Max Collins - Carnal Hours

He chuckled. Miss Schwartz was watching the stage, where Ina Mae and her Melodears were getting started again; this time they were doing “I’ll Never Smile Again,” which had couples clutching desperately out on the dance floor.

“Can I order you a drink?” he asked, gesturing with his own glass.

“No thanks. I shouldn’t stay away from Helen long.”

“Helen?”

“Sally. Helen’s her real name. We go back a ways.”

“Ah. That’s nice. Long-term relationships…they’re valuable. How was Nassau?”

The question hit me like the sucker punch it was.

“Pardon?” I managed.

For a guy with such a nice smile, he sure had cold hard dead eyes. “Nassau. I understand you were doing a job there.”

“I, uh…didn’t know it was common knowledge.”

“Miss Rand mentioned it. You wouldn’t have heard anything about the Sir Harry Oakes killing, would you?”

Another sucker punch that landed!

“Uh…why’s that, Mr. Lansky?” I asked, mind reeling, trying not to show the blow’s effects.

He squinted in thought. “Well, it’s just the Duke of Windsor is censoring all information out of the island, and if that fellow Christie hadn’t called some newspaper friend of his, and spilled the beans beforehand, nothing would have leaked out.”

One of the first people Christie had called, after finding Oakes, was Etienne Dupuch, publisher of the Nassau Tribune, both because he was a friend and because he and Sir Harry were supposed to meet him that morning. To look at those sheep grazing on the golf course….

And Dupuch had put some very basic facts about the crime on the wire before the government ban lowered.

“Actually,” I said, “I think that gag order was lifted a couple days ago. You probably know as much as I do, from just reading the papers.”

His smile was enigmatic; also, creepy as hell. “I doubt that. I understand you were doing a job for Sir Harry himself.”

How the hell did he know that? Would Helen have spilled that much? Why did Meyer Lansky care about Sir Harry Oakes? “I was, but it got cut short by the murder.”

He was nodding in interest, but his eyes were so damn expressionless. “Well, that’s really something. Isn’t that something Teddie?”

Miss Schwartz nodded, paying no attention.

“So-tell us what the papers haven’t. How exactly did Sir Harry Oakes die?”

Maybe Lansky was just curious-the press was all over the case, after all….

“It was kind of grisly, Mr. Lansky. I really don’t think it makes for suitable conversation over cocktails.”

He was nodding again. He didn’t press. “Certainly. I understand. I understand. At any rate, I just wanted to say hello. We have mutual friends, you know.”

“I’m sure we do.”

He reached over and patted my hand; his was cold. Like a dead man’s hand. “And I wanted to express my condolences to you over the loss of one of those mutual friends. I know you were close to Frank. And he thought highly of you.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He meant Frank Nitti. I’d done some favors for Capone’s successor, and he for me, and the mistaken notion had grown up that I was in the Outfit’s pocket. Sometimes that came in handy; sometimes it damn near got me killed.

And tonight it put me, uneasily, at Meyer Lansky’s table for a few minutes.

“This fellow de Marigny,” he said, shifting back suddenly to his favorite topic, “do you think he did it?”

“Maybe. There was no love lost between Sir Harry and him, and the Count’s wife stands to inherit millions.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Sounds like a murder motive to me. I understand the Miami police are handling the case.”

“If you want to call it that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” I said. Barker and Melchen were pals of his, for all I knew; better to keep my opinions to myself.

“Well,” he said, with a twitch of a smile, “I’ll let you get back to the lovely Miss Rand. You know, she hasn’t aged a day since the Streets of Paris.”

That was where Helen had danced at the Century of Progress.

“I’m afraid that’s more than I can say,” I said. I’d aged a year since sitting down. “Good evening, Miss Schwartz. Thanks for the hospitality, Mr. Lansky.”

“I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

“I hope so,” I lied.

The two potted palms looked at me, coldly, and I walked back toward our table as Lansky and Miss Schwartz headed out to dance to “Tangerine.”

I risked a look at the beautiful brunette, who stood and said, “Could I have a moment?”

I stopped. My tongue felt thick as those steaks I used to eat before the war. “Certainly.”

“I wondered if I might speak to you,” she said. Her voice was a rich alto; but she was young. Sophisticated as she looked, she couldn’t be much older than nineteen.

“Well…sure.”

Despite the strength of her eyes, she had a vulnerable look. “I wondered if you might join me.”

“I’m afraid I’m with someone….”

“I know. I meant, in my room.”

I mean, popular.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not believing my ears, “but I just can’t. I’m with someone….”

She pressed a slip of paper into my hand; hers was warm. The tips of her lovely, tapering fingers were painted the same blood red as her lipstick.

“Tomorrow morning, then,” she said. “Ten o’clock.”

And she picked up her purse and swept away from the table, disappearing into the hotel.

A tall drink of water. Nice shape on her. Someday Elizabeth Taylor was going to grow up and look almost that good….

“Well,” Helen said, just a little icily, “ you’re certainly popular tonight.”

“Helen,” I said, sitting down, “did you mention to Meyer Lansky that I just got in from Nassau?”

She was genuinely surprised. “Why, no. We didn’t talk about you at all. I’m sure you’re disappointed….”

“No. Worried.” I unfolded the slip of paper and had a look.

“Heller…what’s wrong? You turned white!”

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered.

“What?”

“I’ve got a date tomorrow morning.”

She laughed; blew smoke. “Well, I’m not surprised.”

“With Nancy Oakes de Marigny,” I said.

When I knocked on the door of the penthouse suite in the Biltmore’s central tower, the lush alto of Nancy Oakes de Marigny called, “It’s unlocked! Come in.”

Apparently the death of her father hadn’t made the Countess tighten up her personal security measures.

I stepped inside to discover, in the modern, pastel living room of the suite, Nancy de Marigny-slender and shapely in white tights and ballerina slippers-with her leg in the air, toes pointing right at me.

This was not a new way of waving hello she’d invented: she was doing a ballet workout. She had a hand against an over-stuffed peach-color chair on which she’d piled various thick phone books, using it for a support, in place of a rail. Her free arm arced gracefully in the air.

Without makeup, her hair pinned up carelessly, she was still a ravishing girl-and a girl is what she was: nineteen years old, a child, a woman. The body suit consisted of a white, bathing-suit-like portion that covered her torso, with her legs in white leotards. The outfit left her arms bare and little to the imagination.

“Hope you don’t mind if I continue my exercises,” she said. “If I miss a day, Miss Graham will tan my hide.”

“Miss Graham?”

She turned away from me, working the other leg. “Martha Graham. My ballet instructor. That’s why I’m summering in Maine.”

“I see.”

“But now I’m on my way to be where I belong: at my husband’s side.”