Tonight, on the occasion of Frank Sinatra’s opening, the showroom seemed especially packed, and I suspected extra tables had been crammed in. Normally such a great crowd would have spelled good news for Sinatra, who wasn’t drawing mobs like he used to, except for the Fischetti variety.
Unfortunately, the size of tonight’s Chez Paree audience probably had more to do with morbid curiosity than any new wave of Swoonatra frenzy. Frank had been scheduled to appear at the Chez a few months ago, but had to cancel, after he’d lost his voice and coughed up blood on stage during a Copa engagement in New York. The doctors called it a vocal cord hemorrhage and sentenced him to silence for several weeks.
In fact, the Chez was so jammed tonight, I didn’t think the fiver I slipped headwaiter Mickey Levin would do the trick, particularly since we’d skipped dinner. But the five-spot—which Mickey pocketed, of course—turned out to be unnecessary, as Joey Fischetti had kept his word and saved me a booth along the wall.
The booths weren’t the best seats in the house by a long shot, in terms of seeing the show, but they were comfortable and somewhat private. As we settled in, the floor show had already started. The Chez Paree Adorables—ten dolls in Hollywood’s idea of Dodge City dancehall-girl costumes, with red garters and mesh stockings—were parading around singing that annoying Teresa Brewer tune, “Music! Music! Music!,” accompanied peppily by the Lou Breese orchestra.
I sipped a rum and Coke, and Jackie—looking like a movie star in the black cocktail dress—had not touched her Tom Collins. She was rubbing her hands together.
“Take it easy,” I said.
“Don’t you see him?” she said, alarm dancing in her lovely brown eyes. The black eye had mostly gone now— she really was a fast healer—and makeup hid what remained.
“I see him,” I said.
On our side of the room, but still separated from us by a sea of people, Rocco and Charley, with two beautiful young girls in low-cut gowns, sat ringside, craning around at the moment to watch the Adorables out on the dance floor. Charley was married, by the way, but his wife lived in Florida when he was in Chicago, and in Chicago when he was in Florida.
“Why did you bring me here?” she asked, not angry, more confused.
“I thought you could use a night out.”
“You could have taken me anywhere but here.”
“Jackie—I’m making a statement: I’m letting the Fischettis know that you’re under my protection.”
“…protection?”
“This is a very tense time for them. You’re aware of this investigation, this Kefauver thing?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, you lived in their penthouse for over a year. You saw people come and go. And you were rather rudely thrown out.”
“I’m not sure I understand…”
Or maybe she just didn’t want to.
I said, “You’re a potential witness, if those Crime Committee boys get wind of you.”
“Are you saying…I’m in danger?”
I nodded toward Rocco and Charley, who didn’t seem to have noticed us yet. “Not when these sons of bitches see that you’re with me. That you’re my girl.”
“Am I? Your girl?”
“If you want to be—position’s open.”
She clutched my hand. “Oh, I do, I do…and Nate—I’ll go wherever you want, to get well, to a clinic or hospital or whatever—”
I gave her a sharp but not unkind look. “We’re not talking about that, here. We left that behind, for tonight.”
“…okay.”
“I really do want you to have a good time.”
“I’ll try.”
“I’ll introduce you to Frank.”
“Oh, I met him when I was still in the chorus, here. He may not like seeing me very much.”
“Why?”
“I think I’m the only girl, except for a couple of married ones, who wouldn’t sleep with him.”
When the Chez Adorables had finished their number, the expected timpani roll and offstage intro of the headliner did not occur; instead, Lou Breese and his boys played “Begin the Beguine.” Murmurs of discontent and curiosity rumbled across the room—why wasn’t Sinatra coming on?
Suddenly Jackie jerked back in the booth—like maybe she’d seen a ghost, or a Fischetti—and her sharp intake of air made me jump.
I almost went for the shoulder holstered nine millimeter Browning, which my dark suit (tailored for me on Maxwell Street) was cut not to reveal. Normally I wouldn’t pack heat on a night out on the town…normally.
It wasn’t a ghost, just a Fischetti—the harmless one, the good-looking not-as-smart one, Joey, looking like a maitre d’ in his black tie and tux.
“Thanks for the booth, Joey,” I said.
“You gotta help me, Nate,” Joey said from the aisle, leaning against the linen tablecloth. He hadn’t noticed yet that the pretty blonde sitting next to me was his brother Rocco’s ex-punching bag.
“Slide in—join us.”
He did. His eyes were darting, his expression twitchy with panic. “Frank won’t go on.”
“Why not?”
“That fucker Lee Mortimer’s in the audience. I could kill Halper for not catching that reservation, and squelching it.”
I shrugged. “Just ask Mortimer to leave—refund whatever money he’s spent—”
“Nate, you know that bastard. He’ll make a scene. It won’t just be in his column, it’ll be in every paper in the country.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
He clutched at my arm. “Go back and talk Frank into going on.”
“Jesus, Joey, he’s your friend, too. You guys are bosom buddies.”
“Yeah, but he don’t respect me like he does you, Nate. Please. You gotta go talk to him—look at the size of the audience. He stiffs this crowd, his career really is over.”
Joey seemed so pitifully desperate, I gave in, asking, “Where’s Mortimer sitting?”
“Three booths down.”
“I’ll talk to him, first. Mortimer, I mean. I know him, a little. Maybe he’ll listen to reason.”
Joey was shaking his head; strangely, there was no rattle. “Anything, Nate…. Oh—hiya, Jackie. What are you doing here?”
“I’m with him,” she said, nodding to me.
Joey looked from her to me and back again, a couple times.
“Joey,” I said. “One problem at a time?”
“Right,” he said, nodding, as if acknowledging there was only so much room inside there. “Right.”
“But you have to do me a favor.”
“Anything, if you just talk to Frank.”
I was already out in the aisle. “You sit here with Jackie. If your brother notices her, and comes over, you have to protect her for me.”
“What? But Rocky’s—”
“You just tell him you’re warming my seat up while I’m doing you this favor—you can do that, Joey. You’re up to the job.”
He sighed and nodded and said, “Yeah. Yeah. Go! Do it!”
To the tune of the orchestra playing “Enjoy Yourself (It’s Later Than You Think),” I made my way down a few booths, and found Sinatra’s nemesis.
Small, well-groomed, in his early fifties, Lee Mortimer had gray hair, a gray complexion and a gray suit; his tie was gray, too…but also red, striped. His eyes were tiny and hard-looking and his nose was large and soft-looking; his chin was pointed and his lips full and sensual. Seated in the booth beside him was a good-looking green-eyed brunette in a green satin low-cut gown; she was twenty-five and I recognized her from local TV commercials and print ads, a busty, raving beauty. Sinatra had spread the word that Mortimer was a “fag” and the reporter was overcompensating.
Mortimer was smoking—using a cigarette holder (maybe he wasn’t compensating enough)—and his hooded eyes opened slightly as he smiled in recognition.