Dial Me for Murder

Chapter 28

FROM THE MOMENT HE SAW ME APPEAR IN THE crowd and start working my way to the front, Corona glowered at me and sang louder. His angular, clean-shaven face turned hard, and his lean, muscular body grew tight with tension. Standing poised in the spotlight in his sleek black tuxedo, he looked like a panther preparing to pounce. Then-when I finally made it to the table and sat down next to Abby-he did pounce. He snatched the microphone off its stand and bounded over to us, aiming the words of his song, like bullets, at the target of my blushing face.

“So open up your heart and let this fool rush in,” he bellowed, making the final line of the ballad sound more like a fierce command than the tender appeal the lyricist had surely intended. Then he shot me another creepy sneer, strutted back to the center of the dance floor, and-as the spotlights began to spin and the band brought the song to a climactic close-took an angry bow.

The audience went wild. (Either Corona ’s forceful voice and tough demeanor turned them on, or they got a kick out of watching me squirm.) The men whistled, the women squealed, and everybody clapped like crazy. Some people jumped to their feet and shouted, “Bravo!” I, on the other hand, sat quiet as a mouse in my chair, ducking the swirling spotlights and staring down at the white tablecloth, wishing I could crawl under it.

“Where the hell were you?” Abby cried, shouting in my ear to be heard over the crowd. “You missed Corona ’s entrance and most of his opening number! How could you do that? Don’t you remember what Sabrina said about-”

“Hush!” I shouted back at her. “Something happened in the ladies’ room and I couldn’t leave. I’ll tell you about it later.”

She gave me a snotty look and then signaled our waiter to bring us two more champagne cocktails.

While Corona was taking a few more bows and basking in the glow of his standing ovation, I snuck a quick peek at the mezzanine to see if Manhattan ’s deceitful district attorney was really there.

He was.

Sitting tall and proud at a choice table near the railing with his beautiful and elegantly dressed young wife, Sam Hogarth looked as if he were posing for an official courthouse photo-or, more precisely, a presidential portrait destined to hang on a wall in the White House. His wavy gray hair gleamed silver in the revolving lights, and his wide, toothy grin was so dazzling the glare hurt my eyes. I turned away to avoid serious ocular damage.

When the applause died down, Corona fired me another disapproving frown, then spun around and snapped his fingers at the band. They played the intro to one of his more current hits, “Hearts on Fire,” and-without a nod or a word to the audience or me (thank God)-he launched into the song.

I couldn’t put it off any longer. It was time to pay the piper. Knowing tonight might be the only chance I’d ever get to interview Corona, I had to do whatever I could to get back in his good graces. I hiked up my skirt, crossed my legs in plain sight, leaned low over the table, and-following Sabrina’s direction- showed Corona as much cleavage as was humanly possible (for me, I mean). Then I took a deep breath, batted my lashes like an idiot, and gave the cruel crooner my undivided attention for the rest of the show. I didn’t once avert my eyes, or smoke a cigarette, or say a word to Abby. And at the end of every song I whooped and shimmied and clapped till I thought my hands would fall off.

I was dying to drink my cocktail, but I didn’t dare. Partly because of Sabrina’s caution, but mostly because I was so repulsed by Corona and the sinister circumstances (and by my own sickeningly subservient behavior), I felt another sip of Copa champagne would make me puke.

WHEN THE ORDEAL WAS FINALLY OVER-WHEN Corona had left the stage, and the band had stopped playing, and the spotlights had stopped spinning, and the audience had stopped applauding-a huge gorilla in a tuxedo appeared at our table and introduced himself as Little Pete, Tony Corona’s main man.

“Tony wants youse to come back to his dressin’ room now,” he said, running his hairy hand down the front of his white pleated shirt, which was stretched so tight across his bulging belly I thought the onyx studs would pop off, blast through the air, and land like bits of shrapnel in my wig. “C’mon, I’ll show youse the way.”

Abby was on her feet in a flash. She couldn’t wait to go backstage and meet Corona in person. (If you haven’t already noticed, Abby goes crazy for celebrities. All celebrities. Even lechers and murder suspects.) I, on the other hand, was dragging my tail. As eager as I was to conduct a close study of Corona, I wasn’t cheered by the knowledge that he’d be conducting an even closer study of me.

Trailing Little Pete and Abby through a door tucked in an alcove near the bandstand, I straightened the girdle-like skirt of my dress and tried to strut instead of stagger. Ha! It was so crowded backstage, all I (or anybody else) could do was dodge, swerve, and waddle forward like a duck (or a mermaid in high heels). The narrow hall outside the dressing rooms was packed with beefy bodyguards in tuxedos, big-breasted Copa girls in various states of undress, restless musicians taking a cigarette break, and swanky VIPs waiting for an audience with the pope-I mean, Corona.

As Little Pete led us down the hall and up to the front of the line of people outside Corona ’s dressing room, I spotted a couple of familiar faces. Comedian George Gobel was there, looking cute in his red bow tie and bristly buzz cut, and just a few feet up the line, in a yellow chiffon dress and a sable stole, stood Ann Sothern, the smart, wisecracking star of the Private Secretary TV series (which, due to its amusing focus on the plight of single working women, was one of my favorites).

Abby recognized the two stars before I did. She was right in front of me, so I saw her head snap in their direction as we waddled by, but-wonder of wonders!-she didn’t squeal, or stop dead in her tracks, or even ask them for their autographs. She was calm, cool, and collected, which was a heck of a lot more than I could say for myself. If the lurch in my walk, and the sweat under my wig, and the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach were any indication, I was-even without the second champagne cocktail-about to throw up.

Little Pete knocked on the door of Corona ’s dressing room, then opened it and stuck his head inside. “I got the dames here, boss,” I heard him say. “You wanna see ’em now?”

“Yeah,” Corona answered, in a loud, spiteful tone that was audible to everyone in the near vicinity. “Bring ’ em in. Then get me another bottle of bourbon from the bar. This one’s dead.”

Little Pete opened the door wider and-ignoring the impatient groans and glares of those at the front of the line-ushered us inside. (Moses couldn’t hold a candle to Abby and me. High-priced call girls-even fake ones-can part the waters in a New York minute.)

Corona was slouching indolently in a leather swivel chair on the far side of the small dressing room. His head was lolling against the backrest and one leg was flung wide over an arm of the chair. His jacket was lying in a heap on the makeup table, and his untied black bow tie was hanging down the front of his open-collared dress shirt. His dark brown hair was damp and disheveled, his smile was cold and crooked, and as he watched me and Abby enter his dimly lit lair, his big brown eyes turned small and mean. He didn’t stand up, or say hello, or offer us a seat on the black leather couch against the wall.

“Anything else, boss?” Little Pete asked, heaving his huge body forward, nabbing the empty bourbon bottle off the makeup table, and then huffing his way back to the door.

“A pack of weeds and a bucket of ice,” Corona said, still squinting at Abby and me, sizing us up as if we were horses (or slaves) on the auction block. “And two more glasses,” he added as an afterthought.

“You got it,” Little Pete grunted, turning to leave.

“Hold on a minute,” Corona said. “What’s the scene out in the hall? Anybody waiting to see me?”

“Sure, boss. Lotsa people, like always.”

“Any big shots?”

“Nah, just Georgie Gobel and some TV actress. The rest ain’t nothin’ to honk about.”

“What about Hogarth?”

“He’s still up in the mezz with the wife. They’re havin’ dinner. Said he’d see ya later.”

“Then you can tell everybody else to scram,” Corona grumbled, swinging his leg off the arm of the chair, leaning forward, and raking his fingers through his hair. “I’m not in the mood for visitors and ass-kissers. Tell ’em I’m not feelin’ too good and I gotta rest up for the next show.”

“Okay, boss.” Little Pete nodded and reached for the door-knob.

“One more thing,” Corona said, looking toward the ceiling and rubbing the back of his neck. “Did that dick come back tonight? The rat who’s been sittin’ lookout at the bar all week? He thinks he’s undercover, but he’s not. The bartender made him right off. Said his name is Street and he’s a hotshot in Homicide.”

Little Pete let out a booming laugh. “Yeah, I know the rat you mean. Buys one rye and ginger and don’t even drink it. What a tip-off. Don’t he know any better’n that?”

Corona didn’t laugh or even smile. He jumped to his feet and started pacing, like a caged animal, around the tiny room. “So what’s the story?” he growled. “Is Street out there again tonight? Because if he is, I want you to get rid of him. Once and for all. I’m sick of looking at his ugly mug.”

“No, boss, he ain’t here yet. He usually don’t show up till after the second show.”

“Well, if he does come in, lemme know right away.” Corona continued his feverish pacing, not looking at Abby or me, but brushing so close to us I could feel the heat coming off his body.

“Sure thing,” Little Pete said. “You want that bottle of bourbon now?”

Corona came to a sudden standstill, ripped off his loosened bow tie, and tossed it on top of his rumpled jacket. “Yeah,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt all the way down to his black satin cummerbund, “and don’t forget the ice.”