"When?"
I gauged how battered he looked against the necessity of getting the club ready for its private, invitation-only opening by next Friday night. He had no problem coming in at noon and staying until six. He said he could be earlier, but I shook my head, confirmed the time to the guy on the phone, and hung up. While I was thinking of it, I fished out the keys to the joint and handed them over.
"You can use these until Leon gets your own set made. The one with the red tag is for the front door, the blue is for the back."
"But how will you get in?"
"I've got another set at home," I lied.
Malone held the keys in his hand a moment, looking at them.
"Something wrong?"
Tic. "It's just, well, it's a lot to take in. I didn't expect anything like this when I decided to come over tonight. Are you sure about me? You don't seem to mind about- about certain things."
"Your private life is none of my business. You being able to do the job right is. If it works out, fine. You won't have to worry about the bouncers here, either. For one thing, you'll be the one hiring them. And if anyone gives you trouble, you let me know so I can deal with it. I'm going to run a nice, smooth operation, and back alley brawls are not in my plans."
"You're very confident, aren't you?"
"I guess I am." It wasn't a word I'd have instantly used to describe myself. "Stubborn smart-ass" struck me as being more appropriate, but I'd readily accept his definition as a more genteel alternative.
"That's a rare quality these days," he said. "So many people have none left because of the hard times, you know."
"Can't blame 'em, but I figure you'd have met mugs with plenty of moxie working at Nevis's place."
"Not really. Most of their bravado was from a bottle or a big win at the tables. Once they're sober and the money's spent they go right back to old habits and fears-until the next time."
I recalled he had some psychology books on his shelves. He'd either read them through or was a part-time barroom philosopher. "Check me again a week after we open. If this place is a bust, you may have to alter your opinion."
"I hope not," he said with half a smile, and gently rapped his knuckles twice against the wooden tabletop before going back to the accounts.
Taking Leon's clipboard, I left to make a quick inspection of the day's progress.
The main floor was now all done except for unpacking glassware and installing the bar equipment. The backstage area was finished and waiting for future performers to break it in. The basement was shaping up, but far too slowly, and we'd come to a major hitch. A portable cement mixer wouldn't be available until next Friday, meaning the crew couldn't complete the floor as planned, much less fill in the eyesore trench under the far wall. Times might be tough, but Roosevelt's NRA was doing a lot of public works stuff this summer, which was why we couldn't get a mixer right away. I made a note to Leon to call every company in the whole damned county if he had to find one and to hell with the cost.
In the meantime, he and the crew had improvised, mixing cement one bag at a time in wheelbarrows. They'd started on the near wall and were working their way toward the back entry. It was a good job, smooth and level, but taking too long for my schedule. At this rate we'd have to string curtains to mark off the dressing rooms, and the only plumbing would be upstairs.
Not the grand beginning I wanted. I had to remind myself that the private opening next week was just a special party for a select group, like a dress rehearsal. If things went to hell and gone, it wouldn't matter all that much. Really.
I trudged upstairs again. Malone would have to pick some other word than confident to describe me right now.
In the lobby, I rather resignedly noticed that the damned bar light had turned itself on again. I wrote for Leon to take the plate off and check the wiring, then went behind to shut it off. The toggle was up. I flipped it a few times, thinking the mechanism had some kind of fault that made it snap on by itself, but it seemed to work fine. I gave up and left it on.
The stained floor tile had been replaced. With another equally stained tile. Irked, I scrawled more instructions on the subject.
That done, I went to unlock the front door, checking to see if the reporters were still there. They were. We had an intense little talk that gave me the usual dull twinge behind the eyes, but both men departed for greener pastures without fuss and without a story. Neither would remember why or be back.
My inspection finished, I went up to tell Malone it was time to pack it in.
"I'm almost done sorting this out, another hour-" he began.
"I have to beat it for someplace else. Take it home if you want, but get some rest. You're still brittle, and tomorrow's going to hurt more than you think."
"But we haven't covered nearly enough details for me to start," he protested.
"You've got my list of things to do, what positions to fill, all the phone numbers, and a budget to work with. You know the bar business better than I, you've been at it longer. You'll do fine. I said I needed someone who can fend for himself; here's a chance to show your stuff without having a boss breathing down your neck all day."
He made a small, depreciating gesture. "I just don't want to botch things. It's possible I could-"
"Jeez, I go out on a limb, take a chance, and it's complaints already. I'm writing to Roosevelt on this."
He froze for a second before comprehending the joke, then relaxed into a brief, relieved chuckle. With a tic.
Given time, he'd get used to me.
As it was on the way, I dropped Malone off at his house, saving him some bus fare, then drove on to the address I had for Tony Upshaw's studio. It was well after ten by the time I found it, too late for any easy, predrink hypnotic interrogations. That had only been a fond and faint hope, anyway. The sort of crowd that was likely to be there would have begun their celebrations hours ago. What the hell, instead of the acquired hypnosis, I could always fall back on my own inborn charm. It could stand some exercising.
There wasn't much fancy about the outside of the building: a couple of stories of red brick, lots of windows, none of them too clean, but no broken panes. They were all open, spilling out a confused mix of light, music, and voices. A sign attached to the front sported an oversize photo of Upshaw in a tuxedo bending some woman in a white ball gown back in a gracefully executed dip. His name appeared below along with an invitation for new students to ascend to the second floor for their lessons.
The main door was open to a dim hall serving the street level businesses and a stairway going up. Both were clogged with people sitting or standing at their ease with drinks and cigarettes in hand. Their conversation was loud, in direct competition with the music blaring from above. No one was immediately familiar to me, nor did I cause much stir except while threading my way upstairs, which was inconvenient to those sprawling on the steps.
I'd harbored a small worry about having to crash the party for lack of an invitation. By the look of things it didn't seem to be anything close to that formal.
The hall above was also crowded, the music more intense, the people more active, a few of them already drunk and verging on disorderly, much to the roaring amusement of their slightly less tipsy friends. It was an interesting crew who had shown up to wish Royce Muldan a good trip. Mugs with bad-road faces and hundred-dollar suits bumped elbows with what looked to be artistic types wearing threadbare cuffs, untrimmed hair, and berets.
The women were just as mixed, wearing everything from shimmering evening gowns to country trousers. One of them had on what seemed to be a gold satin bathing costume with a matching top hat. The white tap shoes with big gold buckles she clicked about in declared her to be a dancer. I wanted to know what show so I could find out if there were more like her at home.
I pushed a path through a set of open double doors into the studio itself: a long wide room with a bank of windows on one wall, the other covered with a continuous line of mirrors. Any other time I'd have never crossed the threshold since my lack of a reflection would have been instantly noticed, but it was safe enough with the crowd in the way. There was so much booze flowing that if anyone did see- or rather not see-something odd about me, they might put it down to one too many drinks. Or so I hoped.
Folding tables and chairs were set up all over except for a clear spot in the middle reserved for dancing. I moved closer on the window side of the space, searching dozens of bright, flushed faces in the haze of cigarette smoke, hoping to spot Rita Robillard among them.
The band was good; I recognized the piano man and the drummer as being regular performers at the Nightcrawler. They were busy pounding out something fast and hot for Tony Upshaw, who was twirling a redhead across the floor with expert ease. She wore a loose-fitting white dress, strings of multicolored beads, and her waist-long hair flew as she swung around and around. They were the only ones presently within the reserved space. Smiling her enjoyment, the trim woman matched Upshaw move for move, like Rogers to Astaire.
The number surged to a frenetic finish. Upshaw and his limber partner did some kind of complicated in-out, over-under spinning maneuver they'd obviously practiced to the point of making it seem easy, ending it exactly on a last high note from the horn section. He might have had the look of an ambitious lounge lizard, but he did have talent. They were both rewarded with cheers and applause as they made their bows. As soon as the audience noise died down, the music swelled again, but for a slower number this time. Couples trickled onto the floor, soon filling it.
Upshaw fondly kissed his partner's hand, then they parted in different directions. The flared hem of her white dress flowing around her ankles like foam, the woman glided toward me with a quick, firm step. It turned out I happened to be by the table where she'd left her drink. Somewhat breathless, she picked up a glass amid congratulations from the others already there and drained it. Several of the men volunteered to get her a replacement. She nodded a cheerful agreement to this, and two of them hared off to a bar set up against the mirror wall.
"Excuse me," she said.
I was between her and a chair. I moved clear and held it for her. With a glance my way, she seated herself like royalty and nodded thanks, then gave me a second, longer appraisal.
"Nice dancing," I said, just to be polite before moving on.
"So kind." Her sharp gaze flicked over me from head to toe. "I know you from somewhere," she stated in a melodious contralto that made me think of vanilla ice cream, sweet and melting, on a hot day.
This compelled me to also give her a second scrutiny. Delicate elfin features, clear laughing eyes, with a dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks. Any other woman might have hidden them under a layer of powder, but this one was apparently secure with her looks. The strings of beads and loose dress style was quite different from the gowns other women at the table wore, and none of them had such a fall of rich red hair hanging past her waist. She seemed to be one of the artistic types, which meant she wouldn't give a damn what was fashionable, only what looked good on her. To me, she looked very good indeed.
"I don't think so," I responded, taking off my hat. "You I would remember."
"You've been here before, haven't you?"
Shook my head. "First time. Came to meet a friend."
She extended her hand. "Then you've done that much. I'm Ruth Woodring. I'm half-owner of this place with Mr. Upshaw. That was the fellow who partnered me."
Unlike Escott or even Upshaw, I couldn't get away with kissing a woman's hand and making it look good, so I lightly squeezed her fingers instead. "Jack Fleming."
"Oh!" Sudden recognition. "You're the one with the body in the cellar."
This got the focused attention of everyone at the table.
"Ahhh..."
"That's where I know you from, the newspaper picture." Ruth looked at a curly-haired brunette across the table. "Did you see it, Darla? People were being walled up alive in Welsh Lennet's old place-"
"Just one," I interrupted before things got out of hand. "More than enough."
Ruth pursed her lips. "Oh, dear, I've embarrassed you, I'm sorry. Please sit down and have a drink."
Her two errand runners were back with filled glasses; she slid one in front of the empty chair next to her.
Mindful of the dirty looks aimed my way by the other men, I sat, putting my fedora on the table. "Just for a minute."
"Ah, but I'm your hostess; you have to stay at least two minutes. Rules of the party. I was frightfully rude just now, so you must let me make it up to you."
"You've got bodies in your cellar?" asked Darla brightly, leaning forward on her elbows, chin resting on her doubled fists.
"Just one body," I repeated. "And it's long gone. The cops took it away."
"How'd it get there?"
"The papers had the whole story," I hedged, wondering how I could escape without actually vanishing.
"Who reads those? Do tell us-"
Ruth narrowed her eyes. "Darla, if you chase this scrumptious specimen off, I shall hide your douche bag."
Darla subsided with an impish smirk.
I tried to not let my jaw sag.
Ruth beamed a warm, comforting look at me and patted my arm, leaving her hand in place. "Don't mind her, Mr.
Fleming. She's a born troublemaker. I'd throw her out, but she's too good a dance instructor. Do you dance?"
"Nothing fancy like what you were just doing, but I can keep off my partner's feet."
"Then you must give me a demonstration." She stood. "I'm sure we can both learn something from the experience."
She had a crystal-clear double meaning under that one, but what the hell. It was more appealing than waiting for Darla's next purposely awkward question, and not to accept would peg me for a heel. All that aside, Ruth was quite a dish, and I'd learned a long time ago never to argue with redheads. I took her arm and escorted her onto the floor. The music was slow enough to allow for conversation.
"Quite a gathering," I said once we'd settled together into the rhythm. She was light enough that I didn't feel like I was leading so much as floating with her.
"One of Tony's more successful accomplishments-Mr. Upshaw, that is to say."
"So was this whole clambake all his idea?"
"Actually, it was Royce Muldan's-the guest of honor?"
I nodded to indicate I knew him.
"But Tony made the arrangements. He's very good at that sort of thing."
"Not bad." I wondered how attached Upshaw really was to the silk suit boys. This seemed a pretty elaborate show for a part-time hanger-on to produce on short notice.
Ruth continued. "It's great publicity for the studio. We may get dozens of new students out of this."
So that was the why of the big exhibition number. "You're a friend of Muldan's?"
"Oh, I never mix with that element. I think you must know him, though." She flicked her sharp gaze over my suit, suddenly having a lot in common with little Norrie Malone when it came to making deductions based on a man's taste in clothes.
"I've only just seen him around," I said. "Heard he was going off to Havana. Real sudden."
"And silly. It's far too hot this time of year, but boys will have their whims. At least he's footing the bill for this, which is a relief. Tony's a sweetheart, but spends too much on parties. Never has more than two nickels to rub together afterward."
"You couldn't tell that from the way he was turned out. Looked like he got that tuxedo right off a movie screen."
"Oh, dear, you're not interested in him instead, are you?" She looked more bewildered than distressed at the prospect.
"Not at all."
"Good, I didn't think I could be that wrong about a man."
"How long have you been partners with Tony?" I asked, wanting to shift the subject back.
"About six years now."
"You've known him that long?"
"We go back before that, centuries at least. When did you meet him? He's not said anything of it."
"Just last night at the Flying Ace. He's quite a hoofer."
"He should be, I taught him everything." To judge by her expression she'd thoroughly enjoyed having Upshaw for a student.
"Lucky man."
"You know all the right things to say, don't you?"
"I read a lot." Her smile and the spark in her eyes nearly made me miss a step. She wasn't the only one gifted with native charm. If I wasn't so crazy about Bobbi, I might have been tempted to do more than merely dance with the delectable Miss Woodring. I made myself return to business. "Tony was there with a gal named Rita Robillard. You know her?"
"Is she the friend you came to meet?" No approval or disapproval in her tone, just curiosity.
"Yeah. I need to talk with her."
"Oh. Is that what they're calling it now?"
I smiled. She could draw her own conclusions.
"How disappointing pour moi," said Ruth. "Not to mention for yourself."
"You'll get no arguments from me, but I do need to find her."
"She'll be lurking around the party someplace. I remember her coming in with that Shivvey fellow, but I'm not sure when."
"Shivvey Coker's here, too, huh?" It was good to know that Malone's information had been solid.
"There's no accounting for some people's taste. Is he also a friend of yours?"
"Enough so I wouldn't turn my back on him."
She laughed. "Does this talk with Rita have to do with the woman's body in your cellar?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because Tony told me they were once best friends. The dead woman's name escapes me..."
"No, it doesn't."
"Mm. Clever fellow." She gave a careless one-shoulder shrug of dismissal. "Lena Ashley, then."
"What do you know about her?"
"Not a jot more than her name."
"Which Tony mentioned to you?"
"He may have casually dropped it when we rehearsed today."
"Now why would he do that?"
"Tony likes to impress people, the poor dear. He shouldn't try so hard. If you talk to him about this, then I want to watch. He's so delightfully cute when he's squirming."
That was more than I wanted to know about him. "How far back does Tony go with Lena and Rita?"
"A few years."
"How many?"
Ruth ceased to float and came to a decided stop. "What is this? All these questions-"
"I'm just being social, Miss Woodring."
Her pleasant expression did not change, except in the eyes. They went hard. "The hell you are. Tony's one of my best friends, and I know him better than I know myself. There's not a mean bone in his body, and if you think he could have anything to do with what happened to that woman, then get it right out of your head."
"Are you sure you know him all that well?" I stared at her, putting a little pressure on, but uncertain if it would get past her recent drink. "Absolutely sure?"
She didn't react to the hypnosis so much as my question. The way I'd said it would make anyone think twice.
"No matter how close we are to them none of us can ever really know what's going on in another's head."
She was well aware of that to judge by the flash of dislike and anger in her eyes. She kept it in control, though, and didn't belt me one.
"Maybe he's a nice guy now, but what was he like five or six years ago?"
Her lips tightened into a caustic smile. "Thank you, Mr. Fleming, it's been most diverting, but your two minutes are long up. Good-bye."
She swept away, as adept in the art of making a graceful exit as she was at dancing.
I believed that she believed Tony was on the up-and-up. She was on the up-and-up as well, or she'd have stuck around to try getting more information from me. Her pretending not to know Lena's name was odd, but I figured it to be either a ploy to induce me to talk about the murder at the club or part of her flirting game. Which I'd thoroughly spoiled. There would be no more conversation with her until she got over being mad at me, which might not happen for a few decades. But I had learned more from her questions than she had from mine. Until now I'd not considered Tony Upshaw as being even remotely connected to Lena's death. That lounge lizard polish of his was sufficient to divert anyone from taking him seriously.
One of the errand runners from her table sauntered over with my hat. He gave me an insultingly obvious appraisal and made sure I saw that he was unimpressed. He even held the hat out and tried to let it drop to the floor before I could take it. I saw that one coming, though, and plucked it from midair in plenty of time. Anyone else who was sober could have done the same thing; I just did it a whole lot faster and smoother so it seemed like I hardly moved. That, and my friendly grin seemed to unsettle him quite a lot. Then I noticed he was no longer looking right at me, but at some point behind and beyond.
My back was to the mirrors. Oh. So far he was the only one to notice. That was lucky.
"Thanks, pal," I murmured while he goggled. "Tell Miss Woodring for me that I said I'm sorry about upsetting her." I gave him no time to reply and walked off as though nothing was amiss.
I glanced around after putting a crowd of people between us. He was still rooted in place, in the same posture, staring at the mirrors. After nearly a full minute he hurried off to the bar, not hearing the calls coming from his friends at the table. It was better that way.
The tune changed and picked up the tempo as I continued in the opposite direction toward the bank of windows. I thought I'd glimpsed a particularly flashy tuxedo among those seeking a fresh-air respite from the cigarette smoke. Instead, I found more of the theatrical types freely mingling with the mob boys. It seemed a peculiar combination until I recalled how much Capone liked opera. Maybe these guys were also patrons of the arts.
Bunched in the far corner was a small congregation in a rough circle around the guest of honor, Royce Muldan. I moved close enough so he noticed me, but got no sign of recognition from him. Good.
He had a cigar in one hand and a heavy arm draped over a short, lush-figured strawberry blonde with an exaggerated sulky mouth. He was holding forth, gesturing a lot with the cigar, an indication that he was pretty well oiled. Each of his broad movements was conveyed to the pliant girl, her smooth young face showing no reaction as she was wobbled around. Her blue eyes were quite glazed, and I wondered if she'd had more than just alcohol tonight. I'd seen those kinds of eyes during the war when the wounded were given a dose of morphine to keep them quiet.
Muldan laughed heartily to some comment and shook his head. "No, that's not it at all, I just wanna get away for a while. Havana's real nice this time of year."
Jeez, he sounded exactly like Gordy.
"Then you ain't been there at this time a' year," responded a heckler. He was about a third of Muldan's height and reminded me of one of the seven dwarfs from Snow White, but I couldn't recall which. "I think your little twist has got you running scared. She wants a ring an' her old man's ready to get a shotgun to-"
"A ring? Hah!" Muldan doubled over, consumed by booze-enhanced hilarity. He lost his grip on the girl, who woke up a little. She blinked, set her sights on a bottle standing on a table next to her, and picked it up, precise fingers delicate on its neck.
"Yeah, a ring," said the heckler. "An' her old man's-"
"Nothing to me. She wants a ring from me like I want another nose," Muldan countered. "Lemme tell you what she really wants..."
The girl raised the bottle to her lips, upended it, and drained off what little remained. "Yes?" she asked in a loud clear voice, addressing no one in particular, her gaze fixed on nothing at all.
"What?" echoed Muldan, his attention momentarily snagged.
"You're saying... saying you know what I want."
"Yeah, honey-bunch, and it's not a ring. Why don't you tell the nice man what you want from me."
That was a surprise. I'd instructed him not to go near the girl. She must have sought him out, instead. Nothing I could do about that, though maybe I should have anticipated it.
"What I want from you?" she queried blankly, still not looking at anything.
Muldan flashed his handsome idiot's grin toward his audience, inviting them to join in on the pending laugh at her expense. This brought on a few early snickers as they waited for her response.
"You tell them." He pointed. "What you want."
"I'm better at showing," she stated, finally turning her deep blues on Muldan. She leaned hard against him, nearly falling over. He braced her as they swayed, taking the opportunity to squeeze one of her breasts with his free hand.
More laughter, ugly and suggestive. It seemed about time for me to move in and get her out of there.
"Yeah, you sure are. Show us, honey-bunch," Muldan urged.
"We-eell... oka-aay. You stand there."
Muldan took a small step to the side as she indicated, his own arms spread and ready for her. He was half-turned toward me, eyes and face screwed up with barely restrained mirth. It was interesting how he held unchanged to that expression even after she slammed the bottle against his head. She had a powerful arm. She landed a substantial wallop. And she did it lightning fast. The hollow thump of impact was painful to hear. Everyone winced in sudden sympathy.
Muldan dropped instantly, strings cut, and didn't move. Amazingly, the bottle was unbroken in the girl's hand. With great dignity, she placed it back on the table, then addressed the hushed crowd.
"He said to show you," she stated, lifting her chin. She made a small shooing-away gesture with both hands, which cleared her a hasty path in their midst, then strolled off. They eventually closed ranks, staring down at the utterly immobile Muldan. A sharp-featured bearded guy in a brown suit bent to check his pulse. Evidently there was still one to be found. He straightened and rubbed the back of his neck, tsked, and blew out a long breath from puffed cheeks.
"Son of a bitch," he said with some awe.
"What do we do with him now?" asked the rotund heckler, genuinely puzzled.
"Leave him. His driver'll put him on his train in the morning."
"You sure?"
"That's what he's paid for."
"But Royce is gonna remember this. He's gonna be plenty mad."
"He won't remember a thing."
"How do you know?"
"Because you didn't when she did it to you."
The heckler thought a moment, then nodded with profound understanding. He and the bearded man dispersed with the others to greener pastures.
Muldan remained solidly inert on the scuffed floor, cigar still in hand. I decided to be kind and plucked it clear before it could burn down to his fingers. I was about to toss it out a nearby open window, but one of the seedier artistic types came up and stopped me.
"That's a real two-bit smoke," he said with no small reproach. "Ya don't wanna waste those."
"I don't?" He was string thin with a young, sly face and the lank white hair of an old man. Half-inch-thick horn-rims rode low on his pointed nose. The only thing that kept him from being scary to kids was the benign gaze behind them. Right now it was fixed on the cigar.
"You seen Tony Upshaw or Rita Robillard?" I asked without much hope. I held the nearly whole smoke like a biscuit for an eager puppy. It had about the same effect on this guy.
"Tony?"
"The man in the tux who danced with Ruth Woodring a little while ago."
"Oh, him? Behind the band. Maybe. I think."
Good enough. I gave him the cigar. He was happy.
As no one seemed too worried about Muldan, I moved on. It happened to be toward a fresh knot of party nonsense. This one was a lot noisier owing to its proximity to the music, which had turned fast and furious, all drums and horns. A couple had cut away from the main dance floor and were giving an impromptu exhibition of their own.
The chorus girl in tap shoes I'd seen earlier was being thrown around by a short, muscular boy. Literally. They were in step with each other, but their dance required a lot of acrobatic movement. He swung her one way, pulled her another, lifted her high, then dropped her to the floor to slide between his feet, and swung her up again, her legs in the air and kicking. People on the edge of things applauded and cheered them on to more daring stunts.
A distinct, uninhibited laugh in the din caught my instant notice. Rita Robillard was just on the other side of the circle, whooping her delight at the dancers. She didn't see me at all.
I made a beeline toward her, but had to dodge the chorus girl's flying feet as her partner swung her bodily in a wide turn. He pulled her back again, the momentum curling her around his right side, then with a deft spin, she was curled around on his left. I hadn't seen anything like it since my last visit to a circus, and that act had had a safety net.
Rita still missed spotting me, busy in the process of being helped up onto a table by two red-faced men. She flailed her arms, unsteady for a moment, then got her balance and the rhythm. Encouraged by the approving growls from her helpers, she began tattooing her heels against the wood table while they clapped time for her. Caught up in the music, she squealed like a maniac, going into a kind of rumba step, her eyes shut.
Tonight she wore a long black dress which she grabbed by the skirts and hitched up to show her long legs. We were all treated to a damn good look at her stocking tops and garters and-unless I was really mistaken by a trick of light and shadows-the fact that she had absolutely nothing else on above them. The men by the table had a better view of things. From their pleased leers, I'd gotten it right the first time, no mistake at all.
This time avoiding the dancers, I managed to push my way around into the table group. The blood in my veins might not have been all my own, but it was just as red as the next guy's. Why should those tipsy mugs be the only ones to enjoy the view?
Rita let go her skirts, opened her eyes, and did a couple quick spins on her toes. Her hem flared out. Caught up like the others, I whistled and urged her on. Her face was flushed and eyes too bright. She'd had a snoot full and then some. How she maintained her balance was either drunk's luck or a miracle. The music built up louder as it neared the end of the number. She went back to her rumba, faster, more frenzied.
Then in mid-step, she spotted me.
"You!" she bellowed out, but didn't slow down.
I grinned and waved. Maybe she'd forgotten her talk with Shivvey Coker. She looked happy to see me.
"Catch me!" she screeched. It wasn't a question. Nor was it aimed at the other guys, though they eagerly raised their hands toward her. Most of them were in such a state I wouldn't trust them to catch a cold, and Rita must have been aware of it.
Exactly in beat to the music, exactly at the finish when the drummer banged out his loudest roll and cymbal crash, Rita stamped one last time on the shaking table with her heels, then launched herself at me, arms spread like a high diver.