“Oh,” I said, staring down at the tabletop in shame. How could I- Manhattan ’s champion news-sniffer and column-clipper-have missed this all-important announcement?

“And kingpin Frank Costello owns the joint, you know,” Abby continued, “so it’s crawling with gangsters. You dig what I’m saying? All the pieces of the puzzle fit.” Her smirk changed into a smile. “Dan is on stakeout at the Copa.”

I knew Abby was right. And if I had used my brain for just two of the ten minutes preceding her revelation, I would have put the pieces of the puzzle together myself. Though I hadn’t been aware that Corona was playing the Copa, I had known- from firsthand experience-that Mafia boss Frank Costello was the secret owner of the famous nightclub (a little nugget I’d dug up while working on my first murder story). And since Dan had told me, just last night, that he needed to “track down and question some of Frank Costello’s boys”… well, you get the picture. I could have-in fact, should have-put two and two together.

“I’m such an idiot,” I said.

“No, just a nitwit,” she teased.

“It’s good you saw the promos in the papers.”

“Glad to be of service.” With an exaggerated air of authority, she rose from her chair, tossed her ponytail over the opposite shoulder, and propped one hand on her jutting hip. “So, what’s next on the agenda, Brenda? I’m assuming you’ve got a plan.”

“Well, no, not really. I guess I need to-”

“Get your mojo working!” she jumped in, finishing my sentence for me. “You can’t catch a murderer by sitting around like a blob in my kitchen! You know what I think?” she said, eyes beaming like oncoming headlights. “I think we should get all dolled up and go to the Copa tonight. We can get there before the second show ends. Then we can sneak backstage, corner Corona in his dressing room, pretend we’re big fans, and ask him a lot of probing personal questions. Stuff like that probably happens to him all the time, so he won’t have a clue what we’re up to.”

“We?” I croaked, shuddering my shoulders and shaking my head. “Forget about it, Abby! I will not-under any circumstances-let you get involved in this mess. It’s too dangerous.” I lit another cigarette and spewed the smoke out in an obstinate huff. “Besides, I can’t possibly go to the Copa tonight. Dan’s there. And he would spot me for sure. And if he finds out that I’m working on another unsolved murder case, he’ll murder me.”

“Okay, then we’ll go tomorrow night.”

There was that word again.

“We are not going anywhere. I’m working this case alone. I promised Sabrina.”

“Oh, come on, Paige! You need me. You know you do. We’re a team, you dig? We’re Ozzie and Harriet, Martin and Lewis, Lucy and Ethel. We’re peanut butter and jelly!”

She was using the term we again, but I was beginning to like the sound of it. Playing detective was a lonely game, and Abby could be very good company (when she wasn’t being a pain in the butt). She had been a big help to me in past investigations, and-by clueing me in that Corona was playing the Copa-she was already helping me with this one. And I had to admit that descending on Corona in his dressing room would be a heck of a lot easier and safer than trying to ambush him in his private suite at the Plaza.

“Okay, okay!” I caved in. “We’ll join forces and hit the Copa tomorrow night. Seems like a pretty good plan. Except for one thing: We can’t go on our own. They won’t let us in without a male escort.”

“No problem,” she said. “I’ll make Jimmy go with us. After tonight, he owes me one.”

“Do you have something for me to wear?”

“Does a cat have whiskers?” Abby was a fiend for fashion, and she loathed my mail-order wardrobe, and she had closets- actually a whole room-full of fabulous clothes and costumes. She had dressed me up for previous uptown sleuthing excursions, and I could tell from the wicked gleam in her eye that she couldn’t wait to do it again.

“Hold on a second, Ab,” I said, suddenly realizing our pretty good plan had a pretty big hole in it. “There’s one more problem. How the hell are we going to get reservations? The Copacabana on a Friday night? It’s next to impossible. And with Tony Corona on the bill, you know they’re all booked up.”

“Booked, shmooked,” she said, sounding an awful lot like Lenny’s mother. “There are ways to get around these things.”

“Oh, yeah? Exactly what do you propose we do?”

“Don’t worry, Murray. I’ll think of something.”

Chapter 18

I STUBBED OUT MY CIGARETTE AND LOOKED AT my watch. It was almost midnight. (Time also flies when you’re not having fun.) “It’s getting late, Ab,” I said, yawning between syllables. “I’m so tired I can’t see straight. Let’s continue this dialogue over coffee in the morning, okay?”

She scowled. “You can’t leave now! We’re just getting started. Have you forgotten about Sabrina?”

“Huh?” I didn’t get what she was driving at.

“You have to brief me on Sabrina,” she insisted. “She’s the queen bee in this hive of hornets, and-other than the fact that she’s a high-society madam who manages a stable of high-priced call girls-you haven’t told me a damn thing about her!”

“That can wait until tomorrow,” I said, rising to my feet and picking up the lavender list from the table. “I’m too tired to-”

“Sit down, Paige!” Abby leapt out of her chair and snatched the list out of my hand. “Sabrina gave you plenty of information about Melody and Brigitte and Candy in these notes,” she said, unfolding the list and flapping it in front of my face, “but do you see anything here about her? She didn’t write a goddamn word about herself.”

“But that’s because she-”

“Oh, hush! I’m not an idiot. I know why she didn’t want to put anything about herself in writing. What I don’t know is all the stuff she told you but didn’t write down. I’m not a mind reader, you know! And if you don’t sit tight and give me all the dope right now, I’m gonna go nuts wondering about it all night. I’m talkin’ insane, Duane.”

“Can’t you just-”

“No! I can’t! I need you to give me the lowdown on Sabrina this very minute! You know how I am.”

Abby was right. I did know how she was-which meant I knew enough to sit down and start dishing out the details before she worked herself up into one of her snit fits (a sure to be noisy and unseemly process that would delay my bedtime indefinitely).

“Oh, all right!” I snapped, giving in and flopping back down in my chair. “Have it your way.” (As if there could ever be any other way.) “But you’d better make me some coffee, or I’ll fall asleep at the wheel.”

“Good idea,” she chirped, twirling over to the kitchen counter. “I’ll brew some java while you tell me about Sabrina.

“I can tell you only what she told me,” I grumbled, “and as soon as I’m finished, I’m going home to bed!”

“So who’s stopping you?”

Groan.

“Sabrina was born into an affluent family,” I began, talking fast, hoping to wrap the story up as quickly as possible. “She was raised by governesses and educated in Switzerland. She was a debutante, a pampered beauty, a social butterfly who dated lots of wealthy young men. And now-according to Sabrina-many of those young men are rich, powerful, and influential older men, and some of them are her clients. I’d say Sam Hogarth and Oliver Rice Harrington belong to that fraternity.”

“Well, that’s pretty damn interesting,” Abby said, pausing, blinking, obviously savoring the scandalous possibilities. “But it’s not the whole story, Rory. What I want to know is how it happened. I mean, how and why did Sabrina become a madam to begin with?”

“I don’t know.”

“What?” she said, turning the flame on under the percolator. “Didn’t you ask her about it?”