Dying to Tell (14 page)

thirty

The Kit Kat West
Club belonged on the Las Vegas strip, not the outskirts of Winchester. The club could be seen miles away in the winter darkness outside of town on Route 11. It was like an oasis, both from the winter chill and the Virginia landscape—bright, dancing lights, music, and laughter.

The
sand-colored
stone building rose three floors above the ground and was fronted by two large marble pillars and rows of cauldron torches lighting the entranceway. Its windows were wide and tall, framed in dark red shutters, and light danced out onto grounds surrounded by sycamores and mulberry trees. There were four large chimneys protruding off the flat roof into the darkness—all belched smoke that seasoned the winter air with a rich, festive scent. Around the property, floodlights illuminated the club from every angle like a Broadway premier was underway. At the front entrance, two beefy bouncers fitted with tuxedos and bulging muscles checked guests between two pedestaled fire pits like the gateway of a great pyramid.

When Bear and I pulled up to the front of the club, we were greeted by a tuxedoed valet who waved at Bear to stop. The valet opened Bear's door—ignoring mine, of course—took one look inside the police cruiser, and opted for Bear to leave the vehicle beside the entrance.

At the top of the outside stairs, behind the two bouncers, we reached the
fifteen-foot
-high
wood-plank
doors that I expected Beau Geste to emerge from any moment. Inside, there was a grand reception area flanked by two large palm trees. As far as the eye could see there were more tuxedos, white dinner jackets, and buxom, classy ladies in evening gowns with long legs—not really, but it sets the mood, right? The floors were a
high-sheened
marble and the walls adorned with paintings and photographs of the pyramids, the Sphinx, and various Egyptian panoramas. Standing guard on the sides of the main ball
room entrance were a
twelve-foot
-high Anubis and his pal, the mummy
from the black lagoon.

William must have helped with the Kit Kat's decor.

Bear walked to the ballroom entrance and was greeted by a short maître'd with a bushy beard and
ill-fitting
white dinner jacket. The man had a puffy face and squinty eyes, but when he saw Bear approach, his eyes bulged and a
well-acted
smile blossomed on his face.

Bear ignored him and looked around.

The ballroom was the size of a basketball court. It was two stories tall with dozens of
linen-covered
tables. There were flickering wicker and brass candleholders on tables clustered with guests. Liquor filled glasses and glasses filled tables for cocktail hour and dinner. The room was accented with more Egyptian relics and statues. Ferns and miniature date palms divided the room into four sections surrounding a dance floor. The band played beyond the hardwood—all
dressed in black tuxedoes and bathed in a soft, backlit aura. To the left of us was a wide archway leading to a bar crowded with people and humming with conversation, laughter, and intoxication.

Music filled the air.

“Damn, Bear,” I said. “This place is great. I wish it was here when I was alive. It's like Shangri La.”

“Yeah, right, Shangri La.”

“No, Detective Braddock—Cairo,” the bearded maître'd said with an odd accent. “Our club is in honor of the original Kit Kat Club from my country of Egypt.”

“You're Egyptian?” Bear looked the short man over. “You aren't selling it, pal—maybe Jersey?”

The maître'd smiled coyly. “I am Samuel—from Queens—and I'll be taking care of you this evening. I have your table all ready.”

“My table? I didn't make a reservation.”

Samuel's New York accent replaced his faux Egyptian one. “Calloway said you'd be coming this evening. And you're right on time, too. He's about to play. This way, please.” New York Sammy didn't wait for Bear's response, just headed across the room, finger held up like a beacon for us to follow.

We did.

In the front row near the corner of the room Sammy pulled out Bear's chair and sat him at the table with a good view of the band and dance floor. The band finished a rendition of something from the 1940s, and the bandleader announced a break. Then he waved toward the bar and six new musicians—all dressed in 1940s Army uniforms—wandered out and took up their positions on the bandstand. A
white-jacketed
host picked up a microphone as a spotlight bathed him in a brilliant aura.

“And now, for our coppers in the audience, Keys Hawkins and Remember When.”

A pale,
puffy-faced
, heavy man dressed in a World War II Eisenhower Army jacket and wool garrison cap stood up on rickety legs behind the piano—the trombone player helped to steady him—and waved to the audience. A raucous response of cheers and applause erupted. The
old-timer
was ninety if he was a day, and I was sure the Army jacket was his original issue from boot camp. The applause continued until he sat down at the keyboard and pointed to a black man in a sergeant's uniform standing with his back to the audience at center stage. The spotlight narrowed on the black sergeant as he lifted a trumpet skyward and began to play.

“Holy Omaha Beach, Bear,” I said as the man turned around and leaned back into his opening riff. “That's Cal.”

Cal laid into the bouncing opening bars of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.”
Around the side of the bandstand, three ladies dressed in dark tan uniforms swayed out and lined the stage beside him. As Cal hit the end of the opening run, the three Andrews Sisters
look-a
-likes turned on the harmony and had the entire room on the dance floor.

Bear just stared.

I said, “Pinch me to make sure I'm still dead, Bear.”

A waiter brought a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “Everything is on the house tonight, sir. Please enjoy your evening.”

I was sure the second glass wasn't for me. Who, I wondered?

The music flooded the ballroom as waiters scurried around delivering drinks and meals. One of the bouncers at the ballroom entranceway looked our way. He turned to someone behind him and tipped his head toward us. I was about to comment on that when Jean Harlow appeared behind the bouncer and parted the waves our way.

This Jean—not the real Ms. Harlow, since she died in the 1930s—was a
blond-haired
vixen in a white satin dress that hugged her like a bed sheet in a rainstorm. Her hair was feathered back above her bare shoulders—not the only set of curves that I noticed, either. Her bosom made the entrance into the ballroom first but was tied for first place with long, toned legs that peeked out of her dress with each stride.

Bear noticed, too. While Cal blew his sax along to “In the Mood,” Bear's foot tapped along but his attention fell to the swish of satin that stopped at our table.

“Good evening, Detective Braddock,” the woman said in a low, soft voice. “I'm Lee Hawkins and this is my place. Calloway said you'd be coming in.” A waiter appeared and poured the champagne, first in a glass he handed to Lee, and then one for Bear. “He's quite a player, don't you think?”

Was there music playing?

I gazed at her like a schoolboy. It's a good thing I was invisible to most or I'd have embarrassed myself. “Jeez, Braddock, offer the lady a seat.”

Bear stood and pulled the linen tablecloth half off the table. “Please, have a seat. I guess the champagne's yours?”

Lee smiled with her eyes and poured herself into a chair across the table from him. When she leaned forward to set her champagne glass down, heaven opened up her dress and no doubt reminded Bear how long it had been since he'd been with a woman.

Lee said, “No, Calloway asked we give you the full treatment. He said you didn't get out much and that you'd been working too hard. You and your partner, that is.”

“My partner?” Bear waved a hand over the champagne glass and looked at the waiter hovering nearby. “Bourbon, pal. Fast. A double—no, two doubles.”

Lee leaned back with one arm over the back of her chair. She'd seen all the old Bogie and Bacall movies and had the sassy,
confident-girl
act down perfect. “I'm teasing you, Detective. Calloway says you act like your dead partner is still around. I think that's charming. I talk to my
dad all the time—he died in the eighties, working for this town, too. It's comforting, isn't it? Here at the Kit Kat, we all like to live in the past. It's somehow … safer.”

“Bear.”

“Excuse me?”

“Bear,” he repeated and looked across the room for the wayward waiter with his glasses of
hand-steadying
elixir. “Call me Bear. Everyone does.”

“Not Theodore or Ted?” Lee's eyes danced, and her smile would have stopped my heart if I weren't already dead. It did stop Bear's when she added, “Maybe Teddy? Soft and cuddly?”

I laughed and that rankled him. “Teddy? Why do you think—”

“Just Bear.” His face got serious and he held Lee's eyes. “I'm afraid I have bad news.”

Her face darkened a little and her eyes drifted to the table. “Oh, I already know about Willy. I'm heartbroken. He was a strange old guy but sweet in his own way. He and my grandfather go all the way back to the war. They met at the Kit Kat in Cairo, did you know that? Do you have any leads on his killer?”

Bear shook his head. “Sorry, can't comment on the case. Keys is your granddad?”

“Yes,” she turned and waved at the old man at the piano—he soloed now,
shoulder-dancing
to Tommy Dorsey. “He's very upset. He wanted to cancel tonight but Calloway talked him into playing. He said it was good for him. At his age, it's amazing enough he gets up and plays twice a week. With Willy gone, well, I wonder how long he'll stay at it.”

Bear's two bourbons arrived and the first one was gone before the glass ever touched the table. The second was poised for the same demise when Bear's eyes locked onto someone being escorted up to a small mezzanine overlooking the dance floor.

The aged man—
silver-haired
and
sallow-cheeked
—was guided by a bodyguard who sat at the table nearest the short flight of stairs that led to the mezzanine. The older man was in a tuxedo and straightened his bow tie as he spoke to his bodyguard. For a
frail-looking
man approaching seventy, he was anything but doddering. His eyes were sharp and hard and his mind tough as nails.

Nicholas Bartalotta picked up the glass of wine the waiter served him, looked down at Bear and Lee, and toasted the air.

“Poor Nic.” Bear nodded back and lifted his bourbon. “Does he come here often?”

That would have been a cheesy line from a bad
B-movie
except for what Lee said next.

“Of course.” Lee waved at Poor Nic. “After all, he bankrolls my place.”

thirty-one

“Poor Nic owns this
place?” Bear set his drink on the table. “Do you know who he is?”

“Yes, I know all about him. And he doesn't own it. Granddad does.”

Bear let his eyes catch hers. “Your grandfather?”

“This club is his dream.” She smiled and sipped her champagne. “Keys is the only family I have. My mother ran off when I was little and as I said, my dad died in the eighties. This place is really his, but I run it. Poor Nic is a silent partner—he's the money behind us.”

I laughed. “Never fails, Bear. If there's a scheme simmering in town, Poor Nic's holding the ladle.”

Poor Nic claims to be retired from gangster life and enjoying the fruits of his
hard-earned
retirement benefits. And thank my stars, too, because Nic was pretty helpful a year ago when we had to stop a killer trying to keep Russian mob secrets still secret since 1939. Very helpful, in fact. I think at least one FBI agent and a couple other folks owe their lives to him. Angel did.

Poor Nic ain't such a bad guy—not really—once you get beyond that whole
mobster-killer
thing.

Bear gave Poor Nic another nod and returned his attention to Lee. “Nice place—a real charm. You build it yourselves?”

“Yes, we did. It took a year.”

I said, “They didn't find any bodies buried here, did they?”

Bear almost spit his drink down Lee's cleavage.

“Or maybe they buried a few.” That wouldn't be the first time for Bear and me.

“Bear?” Lee asked, laughing a little. “Are you all right?”

Bourbon threatened to come out of his nose. He grabbed a napkin and wiped his face. “Sorry.” He changed the subject. “Tell me about William.”

“Do you dance, Bear?”

Now I wished I had a drink. “Well, Bear? Do you?”

His face flushed. He took a healthy swallow of bourbon and looked at Lee over the glass. “No.”

“No dance, no interview.” She stood and extended her hand. “Come on, Bear, live a little. Calloway said you needed to loosen up. I think I got the right parts to help you do just that.” She looked over at Cal who was just lowering his saxophone. She patted the air.

Cal swapped out his sax for a clarinet and soon had Lee's curvaceous body swaying to Glenn Miller's signature “Moonlight Serenade.”

“Bear, if you don't dance with her, I will.” And I would. I'm just not sure she would have let me lead.

“All right, Lee.” He stood and finished his second bourbon. “A deal's a deal, right?”

“It is, I swear.” She took his hand—hers lost in his massive paw—and walked him to the dance floor. In a few more bars of Cal's sweet melody, Bear looked like he forgot he was a cop and became the teddy bear I always knew he was.

His body moved awkwardly but Lee gave no notice. I sat at the table and watched my best friend melting in the arms of a beautiful woman for the first time in my life. With every step, his eyes closed a little more and her cheek sought the comfort of his chest.

Deep down, I was jealous as hell.

“Boy, she's a real peach, ain't she?”

“Huh?” I spun around. Ollie stood behind me, leaning against the
wall. He smoked a cigarette and watched Bear and Lee among the half a dozen couples on the dance floor. “How long have you been here, Ollie?”

“Oh, about sixty years. Give or take.”

“No, I mean …”

“I know what you mean, kid.” He tipped his ball cap back. “Keys's girl is a dish, ain't she?”

“A dish? Oh, yeah, she's hot. Do you know her?”

“I think so. She looks real familiar. She reminds me of this gal I chased around the USO back in '43. Man, could she dance. One night we were dancin' it up when this local tried to cut in. I busted his—”

“Yeah, okay. What are you doing here?”

He laughed and blew a smoke ring—he was a Bogie fan, too. “I do like swing. It takes me back. Way back, you know?”

Huh? “What's that mean?”

Ollie walked out on the dance floor and stood close to Bear and Lee. I followed.

He said, “Doesn't matter. She must be doing all right in this place, huh? Must have cost her a wad of dough.”

He was playing games with me. “Poor Nic bankrolls them. He's …”

“A gangster. Just like old Vincent Calaprese. Of course, Vincent was one of the originals. Watch your gangster, though, kid. He's slippery—just like his new partners.”

He was trying to tell me something, but like Doc, he wasn't going to tell me. “I get that. So, are you going to tell me why you're hanging around? There's always a reason. Doc says I can learn from you and maybe I can help you, too.”

Bear made a turn on the dance floor. Lee, crushed to him, laughed and said something that made Bear laugh, too.

Bear, laugh?

Ollie wandered over to the bandstand and stood watching Keys playing the piano. “This old guy can play. He reminds me of …”

“Come on, Ollie, what brings you here?”

“Same as you, kid.”

“And that would be?”

“A killer.”

Obviously. “Don't start on Poor Nic, Ollie. Every time a body drops in this state, everyone points the finger at him. So far, he's been innocent.”

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned to me. “Innocent and involved are two different things. You're a cop, you know that.”

“I do. But, he's an all right guy. Even Angel likes him. And Poor Nic likes her, too, so …”

“Yeah, and your lady's a dish. You, Poor Nic, and that guy have good taste. Yes sir, you all got good taste.”

That guy?

I followed his gaze across the dance floor to a couple just sitting down at a table. The tall, dark, handsome man in an expensive suit pulled the chair out for a beautiful
auburn-haired
babe in a long black evening dress. She laughed as he moved a chair around the table beside her.

Son of a
—

Franklin Thorne.

And my Angel.

“Terrific. And I suppose he dances like Fred Astaire, too.”