Masquerade for Murder

Chapter Four

You can drink till four a.m. in Manhattan, but some restaurants with bars set their own time for last call. Pete’s Chophouse was one of those, which was where Velda and I headed for a late-night supper after taking in Ain’t Misbehavin’ at the Ambassador Theatre. There were plenty of places closer to grab a bite and a brew, but as usual I had a hidden agenda.

After a warm greeting from Pete in his shiny tux and suspiciously black hair and mustache, I deposited my coat and hat with the check-stand blonde. The lovely Sheila, in another green gown, nicely low-cut tonight, complimented Velda on her oversized black blazer and white turtleneck, then acceded to my request for seating in the bar area. The green-eyed redhead escorted us there with a smile and not a word about my last visit to the restaurant or to our previous, ultimately tense encounter at Bellevue. She still had an eye swollen up but camouflaged with cosmetics.

On a weeknight, at around a quarter till eleven, the old-fashioned, less-than-spacious supper club was sparsely populated, the not-too-smoky ambience going well with the low lighting.

Velda had a small chef’s salad and I put away a rare steak sandwich and fries, and a couple of Miller Lites. We took our time, and in low tones discussed the Colby job, and a job is what it was now that we had deposited the old man’s check for ten grand. We kept our voices low while Sinatra, Dino, and Davis sang to us from the sound system.

“I’m still not sure,” Velda said, “what it is you think we can do that the Motor Vehicle boys and girls can’t do better.”

“Maybe nothing. But we only have one hit-and-run to look into. Plus, there are aspects of this thing that they don’t know about.”

She was nodding. “Colby’s mental state post-concussion, you mean.”

I nodded back. “That, and the cast of players hugging the periphery.”

She bobbed her head almost imperceptibly toward the bar. “Like that kid back there mixing drinks?”

We were both old enough to call anybody under forty a “kid,” even if Velda’s looks still made her a babe.

“Like him,” I agreed. “He seems to know who I am, or anyway my face rings a bell.”

“You’re a regular here or nearly so. Maybe that’s why.”

I shook my head. “No, I never saw him before that night when Colby got clipped by the Ferrari. He might have noticed me when I went out into the street to see if Colby’s Wall Street cronies needed help hauling their pal’s ass to shore.”

The bartender in his black bowtie and white shirt was glancing our way now and then with the kind of blank look that in a bartender reads as a scowl. He had a few filled stools to tend to — for cliff dwellers around here this was a neighborhood bar — and was going through the usual routine of making drinks to fill waitress orders, cleaning glasses, and wiping down areas after a customer exited. It was just that he seemed more interested in Velda and me than he did his work.

“Maybe he just digs older dolls,” I said to her with a shrug.

She kicked me under the table. Gently. Fairly gently.

After sipping her Miller Lite, which they had on tap, she said, “You can’t really suspect a bartender who’s, what? Twenty-eight, thirty? Of having a friend with a Ferrari who he hired or talked into trying to run down his competition with that redhead.”

“I don’t rule anything out. And I suppose it’s worth noting that Ms. Ryan, over there manning her post... and with that shape, ‘manning’ doesn’t seem like the right word, does it? Don’t you kick me again or I’ll kick back. Anyway, it’s worth noting that she denies being involved with Vincent Colby, and appears to be involved with this specimen... and she won’t even admit that one of her male harem gave her that shiner.”

“Which she still has to cover up with concealer,” Velda said, “assuming you’re enough of a detective to have noticed that when she seated us.”

“I’m not only enough of a detective to’ve noticed that,” I said, and sipped Miller, “I also noticed it was the other eye this time.”

Don’t be impressed. Velda couldn’t have copped to that, not having seen Sheila with that other black eye, and only knowing about it second-hand from me.

“It has been a couple of weeks,” Velda said, her own lovely eyes narrowing. “Plenty of time for that first mouse to stop squawking.”

Pete rolled over to our booth with a big smile, leaning in to see how we were doing.

“Join us for a moment,” I said.

He glanced around, saw nothing needing his attention, and slid in on Velda’s side of the booth.

“It’s good to see you again, Mike, so soon. Been too long between visits. I can’t promise you one as memorable as last time, though!”

“Well, that’s fine by me,” I said. “But Velda and I are here for more than a late-night snack, good as that steak sandwich was. This is actually business.”

“How so?”

I was keeping my voice down, way down, Sinatra providing cover. “I’m looking into that hit-and-run,” I said, “working for young Colby’s father.”

My client had given me permission to drop his name if I felt that would help, which with somebody like Pete it did.

I continued: “Vincent Colby himself isn’t pleased to have me poking in, but that can’t be helped.”

Pete was frowning; he didn’t seem thrilled that this was turning out to be more than host/patron happy talk.

“Young Mr. Colby dines here frequently,” he said, “but I don’t know him beyond that.” He lowered his gaze. “But, Mike — I’m not comfortable talking about my customers.”

“You’d be helping him.”

He raised a palm. “You said Mr. Colby was unhappy with you looking into—”

“His father feels otherwise. I feel otherwise.”

Shaking his head, Pete said, “I still don’t see how I can help.”

Velda put a hand on his sleeve and said, “Just answer a few questions, Pete. Please. What could it hurt?”

The restaurant owner swallowed. “Well... all right. But I reserve the right to decline to answer.”

Velda smiled. “Take the Fifth all you like, Pete.”

“So,” he said, “what do you want to know?”

“You can tell me,” I said, “if your hostess is banging your bartender.”

The crudity of that made him blink, but his answer was damn near a non sequitur. “I have several bartenders on staff.”

I gave him a narrow-eyed look that was less than friendly. “Not tonight you don’t. You know what I’m talking about, Pete. Who I’m talking about.”

He shrugged. “You mean Gino.”

“If that’s his name, I do. The dark-haired jamoke working the tap right now.”

“Yes. Gino Mazzini. Does a good job. Doesn’t cause trouble. Not super-friendly, not a tell-your-troubles-to type bartender, but skilled. Efficient. Not surly.”

Not surly. What a commendation.

I said, “So. Is he involved with Sheila?”

Pete shook his head, but that didn’t exactly mean no. “You should ask her that.”

“Okay. Fair enough. But do you think she might be? Hooking up with him?”

After a moment, he nodded.

“Could she be involved with Colby, too? Banging both at the same time?”

Velda frowned at me, then quickly smiled at Pete. “What Mike means, could she be seeing both of them?”

“Right,” I said, “I wasn’t talking ménage a twat or anything.”

Velda rolled her eyes.

Pete was shaking his head again. “You’d have to—”

“Ask her, right, right. I will. But right now I’m asking you — which of them gave her those shiners?”

His eyebrows rose. “What shiners?”

“Pete...”

He swallowed. We’d been keeping it sotto voce already, but now he whispered. “The Mazzini kid did that. They’re seeing each other. I think... I think they live together in the Village.”

“Which one’s worked here the longest?”

“Miss Ryan.” He leaned toward me. “Mike, Sheila’s been here for four or five years — you know that.”

“I guess I do. Where’s she from?”

Pete shrugged. “Midwest somewhere. Minnesota, Michigan, Wisconsin, one of those. She came to the city to be an actress and it didn’t work out, at least not yet. She’s tops, Mike. Everybody loves her.”

“Sounds like that includes Colby and Mazzini.”

A palm came up. “I don’t generally get involved with my employees’ private lives.”

I ignored that. “What’s the story with her and the rich kid? How often does Colby come around to the Chophouse?”

“He’s a good customer,” Pete said vaguely.

“Did Sheila already know him? Or did they meet here? Was he maybe taken with her? She’s an attractive woman.”

Velda said, “An understatement.”

The restauranteur sighed. “I believe they met here. They became friendly. They sometimes talk. They obviously like each other. They have good, what-do-you-call-it... chemistry.”

I said, “What kind of experiments do you think they’re conducting?”

Pete shifted in his seat. “Please, Mike. This really makes me uncomfortable. You’re asking me to talk trash about two good employees and, if that weren’t enough, a customer who spends money like it’s paper. You should talk to them, not me.”

“Excellent idea. How about sending Sheila over?”

He frowned. “She’s my hostess, Mike. If somebody comes in...”

“I’ll shoo her over. Come on, Pete. I’m a customer, too, you know.”

He pulled air in and let it out through as sickly a smile as I’d seen in a while. “Fine, Mike. Anything you say.”

Pete slid out of the booth and went over to the hostess podium and spoke a few words, gesturing toward us; Sheila frowned, not a deep frown but a troubled look, and decidedly put-upon. But she came over, striding now, not her usual glide.

She stood before us with her chin up and her eyes down; she might have been a cop who came upon Velda and me playing hide the salami in some Central Park bushes. “Something you wanted, Mr. Hammer?”

I gestured. “You remember my secretary — Velda Sterling?”

“Of course.” Sheila nodded. “Ms. Sterling.”

Velda nodded back, said, “Ms. Ryan,” and I said, “Will you join us for a few moments?”

The hostess’s smile was strained. “Could it wait for another time? I am working.”

“It’s not busy, and your boss sent you over. We’ll understand if a patron enters and needs your attention. Please.”

Like Pete, she chose to slide in on Velda’s side.

“Sheila,” I said, “I’m working for Vincent Colby’s father, looking into the hit-and-run that put his son in the hospital. Where you and I last spoke.”

She said nothing.

“The police aren’t getting anywhere,” I said, “but of course they aren’t aware of certain things.”

She said nothing.

“I’m hoping you’ll be frank with me,” I said, “and confirm, or convincingly deny, that you and Colby are seeing each other... behind your other boy friend’s back. And perhaps you can substantiate that this other boy friend found out about it, and wasn’t happy.”

She said nothing.

Velda gave it a try, saying, “One of your two admirers gave you that black eye. The second in a couple of weeks. That’s quite a collection you’re racking up there, Ms. Ryan.”

She said nothing.

I asked, “Was it your friend behind the bar?”

Gino’s eyes were on us, burning like coals.

She said nothing.

I said, “Or maybe Colby did it. Maybe you’re not seeing him, but he’s been hounding you, even stalking you, and you confronted him and he lost his head, demanding you break it off with Mazzini. Colby’s a regular Jekyll and Hyde these days, thanks to that ‘accident.’”

She glared and me and clenched teeth parted only enough for her to get out a few bitter words: “I thought you were smart. You’re the famous Mike Hammer, big detective.”

“Famous enough,” I said with a shrug. “Big enough, too, maybe. But you imply I’m also not smart enough — smart enough for what?”

The words came quick. “Vincent hadn’t been hit by that car yet when you saw me with a black eye. These... outbursts of his were caused by that concussion, which hadn’t even fucking happened yet!”

I grinned. “So you two are an item.”

Even with her features tightened up in anger, she was a beauty. “I told you before — we’re just friends.”

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you, honey, and it’s not the way you look at a friend. More like a famished man views a meal.”

She huffed a feminine grunt. “Believe what you like.”

Velda touched the young woman’s arm. “Ms. Ryan, Sheila — please understand. All we’re trying to do is help Vincent Colby.”

She shook her head, seeming more frustrated than angry. “What does it matter who hit Vincent in what car? How does that help him? He’s... he’s been hurt... he’s... having a terrible time of it. He might have died.” She choked back emotion. “All right. All right! I’ve been seeing him. At first, I... he pressed so hard, he was so insistent, it made me uncomfortable. And I was seeing someone else...”

“Gino,” Velda said.

Sheila nodded. “Yes, but Vincent was so attentive, so tender, so... it sounds silly, but... adoring.” Her eyes went to Velda, beseechingly. “You probably know what that feels like, Ms. Sterling. You’re a lovely woman, a stunning woman. You’ve had men adore you, haven’t you?’

I said, “She has one right now.”

Sheila actually smiled a little. “I’ve broken it off with Gino. We’re through. He knows that.”

Velda said, “He gave you that eye.”

She nodded. “But I’ve moved out on him. We were sharing an apartment in the Village. I’m with a girl friend now. Gino is past history. But it’s just... tricky. It’s hard. To still work where he does.”

“Must be,” I said.

Velda said, “Here’s the thing, Ms. Ryan. We’re not just trying to find the hit-and-run driver. We’re trying to determine if it was a hired job — if your Gino or someone else in Vincent’s life tried to have him killed in what would be written off as an accident.”

“That’s silly,” Sheila said. “I told you — Gino could never afford that. He doesn’t have money or friends with money, either.”

I said, “On the other hand, Colby works in the world of high finance. He may have enemies in those same rarefied circles. And we don’t know yet who in his social circles, which are also pretty damn rarefied, might have a deadly grudge against him. We’ll be looking into that.”

“Another, larger investigative firm,” Velda said, “is exploring the financial world aspects. Someone with Vincent’s wealth, his family’s fortune and standing, can be a target for all sorts of things, for all sorts of reasons.”

The young woman thought about it. Neither Velda nor I pushed her any further. Our case had been made.

Finally Sheila said, “Gino gave me both black eyes. I think you’ve probably already come to that conclusion yourselves. But it’s ridiculous to think he might have hired someone to drive that sports car and try to kill or, what, frighten Vincent off? I hope you’re not assuming, because of his last name, that Gino has Mafia connections or any such foolishness. He’s like me — he came to New York from a small town to be an actor, and he’s still trying to be one, but just like I wound up a waitress, he became a bartender.”

Velda asked, “Are you still pursuing acting?”

“Still making a somewhat half-hearted attempt of it, I admit. I audition, just not as frequently... as doggedly. It wears you down after a while.”

I said encouragingly, “You’re not a waitress. You’re a hostess.”

She laughed a little. “You sure know how to build up a girl, Mr. Hammer.”

Velda was smiling a little. Apparently men can be idiots sometimes. Who knew?

Sheila said, “Before you go, I’ll give you my phone number at my girl friend’s. I’ll help you any way I can. I’ll encourage Vincent to cooperate. He isn’t always Mr. Hyde. Even now, he’s usually Dr. Jekyll.”

She got up, smiled and nodded pleasantly. And now when she returned to her post, the hostess in green glided.

“Getting somewhere,” I said.

“I feel bad for her,” Velda said.

“Why’s that?”

“She’s gone from an abusive boy friend to another guy with a terrible temper. Of course, that doesn’t mean Vincent would strike her or anything, but... it’s an unsettling possibility.”

I shrugged. “Well, it’s helpful to know she’s cooperating with us now.”

Velda nodded. “It is.”

“But I think before this goes any further, I should talk to Casey Shannon, and get the skinny as he sees it where Vincent Colby is concerned. There’s a couple of other suspicious deaths on the fringes here.”

She touched my hand. “I forgot to tell you, Mike. I spoke to Pat this afternoon, on some follow-up on that Penta case.”

“Oh?”

“He said in passing that Shannon has gone to the Keys for a getaway vacation. Will be out of town two or three weeks anyway. There’s some old gal friend of his down there he’s going to be shacking up with.”

I put on a wistful look. “If only I had an old gal friend to shack up with.”

“You want to get kicked again?”

We paid at the register and I collected my hat and coat from the blonde near the door. Pete approached and was his old smiling self again.

“Everything work out okay with Sheila?” he asked. “She came away in a good mood, Mike, so you must have behaved yourself.”

“Velda’s a calming influence.”

He was closing up, the place almost empty. Last call here was 1 a.m., and the clock was fifteen minutes fast, as was the custom in so many bars.

We stepped out into crisp autumn air — my favorite time of year. Traffic was light, and we’d have to walk to the nearest corner to grab a cab going in the right direction. I paused to give Velda a quick verbal reconstruction of the hit-and-run, painting the picture as best I could.

“Wouldn’t have happened,” Velda said, “if he’d parked in that ramp down the block.”

“Are you kidding? Rich guys hate to pay.”

An unfamiliar hand settled on my shoulder, hard enough to squeeze through the topcoat fabric.

“You better fucking listen,” a baritone voice snarled, “you son of a bitch...”

It was the bartender, his breath visible in the chill, coming out his nostrils like dragon’s breath.

Gino Mazzini was handsome in a Travolta sort of way, dark-haired, olive-complected with big teeth that looked nasty with that upper lip curled back. “You stay away from my girl — leave her alone! Hear me? Stay the hell away from her, old man, or I’ll put you in a damn wheelchair!”

I should have decked him then and there, but I might need to interview him later, and beating him to a pulp might alienate him.

So I said, “Cool it,” holding my hands out, palms open. “I’m investigating that hit-and-run and had a few questions for her. That’s all. She’s in no trouble, and you may have noticed I already have a girl.”

I saw it coming, the sucker punch that would have brought up my steak sandwich, and I bobbed to one side, my hat flying off, but that got me just off-balance enough for him to turn his missed blow into a swinging backhand that knocked me to the sidewalk. Now I was ready to see anything and everything that this prick could send my way, and that included the kick he aimed at my ribs as I lay sprawled on my side. I caught his foot in two hands in midair and yanked it like I was uprooting a small tree and the world went out from under him but obligingly came up to meet him, and the way he landed on cement on his back like that had to hurt like hell. His breath whooshed out like a dam bursting and now, as I got to my feet, it was my turn. I stomped on his stomach with one foot, like he was a big goddamn bug, and then stepped away as he curled up in a fetal ball, hugging himself, his moans stitched together with whimpering.

Somebody in the restaurant must have seen the fun out the tinted-glass windows, because Pete and a few patrons and, of course, Sheila Ryan came bounding out onto the street. Nothing so impressive as a hit-and-run to gawk at this time around, just a scuffle that had ended in pain for the shit who started it.

Only then I got greedy. I leaned in and straddled him and grabbed him by his white shirt and pulled him up to where I could grin into his face.

“Not as easy,” I said, getting ready to smack him one more time, “as hitting women, is it?”

But he was younger than me, and for all his pain he managed to swing a fist into my side. The bartender had some power left because it was enough to knock me off him. He was just getting up, ready to come at me again, when his eyes opened wide.

He could feel the snout of the little .32 automatic at his temple.

Velda said through a lovely terrible smile, “Of course with some women, it’s not easy at all.”

Then she thumped him on the head with the barrel and he went down on his knees, trying not to cry but not making it.

The diminutive Pete was looming over his fallen bartender now. “Your ass is fired, you dumb bastard!”

Then the restauranteur came over to apologize as his hostess and the handful of patrons trailed back inside.

“He must not know,” Pete said, “who Mike Hammer is.”

“I forgot for a minute there myself,” I said, smoothing my coat, looking around for my hat.