Tender Is LeVine: A Jack LeVine Mystery (34 page)

“I’ll swear on his grave and mine, because if you don’t help me out, I’m gonna be the catch of the day at some morgue between here and New York.”

“Okay, tell me again … slowly.” I could hear the mechanical whir of a sheet of paper being rolled into a typewriter. “He may be so sick that he can’t return to the orchestra? A source close to the Maestro himself told the
News
? That’s the gist?”

“Correct. That edition should hit the street about when?”

“Midnight. But first I have to call NBC to get a reaction, Jack; no way to avoid that.”

“That’s exactly what I want.”

“For them to know about this.”

“Absolutely. They’re going to go ape, but not right away. It has to percolate up to the top floor. No way the workaday flacks are going to know what this is really about.”

“They’ll just issue a flat denial.”

“Which you’ll run with the story, I presume. So you’ve protected yourself.”

“And what good does it do you?”

“The higher-ups get wind of this and realize that I’ve figured out their game.”

“Which is?”

“You’ll love this. They want to get out of the Toscanini business—high cost and increasingly low return—while setting up this bogus Maestro in an ultra-hotsy-totsy Vegas hotel that Lansky and Lucky are going to build, with NBC as silent partners.”

“That’s what this is all about?” Now Toots wasn’t whispering anymore. “Holy shit.”

“That’s what this is all about, and that’s why my poor fiddler got hit. Now this story could only have leaked out from me, because obviously no one at NBC would spill this.”

“Puts you further in jeopardy.”

“No. It only accelerates their panic, because Meyer doesn’t know where I am.”

“What are you planning to do?”

“Drive straight to New York. I’ve got to get this out in the open as soon as possible. Should take, what, a day and a half if I push hard?”

“No chance. I did it once. It’s almost a thousand miles. That’s two days, unless you’re Flash Gordon.”

“What’s the fastest way?”

“There’s no fastest way. There’s slow and slower. But you play your cards right, you could get to, say, Indianapolis by three, four in the morning, sleep over, then bust your hump tomorrow.”

“How late you going to be working tonight?”

“I’m here till you get home, Jack. This is too big a story, plus I think I’m your only link to a kindlier universe.”

I was touched by his friendship, even given the selfish motive of exclusivity on this most incendiary of stories. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, for openers.”

“That’s more than enough. Call me if you need anything.” He started to get off, then thought again. “Jack, I have one other question. Something that doesn’t figure.”

“What?”

“Toscanini’s family. He’s got a wife, couple kids. What the hell do they think is going on?”

“That disgruntled, homicidal fascists are after him, still pissed about his anti-Mussolini activities.”

“And that’s why they think he’s being kept out of circulation?”

“Exactly. And Meyer’s guys will explain to them that the heart attack is part of the same cover story, to keep the fascists away. The reality is, it’s all a holding action until they can get me out of the way and get the old man back to Vegas.”

“The double.”

“Correct. God knows what they do with the real one. Keep him in hiding till he croaks.”

There was an admiring beat before Toots said, “You think about it, it’s really a insidious, brilliant fucking plan.”

“I agree,” I told him. “They don’t call him Meyer Lansky for nothing.”

SIXTEEN

Barbara and I took turns
behind the wheel for the next four and a half hours, until neither of us trusted ourselves to drive any farther. We were both punchy and more stressed than we wanted to admit. About an hour outside of Indianapolis, we stopped for the night at the Starlight Motor Hotel and booked two adjoining rooms. The night manager had a slight Castilian accent and identified himself as George Dobles.

“I am the owner of this motor hotel,” he said. “So any problem, you can come right to me. There is not a middleman.” Dobles had a thick Pancho Villa mustache and glossy black hair that reached the collar of his plaid shirt. His brown eyes glittered so merrily behind his horn-rimmed glasses that I suspected he had spent a significant part of the evening smoking reefer in his apartment. The door behind him in the motel office was shut tight. How a marijuana-loving Castilian had ended up in western Indiana might have made for a fascinating tale, but not at a quarter past three in the morning. All I wanted was to rest my bald head on a feather pillow.

Dobles opened the registration book and rotated it toward me. I signed in as Dr. and Mrs. Richard Abrams and registered the Maestro as Genaro Chusano, the name of my former janitor in Sunnyside. Dobles handed me the keys to rooms 14 and 15. They were attached to metal ovals with the room numbers engraved on them and didn’t weigh much more than a pair of bowling balls.

“Just down the end here, Dr. Abrams,” Dobles said with a soft smile that was either mocking or just plain wasted.

“Thanks,” I told him. “I’ll pull the car around.” I went back to the Mercury, started up the engine, and threw the car into reverse.

“That’s the night clerk?” Barbara whispered. Dobles had stepped outside and was watching us.

“Nope. That’s the owner himself. Wish the hell he’d go back inside.”

But he didn’t. I drove our rented car thirty or so feet to our assigned rooms, and Dobles never moved a muscle. When Barbara got out of the car, he took his glasses off and cleaned them, then put them on again and just leaned against the office door.

“Just go about your business,” I told Barbara. “Don’t look at him.” I handed her our room key. “Go to the room. I’ll get the old man up.”

Barbara walked over to room 14 and quickly opened the door. There wasn’t a soul around and traffic on Route 36 had thinned to the odd truck rattling its commercial way to points east or west. Call me provincial, but the world outside New York seemed like a very lonely place.

I watched Barbara enter the room and switch on some lights, then 1 turned and lightly tapped Maestro on the knee. He grunted and shifted in his seat. It took two more attempts before I roused him and finally pulled him from the Mercury, limb by ancient limb. He was obviously disoriented and looked and smelled like any other geezer.

“Lean on my right arm,” I whispered to him.

Toscanini just nodded and grasped my biceps for dear life. It was no act; the old guy had run out of gas. I fumbled with the key before opening the door to room 15. As I helped Toscanini inside, I saw that George Dobles still hadn’t moved an inch. I nodded politely in his direction before closing the door behind me; Dobles nodded back and then began to slowly scratch his nuts. This was just a delightful spot all the way around.

I got the old man into his clean, sparsely furnished room and asked him if there was anything he needed. He just waved his hand and smiled. “Boston Blackie, are you crazy in head? I am in here.” He pointed to the wall. “She is in there. You go now or Maestro goes!” He sat down on the bed and patted it. “Is soft, this bed. Maybe you will sink!”

“I just thought you might need some help.”

“I need nothing but to sleep. You lock the door, Boston Blackie, make sure nobody take me away.”

“Of course.”

“Bene.
And tomorrow, signore, we stop and buy …” he tugged at the waistband of his billowing briefs.
“Intima, sì
?”

“Underwear. Of course. Socks. We’ll get you all fixed up.”

“Sì.
” He nodded, yawned, pushed himself up off the bed, pointed to the door. “Go,
idiota
!” He smiled as I went to the door, waved a fist in the air in encouragement. I left Toscanini’s room and locked the door, turning the knob twice to make certain it was secure. Dobles remained poised against the door of his office. He had ignited a short but pungent cigar, which I could smell as intensely as if he was standing beside me. He threw me a short salute and I waved back. Nothing about this guy seemed kosher, but it was too late to change our lodgings, and I chalked up some of my paranoia to the lateness of the hour and the bloody events of the day.

Barbara had left the door to our room unlocked. When I let myself in, I could hear the water running. “That creep is still standing in front of the office,” I announced, then walked into the tiny bathroom. Barbara stood at the sink wearing only red silk panties and a toothpaste-covered smile; she rinsed her mouth and gazed curiously at our dual images in the mirror.

“Hey, there, sailor,” she said.

I came up behind her and gave her a hug; my arms encircled her warm firm breasts and she pushed out her chest so I could feel every velvety inch of them. We both watched ourselves in the mirror. Talk about an unlikely couple.

“I haven’t driven this much in one day since I was a pup,” I told her. “I’m exhausted.”

“How exhausted?” She pressed her exquisite bottom up against me and rotated it approximately fifteen degrees to the right and then back again. The results were immediate and obvious. “See? Not so pooped after all.” She turned to me and kissed me full on the lips, her fragrant Ipana breath tickling my nostrils, then ran the back of her hand lightly against my cheek and kissed me again, ever so lightly—almost a phantom kiss, the tip of her tongue barely brushing mine.

“How can you be so frisky?” I asked.

Her reply was to kiss me once more, hungrier this time, while managing to wriggle out of her panties in one wondrous motion. Her girlish smile had been replaced by a look of womanly urgency. She took my hand and led me silently into the bedroom, then lay back on the bed with her arms outstretched, her toes curled up, and a look in her eyes than could have brought down a government. Any government.

I got out of my clothes with a good deal less finesse than she had, hopping around on one foot, struggling to pull off shoes and socks like Harry Houdini strapped to the submerged propeller of an ocean liner.

“How do you get undressed so easily?” I whispered to her, after I had finally disrobed and lay across from her on the lumpy double bed.

“It’s a gift,” she whispered, rapidly nipping my face with small darting kisses, all the while running the backs of her long warm fingers beneath my surprised and grateful balls. “I’m so hot,” I think she said, although my power of hearing was rapidly disintegrating. Barbara rolled on top of me as easily as a jockey springing aboard a Derby winner, kissing my forehead, my lips, and my nipples in rapid succession. Kiss kiss kiss. She pulled her body down over mine, a kind of survey, grazing all of me with all of her, and then she pushed herself upward again, so that her breasts faced my wide eyes like a pair of beautiful twins. I nuzzled them, kissed them, sucked them ever so lightly, then not so lightly.

“Mmm-hmm,” she crooned, from some place in the back of her throat, or her lungs, or her toes. God only knows. She leaned over and switched off the table lamp without seeming to move at all.

“How’d you do that?” I think I said. Her face was suddenly bare inches from mine, faintly illuminated by the dim light emanating from the fixture outside the motel room door.

“Do what?” She arched her back and I moved into her and she closed her eyes and began moving so slowly I thought we were underwater. I was both terribly aroused and deeply fatigued, as only a forty-four-year-old man inside a twenty-one-year-old girl can be; I drifted in and out of consciousness, as if fucking this wondrous soul at a dreamlike remove. She felt like some paradisiacal blend of feathers and gravy, and as we made our way across our joined terrain of skin and nerves, I knew I would do just about anything for Barbara Stern. It felt that good, and scarier still, it felt like we’d been doing it for years and years. We fit.

She moved a little quicker now, but remained ever in control. Barbara looked at me, then closed her eyes and tossed her hair; she ran her hands up across my chest, ducked down to kiss me, and then held out her breasts for both of us to feast on, taking increasingly fevered turns. It all moved at the speed of inevitability and when she got close, she reached back, wrapped her hand around me, and gave me a squeeze of ever so delicate force, like a plant enclosing me, and I shut my eyes as the two of us sustained our soft, sequential explosions.