I wrote it all down. ‘That sounds pretty good,’ I said. ‘Where can I get in touch with you?’
She gave me her address and phone number. ‘I’ll do my best, Mrs Brent,’ I told her.
‘I’m sure you will. Thank you again, Mr Kaufman.’ Then she left.
I went out and had some lunch, mailed my insurance report and then went down to the carnival ground again. I was getting sick and tired of the place. I’d seen practically every sideshow there was to see, I’d fired rifles with crooked barrels at moving targets, I’d eaten candy and even tried the rasberry-coloured soft drink they sold.
I ambled along to the harem girls. I watched them sway automatically to the beat of the drum, heard the barker talk himself hoarse and saw maybe a dozen people pay their quarter and go inside. The barker went inside and the thinker in the fez still sat there moodily and gazed into nothing.
I walked up to him. ‘You look tired,’ I said conversationally.
He focused on me slowly. ‘I am tired,’ he agreed. His voice was thin and reedy.
‘How’s business?’ I asked him.
‘Very quiet,’ he told me.
‘You want some new girls,’ I suggested, ‘young ones.’
He nodded gloomily. ‘Don’t I know it! But they cost too much. The only dames who’ll come and work for the dough we pay are the ones who are too old to get a job in the chorus or burlesque any more. So we don’t have any choice.’
‘I wonder you stick it out,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you quit?’
He gave the drum a hard slap. ‘Can’t afford to,’ he said, ‘don’t know anything else.’
‘But the guy who owns the business,’ I said, ‘surely he can’t afford to go on losing dough the whole time?’
‘I own the business,’ he said. ‘Used-to do my own barking until my voice gave out – so now I beat the drum. It saves me paying somebody else to do it.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Well, why don’t you quit?’
‘It isn’t as bad as that,’ he said. ‘I can eat on what the show pulls in.’
‘That’s something, anyway,’ I agreed. ‘Say, your name Tyson?’
‘That’s right.’
I tried to look pleasantly surprised. ‘That’s a coincidence, if there ever was one!’ I said heartily. ‘You know a friend of mine, Johnny Brent.’
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ he said coldly.
I looked puzzled. ‘I don’t get it.’ I said. ‘Johnny told me he comes to your show quite a lot. He told me the guy who owned it, a guy named Tyson, was a particular friend of his.’
The little guy stood up and picked up his drum. ‘You must have the wrong Tyson,’ he said brusquely and went inside the tent.
I stood there for a moment, looking after him, then I went along the lane slowly. Somebody jostled me, their elbow thudding into my ribs so that I staggered a couple of paces before I regained my balance.
The next moment something hit me across the back of the neck and I stumbled onto my knees. ‘I don’t like guys who pick fights!’ a voice behind me said loudly.
The first guy came in and I saw his boot riding toward my jaw. I managed to dodge it and it whistled past my ear. I got to my feet and saw the second one. He was short and squat with long arms. The two of them came at me, grinning nastily.
I dived my hand inside my coat and pulled out the.32. I thumbed back the safety-catch. ‘You guys want real trouble,’ I told them, ‘just keep on coming!’
They stopped where they were. The big guy started cursing, but he didn’t do anything else. The short one watched me carefully. ‘Now beat it!’ I said.
‘We’ll go,’ the short one said softly, ‘because you’ve got that gun, mister. But stay away from the carnival from now on. If you come back, we’ll get you before you get a chance to even go for that gun! And the damage we’ll do to you will be permanent!’ They turned and walked away slowly – they didn’t look back.
I walked back down the lane again past the harem girls. It was nearly time for the next show and Tyson was beating the drum steadily. I looked at him and nodded. He stared stonily straight through me as if I wasn’t there.
All of a sudden my name was mud in the carnival ground. I wondered why as I drove home. I wasn’t getting anywhere fast. Dusberg rang just before I went out that evening and wanted to know what progress I’d made. I told him not very much. He told me I was expensive when I was producing results, let alone when I wasn’t. I told him if he wasn’t satisfied, he knew what he could do. Altogether, it wasn’t a very bright day.
CHAPTER THREE
The green dragon had a green dragon in neon lights above the door. It had a commissionaire, two hatcheck girls and a large foyer which was decorated with cut flower. In fact, it had class – I was glad I’d put on my tuxedo.
It was a slack time. The two hatcheck girls were talking to each other. The commissionaire was having a quiet cigarette. I went over to the girls. One of them held out her hand for my hat. I put a five-spot in her hand instead. She looked surprised.
I grinned at her. ‘I’m trying to check on a friend of mine – he comes here pretty often. Name of Johnny Brent. Do you know him, by any chance?’
She shook her head. ‘We don’t know many people by name. What does he look like?’
I gave her the description Mrs Brent had given me. The girl shook her head slowly. ‘Sorry, doesn’t mean anything to me – you had better take your five-spot back, mister.’
‘Wait a minute!’ the other girl said. ‘I seem to remember the guy. I’ve seen him a few times. He went up to Mr Gatt’s office a couple of times.’
‘When did you last see him?’ I asked her.
She thought hard. ‘Be more than a week ago – going on two weeks, I guess. I haven’t seen him since then.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ I said. I put a five-spot on the counter in front of her. ‘By the way, how do you get to Mr Gatt’s office?’
‘Straight up the stairs,’ she said, pointing to the staircase across the other side of the foyer. She picked up the five spot. ‘Thanks, mister.’
‘Thank you,’ I said to both of them. I went up the stairs and found a door with ‘Mr Gatt’ neatly stencilled on it in gold letters. I knocked.
‘Come in,’ said a deep voice.
The guy who was seated behind the desk stood up. It was a delicate operation. He must have hit the scales around two hundred and fifty, if they built scales tough enough to take him. Fat bulged everywhere. He could have been around forty, with a mass of shiny black hair and a fixed grin not far above his three chins.
‘Mr Gatt?’ I asked.
He nodded genially. ‘Sure, that’s me. What can I do for you? Take a seat, anyway.’
I sat down. ‘My name is Kaufman,’ I said. ‘I am trying to trace a friend of mine and I thought you might be able to help me.’
‘Sure,’ he grinned. ‘What’s your friend’s name?’
‘Brent,’ I told him. ‘Johnny Brent.’
The smile slid off his face and disappeared amongst the chins. ‘No,’ he shook his head ponderously, ‘I am sorry, Mr Kaufman, I do not know the name.’
I gave him the description. ‘I am sorry,’ he said again, ‘I’m sure I do not know him. What made you think I might?’
‘He comes here often,’ I said. ‘He has mentioned your name a few times to me – he seemed to know you very well,’ I lied.
‘Strange!’ he mused. ‘I do not understand it.’
‘Neither do I,’ I agreed.
