Kane Ring-a-Ding-Ding

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-1-6676-6088-2
Verlag: Wildside Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, Band 19, 156 Seiten

Reihe: A Johnny Liddell Mystery

She was blond, stacked, and meant business. Johnny Liddell realized she was a player, but couldn't resist, even though he knew better. Blackmail, a sultry nightclub singer, and all the dead bodies piling up around him make for one of Johnny's toughest cases.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Kane, Frank

Leseproben

CHAPTER 1
A cold, driving rain slanted down from the black sky, looked like buckshot hitting the puddles along the curb. A bitter wind swept 64th Street as though down a canyon of man-made stone. The few pedestrians abroad leaned against the wind, clutched their hats and coats, scurried for the shelter of their doorways. Above the entrance to Morgan’s Cave halfway up the block a neon buzzed and spit, staining the rain-drenched canopy a murky red. A black Cadillac swung around the corner from Fifth Avenue, rolled to a stop in front of the curb. Rocky, the uniformed club doorman, hustled from the shelter of the entrance out to the car with an umbrella, but the driver shouldered him aside, ran across the sidewalk to the short flight of stairs that led down into the club. The doorman folded the umbrella, slid into the driver’s seat and drove to a vacant space at the curb a few doors beyond the club. He cut the motor, doused the lights, checked the rear-view mirror to make certain the owner of the car was nowhere in sight. Then he brought a small square of wax from his pocket and pressed the ignition key into it until he had a clear impression. He turned the wax over, repeated the process with the other key on the ring. In the reflected light of the street lamp, he examined the impression, grunted his satisfaction. He wiped the key carefully on his coat, got out of the car, shuffled back to his post. Inside the Cave, it was close after the cold and wet of the street. Smoke stirred lazily around the ceiling like an early morning mist. Andrew Reeves grinned at the hatcheck girl as he handed her his hat. He waited to enjoy the effect on the loose peasant blouse and skimpy shorts as the girl reached up to put his hat on the top shelf. It was a ritual by now. She never disappointed him and he never failed to express his appreciation with a big tip. Andrew Reeves had the bulk of a one-time athlete whose muscles had run to fat. His jaw, still strong and heavy, was making a last-ditch effort to keep from being engulfed by his jowls. The high color of his face testified to a diet of beef and bourbon supplemented by frequent massage. But it was a losing battle. Already a fine network of broken veins was visible along the sides of his nose. When the hatcheck girl had finished making a production of checking his hat, Reeves walked over to the man in the midnight-blue tuxedo who stood at the doorway to the supper room. “Hello, Tony.” Reeves’ eyes hopscotched around the room, noted the number of empty tables. “Pretty slow tonight, huh?” The man in the tuxedo shrugged narrow shoulders. “The weather, Mr. Reeves.” Reeves chuckled. “Month before last it was Lent. Last month it was income taxes coming due. Now it’s the weather. Always something, eh, Tony?” The headwaiter shrugged again. “Maybe people don’t go out like they used to. Nobody lives in the city any more. And it’s a long haul to the suburbs. It’s easier to stay home and turn on the idiot box.” Reeves bobbed his head. “New York’s not a late town any more, that’s for sure.” He checked his watch. “Maybe Marta could go on a little early tonight? That way we could make an early break. You think?” The headwaiter considered, nodded. “Why not? I’ll send word back to her.” He covered the hand Reeves extended to him with a damp grip. When Reeves took his hand back, the folded bill that had been in it had changed ownership. Reeves walked into the supper room, threaded his way through the half-empty tables, selected one at ringside. A waiter materialized; he ordered a scotch and settled back. He was on his second drink when the house lights went down. He checked his watch, grunted his satisfaction. The last show was starting a half hour early. An expectant hush descended on the room as a baby spot picked out the center of the rhinestone curtain. A tall blonde stood speared by the spotlight. Marta Shane was stacked like an 85¢ sundae. Her gold-blond hair had a metallic sheen as it cascaded down over her shoulders. Her skin was a nutlike color, a hangover from a three weeks’ stand at the Oasis in Las Vegas, augmented by an occasional sun lamp. The gold lame gown was skin tight, complemented the color of her hair, emphasized the color of her skin. Standing there, she looked as if she had been sculptured from milk chocolate, wrapped in gold foil. Her walk, as she proceeded to the center of the stage, was a production. She reached the piano as her accompanist finished the introduction. Then, as the rest of the orchestra proceeded to blend in smoothly, she started to sing in a low, husky voice. The silence in the room grew. The waiters stopped their endless prowling; the soft murmur of conversation became muted. Suddenly, the number was over. The scattered groups around the room released their collective breaths, then the applause rolled toward her in waves. The blonde smiled her thanks. When she bowed, the neck-line of her gown sagged, giving ample evidence that she needed no artificial assists in the magnificence of her façade. The applause continued. Finally, Marta held up her hands, waited for the noise to die down. She nodded to her accompanist and started to sing again. Her shoulders swayed gracefully in time to the rhythm. The bodice of her gown seemed inadequate to contain the fullness of her breasts as she swayed in rhythm to the stepped-up tempo. The drummer, his face gleaming with sweat, his lips moving spasmodically, was beating out a primitive rhythm that set the hair on the audience’s neck on end. Behind him, the trumpet was nailing down the beat while the sax started to roam. The girl’s body started to twist and squirm. Her breasts were like something alive, swaying and flowing in an attempt to break loose from the halfhearted restraint of the loose bodice of her gown. She stood there, in the center of the floor, the audience in the palm of her hand. As she undulated, her hands started at the sides of her thighs, came up slowly, palms smoothing the flesh over her hips, and slid over her stomach, up under her breasts, cupping them. Slowly, sensuously, she ran her palms over her cheeks, raked her fingers into the cascading hair, sent it flying outward as she ended the number with a little scream. There was a momentary silence. The faces of the ring-siders gleamed whitely in the reflected light. The women stared, then whispered. The men stared, wet their lips. Marta followed the rhythm number with another blues chant, her voice playing on the spinal column of the audience like a xylophone. This time, when she finished, she shook her head firmly to pleas for an encore, turned and headed back toward the rhinestone curtain. Her hips worked slowly, tantalizingly, under the soft fabric of the gown. The view from the flip side alone was worth the price of admission. She was replaced on the floor by a dance team that swirled and scampered frenetically in its version of a cha-cha. The audience went back to its chattering, the waiters to their roaming and dish-rattling. Andrew Reeves flagged down his waiter, signaled for a check. The waiter flat-footed it over to the table, scribbling some figures on the check en route. He slid the tab onto the table, face down. “That Marta’s some woman,” he commented, shaking his head. “I get to see that act every night and she still does it to me.” Reeves bobbed his head in agreement. “She’s all woman.” He turned the tab over, added a generous tip, scribbled his signature across the face of it. “Tell Marta I’ll be waiting in the car for her.” Reeves handed the waiter the check. “Tell her to hurry.” The waiter eyed the size of the tip approvingly. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” He could sympathize with the big man’s impatience. * * * * It was dark in the bedroom, even though it was almost noon. On the night table, the telephone was shrilling loudly. Andrew Reeves grunted, tried to bury his head in the pillow. His eyes were sticky, his head throbbed, his mouth felt as if it were filled with cotton. As he turned over, he collided with another body. Marta Shane mumbled in her sleep. Finally, when it became evident that the phone wouldn’t stop its pealing, Reeves reached out and lifted the instrument from its hook. “Who is this?” he growled. “A guy who figures to do you a big favor, mister.” “Do me a real big favor and get lost—” “Is that the way to talk to a guy who wants to keep you out of jail?” A chill finger of apprehension traced its way up the big man’s back. “Out of jail? You crazy?” “No, but you would be if you didn’t listen to me. But suit yourself. You prefer I go to the police—” Reeves blinked, tried to focus his eyes. “Go to the police? About what?” “You didn’t know there was a witness, did you, mister?” the voice on the other end told him. “Well, there was. Me. I saw the whole thing.” “What the hell are you talking about?” “The guy you hit. I saw the whole thing. I saw you run him down and then keep going. Okay, it’s no skin off my nose. I just thought you might be grateful. But as long as you’re not—” A note of desperation crept into Reeves’ voice. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” “This morning around five. You hit and killed an old man. So okay, he was just an old bum. But the police still get narrow-minded about drunks who kill and run. Even if it is just an old bum.” “How did you get this number?” Reeves demanded. “Easy. I took down your license plate. I...