Date: Tue, 9 Jun 1998 18:06:49 -0700 From: "J. Hall" Subject: Re: [WRITERS] INT:Goldman Pictures, How nice a lady can be.. Lareine emerged into the lobby, triumphant. She went straight to the bar. "I'll have a dry martini, extra olives." "Big winner?" the bartender asked. "The biggest." The door to the dressing rooms faced a framed Torreodor D ella Oro poster, handsomely lit by a little brass stancheon which provided the only illumination down the long brick hallway. Someone had pencilled a set of glasses on the matador once upon a time transforming him into Harold Lloyd with tight pants and a cow. We halted and Fleming held up a hand for silence. Since I hadn t said a word I checked the hallway for chatty stragglers. Just us. I shrugged and watched for Perry Como to come toddling by on his way to the eight o clock floorshow. Fleming dropped his voice to a Chesterfield exhalation. I had the eeling he couldn t whisper if he tried. Wait one, he commanded and slipped a thin card down the crack of the doorframe, leaned hard against it and turned the handle. Nothing happened. Fleming stared at the handle unhappily then shrugged and tried again. Up to this point I d been lost, one or two steps behind my guide, who d been whistling something that might have been Lili Bolero and making practiced turns past various prop handlers, costume schleppers and goldbricking bellboys. None of them gave us a second glance. I tried very hard not to think of Reinie. That didn t work either. The private doorway to her face, her eyes bright with ambition and greed in Tony s little playroom was as wide open as this stage door was locked. I tried to think happy thoughts. Gene Kelly always told me he conjured a picture of Leslie Caron wearing nothing but a fedora when he was nervous, which wasn t often enough for either of us. I ditched the fedora and thought of Reinie wearing nothing but a shoulder holster. Offstage, somewhere deep within the walls of the Altamira s Frontaine Showroom, an orchestra was blowing holes in Mahler, tuning up. It went perfectly with happy thoughts. Maybe Tony DeLauro and the assembled pistoleros of Miami were all upstairs eating pistachios and solving this weeks Jumble over weak tea, agreeing to hand everything back, terrible mistake and all that. But the black-lizard eyes of Costello and the way he d held Reinie Hinton close while slipping into that penthouse elevator ate through my little wishes like carbolic acid through stale newsprint. My stomach turned a little and the .38 DeLauro had palmed me when we d parted seemed to have all the impotent authority of a stop sign on the Harbor Freeway at rush hour. Fleming diddled with the doorknob a third time, cursing sharply, and I heard something catch with a metallic snick . I checked the hallway. Como was still AWOL. Probably backstage via a secret desceding lounge chair. Alright young James, Fleming smiled conspiratorially, you know your part. The lift to the comp rooms is to your right, through the wardrobe locker. I meant to ask you, Ian, I said as he pushed the door open slowly, who the hell is this James guy? We slid inside and walked to the edge of a black velvet drape strung across a gantry two stories up. Fleming peeked through and shut the curtain. Oh just some Johnny I m doing a little piece on in London. A bit of a terrier, I hope he has better luck with women than you. Fleming shot me a warm glance and clapped his hand over my shoulder. This is it, wait for my cue, then bring her down the back lift. You re about the same general size as Como, and I m sure he ll be glad to cooperate once I explain the situation properly. I d heard his plan, supposedly concocted on the spot while we listened to Tony DeLauro s imprecations and song of woe. At the time, it almost made sense, but then one of us was drunk and the other desperate. I wondered which was which, considering I was supposed to impersonate Perry Como, sneak through a dressing room full of showgirls, commandeer a private elevator to the high roller suite, overpower a few thugs, break into Frankie Costello s bedroom and blow his brains out, steal Reinie from half of the Miami family who presumably hadn t heard a thing and skedaddle with Tony DeLauro s markers. Fleming would keep Como busy, create a diversion for Lanksy s boys and provide a getaway vehicle of some kind. DeLauro would go drink somewhere and probably get laid. Somehow the division of labor in this scheme seemed a little lopsided and had said so. Surprisingly, both DeLauro and Fleming had agreed, but other than Fleming offering me the use of his rental car to sweeten the deal and DeLauro s handing me nothing but an encouraging look and my own pistol, I was still the one taking the biggest chances. Isn t my niece worth it? DeLauro asked. I thought about it. You better say yes, shamus. She s something alright, I said, and then nodded when DeLauro s eyes froze. Is she always this much fun, Tony? Apparently he had no idea she had him on the Joliet Express the first chance she got. He seemed to deflate and wiped his face with a silk hanky. She wasn t brought up right. God knows I tried to teach her how to be a lady, but my brother let her get too close to the business. She s my only blood. What can I do? I had no idea what he could do, but I didn t want to find out. I decided I had no choice but to jump in with both size nines. If everything went perfectly, I d be on Route 66 back to LA by midnight, and not in the back of a Las Vegas Coroner s panel truck with my eyes shot out. Even a perfect plan needs an extra touch. The blowing Costello s brains out had been an added attraction to the bill, personally inserted into the lineup sometime between the last mouthful of steak and the final slam of the elevator door, and I hadn t mentioned it to either of the other men. I figured it was compensation for a lot of things. Who knows, maybe I d even get away with it. Alright, Ian, I guess this is showtime, wish me luck. A drycleaning bag with a midnight blue tuxedo hung on a rack by the door with a yellow marking slip that identified it as Como s, just like he d said it would be. Fleming must have spent a lot of time cruising around music halls, for he seemed to know exactly where everything would be. I stripped off my suitcoat and slacks and struggled into it. Como was a little shorter than I thought, but Fleming nodded his approval. He took my old club tie and fastened Como s oversized satin one with ease. I pushed my hair down with both hands and sighed. It was a great funeral suit. Break a leg, as you Yanks say. We shook hands and both took deep breaths. Fleming pushed the curtain aside and we split up, his long steps taking him toward the stars s dressing rooms, mine taking me deep into a forest of racked headdresses. The Follies had been running at the Altamira for a year. Two bucks cover, and a one drink minimum. Tony had a healthy stake in the place and had obviously taken great pains to find prime livestock for the chorusline. The headdresses gave way to a sea of shimmering lame gowns on movable racks and I considered using those for cover until a six foot blonde wearing a set of garters, a smile and something that might once have been peacock feathers strategically glued onto her more valuable real estate appeared out of nowhere. It s about time! Her accent was Lower East Side. Her chassis was anything but lowered, though. I pretended I was Perry Como and pushed past her with a shrug, showing her an unlit Lucky and a sickly grin. Mr. Nonchalant taking a smoke break. Someone went Hmmmph! and it wasn t me, so I quickened my step. I could see a beaded curtain behind which twenty or so similar amazons were in various stages of undress, and at the end, an open freight elevator with a set of cast iron grillguards. Fleming s info was all too accurate. He must have been Perry Como a few times too. They never even looked up as I came in. Perry must be losing his charm. I wiggled a wave at them as I closed both grates and lifted the only lever in the elevator and wondered about the eyesight of showgirls. Maybe it was all that mascara. The elevator went up like a rocket, making a horrible racket. I unloosened the .38 and when it stoppedat the top floor I waited, counting to a hundred to give Fleming time to orchestrate his little circus downstairs. Carnival music echoed up the express shaft, drunken and laden with laughter. The opening comic. DeLauro had said the layout was simple. Three suites on the top floor: his, the furthest away, down a central hallway; a pair of guest suites flanking, one door each. The showgirl express would open into a maid's supply room next to the public lift. I pushed past a few mops and stacks of crisp linen sheets and stepped around a cart heaped with towels. Lansky's crew must be hell on bathing. DeLauro said he'd unlock his suite and leave it that way, just in case I needed someplace to hide, though it wouldn't be much of a blind should Costello and his goons come hunting. Lansky was on the north side, to the left. Costello and whoever else they'd brought for muscle on the right. I pulled the hammer back and started walking. Then stopped. Something was pounding like Donald Duck's bass drum. At first I thought it was my heart, then I realized it was coming through the walls to my right. Costello. A woman moaned and several men laughed heartily, as if Skelton himself was in there doing the mean widdle kid. I stopped, lit a cigarette to keep my hands from shaking and reached for doorhandle, a brass Moorish affair shaped like a charging leopard, and when the laughter erupted again, burst in drawing down on a Sylvania television set turned to Milton Berle, the volume deafening. Blue lights danced off a single face on a mottled velvet couch. A latinish type with a shotgun across his lap stared at me, unmoving. Berle pranced around like a drunken bear on the screen and the audience roared. I walked over to him not daring to raise my voice above the hilarity, barrel extended and pointing at his right eye. The two doors off the living room were shut and his expression never wavered. Berle must have been damned funny tonight, a lot more interesting than what I had in my hand. When I got a little closer I realized he wasn't staring at me, but at St. Peter's final judgement, and the shadows I'd taken for normal stardust were bloody splashes. Sweeping the room, I stepped back for a second and tried to reconstruct the struggle. His neck had nearly been severed by a razor, or something sharper, and his body propped back up. A slosh of black on the floor, smeared with someone's effort, showed where he'd first fallen. I took the shotgun away and checked it. Unfired. Remington riot piece. I jacked out a handful of shells then replaced them. The woman's cries came from the nearest bedroom and I listened. Whoever it was, it wasn't Reinie, the cries were ragged and shrill, but far too much Oklahoma for her. Eventually I heard Costello say a name, and the woman responded. Berle took a break for a Texaco commercial. My heart went back to normal speed and I dribbled ashes all over the rug, mixing with the Cuban's blood. The other bedroom door was slightly ajar and I froze, then poked the barrel of the Remington inside. It was clean, the bed fresh and tight. A briefcase sat on one of Tony's heavy gothic dressers and I rifled through it quickly then shut it. I'd never seen so much money in one place since the time I'd delivered a ransom for Garbo's yorkie. Every steamwhistle, siren and warning bell I'd ever had went off in my head. Set up. The smell of the dead man was getting stronger and Berle was into his closing goodnights. Reinie wasn't here. But I had something to bargain with now. Wherever she was. I grabbed the case and ran like hell to the maid's closet, panting. A deep shuddering klunk announced the lobby elevator had arrived outside and I could hear Lansky ordering someone to get his topcoat, he was gonna miss the goddamn floorshow if someone didn't get his topcoat sonofabitch Vegas airconditioning was like a meat locker hurry up we're gonna miss Como. A ripple of applause floated up the elevator shaft and I could hear what sounded like the Can-Can being played by a munchkin orchestra begin. Praying Lansky couldn't hear it, I slammed the handle down and began falling. Fleming was late. Whatever his diversion was, it hadn't happened yet. I walked past a line of dancers adjusting their feathers behind a secondary curtain and peeked out into the house. It was dark, smoky and full of salemen and their wives, all eyes fixed on a single spotlight where a florid man in a Sunday church suit was telling them about his various ex-wives. They laughed as one when he finished his act, the orchestra breaking into a Can-Can again. He pushed past me with a glare, sweat stains darkening his meaty armpits. "Tough crowd?" I asked, scanning the back tables as the lights came up briefly. "You know it brother," he replied. I saw Reinie sitting alone, a trio of oversized martini glasses at her table just as Lansky and six of his men entered from the side. "Don't I though," I sighed, and hoped Fleming had something on the order of a naval bombardment up his sleeve. I waited till the girls had started coming out and the little orchestra had begun to work it's way through "I Enjoy Being A Girl" before sneaking down a side stair to the house floor to a waiter's station in the gloom behind her. A woman with six layers of pearls over a lime green chiffon dress peered and me and then grinned and waved. Hi Perry. I waved back with my free hand. The other one held about a million dollars in a Samsonite leatherette case. Reinie was all smiles, bobbing to the music, but Lansky was coming up the aisle toward her table. He didn't seem to appreciate the music. She looked up into his face just as the crowd gasped. Then screamed. Then laughed. A flurry of peacock feathers blew off the stage as someone had turned on a wind machine and showgirls were scampering around trying to gather them up like kids chasing the greased pig at the county fair. I waited till his head swiveled around to see what the fuss was about and bent down, burrowing under the tablecloth. Reinie stiffened then kicked me hard. "Damn, Suzie, they's nekkid!" a man's voice boomed from somewhere and his date guffawed. I grabbed Reinie's ankle and tugged it softly. A hand reached down and yanked on my hair, drawing my head up into her lap. "Well it's about damn time," she said, and shook her head, smirking. "Is Lansky looking at you?" I whispered, hoping she could hear me over the ever increasing laughter. "He's picking up feathers," she whispered back. "Why?" "Because I have half the Teamster's pension fund under here and if we don't make it to the lobby in about five seconds, one of us is going to have a nice little trip to Cuba as his guest, that's why, and I'd rather not have it be you, if it's all the same." Reinie glanced at the doorway. Then at me. "Come on, then." She took my hand and began extracting me as the lights went totally off. "God, I can't take you anywhere." to be..continued..