Tender Is LeVine: A Jack LeVine Mystery (33 page)

I spotted a pay booth right off the highway.

“Okay. Right over there,” I said in my most conciliatory tone of voice.

The booth was located outside a boarded-up Sunoco station, beneath a flickering street lamp that cast a circle of sickly yellowish light. The scene resembled something painted by Edward Hoppers evil twin. I pulled over and stopped; Toscanini barely stirred when the car stopped. Barbara got out and attempted to make the old man comfortable, putting her coat under his head; he muttered something in Italian and licked his lips, then folded his arms across his chest. We watched him sleep, like adoring parents poised over a newborn’s crib.

“Wish I had a camera,” Barbara said softly, and then she climbed back into the front seat, while I approached the abandoned gas station. The wind blew the ghostly Sunoco sign back and forth in a rasping, blackboard-screeching rhythm. I pushed open the rusting doors of the wretched pay booth. It reeked of old and new pissings and was carpeted wall to wall with blackened newspapers and cigarette butts; bottle caps and smashed beer bottles crunched under my shoes. The urinous stench seemed to get worse as I picked up the phone, as if some drunk had peed all over the receiver. I started breathing through my mouth and fed enough nickels into the phone to call Shanghai. The first information I got pertained to the train schedule. It was pretty simple. The Twentieth Century Limited left Chicago for New York at eight o’clock in the morning. Another train departed at two in the afternoon. It was now nine-thirty and regardless of how quickly I drove, there was no way we were going to arrive in Chicago before five in the morning. I felt that for the sake of his health, it was important that we get the old man into a bed, no matter how much he snoozed in the car, and book the afternoon train. We could stop in a motel somewhere between here and Chicago—say, Springfield—get a couple of rooms, rest up, and then cruise into the Windy City as quietly as possible. I’d book a Pullman for the old man under a phony name and another for me and Barbara, settle in, and coast triumphantly into New York.

It was a thoughtful, well-considered plan and it remained in effect for precisely three minutes, when I called Toots Fellman at the
Daily News
and found out that I was in far worse trouble than I had ever imagined.

“You’re where?” he hollered into the phone. The connection was patchy and shot with intermittent high-pitched crackling.

“Just outside St. Louis.”

“St. Louis? Why the hell …?”

“Long story. I need a major favor—”

Toots cut me off. “Nice, what happened to your friend, huh?” he asked suddenly.

“What friend?” I said, and the knot in my stomach tightened exponentially.

“The NBC guy. Whatisface …”

“Sidney Aaron? What about him?”

“Offed himself in Las Vegas. Came over the AP wire couple hours ago. Guess he had a bad day at the tables, huh?”

“He got pushed, Toots.”

There was a thoughtful, static-filled silence at his end. A yellow school bus from a Negro church rolled by, with kids leaning out the windows and waving. I felt like running down the road and jumping on the bus with them.

Toots finally spoke. “Jack, you know that for a fact?”

“I vas dere, Charlie….”

“You were in Las Vegas this morning? And now you’re in St. Louis?” Toots asked wonderingly. “You got a rocket up your ass?”

“It’s the modern age of transportation. And here’s the reason I’m calling—”

“Wait a minute, I want to know what the hell happened with this NBC guy. You’re saying it’s murder?”

“Listen to me … remember the fiddler who got killed?”

“The refugee? There’s a connection?”

“I’m in a pay booth! Let me talk.”

“Then make it collect, putz!” Toots hollered. “Call me back!”

I hung up and dialed the operator, who put me through to the Murray Hill number of the
News.
Toots picked up precisely where he had left off, except this time we had a somewhat clearer signal.

“You’re telling me that Aaron was murdered in Vegas and it’s connected to your fiddler getting iced?” Toots asked.

“It gets better; what would you say if I told you Toscanini himself is sitting in the back of a rented Mercury fifteen feet from where I’m making this call?”

“I’d say you should be fitted for a clean white jacket with numerous buckles and straps.”

“It’s true. I brought him back from Vegas. He was snatched; that’s what all of this is about.”

“What the hell are you talking about? He had a heart attack, which they never told anybody about. When’s the last time you read a paper, Jack? It’s in all the afternoon editions. He’s due back tomorrow; Sarnoff himself is meeting him at the airport.”

I could feel the blood pounding in my ears.

“A heart attack?”

“Here, I’ll read it you. The
Telegram
—”

“How big a play?”

“Bottom of the front page. Not as big as you might think, but still plenty big. Three columns. ‘Toscanini Comes Home After Heart Scare.’”

“‘Scare.’ Not ‘attack.’”

“You going to let me finish?”

Barbara looked at me quizzically from the front seat of the car. I waved at her encouragingly, but I could tell that she sensed my agitation.

“‘Arturo Toscanini, musical titan and conductor of the NBC Symphony,’” Toots began, “‘is scheduled to arrive at Idlewild Airport via private plane tomorrow afternoon at approximately four o’clock, having survived what NBC spokesmen described as “an extremely mild heart attack,” quote unquote. The eighty-three-year-old Maestro was reportedly feeling extremely fit and was anxious to return to conduct this fall’s slate of concerts with the orchestra. In a statement released this afternoon, RCA President David Sarnoff said that “Maestro Toscanini’s doctors have given him a clean bill of health and we look forward to many years of great music-making.”’ There’s a little more, but that’s the gist. So tell me, who’s sitting in your car, Jack, some barber who can carry a tune?”

“Toscanini
is, you fucking meathead, wearing a dark jacket and gray trousers. The guy Sarnoff is meeting at the airport is a ringer.”

“A fake Maestro. Flying into Idlewild.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t know what to say, Jack,” Toots said with some exasperation. “Up until now, you’ve always been a rational human being. No genius, maybe—”

“I’m telling you, he’s here.
And Sidney Aaron got pushed out a window over this guy. Listen, do you have the Salt Lake shootout story yet?”

“What shootout?” Obviously he didn’t.

“At the Salt Lake airport. Two people gunned down. One of the dead was a lesbian Vegas cabbie named Kim West; she drove me, Toscanini, and Fritz Stern’s daughter to Salt Lake in Vaughn Monroe’s bus.”

“Hey, you didn’t tell me Vaughn Monroe was involved. Now it’s starting to make sense!”

“Schmuck, you don’t believe me, check the wire services!”

“Hang on.”

I waited. Barbara opened the door of the car to stretch those fabulous legs.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“How good is your driving?”

“Good enough? Why?”

“Forget Chicago. We’re going straight to New York.”

She got out of the Mercury and walked over to the pay booth.

“Are you serious?” She looked back at the car and its celebrated passenger. “With
him
? It’s a two-day drive.”

“I don’t see an alternative. We can’t be out in the open anymore. Not till we get to New York.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re way ahead of us. It’s all over the papers that the old man had a mild heart attack and is flying into New York tomorrow night.”

Barbara put her fingers to her lips in shock. “Holy Christ. They’re out front with the phony one? They’re going to parade him in front of the press?”

“Meyer has to, because he knows we’re running around loose with the real one. Which means, I believe, that we’re all dead meat, unless we can sneak the genuine article in as speedily as possible.”

“Jack …” I had Toots Fellman in my ear once again and held up a hand to quiet Barbara.

“Anything?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Toots said. His voice was strained and I could hear him breathing. “Out of the UP bureau in Salt Lake.”

“Saying …”

“Saying two people were shot dead in the Salt Lake airport. The girl, like you said, out of Las Vegas, and a local businessman—”

“
What
?”

“Let me finish. A local businessman named Fred Brancati—”

“He was a gunsel!”

“Are you going to let me finish?” I had never heard Toots quite so exercised. “A local businessman named Fred Brancati, and Jack …” Toots’s voice quavered a bit. I heard a whistling sound over the line.

“Jack what?”

“According to this, you’re wanted for the murders.”

I took a slow, deep breath.

“Say that again.”

“You’re wanted—”

“For both murders?”

“Yes. The cabby and the businessman. ‘New York City private detective Jacob LeVine.’ Jesus Christ….”

I stared at the road. A police car raced past and I felt my stomach fold up like a first baseman’s glove. “I better call from another booth, Toots. I don’t want to stand here much longer.”

“Good idea. Call me in ten.”

I hung up and ran toward the car.

Barbara ran after me. “What’s going on, Jack? You don’t look so hot.”

“Nothing to worry about,” I assured her. “I’m just wanted for two murders.”

I drove carefully, filling Barbara in as best I could. She was shockingly calm about it.

“That’s Meyer, all the way,” she said. “Amazing the strings he can pull, particularly where his money can go a long way.”

“In Utah, it can go a very long way. There’s probably fifty cops in the whole goddamn state.”

I pulled the Mercury up to a pair of pay booths outside an all-night Rexall. I figured I could make my call, then go inside for some aspirin or a bottle of arsenic.

I slipped into a booth and dialed O; after a dozen rings, a grumpy operator got on and placed my collect call through to New York. Toots answered immediately. I rested my hand against the top of the phone and attempted to form some coherent thoughts.

“Okay, Toots, what’s going on is the following: I’m swimming in a shark tank with a bloody nose. And the sharks are named Lansky and Luciano.”

The two names together—like Ruth and Gehrig, Dempsey and Tunney, Procter and Gamble—stopped Toots cold. “Holy Christ on a stick,” was all he could muster.

“My sentiments exactly.”

“They offed Sidney Aaron?”

“And then they tried to plug me at the Salt Lake airport, but killed the cabby instead. I nailed the shooter and made it out to St. Louis.”

“And now you’ve got a target painted on your ass.”

“Obviously. They plant this story, make me the suspect, means any cop between here and New York can get in Meyer’s good graces by spraying my brains all over the road. I was originally going to drive to Chicago and then take the Limited.”

“Forget that.”

“I forgot it already.”

“What can I do for you, Jack?” Toots asked. “Just tell me.”

“When does the next edition go to bed?”

“In about an hour. You want to put something in?”

“Yeah. You running a Toscanini story, I presume?”

“Sure. Page three, on the bottom. It’s pretty much the same as the
Telegram
piece. We all got it from the wires.”

“And the wires got it direct from NBC?”

“I would imagine so. No one else is quoted.”

“Okay. I need you to run a sidebar.”

“Saying?”

“Saying that rumors persist that Toscanini’s heart attack was more severe than is being reported and that the Maestro may have to end his legendary association with the NBC Symphony.”

There was a pregnant pause before Toots started hollering.
“Are you fucking kidding? You want me to run with that
?”

“I do.”

“What’s my source?”

“Unnamed persons connected to the orchestra.”

“Not good enough; my editors are gonna insist on the source.”

“Tell them a person very close to Toscanini.”

“How close?”

I looked over at the car. “I’d say about twelve feet.”

“Jack, for the love of Christ …”

“It’s the truth. Listen, don’t shine me off—I’m about to hand you an unbelievable exclusive…. We’re talking about corporate evil at the highest levels.”

“Give me a hint.”

“Use your imagination and let it wander out to Las Vegas.”

There was a short beat. “NBC’s in bed with Lansky and Lucky?”

“You win dinner for two at the Automat.”

There was a two-second silence that seemed to weigh a million tons. “Swear on your father’s grave you’re not shitting me,” Toots said.