“Yeah, scram. Shut the door on your way out.”
The waiter left the room in a hurry, but Little Pete hung back, belly hovering like a blimp in the doorway. “Street just came in, boss,” he said in a lowered voice. “He parked his ass at the bar. Want me to do somethin’ about it?”
“Sure,” Corona snarled. “I want the bastard put down. I want his goddamn head on a platter. But I gotta talk to Frank first. Is he here?”
“Yeah,” Little Pete said. “At his reg’lar table up in the mezz.”
“Okay, I’ll catch him later, after the girls leave.” The anxious look on Corona’s face suggested our departure would be sooner rather than later—which was just hunky-dory with me.
Little Pete nodded, huffed his way into the hall, and closed the door tightly behind him. Corona sloshed some bourbon in a glass, threw his head back, and slugged it down straight. He didn’t offer Abby and me a drink or a cigarette or a seat on the black leather couch. We stood side by side in silence, not looking at each other, waiting for further instructions.
“So you like to ride Italian stallions,” Corona said to Abby, remembering the ice cubes and plunking a few in his glass. He covered the cubes with bourbon, then poured half the liquid down his throat. “That’s good,” he said between swallows, “because I’m always hot to trot. Come to my hotel later, and we’ll saddle up.”
“I’ll be there, Tony,” Abby said, simpering like a fool. “Which hotel and what time?”
“The Plaza,” he said, absently fingering his large gold St. Christopher medal and the curly chest hairs around it. “Suite 814. Be there at three thirty.”
“AM or PM?” she chirped.
“If you’re a good little cowgirl, we’ll do both.” His words were teasing, but his tone was deadly. Looking tense and preoccupied, he sat back down in his swivel chair and—slowly twisting from side to side—took another slug of his drink. “Now giddyap and get outta here,” he said, wiping his sweaty forehead on his shirtsleeve. “I’ve got some business to take care of.”
ABBY AND I FLED THE STAR’S DRESSING ROOM and dashed back into the main arena. The band was playing a mambo, and the dance floor was full. Both the main level and the mezzanine were packed to the rafters, and people (mostly men) were standing three-deep at the bar. I madly searched the crowd for Dan, but he was nowhere to be seen.
“Quick! Come over here!” I shouted to Abby, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her to the shadows behind one of the huge palm tree columns. Only one thought was racing through my mind: I had to warn Dan of the impending peril immediately! But before I could do that, I realized, I had to slow down for a second, talk it over with Abby, and come up with a sensible plan of action.
(Stop snickering! So what if all my previous plans and actions had fallen far short of sensible? I still had to try, didn’t I?)
“Hey, you’re bruising my arm!” Abby squawked, wrenching herself free from my viselike grasp. “What’s your freaking problem?”
I couldn’t believe she asked me that question. “My
problem,
” I said, gritting my teeth, “is that Dan’s life is in danger! Weren’t you listening in there? Corona knows he’s a homicide detective, and he told Little Pete to get rid of him—to put him down!”
“Oh, cool it, Paige! Tony didn’t mean it that way. He just meant for Little Pete to kick Dan out of the club.”
“You don’t know that!” I shrieked, ticked off that she was still calling Corona by his first name. Hadn’t she cozied up to him enough? “Corona got really upset when he heard that Dan was here,” I went on, “and he said he was going to talk to Frank about it!”
“So?”
Aaaargh!
“So he was talking about Frank Costello!” I cried. “The crime lord who owns the Copa. Don’t you get what that means? It means he’s going to talk to Costello about having Dan rubbed out!”
Abby cocked her head and gave some thought to the things I’d said—but she still wasn’t convinced. “Gee, I don’t know, Paige. Sounds like a stretch to me. You could be overreacting, you know.”
“Yes, but what if I’m
not?
” I paused to let the full weight of my words sink in. “Don’t you see, Ab? I can’t just float around, waiting to find out what’s going to happen. Costello’s here tonight. And he probably has a couple of hit men with him! Dan could be killed at any minute. I’ve got to warn him before it’s too late!”
She propped one hand on her hip and rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “And how do you plan to do that, Nat? Make a person-to-person phone call? Dispatch a carrier pigeon? Send him a singing telegram?”
“Stop it! This isn’t a joking matter. I’ve got to find Dan at the bar
right now
and give him the lowdown.”
“And how are you going to explain the wig, my friend? Or that skimpy dress you’re wearing? If Dan sees you like this, he’s going to kill
you
.”
“Who cares?” I cried. “Dan’s life is more important to me than my own!” (That sounds really sappy, I know, but what do you want from me? A woman who’s wildly in love is
supposed
to be sappy.)
Abby shrugged and rolled her eyes again. “Have it your way, Doris Day,” she said. “It’s your funeral.”
I stuck my head out from behind the big white-and-gold palm tree and searched the bar area for Dan. This time I spied him at once. He was sitting at the end of the bar, his back to the counter, smoking a cigarette, and gazing at the crowd. He looked very relaxed and handsome in his dark gray suit and royal blue tie. I ducked back behind the palm tree, pulse racing out of control.
“Dan’s at the bar, Abby! I saw him! He’s sitting at the end closest to the entrance. So here’s what I want you to do. Walk straight through the club and out into the lobby and over to the checkroom to get our coats. Turn your face away when you walk past the bar. Don’t walk too fast, or too slow, or wiggle your hips, or wink at any guys, or draw attention to yourself in any way. Just get our coats and wait for me in the lobby near the exit. Think you can handle that?”
She gave me a dirty look. “I guess so, Mommy, but I’m too scared to be alone. Can’t I stay with you and hold your hand?” Her phony little girl voice set my nerves on edge.
“Please stop it, Ab. You know I have to do this as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. There’s no telling who’ll be watching. So just pick up our coats and wait for me at the door, okay? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Oh, all right!” she said, petulantly stomping one foot on the floor. “You’re no fun anymore, you know that?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard. Now pull yourself together and trot on out to the lobby like a good little cowgirl. Go ahead. Giddyap. Go!”
Chapter 30
“HELLO, STRANGER,” I SAID, SAUNTERING UP TO Dan at the bar. “Got a light?” I raised the cigarette I had ready in my hand to my lips and leaned close to him, cupping my fingers around my mouth and lowering my voice to a whisper. “Don’t be shocked, Dan,” I said, eyes begging him not to explode. “Pretend you don’t know me. Pretend I’m a prostitute making a pitch. It’s a matter of life and death!” I was doing my best to act cool, but I was so fearful and self-conscious—and my heart was beating so hard and so fast—I thought I would turn into a blob of quivering jelly on the spot.
Dan, on the other hand, grew stony-faced and rigid as a post. He didn’t say a single word to me, but his intense emotions— astonishment, dismay, concern, outrage, and anger—were clearly visible in his jet-black eyes. Teeth clenched so tight you could see the hard knots of his jaw muscles, he took his Zippo out of his pocket, flipped it open, and lit my cigarette.
“Thanks, handsome!” I said, turning up the volume, throwing my shoulders back and my hips forward, putting on a big show for the bartender and any snoopy boozers (or mobsters) who might be tuning in. “Hey, you know what, big boy? You’re my kind of guy. A real gent. Want to buy a thirsty girl a drink?” I was smiling and posturing and flapping my lashes like crazy—playing my phony call girl role to the hilt—hoping that Dan would get the message and play along with me.
Sharp, insightful detective that he was, he did.
“Sure, babe,” he said, giving me a sexy wink and an arrogant, exaggerated once-over. (I knew he was appalled by the blonde wig and the indecent way I was dressed, but—to his credit and my profound relief—he didn’t let his disapproval show.) “What’ll you have, sweetheart?” he said, putting on a show of his own, playing the part of a potential john to perfection. “Name your poison.”
“I’ll have a
screw
driver,” I said, loudly emphasizing the first part of the word. “Won’t you have one with me?” I giggled my head off for a few seconds, then draped my arm around his neck, cuddled up to his side and started whispering in his ear again, trying to give all onlookers the impression that I was offering him my body for the night and quoting my price. “They’re on to you, Dan,” I hissed. “Corona knows who you are and why you’re here. He’s going to talk to Costello about having you bumped off. Maybe tonight! You’ve got to get out of here. Now!”
Dan yanked his head away from mine and stared deep into my eyes for a few tense, probing seconds. Then he grabbed me around the waist and pulled me so tight to his chest that my feet left the floor. “Message received,” he said, breathing his words directly into my ear. “Thanks for the tip. Now hold on to your wig, Blondie. It’s time for act two.”
He let go of my waist and my feet dropped back to the carpet. Then he stood up from the bar stool, grabbed my shoulder with one hand, shoved me out to arm’s length and—looking so forceful and hot I thought my flesh would melt right off my bones—whipped out his badge.
“You’re under arrest,” he said to me, speaking loud enough for everyone at the bar to hear. Then he turned toward the excited eavesdroppers and—holding his badge high in the air for them to see—made the following announcement: “I’m an officer of the NYPD. This woman just offered me sex for money. I have placed her under arrest for solicitation, and I’m taking her into custody now. You are all witnesses to this fact.”
Dan stuck his badge back in his pocket and—still gripping me by the shoulder—plucked the burning cigarette out of my hand and dropped it in his drink. “Don’t give me any trouble, sister,” he bellowed, “or I’ll clap on the cuffs.” Then he lowered his angry grip to my elbow and led me—breathless, stunned, and limp as a rag doll—out to the lobby.
ABBY WAS WAITING AT THE DOOR WITH OUR coats. When she saw that Dan was with me, her face lit up like the sun. She didn’t say anything, but her relief was dangerously conspicuous. She gave a little whoop and started to run toward us.
“Hold it right there, miss!” Dan shouted across the lobby, sticking his hand up like a stop sign, then quickly retrieving his hat and coat from the checkroom. “I’m an officer of the law, and this woman is under arrest. I’m taking her to the station house now. Please clear the exit and vacate the premises immediately!”
Abby caught on quick. She spun around and sprang through the door like a virgin on the run from the Cossacks.
“Hang your head and don’t look back,” Dan said to me, putting on his hat and flinging his trench coat around my shoulders. He grabbed hold of my arm again and propelled me across the lobby floor. “Just keep your mouth shut and keep walking.”
I followed his orders, and within several suspenseful seconds we were out on the sidewalk, sweeping past the doorman and the photographers and the new herd of people clamoring for admittance, heading for Fifth Avenue in a big fat hurry. We met up with Abby at the corner.
“Keep walking,” Dan said to both of us, still gripping my arm so hard it hurt. (Did he think I would try to escape?) “My car’s right down the street.”
Abby fell into step with us, and we made it to the car without incident. Once we were seated inside and zooming down Fifth, however, all hell broke lose.
“Whooooeee!” Abby squealed at the top of her lungs. “What a gas that was! Scary and sexy at the same time! I never had so much fun in my whole freaking life! Let’s go back and do it again!” She was bouncing up and down on the back seat like a teenybopper at a Pat Boone concert.
“For Christ’s sake, Abby!” I shrieked, feeling as though my brain would burst. “How can you say such things?!” I spun around to glare at her over the backrest of the front seat. “Don’t you realize the danger we were in?” I cried.” Dan could have been killed, and—”
“We
all
could have been killed!” Dan roared, pounding his fist on the steering wheel and stomping on the gas pedal. He was speeding downtown in a fury, honking the horn repeatedly, screeching and swerving through traffic like a madman. (Did he think we were being followed?) “You’re both criminally insane!” he howled. “I ought to arrest you for real and lock you up for life!” The undercover car we were in had no siren, otherwise it would have been howling, too.
Cowed by Dan’s ferocious anger and wild speed, I turned around to face the windshield, holding on to the edge of my seat like a drowning woman clinging to a life raft. Now I was just as afraid of being killed in an automobile accident—or at the hands of my menacing, out-of-control boyfriend—as I was of being silenced by a sadistic murderer.
The lights of the city streaked by as Dan rocketed south— past the RCA Building and Rockefeller Center and the New York Public Library—giving us a whiplash tour of midtown Manhattan. Racing through more than a few red lights, and still honking to clear a path through the traffic, he kept his jaw clenched tight and his demon eyes fixed on the road ahead. Careening past the Empire State Building, Dan hooked a hard right on 34th Street, tore past Macy’s, then swung left on Seventh Avenue, whizzing by the enormous stone structure of Pennsylvania Station—with its marble columns and colossal stone eagles—like a cab driver out of hell. I wished I could jump out of the car and hop a train to New Jersey.
When we reached the Village, we were all still in one piece. (Physically, I mean. I had lost my sanity somewhere along the way, but I don’t think it showed.) Dan hung a left on Bleecker, shot down the narrow street, and brought the car to a screeching halt at the curb across from our building.