The Big Kiss-Off of 1944: A Jack LeVine Mystery (26 page)

The applause continued as we walked to the front of the studio. A wavy-haired guy stepped up to the microphone and pointed to us: “Two of the wonderful Hits and Misses, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Bow,” I whispered to the banker. We took little half-bows, very relieved. It was clear that there were a lot of Hits and Misses. A young trumpet player winked at me.

“It’s those stupid goddamn outfits gets the applause,” he said.

Savage and I laughed, uproariously. We were all one big family on “The Pepsodent Show.”

The banker and I continued on toward the far side of the studio, passing an accordion player who was rehearsing “Humoresque.” When we saw two more Hits and Misses coming toward us, we veered toward the back of the stage, behind the curtain and out of view of the audience.

Along the right backstage wall, which ran parallel to the corridor past the “L” turn, was a row of windows that faced on the rear of various smaller studios. In 61, I could see Carl Van Doren reading his “World at War” broadcast into a large microphone. Van Doren was alone, yet his emphatic gestures were those of the classroom. 6H was next door. It contained a nervous black-haired man who sat drumming his fingers on the green, felt-covered table. On the table were a mike, a pitcher of water, and two glasses.

I pulled Savage close to me and pointed to the window.

“That’s 6H. Who’s the guy with the shakes?”

Savage squinted. “That’s Feigenbaum.”

“I’m sure he’d like to know why all that muscle is hanging out in front of 6H.”

“Can’t he call the police?”

“And see this place wrecked? There’s a million bucks worth of equipment lying around and these boys aren’t the kind who just throw their hands in the air when they see a badge. Plus, I’m sure they told him they’d be gone by ten.”

Savage kept looking.

“I don’t see how we can enter from the rear.”

“We can’t.”

“Then how the hell do we …”

I wasn’t crazy about the answer, but it was the only one I knew.

“We go in through the front, Mr. Savage. Right under their noses.”

I walked over to get a better look into 6H. Three face-sitters were leaning on the wall in the corridor. Two of them were yawning. They’d been promised some action and all they were getting was the wait. Feigenbaum stood up, unlocked a side door and walked into an adjoining studio, 6G. Then he paced back into 6H.

It was ten to ten.

I walked over to Savage.

“How much do you have in your wallet?”

“Oh … three hundred.”

“Peel off a hundred and give it to me.”

“What for?”

“We’re going to need a musician to bring this off. I have to pay him something.”

“To do what?”

“Just hang on.”

I walked back in front of the curtain and climbed into the bandstand, moving toward the friendly trumpet player. He smiled when he saw me, but the closer I got, the more uncertain his smile became. From five feet away, it stopped being a smile altogether.

“You’re not with the Hits,” he said very loudly.

I hushed him, pulled out my building inspector’s shield and announced that I was from the FBI.

“FBI?” He licked his lips nervously.

“Here’s a C-note, in return for a small favor.” I stuffed the bill into the breast pocket of his green blazer.

“What is this?”

“You want the dough or not? I’ll ask someone else.”

“No, no,” he said urgently. “I’d just like to know.”

I wagged a finger at him and started off the bandstand.

“Bring the trumpet.”

He followed me backstage, wiping his neck with a handkerchief.

“Where’d you get the outfits?”

I turned on him. “No questions or we forget about the whole deal.”

His mouth twitched. Maybe he wasn’t going to turn out so hot, but it was getting late.

“What deal?”

“All I want from you is to walk us to Studio 6G like we were all going over a number for the show tonight.”

“Who’s us?”

I waved Savage over and introduced him as District Supervisor Frank Grimes. He did his part, which was to shut up.

“What are you guys playing tonight?”

“‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band.’”

“Terrific. We’ll go out the studio door and walk down the corridor. You blow a few notes, explain something, Frank and I will sing or hum, you blow another note. Like that.”

“Just that for a hundred bucks?”

I threw him a look and he picked it up for all it was worth.

“There going to be trouble?”

“Not if we do it right. You stay along the inside wall and we’ll face you. Remember that. Our heads have to be turned toward you.”

The trumpeter mopped his brow. He was kind of a stocky guy, with a plastered hairdo and a thin mustache.

“A hundred bucks is a lotta kale.”

“Sure is. You’re lucky vou smiled at me. Let’s shove.”

T
HE TRUMPETER WENT OUT FIRST,
wandering absently into the middle of the hallway after we had briskly walked along the left side of the studio, drawing admiring glances from the audience. They were being warmed up by the wavy-haired

“Now if anyone has to go to the powder room during the show …”

We closed the big glass doors and suddenly it was very quiet. The trumpeter stood in the corridor, nervously fingering his instrument.

“6G,” he whispered.

“Check. Left side.”

He got close to the wall and started walking.

“Play a couple of notes,” I whispered. “And
talk
, god-damit. A hundred smackers, I want talk.”

He doodled out the opening bars of “Alexander’s.” Ta-ta, ta-
ta
, ta-ta, ta-
ta
.

“That where we come in?”

We turned the corner.

“Talk
,” I whispered as roughly as I could. Every pore on my body started dripping.

The trumpeter cleared his throat.

“You guys come in after the first two choruses.”

“So it’s two choruses of vamp.”

“I thought three,” said Savage.

We were looking at the trumpeter, our heads screwed stiffly to the left. The trumpeter started stammering and I prayed he wouldn’t freeze up solid. From a corner of my eye, I saw the three men leaning against the wall outside 6H. One of them broke away and started down the hall.

“This is bullshit,” I heard him mumble to the others.

“Now in the third chorus,” the trumpeter finally managed to get out, “Marty says …”

Twenty feet from 6G.

“Marty says you guys keep doing ‘dip-doo-
ahhh.
’”

Fifteen feet. The thug who thought it was all bullshit passed us, picking his teeth.

“That’s it,” said Savage. “
Doo-ahhh.
”

“No, he’s right,” I said. “It’s ‘best band in the land—wah.’ A real short wah.”

Five feet.

“That’s it,” said the trumpeter through a veil of perspiration. “Wah.” He was nearly paralyzed at the sight of the two truck-sized gents inspecting their nails across from 6H.

We reached 6G.

“Let’s go in here and run through it once more.” I said it as casually as I could, but it wasn’t good enough. I felt I had aroused a good measure of attention.

I tried the knob.

It was locked.

“Locked,” I said cheerily. Savage looked ready to faint. I knocked on the door. “Just like these bastards to lock up.”

I felt the scrutiny of the two mugs burning a hole through my neck. Then they talked. That was even worse.

“Who are those mugs?”

“Singers.”

“Singers? Oldest fuckin’ singers …”

Feigenbaum came through the adjoining door just as the gorilla made some connections from the gray hair that stuck out beneath Savage’s skimmer. I felt for my Colt. Feigenbaum stared at us through the glass and Savage frantically pointed at himself. Feigenbaum’s eyes opened wide enough to swim through and he unlocked the door.

“WATCH OUT!”

When the radio exec bellowed, I pulled my gun, turned and fired without even looking. One thug fell immediately, the other grabbed at his wrist. I stepped forward and sapped him very hard. He fell and I knelt down to remove his guns.

Two men turned the corner. I hit one in the kneecap and the other in the shoulder. They hobbled and grabbed at themselves.

I ran into 6G. Feigenbaum locked the door.

“What is this? What’s going on?”

I asked him if the glass was bullet-proof.

“It’s triple-thick. I can assure you of your safety.”

The two thugs started pounding on the door.

“Do they know that?”

“They asked before. I told them.” Feigenbaum turned to Savage, who sat slumped in a chair. “You all right, Eli?”

“Some water. Just some water.”

“I got to get back to the show,” said the trumpeter.

“You’ll be a little late. You can’t leave here.”

He started shaking like a leafless tree in January, the whole business hitting him at once.

“Christ. Christ.”

It was five to ten.

“Why don’t you gentlemen come into 6H?” Feigenbaum led us into the adjoining studio, just as the two wounded warriors outside attempted to break the windows in with folding chairs. It made kind of a “thunk,” like wood hitting wood.

“Eli, sit behind the microphone,” said Feigenbaum. He stared at me. “You folks going to use the air time after all? We can cut into the first five minutes of Pepsodent.” He paused. “Of course, I’ll charge full rates.”

The men outside kept trying with the chair until five Pinkertons came on the scene and started wrestling with them.

“You call the Pinks?” I asked.

The radio exec nodded. “I told them to stay close when those gentlemen started hanging around. But they threatened to wreck the equipment if I called for help, so I told the Pinks to stay out of sight. They were down in 5M.”

It was three minutes to ten.

“Incredible,” Savage said quietly.

“Eli, you ought to give a speech after what I’ve seen here tonight,” Feigenbaum told him. “If this thing has anything to do with the campaign …”

“I can’t, Herb.”

Feigenbaum turned to me.

“Who are those men?”

“Beats me.”

His mouth went sour. “It’s like that, huh?”

“It’s just like that.”

He sighed. “I suppose I understand. Never seen anything like it, though, and I’ve been here a long time.” He adjusted his tie. “You’re LeVine? The dick?”

“That’s right.”

Feigenbaum thought that over. “Eli, you going on the air?”

Savage was finally starting to crack. He sat in back of the microphone in his candy-stripes, looking like an aging stud who had just been stood up on New Year’s Eve.

“I just can’t, Herb.” He was almost inaudible. “We’re not getting them back, LeVine.”

All I could do was shrug. “It’s not possible.”

The Pinkertons had knocked the two men senseless, after a lot of sweat, and were standing in the hall with their pistols drawn. From the looks of it, they hadn’t been drawn since the Boston Police Strike. Suddenly the Pinks were very alert and started shouting at someone down the hall. Inside the studio I heard nothing.

One minute to ten.

Feigenbaum was getting frantic.

“You going on, or not?” He picked up the phone. Savage just sat there shaking his head. He was miserable.

But not nearly as miserable as the little man talking to the Pinkertons.

Not nearly as miserable as Lee Factor.

It was minus forty-five seconds when Factor came into view, carrying a large film case.