Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 37, No. 6, June 1992

Alectryon Slept by S. S. Rafferty

His name is Donald Jaffee; occupation, lieutenant, NYPD Homicide; avocation, to put me, Chick Kelly, in Slamsville for an eon or two. Time, about midnight on a hot, humid August Monday. Place, the back seat of an unmarked prowl parked in front of the saloon-cum-boite I own on Third Avenue.

It’s not that I’m inhospitable; I can’t invite him inside because the ASPCA is still looking for a deadly snake, or think they are. The snake is the least of my problems. I also have a dead man in the cellar Jaffee wants me to explain about.

“Look, Kelly, I’m not trying to hang something on you, but this is a damn peculiar business, so why don’t you shed some light?”

Him, I don’t trust. You, I do, so I’ll let you in on the whole thing. Besides, Jaffee isn’t shaking me. The most he can do is lock me up for raising chickens inside city limits.

A snake, a corpse, and a chicken — it sounds pretty nutty, I know, but it happened this way.

If I were irrational, unfairminded, and seeking a scapegoat, I would say the whole mess was Jack MacCarthy’s fault. But I’m none of those things — and it’s still Jack Mac’s fault.

Jack MacCarthy is my kitchen manager. Anyplace else in town, he’d be called a steward, but something strange happens to people once they come to work for Chick Kelly. They want titles. They want recognition. Jack Mac is supposed to be responsible for the purchase and inventory control of all the liquor and food that comes into the place and all the garbage that goes out. But that’s not enough for him. He wants to be a sommelier.

I looked up at him from behind the desk in the back office with a wide swath of incredulity on my face.

“What do I need a wine steward for? Maybe you’re going to serve Guido personally, huh?”

Guido LaSalle is my head chef. He likes titles, too. He also likes wine. Cheval Blanc ’49 at thirty-four dollars the bottle, to be exact. Guido pejoratively calls himself a grilliarde because he resents the fact that I insist on running a steak-and-chops menu. So Guido defers to me, but not without dreaming up some nutty European rule that since a grilliarde is working over hot coals all evening he is entitled to all the wine needed to replenish his loss of body fluid. I don’t know, folks, I’m content to be what I am — a comic who was smart enough to get off the club circuit and open my own place. Do I run around listing myself as a cafetier comique?

“Guido can get his own wine,” Jack MacCarthy said. “Chick, we’re missing the boat on not pushing wine. The markup is terrific. Look, all the swells that come in here, they’re saying to themselves, ‘Would I love a bottle of Pouilly Fume ’69 right now.’ Only all we’ve got on the wine list is Dom Perignon and some Mumms.”

“That’s chopped liver?”

“For champagne it’s fine, but what about the burgundies, the bordeaux? What’s fall without a new beaujolais?”

Next he’d be breaking into a song a la Chevalier. But I couldn’t just give him a flat “no” because Jack Mac thinks I’m the greatest thing since four-wheel brakes. I have no doubt that he knows good wine — he’s worked the best private clubs in town — but the thought of little Jack Mac, all five feet three of him, putting on a sommelier chain and rattling off vintages in fractured French was too ludicrous. However, I am not without tact.

“Look, Jack Mac, I appreciate that you want to up the income around here, but be practical. To stock a good cellar would take thousands of dollars, which I don’t have. Besides, the society crowd — like, say, Jay Porter Pembert — have their own private cellars that would make anything we could come up with look silly.”

All the wide grin on his face lacked was canary feathers. He leaned across the desk and gave me a mock sock on the jaw.

“Gotcha that time, champ,” he said, and went into what was obviously a well-rehearsed pitch. “Here’s the thing of it, Chick. We don’t have to stock a thing. We let Mr. Pembert and his friends bring in their own stock and keep it in our cellar. Ready for the beauty part?”

I wasn’t, but what the hell.

“The beauty part is that we collect a storage-and-corkage fee. The wine cellar’s half empty now, so it don’t cost you zip.”

Suddenly from the couch came a voice like a rising oracle who has spent two hundred years in the Bronx. Barry Kantrowitz, my former agent when I was on the road, and present partner, surfaced from a nap.

“It’s an idea with possibilities,” he yawned. Big deal. By Barry, the Edsel had possibilities.

“You left a call for nine P.M., sir,” I told him, “and it’s only eight thirty.”

“I mean it, Chick,” he said, sitting erect, rubbing his bald spot and paunch with either hand at the same time. His wife Sylvia should get the Croix de Guerre for facing that every morning. “Jack and Charlie’s have done it for years. It’s a good traffic-building gimmick.”

So they went to work on me. They even got Ling, my maitre d’ (by me the headwaiter), and Cuz, the head bartender, to help with the barrage. Two days later, I gave in, but not without some points for my side. First, no storage-or-cork-age fees. Second, no sommelier chain for Jack Mac. (Did you ever see a grown man cry?) Third, Jack Mac had to go to day classes in French at Berlitz.

I thought the last caveat would kill the whole idea. But he swallowed it, and we were in the wine cellar business — and eventually in deep trouble.

So there I was on a Saturday night, scouting for clients. My first nibble was from Digby Lawler, a southern gentleman who owns half of Virginia but gets bored with running “Daddy’s old place” and spends every other week in his pied-a-terre on Park Avenue.

Lawler thought it was a “mightah fine ideeah,” and so did Randy Brooks, who only owns one-quarter of New Jersey, but whose real estate has nice big manufacturing plants on them that turn out Brooks Products International. That’s a euphemism for fertilizer and other chemicals.

Both guys were at the bar talking about crop rotation, nitrates, and such when I mentioned the deal to them.

“In fact, Chick, Ah’d deem it a favoah,” my FFV says. “The storage space is limited at the apartment.” I’ll bet it is. Wall-to-wall broads.

“You know, Kelly, I might be interested in off-loading some of my lesser stock.”

We all took a gander at the speaker with the cigarette holder. There in the flesh was Niles Paine, who is aptly named. He is, in the neck and other anatomical areas. Paine is a professional dilettante. But he qualifies for pro status in that he writes a column on art for some la-de-da magazine and is a consultant up at the museum, so even if I don’t like him I can use him as a patron of my wine cellar. People like to follow those they believe to be arbiters of good taste.

“Well, men,” I said, “that’s great. Look, let’s go down and look at the facilities.”

We were just walking out of the bar lounge when someone poked me in the back. I turned to find Tossi Barbera standing there, smiling sheepishly.

“I couldn’t help overhearing you at the bar, Chick — about the private wine cellar you’re starting. Look, I’ll pay a thou up front to get in on the action.”

I tell you — once a poor boy, always a poor boy. Even though Tossi has made millions in importing olive oil and could buy and sell most people, he still acts like a downstairs maid around “society.” Tossi built his pile all on his own and didn’t need to back off from the likes of Lawler, who inherited every foot of land he owns from dubious ancestors, nor did he owe any deference to Randy Brooks. As for Niles Paine, Tossi spends in tips what that snob knocks down telling art collectors what’s in this season.

“Tossi, you don’t need any front money. If you’ve got wine, I’ve got the space.”

“Well, I got to level, Chick. I’m just getting into wine collecting. I got this guy who recommends to me, but I’d like to get close to those heavy hitters you’re signing up. You know, I could learn from them. I can see what they stock, and I can follow suit.”

“Sure. Come on, Tossi, before you run out and buy a polo pony and break your neck.”

Of course, I keep calling it the cellar, so you’re probably visualizing a musty old tomb with cobwebs and such. It’s really a finished basement with tiled decking. At the front end are the vegetable and meat reefers. Along the left wall are the shelves, for canned goods and staples. On the right wall is the liquor lockup, and at the back end is the walk-in wine cellar, which is thermostatically controlled. I’ve been down there twice in my life, but standing there looking at it then, I was thinking I had the swingingest bomb shelter in town.

I was showing my foursome the thickness of the wine cellar door when we all heard it at once. It was a weird sound, like a high chuckle.

“Better not be mice,” I told them, “not with all the money I pay out in exterminator fees. Now you can see, fellows, that there’s plenty of room in here for...”

“Yeawk, yeawk,” the sound came again.

“Sounds like someone heckling my act,” I joked it up.

“Sounds like a roostah to me, Chick old boy.”

We backed out of the wine cellar and started over toward the staples shelves. The “yeawks” were lower now, and hard to follow.

“Seem to be coming from over here,” Randy Brooks said, digging around on the third shelf from the floor. He pulled forward a square object covered with a blanket.

“Well, take it off, Randy,” Lawler encouraged.

Brooks pulled the covering away and jumped back, and we were treated to the loudest cacophony of yeawks yet. A chicken had its head up through a slot in the wooden cage, and it was madder than hell.

“I think the thing is in pain,” I told them. “It looks sick, too. The neck feathers are all shot.”

It must have been a heavy line because Digby Lawler was fit to bust a gut with laughter.

“Now, that’s what Ah call pretty sharp, Chick. Here he’s got himself a fine-looking fighting cock, and he plays Ignorant Annie. It’s okay, Chick, we’ll keep youah secret. Hell, Ah like to watch a good cockfight myself.”

“He sure is a beauty, Chick,” Randy said, going over to the cage. “Looks like an Irish Gilder.”

“Hell he is, boy,” Lawler corrected him through his laughter. “His daddy had to be a Dominique, if I ever saw one. Bet you turn a good dollah on that old boy, Chick. He looks meaner than spit on a hot griddle.”

“I don’t know, gentlemen,” Tossi Barbera said, giving the yawker the once over, “there’s a Chinese strain that looks something like that.”

This is unbelievable. “What are you guys, chickenologists or something?”

“I dropped a bundle or two at the old Club Gallistico in Havana before Castro took over,” Barbera tell us, “and they had Chinese strains that looked like this bird.”

“I believe Mr. Barbera is correct about its Chinese origins,” Niles Paine said with authority. “I know nothing of cock-fighting, but that rooster is found in Oriental paintings over and over again. There’s a lovely print from the Ming dynasty...”

While he’s giving the lecture, I headed for the wall phone. If you think the chicken was angry, you should have seen me. Some clown was turning my cellar into a chicken coop and making a turkey out of me in front of the customers. To paraphrase the gentleman from Virginia, I was madder than spit on two hot griddles.

I punched the intercom button marked “Kitchen.” A voice said “ ’Allo.”

“Hello yourself. Is Jack Mac there?”

“Who’s dis? Meester Chick?”

“Yeah, Julio, it’s me. Get MacCarthy down here.”

Julio Martinez goes silent for a moment and then he says, “You in de cellar, Meester Chick?”

“I’m on Line 5, aren’t I? Where’s MacCarthy?”

More silence. “Meester Chick, if you are in the cellar — you sound very enfadado, huh?”

“You bet your butt I’m angry. Come on, Julio, get MacCarthy!” Now I’ve got to explain to my own salad chef why I want to talk to my own kitchen manager!

“Perhaps, Meester Chick, you could tell me why you are so en...”

“Yeah, enfadado, muy, tres enfadado, damn it. What are you, Julio, the regional Torquemada? I want to ask Mr. MacCarthy if he’s planning to go into the fresher-than-fresh egg business. Now, get him, pronto!”

I don’t believe it! On the other end, I’m getting chuckles from this guy. “Ho ho, Meester Chick, fresh eggs! Ho ho. Don’t you know the rooster he don’ lay eggs, ho ho.”

“Julio, are you trying to tell me something? You know something about this blinking bird down here?”

“Sí, Meester Chick. I think I come down and ’splain.”

“Yeah. Great idea, Julio. You come down and ’splain.”

Niles Paine was still giving his lecture when I got back to the group.

“They go all the way back to Greek mythology, you know. The god Alectryon was ordered by Mars to guard the chamber where Mars was seducing Venus but Alectryon fell asleep, and Mars punished him by turning him into a cock that would eternally herald the sunrise.”

“He’s doing okay for himself right now, and it’s only twelve thirty,” I said, glaring at the rooster, who was arching his head and sending up another racket.

“They crow any time they feel like it, Chick,” Barbera tells me.

“Yes, I can believe that.” Professor Paine is in again. “In the Bible, the cock crowed...”

Between the damn rooster crowing and Paine slathering us with culture, I got a cross between the old Pathé news and Sunrise Semester going down in front of me.

Lawler took me by the arm and led me aside. “Chick,” he whispered, “this is one of the best setups Ah’ve ever seen. When do you have the faghts?”

“I don’t run cockfights, I run a gin mill. Don’t you know cockfighting is illegal in New York, Lawler?”

“And just about everywhere else, Chick, but that doesn’t stop the sport. Hell, these birds were born to faght.”

“Not in my cellar, they’re not. Look, fellows, I’m sorry about this. I have a suspicion this thing belongs to one of my people — who’s on his way down here by way of Staten Island from the length of time it’s taking.”

The ferry must have docked because the footfalls on the stairs brought Julio into view. Julio Martinez started with me three years ago as a busboy, and I promoted him to kitchen assistant. I liked the guy because he’s quick-smart. Now he’s my salad chef at three twenty a week. This is gratitude? This is what I get for taking in the poor, the tired, the homeless?

“ ’Alio, Meester Chick,” he said sheepishly. “I din’ think you ever came down here.”

“ ’Splain, Julio, fast and clean.”

“Well, Meester Chick—” he raised his hands and shrugged his shoulders “—I’m sorry if I make trouble. But you see, El Kelly Grande, he fight tonight and I don’ wanna go alla way home to get him ’cause the match is downtown.”

“El Kelly Grande!” I crowed louder than the rooster. “You named that buzzard after me?”

More sheepish smiles. “To show my gratitude. You give me a good job, good money, so when I buy el gallo I say I name him for you.”

Lawler was back splitting a gut again and so was Randy Brooks. Very funny. I haven’t minded laying a few eggs in my time, but having a chicken named after me is not my idea of affection.

“He’s a top cock,” Barbera said, putting his finger perilously close to El Kelly Grande’s beak. “I remember once in Cuba one of these birds fought a big snake, and damned if he didn’t win.”

“He’s one fighting machine, dat guy,” Julio proudly announced.

“How many hacks has he won?” Lawler asked, and Julio looked puzzled. Then his light bulb went on.

“Hacks? Oh, the matches, sí. You Americans have a funny way of talkin’. He wins ninety-nine matches so far.”

“With that record, he’s worth a small fortune at stud,” Lawler said with a low whistle.

“A chicken gets stud fees?” Paine finally doesn’t know something in this world.

“Hell, yes,” Lawler went on, “that old boy would produce a string of golden eggs. You must be doing pretty good on side bets, eh, Julio?”

My salad chef gave a slight grin.

“I do okay. Not as good as in the beginning when I could get better odds. Now he has the reputation, the fama.”

I’m thinking, ain’t life grand? I have put money into racehorses that had hearty appetites and slow legs. I’ve backed pugs who grew canvas mold on their backs. But here I give an immigrant a good job and he parlays it into a roll with a bird that lives on a handful of corn. I noticed a ten pound sack of chickenfeed on the shelf and bemoaned all the hay I had paid for.

“The only trouble is, you could maim your champion in a snap,” Randy Brooks said, fondling a mean-looking set of curved wires embedded in what looked like brass. “Suppose he gets killed?”

“Hispanics don’t fight the cocks to the death alla time.”

“Well, these are pretty sharp gaffs, Julio...”

“Oh, the postiza — the spurs. Those are just good luck charms. They are in my family for years. I hang them in his cage to keep in his mind that I can send him to death in an American match. Hispanics use plastic postiza. They can cut, kill sometimes, but it is rare.”

“Most humane.” Niles Paine studied the brass spurs with interest. “These would tear an opponent to shreds. You know, the Latin mind really understands the classic struggle for survival, and portrays it through beautiful symbology. The corrida de toros, las peleas de gallos. Take bull-leaping in ancient Greece—”

I cut him off with an invitation to all for drinks up in the bar. They all went ahead, leaving me and Julio alone. Excuse me, also with El Kelly Grande.

“I ought to wring two necks in this cellar, Julio, only his looks tougher. Get that thing out of here tonight before we all get pinched.”

I started up the stairs, then stopped and turned to him. “Why the hell did you name the bird after me, Julio? I’m a card-carrying coward.”

“No, Meester Chick, you are no manilo.” He gave me a curious wink. “I named him after you — how do I ’splain in English? — we have a saying, there are only two creatures in the world who are not sad after making love, the rooster and the human female.”

I turned and just kept climbing. I could have told him that we have a saying in English, but why kick a compliment in the teeth?

That was Saturday night, and since I close the place on Mondays during July and August, I opted for a long weekend. That was my first mistake. I took Jeepers to an estate party out on the Island and managed to get myself broiled medium rare in the sun. When we got back to the city around noon on Monday, I bade the world goodbye and locked myself in the pad. Jeepers wanted to play nursey, but I hate that action so I packed her off to a girlfriend’s for the night.

I finally fell asleep around seven o’clock after basting myself in white vinegar until I smelled like one of Julio’s tart salads. By ten, the phone was clanging me into painful consciousness. It was Barry. A very upset Barry.

“Chick, you’d better come down to the club right away.”

From the seriousness of his tone, I thought the joint must have burned down. (At least I hoped so. I’ve got a hell of a fire insurance policy.)

“What’s happening, Barry? I can hardly move with this sunburn.”

“It’ll look better if you come, Chick. Jaffee will only come and get you.”

“Jaffee? Homicide?”

“Joe Tooms, the night man, came in as usual around nine to get set up for tomorrow...”

“Barry, I know what Tooms’s job is! Who’s dead?”

“Julio. Get down here, will you, Chick? Jaffee is scaring the hell out of me.”

When I got to the club, Barry called to me from the back of Jaffee’s prowl, which was parked at the curb.

“Get in, Kelly,” Jaffee said and then proceeded to give me the score. It was a crazy tale. Tooms found Julio lying on the cellar floor around nine o’clock and called an ambulance. Julio was dead when they got to him.

“The kid’s an intern, but he knows what he’s talking about because he’s from Nevada and has seen death by snakebite before,” Jaffee said from the front seat. “The precinct people weren’t taking any chances and called the ASPCA to look for the snake — which they can’t find.”

While I had visions of a serpent slithering around my cellar, Jaffee went on to explain how Julio had two fang marks on his right hand and had probably died between seven and eight o’clock. Jaffee stopped his spiel when two men walked up to the car window. I recognized the shorter one as Dr. Mo Glickman, an assistant M.E. He introduced his companion as Dr. Draper, an ophiologist from the Bronx Zoo. Why anyone would want to spend his life fooling around with snakes is a mystery to me, but Draper seemed to know his stuff.

“Well, lieutenant,” he said, leaning in the front window, “it sounds crazy, but from the size and angle of the puncture I’d swear it was a cobra strike. I can’t imagine why the man handled one. Excuse me, but I want to give the ASPCA people a hand in there. They’re not experienced in this sort of work. We’ve covered the entire restaurant already, but there are a number of places it could coil up.”

That was just dandy to hear. I thought of what it would do to my business. Eating at Chick Kelly’s would be like something out of Gunga Din.

When Glickman and Draper walked away, Jaffee looked at Barry and me. “You two can start working on the lies you’re going to tell me.”

I gave him a squint. “I thought you handled homicides, Jaffee. This looks like an accident to me.”

“Sure, salad chefs all over town play with cobras. Something is fishy about this, Kelly, and anywhere you’re concerned, I’m interested.”

I ignored him. “Has anyone bothered to tell his wife, Barry?”

“I thought you’d want to do it.”

“Sure, all the dirty work is left to yours truly. Next you’ll want me to catch the snake.”

Jaffee jumped in again. “I’m going to see her, but I’ll take you up on the snake offer. Did this Martinez have any enemies on your staff?”

I told him no to that and thirty more questions about Julio, got out of the car, and watched him drive away.

“Chick,” Barry said, “I’m very confused. It’s nuts. A snake!”

“I can trap it in a way, Barry. The other night Tossi Barbera mentioned a snake versus a gamecock match, and maybe it gave Julio an idea.”

“Gamecock?”

I explained El Kelly Grande and the whole bit for him. He looked floored.

“What gets me is that none of the staff knew he had the rooster in the cellar.”

“I can dope that one for you, Chick. Julio is probably the only person who ever went into the cellar. Anytime one of the cooks wanted something, he was like a jack-in-the-box with ‘I get it.’ You know kitchen help, if they have an obliging gofer they take advantage. I’m thinking, though — if he was a big winner with the bird, maybe he got in wrong with the gamblers.”

“I’ll go you one better, Barry. He was putting poison on the rooster’s beak, and the thing pecked him on the hand.”

“Why would he put poison on the bird’s beak?”

“Maybe that’s how El Kelly Grande won ninety-nine fights. He’d peck his opponent, and it would drop dead from the poison and not the fighting. Only my theory is full of holes.”

“Why?”

“Jaffee never mentioned the rooster’s being in there, and he would have, believe me.”

The ASPCA man and Dr. Draper were coming out of the club — empty-handed.

“Damned if we can find it, Mr. Kelly. We’ve turned the place inside out.”

“Terrific. What do I do now? Close down until the thing gets hungry and rings for room service?”

“I’m beginning to question whether there ever was a snake. It could have been a sharp prong of some kind; but that would make it murder.”

“Yes, doc, that’s why Jaffee was nosing around. But just in case there is a snake in here, could you lend me a mongoose for a few days?”

By golly, he did it — two of them. I closed down the club for two days and gave them the run of the place. Dr. Draper finally came to the conclusion that, if there had been a snake, it had somehow gotten out of the building, or had been taken out by whoever brought it in. This brought Jaffee back into my young life with more questions than a loan department. I kept my mouth shut on several counts. One, I like making his life difficult; two, I learned some things at Julio’s wake that I wanted to keep to myself; three, I was doing a little detective work myself.

If Julio’s sendoff was typical of Hispanic wakes, they are all pretty grim affairs. I paid my respects to the distraught widow, sat among the mourners for a respectable ten minutes, and started to make tracks. She caught up with me as I was going down the funeral parlor stairs.

“Mr. Kelly,” she said, “may I have a word with you?”

She could have forty million words with me if she wanted them. If they ever cast Blood and Sand or The Mark of Zorro again, she’s down for the raven-haired beauty’s part. She had skin like a tree-ripened nectarine. Where she got the blue eyes from was probably a genetic mystery, but they sure went swell with the overall appearance.

“I’m Constanzia Della Verce, Julio’s sister-in-law. I’m looking after things because my sister is near collapse.”

“I’m sorry for your trouble,” I said, using mankind’s dumbest cliché. “Did my accountant get in touch—”

“Yes, it was most generous of you.”

“His employee insurance money should clear in a couple of days, and if there’s anything else I can do—”

“There is. I’d like to pick up the gamecock sometime in the next few days.”

I gave her a puzzled look.

“It’s still at your club, isn’t it, Mr. Kelly?”

“No, it’s not. What makes you think I have it?”

“Not you personally, but he always kept it there. My sister wouldn’t have it in the house.”

“That’s news to me, Constanzia, but—”

“Connie, please. My sister and I were born here.”

“Okay, Connie. I have a suspicion that Julio probably did house the bird in my cellar, but it wasn’t there when his body was found. I only saw it once in my life, and told him to get it out of there. Someone else must have been keeping it for him. Have you checked his friends?”

“He wouldn’t have trusted anyone with that animal. That’s why he hid it in your club. He told me so. There’s something else.” She hesitated and darted her eyes around the street. “Can we go someplace less public?”

I took her elbow and walked her across 110th Street to Third Avenue, where we found a little mastrador called Vinny’s. The jukebox was pouring out crazy salsa rhythms and I thought to myself as I followed Connie’s back to a booth that she could probably dance a mean foxy-trot hustle. I had VTNL as usual; she ordered coffee.

“Well, Connie?”

“If you say you don’t have the gamecock, I guess it complicates things.”

I asked how.

“Well, I can’t sell it, and ten thousand dollars would help my sister and her three kids a lot.”

“Someone offered ten G’s for the rooster?”

“Yes. After Julio was murdered.”

“The cops haven’t called it murder, Connie. Not yet.”

“That Lieutenant Jaffee is so dumb.”

I smiled appreciatively.

“Asking all sorts of questions about voodoo rites and snake handling. He’s crazy.”

“But you didn’t bother to tell him about the rooster, did you? I have an idea that Julio’s bird had a string of wins because he was putting poison on its beak, and—”

She laughed, tossing her head back to catch more air for the lusty expression of amazement. Then she stopped and leveled her blue eyes at me. “Poor gringo. Before any match, the referee always pours water over the cock’s beak and forces him to swallow. If poison has been used, the bird dies. Besides, if Julio had been pecked accidentally, where is the bird?”

She was right, of course — unless the rooster got out of the building the same way Jaffee’s mythical snake did. Even the cage was gone. In fact, I had found nothing except the ten pound bag of chicken chow which sparked my original suspicion that El Kelly Grande had been a permanent resident in the cellar.

“No,” she went on, “Julio was murdered for the cock, the money, or both.”

“Money?”

She rooted in her purse and came up with a small book that looked as if it could be used for addresses. When she showed it to me, I saw it had a different function — it was a record of winnings over a ten month period, amounting to over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

“That’s why I said nothing to the police. There’s a hundred and fifty thousand in illegal money somewhere, but I don’t know where. I went through all Julio’s things. No bankbook, no safety deposit key, no money.” Her voice took on a dejected tone. “Now you tell me the bird is gone, too. It leaves my sister with nothing. Why don’t you want to share, Mr. Kelly? Must you have it all?”

Her last question had the effect of a solidly placed kidney punch. This dame had maneuvered me.

“Look, Miss Della Verce, if you’re looking for a patsy, you just hummed the wrong tune. I don’t have the bloody bird or Julio’s profits. One thing I do have is a gold-plated alibi. I was lying on my belly with a sunburned back when Julio died. But why futz around? Let’s go down to Center Street and get a referee named Jaffee. He can pour water on both our faces, and we can see which of us has the poison on his tongue.”

Her neck muscles and veins went rigid, betraying some inner tension and maybe a possible eruption, which was the last thing I needed. Then the tide came back into her eyes and dampened her fight, but not her spirit.

“That stupid greenhorn!” she sobbed. “Lots of second generation boys my sister could have married, but she wanted this dumb canewhacker. Now he’s dead and she has an apartment full of kids — and someone else has the hundred and fifty thousand and a valuable gamecock.”

I handed her a paper napkin from the dispenser, and she blotted her tears. “Julio was always singing your praises like a god, so I thought you had something to do with it. He called the bird after you, he kept it at your place. It’s natural to come to conclusions.”

“Yeah, second generation conclusions, Connie. Greenhorns know how to trust people, it’s an old American custom. Now look, Connie. Look at me!” She did. “Julio was riding high with the bird. He probably had more enemies than he could count. Losers are like that. Whoever killed him obviously took the money and the bird. The cops could ask questions all over the barrio until they’re hoarse, but no one is going to tell them zip.”

“I know, Chick, I know that here.” Her hands went to the fullness of her breast. “There’s nothing now.”

“Maybe not. I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out why one of Julio’s enemies would take the bird. It would be recognized if it were put into a match, wouldn’t it?”

“Certainly.”

“Who offered to buy the bird? Anyone you know?”

“A man named Lawler, Digby Lawler. I have his phone number.”

I was telling myself that I had his number, period. It was dumb of me not to have hit on it sooner. If Julio hid the bird at the club, even from my staff people, then only five people knew where it had been — me, Lawler, Barbera, Randy Brooks, and Niles Paine. The bird had no value in the pits, but it did as a stud — Lawler had even remarked on it when we were in the cellar. But it was still nuts. A wealthy gentleman farmer doesn’t knock off a little guy like Julio over a chicken, or over a hundred fifty thousand dollars, which might have been stashed at the club. I told Connie to hang loose for a few days, left her back at the funeral parlor, and headed back to the club — to find Jaffee camped in my office. As I said, I’m playing detective, too, so he gets nothing from me. Does Macy’s tell Gimbels?

“How are we doing, lieutenant? Arrest the snake yet?”

“I think I may be looking at one, Kelly. Where were you between seven and ten o’clock Monday night?”

“Home with a sunburn, which is just fine now, thanks. Just a bit itchy.”

“And of course some broad will swear to it.”

I shrugged and sat behind the desk. He was trolling for something because Jaffee doesn’t waste time.

“You know, information is hard to come by in this town, especially in the barrio, but if you dig long enough—”

“Yeah, I hear you’re into voodoo.”

“No, funnyboy, I’m into chickens — gamecocks, to be exact. Seems you are, too.”

“I like mine broiled with lemon butter.”

“Keep joking. Maybe you’ll die laughing. Julio Martinez owned a fighting cock that seems to have disappeared. My information says you had a piece of his action — maybe all of it. The bird was named El Kelly Grande. A lot of money goes down at these fights, and Julio was racking up quite a string of victories. Maybe he was holding out on you. The bird was kept here.”

“Who told you that fairy tale?” I had a feeling Constanzia had decided not to hang loose after all.

“No one had to tell me. Cops catalogue things at a death scene, and one of the items was a ten pound bag of chicken corn, which I don’t see on your menu.”

“Now let me get the scenario straight, lieutenant. Successful restaurateur/entertainer wants to knock off alleged partner, so he lures the poor guy into his cellar, whips out his pet cobra, says, ‘Sic ’em, Rollo,’ then takes the chicken upstairs and broils it in butter and lemon and eats the evidence — maybe I even ate the snake. Sure, let’s go all the way.”

“That’s not bad. Kelly.”

I get nervous when he gets cute.

“There are only a few flaws. First, strike the ‘successful’ before ‘restaurateur.’ You’re up to your elbows in debt. Second, there never was a snake — only this.”

He reached down on the floor and took up a long two-tined serving fork. There are at least six of them in the kitchen.

“These are your fangs. The tines are dipped in snake venom.”

“Has that got venom on it? I mean, I wouldn’t want you to stick yourself.”

“No, you washed it clean enough, the same as you did with the glass you used to give Martinez the mickey. Autopsies are very thorough. You drugged him and then dreamed up this snake canard just to confuse the issue.”

“What’s on reel five, lieutenant? Your fantasy is weak so far.”

“That’s going to be my surprise ending, and I hope you don’t like it,” he said, getting to his feet.

“Let me know how it turns out.”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

When his fat back had disappeared from the doorway, Barry’s fat front took its place.

“That guy scares me,” he said as I thumbed through the phone book under the D’s. Dr. Robert Draper seemed to be one of the few municipal employees who actually lived in the city. I dialed his number.

“Oh yes, Mr. Kelly, how are you?”

“Swell, doctor. How are the mongeese?”

“Fine. I hear they enjoyed their stay.”

“Any time, doc. Maybe I’ll send them to camp next summer. Look, I have a personal interest in the Martinez death because he worked for me. Jaffee says that he wasn’t bitten by a snake, but was pricked with a sharp instrument dipped in venom. Where in hell would someone get snake venom in New York City?”

“At the zoo. We milk some of the reptiles for antivenom serum. We don’t produce it ourselves, however. It’s sold to chemical companies and some universities for research purposes.”

“Do you know who it’s sold to?”

“Well, offhand it’s hard to say. The records are at my office. I know Columbia takes some, and I think Princeton, but I’m not sure. No, wait, that’s a joint venture with the Brooks Labs in Camden.”

“Brooks International! I thought they made fertilizer and stuff like that.”

“They do, but they have a small medical research subsidiary. More window dressing for public relations purposes.”

I was wondering if Randy Brooks also used it for private relations purposes. “Why would some lab want to make anti-cobra venom?”

“Oh, your man was killed by rattlesnake venom. Didn’t Jaffee tell you?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with that man,” I said in mock desperation. “He doesn’t tell me anything. Thanks, doc. Love to all the gang in the Bronx.”

I hung up feeling pretty chipper. Things were beginning to jell for old Kell. Randy Brooks had access to the venom, and he knew about Julio’s prize bird. He also knew something about fighting cocks. But, just as in Lawler’s case, a motive was hard to figure. Both guys were loaded. Maybe El Kelly Grande was worth killing purely for ownership, like the guys who buy stolen paintings they can never show to anyone. For that matter, Old Digby could milk a rattler down on his plantation. I went out front to the bar for a nightcap — and got another surprise.

Tossi Barbera was nursing a brandy when I walked up to him.

“Hello, Tossi, you’re becoming a real regular around here.”

“Nice place, nice people. Actually, I wanted to see you, Chick. I read about that fellow’s death. A strange thing. A snake?”

“That’s what the police say.”

“I hear he’s got a family, too.”

“Yeah, a bunch of kids.”

“Maybe we could help.”

“Who’s we? I’m already helping.”

“Brooks and myself.” He leaned closer to my ear. “It’s kind of a secret, Chick, but Brooks has one of the fanciest cockpits you ever saw on his estate in Jersey. They bet very large numbers over there. All gentlemen, you understand.” Tossi the poor boy looking in. “After we all saw that bird the other night, I had a talk with Brooks, and we figured we’d offer this Julio guy twenty-five G’s for him. You know, we form a little combine, make a little money, and have a little fun.”

“Did he turn you down?”

“We never got to make the offer. We’d still like to have the bird, and we hoped you’d talk to the widow for us. It’s a good deal for them, Chick. Ten thousand cash and fifteen thousand dollars in Brooks Products International stock.”

“Right now the widow isn’t talking to anyone.”

“Well, see what you can do. We’ll even go a finder’s fee for you.”

“I thought I was the only one allowed finder’s fees,” a voice said over our shoulders. It was Niles Paine, cigarette holder and all.

“I thought you didn’t know anything about gamecocks,” I said.

“Oh, gamecocks. Heaven forbid! I thought you were talking about objets d’art. I didn’t mean to interrupt, gentlemen, but you called my office this afternoon, Mr. Barbera, and I thought—”

“Oh, yes. Randy Brooks tells me you did one hell of a job selecting paintings and sculpture for his plant’s lobbies and executive offices. I’d like you to do the same for my outfit.”

I drifted away from them to digest this new wrinkle. Now Barbera was in the picture, but he sounded legit, unless Brooks was using him. And while I was at it, why discount Paine, except that he wouldn’t know what to do with a rooster if he had it? It wouldn’t be arty to be seen at a cockfight, but he might have his eye on a finder’s fee.

I called Lawler’s apartment on Fifth Avenue and was told by the butler that he had gone down to Virginia for a few days. After ten lies and some fancy footwork, I found out that he had left town on the night of the murder — by car, which would be the best way to transport a chicken.

I went out into the street for a breath of fresh air and of course, it being Third Avenue in August, I got none. I leaned up against the building, smoked a cigarette, and watched the midnight traffic trying to make all the green lights from here to Mamaroneck.

A car pulled up to the curb and Jaffee’s ugly puss pushed itself out of the front passenger window. He motioned me over.

“Honest, officer—” I minced up to him “—I haven’t turned a trick all night.”

“Cut the comedy. You saved me the trouble of looking for you. Take a look in the back seat.”

I did so, not out of obedience, but curiosity. There, spread out on a tarp, was a smashed cage and the mortal remains of El Kelly Grande. Alectryon was copping the big sleep.

“Funny things you find in catch basins, Kelly, and this was in the one right around the corner. No gamecock involved, my eye. I knew you’d have to ditch it near here. You’d be pretty conspicuous walking around with it. It’s starting to build against you, Kelly. All I need is a few more threads.”

I talked across him to the driver, a dogrobber named Coogan. “Get this man to Bellevue pronto. The heat’s got him.” I turned and walked back into the club just as Paine and Barbera were leaving. Paine was rhapsodizing about how the only art for an olive oil company was Etruscan, which delighted rich-little-poor-boy Tossi. I felt sick, not because the damn bird was dead, but for Julio’s family, which was out of luck.

Unless!

Back in the office on the phone, I could hear the little boy’s voice yelling, “Aunt Connie!” and when she got on, she sounded sleepy.

“Chick, it’s late.”

“Maybe too late unless you listen to me. Who do you know who knows a lot about fighting cocks? I mean local birds.”

“My God, Chick, let me think. Well, my Uncle Coco, I guess.”

“Get him and bring him to me.”

“Are you crazy? He’s an old man! It’s what? Two thirty!”

“I’ll come to him then. And Connie, see if your sister has any pictures of the bird. It’s important.”

“I’ll call you back in ten minutes, Chick.”

Señor Coco Della Verce was one of the handsomest old gents I’ve ever seen. His hair and mustache were white as overly refined flour and played against his strong-boned mahogany face like counterpoint. I knew now where the blue eyes came from. We were sitting at a small table at the rear of a socidado, where the bond seemed to be card playing. He had a large glass of rum in front of him. Connie wore a simple white sleeveless dress that revealed light down on her arms — my nectarine had a little peach in her.

“Kelly,” her uncle said, scrutinizing me. “Once, long ago in the Argentine where we come from, there were many Irishmen.” Now I really knew where the blue eyes came from. “Nice people,” he said, “but drink too much.” He polished off the rum and signaled for more.

Connie had brought along a pack of color Polaroids of Julio and El Kelly Grande. Many were useless because the bird was either in Julio’s arms or in its cage, but one was a beauty, with the bird in profile and his plumage fluffed. I slid it across to the old man and asked him a question.

“Of course there is a cock somewhere that looks like El Grande, but to fight like him? Never. What a heart, what spirit. That, my young Irish, cannot be replaced.”

“Tío, Mr. Kelly is second generation. He is American.”

“Ah, this one—” he chided her with a forefinger “—with generations she talks. She will be her own last generation with the dar calabazas...”

Somehow my high school Spanish short-circuited, because it seemed he was talking about Connie handing out pumpkins.

The old man saw the confusion in my face.

“Dar calabazas. She hands a pumpkin to all suitors — she jilts them because they are not born here.”

“Tío!” The peachy nectarine blushed.

“I tell you, young Irish,” he went on, “she does not comprehend. Julio was a fine man. I knew his father and his father’s father. Did you know he was descended from the Conquistadors?”

“Yeah, Mr. Della Verce, that’s swell. All us Irish have a king or two knocking around in our pasts, too. But what about a double for the bird?”

Nothing comes cheap. But old Tío Coco knew of a farm in Texas that could help. That meant a round-trip ticket, which I considered an investment. So the next day, Señor Della Verce was airborne, with Connie riding shotgun to make sure the rum didn’t deter him.

She called from El Paso that night. “It’s remarkable, Chick, you’ll see. The damn thing could be El Kelly Grande’s twin. Same weight, same coloring, everything. Only it doesn’t fight too well, according to Tío Coco. He wants to keep looking.”

“Tell him no. Bring it back before the deal folds. These people only saw El Kelly Grande once. It’s the looks that count.”

“Chick,” she said after some hesitation, “I don’t like this. It’s fraud, you know.”

“Fraud, hell. I’m trying to trap a killer.”

“How, for God’s sake?”

“Because with the help of a guy called Cordova, I figured in the missing pieces, and all I need is that chicken. Come on, baby, fly back to Capistrano-on-the-Hudson.”

The invitations went out that night with no suspicions aroused, I was sure.

Every once in awhile, I toss a party for my friends in the private bar in back that I call the Pig Sty because a women’s libber once took me to court to integrate it. I lost, but somehow the ladies don’t favor the tangy conversation and stay away. I invited twenty guys, but the only four I was interested in were Barbera, Lawler, Brooks, and Paine. They had all been involved with the bird from the first. One of them was a murderer, and the other three were witnesses before the fact.

The “do” was set for Friday, and everyone accepted. By nine o’clock, everything was going down great. During the festivities, Barbera sidled up to me.

“I guess the deal for the bird is dead, huh, Chick?”

I gave him my best au contraire stare. “Hell, no. I’ve got a surprise for you, bubby.”

“The family agreed to sell?”

“Yep, but you and Brooks have some competition.”

“Who, for crying out loud?”

“Lawler’s in.”

“I’ll be damned! If you’re trying to bid it up, Chick, I’ll have to level with you. Lawler’s on his uppers, so don’t be fooled by all that country gentleman jazz. He’s a bum, believe me. Land poor, as they say.”

“Yeah, as they say. What do you really think the chicken is worth? Fifty G’s? Sixty G’s?”

“Chick—” he grinned like I could never believe a word he said “—no cock is worth that.”

“Hell he isn’t. I’ve done some research, Tossi. In the big pits, a bird can earn forty to fifty points a night, and you know it. It’s just that Julio had a Seabiscuit on his hands and played him in the bush leagues. You come on strong with the Havana stuff, so you know the action is big. And Lawler’s not the only bidder, so get your checkbook ready. There’s an old guy here from Argentina with lots of jack and also a syndicate from the barrio.”

“Chick, I think you’re making a mistake. Okay, you’re representing the family, but don’t ace yourself out of a nice fat fee. Look, I know Brooks will go along — the original deal plus six bills for you.”

“No deal, Tossi. May I introduce you to Señor Colome Manuel Della Verce.”

“Coco will do,” said my fake millionaire, who was, as they say in the theater, rising to the part.

About ten o’clock, I decided it was time to move, so I got Lawler, Barbera, Brooks, and Tio Coco together, along with a guy named Carlos, who was supposed to represent the barrio syndicate. I even asked Paine along. He wanted to know what was up.

“I’m auctioning off a chicken, and I need a witness to the deal.”

“How exciting.”

Five minutes later, we were all in the cellar, where Jack Mac had set up a small table as a bar. When everyone had a drink, I went to the center of the floor and went into action.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “we’ve got a bit of business here, and then we can enjoy ourselves. Four of you have put in bids for El Kelly Grande, and I’m happy to say that Julio’s family has agreed to an open auction. Connie!” She came out from behind the staples shelves carrying the cage I’d had built at a woodworking shop on 74th Street. Inside was a yawking facsimile of my namesake.

“What’s for openers, fellas?”

Digby Lawler sipped on a bourbon and said almost in-audibly, “Fifteen thousand.”

“I think you’re holding a stiff hand, my friend,” I told him and looked at Brooks and Barbera. Barbera bent his head to his new buddy’s whisper, looked up, and said, “Thirty G’s.”

Carlos had a haughty look on his face as he said, “I go sixty-five, cash.”

“Seventy-five,” Tío Coco said pompously. He was overplaying it, but doing beautifully.

Lawler shook his head and sneered. “Hell, I could have bought a piece of Secretariat for that.”

“So your checks are all on the table, Lawler?” I asked.

“Hell, Chick boy, that’s a nice bird, but he’s no eagle. I’ve never even seen the thing fight.”

“But you checked him out. You all have.”

“By reputation,” Lawler countered. “Can you guarantee he’s a winner?”

“I don’t have to guarantee a thing, Lawler, but your bolt is shot, so what’s to argue? How about it, Tossi? Seventy-five is the number.”

More whispers and then Randy Brooks said, “All right, one hundred. Seventy-five in stock.”

“I already have seventy-five in cash.”

“Look, Kelly, are you impugning the integrity of my company’s financial position? The stock will double in ten years.”

“He has a point, gentlemen. Can’t knock the stock. Going once, going twice.”

“Hold it, Kelly.” Lawler acted a little drunk. “I had a deal with the Martinez family.”

“All deals are off. Going thrice, and sold to the gentleman in the grey suit and stocks and bonds.”

Connie’s eyes were flashing as she opened the cage and took the bird out — then dropped him to the floor.

“Watch out!” Tossi Barbera cried. “He has spurs on!”

The cock arched his wings and started scampering around the cellar floor. Lawler and Brooks tried to stop him as I herded him into a corner near the liquor lockup. “Watch it, Paine,” I yelled as he picked up the bird, letting the spurs scratch his hand.

“Good God,” he screamed, “I could get blood poisoning!”

“You could get more than that, Niles — maybe go rigid.” I took the vial of venom that Dr. Draper got for me from my jacket pocket. Paine’s face went white. “Go ahead and play it out, Niles buddy. It’s just another ‘accident’ as far as I’m concerned.”

“Are you insane, Kelly? This is murder in front of witnesses!”

“Kelly, what’s going on?” Barbera shouted.

“You’re watching a snake die. Look at him. His eyes are already starey. Breath getting short, Niles buddy? That’s the way rattler venom works. But you should know.”

“Kelly, for God’s sake, get me to a hospital!”

“I can do better than that. I have the antidote, and this lady is a nurse. Tell these people why you killed Julio Martinez.”

He slumped against the food locker. “This is a frameup,” he bawled.

“To coin a phrase, Niles, poppycock. You got in touch with Julio somehow. He let you into the club. You got a mickey into him and gave him the rattler venom with a prick of some fork tines.”

“Kelly!” Brooks stepped forward. “I want no part in this. If this man is dying—”

“He’s dying all right, but he can save himself by talking now. He planned it well, Brooks, and you were his dupe. When Tossi told me he had decorated your manufacturing plants, that gave me an idea. He had access to the snake venom. That was the pin. You, Tossi, and Lawler — you had no motive. Rich guys don’t kill for a bunch of feathers. So that left Nilesy boy.”

“I know nothing of gamecocks, for the love of God! Please, Kelly!”

“I clock it for a few minutes more, Niles. You didn’t want the bird, buddy, you wanted something much more valuable — something you saw that first night down here. The only thing Jaffee didn’t find in the catch basin with the cage and the dead bird — the spurs.”

“The spurs!” That from everybody.

“Let me introduce Dr. Carlos Cordova of the Museum of Natural History, not the barrio syndicate. Tell ’em, doc.”

As he came forward, he put his hand in his pocket and took out the blowups of the Polaroids showing the spurs on the bird’s cage that I had made the day after Jaffee had found the cock and the cage. “There is no doubt that the spurs shown here date back to the time of the Conquistadors. The markings on them undoubtedly prove them to have been the property of Cortez himself—”

I looked at Paine’s startled face. “You shouldn’t have ditched the bird and cage so close to the club, Paine, otherwise I wouldn’t have put it all together. With the bird dead, it let Lawler, Barbera, and Brooks off the hook — they could only gain something if El Kelly Grande was alive. The only things missing were the spurs. The idea that Julio was killed for them sounded whacked out, until Dr. Cordova got a peek at the pictures. You spent some time examining them that night down here. Julio told us that they had been in his family for years. I can’t prove it, but I think you made Julio an offer and it made him suspicious of their worth. Whether you killed him for profit or from a desire to own a chunk of antiquity, I don’t know or care.”

He was holding his throat now. “All right! Give me the antitoxin, please! The spurs are at my apartment.” He slumped to the floor.

“Is he dead?” Lawler asked nervously.

“No,” I laughed, “he’s mickied. The show’s over, boys, but a baldheaded lieutenant will want statements.”

In the cab uptown, she snuggled into my shoulder.

“It’s wonderful, Chick. Dr. Cordova says the spurs are worth a fortune.”

“Yeah,” I answered sullenly.

“What’s the matter?”

“I never had a chicken named after me before. I’m sad. Also, I don’t know what happened to Julio’s winning profits.”

She cackled. I swear she cackled. “They’re not lost, Chick, see?” She reached into her purse and came out with a closed fist. When she opened it, I saw a handful of sparkle.

“Diamonds?”

“I’m sure they are. Julio was converting his winnings because diamonds are easier to hide than a bundle of money.”

“But where did you find them?”

“In your cellar, dopey. The huge sack of chicken com. Fighting cocks don’t eat regular chicken feed. They’re fed ground meat and hardboiled eggs and a few grains of corn a day. It would take El Kelly Grande years to finish all that corn. That made me suspicious, so I dug around in the sack while waiting for you to bring everyone down tonight.”

The heat was coming through the windows of the cab, salsa hot, and the sweet smell of her mingled with the torpor coming off the East River. “You’re a foxy little thing,” I told her.

“Takes a fox to catch a Chick,” she said, turning her face up to me. “You crazy gringo.”

Nectarines are luscious on August evenings, and I stopped being sad.