Authors: Michael Mayo
Like most of the swells who wanted to talk, he asked if it was true that I was on friendly terms with all the gangsters in town. I said not all of them and changed the subject by asking how he and the men sitting with him knew each other. Saunders said that the younger guy and he had been in the air corps together. The older guy was a pilot, too, but he'd been overseas in France. If he told me their names, or his own, I don't remember. That got him talking about how close he was to the men he'd served with and how he literally cried on the wing of his airplane when he learned about the Armistice that ended the war and he wouldn't get to join the fight. He was training other pilots in Florida at the time and they had this special bond that only certain groups of men can form.
That led to one of them, I think it was Saunders, saying that from everything he'd heard, he envied men like me because we made our own rules. We had our own code and defined things by our own standards. He said that the air corps expected some things of him but he was really more concerned with what his fellow pilots thought, and did I agree that courage was grace under pressure?
I figured from the way he said it, I was supposed to know that phrase and I said, “If you put it that way, yeah, I guess I do. You see, there was this kid I grew up with named Oh Boy Oliver. Oh Boy was a normal kid like the rest of us, but his old man took to drink in a bad way and he used to smack the hell out of Oh Boy and his mom and his brothers. If you do that enough times to a kid, you make him scared of everything and that's what happened to Oh Boy. He'd jump away from his own shadow, but there was a time a few years later when we ran into an opportunity to make some good money by relieving some guys of some items they were transporting down near Atlantic City. We needed an extra hand and, even though he didn't really want to come along, we talked Oh Boy into joining us. It turned out to be more interesting than we thought it was going to be. When the shooting started, I was pretty sure Oh Boy would be the first to crap out, but I was wrong. He was so scared he was shaking, but once we mixed it up, he was right there next to me. Sure, after it was over, he was sick and he said he'd never do anything like that again, but, yeah, I guess I'd call that grace under pressure.”
That led them into stories about flying, and by and by Saunders said, “You're not much of a man's man are you, Quinn?”
I don't know if he meant it to be as insulting as it sounded. The older guy noticed and was surprised. Saunders paid no attention to him. But, hell, I wasn't insulted. I've been hearing the same thing since I was a little kid. Saunders expected an answer, so I obliged and said it was true.
“You see, I didn't grow up with a bunch of guys. I lived in a tenement where there was a dozen families. It wasn't a bad place but it wasn't the Ritz, and when I got old enough, part of my job was to make sure that nobody bothered us. I mean, I earned a fair amount doing this and that mostly on my own, but when I was around the place, I was expected to make sure that the kids could play on the stoop or the roof without anybody messing with them or stealing from them, and that's what I did. I wasn't big enough to scare anybody, but I did know how to handle a pistol pretty good by then, so we didn't have much trouble. Shoot a few people, word gets around, you know.
“When it's guys you don't know, that's a different ballgame. You get a bunch of men's men together and they'll start goofing around and pretty soon it'll turn into horseplay and they'll start punching on each other and messing around with each other, and then one of them's going to look around and figure who's the littlest guy there. And he's gonna start picking on him. And that little guy's going to be me.
“Now, if there's any way I can run away, I will. An old woman taught me that a long time ago and it has served me well, but if I can't run, then I gotta do something, right? I mean, you just can't let a guy do whatever he wants to you. So you use your knucks”âI took mine out of my pocket and put them on the tableâ“or your stick”âI held it upâ“or your pistol, depending on the situation. Then, if you handle it right, you don't have to dispose of a body later. So I try to avoid those situations, and I guess that means I'm not much of a man's man, but I don't hold it against those that are.”
Saunders and his pal didn't know what to say. The old guy laughed like merry hell.
That's all I could remember of the conversation. I was quite a blabbermouth that evening, but I didn't mention any of it to Miss Wray. Instead, I lied and said, “Your husband tended to be quiet when he was in his cups. I liked that about him.”
She drained her glass. I knew she didn't buy it. “And the women were all over him then. No, don't say anything. That's the way it always is for John.” She'd had enough champagne to forget the “oversexed” business, and her voice was sad.
Hazel tried to change the subject. “Are you sure that we've nothing to worry about with those awful photographs?”
“No,” I had to admit. “The guy behind all this is nuts, but I got the feeling tonight that he really is only interested in the money and now that he's got it, he won't bother you anymore. And there's one other thing . . .”
I knew I was making a mistake as the words fell out of my mouth. “I may be able to find the guy who took the pictures. Does the name Oscar Apollinaire mean anything to you?”
Miss Wray and Hazel looked at each other and shook their heads. Miss Wray said, “I can't tell you how important this is to me. I must meet the woman in those pictures. No matter what those studio men say, if word of this gets back to John, he'll be furious. Sometimes the smallest, most inconsequential thing will set him off.”
She focused on me. “At the end of that summer, when the play closed in October, John had been so successful at capturing the fullness of the complete New York speakeasy experience that he had to go to a âhealth farm' in upstate New York for a week to recover.”
I thought even a month might not have been long enough to do the trick.
She said, “It's funny, but now I remember that week I spent alone here at the Pierre as the most rewarding part of the trip. John had been disappointed that the play had not been well received, but I enjoyed it. I thought I did well, and that's where I met Cary, who was just wonderful. It was a lovely but bittersweet week by myself. You see, they had done much of the preliminary work on
King Kong
, and I knew that Mr. Cooper wanted to talk to me about it as soon as I returned to California.
“When John was ready to come back, I had the hotel hire the very best car they could find, not just a limousine but a Rolls-Royce, mind you. I wanted him to return in style. But do you know what he said when he saw the car?”
She paused, and I could tell that Hazel knew what was coming. “He said there were scratches on the door. Scratches. On one door. They ruined everything for him. Why hadn't I noticed that and demanded that they bring around another car? He sulked all the way back to the city.”
She held out her glass and Hazel refilled it. “I couldn't believe it then and I can't believe it now. I know I shouldn't let it upset me, but it does.”
Hazel put a hand on her shoulder. “Fay, don't do this to yourself.” It didn't work.
“That's what happened over a few little scratches on a car that wasn't even his. You can imagine how he would react to those pictures! And I know something else about them.”
By then she was swaying a little on the sofa. “The girl in the pictures, that's the girl he really wants. She's the girl he wants me to be.”
Hazel said, “Now, Fay,” and Miss Wray ignored her.
“Right after we were married, John said that he had the three things he'd always wanted. He was famous, he was rich, and he was married to a beautiful actress. But I've seen how he acts with other women, the ones he's attracted to, and they're all the same with their well-stuffed brassieres, the way he drools over them. That's what he wants me to be.”
What she said squared with my memories of the man. Right then, I think, everything that had happened over the last two days caught up with her and the first tears came. Hazel put her arms around her.
I let myself out.
Chapter Sixteen
In the cab on the way back to the speak, I tried to figure out how everything I'd learned that day fit together, and I did a damn poor job of it.
For a while, I tried to put this Oscar Apollinaire character at the center. But I didn't know enough about him. It made sense that the picture book was promotional material for a real movie that he was planning to show at “very private screenings.” That's what he told Daphne. But why would he use the book to put the screws to RKO for six grand? Simple, he wouldn't. Even if Apollinaire made the book, it didn't necessarily figure that he was involved with the extortion. Unless he had split from his “silent partner,” Peter Wilcox.
Okay, so who was the guy who killed the goat? Not Peter Wilcox. The guy I saw was too young to be Wilcox. And if Arch was right, Wilcox was in Washington for the inauguration. And if Peter Wilcox felt the urge to slaughter a goat, he'd do it someplace else. That guy hated Peter Wilcox. Could he be Wilcox's younger brother? His twin, even his evil twin? Damn, that was a screwy thought, but why the hell not? Everything else about this was screwy. And one other thing I knew, whoever this guy was, he didn't have much trouble getting into Peter Wilcox's foundation office and his house.
And maybe I know something else
, I thought.
He needs money.
But there was no reason to keep worrying over that. This was the guy who threatened to make the pictures public, and he clued Saxon Dunbar in on them, and now Dunbar wasn't interested, and the guy had been paid off. So, I figured that part was over for now. It was time to find Oscar Apollinaire and hear what he had to say. I hoped I wouldn't have to go far. It was late and I was getting tired.
It was a little after two Saturday morning when I got back to the speak. Things had slowed down by then. I went to the end of the bar and motioned Connie over. She gave me a look and said something to Arch. He was standing next to her and took his time walking over to me. Connie turned around and talked to Marie Therese. I started to get steamed all over again but forced myself to calm down and thought, why the hell not? Why shouldn't Connie be as screwy as everything else today?
Arch gave that little shrug that said
Women. What're you gonna do?
“Good evening, sir, I've been considering what you asked when you called, and I'm almost certain that I'd know if Peter Wilcox had a brother, but I cannot say with perfect certainty. I know a bit, but I've not made a study of the man and his family.”
“It's all right,” I said, “but if you could find out more by tomorrow, I'll put something extra in your pay envelope. I need to know about cousins, any close relatives, I guess, and his deceased wife.”
“I don't have the particulars at hand, but if you could tell me why you need this research, I might be able to expend my efforts more efficiently.”
“I wish I could, Arch. Oh, yeah, and there's something else. What does it mean when you sacrifice a goat? I mean, why would somebody do that?”
That got his interest. His eyebrows popped up, and his mustache bristled at the question.
“And one more thing, I know Connie's still pissed at me, but tell herâno, ask herâto call up to the kitchen and have them make a couple of sandwiches and coffee for us and bring them to my office. I gotta talk to her.”
Arch said, “Go for the roast beef if there's any left. It was a little dry but very tasty.”
“I had the steak a few hours ago.”
“Then stick with the cheese.”
“Done,” I said and went upstairs to my office.
When Connie bumped open the door with her hip a few minutes later, she had a tray with one sandwich and one cup of coffee. She set the tray on my desk and said, “You wanted to see me?”
“No, I need to talk to you.” I picked up half the cheese sandwich and dug in. “I didn't have time to tell you this earlier, but you should know what went on today.”
She pulled up the chair and sat close to listen.
I told her about it all, including the business with the goat, which didn't bother her as much as I thought it would since she saw a lot of that being raised on a farm in California. I finished up with the guy on Fifth Avenue and how he said he was going to kill his brother.
Connie thought about that while she finished off the sandwich and the coffee. Then she said, “That's the craziest story I ever heard. We've got to talk to this Oscar Apollinaire. You said he may live in the Chelsea, right?”
In the elevator, Nelson said, “Hi, Connie. Apollinaire? Yeah, he's on six, in 624, I think.”
It was about 3:30 in the morning then. We'd left Frenchy, Marie Therese, and Malloy to close up and gone back to the Chelsea.
Connie said, “What's he like?”
Nelson closed the doors. “Odd fellow. Sports a fez and fancy waistcoats. Keeps even more irregular hours than you two.”
I asked if Apollinaire was in, and Nelson said he had gone up about an hour ago.
Then Nelson asked which floor. Usually we both got off on five, Connie's floor, and then I'd take the stairs down to three later. From time to time, we'd both get off at three, but that hadn't happened for a few weeks.
Connie said, “Five, please, Nelson. I need to freshen up.”
That made me think that maybe she'd want to change clothes and I could help her with that, but, no. As soon as I took my topcoat off, she went into the bathroom. After a time and without my assistance, she did up her hair and put on a very nice white silk blouse.
I told her she looked terrific. She smiled and nodded and didn't say anything else. We took the center stairs up to the sixth floor and went down the hall to 624. I could hear dance music from a phonograph through the door. I rapped on the door with my stick and we waited. Connie was so jazzed and curious, she grabbed my arm tight and bounced on tiptoes. I kept the other hand in my coat pocket with the .38.