Tall Tommy is a little miffed at being interrupted. “As I was about to say, unless he fights fraud with fraud.”
“Lay it out, Tall Tommy.”
“It’s simple, Chick. The bozo is claiming this mark lured his wife into an affair, and that makes the lawyers pant like hounds for a contingency slice. But if the lawyers find out that this dame plays around with more than one guy, they drop the case because they haven’t got one.”
“Why, that’s immoral! You’re suggesting we tarnish this woman’s reputation!”
Tall Tommy gives me a “who’s this hoople” look.
“He’s an elder of his church,” I explain.
“That’s not a very original scheme, Tall Tommy. It used to work in paternity suits before they got those blood tests up to snuff, but this is different.” That’s Barry’s two cents.
“I don’t mean a whole bunch of guys giving phony affidavits; that’s for punks and it’s bad lying. All you need is to have her seen with a guy with a notorious reputation, a real rat with women. Let the bozo’s lawyer get a sniff of that and the ballgame’s over.” He got to his feet. “That’s all I can do for you gents. It’s the impotence dodge, the rat caper, or, well, you could have them knocked off.”
When the door closed behind him, Barry sat up. “I like the Don Juan angle,” he said with a leer, and I know exactly what’s going on in that crafty agent’s brain of his. Come February 28th, we will have to come up with five G’s on the mortgage and another ten to keep us going until the swells come home. He looked at me and then at my millionaire.
“Hell, no!” I shouted.
Operation Gina Velker started two days later (three bars of “Just a Gigolo,” please). Two days, because that’s how long it took Cy Tregannon, a P.I. I know, to put together the stakeout, the movement pattern, and the general poop on the Velkers. Tregannon dished it up with a written report and some fuzzy pix via a telephoto lens. First, the report:
“The Velkers are out to give the impression that Jay Porter has tossed a wrench into their marriage works, so Samson has moved out of the nest into a one room dump on the rim of the barrio several blocks north of the modest digs they used to call home on 89th near the East River. Samson works as a clerk in a local dry cleaners, and all Gina seems to do is shop in neighborhood stores.”
The telephoto pix didn’t meld much excitement to the deal. When Samson Velker’s ma and pa hung that monicker on him, they either had great expectations in genealogy or faith in high protein diets. They lost. He looked like he was put together with only half a box of Tinker Toys — he was thin, knobby-jointed, and fragile. The guy was a mugger’s dream, which wouldn’t hurt his case in a courtroom once the solid, muscle-toned, tanned lecher-millionaire showed up. But, since the entire exercise was to keep it out of court, I concentrated on Gina. Not that Tregannon’s pictures gave me much to concentrate on except the regulation New York woman’s winter wear — bulk. She looked like a sausage in boots.
To make matters worse, I couldn’t plan the strategy myself because my partner Big-mouth Barry had gathered the merry men, who considered themselves responsible for all the aspects of my young life. First and not foremost, Mario Puccini, who runs a limo for hire out of East 76th Street, only I seem to be the only soul who has his phone number. Then, of course, we have the boys from the club staff: Jack McCarthy, my kitchen manager; Guido LaSalle, my chief chef; Cuz D’Amico, the lead barkeep; Ling, the maitre d’; Barry; and one invitee, Tall Tommy Tanuka. Not one of them ever agrees with me except Guido, and he’s usually squiffed.
“I like the supermarket ploy,” says Guido.
“I don’t,” says Barry. “Who’s going to believe Chick even knows what the inside of a supermarket looks like?”
“The broad won’t know that,” Cuz says. I don’t know whether he’s defending me or just the idea. And I do know what the inside of a supermarket looks like, by the way, at least through the windows.
Now Barry gets cute. “Okay, Chick, what’s the first thing you do when you go into a supermarket?”
“You take a number from the ticket machine, wise guy, so you can get faster service.”
“That’s a deli, not a supermarket.”
I looked around at the group. “Well, does anyone know what is the first thing you do in a supermarket? I mean, come on, guys, this has to look natural if she’s going to tumble.”
All I’m getting is dumb looks, which is all you can expect from a bunch of guys who get up at six P.M., live all night in tuxedos, and consider phoning out for chow mein home cooking.
Cuz comes to the rescue. “I guess it’s the same in the city. Over in Jersey, they have these baskets on wheels.”
“Wheels,” I said, getting an idea. “Wheels could set up a collision scene. I crash into this Gina Velker. ‘So sorry,’ I say, ‘how about a drink.’ Zap! I’m on my way.”
“Very bad.”
“Why, Tall Tommy?”
“Because these Velkers love lawsuits. You’re going to end up in court.”
“I told you the supermarket stuff stank.” Barry plays Mr. Paraquat. “Does this broad own a dog? She’s got to own a dog. Everyone in New York owns a dog. I read in the paper that there are more dogs than people here.”
“Someone must have my quota,” I said. “Why a dog, Barry?”
“We get you the same kind of dog and you walk it on her street. It’s a great way to pick up girls.”
“No dog,” Jack Mac reports. “But the supermarket idea would work if Chick let the broad smash into him!”
They all looked at each other in agreement, which was easy for them, since I was the one who had to take the lumps. Besides, I had other qualms: suppose she didn’t like me?
“Boy, if I knew when I left the house this morning,” Gina Velker was saying across the tablecloth, “that I would almost cripple a star and end up playing Florence Nightingale and having lunch at 21 — wow. Is that Tom Brokaw over there?”
“Who?”
“Tom Brokaw. You know, the Today show? Jane Pauley, Gene Shalit?”
I could have told her I’d never seen the Today show, since I usually sleep till noon or better, but not wanting to rock her boat, I glanced at the next table and whispered to her, “That’s ol’ Tommy, all right.”
It seems all my qualms about my appealing to her were for naught. My luncheon guest was a celebrity junkie, a TV addict, and a professional fan. Instead of a brain, she had a cathode ray tube. Her addiction, however, was a Godsend to the plot, because one of the local channels was re-running the hell out of a sci-fi bomb I made ten years ago. She recognized me when I took the dive in the supermarket and “helped” me to Doc Dranger’s office on the West Side, where my ankle was taped and a cane supplied. (Doc Dranger is a friend of Tall Tommy. He is short on ethics and long on whiplash scams and gunshot wounds.)
When we left Dr. Dranger’s, I kept the hustle in motion by offering her lunch at 21. Although she was OD’ing on bliss, it wasn’t a rubberneck’s awe. She seemed to know that you just don’t stroll into 21 at twelve thirty without a reservation and get seated at Table 3.
“The Benchley corner!” she said after Walter had gotten us settled and the drink order was taken. “Did you know Otto Preminger had a fight here over the film rights to In Cold Blood? Chick, you have clout. But how come we didn’t go to your restaurant?”
“Because a lot of people keep coming up to the table for a smooze, and I wouldn’t have a minute to get to know you better.”
She blushed happily. “Tom Brokaw has a high P.Q., you know,” she said. “What’s your P.Q., Chick?”