CHAPTER IX
Like most agencies, Borden's Oleomargarine was born of treason. In 1940, Borden, Olson and Mardine, the three top account men of Riley & Reeves, mutinied and set up their own agency, taking R&R's best clients with them. The fact that Riley & Reeves had done the same thing to Ansel, Bates & Crown in 1922 in no way mitigated their outraged charges of piracy, sabotage and unfair practice.
By the fifties, Borden's Oleomargarine owned five floors on the top of a Madison Avenue tower in which all the elevator operators were red-headed women. It handled thirty million dollars worth of billing a year at fifteen percent off the top, and as representative of six of the most powerful American industries (among other clients) was a monolith of agencies. It had offices in Chicago, St. Louis, New Orleans, Hollywood and San Francisco. It employed over five hundred people, among whom were the bright young bandits who would eventually mutiny in their own turn.
Success did not prevent Avery Borden from having a drink with Jake Lennox and Gabby Valentine in the saloon across the street from the Venice Theater, or from worrying about his train back to Westport where he owned one hundred acres and a twenty-room house. Our business may be cut-throat, but it's democratic. We have the highest percentage of inter-denominational ulcers anywhere.
"I've got a train to catch," Avery Borden said, "But leave us bleed the lizard again." He caught the bartender's eye. "The same all around and extra special for the lady, please. Extra special."
"Yes sir, Mr. Borden," the bartender said. "I know just how Miss V. likes it."
Lennox glanced at Gabby. "They know you here?"
"I get around," Gabby smiled. "Now, Mr. Borden...."
"Call me Avery," Borden cooed. "Call me Avery and I'll miss my train." Mr. Agency was turning all his powerful charm on Gabby. He was a remarkably young fifty, tall and slender, and looked so much like Roy Audibon that Lennox glared at him.
"Please don't," Gabby said in alarm. "I get train fever. My heart's beginning to thump now."
"Show me."
"You can feel my pulse."
"With your permission, Jake?"
"I could shoot you both and no jury would convict."
"I'm pleading the unwritten law too." Borden took Gabby's wrist and held it delicately.
"What law is that?" she asked.
"Open season on chicks like you."
"You see?" Gabby said to Lennox. "I'm fatal. Have I got him hypnotized?"
"He's under your thrall all right. Thrall?"
"Thpell," Borden said.
"We want a favor from you," Gabby said, "Will you help us?"
"Anything short of missing my train."
"What did Jordan do when he was here with you Saturday evening?"
"He drank."
Lennox nodded gloomily. "She knows that, Avery. We're looking for something else."
"Checking up on him?" Borden asked Gabby.
"For the parole board."
"He raped the cashier, murdered the boss, kidnapped their child and sold it to Procter & Gamble," Borden said promptly. "Obviously not the man for you. But I'm noble."
"I can see the blood royal in your eyes. Did Jordan talk to anybody except you?"
"Are you kids serious?"
Gabby nodded and melted Borden with her dark, candid gaze.
"We're looking for a man named Knott," Lennox explained. "I met him somewhere Saturday night and he's been giving me a hard time with threatening letters. I've got to find him and square it off."
"Did Jordan talk to anybody except you?" Gabby repeated.
"No, Miss V. He didn't," the bartender put in. "It wasn't crowded that night. I remember."
"Thank you. You're very kind. Does anybody named Knott ever come in here?"
"Not that I know of, Miss V."
"Do you know any characters named Knott?" Lennox asked Borden.
Borden was confused. "I thought you knew him."
"I don't. I'm trying to trace him."
"Try the phone book."
"I already. There's twelve Knotts on The Rock alone. None of the names look familiar. God knows how many more there are outside."
"Maybe this Knott don't have a phone, Miss V.," the bartender suggested. "Lots of people don't."
"Thank you," Gabby smiled. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"Oh no, Miss V." The bartender looked at her fondly.
Lennox glared at him and then asked Borden: "Did I mention the name after I got plastered?"
"Man, you started plastered. No, you didn't mention the name."
"What happened Saturday? Take it from the top."
"Well.... We left rehearsal around five. Came over here. Cut up the show. Had a few drinks to celebrate. Cut up the business. Had a few more. Cut up Christmas...."
"I deny that."
"Who's remembering this?"
"I'm a wholesome American boy. I never said a word against Santa Claus."
"Cut up Christmas," Borden continued firmly. "Had a few more to celebrate.... And then I caught my train."
"Didn't I ask you to have dinner with me? I've got a fuzzy recollection of that foolish, headstrong invitation. Did I mention where?"
"Have a heart, Jake. I was celebrating myself."
"Please help us, Avery," Gabby pleaded.
Borden looked at her affectionately. "What do you do, love? Come and work for me."
"First show me you're worth an office pinch."
"I will now display my giant intellect." Borden considered earnestly. "Let's see.... We were in the cab."
"What cab?"
"To the station. I gave you a lift."
"Wait a minute. Hold the phone. To the library?"
"That was your story."
"I think I remember. I wanted to check Americana scores for a production number. John Brown's ever-lovin' Body or something. Did I say where I was going to eat?"
"Some ungodly place like Chinatown."
"At The Yellow Sea?"
"It rings a bell."
"So...." Lennox nodded slowly. "First the library and then The Yellow Sea. Elementary, my dear Watson. No you don't, Avery. I'll take the check, please."
"I'll take my reward," Borden said, reaching for Gabby.
"And I'll pay it," Gabby said. "This time I'll give you the lift to the station."
After they dropped Borden at Grand Central, Gabby turned to Lennox.
"Am I helping?" she asked.
"I couldn't be doing it without you."
"Are you still afraid of what you're going to find out?"
"Yes, but it doesn't make any difference any more. I'm so damned mad at Grabinett and myself that—Were you ever at acorrida?"
"What's that?"
"A bullfight."
"Good Heavens! No!"
"I used to wonder how the bull felt. Now I know."
They entered the library from the 42nd Street side, and as they passed through the turnstile the guard nodded fondly to Gabby who smiled back.
"What the hell.... Do they know you here too?" Lennox asked in surprise.
"I told you. I get around. He's a nice man but a terrible reactionary."
"Looks like the hedonistic type to me."
"No, he's too eclectic."
"Sweetheart, sometimes you talk just like a pamphlet."
"I know. Isn't it awful? My father used to make me study the dictionary. But I practice slang whenever I remember."
They turned right through a short corridor lined with illuminated display cases and went into the music room. It was nearly closing time for this department. The bookboys were slamming volumes back into the shelves. There were half a dozen readers at the tables. One librarian minded the desk.
"Put him under your thpell," Lennox whispered.
Gabby at once walked up to the librarian and gazed candidly into his eyes. "Please.... Do you have any music about John Brown's ever-lovin' Body?"
"I beg your—" The librarian was startled, then he recovered. "I'll look, Miss. Please sign the register."
Gabby signed the desk register, then followed the librarian to the file cabinets, moving with her lazy, square-shouldered carriage. Lennox turned the pages of the desk register back to December 24th. He went through the signatures and addresses one by one. He found his own, third from the end, written in his heavy Gothic hand. There was no Knott. There was no name vaguely resembling Knott. To the best of his knowledge there was no handwriting resembling the hysterical scrawl in the letters.
He motioned to Gabby who returned to the desk.
"Nothing here," Lennox murmured. "Leave us take a powder."
"Oh, that wouldn't be kind. Let's wait a moment."
The librarian came scurrying up with a list of references which he presented to Gabby gallantly. She thanked him, folded the list and handed it to Lennox.
"What for?" he asked as they left.
"You wanted a production number, didn't you? Here it is."
"That was last week. I'm off the show now. Remember?"
"You'll be on it again," Gabby said confidently.
"Who taught you to say the right thing at the right time?"
"Nobody. I just tell the truth and shame the devil—Don't you dare touch me. Ouch! Oh quick! There's a taxi."
The Yellow Sea was packed with the early dinner crowd. The waiters ran and shouted. The managers darted from table to table, scribbling orders. The swinging doors of the kitchen banged open and shut giving flashing glimpses of a giant smoky room from which came the crackle of hot oil and excited chefs.
"This is impossible," Lennox grunted. "I'll never get a chance to ask anything in this mad-house."
"Will it always be crowded?"
"No. They'll clear out in an hour or so."
"Then let's have dinner first. I want to show off. I know how to use chop-sticks."
Lennox looked at her. "Taught to you by an eclectic Chinaman?"
"No, by a Hawaiian. He was very nice, but terribly hasty."
"Gabrielle, I swear you're a great woman. We'll have to wait for a table. Let's go to the bar."
The Yellow Sea had expanded twice in its rise to prosperity. In the forties it had added a tourist-type dining room to the original teakwood and silk-screen restaurant which now catered exclusively to the Chinese locals. In the fifties it added a chrome and neon bar. Lennox and Gabby went up a flight of stairs, down another, and entered the bar where they were unexpectedly greeted by a stranger.
"Ah!" he cried. He spoke with the explosive Chinatown diction. "Missa Hu-li Lennox. Dissa g'eat pleasuh an' honauh." He came forward, shook Jake's hand, and said: "Lon' time no see. Yes? Ha-ha."
He was short, very stout, and either an old young man or a young old man, as is so often the confusing appearance of the Chinese. His round, boyish face was perpetually wreathed in a sunny smile to which a wall-eye lent a distracting quality. You never could be sure whether he was beaming at you or at some faraway recollection.
"You 'membuh me, Missa Lennox? Stanley Fu, the Sh'off?"
"The Shoff?"
"No. Ha-ha. Sh'off. S.H.O.Ah.F.F. Sh'off."
"Shroff?"
"Yes. Yes. Whiskey?" The Shroff led them to the bar, snapped his fingers at the bartender, then rapidly undid his immaculate tie and collar and opened his shirt. He displayed a livid bruise on his shoulder. "Las' Satuhday night," he beamed. "Me'y Kissmus p'esent f'om Hu-li."
Lennox stared at the stout gentleman in amazement. "Hu-li?" he repeated. "Who he?"
"You," the Shroff beamed.
"Did he do that to you Saturday night?" Gabby asked.
"Oh yes. Yes. Ha-ha."
"Shame on you, Jordan," Gabby said reproachfully.
"I swear I don't remember. I—Gabby, this, apparently, is my good friend, Mr. Stanley Fu, the Shroff. Mr. Fu, this, positively, is Miss Gabrielle Valentine."
"G'eat pleasuh an' honnuh," the Shroff beamed. He shook hands with Gabby, then redid his shirt.
"What's a Shroff, please?" Gabby asked. "Is it something I should know?"
"Oh no. No, Issa Chinese p'ofesshun. Bankuh. Yes? Money changuh."
"How do you mean?"
"Oh yes. Silvuh into dolluh. 'Me'ican dolluh into Chinese dolluh. Papuh dolluh into silvuh." The Shroff transferred his attention to Lennox. "You put it all down. Inna liddy ole book when I te'l you Satuhday."
"In this?" Lennox took out his gimmick book.
"Yes. Yes."
"I don't remember," Lennox said. "To tell the truth, Mr. Fu, I hardly remember Saturday night at all. That's why I'm here. It's a wonderful break meeting you again. Can you help me remember?"
"Oh-ho?" The Shroff made a drinking gesture. "Yes?"
"Yes."
"Please tell us what happened Saturday night," Gabby said. "I'm worried about your bruise."
The Shroff beamed at her. "Oh yes. Happen like this. My f'iend, Hu-li, come. Stan' next to me heah." The Shroff made the drinking gesture three times. "Mahtini." He made the gesture three times again and pointed to himself. "Scotch an' soda."
"Shame on you both," Gabby said.
The Shroff patted her arm fondly.
"Wait a minute," Lennox said. "Some of it's coming back. Wasn't there a calendar up over the bar? Last year's with a fencing girl on it?"
"Yes. Yes." The Shroff nodded quickly. "We talk about pictuh of liddy young lady with fff...." He looked helplessly at Lennox.
"Foil?"
"Yes. You te'l me you ah 'Me'ican fencuh." The Shroff pointed a finger and waggled it. "I te'l you I am Chinese fencuh." The Shroff suddenly crouched and lifted both arms as though poising a baseball bat. "We go togethuh an' fence."
"We did?"
"Yes. Like Chinese." The Shroff executed a lightning swipe with both hands, then chopped at his shoulder with the side of his palm. "You give me this. Ha-ha. You 'membuh?"
Lennox shook his head. "Did I talk to anybody else at the bar before we left? A man named Knott?"
"No. No othuh man."
"Did you see anybody write in this notebook when I wasn't looking? Did I leave it around on the bar?"
"Ah? Excuse me?"
"We're trying to find someone who wrote something bad in that book, Mr. Fu," Gabby explained. "It happened last Saturday."
"So?" The Shroff's eyes became shrewd. "Man named Knott, yes? That why you ask?"
"Exactly."
"You ah only one who use book, Missa Lennox. I know."
"Well, that's that," Lennox muttered.
"Could it have happened where you fenced?" Gabby asked.
"Oh no. No. Owuh 'Sociashun foh Chinese people only. I show you if you like." Suddenly the Shroff beamed again. "Owuh 'Sociashun ve'y happy to see Hu-li again."
"Why do you call me Hu-li?"
"Ah? Because how you fence. Ha-ha. Ve'y quick. Ve'y clevuh. Hu-li in Chinese issa liddy ole animal.... Issa fox."
"Fox!" Lennox exclaimed. "So that's where the Quaker's name came from."
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing, Mr. Fu. Just the pieces crashing into place with a dull sickening thud. Show us where we fenced, please."
The Shroff led them down Mott Street, around a corner, up an alley and into a crumbling brick building from which an incredible uproar came. It sounded as though a giant were methodically beating an iron water tank to pieces. They mounted the stairs to a wooden door on which Chinese characters were painted and the Shroff ushered them into a large room.
"Dissowuh 'Sociashun," he shouted. "Foh Chinese people only. No Knott heah Satuhday night."
"What plays?" Lennox roared. "What's going on?"
"We p'epauh foh Chinese New Yeah next month."
Three saturnine Chinese in black overcoats and pearl grey hats were seated in a corner, calmly hammering a drum, a brass gong and a wooden duck. In the center of the room, an athletic young Chinese in jeans and leather jacket wielded a bamboo staff in the fantastic attitudes of the medieval Chinese warrior. Three small boys with broomsticks were following his instructions.
At the far end of the room was the giant head of a Chinese dragon to which a long accordion-pleated tail was attached. A young man in a sweat suit was doing calisthenics before the head. Then he got inside and the head came to life, jerking and swaying to the deafening percussion. The head spoke. Two boys ducked under the tail, and the entire dragon began moving across the floor.
Gabby had a small pad and pencil out of her purse and was sketching quickly, moistening her finger to smear the lines into broad patches of shadow. The Shroff opened a closet and took out two bamboo staves, two quilted masks and two quilted cotton aprons. He offered a brass-bound staff to Lennox.
"Yes?" he beamed.
"No thanks, Mr. Fu. I don't feel like a fox tonight. You're sure there was nobody named Knott here last Saturday?"
"Oh yes." The Shroff examined Jake's face for a moment. "Ve'y impohtant to find thissa Knott, eh?"
"Very. Where did I go from here, Mr. Fu? Do you know?"
"Oh yes. You ve'y intox'ated. I took you. I take you now."
The Shroff returned the fencing equipment to the closet, waited politely for Gabby to finish her sketching, and then conducted them downstairs. He led them to Chatham Square where three cabs were parked behind a hack sign.
"I take you to taxi," he beamed. "You ve'y intox'ated."
"My God! I can't remember that. Where the hell did I go? Hey fellas!" Lennox called. "Any of you parked here last Saturday night?"
The hack drivers poked their heads out.
"Off and on, Mac," said one.
"Hi, doll," said another.
"Oh, hello," Gabby smiled.
"Is he hedonistic or hasty?" Lennox demanded.
"Behave yourself, Jordan. I told you I get around. Did any of you gentlemen pick up my friend last Saturday night? He was drunk and disorderly."
"No Ma'am."
"Could it have been another hack?" Lennox asked.
"Could of been a dozen others, Mac."
"Happen to know a hack-driver named Knott who uses this stand?"
"Nope."
"Then this looks like the dead-end," Lennox grunted.
"Missa Lennox," the Shroff said. "I heah you te'l taxi man wheah to go."
"You did! Can you remember?"
The Shroff beamed in faraway recollection.
"Oh please remember, Mr. Fu," Gabby said. "It's terribly important."
The Shroff patted her arm, still immersed in memory. Finally he said: "Wassa ve'y funny place. Like a fiah."
"A fire?"
"Yes. Like ... Hudson fiah."
"Hudson fire?" Gabby repeated, gazing at the Shroff perplexedly.
"Hold it!" Lennox said. "Could it have been the Hudson School of Firearms?"
"Yes. Yes."
"What's that?" Gabby asked.
"A shooting range over near the river. Oliver Stacy told me about it last week. I must have gone there Saturday night. Let's go."
Lennox opened the door of the lead cab. Gabby ripped a page out of her sketch book and handed it to the Shroff. It was his portrait.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Fu," she said. "You've been so helpful."
The Shroff gazed at his portrait with admiration and then at Gabby with more. "I go with you," he offered suddenly. "Be ve'y happy to help you and Missa Lennox find Missa Knott. Yes?"
"I do like you, Mr. Fu," Gabby said. "You're not inscrutable at all. Please come. We can use all the help we can get."
The Shroff entered the cab with them and they drove across town to the waterfront where a sign on a doorway between a chandler's store and a window filled with broken microscopes read: Hudson School of Firearms, Dn. 2 Flights.
As the three of them trotted down the steps into the sub-cellar, they could hear the bark of guns. They came into a broad low-ceilinged vault. There was a glass cigar counter and a cash register on the right. The cigar counter was filled with revolvers and boxes of ammunition. Behind it was a high display case with heavy glass doors. Inside were more guns and six silver trophies.
On the left, from wall to wall, was a line of open booths with waist-high shelves dimly lit by green shaded lamps. Through the booths was the vista of a sixty foot stretch of cellar, brilliantly illuminated. The far wall was the shooting butt, heavily pocked with bullet holes. Steel trolley wires led from each booth to the butt, and along several of these, cardboard targets were sailing out to the far wall. An intermittent barrage of shots came from the booths where men were silhouetted against the light, standing with guns raised in their right hands, their left hands resting jauntily on their hips.
A square-jawed gladiator in blue serge came around from behind the cigar counter and welcomed them. He was delighted to see Lennox.
"Hey," he said in a soft, sweet voice. "It's the Philadelphia Fox again." He shook hands. "I thought you had to go home to the wife for the holidays. She come here instead, huh?"
Lennox flushed and stammered. Suddenly he burst out: "You're the Killer. I remember now. The Killer."
"Oh, that's not nice," Gabby said.
"It's just his joke," the Killer grinned shyly. "He kept calling me that Saturday. My name's Hamburger, Mrs. Fox."
"Jordan," Gabby began. "You'd better explain that—"
"Oh no. No," the Shroff interrupted, beaming madly. "Ah nothing to explain, Missuhs Fox. Ah nothing."
There was an awkward pause, then Gabby turned to the gladiator. "Why did my—Why did he call you a killer, Mr. Hamburger?"
The Killer motioned to the silver trophies and turned red. "I won them in the Nationals, Mrs. Fox." He hung his head.
"You're modest," Gabby laughed. "I like you, Mr. Hamburger. I always thought men who used guns were savage. Do you know, I've never fired a gun in my life?"
"I'll show you," the Killer offered, without daring to look at Gabby. "Fill out a card."
"Card?" Lennox asked. "What card?"
"You know," the Killer said, leading them to the counter. "You got to register. Police regulations."
"P'lice watch gun place ve'y close," the Shroff whispered to Gabby. "Doan te'l him Missa Lennox use othuh name. Be af'aid to help him."
"I'm glad you came with us," Gabby murmured.
She filled out a police registration card and accompanied the Killer to an empty booth where he ran out a target and began instructing her on the uses and abuses of the lady-like .22 revolver he placed in her hand. Gabby waited patiently until he lost his shyness and was able to meet her eyes. Then she came around a corner abruptly and asked: "Mr. Hamburger, will you help us, please?"
The Killer looked at her uncertainly. "I don't know, Mrs. Fox. We got to be pretty careful here. What do you want?"
"We'd like to go through the cards that were filled out last Saturday. We're looking for a certain name."
"The police cards! Oh no, Ma'am. I couldn't."
"It's terribly important, Mr. Hamburger."
"I couldn't do it, Ma'am. I—" He flinched in alarm as Gabby gestured with the loaded gun. "Look out, Ma'am!"
"Let me shoot this thing and get it out of the way," Gabby said. "Then I'll explain." She raised the gun, pulled back the hammer and squinted along the sights at the target. "I've got to impress him," she thought, "or he'll never listen to me." She took a deep breath, steadied the gun, and let off five shots in slow, stately succession.
A two hundred watt bulb at the side of the range was shattered. One of the trolley wires went down with a shuddering whine. A large chunk of plaster was knocked out of the ceiling. Ten inches of the wooden partition was ripped into splinters, and from the adjoining booth came an angry yell: "Get the hell off my target!"
"Oh dear," Gabby said.
The Killer choked. "Bring her in, Whitey," he said in a voice that shook. The target in the adjoining alley was run in and handed over by the indignant Whitey. The Killer glanced at it and then showed it to Gabby.
"Dead center in the black," he said. He lifted his eyes and gazed around at the destruction she had wrought and then gave her a look in which awe was mixed with dog-like devotion. "I'll do anything I can to help you, Ma'am. Just name it."
After five minutes of earnest conversation, they returned to the counter. The Killer unlocked a drawer and took out a stack of registry cards while Gabby explained to Lennox.
"You came here Saturday night. You registered but you were so drunk Mr. Hamburger wouldn't let you hire a gun. You hung around telling the best dirty jokes they ever—"
"I deny that."
"They ever heard. Mr. Hamburger invited you to go bear hunting with him in the Adirondacks. A man called The Chief wanted to take you skeet-shooting. There was a rifle club here and they asked you to join. A bank guard wanted to introduce you to his sister but you told him you were married."
"Ve'y populah man, Missa Lenn—Missa Fox," the Shroff beamed.
"I sound like the Life of the Smoker," Lennox groaned. "Was there anybody here named Knott?"
"Nope," the Killer called from the counter. "Nobody named Knott. But here's the guy you left with."
"I left with somebody? That's a break. I was afraid this would be the dead-end."
"Fella named Norman. Eugene K. Norman up on 126th Street. Says here: Care of The Midnight Sun."
"The Midnight Sun ... whatever that is. Looks like I put in a busy Christmas Eve. God rest ye merry gentlemen. Leave us hit the road."
"You going up there now?" the Killer inquired.
"We'll have to."
"The missus?"
"Of course," Gabby said. "Why not?"
"Just a minute." The Killer disappeared into a back room and emerged wearing a hat and coat. "Hey Whitey!" he called. "Lock up for me. All right, folks. Let's be on our way."
"You're going with us, Mr. Hamburger?" Gabby asked in surprise.
"Yes, Ma'am." The Killer placed himself alongside her like a bodyguard. "It's pretty late and it gets kinda rough in Harlem. I'll drive you up. I live around there anyway."
As they left the range, the raucous voice of Whitey followed them: "Yeah. Just around the corner ... in Brooklyn."
The Midnight Sun turned out to be a giant barn which nightly conducted a giant miscegenous barn-dance. It was on the top floor of a theater building and was apparently used for basketball games during the day. It was the sort of place to which no white woman in her right mind would ever go with her date because the competition was too strong. There is nothing more exotically beautiful than the mixtures of black, brown, white and yellow races you find on The Rock. The elite of these mixtures was on the dance floor of The Midnight Sun ... exquisite creatures with startling faces and exciting bodies.
"Jesus Christ on filter!" Lennox marvelled. "Don't tell me I forgot this!"
It was beautiful, chic, queasy. There was a wild orchestra competing with its echo. There were tourists at the side tables in evening clothes and ermine. Lennox noticed a sprinkling of celebrities. There were dozens of white men prowling the edge of the dance floor like wolves, stopping dark girls, dancing with them for a moment, entering their names in address books. It had the horrid atmosphere of a black auction, and over all hung the tension of race hatred.
The manager of The Midnight Sun was making difficulties. He had a nervous, sprightly air, and his smile was almost hysterical. Admission was two dollars and a half, but The Midnight Sun dances were semi-private. The party must be guests of someone.
"Didn't you manage the old Downtown Club?" Gabby asked suddenly.
"Yes, Miss."
"Don't you remember me? You used to send out for Italian cassata for me."
The manager smote his brow. "The ice cream lady! All your guests, of course. Please sign the members book." He produced an ancient double-entry ledger which Gabby signed in pencil. Lennox turned the pages back to December 24th and looked for the name Knott. It was not there. Neither was his own name. It was difficult to decipher anything from the smudged entries hastily scrawled in the dark.
"Does Mr. Knott come here very often?" Lennox asked.
The manager smiled hysterically and knew no one named Knott.
"Is Mr. Norman here tonight? Mr. Eugene K. Norman?"
"Somewhere on the floor," the manager told Lennox. He led the party to a small table surrounded by cases of empty beer and coke bottles, and disappeared before Lennox could ask any more questions. The waiter who descended on them for their orders was no help. At the table on their left were two magnificent blonde women with upswept hair and sequined evening gowns. On their right was an alcove filled with brooms, mops, and two sullen girls in angry conversation. Lennox got to his feet.
"Mind the store," he told the Shroff and the Killer. "I'm going to case the joint for Norman."
He went around the floor, politely inquiring after Mr. Eugene Norman. No one could help. The first girl he questioned, a Congo Venus with a bosom like pears, froze him so regally and yet with such exciting challenge that he didn't dare speak to another woman. Just alongside the dance band he came face to face with Roy Audibon.
Audibon slid his address book into his pocket and shook hands. He was a little drunk. "What? The Thinker in the fleshpots? No hunting here, Jake. This is my private jungle."
"You can have it, Roy."
"I already got it, son. What's the matter?"
"I don't like it here."
"Don't like it? Look around. Enjoy. What can't you like?"
"Myself. We're intruding. Doesn't it make you feel cheap?"
"Makes me feel one thing, son, and that doesn't come cheap. You alone? Let's bleed the lizard."
Lennox hesitated. "I'm looking for a man named Norman."
"Looking for a man? Here? Man, your loins need regrinding." Audibon left him abruptly and tapped a dark brown girl on the nape of the neck. She turned and revealed a classic Egyptian face with high cheekbones and wide deep-set eyes. Audibon spoke a few words and then swept her out onto the dance floor.
Lennox went out to the foyer to enlist the manager in his search. He was informed that the manager was in the john. He investigated, but the john was empty. As Lennox was about to leave, the door opened and one of the upswept blondes entered.
"Excuse m-me—" Lennox stammered. "You're in the—"
"Hello Beulah," she said in a shrill fag's falsetto.
"My God!" Lennox was appalled. "You're in drag? I never—"
The fag blocked the door and regarded him seductively.
"You're such a fast one," he said. "Miss Track Meet making her appointed rounds. Who were you looking for? Pretty me?"
"Listen," Lennox said, trying to be patient. "You're cruising the wrong number, girl. Would you mind getting out of the way?"
"Mary! She's in such a hurry," the fag giggled without moving. Lennox took his elbow and shoved politely. Suddenly he lost control and slammed the blonde violently against the wall. He let out a piercing, falsetto shriek. Lennox yanked open the door and ran.
As he crossed the dance floor to his table, a large ebony hand reached out and stopped him. He turned and there was Gabby dancing with a powerful bald-headed gentleman whose skin was stretched so tightly across the big bones of his head that his face looked skeletal.
"Cool, Clarence," he said in a foggy voice. "Here's yuh chick. No, honey, yuh haven't got it right. It's a one and a tuh and a zig-zag-zig!"
"Mr. Norman?"
"Eugene K. hisself."
"He's a dance teacher," Gabby said. "I'm getting a free introductory lesson."
"Got tuh educate Mrs. Clarence's rhythm," Norman said.
"He says I dance Square."
"Livin' is elation and elation's syncopation. We'll turn yuh cool, Cabbage." Still moving gently against the beat of the band, with his arm around Gabby's waist, Norman grinned at Lennox. "Where's that bull fiddle, man? Yuh welchin' on the bet? No, honey. Yuh zaggin' when you should be ziggin'."
"A one and a two and a zig-zag-zig." Gabby frowned and moved her feet.
"What bet?"
"You came up here with Mr. Norman," Gabby explained, "And you bet him you could get a bass violin into a taxi on the first try."
"I did? Not for even money!" Lennox protested. "You didn't sucker a drunk and disorderly man, did you?"
"They wouldn't let you use the one in the orchestra so you went out to rent a bass violin. That's the last anybody saw of you."
"So it's a dead-end, is it? What about Knott?"
Norman shook his head. "Uh-uh. The Chick asked already, Clarence. Yuh gettin it now, honey. We didn't rub up against any Knotts while we was togethuh. That's it! Cool, Cabbage! Livin' is elation and elation's syncopation."
He swung Gabby around deftly, chanting in off-beats. A hand pinched Jake's ear, and a falsetto voice whispered: "Want to dance, Beulah?"
"Will you leave me alone," Lennox growled at the blonde. "Get lost, for Christ's sake!"
"Oh come on girl, get gay."
The blonde entwined himself around Lennox who struggled angrily, and then stopped aghast as he saw Gabby and Norman whirl in a circle and collide with Roy Audibon and the Egyptian girl. Audibon stared at Gabby and his face turned red. He let go of his girl so sharply that she at once disappeared into the crowd.
"What the hell is this?" he said.
"Hello, Roy. This is Mr. Norman. He says that living is elation and elation's syncopation."
"Cool, pal," Norman said genially and extended his hand. Audibon ignored it.
"I'm cutting in," he said.
"Not yet," Gabby laughed. "Not until I've got the zig-zag-zig."
"I'm cutting in," Audibon repeated. Without looking at Norman he said: "Get lost."
Gabby turned pale. "Are you trying to insult my friend?"
"He heard me," Audibon snapped. "Let him dance with his own kind."
Lennox blew. "Look out!" he roared. "Here it comes." He shook off the blonde and belted him across the jaw. He took two steps, shouldered Norman aside and belted Audibon across the jaw. The blond shrieked and clawed at the nearest man who swung on him and knocked his wig off. Audibon got to his feet and came boring in on Lennox. Eugene Norman dropped him again with a solid chop behind the ear. The Egyptian girl appeared and kicked Audibon. The blond's friend appeared and swung on Gabby. Lennox knocked him down. In five seconds that spark of violence ignited all the violent hostilities in The Midnight Sun.
"Get her outa here!" Norman bellowed in Jake's ear. He thrust Gabby into Jake's arms, threw three vicious punches, caught a blow in the throat and reeled back. Lennox steadied him and dragged Gabby and Norman toward their table, bulling through the fighting crowd with his chin on his chest. The band began riffing the National Anthem. Nobody who could hear it paid any attention. A series of crashes commenced and the wall lights began going out. There was a wild Chinese yell and the Shroff appeared, crouched low, beating his way through the mob with a mop he wielded like a bamboo staff. Behind him Lennox saw the Killer teetering on a chair as he hurled empty coke bottles with deadly accuracy. He was methodically smashing all the lights.
"Out! Out!" Lennox roared. "Come on.... Out!"
As they snatched their coats off their chairs, two very large men charged out of nowhere and laid violent hands on Gabby. Lennox turned with a snarl and clubbed one across the back of the neck. As he dropped to his knees, the second was felled alongside him by the Killer. Gabby bent over them.
"This is not the way to do it," she said intensely. "You must organize. Organize!"
Lennox yanked Gabby up. He wanted to kiss her and spank her. The four men formed a circle around Gabby and beat their way out to the foyer. Gabby was hurling pacifist denunciations at the riot but no one could hear her. As they started down the stairs, Norman, who was fighting a rear-guard action, whistled shrilly and stopped them.
"Cool, Clarence," he croaked. "Not that way, man. The police'll be coming."
He beckoned, slammed an anonymous assailant in the belly, and dashed around the corner to the rest rooms. As the others followed, the anonymous swung on Lennox who stiff-armed him back. The Shroff kicked him and spun him around in time for the Killer to finish him.
Norman led them into the ladies' john. Three girls were standing there, unaware of the battle outside, trying to cope with a crisis of their own. They were holding on to a fourth girl who was screaming hysterically as she trampled on her dress. She wore a string of white pearls, white satin slippers, and nothing else. The black and white contrast was beautiful and worth closer inspection, but no one had time.
"She main-linin' again?" Norman inquired. He flung open a door revealing narrow stairs leading up and squeezed himself in. The three girls began screaming too.
"Her slip's showing," Lennox said. He propelled Gabby up the stairs.
"She'll catch cold," the Killer said and followed.
"Ve'y Happy New Yeah," the Shroff beamed and slammed the door behind him.
They climbed through a skylight and emerged into the chill night air. The riot below them sounded distant and detached. Norman guided them across roofs to the dim stairs of a respectable apartment house. They descended and emerged on the street, around the corner and half a block down from The Midnight Sun. There they took stock.
Norman grinned at the Shroff and the Killer. They grinned back and spontaneously shook hands. "Man!" he chuckled. "That bottle-bit and that mop-mop-massacre. We're a goddam Foreign Legion. Damn if we ain't!" All the men felt better after the scrap, but Gabby was very angry.
"Shame on you," she said. "Fighting like that. Hurting people. Making fun of that poor sick girl. You're supposed to be civilized. You're worse than animals."
"Honey," Norman said reasonably. "It was self-defense."
"No it wasn't, Mr. Norman. It was bad boys on a spree."
"We were protecting you, Ma'am," the Killer said.
"No you weren't, Mr. Hamburger. You were enjoying yourselves. I thought you were all such nice men. Now I'm ashamed of you. I hate fighting. There's no excuse for fighting ... ever!"
"Gabby," Lennox said gently. "Get off the soap-box."
She turned on him. "And you started it all, Jordan. Why did you hit that poor blond man?"
"He was a fag and he was bothering me."
"That's no excuse. He's as sick as that poor naked girl. You've got to feel sorry for homosexuals. You shouldn't hate them. But you do. You like to hate and hurt."
"Ah don't blame'm," Norman muttered. "Queens is poison. Make any man want to punch 'em."
"You be quiet, Mr. Norman."
Norman shut up.
"And what about Roy?" Gabby stormed. "I know why you hit him. You hate him. You're jealous and—"
"No. I slugged him because he passed a crack at Norman I didn't like."
"He doesn't know any better. You have to reason with prejudice, not—"
"Well he damn well ought to know better."
"Do you think you taught him anything?"
"Maybe," the Shroff said unexpectedly.
"How?" Gabby demanded.
"Chinese people ve'y ole-fashun. We have ve'y ole wise saying...." He paused as though making a translation from the original.
"Well?" Lennox asked after a moment. "You've left us hanging, Mr. Fu."
The Shroff beamed around. "I fohget," he said.
They burst out laughing. They hooted and groaned with laughter as they lurched down the street to the Killer's car. There they parted affectionately from Norman who presented each of them with an engraved card that read: Eugene K. Norman, The Midnight Sun, Technique of the Terpischore, Living is Elation and Elation's Syncopation.
"Come to the show Sunday," Lennox called after him. "The Venice Theater at nine o'clock. Ask for Jordan Lennox." He issued the same invitation to the Shroff and the Killer.
"What show?" the Shroff asked.
"A television show called 'Who He?'"
"Who's Jordan Lennox?" the Killer inquired.
"Him," Gabby said. "His pen name. A one and a two and a zig-zag-zig." They piled into the car. "Are we through, Jordan? Have we failed?"
"You seem pretty cheerful," Lennox laughed.
"I am. So are you."
"Must be hysteria. I'm so loused up now that I don't give a damn any more."
"That's a relief."
"Why do you say that?"
"You get so oppressive when you're filled with resolve."
"You sound like Sam. Well.... There's one last chance. I'll give it a play after I take you home."
"The blonde?"
"Keep out of this part, Gabby."
"Aimee Driscoll with two E's?"
"Yes."
"Do you really live in Brooklyn, Mr. Hamburger?" Gabby asked.
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Could you drop Mr. Fu at Chatham Square before you go across the bridge?"
"Sure, Ma'am."
"And could you drop us on Third Avenue at.... What's the name of the place, Jordan?"
"I don't want you in on this."
"Where did you pick her up?"
"I think it was Ye Baroque Saloon."
"At ... you should excuse the expression ... Ye Baroque Saloon, please, Mr. Hamburger. It isn't a dead-end yet."
The inside laugh on Ye Baroque Saloon is that it's named after the proprietor, Chris Barokotrones, who came to The Rock and shortened his name to Baroque before he understood enough French or English to know what he was doing. By the time he found out, he had enough money to buy a building on Third Avenue and build a saloon. He had it decorated in American Baroque ... the exaggerated theatrical style that was the vogue in saloons before the turn of the century.
Everybody in the business goes to the Baroque for a nightcap. The joint was jumping when Gabby and Lennox entered. It was a piratic crowd, very young and very handsome. Crop-haired boys with hornshell glasses who would become the Audibons and Bordens of the next decade.... Striking young girls who would become their wives and mistresses.... A leavening of the older men and women whom success and good living had kept young.
Gabby and Lennox went down the bar, past the booths and into the back room. Lennox saw Aimee Driscoll sitting alone at a table behind the telephone booth. Her high fat bosom pushed out over the table. Her wide fat bottom spread over the chair. Through the smoke and haze she looked, at first glance, like a lusty Swede farm girl from Minnesota; but the second glance shamed Lennox.
"Nope," he said to Gabby. "She's not here. We'll go out the side door."
They threaded their way between tables and went out the side door. Lennox took a deep breath of the fresh air and looked around for a cab. A small man in a derby, pea-jacket and white duck trousers came around the corner. He spoke to them in a bright voice. "Hi, Joe. H'ar ya? Hi, Sally?" He continued down the street, addressing empty doorways in friendly tones.
"Ah," Gabby said compassionately. "He's lonesome, poor soul. He wants friends. Do you think he's afraid of people, Jordan?" She came around a corner abruptly. "As afraid as you are of Aimee Driscoll?"
"W-What?"
"Listen to me." Gabby backed him against the wall and pointed a finger at him. "I know she's in there. At the table behind the phone booth. You should have seen your face when you saw her. Are you afraid to speak to her?"
"Yes. I'm ashamed. Revolted."
"Why?"
"Gabby, don't be naive. Suppose you picked up a strange man and—Would you want to see him again?"
"I did," Gabby said. "Last Sunday night."
"No. No, darling. It's different with us. We.... Did you see her? What she looks like? I could kill her."
"Have I seen you? What do you really look like? Maybe there'll come a day when I'll really see you and want to kill you."
"Gabby!"
"Don't do that to me. Don't shame me now."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Don't be angry and hateful. I want you to be honest and kind to everybody. I want you to go in there and speak to her like Jordan Lennox.... Not like Roy Audibon."
"Gabrielle," he said, "You're a great woman ... but I'm not a great man."
He kissed her, then turned and re-entered the back room of the Baroque. Gabby followed him. He walked directly to Aimee's table and smiled down at her as pleasantly as he could fake.
"Good evening, Aimee," he said. "Mind if we join you?"
"Hi, Clarence," Aimee said. "Your friend deliver that coat and book?"
"That's why I'm here. Have you got a minute?"
"Sure."
Lennox and Gabby sat down. As Lennox held Gabby's chair for her, Aimee darted her a look of hostility. "Taking it from the top," Lennox said. "My name isn't Clarence Fox. It's Lennox. Jordan Lennox."
"Naughty, naughty!" Aimee said coyly. "Say, are you really the guy which writes that TV show like you said?"
"Yes."
"How about me? Popular with the big-shots. I should've asked for your autograph." Aimee glanced at Gabby.
"This is Miss Gabrielle Valentine ... Aimee Driscoll."
"Miss Aimee Driscoll," Aimee snapped.
"Of course. I'm sorry." Lennox hesitated and finally forced himself to meet Aimee's eyes. He saw in them an anger that startled him. He'd been too drunk to notice that photograph of Aimee's father in her apartment, and even if he had noticed it, he wouldn't have seen the connection.
No one knows what happened between Aimee Driscoll and her father. Anyone can guess, but it doesn't matter. The important result was that the particular chasm over which she walked her tight rope was an inescapable physical attraction for any man who resembled her father plus an uncontrollable hatred for him. Lennox hadn't gone to bed with Aimee that Saturday night. She was relieved, professionally, and infuriated, emotionally. She looked at him now with hatred and at Gabby with venom, completely unaware of what she was feeling or how she was showing it.
"Sweet guy you are," she said archly. "Sweet guy ... making a sucker out of a poor working girl from the lower classes. You owe me ten bucks."
"I do? What for?" Lennox was terrified of what the answer would be.
"The doctor. I had to see him Monday on account of what you done to me. You practical jokers don't know your own strength." Aimee winked at Gabby. "Your boy friend's a funny guy with a Christmas tree, Gabrielle. We had a million laughs. He tell you?"
"No," Gabby said quietly.
"I guess he wouldn't at that."
"Do you want to tell me, Aimee?"
"Me? No." She laughed, concealing her teeth with her hand. "I'm a good kid. I can take a joke. Anyway your boyfriend don't owe me a cent, not after the gorgeous Christmas present he give me."
Lennox swallowed painfully. "It was a television set, wasn't it, Aimee?"
"Modest, ain't he? What a sweet guy. What did he give you, Gabrielle?"
"Something I've always wanted, Aimee."
"Jesus! Mink?"
Gabby shook her head and smiled.
Aimee examined the smile and tried to answer it. "Look at you. Up there on Cloud Nine, ain't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, fall easy."
"Were you hurt when you fell?"
"Me? I never was up." Aimee laughed and covered her mouth. "Strictly the subway type."
"Listen, Aimee," Lennox smiled painfully. "I'd like to sit here yakking it up, but I'm in a jam and I need help."
"You're our last hope," Gabby added.
"Me? No." Aimee looked from one to the other and the archness peeled away from her malice. "Don't tell me a big-shot which can afford two names and two girls needs help."
"I do," Lennox said. "Look, we met here Saturday night. What time was it?"
"What are you checking up on?"
"It couldn't have been too late because a store must have been open. We were able to buy you that set."
"Strictly your idea, Clarence. You kept on running off at the mouth about bull fiddles."
"Yes. I found out. So we went to a music store and ended up buying you a television set. Where?"
"Who can remember?" Aimee answered, enjoying Jake's misery.
"Please, Aimee," Gabby said. "This is very important."
"Why is it important? I had enough trouble with your boy friend Saturday night. I don't want no more."
"He's been getting threatening letters from a man he met some time Saturday night.... A man named Knott. Dreadful letters. We're trying to find Knott."
"Did you go to the cops?" Aimee asked sharply.
"Yes, I did."
"You mention me?"
"No. I'm working this out on my own. Let's see if we can't put it together, Aimee. I left Harlem and wandered down here. We met and went to a music store and bought the set. Right?"
"It was around half past one," Aimee said grudgingly. "That place on Forty-second and Third. They was closed and doing up their accounts. You banged on the door until they let us in."
"Thanks. Then what happened? We took the set up to your place?"
"You got a hack and put it in. We must of hit a dozen joints on the way. Then we ate. We didn't get home until light."
"Did we meet anybody named Knott? Did I talk to anybody named Knott? Did you see anybody write anything in this notebook of mine?" Lennox pulled the book out of his pocket and displayed it.
"You're really leveling with this, huh?" Aimee said slowly. "You're really suffering, huh?"
"Yes."
"This Knott wrote something in your book?"
"He did."
"And you got to locate him or else?"
"I do. Before Sunday."
"Why before Sunday?"
"Because that's the day he lowers the boom."
"So you're going to have a tough couple of days sweating it out, ain't you, Clarence?" Aimee stared at him with delight. "Ain't it a shame I can't help you out? Tsk-Tsk! No. We never come across nobody named Knott."
"In this place?"
"Nope."
"In the music store?"
"Nope."
"Afterwards? In the bars? Where we ate?"
"Nope."
Lennox opened his mouth to ask another question, then faltered. Gabby asked it for him. "And in your apartment, Aimee?"
"He couldn't talk to nobody," Aimee snapped. "He passed out soon as we come in. Big shot! And when he come to he ran right out." She intercepted the look of salvation and relief that passed between Lennox and Gabby and began to shake with rage.
"And afterwards?" Gabby asked.
"What about afterwards?"
"The notebook was there for twelve hours after Jordan left. Did anybody named Knott have a chance to leave a message in it?"
"The only body in that apartment is named Driscoll."
"Your friends?" Gabby persisted.
"I got no friends."
"Your ... clients?"
"What's that crack supposed to mean?"
"Look, Aimee—" Lennox began.
"Shut up, big shot. I asked her. Leave her answer."
"It wasn't a crack," Gabby said composedly. "I wouldn't dream of insulting you, Aimee. I simply meant—"
"Not now!" Lennox interrupted in alarm. "Don't be honest now, dear."
"I meant that we know you're a prostitute," Gabby continued candidly, "And one of your clients might have been Knott."
"Suffering Jesus on echo!" Lennox groaned. "Listen, Aimee, she's just kidding. She—"
"Yeah. She's a sweet little kidder. And what price does she put on her sweet little ass that makes her so high and mighty?"
"What are you ashamed of, Aimee?" Gabby asked quietly. "I'm not ashamed of you."
Aimee turned on her in fury. "The come-on's your racket, huh? The tickle and tease. You save your ass for the big price and after you're married it turns out nothing. But nothing!"
"You're old-fashioned," Gabby smiled. "We aren't amateurs any more."
"And they come crying to me and taking it out on me, like Clarence.... Because you save it so hard you don't know what to do with it but lay on it."
"Shut up," Lennox growled.
"You must of got him plenty hot Saturday night, sister. You're so God damned glad he never touched me. You want to see how he touched me? I'll show you." Aimee stood up so violently that her chair toppled. She yanked up her skirt and displayed her naked behind, criss-crossed with black and blue welts. Then she dropped her skirt and burst into hysterical laughter, covering her teeth with her hand. "It was like old times when my old man took a strap to me after he.... I felt like a kid again. We had a million laughs."
Lennox grunted in anguish. Gabby looked at him, then stood up impulsively and took Aimee's hands. "He did a dreadful thing, Aimee. He's ashamed and so am I. Please let us make it up to you. We'll do anything."
"You can suffer," Aimee spat, jerking away from Gabby's touch. "You can sweat. You can fry in hell until Sunday. Because I know who Knott is. This guy you're looking for. I know him. Sure he left a message in your book. I saw him."
"Aimee! For God's sake, who is he?"
"I ain't going to tell you. Suffer, you son of a bitch! God knows you made me suffer with your God damned morals and your God damned strap. Suffer!"
"What strap? Make sense. Who is he?"
"Go on. Ask a little. Beg a little."
"What do you want?" Lennox demanded roughly. "Money? How much?"
"I want you to suffer, big shot with your comical Christmas tree. We had a million laughs. Now sweat it out, Mr. Lennox." She pushed past Lennox and Gabby and waddled across the back room of the Baroque, honking with laughter, covering her mouth with her hand. The crowd gaped at her.
At the side door she turned and screamed: "I know him and I ain't going to tell. Never. But I'll be up to the show Sunday, watching. And when Knott catches up with you ... remember my ass!"