dressed, and yelled for Pete. I gave him the shad and he thanked me for cleaning it. Leaving him at the dock, I got my car out of the parking lot. It was almost ten as I drove east toward the Emerald Club.
10
THIS WAS a low-ceilinged room with the walls done in a violent lobster red, covered with nude women painted a bold purple. The ceiling was supposed to be one great green emerald and a lot of indirect lighting gave it a cut- stone effect. It looked like hell to me, but then I'm no art critic. A lot of upper-bracket jokers gave the joint a big play, and it was crowded. I stood at the bar and had a Tom Collins which looked like a fruit salad with all the sliced melons, oranges, and cherries floating around the top of the frosted glass. It must have been expensive fruit—they charged
When I finally got past the fruit, the drink wasn't weak, and the music from a five-piece band was blue and moody. The barkeep said Margrita came on at ten-forty-five. I watched the playboys and dolls milling around, wondering how many millions they'd add up to if their bankbooks were put end to end. A big, strapping character who looked like he was born to a tux came in, followed by a stocky ex-pug who had bodyguard written all over his rough face. The pug looked familiar, but I couldn't call his name. Without even glancing at the head waiter, the big character sat at a table, and without asking a waiter rushed over with a soda and Scotch. The bodyguard had a beer.
The character was Big Ed “The Cat” Franklin, the star of one of those Congressional investigation committees television shows. Franklin's smooth voice, his good looks, made the citizens roar with laughter as he made a monkey out of the investigator, made the audience ferget Franklin's criminal record, that he was called “The Cat” because of the number of times he'd been gunned and lived. At the tail end of prohibition he'd started as a strong- arm goon, pushed his way up. I asked the barkeep, “'Cat' Franklin own a piece of this club?”
“I believe Mr. Franklin owns the entire club,” he said coldly, but like he was sure the sun rose and set in Franklin's behind.
About this time the lights dimmed and Margrita came on. She was a tall blonde with a full figure, and a passable voice. She wore a transparent skirt that clouded up near her waist. As she moved about, you saw two shapely legs, and if you were lucky, the solid curve of her hips and... well, I
Some ten months before, Margrita had been merely another singer, with a bit role in a TV musical, one of those heavy-costume jobs. She'd be still playing bit parts if she hadn't tripped over a power cable, landing flat on her back —exposing a pair of lovely legs in close-up to thousands of living-rooms and bars. You remember the hassle this caused, the TV program apologizing all over the screen, then the flood of letters and calls, demanding to see more, saying there was no need to apologize for legs like those. Overnight the big blonde guest-starred on several programs, packed them in at a Broadway theatre, was in every column. She had a smart publicity agent, was exploited to the hilt—I remember one front-page picture of her in a museum, raising her skirts to compare her gams with a famous statue. Within two months she had her own TV show, was said to be raking in the folding money.
Her legs were something: not the thin stems most show girls have, rather they were heavy and strong, her thighs a lush curve of real muscle. I was embarrassed, for watching her sent a warm wave of excitement crawling over me. I was staring at her open-mouthed, like a fresh kid. Considering the energy I'd spent with Louise that morning, nothing should make me get up steam for days.
When she finished her act, I gulped my drink, asked where I'd find the manager. The barkeep's eyes got a little troubled till I said, “Want to see him about some insurance business.”
Via the head waiter and a lantern-jawed bouncer who had a neck thicker than Margrita's thigh, I finally made the manager's office. Flashing my tin, I told him about the estate, that I wanted to see Margrita about locating a former roommate of hers.
He was a sharp-faced guy with tired, suspicious eyes. Calling her on the house phone he said, “Miss de Mayo, there's a private dick claims he wants to see you about an estate. Expecting any process servers?... Certainly.” He looked up at me. “She's too busy to see you and...”
“Tell her it's about Marion Lodge,” I shouted at the receiver.
He was about to hang up but we all heard her say, “Wait—I want to see him.”
A waiter took me to her dressing-room. We walked through a cramped kitchen and sweating cooks and pearl divers—all in sharp contrast to the lush atmosphere of the club.
Although she was a big-name star, Margrita's room had barely enough space for a dressing-table, a closet, and a single chair. She was seated at the table, combing her long honey-blonde hair. “Make it fast, I have to change for my next number,” she said, looking me over in the mirror.
I dislike all six-footers on sight, but she was six feet of lovely stuff that I could sure go for. The tiny room was hot and she was sweating a little, a warm sultry smell. I told her about Marion Lodge, and still talking into the mirror she said, “Yeah, I remember her. Dizzy kid, bitten by the stage bug. You know, yokel girl coming to storm Broadway. Last I heard of her she was marrying some rich old character out West.”
“Know his name, the city?”
She was brushing her hair—her hands up—and she shrugged and it was simply unbelievable she was that well stacked—that it was all real. “No. That was nearly a year ago.”
“Remember who you heard this from? Anybody else know her?”
“I just heard it—someplace. And we only shared that flat for a short time—didn't know her well. You say this uncle left her a farm?”
“Not much of a farm. Tell me, I've traced her through several cheap rooming houses, then she suddenly blossoms out in this expensive set-up. She suddenly lands a good job?”
Margrita said, “Sure, dumb country kids always land a 'good' job! She had a second-hand mink, several high- priced gowns, and no visible means of support What does that make in your book?”
“Call girl? That when she became Mary Long?”
Margrita shrugged again and all she was wearing was this thin blouse and that transparent skirt, and she was so big, had so much of everything, it was overpowering. I told her, “Please, cut it out.”
She finally turned, stared directly at me. “Cut what out?”
