Authors: Michael Murphy
Determined to find out the guy’s identity, I held up my cane and hollered as an empty cab drove by. I searched frantically for another. By the time a cabbie finally pulled up, several minutes had gone by and Laura and the man tailing her were gone. I’d never find them in this traffic, but I had to warn Laura.
Inside the speakeasy, I slipped into a phone booth and called the Longacre Theatre. Laura hadn’t arrived yet. I left a message for her to call as soon as she got in.
Well-dressed men and flashy women getting an early start on having a good time packed The Diamond House. The manager, in a tuxedo with a red rose in the lapel, approached with an Irish brogue. “ ’Tis Jake Donovan. It’s been a long time. Too long.”
I tried not to display my concern about Laura. “I’m expecting a call from Laura Wilson from the Longacre Theatre.”
“Of course. I’ll notify you as soon as she calls. Would you like a table?”
I’d come to find Frankie and spotted him alone at the bar, chewing on a toothpick and nursing a drink. “Jake!” He spit out the toothpick and downed the rest of his drink. He hurried toward me and pumped my hand. “The papers made it sound like you’d bought the big one.”
I owed Frankie my gratitude and my life. “I might have if it hadn’t been for you.”
The manager showed us to a table near the stage where a man sat with his back to us at the piano. He played a show tune from a play Laura and I had seen years ago, though no one paid him any attention.
I sat at the table and dropped my hat on the chair beside me. “Mildred told me she fired you.”
“It happens.” Frankie glanced toward a table on the other side of the stage where a buxom blonde in a tight dress sat holding the arm of a man twice her age. “Sheesh.”
“I like the way you handled yourself at The Yankee Club and when Mickey and I got shot. In my current condition, I need a driver. I’ll pay you fifty bucks a day.” I pulled out my wallet and slapped a fifty on the table.
Frankie let out a slow whistle. “That’s twice what Mildred paid me. Before you cough up some serious dough, I should come clean about some stuff. I did time in the big house, five years ago, for grand theft auto.”
“I’m sure it was a youthful indiscretion.”
“I wasn’t taking some dame for a joyride.” He puffed up with pride. “On a good week, I lifted a dozen cars.”
“Mildred told me you worked undercover for the police.”
He glanced around as if to make sure no one had heard. “Hey, not so loud. I’m no stool pigeon.”
I slid the money closer to Frankie. “You going to be my driver or not?”
Frankie stared at the bill then slipped the money into his suit coat pocket.
“We’ll need a car.”
“No problem. I know a guy.” Frankie headed for the bar.
Onstage, the piano player banged the keys in frustration. He snatched a smoldering cigarette from an ashtray on top of the piano. When he took a puff and blew out the smoke, I recognized the famous songwriter who worked with Laura on a couple of her plays before either hit the big time. Cole Porter. “Cole.”
He waved away a small cloud of smoke and crushed the cigarette butt in the ashtray. “Jake.” He hurried to our table, did a little soft shoe, and shook my hand.
Cole hadn’t changed much in two years. Thin as I remembered, his features pale and delicate. “I like your cane. It makes you look dapper and smooths out some of your rough edges.”
Rough edges?
With great theatricality he set a hand on my shoulder and hung his head. “I’m so sorry about you and Laura.”
“Thanks.”
Frankie returned and clapped me on the back. “All set, boss.” He thrust out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Porter. Frankie Malzone. I’m Jake’s driver … and muscle.”
Cole shook Frankie’s hand then squeezed his biceps. He winked at me. “Stay out of trouble, Jake.”
Frankie laughed. “Good one, Mr. Porter.”
“Cole. Let me buy you fellas a drink.”
My legged throbbed, but it wasn’t quite noon. “Too early for me.”
“Never too early for me.” Frankie signaled a waitress.
Cole ordered his usual, absinthe, and a scotch for Frankie.
“Jake, can we talk?” Cole nodded toward the piano. “Would you excuse us, Mr. Malzone?”
“Sure, and it’s Frankie.” He took a seat and watched a flashy redhead walk by. “Hey, doll.”
She shot him a look then stormed off.
On the way to the piano, I ignored a stunning blonde in a black dress cut way too low for a funeral. She winked as I walked past.
“You have an admirer.” Cole sat on the bench and stared at the keys. “Here’s the deal. Since the first of the year, I’ve struggled with writer’s block. I can still write music”—he played a catching melody I hadn’t heard before—“but with so much misery in the country, it’s hard to get inspired to write witty words people can relate to.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his suit coat pocket. “Seems to me you dealt with writer’s block a couple of years ago. I heard you have a new book coming out, so you must have worked through it. What did you do?”
“I moved to Florida.”
He let out a hearty laugh. “Linda would never go for that.” He lit another cigarette, blew out a puff, and set the pack of Camels on top of the piano. The troubled expression returned to his face. “Yesterday I met with a Broadway producer, Vinton Freedley. He’s pushing me to write music for a new musical next spring, but I’ve drawn a blank the past two months. If I don’t come up with something by Monday, he’ll sign Rodgers and Hart. If I miss out, I could be through.”
Like a lot of talented people, Cole Porter could be racked with insecurity. “Nonsense, you’re on top.”
“Success is a slippery slope, Jake. Remember that.”
“Inspiration sometimes pops up when I least expect it.”
“Hope you’re right.” Cole set the cigarette into the ashtray, played a few bars, then banged his forehead against the keys and didn’t look up.
Uncertain how to respond to Cole’s erratic behavior, I waved Frankie over.
Frankie, drink in hand, crossed the stage. He leaned against the side of the piano and
nodded toward the pretty blonde who continued to give me the eye over the top of a champagne glass. “Nice gams. Looks like they start at her neck.” He took a sip. “You probably haven’t noticed how dames in this joint are dressed. Her plunging neckline looks like she scrunched her legs up and her knees are poking out the top of her dress. Sheesh.” He swirled the scotch in his glass. “In the old days, just a glimpse of a stocking was, you know, shocking.”
Cole’s head snapped up from the piano keys.
Frankie took another sip of scotch. “Now, anything goes.”
“What did you say?” Cole asked Frankie.
“Anything goes.”
“No, no … before that.”
“I said in the old days if a guy caught a glimpse of a stocking, it was really something.”
“No, you said shocking.” Cole fidgeted on the piano bench.
“Yeah, so? It
was
shocking in the old days. My old man told me.”
Cole jumped to his feet and opened the piano bench. He snatched a blank sheet of staff paper, slammed the lid closed, and sat. With determination on his face, he took a pencil from his pocket and wrote a few lines. He stuffed the pencil above his ear then played a couple of notes on the piano.
Frankie nodded toward the blonde who continued to cast her eyes my way. “You should go talk to her. She likes what she sees.”
“She probably read my book.”
Frankie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, she looks like a real bookworm. Which reminds me. Edith had one of your books at the apartment,
Blackie Doyle’s Vacation
. I read it while you was in the hospital. Couldn’t put it down. Seriously.” He took another sip. “Last book I read would make a hooker blush. Authors should know better than to use four-letter words.”
“Writing prose.” Cole tapped his pencil on the sheet music.
Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Cole grabbed his smoldering cigarette and took a puff. His face flushed with excitement, he winked and read as he wrote. “Good authors … who knew better words … now use four-letter words.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m sayin’.” Frankie polished off the rest of his drink.
I’d seen Cole write songs before. A tiny observation often set him off. Apparently Frankie had helped him break through the writer’s block. I was a mere writer. Cole Porter was a genius. He played a few bars of the earlier tune.
A young man at least ten years younger than the blonde who’d given me the eye brought her a drink and sat at her table.
Frankie shook his head. “You lost your chance. I mean, I ain’t no prize, but come on, she
could do better than that stupid gigolo.”
“Silly gigolo …” Cole grabbed the pencil and furiously wrote on the sheet music. He glanced up at Frankie. “Well?”
“Well what?”
A well-endowed blonde wearing a black sleeveless dress and an expensive assortment of jewelry nestled in her cleavage gave Cole the once-over as she walked by.
Frankie did a double take and grinned. “For a second there I thought that dame was Mae West.” He shrugged. “Maybe this joint’s too fancy for me. I’m not so used to hanging out in highbrow joints like this.” Frankie appeared oblivious that he was helping Cole Porter write a song. Cole spun back toward the piano keys. He set the handwritten music in front of him. He flexed his fingers, cracking the knuckles. “How does this sound?” He began to sing and play the earlier music.
“In olden days a glimpse of stocking
Was looked on as something shocking
,
But now God knows, anything goes.”
Frankie grinned, “Very nice, Mr. Porter.”
“That’s just the beginning, fellas.” Cole made a change in the notes on the page and set the pencil beside him on the bench. His face glowed as he continued.
“Good authors, too, who once knew better words
,
Now only use four-letter words
Writing prose, anything goes.”
A dozen customers gathered around as Cole Porter wrote notes on the sheet music. “Almost there.”
I glanced toward the manager. He shook his head. Laura still hadn’t called.
Cole set the pencil down. I snatched it without him noticing and grabbed my cane as Cole’s hands danced over the piano keys. He continued to sing, playing to the crowd as he often had at parties I attended.
“If driving fast cars you like
,
If low bars you like
,
If old hymns you like
,
If bare limbs you like
,
If Mae West you like
,
If me undressed you like
,
Why nobody will oppose.”
Cole grinned. The crowd ate it up.
I slipped through the crowd and crossed the room as everyone, including Frankie,
laughed, hollered, and applauded. I hurried inside the bathroom.
“Anything goes … anything goes … anything goes.”
The room burst into applause.
After peering beneath the stalls to make sure the men’s room was empty, I set the cane on the counter. I removed the blank sheet of paper from my pocket.
I smoothed the curled paper on the counter. Like I did in Mickey’s office, I ran the lead from Cole’s pencil gently along the paper. Two words appeared on the paper.
Golden Legion
.
I let out a deep breath as questions flooded my mind. What was the Golden Legion that Mickey had to leave an invisible clue on a blank piece of paper? Did they have something to do with Mickey’s death?
“You’ve caused me a lot of trouble.” The hulking figure of Jimmy Vales stood in the doorway. He had a bandage across the bridge of his nose and wore a sneer he’d saved up just for me.
I clutched the silver handle of my cane.
He lumbered into the restroom and closed the door behind him. “I didn’t shoot you and Mickey O’Brien. I wasn’t anywhere near you when that happened.”
“I don’t think you did either. I told the police as much.” I gripped the silver handle of the cane, ready to free the dagger. “You should talk to the cops.”
He let out a laugh then bellowed. “I was with my brother. You think those pinheads will believe either of us?”
His brother, Tony, had a rap sheet longer than Jimmy’s.
Just when I thought we might reach an understanding, he glanced in the bathroom mirror. His face twisted in a scowl. “You broke my nose.”
Actually, Gino broke Jimmy’s nose when he slammed the big man’s face against the table, but I wasn’t going to quibble. I glanced toward the door, hoping Frankie would realize I’d gone missing, but my “muscle” was onstage helping Cole Porter write show tunes.
Jimmy thumped a fat finger against my chest. “How ’bout I break yours?” He shoved me against the counter.
I stumbled against the sink. With my back to Jimmy, I twisted the handle of the cane. I faced him and brandished the dagger. “Don’t ever put your hands on me again.”
Jimmy smashed the mirror with a fist then grabbed a long shard of glass, apparently unaware the glass had cut his palm. Blood flowed down his wrist.
The manager entered the restroom. “Mr. Donovan, Laura Wilson’s on the line …” His eyes danced between my dagger and the shard in Jimmy’s hand.
Jimmy threw the broken shard against the wall, shoved the manager aside, and ran from the restroom.
Frankie rushed into the room and slid to a stop. He glanced at the broken glass on the floor and the openmouthed manager blotting Jimmy’s blood from his suit with a towel. “Jake, next time you need to use the can, I’m going with you.”
Chapter 5
Split Pea and Dry Bread
Over the phone, Laura sounded amused over my alarm that she’d been followed. The theater provided security from time to time, and Spencer often sent a bodyguard to tag behind on her outings. The man who’d followed in the Model T must have been one of those men.