Max Collins - Ask Not

“I didn’t know about that. She didn’t mention it.”

“Well, Nate, the key thing is, the Customs folks say the names she gave ’em were all known for criminal narcotics activity. And that Rose’s story remained consistent with no discrepancies.”

“Thank you, Clint. I appreciate this.”

“It might be a good lead into the Kennedy killing.”

“Yeah, if anybody was investigating it.”

“Aren’t you, Nate?”

“Don’t spread it around. Listen, Clint, you said the Rangers keep tabs on Mac Wallace.”

“Well, this Ranger does.”

“He’s checked out of the Adolphus, you know.”

“I do know. Early this week. What you may not know is he’s back in California, at his day job for Ling in Anaheim. Home of Disneyland?”

I had a sudden flash of following Wallace into the “It’s a Small World” boat ride and drowning him.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll have my A-1 people out there confirm that.”

Right now the Bill Black Combo was playing their big hit, “White Silver Sands,” inspiring Flo to drag me out on the little dance floor to Twist to it. The crowd was old enough that in the subdued club lighting I could get away with it. You might consider it just plain sad that a man zeroing in sixty would make a fool out of himself that way, but it made my spine pop and saved me a trip to the chiropractor.

We were on the dance floor when Janet AKA Jada came in — I’d asked her to join us after her last set at the Colony. She had left her stage makeup on and wore a lime-green fringed go-go dress that barely covered what Jack Ruby used to turn the lights down to conceal.

Seeing me doing the Twist made her laugh giddily, and who could blame her? She joined us on the dance floor (to “Don’t Be Cruel”) and we were a threesome, if not exactly like the one Rose Cheramie made with those two Cubans. Whether any of this crowd knew she was the famous/infamous Jada of the Carousel, I couldn’t tell you.

But when she started to go to town, smiling big, eyes flashing, unleashing tendrils from the tower of red hair, the rippling fringe going a hundred miles an hour, the other dancers (including Flo and me) simply gave up and gathered around, clapping to the band’s infectious beat and smiling just as big as Janet.

When the combo started in on “Harlem Nocturne,” nice and easy and jazzy, Janet latched on to me for a slow dance, and Flo — with a funny little smile — graciously capitulated, heading back to the booth.

With her curvy body plastered to me, Janet buried her face in my neck. “Why don’t you come home with me tonight?”

“It’d be rude.”

“I can’t believe you’d rather fuck that skinny bitch than me.” She ground herself into my groin. Soon she murmured into my ear, “ Hello there. I remember you ...”

“First of all,” I whispered, “she’s not a bitch. She’s a lovely woman, and she isn’t skinny. She’s got a nice figure.”

“As nice as mine?”

“And second, I’m not fucking her. I’m working for her as an investigator. You know that.”

“You’ve fucked her before, though, right?”

“This is a pretty swanky club for that kind of talk.”

“I thought so.”

We moved in a little circle on the crowded dance floor, smoke floating like fog, or was that steam?

“Anyway,” I managed, “we aren’t an item, you and me. You can’t be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous in general, Heller.”

“Oh?”

“I’m just jealous tonight...”

Adjusting my trousers as I came down off the slightly elevated dance floor, glad for the subdued lighting, I let Janet lead me by one hand to the booth, where I slid in beside Flo, and Janet slid in after me. In four decades as a private eye, I’d never been so pleasantly surrounded.

We chatted. The band was loud but not deafening, and we were toward the rear. Janet asked how the investigation was going, we said fine, Flo thanked her for her help lining up the other Carousel girls, that kind of thing. Janet reported a good house this evening for both shows at the Colony and that Beverly Oliver, back on the bill, got a nice reception.

But we were having to raise our voices somewhat to be heard, and I suggested we go outside and find a quiet place to talk.

The pool — where I was pleased to see no corpse floating — was a circular affair that fed a little waterfall that emptied into a smaller pool, the two levels nestling in an angle of the building adjacent to a natural ravine. The terraced area overlooked a city park; the night was warm with no humidity, the sky a Maxfield Parrish blue with a scattering of stars, as if Mrs. Marcus’s stolen jewels had been cast there carelessly. The muffled sound of Bill Black playing their hit “Smokie” provided background music, and somewhere in the night a dog barked, but not keeping time. We found a trio of white deck-style chairs and had this little patch of Texas heaven to ourselves.

Flo seemed somewhat confused, having no idea why I’d want to talk to Janet about anything, while Janet just seemed pleased by the attention.

“Something occurred to me just the other day,” I said to the exotic dancer, “that should have much sooner.”

“Oh?”

“Mac Wallace’s presence all those evenings at the Colony Club may not have been innocent.”

Janet laughed once. “Nothing is innocent about Mac Wallace.”

“That’s good to keep in mind. When I arrived in Dallas, I was looking at Wallace in terms of suspicious deaths related to the Billie Sol Estes scandal.”

Janet nodded. “Helping suicides along.”

“Right. But as you know, Flo and I have been looking at the assassination, looking hard. And it’s a crime littered with dead witnesses. Many of them have died the same kind of suspicious deaths as those tied to the Billie Sol Estes case.”

Flo, getting it just a beat before Janet, said, “Wallace may be responsible.”

“I doubt there’s one person responsible. I believe it’s a kind of a cleanup crew.” I turned to Janet. “And it’s possible that Wallace was at the Colony Club to watch you.”

Her small sneer was big with self-confidence. “ All the men who come to the Colony Club are there to watch me.”

“Not that kind of watch. The keeping tabs kind. He may have been stalking you. Getting your patterns down.”

The smile disappeared. “Am I in danger, Nate?”

“You may be. Wallace isn’t in Dallas right now, but again... others on this cleanup crew may well be. Do you own a gun?”

She nodded. “A little .22. Should I carry it?”

“You should. Don’t leave the club at night alone. Don’t put yourself at risk. What’s your upcoming schedule?”

“Tomorrow night I’m wrapping up the engagement at the Colony. I’m off to New Orleans for two weeks.”

“The Sho-Bar?”

She nodded.

“That’s a Marcello place,” I said, more to myself than them.

“One of them,” Janet said. “Carlos isn’t there a lot, but I know him.”

“Are you friendly?”

“As far as it goes.”

“If you see him, make nice.”

“How nice? Sex nice?”

“That’s up to you and your conscience, but I would suggest you let him know, without saying anything directly, that you can be trusted. That you are discreet.”

Janet’s eyes flashed wide. “Discreet? What about talking to you and Miss Kilgore the other day?”

Flo, picking right up, said, “Your name won’t be used. You’ll be a reliable source close to the Dallas club scene. That’s a very common journalistic practice.”

“Okay,” Janet said. She sighed. Nodded. “Okay... Listen, Nate, suddenly I’m not in the mood for drinking and dancing. Walk me out to my car, would you? I’d feel safer.”