I filled her in and said I’d come by in a cab and pick her up in half an hour or so.
When I returned to the living room, Marcy was walking Shack out, her arm in his as it had been in mine earlier. “Thank you, Shack. You’re such a dear. Such a wonderful friend.”
His hangdog puss got longer. “Oh, Marcy. No guy wants to hear that. The friend bit.”
“Now, you know that’s how it has to be.”
He was stumbling out toward 2B, as if the few steps were a thousand miles, when she shut her door.
“You’re pretty rough on the kid,” I said, reaching for my hat and raincoat on the chair where she’d tossed them.
“Oh, Shack should know better. Are you leaving, Mike?”
“I am. Here’s my card. I’ve written my home phone on it, too. Anything occurs to you, any hour of the day or night, let me know.”
“Well, you’re welcome here any time, Mike.”
My God, what an invitation. A stunning little Love Child was ready to corrupt an old rake.
Just as I was going, I said, “What do you mean, Shack should know better?”
“Well, Mike,” she said, with a big beautiful smile. “I am a lesbian, after all.”
Chapter Thirteen
Not so long ago, when you got within a few blocks of the place, a riot might have been going on, judging by the backed-up traffic, night-piercing floodlights and crowd noise spilling down the skyscraper canyon. You’d have to hoof it the rest of the way because even if your car or cab got through, a police barricade would be waiting, and mounted cops would be herding an excited throng of kids who looked like refugees from American Bandstand mixed with swells in gowns and tuxes, swarming the sidewalk all the way to Broadway at least. Only a few limos conveying celebrities to the hottest night spot in town got squeezed through the sawhorses, because a whisper of fame and money could out-yell any crowd.
But four years later, on a week night, the Peppermint Lounge on West Forty-fifth didn’t even have a doorman when the cab dropped Gwen and me off. A few patrons, couples mostly, were coming in and out, in no hurry, and lackluster rock ’n’ roll bled out, blaring when a door opened, muffling when it closed.
“My,” Gwen said, on my arm. “What a difference from the last time I was here!”
Her blonde hair ponytailed back, she wore a white mini-dress, matching go-go boots, and a knee-length camel coat with a white mink collar. I let my porkpie hat and trenchcoat make my fashion statement.
I said, “When was that?”
“Oh, ’61, ’62.”
Now the place was a shadow of its former faddish self. The candy-striped canopy drooped under red letters spelling out the club’s name on a cracked white facade. A window display of photos of yesterday’s celebrities reminded today’s visitors that the joint was “World Famous” — and of course when you have to post reminders, you aren’t world famous any more.
We checked our coats and moved through the bar into the shabby L-shaped club, met by a short, hawk-faced maître d’, who seemed depressed he wasn’t getting the big tips any more. He showed us to a table up front in the sparsely lighted, low-ceilinged, under-populated showroom, though mirrors surrounding the elevated dance floor were doing their best to make it seem bigger. A four-piece combo on stage was dragging its ass through “The Peppermint Twist.” Only half a dozen dancers were out there, college kids doing the Watusi and adult tourists feeling obligated to do the dance the house helped popularize.
In their white tops and red ski pants, all the waitresses were cute, since they doubled as on-stage dancers, and our redheaded one was no exception. She had to work at being bubbly, though. She wouldn’t make enough tips tonight to cover carfare.
Looking around at the half-filled place, Gwen said, “The last time I was here, you know who was on that dance floor? Greta Garbo!”
“She should have come tonight,” I said, “if she wanted to be alone.”
“It does seem more a museum exhibit than a nightclub,” she said, with something of a shudder. Then she beamed at me, clutched my hand. “Mike, it was nice to hear from you. As you can imagine, it’s been a real drag since, well, since that son-of-a-bitch fiancé of mine got himself killed.”
Appeared she was doing well getting over Borensen’s passing. Not all mourners could carry off white like she did.
“You may not give a damn who killed Leif,” I said. “I mean, after all — somebody did you a kind of favor. But keep in mind — the same somebody killed your father.”
“Leif killed my father.”
“Had him killed.” I squeezed her hand. “I asked you out tonight, honey, not to cheer you up but to see if you can identify that creep you saw your late unlamented Leif sucking up to.”
“The creep’s the one who...?”
“No. But he can lead me to the assassin. If this place were busier, it wouldn’t be so tricky. But when our drinks come, take a sip and glance around like you’re taking in the whole place... but glom the guy sitting in back at a table in the corner, on your side.”
“It’s awfully dark, Mike.”
The ceiling spotlights aimed at the stage were about it for illumination.
“I know,” I said, “but do your best. Tell me if there’s at least a possibility it’s the creep in question.”
The waitress brought my Four Roses and ginger, and Gwen’s peppermint schnapps. When I handed the redhead a twenty and said keep the change, I made a friend for life, or at least the rest of the evening. Meanwhile, Gwen sipped the sweet liqueur and glanced casually around.
She didn’t say anything till the band was between numbers. With a sweet feminine smile that might have accompanied almost anything, she leaned in to say something that it didn’t.
“Mike, that’s definitely the scumball whose ass Leif used to kiss.”
I sipped my highball and smiled back at her. “I’m going to go back there and just say hello. Listen, if things should get lively, just sit tight. Like the man said, I will return... unless I get killed or something.”
Her facial expression stayed casual and even amused, but her hand gripping my sleeve wasn’t. “Mike, you’re scaring me.”
“Not a bad thing to be, considering.”
Because this was a no-cover-charge joint, the path to the bar was kept clear. When I was almost there, I veered off the central aisle and wove through the tight-packed but mostly empty tables and chairs, coming to a stop at the table for four where one man sat. Where he always sat.
Small but compactly muscular, Joey Pepitone wore a dark gray sharkskin suit with white silk shirt and black silk tie. Diamonds winked off tie-pin and cufflinks, and gold rings winked back from slender fingers that had never seen a real day’s work. He was a slimily handsome hoodlum whose most distinctive features were his sleepy eyes, constant faint sneer, heavy dark eyebrows and prematurely gray hair. He’d be a living, breathing cliché, if he and his ilk weren’t where the cliché came from.
“Mike Hammer,” he said looking up at me. His voice was a smooth tenor. “I never took you for a rock ’n’ roll fan.”
I pulled out a chair and sat across from him, leaning back with my arms folded. “Nah, I’m more a classical guy. Give me the old masters. And I don’t mean Joey Dee and the Starliters.”
He smiled, just a little. He had an iceless tumbler of dark liquid in front of him and a cigarette going, waiting in an ashtray for his attention.
“Pretty girl you got with you tonight,” he said off-handedly, nodding toward Gwen at our table up front. He had a decent look at her in profile, since her chair was angled toward the stage.