Death is the Last Lover (Prologue Books) Read online

  “No,” he said. Softly. “Ever hear of them?”

  “Sure,” he said. “And I tell you again, fella, you’re using fancy names.”

  “That good?” I said. “That’s bad,” he said. “Why?”

  “All I’m saying is you’re moving up in class, Mr. Chambers. You move up in class, you’re liable to find yourself a hatful of trouble.”

  “Do you know them, Stevie?”

  “No.”

  “You know how it is,” I said. “What?”

  “It gets around to murder, everybody tells a lot of lies, Stevie.”

  “So maybe it’s your job to figure out who’s lying.”

  “That’s exactly my job. And to prove who’s lying.”

  “Proof?” he said. “That’s a cop’s job, not your job.”

  “But that’s what I’m getting paid for, Stevie.”

  “Maybe you can get paid more for letting cops do their own work.”

  “That an offer, Mr. Pedi?”

  “Would you like it to be an offer, friend?”

  “No.”

  “Then it ain’t an offer, friend.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said and pushed back from the table and stood up. “ ‘Bye, Steverino.”

  “You leaving our attractions?” The capped teeth flashed an ironic smile.

  “Reluctantly,” I said.

  “I think you’re nuts,” he said.

  “Why so?” I said.

  “Sierra,” he said. “That chick don’t flip often. A shame you don’t take advantage of it.”

  “I intend to.”

  “So why don’t you stick around?”

  “Believe me, I want to.”

  “So why don’t you?” he said. “Got to talk to people.”

  “People talk here, friend.”

  “I want to go talk to people that talk the truth,” I said. “Don’t people here talk the truth?”

  “Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. I want to go talk to people where I’m sure.”

  “Where can you be sure, friend?” The smile was almost amiable. “After all, between you and me, where can you be sure? I mean, after all, any one of us — who can we talk to that we can be sure?”

  “A stoolie, Stevie,” I said. “With a stoolie, a right stoolie, if he talks, you can be sure. I’m going to talk to a stoolie, Stevie. Wish me luck. Wish yourself luck.”

  “Good luck,” he said and his soft voice had the flat rasp of a dull knife cutting stale bread.

  FOURTEEN

  There are stoolies and there are stoolies. There are public stoolies and there are private stoolies, as there are public cops and private cops. Public stoolies are a vital tool of the police. They are little people who do not get sent away for their misdemeanors, and who exchange their meager information for a small form of immunity and a large form of contemptible pride — they wallow in their “connections.” They are little men with smidgeons of information which they are happy to use as trade-bait with the police. They are rats, poor, furtive, unintelligent, scurrying around the periphery of the underworld, and frequently discovered as dead clods tossed into a gutter with bullet holes in the mastoid region. These are the public stoolies.

  The private stoolie is a completely different breed of the same specie, similar but entirely unlike, as the marauding eagle is unlike the chirping sparrow. The private stoolie is a man (or woman) of brains, perspicacity, discrimination, and a good many bank vaults, all stuffed to capacity. The private stoolie is an encyclopedia of information, a human card-index system, an individual endowed with a peculiar type of genius, and one who cashes in on that. A private stoolie engulfs information as a vulture engulfs carrion: only the stoolie disgorges — for selected individuals at selective prices. He has his own methods and his own means of gathering, reviewing, interpreting, filing and collating his special brand of data — that is his lifework. He is shrewd, dangerous, sometimes deadly. He is rare. He is a specially-gifted specialist in a stratum of society that specializes in specialists. He usually retires, at early middle age, to the bucolic life of gentleman farmer. Or breeder of thoroughbred horses. Or dilettante adventurer in the fabulous realm of the stock market (where this seemingly castrated bull trims the virile bears). Or backer of Broadway hits. Or traveler-about-the-world with a castle in the south of France where the most frantic parties are thrown. But while in action, his fees are more exorbitant than those of the skilled butchers of human flesh called surgeons. And his select clientele numbers senators, statesmen, attorneys, ambassadors, millionaires, royalty, candidates for high office, foreign plenipotentiaries, rulers of state, and, occasionally, upon a lower level of course, a trusted peeper.

  I was one of Lorenzo Dixon’s clients.

  Lorenzo’s was a discreet supper club between Park and Madison on Fifty-third Street. It served string music with its victuals — fiddles, zither, and two guitars: imported entertainment as excellent as the food. It was a plush joint that catered to a late crowd. Its cocktail room was black and white with pink lighting overhead; its inner room all pink brocade with candlelight. The inner room had a recessed upstairs gallery, much sought-after by the stay-uppers: it was a mark of distinction (or a mark of a large gratuity to the maître d’) to be escorted to the upstairs gallery. It was also a mark of having once been pointed out as a special-type guest by the proprietor of the establishment.

  I finger-waved to the maître d’ smilingly stationed at the portals of the inner room, but I seated myself opposite Adam Frick at a small round table in the cocktail room. Frick was lost in contemplation of the snifter glass of brandy in front of him and he seemed startled when he glanced up and saw me. He appraised me with eyes as glazed as a windshield in snowtime. Mr. Frick had been punishing the brandy all the way since I had left him, or so it seemed.

  “I’ve been waiting,” he said.

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “I’m in trouble,” he said.

  “I know,” I said.

  The glazed eyes regarded me fixedly. “You know everything,” he grumbled. “A real wise weenie.”

  “You remind me of a guy,” I said. “Amos Knafke.”

  “You know Amos?” A faint smile stirred in the murk of the eyes.

  “We’ve met,” I said.

  “Character, huh?” he said and slumped back into unhappiness. “Listen,” he said. “You do know my trouble?”

  “The cops like you on Vivian Frayne,” I said.

  “Christ,” he said. “How do you know? It wasn’t in the papers.”

  “I got a birdie,” I said.

  “Well, they didn’t hold me, did they? They didn’t have enough to hold me on.” He crossed his long legs. “But I’m not out of it,” he said morosely. “They’ll be grabbing me up again, I know it, I feel it in my bones.”

  “I’m surprised they didn’t hold you,” I said. “Really.”

  “Giving me rope,” he said. “Shrewd-apple cops. Giving me rope to hang me.”

  “They’re entitled,” I said.

  “Why, the sonsabitches? Why? Because I knew the dame? Because I had a key to the place? Because there was a policy for me?”

  “It’s a lot, and you’re not a guy with the most savory of reputations.”

  He drank from the snifter glass, the edges of it clicking against his teeth. “You want to know something, Petie. I was crazy about that dame, crazy as a guy like me can be crazy about a dame. She was something, believe me, something. Why should I want to kill her?”

  “You’re an angle-guy kid. You’d be coming into twenty-five big ones with her dead.”

  “I’d be coming into more with her alive.”

  “Pardon?” I said. “Would you spell that out for me?”

  “Look, I’m the guy that steered her on to Phelps.”

  “Well, now,” I said.

  “I’d been going with her for some time, real big romance bit. I’d been working for the Phelpses — Mrs. Phelps mostly — ”

  “Naturally,�
� I said.

  “ — and when I’d come back from trips, I’d always stop in at the dance hall my first night in town. Well, one night, as I come in there, there’s old man Phelps seated at a table with Vivian and another dame, Sophia Sierra. Did you ever meet that one?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Well, I sneaked right out of that dance hall, but that night at Vivian’s place I told her who he was. He was telling them his name was George Phillips, that kind of crap. I told Vivian to get real cozy with him, that we’d be in a spot to turn a real nice buck, possibly.”

  “Oh you gentle people,” I said.

  “Look, a buck’s a buck.”

  “Weren’t you making enough bucks from Mrs. Phelps?” He screwed up his face. “There’s no nympho like an old nympho. That Barbara can wear out a battalion.”

  “I was asking about bucks.”

  “Three hundred a week, and expenses.”

  “Big expenses?”

  “I earn my keep, Petie. Plus it’s like prison. That old bag hardly lets me move.”

  “I was asking about bucks,” I said.

  “Let’s put it this way,” Frick said. “Not enough bucks. Oh, I explored all the possibilities. I mean, like getting married. No soap. She might divorce Phelps, if he got too frisky — but she wouldn’t marry me.”

  “Too smart?” I said.

  “Yeah, I suppose,” he said gloomily. He waved to the waiter for another brandy. The waiter looked inquiringly at me. I passed. The waiter went away. Frick uncrossed his legs and nervously teetered one knee. “The old bitch,” he said. “Too smart to want to marry me, but more jealous of me than of her own husband. She resented Vivian, not because he was going with her, but because I was.”

  “You mean she knew about Phelps and Vivian?”

  “Damn right she knew.”

  “You mean she kept tabs on him?”

  “She kept tabs on me.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “She had a peeper on me, Si Murray. He found out about me and Vivian, and while he was doing the check on me, he also found out about Phelps and Vivian.”

  “Busy old Vivian,” I said. “But how do you know this?”

  “From Si Murray. That’s a guy who knows how to work both sides of the street. Before he made his report to Barbara Phelps, he double-tracked on her. For two hundred bucks, he gave me a copy of the report.”

  “Real trustworthy peeper, eh?”

  “They ain’t all like you, pal.”

  “Did Barbara kick up any fuss with you?”

  “Nope. She kicked up the fuss with Vivian. She told Vivian to lay off me. Vivian told her to go to hell. We knew right then that sooner or later I was going to bust up with the old bag. That’s when we dreamed up the deal to take Gordon Phelps.”

  “But if the wife knew about him and Vivian,” I said, “where was the threat?”

  A frown put momentary furrows on his smooth forehead. “Yeah, we thought about that, and there were two answers. First, maybe he didn’t know that the wife knew. And second, if he did know, we’d kick up a real big stink. Guy goes prowling dance halls under an assumed name, takes advantage of decent kids, makes all sorts of promises to them, seduces them, gives them keys to his little hideaway apartment. If he balked on that vacation trip, then we were really going to put the screws to him. Viv would threaten to go to the D.A. with a charge of attempted rape — ”

  “Rape?” I said. “Who’s idea was that?”

  “Mine,” he said innocently. “Anything to raise a stink, or threaten to raise a stink. Neither Phelps nor Barbara like stinks like that, big stinks. They’re high-class bullshit society people, you know. Any charge against him would dig up his … his secret life, his maneuvers around the wrong side of the town as George Phillips. We had him by the well-known balls.”

  “Then why did you want to bring Steve Pedi into it?”

  Amazement clouded his face. “How did you know that?”

  “I told you before,” I said. “I’ve got a birdie.”

  He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “We weren’t too sure of our ground. Mostly, really, it was me, pushing Vivian. I figured a guy like Pedi would know just how to handle it, and the stake was big enough. I told her to put it up to him, on a three-way split. But he turned her down cold. So we decided to handle it ourselves — that is, she was to handle it. Now do you know what I mean that she was worth more to me alive than dead?”

  “You were going to go half on the take from Phelps?”

  “Of course. Half of a hundred gees, is fifty. Fifty for me, if she stays alive, is more than twenty-five for me, as she is now — dead. Furthermore, I can’t collect a nickel of that unless I get the cops off my back. They don’t pay insurance money to the murder suspect.”

  “Somehow, in your own dirty way, you sound convincing,” I said. “If you’ve got an angle somewhere, you’re hiding it pretty good.”

  He grinned drunkenly. “I’ve got a bigger angle than you can imagine, and I am hiding it pretty good. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Well, talk it up, man.” Curiosity began biting at me like a flock of mosquitoes.

  “Look, there isn’t a thing I didn’t know about Vivian Frayne, and I’m going to settle this murder thing tonight. I wanted to talk to you first, so you should know what I’m up to.”

  “What are you up to?” I said.

  The drunken blue eyes grew crafty. “I’m not telling,” he said. “I’m playing a great big hunch, now, tonight. If it works, I’m going to come into a stack of dough, a great big stack of dough. Then I’m going to get me the most expensive lawyer in town to get the heat off me, and I’ll also collect on the policy. I’m going to talk to you, and you’re going to advise me on a lawyer and all the rest of that, and I’ll be able to pay you a handsome fee.”

  “When are you going to do all this talking to me?”

  “You’re going to come to my apartment” — he looked at his watch — “you’ll come in an hour, any time after one hour from now. If my hunch pays off, we’ll discuss the lawyer angle and stuff. If it doesn’t, I’m going to hand you some facts that you’re going to take to the cops. Either way, you’ve got nothing to lose.”

  He rose, flagged the waiter, paid his check.

  He winked at me, raised a fist in salute, and went off.

  He was carrying a lot of brandy, but he did not stagger.

  FIFTEEN

  In the inner room, the maître d’ greeted me with the intimate smile generally reserved for the heavy tipper. I tipped him, not heavily enough for the intimate smile, but after all I was there on business, I was not dragging a heavy date and yearning for a secluded table where we could rub knees in private.

  “Lorenzo around?” I said.

  “Of course, of course,” said the maître d’. He escorted me to the gallery and seated me at a corner table, alone. “I shall tell him,” he said. “He shall be with you shortly, I am sure.”

  And shortly, Lorenzo made his appearance, plump in a fastidious dinner jacket, smiling and affable. He was short, fat, smooth and bald, clear gray eyes swimmingly magnified behind the thick lenses of black-rimmed, studious, straight-templed spectacles.

  “Ah, Mr. Chambers,” he said in a voice like the purr of a cream-fed cat. “Welcome, always welcome.” He sat, sighingly, opposite me. “Something to eat? Are you hungry?” He had a round, moon-like face; the fat of an epicure’s jowls quivered as he spoke.

  “Thanks, Lorenzo,” I said. “I’m not hungry.”

  “A little refreshment?” he inquired.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m on the wagon.”

  “Mind if I partake? Or would it disturb your wagon?”

  “Not at all, Lorenzo. Drink, and be happy.”

  He waved a pudgy hand at a waiter. “A split of champagne,” he said. “Quickly, please. Just one glass. And a tray of hors d’oeuvres.”

  The champagne appeared. The tray appeared.

 
Lorenzo sipped and nibbled. I smoked.

  “I hope,” Lorenzo said, tapping a napkin to his lips, “that I am about to earn some money. You always look nervous when you have to pay money — you’re so accustomed to raking it in.”

  “I look nervous?” I said.

  He giggled. “Maybe it’s the effects of the wagon?”

  “It is not the wagon,” I said.

  “Then I am breathless in anticipation,” he said, and the magnified eyes glittered behind the spectacles. “I hope it’s big.”

  “Not too,” I said.

  “That’s what all my customers say — but, of course, since it is their money, they’re prejudiced. I’m prejudiced too, I suppose, but let me be the judge. What is it, Mr. Chambers?”

  “Steve Pedi, Mousie Lawrence, Kiddy Malone.”

  “Together,” he said, “or separate?”

  “Pedi is separate. Mousie and Kiddy are together.”

  “Which is as it should be,” he said. “On one category, you’re going to save money.”

  “Which category?”

  “Pedi,” he said.

  “Why?” I said.

  “Because what I have to offer on Pedi isn’t worth any money.”

  “Will you offer it, please?”

  “With pleasure,” he said. He sipped champagne. He patted the napkin against his lips. Then he clasped his hands over his stomach. “Stephan Burton Pedi owns a ballroom called the Nirvana. He bought the joint about ten years ago, changed its name to Nirvana, but back then, he didn’t operate it himself. He had connections in California, Canada, Florida, and France — some kind of business connections. He’d come in, now and then, and look things over at the Nirvana, but he only took over active operation during the latter part of this past year.”

  “What kind of business connections?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” Lorenzo said. “He’s a very shrewd guy, a very smart apple, and he sits very strong with some of the best people.”

  “By the best people, I take it, you mean the worst people.”

  He shrugged, smiled. “Semantics, a matter of semantics.” His hands came off his stomach and he drummed fingers on the table. “He has a couple of relatives who are real big in the organizations. He’s fixed tiptop in the connections department. People are afraid of him, the kind of guys who’re usually not afraid of anybody. He has a violent temper, and when that gets the better of him, he can be an awfully dangerous man. He’s a good guy to stay away from, if you want my advice.”