“A popular item,” I admitted. “But Estelle was known for socking her dough away, in banks, in safe deposit boxes. She was notorious for sponging off people; she rarely had a cent on her, or in her place.”
“There is a rumor,” Drury said carefully, and I had the feeling he had waited till we were alone to say this, “that a fund Nicky Dean was in charge of-something to do with ‘taxing’ the Stagehands Union members-was emptied just before he was sent up. Dean refuses to discuss it, but the estimate is somewhere in the million-dollar area.”
The infamous 2 percent income tax Montgomery had once told me about.
“Jesus.” I finished the scenario myself: “And, I suppose, rumor further has it that Estelle was entrusted with this dough? By and for Nicky, till he got out of stir?”
Drury nodded.
“Then this could have been
“Nate, I’m sorry I brought you in on this…”
“Shut up. Quit saying that.”
“Let me ask you something.”
“Ask.”
“Suppose I can prove Nitti was behind this. Not necessarily in court, ’cause God only knows if that’s even possible. You know the department’s record where solving gangland murders is concerned. But suppose I can prove to
Estelle’s death in my nostrils, I said, “Yes.”
He grinned and shook my hand; his enthusiasm was not matched by anything of the kind from me. I was feeling weak.
“What about those letters?” I heard myself say. Working by rote, now.
He went over and bent down at the dresser where the bundled letters lay. One of the bundles was already undone; he read a sample. Skimmed another, saying, “From some serviceman. Love letters. This one’s in answer to a letter of hers, so she was exchanging ’em with him. Pretty hot stuff. ‘If only I could see and fold you in my arms,’ ha. Hey, he’s pissed in this one-‘Damn your cruel heart.’ Jeez, you don’t think she was seeing some other guy besides him, do you? Heaven forbid. There’s no name on any of these that I can see, just signs his initials-A. D. Year of our Lord? Ha. Anyway, there’s a San Diego address for referral overseas. Well, we’ll track him down soon enough. Huh, and there’s a photo, too.” He held it up for me to see, a portrait of a young Marine in dress blues.
“Nate-what’s wrong? You’re white as a ghost.”
“Nothing. I think it’s time I got out of here, is all.”
I didn’t tell him it was a face I’d seen before. The last time had been in a shell hole on Guadalcanal.
D’Angelo.
She floated across the dance floor, which was her stage, which was hers alone, graceful as a ballet dancer, naked as the human id but considerably more controlled, a huge ostrich feather fan in either hand, first this fan and then that one, one or the other, strategically placed at all times, granting flashes of flesh at her whim, feathers swooping, fluttering, moving on the toes of her high-heeled pumps, blond hair stacked in curls upon an angelic countenance, no hint of the devil in her smile as her fleeting glimpses of nakedness turned the men in the house into peeping toms and the women into jealous janes.
The music, as usual, was classical-“Moonlight Sonata,” her theme song-filtered through the big-band sound of Pichel and Blank’s Orchestra, men in white jackets sitting on risers behind her, enjoying the uncensored rear view. The lighting was soft and blue, and from where I sat with Eliot, ringside at Rinella’s Brown Derby, at Monroe and Wabash, in “the heart of the Loop!” she didn’t look a day older than she had when I’d seen her at the World’s Fair almost ten years ago, cavorting with a “bubble,” a big balloon she’d temporarily traded in for her ostrich feathers. It had been the second year of the fair and a new gimmick was called for. Even beautiful naked blonde women had to keep up with the changing times. Only time wasn’t keeping up with Sally, apparently. She was eternally beautiful. Unlike Estelle Carey, fate had been kind. Fate and soft lighting.
And now she was reaching the climax of her act, the moment all had been waiting for, when she unashamedly threw up the feather fans and they loomed over her as she stood like the statue of Winged Victory, smiling, proud, one leg lifted gently, knee up, keeping one small region a secret, a secret she’d shared with me, but long ago. Her smile was regal, her head back, proud of her beauty, her body, her talent. The house went wild with applause.
The lights grew dim and the applause continued but when the lights came back up Sally was gone, and no amount of clapping could bring her back. Once she raised her fans and showed her all, there was no encore possible. For those eager enough for another glimpse of the goddess in the full-figured flesh, there were two more shows tonight. This had been the finale of the eight-thirty dinner show, and as the orchestra began playing schmaltzy dance music, “Serenade in Blue,” Eliot and I were working on our third after-dinner drink. Which was beer, as that and wine were the only options; distillers had been banned from producing drinking liquor since last October.
For an ex-prohibition agent-an understated way of describing him indeed-Eliot Ness could really put the beer away. He would have preferred scotch, just as I would have preferred rum. But there was a war on.
“She really brought the house down,” Eliot said, latest beer in hand.
“She always does.”
“How long’s it been since she played Chicago?”
“Last time I know of was in ’41. She may have played here while I was away, though.”
“Probably not,” he said, taking a sip. “The billing said, ‘Triumphant Return’-that sounds like it’s been a while. You’d think she could play Chicago any time she wanted.”
“She could,” I said, “if she was willing to play the burlesque houses. But she only plays nightclubs and other classy…what is the word she uses? Venues.”
“Ha. Uh, how well do you know her, anyway?”
“Not well, anymore. I haven’t talked to her in years.”
“You knew her well once?”
“I knew a lot of women once. Damn few twice.”
He smiled. “You always feel sorry for yourself when you drink.”
I smiled. “Fuck you.”
A young lady at the table next to us spilled her wine; her older beau glared at me. Both were in evening dress. Both should have been less easily shocked for people who’d bribed a maitre d’ for the front-row seat at a strip show.
Eliot said, “You’re going to have to watch that mouth.”
“Out with soap?” I drank my beer. “Yeah, I know. I’m not fit for the real world, yet. Could you do me a favor?”
“Try to.”
“I’d like to track down a service buddy of mine.”
He shrugged. “Shouldn’t be any problem. In my capacity, I work hand in hand with the military brass, every day.”
“You mean, as the guy safeguarding the health and morals of the armed forces.”
“That’s morale, but yes. I’m well connected.”
“You should’ve shown some of your movies to Capone.”
Eliot smirked. “Al and I are fighting syphilis each in his own way.”
The young lady spilled her wine again; I waved and smiled as her beau glared.
“Of course,” he said, “if your friend is still overseas, it could take a while to track him.”
“He should be stateside by now. He was pretty badly wounded. He was one of the guys in that shell hole with Barney and me.”
