Authors: Michael Murphy
“Businesslike.” He winked at me in the mirror. “I get the picture.”
I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression of the person most responsible for my success. Without her, I’d still be a gumshoe sharing a cramped office, across from a seedy hotel, with Mickey O’Brien. “She’s sophisticated, attractive in a—”
“Sure she is.” He displayed the skills of a New York cabbie as he swerved around a slow-moving car and splashed two men setting up a ladder in front of a hardware store.
I braced my feet on the floor. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Didn’t toss it yet. Name’s Frankie. Frankie Malzone.”
“You have a card?”
Frankie pushed out a laugh. “A card. That’s rich. Naah. I’m one of the country’s twelve million without a real job. I hang out at The Diamond House, pick up jobs from time to time, like this one. Enough to keep the old lady from smacking me across the head about earning a living. You been to The Diamond House? It ain’t no gin joint.”
I dropped in once or twice with Laura back when we were … what were we before I moved to Florida? A couple, an occasional gossip item in the newspaper. Nothing more.
I made polite conversation to take my mind off the man’s driving. “You have kids?”
“No kids. Edith ain’t exactly my wife.” Frankie blew through an intersection, bringing an angry blast from a cab’s horn. “You’re staying at the Carlyle. Fancy, schmancy. Guess you’re pretty important.”
“Not to anyone I know.”
Frankie laughed and slapped the dash. “Excuse me for saying, but you’re not what I expected.”
“What’d you expect?”
He shrugged. “Tailored suit, silk tie, expensive shoes, sure, but behind all that you seem like a regular Joe. Anyways, she says—Mildred—I should look out for you, fix you up with whatever you need.” He glanced at me over his shoulder. “You interested in a broad? I know some classy dames … and some not so sophisticated.”
“Thank you, but I don’t think I’ll have time for romance.”
“Romance. Good one.” Frankie snorted. “How ’bout a nightcap? The Diamond House’s got some smooth booze … and broads.”
I checked my watch. Still early enough to drop by and see Gino and Mickey. The Yankee
Club was a couple blocks from my old office, now Mickey’s—O’Brien Detective Agency.
“A nightcap won’t hurt, but take me to The Yankee Club in Queens.”
Frankie studied me in the rearview mirror. “You’re serious? A hundred thousand speakeasies in the city and you gotta pick that dive? That place gives me the heebie-jeebies. It’s not in the best of neighborhoods.”
“I grew up in that neighborhood.”
“You did good to get out. No offense.”
“None taken.”
Frankie continued to weave his way through the crowded streets that grew increasingly familiar. Not much had changed, except for a few more boarded-up shops.
I closed my eyes as he continued to yap about the city I knew so well. For a moment I dozed off. I gripped the edge of the seat as he swerved in front of a convertible, bringing another blast of a horn. “You in a hurry?”
“Naah. We’re here.” Frankie parked across the street from what looked like a boardinghouse. An unlabeled door hid the speakeasy. I leaned forward as he reached beneath the seat. Frankie pulled out a pistol and stuck it in his jacket.
“Leave the gun.”
“It’s mostly for show.” Flashing innocence, he stuffed the piece beneath the seat.
I climbed from the car and locked eyes with a billboard touting the final week of
Night Whispers
at the Longacre Theatre. Large photographs of the two leads gazed from the billboard. I saw only Laura, not the image of the famous Broadway actress she’d become.
I came to know Laura in her first play at school, a thirteen-year-old Becky Thatcher with painted-on freckles. I played Tom Sawyer. Our first kiss came onstage during rehearsal in front of our teacher and a dozen classmates including Gino and Mickey. Memories of our second kiss still gave me goose bumps. I pictured the girl in high school who hid the truth about her old man smacking her around—until I took care of the problem.
Frankie followed my gaze. “You wanna take in a show, ’cause I can get tickets. I know a guy.”
I shook my head and pulled a couple of bills from my pocket.
Frankie stared at my hand. “A tip? Don’t insult me.”
“Buy Edith some roses.”
He flashed a sheepish expression and stuffed the money in his trouser pocket. “Last time I brought home flowers my old lady accused me of cheating on her.”
“Were you?”
“Yeah, but that’s not the point. I’ll buy her some chocolates. When I bring her candy, I never get no questions.”
We crossed the street dodging puddles. I rapped on the front door.
A panel in the door slid open. A familiar granite face gave us the once-over. “You got a membership card?”
“Hello, Danny.” Danny Kowalski didn’t appear to remember me. Good thing because Gino and I stole his bike when we were in fourth grade and Danny was in sixth. Though the three of us palled around through high school, Danny never got over the prank.
I thumbed through my wallet and found the dog-eared card I thought I’d tossed a long time ago. I slipped it through the opening.
The door opened enough to reveal Danny had gained about thirty pounds of muscle and a tough-guy sneer I hadn’t seen before. Wearing the biggest tuxedo I’d ever seen, he stuffed the card into my hand and let us inside.
A framed photograph of Gino and Babe Ruth hung alongside the door. Ruth had scribbled
Cheers, Gino. Babe #3
.
I held out my hands and faced the main room crammed with a couple dozen packed tables on a black-and-white checkerboard floor. On a stage beside the dance floor a familiar-looking blonde in a white backless dress performed a bluesy rendition of “Body and Soul” backed by a three-piece jazz band.
“I’m a friend of Gino’s.”
“If you say so.” Danny patted me down and did the same to Frankie. He led us to a table in the center of the smoke-filled room. Frankie and I wedged our way into black lacquered chairs.
Frankie surveyed the crowded room. His uneasy expression told me he would’ve preferred to have the piece with him. Several sets of eyes took note of my arrival. A few cops, former cops, and a couple of gangsters I helped put away.
Gino Santoro sat at the bar. Thirty-four, like me, he still retained the boyish face I remembered. He wore a pin-striped three-piece suit and black-and-white brogue shoes like Fred Astaire. One hand rested on the knee of a redhead in a tight-fitting red satin dress with a slit up the side. My friend hadn’t changed much in appearance or his appreciation of flashy women.
Danny nodded toward the bar. “You want I should tell Gino you’re here?”
“Tell him it’s Jake Donovan.”
Danny paused a moment, as if searching his memory, then made his way through the crowded tables. He spoke to Gino and pointed to our table.
Gino jumped to his feet and grabbed his hat off the bar. He left Danny and the redhead and hurried toward us. “Welcome home, Jake!”
Home
, that four-letter word again. I accepted the embrace.
After the hug, Gino kissed my cheek. “You ain’t staying at this crappy table wedged in
like fuckin’ sardines.” He pointed to a corner table near the dance floor where two men, bankteller types with glasses, made eyes at the singer.
Frankie and I followed Gino. One of the men glanced up from the table. “Gino.”
“Beat it.”
“But, Mr. Santoro—”
Gino grabbed the man by the collar and tossed him against the next table, spilling drinks on a man who barely noticed.
The bank tellers retreated to the table we’d vacated, glaring like I was some hotshot who ruined their evening. Others glanced my way, including a fat red-jowled thug in a gray suit who gave me the evil eye from a table near the front door.
“Have a seat.” Gino looked at Frankie, as if seeing him for the first time. “I know you?”
“Frankie Malzone.”
“Yeah.” Gino’s eyes narrowed. “Weren’t you mixed up in the mess at the mayor’s office last year?”
Frankie held out both hands. “How was I to know his secretary was an embezzler? I never knew a dame could stuff so much dough into a brassiere. I shoulda searched her.”
“He a friend of yours?” Concern creased Gino’s brow.
I liked Frankie, in spite of his driving habits. “From way back.”
“I’m from way back, since what, we was like six?” Gino dropped his hat on the table and sat between Frankie and me.
He gazed around at three busy cocktail waitresses then signaled a cigarette girl wearing black fishnet stockings. “Doll, bring me three glasses and a bottle of scotch … the good stuff.”
“I ain’t your doll, Gino. Not no more.” She spoke in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. “Besides, I ain’t no cocktail waitress floozy. I’m a cigarette girl, and in case you didn’t notice, I work for tips.”
Gino waved her closer. “Here’s a tip. Bring me and my pals a good bottle of scotch and three glasses or you’ll be selling matches on a street corner this time tomorrow.”
She set both hands on her hips. “You’re still sore about the other night. It happens.”
Gino’s face flushed. He reached into the tray hanging from a strap around her neck, grabbed a one-dollar cigar, and stuffed it into his suit coat pocket. He tossed a five-dollar bill onto the tray.
“A Lincoln. Thanks, Gino.” She headed for the bar.
“She’s got a nice caboose, but she don’t seem to realize we’re in the middle of a depression here.” Gino ruffled my hair. “You come to your senses and moving back or just paying a visit?”
“Business.”
“Book-writing business.” Gino smirked.
I considered explaining the content issues with my editor that couldn’t be fixed over the phone, but he and Frankie didn’t seem too interested in publishing problems.
Gino slipped a silver case from his suit coat pocket and offered me a cigarette. I shook my head, and he nodded. “That’s right. You never was a smoker. You never drank too much or chased dames, except for Laura. Remind me again why we’re friends.”
Frankie removed a Camel and lit it with a match then held the flame for Gino. Gino lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and blew out a long cloud of smoke. “So, Jake, how’s life in Tampa playing shuffleboard with all the old folks?”
I laughed and explained how Tampa was everything I hoped it would be. Mildred was right. The city gave me a fresh start and allowed me to focus on writing. I described the apartment that overlooked the ocean, small but functional for a man who spent half his days in front of a typewriter.
Gino flicked cigarette ash into the ashtray. “You made it big, you lucky bastard.”
The cigarette girl returned with a bottle of scotch and three glasses. She set them on the table then turned on her heel and flirted with a customer a couple of tables over.
Gino’s flicker of irritation told me the girl meant something to him. He filled the glasses half full and raised one in a toast. “To lucky bastards.”
The three of us drank; then Gino asked the question I knew he’d get around to asking. “You seen Laura?”
“On a billboard outside.”
“Wiseass.” Gino shook his head. “It’s a shame. I always thought you two were destined to be together forever. You know, like Romeo and Juliet or something.”
“They ended up dead.”
“You sure?” Gino ran a hand over his slick black hair. “That’s right. Now I remember. You paid attention in class while I was out schooling the ladies.”
At the table in front, the fat man glared. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.
I didn’t want to talk about Laura. “How’s Mickey? He wrote and bragged about the success of his one-man detective agency and asked if I missed the line of work. I always wrote back, but the letters trailed off the last few months.”
Gino blew a puff of smoke in my direction. “How come you write Mickey and not me?”
I sipped the scotch. “Mickey can read.”
Gino pointed to Frankie. “Anyone else talks to me like that, he gets a fist sandwich. I ain’t seen Mickey for a month, maybe two. Come on. He’s right down the block, you know? Of course you do.”
Didn’t sound like Mickey. First his letters stopped. Now Gino hadn’t seen him.
Something stunk, and I had to find out what. “You think he’s okay?”
Gino shrugged. “Maybe he got himself a new dish.”
Frankie polished off his scotch and refilled the glass. “I heard he’s working some big case.”
Gino raised an eyebrow. “You know Mickey O’Brien?”
Frankie crushed his cigarette into the ashtray. “Everybody knows Mickey.”
While the jazz band continued to play, the blonde singer crossed the dance floor and set one hand on my shoulder. “You probably don’t remember me. I wasn’t a blonde last time you were in.”
“Bridgette?”
“You remember!” She kissed me on the cheek. Her perfume reminded me of blueberries and cut through the room’s cigarette smell.
Over her shoulder, the fat thug downed a shot of booze. He slid his chair back and bulled his way through the tables, his beady eyes darting between Gino and me. “I thought it was you.”
Bridgette retreated behind my chair. Gino started to get up, but I grabbed his arm. I didn’t want any trouble. He sat down and signaled to Danny at the front door.
The fat man stopped at our table and pounded a fist into one hand. “Jake Donovan.”
“That’s me.” I studied his face, which reminded me of a mug shot I’d seen. This guy was a two-bit thug. “Jimmy Vales, right?”
“I figured you’d remember, since it was you who sent me up the river for bank fraud.”
“The police did that. I just did the legwork for the bank that hired me.”
Jimmy grabbed the half-full bottle of scotch and cocked his arm like he’d shatter the bottle against my head.
Gino jumped to his feet. “Not my good stuff.”
The jazz band stopped playing, and the room grew quiet.
Jimmy set the bottle on the table. “I spent three years in the clink ’cause of you, Donovan!”
“I thought the judge gave you five.”
He cleared his throat and hawked a load of spit next to my shoe. “Good behavior.”
“Of course.”