The Case of the Mistletoe Mistress - #2

The Case of the Mistletoe Mistress


EPISODE 2

The Lead

When I leaves Ramey’s place o’ business, the sky’s dustin’ the neighborhood with the white stuff an’ I figures we’ll get a couple o’ inches ‘fore it’s over. I left Ramey shakin’ like he’s got the screamin’ meemies an’ wonderin’ why he’s still breathin’. Cause o’ that, gettin’ names from him ain’t hard. Accordin’ to what they told him, the same skirt callin’ herself Angel worked all five guys at the party. She hadda knock ‘em out for the whole night to be able to waylay all of 'em. I figures she picks one, slip ‘em a Mickey and either her or her crony takes the pictures. Then she gets dolled up again, goes back to the party and picks up the next sap. Quite a caper. But, is she the brains behind it?

I knows all the names Ramey gives me. Anthony “Tony” Acosta, reputed lieutenant o’ the Caprici family was the call that panicked him. When I shows up after Acosta called, he don’t know I’m a private dick, see? He’s thinkin’ I’m a torpedo sent by Acosta to fill him full o’ holes. And knowin’ Acosta, that might still happen.

The other calls he gets is from Ronald Kaplin, William Brancel and James Jacoby. Kaplin owns a chain o’ dry cleaners, Brancel is big in the stock market, and Jacoby’s got a bunch o’ dealerships. All these eggs like puttin’ on the Ritz, and all of ‘em are legit. But Acosta, not so much.

Ramey tells me somethin’ I already suspected. The escort service is owned by a dame named Zoë Yanick; a hometown gal who built her business lyin’ down. I ain’t seen her in years, but we were tight once. I helped her out of a jam when I was a baby-faced kid startin’ out. Her pimp was beatin’ the crap outta her because she was comin’ up short. I was there once when he started wailin’ on her. That's a mistake he ain't never gonna make again. So, while he’s recoverin’ in the hospital, she goes independent.

Zoë was smart. She was a real looker in her day, but the local fella’s ain’t payin’ the big money. She starts workin’ the high-class hotels and the rich businessmen from outta town, an' she cuts the bartenders a percentage so they don’t run her out. Soon she can’t handle the business all by her lonesome. She recruits the best lookin’ quiffs, dolls ‘em up in glad rags and teaches ‘em a little class. Pretty soon, she’s gettin’ top dollar for her girls. After that, all the classy dames are comin’ to her. She opens an office downtown near the Inner Harbor where all the ritzy hotels are an’ picks up the conventions and the trade shows. Looks like she’s doin’ private parties now, too.

Since it’s after business hours, I gotta wait till tomorrow to see her. But right now, I gotta see a man about a dog. There’s a bottle with my name on it down at Murphy’s Pub.


Next mornin’ I wakes up to this ringin’ and looks at the clock on the nightstand. 8:45. I goes to roll outta bed, but there’s a dame next to me. I looks at her real close, see? I don’t remember her. I crawls over her and answers the blower.

“Greyson! Get up! Doucette just called. He has payment instructions.”

“Fer cryin’ out loud, Arlene. Why do you always call me before ten? It ain’t good for my health.”

“You have work to do. Did you talk to Ramey?”

“What’s with the twenty questions? Ain’t you got nothin’ better to do?”

“Yes. And I’m doing it. Now get up!”

Then I hears this voice. It sounds familiar.

“Grey-son … come back to bed.”

I can hear Arlene. She don't need no phone. “And who is THAT!”

“Ain’t nobody, Arlene.”

She don’t say nothin’, but I hears her breathin’. That ain’t good.

“Arlene?”

“I’m here. I think you should send your little playmate home and get in here. You’re on a case.”

She don’t say goodbye or nothin’ and her slammin’ the blower down ain’t makin’ my headache any better. I goes back to the dame.

“Listen, Doll. I gotta go to work, so you gotta scram.”

“But Greyson….”

“Sorry Doll. Now get a wiggle.”

“You want me to wiggle?”

“Go on. Beat it. Leave your number on the bureau. I’ll call you later.”

After I gets outta the shower, the dame’s gone. I sees a piece o’ paper on my bureau and picks it up. It’s got a number and that’s all. Looks like I ain’t callin’ this one back. I don’t remember her name.


I kicks the snow off my shoes before I walks into the office. Arlene’s temperament matches the weather an’ she’s givin’ me the icy mitt. She ain’t happy an’ I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. I grabs a cup o’ joe and pours a little hair o’ the dog into the cup, just to settle my nerves.

“Didn’t you get your fill last night?”

“What’s eatin’ you, Doll?”

“Nothing. And please stop callin’ me doll! Save it for your … conquests!”

“It ain’t like that I tell ya. She was on a bender … spifficated. I just gave her a place to flop for the night.”

“And I suppose you slept on the couch.”

“Well … yeah.”

“You don’t own a couch.”

“C’mon, Arlene. I didn’t divorce all my wives just so you can give me an earful.”

“Fine! What do I care! I just work for you and it’s none of my business.”

Whenever Arlene says it’s none of her business, she really means: ‘You hurt my feelings and now I’m gonna pout all day.’ It’s just as well. I needs to step her back every now and then. She’s been gettin’ too starry-eyed lately with the holidays an’ all.

“So what did Doucette say?”

There’s this long sigh before I hear words. “He’s supposed to transfer the money every Wednesday morning to an account before noon. If he doesn’t, the pictures go to the tabloids. Says he’s frantic. Wants to know what you’ve turned up.”

Electronic transfers. Things were better in the old days. At least somebody hadda be there to make the pick-up. “Did you get the account number?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And what?”

I hate when she’s pissed at me. It’s like pullin’ teeth. “And … did you check it out?”

“Yes.”

“C’mon, Arlene. We ain’t married ya know.” I sees her eyes gettin’ shiny and she starts blinkin’ real fast. Now I hears a catch in her voice.

“If you’d … just once open your damn eyes you’d see….” Her chest heaves with a deep breath and she starts wipin’ the corners of her eyes. “Oh, what’s the use. Never mind.”

Now I feels like a heel. But I can’t give her what she wants. I’m done with long-term commitments. I can’t afford ‘em.

When she settles down, she tells me she can’t access the account like she did in the Wexler case because they got a wall on fire or somethin’ like that. I don’t know from nothin’ ‘bout computers, so I decides to go see Zoë.


A little snow and people forget how to drive. I don’t get downtown till almost two. Zoë’s office is in the high-rent part o’ the business district. I presses the elevator button for the 7th floor, an’ when I steps into the hall, I sees a set o’ mirrored double-glass doors and bold black letters sayin’ Z.Y. Assocs. I’m wonderin’ who the associates are. I checks my reflection in the door, straightens my tie, and walks in.

I stops dead in my tracks when I finds myself standin’ on some color o’ pink carpet that’s gotta be two inches thick. I feels like takin’ my shoes off and diggin’ my toes in. I looks around an’ sees colorful paintin’s o’ half-naked dames hangin’ on crushed velvet walls, statues of nudes made o’ marble, and flowers in pots shaped like female body parts. There’s plush sofas and chairs in different shades o’ purple an’ red, saxophone music playin’ from somewhere, and I was pretty sure I was gettin’ aroused.

I don’t see a man in sight … but the women! They was from every nationality, all wearin’ suits with their hair up and goin’ 'bout their business. They was anywhere from 5-8 to 5-11 with hourglass chasses, big bubs and long gams. There were blondes with blue eyes, brunettes with brown and redheads with green—and suddenly, I starts thinkin’ about Arlene.

I’m standin’ in a lobby that’s the width o’ the building, lookin’ like some bumpkin who just got off the boat, when this 5’- 6”, raven-haired, Oriental knockout strolls by. She stops an’ smiles, then looks me up and down like I’m a piece o’ candy.

“Can I help you with something?” she says. I coulda swore she was purrin’.

“Ah…. Ah….”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Ah….”

I ain’t never been tongue-tied in front o’ no dame before, see? But I guess there’s a first time for everything. I shakes my head no.

She smiles again and tells me to see the receptionist. Then she places her palm on my chest, looks me up and down almost lickin’ her lips, and walks away leavin’ her hand on me till she runs outta arm-reach. I watches her till she turns the corner at the far end o’ the lobby and disappears. I got this urge to follow her, see? But rememberers I'm workin'. Just as well. A dame like that's gonna cost me at least a G. And this week, that's two days pay.

I starts lookin for the receptionist. She ain’t more’n ten feet to my left, sittin’ behind this big oak desk with one ‘o them green library readin’ lamps. I figures she’s in her early twenties. Wonder why I didn’t see her when I walked in.

She’s a dirty-blonde with a short, spiky cut, too much makeup, and one o’ them blue-teeth things in her ear. She’s talkin’ into thin air and writin’ somethin’ down in a book when I walks up. I checks her out while I’m waitin’.

She’s wearin’ a white blouse under a dark blue business suit that’s playin’ down her assets, but even with that, I can see she’s put up. She’s got those long gams crossed knee over knee and her jacket’s strugglin’ to keep the buttons, buttoned. I can’t see no more, but I’d bet six-two-and-even the rest o’ her is just as good.

She turns to me and pushes an old-fashion pair o’ black, horn rimmed cheaters up the bridge of her nose with the tip of her index finger. Then I sees her eyes; crystal blue so light, they coulda been made o’ glass.

“Yes, sir,” she says. “How can I help you?”

“My name is Sloane. I’m here to see Zoë.”

“Do you have an appointment, Mister Sloane?”

“Didn’t know I needed one.”

“Yes, generally.” She checks a desk-sized calendar. “If you can come back….”

“It’s important, Miss….” I glances at her nameplate. “Miss Patterson.”

She gives me a quick once over like she’s tryin’ to decide if I’m sellin’ somethin’. “Let me see if she’s busy.” She presses a button on this fancy blower. “A Mister Sloane to see you, Miss Zoë.” She listens for a second, then says: “Could I please have your first name?”

“Greyson. Greyson Sloane.”

She repeats it into thin air, then touches another button. “Well, this is a first,” she says. “She’ll be right out. Please have a se….”

“GREYYY-SON!”

I turns in the direction o’ the voice an’ sees a dame in a gray business suit. It’s Zoë, and she looks as good as she did twenty years ago. Her face has a little age to it, she’s carryin’ a few more pounds than I remember, and her hair’s shoulder length. She’s not a brunette anymore, either.

She’s runnin’ as good as she can in a skirt with her arms out stretched, and when she gets to me, she gives me a big hug and a smooch on the cheek. Then she steps back an’ takes me in like we was in a men’s clothing store, and she’s decidin’ if she likes the suit she picked.

“Greyson! Greyson Sloane! It’s so good to SEE you! How have you BEEN? You still working as a shamus? Damn, you haven’t changed a bit … still as roguish as ever. Let me look at you!”

I glances at the receptionist outta embarrassment and she’s got a look like she ain’t never seen this happen before.

“Hi ya, Doll. Long time.”

“That’s an understatement. What’s it been? Fifteen years? Twenty? C’mon. Let’s go to my office.”

She hooks her arm through mine and we heads to the other end o’ the lobby leavin’ the receptionist scratchin’ her head. We gets to the end an’ turns the corner, then it hits me. She’s got the whole floor. I follows her into an office that’s ten times the size o’ mine. Two glass walls overlook the harbor and the paintin’s and statues are bigger an’ better than the ones in the lobby. There’s a ten foot glass desk with a black leather executive chair and a glass wet bar on the far wall. The place is the cat’s pajamas.

“Can I make you a drink, Greyson?”

“Yeah, Doll. Scotch if ya got it.”

“Neat, as I remember.”

I gives her a wink. “Looks like you’re doin’ pretty well for yourself, Zoë.” She hands me my drink and we takes a seat on a matchin’ leather couch. She sits real close. She always did.

“Oh, I’m getting by. How about you?”

“Everything’s Jake.”

“I see you’re still using that slang that so endears me.”

“I ain’t changed all that much, Doll, but you seem to have developed some real style. You still look damn good. You ain't workin’ again, are ya?”

Zoë kicks her head back and laughs. “Not me! I leave that for the younger girls. But thanks for the compliment.”

“Why’d you go blonde? I always liked your natural color.”

“Hides the gray. So … what brings you back to my door after so many years? I’d have figured you for married by now.”

“Three-time loser."

“I should have known there wasn’t a woman out there that could hold on to you for too long. God knows I couldn’t. You’re not here to propose to me, are you?” She laughs again, but this time, it’s got a little anticipation in it.

“Like you’d have me. How ‘bout you?”

If regret had a face, it was Zoë's. "Women like me don't get married, Greyson.” Then, she brightens up. “So what can I do for you? I know you didn’t come around for some fun.”

"I’m workin’ a case. Looks like one o’ your girls might be involved.” Then I says somethin’ that hurts me a little. “Maybe you too, Zoë.”

“GREYSON! … How could you think such a thing?”

“Just workin’ the case, Doll. Ain’t nothin’ personal. I’m lookin’ for this girl.” I pulls the picture of Angel and hands it to her. She looks at it for a couple o’ seconds and hands it back.

“She’s not one of mine. I wish she were. She’s beautiful.”

“She worked Ramey’s party last week. That’s your turf.”

“I have all the Christmas parties in this town. She’s probably an independent and she shouldn’t have been there. Maybe she works for another service trying to cut into my business.”

“She used mistletoe. That’s your gig, ain’t it?”

“Yes … it is.”

I sees her expression change. Maybe she knows somethin’ an’ ain’t tellin’. Maybe she’s thinkin’ that some gold-digger’s crashin’ the party lookin’ for a sugar daddy. Or maybe she’s thinkin’ some newcomer is tryin’ to horn in on her territory. Zoë calls it an escort service, but a pimp is still a pimp. They’re like drug dealers. They protect their turf. But no matter what it is, I gets the feelin' she’s gonna play ball.

“Why are you looking for her?”

I don’t sees no harm in tellin’ her. She already knows who was at the party.

“Blackmail.”

“How much?”

“Fifty Gs a week … times five.”

“Twelve million a year? And you think I’m involved....”

“I had an inklin’.”

“Greyson … Darling. Look around. I pull in nine figures a year. Why in the world would I jeopardize that for a tenth of the money?”

I thinks about that for a minute. There’s a couple o’ reasons to blackmail some sap: revenge, a con gone bad, or a frame. It ain’t always about the money. Still, she’s got a point.

“So,” she says. “Who’s being blackmailed? Kaplin? Doucette? Brancel? Jacoby? Probably Acosta, too. But that’s not just stupid. That’s committing suicide.”

“Okay, Zoë. How’d you get the names?”

“Oh, Greyson. They’re regulars. And they’re the only regulars who weren’t with any of my girls at that party. I can show you the books, if you don’t believe me.”

Now I’m thinkin’ there ain’t no way in hell Zoë’s connected to this. She ain’t never lied to me. I guess it’s because she thinks she owes me somethin’.

“Tell me, Doll, what’s that new thing I hears every now and then? If ya ain’t part o’ the solution, then you’re part o’ the problem?”

“It isn’t all that new, Greyson. But yes, that’s how it goes.”

“In that case ... how’d you like to be part of the solution?”


Fifteen minutes later, Zoë says she has a meeting at the Chamber of Commerce and she’s gotta leave. Tells me she’s on the Board of Directors or some shit like that. But she says all the girls who worked the Ramey party are here, and I can interview ‘em if I want. No charge. Walkin’ with her to the front, we pass some of the most beautiful women I ever seen—and the way they’re lookin’ at me makes me want to get a job here. Doin’ anything.

“I ain’t never seen so many good-lookin’ dames in one place before,” I says. “Just outta curiosity, what’s the goin’ rate?”

Zoë gives me a grin. “You know what they say, Greyson. If you have to ask….”

She gives the receptionist some instructions, then tells me to call her anytime. She throws her arms around me, smooches me again, and tells me not to be a stranger. After she walks out, the receptionist hands me a sheet of paper, then adjusts her cheaters again. The dame oughta get some contacts.

“This is the list Miss Zoë told me to give to you,” she says. “It’s the names and numbers of the girls who worked the Ramey party. I’m to show you to their offices if you want to speak with them. Also, there’s just one more Christmas party before New Years. It’s on Christmas Eve at the Harbor Windjammer and it’s the biggest party in town. You’ll find a schedule of the girls working that on the sheet, along with Miss Zoë’s card. Her personal cell phone is listed there.”

Then all of a sudden like, she spots somethin’ and pulls some tissues from a box. She leans over the desk toward me and her jacket looks like the buttons are gonna pop right off. She starts wipin’ my cheek.

“Miss Zoë’s lipstick,” she says. After that, she shows me to the offices of the gals I wanna talk to. “I’ll be up front, Mister Sloane, if you need anything else.” I thanks Miss Patterson for her help, she gives me a little smile and goes back to her desk. After two hours interviewin’ Zoë’s girls, I leaves without much more than I walked in with. Only one o‘ them sees Angel at the party, and none o’ them knows who she is. I only got one lead left … the Windjammer on Christmas Eve. And I gotta hope she shows up. Angel’s the only link to the blackmailer. Hell, it might even be her. But like Zoë says: when it comes to Acosta, that would be suicide.

***

© Copyright 2007 Bernie Thomas (UN: scribe59 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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