Class Act

23

Stone and Dino arrived at Patroon in Dino’s car, and their appointed drinks awaited them on their table.

“What’s new?” Stone asked.

“Not much.”

“I thought the NYPD was constantly aboil. Have the criminals taken a vacation?”

“They’re working pretty good at Hialeah,” Dino said. “Did you see the exploding trailer on TV?” Security camera footage of the explosion had gone viral.

“How could I miss it. And I loved the part with the guy on his hands and knees, raking up C-notes.”

“That was Manny Fiore, the mob’s big-time bookie down there.”

“If he’s so big, what’s he doing on his hands and knees? Don’t those guys have minions for that sort of work?”

“I guess, where C-notes are involved, they want people they can trust. Still, he’s not a worry anymore.”

“Did he have an, ah, accident?”

“The kind of accident that gets you two in the head. They found what’s left of him a few hours ago, in the ashes of his house. The autopsy turned up two 9mm slugs.”

“He must have missed a few hundreds.”

“Word has it he’s already been replaced by a guy named Vinnie Rossi, who worked for him. Interestingly, somebody recently spotted Vinnie on Fifth Avenue and gave the department a call.”

“What interest would the department have in the activities of Hialeah mobsters?”

“We like to know if guys like that come to town. Just between you and me, the FBI has a master list of guys who might be important. If there’s a sighting, it goes into the computer.”

“Did he blow up the trailer?”

“No indication of that. He worked for the guy who worked in the trailer. The FBI wants to talk to the girl who lived with Manny, name of Hilda Ross, a nightclub singer.”

“Nightclub singers still exist?”

“As long as there are nightclubs,” Dino said.

“Nightclubs still exist?”

“In Florida, yeah. They can’t play golf all the time. Even a few left in New York.”

“I don’t get it. If the guy is dead, why do they want to talk to the girlfriend?”

“Well, when they went through what was left of his house, they didn’t find a single female garment there. Plenty of neckties, etcetera, but no frilly bras and such.”

“So she packed up before the house burned?”

“That’s the idea.”

“This story gets more and more interesting,” Stone said.

“It gets more interesting than that,” Dino said, handing him the New York Post, opened and turned back. A small ad in the corner held a photo of a beautiful woman in a low-cut gown, and a headline read:

“I like the near-absence of the dress,” Stone said. “Have you called the FBI?”

“Certainly. You and I are meeting a G-man I know there for the ten o’clock show.”

The club was better than Stone had expected: it was roomy and the tables didn’t put you elbow-to-elbow with others. The decor was handsome, and when the trio began to play, the sound system was good. They were given a good table, and a moment later a decently dressed FBI agent joined them.

“Stone Barrington, meet Brian Goode,” Dino said.

Stone shook his hand. “Good to meet you, no pun intended. I hear you have a fugitive at large in the building.”

“Not at large, exactly,” Goode said. “There’s no warrant. But she’s been a confidential informant for nigh onto a year, and I hear she sings well. And we want to talk to her.”

Stone leaned near to Dino’s ear. “Has he heard about the two slugs in the autopsy?”

“Yes, I’ve heard about that,” Goode said. “And I read lips pretty good.”

“Don’t fuck with the FBI,” Dino said.

“Is she a suspect in the shooting?” Stone asked.

“Not yet,” Goode said. “Though we’ll have some questions to ask her about that.”

The trio finished its number, and a voice over the PA system said, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome back Hilda Ross!” The applause was enthusiastic.

The velvet curtains parted and a curvy woman in a tight, green dress with auburn hair followed her impressive cleavage onto the stage, to a waiting microphone.

The group ripped into Rodgers and Hart’s “Johnny One-Note,” an up-tempo number that gave her an opportunity to use her big voice.

Stone was impressed.

When the set was over Dino said to Stone, “I know, you want to meet her.”

“Only if she’s innocent of wrongdoing,” Stone said.

But Brian Goode was already escorting her to the table and pulling out a chair for her.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, shaking each hand and apparently remembering their names.

“That was a great set,” Stone said. “I’m a lover of Rodgers and Hart.”

“Who isn’t?” she asked. “Are you all law enforcement?”

“Just Brian and me,” Dino said. “I’m a local. This guy used to be” — he jerked a thumb at Stone — “but the work was too honest for him. Now he’s a lawyer.”

“Do I need a lawyer, Brian?”

“Everybody needs a lawyer now and then.”

“Then you’d better give me your card, Stone.”

Stone did so, and she made it disappear somewhere in her cleavage.

She tucked a card of her own into Stone’s breast pocket. “I’m in town for a week, maybe two,” she said.

“That ought to be long enough,” Dino muttered.

“I’ll call you when you least expect it,” Stone said.

“Then I’ll expect the unexpected,” she replied.

“Hilda,” Brian said, “can we have a little chat at the bar for a minute or two?”

“My time is yours, G-man,” she said, and the two of them left the table.

“Very nice,” Stone said.

“I thought you would think so.”