Jay Carroll - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 4, August 1957 (British Edition)

“Oh — it’s you — the great private eye! Working on a hot case, Investigator?”

“I don’t know how hot it is, but at least it’s a case.” I perched on the edge of the desk, pulled out a Lucky and salvaged a kitchen match that was propped behind Tommy’s left ear. “You look all done in. How about a beer, a ham sandwich and a little information?”

Tommy yawned again, then pushed his hat back on his head. “I was just catching my evening nap — can’t do it at home with three kids around.” He grinned and removed a limp trench coat from the coat-rack. “The beer sounds good, but let’s make it a steak at Joe’s around the corner. I need nourishment this evening. And I’ll try to oblige with the information.”

Joe’s was steamy with the fragrance of stale beer and fried onions. There was a massive bar running the length of the room, and red checkered cloths on the tables. A typical, pleasant hangout for the gentlemen of the press — the steaks were good and rare, and the beer was frosty cold.

“Now — what’s this information you want?”

“What do you know about Anthony Lorio’s wife?”

He whistled. “Boy, you are working on a hot case! That wench is pure, unadulterated TNT.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lorio married her about two years ago. She was a singer in his club. Came here from Detroit, or some place up north. She’s some dish to see — thirty-six-inch bust, narrow waist, undulating hips — all on a strictly high-class plane, of course.” He gulped down the rest of his beer.

“What does she look like from the neck up?”

“She’s beautiful! But with a torso like she’s got, who cares?” He pulled himself up from the slouch he’d been assuming, and leaned across the table. “Say, what is this, Cory? If you’ve got any ideas, you’d better get rid of them fast! Lorio’s crazy about that girl, and he’s jealous as hell. He likes to keep Anita around to dress the club, but you just look — mustn’t touch. That guy plays for keeps.”

“I’ve got to talk to her, Tommy — alone.”

“Boy, you’re askin’ for it.” He grinned. “All I can say is, you sure make yours the hard way.”

“This is strictly business.” I glanced at my watch, picked up the check, and tossed a dollar bill on the table. When Tommy made a grab for the check, I said, “This is on me, Tommy. The information was worth it.”

“Maybe I should have kept my big mouth shut. I’d hate to see that beautiful kisser of yours get all uglied up.” He picked up hat and trench coat and followed me to the cashier’s stand.

“Tell you what I’ll do, Cory,” Tommy said. “I’ll be going to the Peacock Club , myself, a little later on. If you want to go on out and hang around the bar, when I get there I’ll see if I can wangle an introduction for you. Then, if you should manage to engage her in a conversation, it’ll all be on the up and up.”

“A guy can’t ask for better co-operation than that. I’ll take you up on it, Tommy.”

“You got your car here?”

“I came in a cab. I’ll go on out to my place, pick up my car and drive on out.”

“Okay, Sport — see you later. Stay out of trouble till I show.”

The Peacock Club was an old plantation building of the type of architecture known in New Orleans as Steamboat Gothic. It was northwest of the city, near the river. The spacious grounds, which were once the site of formal gardens in the front and slave quarters in the rear, had been converted into a parking lot, where patrons could park in shadowy obscurity under the moss-draped liveoaks.

Twin stairways, resembling those of the gaudy Mississippi riverboats, led to the gallery fronting the main floor, where the bar and dining room were located. The entire second floor consisted of the gambling rooms and another bar, and were reachable only after a careful screening by some of Lorio’s watchdogs. The Lorio’s apartment, I decided, must be on the third floor.

I parked my Mercury convertible next to a long black Cadillac and made my way to the bar. I had been to the Peacock Club a time or two, back in the more lucrative postwar days, when I had come home with a Captain’s mustering-out pay and a yen to have a good time and forget about the war.

It hadn’t changed. It was still plushy and dimly-lighted, with a huge horseshoe mahogany bar and ornate barstools, in keeping with the flavour of the place.

I ordered a rye and soda, and sat down to wait for Tommy. I felt conspicuous. It was early, and the place was thinly populated. I hoped Lorio was busy upstairs, some place. I had a feeling he wouldn’t like seeing me there, after I’d put in an appearance at the inquest.

Tommy came in about ten o’clock. I was on my third rye, and the place was filling up. He was still wearing the baggy tweeds he had had on earlier, and the battered trench coat hung limply over his arm.

“Come on — let’s circulate,” he said. “You won’t find what you’re looking for in here.”

I followed him across the crowded dining room, where a six-piece band was beating out a frantic mambo, to a broad carpeted stairway at the back.

He mumbled something to a tuxedo-clad gorilla who stood guard over the stairs, then turned to me and said, “You wait at that table there in the corner. I’ll be back.”

I sat down at the table, ordered another rye from the waiter who materialised at my elbow and watched the dancers on the crowded floor. Most of them could have stood a few trips to Arthur Murray’s. A few minutes later, Tommy was back. I all but gasped when I saw what he had with him.

Anita Lorio was a dish, all right. Her hair was silvery blonde, and it coiled smoothly over her shoulders. Her eyes, as nearly as I could tell, were green. He had described her from the neck down very accurately, and the whole enticing collection of curves and bulges was covered — if that’s the word for it — by a strapless black gown that glittered with sequins.

“This is Cory Andrews, an old pal of mine from Detroit,” he said. Then glibly to me, “Tony was busy, so I asked him if I could borrow Anita to throw out the red carpet.” He pulled out a chair for her, sat down and ordered brandy for her and a straight shot of Old Forrester for himself.

We tossed off some inconsequential conversation while Tommy tossed off his drink, and I watched Anita Lorio. She reminded me of one of those beautiful department store dummies. There was absolutely no expression on her face. It could have been boredom, it could have been stupidity, it could have been just plain shock.

Finally, Tommy said, “I’ve got to mingle and pick up some dirt for my column. See you later.”

I didn’t waste any time getting to the point. I said to the girl, “I’ve got something of yours I think you’d like to have back. I’ll sell it to you — for some information.”

The dead pan didn’t change. She toyed with her glass, took a dainty sip of the brandy and said, “I don’t think I know what you mean.”

“It’s bright and glittery, it cost about eight thousand bucks,” and it has an inscription on the back that says, “To Anita — with love.”

It wasn’t a sigh that passed through her body, it was more of a shudder. Her eyes looked almost black in the dim light. Finally she managed to say, “Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m a friend of Ralph Kingston’s. He didn’t steal that bracelet. You gave it to him.”

The dead pan was all gone — it had crumbled with fright. I had rung the bell on that last one.

I thought she was going to leap at me right across the table. “For goodness sake! Tell me where it is, so I can get it back. And don’t get yourself mixed up in this. It’s none of your business.”