“Well, we’d better get on. There’s still a lot to see.”
Farther along the broad carriageway we passed an open-air restaurant with its glass dance-floor. A fat, middle-aged Italian in a faultlessly cut morning-coat and a white gardenia in his
buttonhole hurried towards us.
“Johnny, this is Louis who looks after our three restaurants,” Della said as he bent to kiss
her hand. “How are you, Louis? I want you to meet Johnny Ricca.”
The Italian gave me a quick, appraising stare, bowed and shook hands.
“I have heard about you, Mr. Ricca,” he said. “Is all well in Los Angeles?”
“Certainly is,” I said, “but we’ve got nothing to touch this.”
He looked gratified.
“And Mr. Wertham? He is well?” he asked, turning to Della.
“He’s fine. On his way to Paris, the lucky man.”
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“Paris?” Louis lifted his shoulders. “Well, they have nothing as good as this in Paris either.
You will be lunching in the restaurant?”
“I guess so.”
“I will have something very special for you and Mr. Ricca.”
“Fine,” I said.
“See you later, Louis,” Della said, and moved on.
“You mean we eat in that place for all our meals?” I asked as soon as we were out of
hearing.
“Or the other two restaurants. Why not? They’re all Paul’s, and until they find out he’s
dead, they’re mine, too.”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling as if I’d suddenly walked into a brick wall. “I hadn’t thought of
that.”
She gave me a sharp glance and lifted her shoulders. We walked towards the casino in
silence. There were a few men and women on the wide verandah. They seemed to be catching
up with the sleep they had missed the previous night. Some of the women were good enough
to go into an Art magazine. I found myself gaping until Della said tartly, “Must you act like a
half-wit?”
I grinned.
“Sorry, but this place gets me.”
Then I noticed a convertible Buick, drawn up outside the main entrance of the casino.
“Some car,” I said.
It was a glittering black job, with scarlet leather upholstery, disc wheels and built-in head
and fog lamps.
“Like it?” she said. “It’s Paul’s. He always used it when he stayed here. It’s yours, now,
Johnny.”
“Mine?” My voice croaked.
“Why, yes.” She smiled, but her eyes were as hard as stone. “Yours, until they find out he’s
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dead. I don’t suppose they’ll let you keep it then.”
I felt suddenly creepy. That was the second time she had cracked that one in ten minutes. I
didn’t like it.
“What’s the idea, Della?”
“No idea.” She walked over to the car, opened the offside door and got in.
I leaned on the door, looking down at her.
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“Get in, Johnny. They’re watching you.”
I looked up. A few of the rich sofa-pets were hanging over the verandah rail staring at us. I
got in under the steering-wheel.
“We’ll go and look at the town,” she said. “Drive to the gates and I’ll tell you from there.”
I switched on, trod on the starter and drove the car down the broad carriageway.
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
She turned her head: her face was expressionless, and the dark-green sun-glasses masked
her eyes.
“I’m not trying to tell you anything. All this is yours and mine until they find out he’s dead.
That’s a fact, isn’t it, Johnny?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right, but there’s still the half million. You make it sound as if that
was nothing. It’ll buy something, won’t it?”
“Do you think it could buy the casino and all that goes with it?”
“I guess not, but it could buy this car and a lot of other things.”
“Have you thought how long a quarter of a million would last you, Johnny?”
“I’d invest it. It’d pay off a respectable income. What are you getting at?”
“You wouldn’t have a lot left to invest by the time you had bought a car, a house and a
wardrobe. I know I wouldn’t.”
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“What’s on your mind?” I asked, sure now she was preparing the ground for something. “I
thought all you wanted was the half million.”
“Turn right at the gates and then follow the main road,” she said, and leaned forward to
wave to the guards who were opening the gates. “Nothing’s on my mind - yet. I’m wondering
how we’ll feel in a year or so, knowing Reisner’s the boss of Lincoln Beach, and you and I
have only a lump sum that’ll melt like snow in the sun, and not a chance of making any
more.”
“Now, wait a minute,” I said. “We’re talking about half a million. That’s not going to melt
all that fast. You’re exaggerating, and besides, we haven’t even got that yet.”
“That’s right, Johnny.”
I couldn’t figure out what she was getting at, but I didn’t like her tone nor the hard look in
her eyes.
“We’re going to Bay Street,” she said, opening her bag for a cigarette. “Ever heard of Bay
Street?”
“No. What’s special about it?”
“Paul built every brick of it. They call it the Kasbah of Florida. I don’t know what the take
is, but I do know Paul collects fifteen per cent, and it’s free of tax.”
“This husband of yours must have been quite a guy.”
“He was. None of the others have the magic touch Paul had.”
Eventually we arrived at Bay Street: a misnomer to call it a street. Actually it was no better
than an alley, about a hundred yards long and scarcely wide enough to take two cars - but
what an alley!
I had thought the honky-tonk district of Pittsburgh was an eye-opener, but it had nothing on
Bay Street. Packed shoulder to shoulder, amid blatant signs that left nothing to the imagination, were burlesque bars, saloons, palaces of peel, gambling-dens, brothels, a couple of
dubious looking hotels, restaurants and gin dives.
“Pull over to the parking-lot,” Della said. “We’ll walk.”
“You mean Wertham owns this as well as the casino?” I asked, as I drove into the lot and
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cut the engine.
“He leases it to a syndicate with a controlling interest. He knew sooner or later the
millionaires, their wives and girl friends would get tired of the luxury of the casino. So he
created Bay Street where they could work off their repressions, and he could still make
money out of them. Handled properly, vice pays dividends, and nowhere is it better handled
than here.”
We walked across the street to a large building plastered with neon lights and crude, life-size pictures of half-dressed showgirls.
“Liberty Inn,” Della said. “It’s run by Zoe Eisner. She’s big people in Bay Street. You’d
better come in and meet her. And, Johnny, remember you’re big people, too. Ricca is well
known by reputation heed.”
We went in and met Zoe Eisner: a gigantic, middle-aged, chemical blonde who must have
weighed over two hundred pounds. She made a great fuss of Della and treated me with a
deference that embarrassed me, insisting on serving champagne while we talked. The
speciality of Liberty Inn, she told me with a leer, were muscle dancers and strippers.
“They’re hand picked, Mr. Ricca. We change them every month, and they come from the
four corners of the earth. You want to come in around midnight when we’re really kicking the
can around. It’s someihing to see.”
From the Liberty Inn we went across to the Pump Room, a plush and gold gambling saloon,
where I was introduced to Jerry Itta, a hawk-faced man in shirt sleeves who ran the joint. He
told me the poker game in session at the moment had been on for three days.