Chapter 3

By 11:30 I was out of Ginger Ale and the whiskey was warm enough to let me know I had had enough. I figured it wouldn't hurt to cruise on down to The Showtime, where Dickey had originally picked Sissy up and see if they knew anything. I figured chances were slimmer than me getting a date with one of the dancers, but I could think of worse ways to waste my time. 

The Showtime was only twenty minutes outside the city down some winding mountain roads that the sauce in my belly didn't agree with. I pulled my sedan into the parking lot just before midnight. It was a Tuesday so I was able to get a spot. The Showtime was a popular hangout for upper class gangsters and lower class politicians. The types of City Councilmen that kept company here didn't have to worry about re-election as snug as they were in the pockets of people like Dickey. Lambert ran a regular shift down here Fridays and Saturdays so it was never any secret who was coming or going, and some of the John Does even took a little pride in being associated with the place. I had only ever read about it in black and white. Private Dicks don't impress any one enough to get special treatment in a place like this. 

I took a seat at a booth near the back and watched some five piece discount orchestra go through the motions. Half the tables were full of the usual characters, a few of them still wearing their hats and overcoats. A short little number in a skirt too high and a blouse too low made her way over to me and I ordered a Manhattan and sat back and cased the joint. I didn't bother getting up or going far, figuring the action would come to me. I was right. About halfway through my second drink I felt a cold hard hand on my shoulder and a voice like a bass drum. 

"What's the big idea Mack? Don't have a better way to kill a Tuesday night?" 

"Don't me mind," I reassured him, "I'm just here for the air conditioning." 

A tall dark fellow just slightly smaller than the room we were sitting in came around from behind and managed to make himself comfortable across from me. His head was shaved smooth and reflected the lights from the ceiling above him. He was wearing one of those big wide lapeled suits with an orchid in the front pocket and a tie that looked like it was cut from the Ringling Brother's circus tent. A fragrant little mini cigar hung out of the corner of his mouth. It smelled like a funeral parlor when he exhaled across the table, which he seemed to take a particular pleasure in doing. 

"We don't get many Shamuses throwing back here at the Showtime, Mack. Spill it, what gives?"

"How do you keep from the shoe polish from dripping down off that dome of yours and mussing up that Zoot? And who so says I'm here on business, can't a guy just hold down a table for a couple of hours without bothering anybody?"

"No." 

"Well in that case, why don't you tell me how I get an audience with old George Stansall on a night like tonight. Doesn't seem like there's too much else going on and if he's not too busy sitting around in his office counting his money, I'd sure like to chat him up."

The pile across the table from me grunted and sort of grinned, but didn't say anything and just went on smoking.

"Go ahead, you can even till him Dickey Bernard sent me here to ask the questions. Maybe that'd get his nose out of his checkbook." That almost did it. I saw a small flash of interest flicker in his eyes, but just as quickly it was gone and that grin was all that was left of it. 

"Dickey Bernard sent you, here, to bother me?" He graced me with another of his characteristic grunts. "That'd be the day, but I tell you what, it's the best yarn anyone's come up with in a while, so I'll go and get Mr. Stansall and spin it for him. We'll let him try it on for size."

He got up and walked away past the stage and through a small door in the corner that I hadn't noticed. He wasn't gone for long and when he returned that same damn grin was smeared across his face. "I guess you got him on a good night. This ought to be fun." He nodded for me to follow him and we went back through that small door next to the stage. It led to some sort of small sitting room with some cheap tin chairs and a couple of posters of foreign cities. It looked like the waiting room for some fly by night travel agency. Two doors faced us, I figured on of them went to where the girls got dressed and the other was probably Stansall's office. Titus and I barely fit into the room together and I was doing my best being patient and waiting for him to point me towards the right door. Instead he turned, exhaled some more of that putrid little cigar and put that grin back on. 

"Got to frisk you, Shamus. Don't hold it against me." 

"Knock yourself out, but you won't find anything. I don't carry heat, can't stand the stuff, bad for my disposition." He didn't seem dissuaded and felt out all my pockets and otherwise.  He pulled my wallet out of my coat pocket and took a peak at the inside. Not much to see, but it did have my cellophane Private Investigator license. He held on to that, for posterity I suppose. When he was done he pulled back his jacket showing off a little snub-nosed detective special tucked into his waist band. Just in case there had been any doubt. 

He led me through the door on the left into a large office, empty except for an oak desk bigger than the bed I slept in facing two wing back chairs. George Stansall, owner and operator of the Showtime, sat behind it. I took a seat in the chair on the left and my companion stayed back by the door. Even so I could still feel him and his handy little .38 staring me down. 

The room was lit by a single desk lamp that faced directly at a large leather bound ledger on Stansall's desk. There wasn't much light to go by but Stansall seemed to be a uniquely underwhelming man. He didn't bother rising to greet me so it would be hard to say exactly but I would put him at no taller than five eight. He wore a custom suit with the all the trimmings. His bald head sported a pair of thick glasses and was held up by a neck thinner than my toothbrush. He looked like someone's bald kid brother dressed up in Dad's Sunday best. Just goes to show you that it's not all muscles and jaw lines in this business. 

"Curtis Maxwell, Private Eye. The pleasure seems to be all mine." 

Stansall pulled out a gold pocket watch, flipped it open and looked down at it, all the while managing to keep one eye on me. He put the watch down on his desk, under the lamp. 

"You have five minutes of my time, Mr. Maxwell. Do your best not to waste it." He frowned at me in a way that said that I would probably do just that.

"So much for asking about the Dodgers' chances this fall, I guess we'll just have to get down to business." Nothing from across the desk except that same concrete frown. This town sure seemed to be taking itself pretty seriously lately. "I was sent here by Mr. Richard Bernard. He wants to know when he can expect the money that you owe to Sissy Kanopolis." It was a shot in the dark and a pretty broad one at that, but it seemed cooler than coming right out with Dickey's actual business. Stansall took the bait though and bit hard.  

He seemed to grow an inch or two in his chair and his pale cheeks got just a little pinker. Though it was hard to tell behind those coke bottles on his face, his eyes seemed to get just a little smaller as well. 

"Tell that son-of-a-bitch that Sissy's contract was for six months and if she wants to get paid, she still owes me two. Tell him that she and I had an agreement and that this ain't no charity house I'm running here. And tell him that just because he got tired of sending his goons out my way and got the gumption to hire some Private Dick to track down his business doesn't scare me one bit. I'm a business man and he if doesn't respect that I don't know what to tell him."

"Well I can't speak for Mr. Bernard, but I get the idea that there's a whole lot in this town that he does respect. In any case I'll be sure and relay him your message. Sorry for taking up your time." I got up to go and walked back to the door behind me. The gorilla was still guarding the door and for a moment stayed put and acted like he wasn't going to let me through. I sized him up and decided there was no way through any door he didn't want me to get through. Eventually though he just grinned and thrust my wallet back into my chest hard enough to nearly knock the wind out of me. The grin came back. 

"Have a nice night, Curtis."

****

The long drive home gave me a chance to sort out my thoughts. If Stansall was still sore at Sissy for bailing out of her contract it stood to reason that he would have no idea as to her whereabouts. Otherwise, he would have her back at work by now. It was understood that Stansall's girls were more like indentured servants than showgirls. They drew up contracts, agreed to a certain length of time, six months say, and at the end of it, were given a paycheck and an option to renew. In the meantime, he gave them a living stipend and put them all up in bungalows outside of town. Some nights those bungalows made it into my dreams. 

I took the same winding mountain roads back to the city that I had come in on. Out here there's no hiding, and it didn't take me long to notice my tail. To be fair though he didn't seem to be hiding himself either. I sped up about fifteen over the limit just to test him and he stayed the same fifty or so yards behind me. Then I slowed way down, seeing maybe if he would pass. He didn't of course. I figured I would just make it back to the city and shake him there. It was probably just the gorilla with the circus tent tie making sure I didn't cause any more trouble around the club. Just the same I reached over and opened the glove box. I rooted around for a minute and took out the Luger I kept in there and put it on the seat beside me. Knowing it was there made me drive just a little straighter. 

All the sudden though the headlights behind me got a lot bigger and before I knew it they were just a few feet from my bumper. I felt a bump from behind and held the wheel tight with my left hand while the right reached for the Luger. Another bump and the back of the car was fishtailing all over the road. All the sudden I was cussing the whiskey and sodas. A third bump was enough to send me to the shoulder of road, turned around backwards, my grill facing the way I had come from. The high beams on the other car were on full blast and pointed right at me, blinding me to anything that may have been in front of me. I threw open my door, thrust the heater out in front me and hoped for the best. I never even had a chance. 

He had managed to get behind me somehow and the blackjack came across my skull like a whip and the ground rushed up to meet me. I lost my gun somewhere and groped around for it, but without luck. I tried my hardest to hold onto consciousness but I knew that it was no good. A dull warmth was coming from where my hat should have been and spreading down towards my neck. A healed leather boot planted itself right next to my nose. 

"Sissy Kanopolis appreciates your dropping this case and staying out of her business." The voice was high and effeminate and with some sort of European accent that in my state I couldn't manage to place. "She will be most appreciative to not have to deal with the matter again."

The last thing I remember before blacking out was the smell of expensive French cologne and the sound of a lighter being flicked open and struck. After that it was curtains.