“Tony wants youse to come back to his dressin’ room now,” he said, running his hairy hand down the front of his white pleated shirt, which was stretched so tight across his bulging belly I thought the onyx studs would pop off, blast through the air, and land like bits of shrapnel in my wig. “C’mon, I’ll show youse the way.”
Abby was on her feet in a flash. She couldn’t wait to go backstage and meet Corona in person. (If you haven’t already noticed, Abby goes crazy for celebrities. All celebrities. Even lechers and murder suspects.) I, on the other hand, was dragging my tail. As eager as I was to conduct a close study of Corona, I wasn’t cheered by the knowledge that he’d be conducting an even closer study of me.
Trailing Little Pete and Abby through a door tucked in an alcove near the bandstand, I straightened the girdle-like skirt of my dress and tried to strut instead of stagger. Ha! It was so crowded backstage, all I (or anybody else) could do was dodge, swerve, and waddle forward like a duck (or a mermaid in high heels). The narrow hall outside the dressing rooms was packed with beefy bodyguards in tuxedos, big-breasted Copa girls in various states of undress, restless musicians taking a cigarette break, and swanky VIPs waiting for an audience with the pope-I mean, Corona.
As Little Pete led us down the hall and up to the front of the line of people outside Corona ’s dressing room, I spotted a couple of familiar faces. Comedian George Gobel was there, looking cute in his red bow tie and bristly buzz cut, and just a few feet up the line, in a yellow chiffon dress and a sable stole, stood Ann Sothern, the smart, wisecracking star of the Private Secretary TV series (which, due to its amusing focus on the plight of single working women, was one of my favorites).
Abby recognized the two stars before I did. She was right in front of me, so I saw her head snap in their direction as we waddled by, but-wonder of wonders!-she didn’t squeal, or stop dead in her tracks, or even ask them for their autographs. She was calm, cool, and collected, which was a heck of a lot more than I could say for myself. If the lurch in my walk, and the sweat under my wig, and the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach were any indication, I was-even without the second champagne cocktail-about to throw up.
Little Pete knocked on the door of Corona ’s dressing room, then opened it and stuck his head inside. “I got the dames here, boss,” I heard him say. “You wanna see ’em now?”
“Yeah,” Corona answered, in a loud, spiteful tone that was audible to everyone in the near vicinity. “Bring ’ em in. Then get me another bottle of bourbon from the bar. This one’s dead.”
Little Pete opened the door wider and-ignoring the impatient groans and glares of those at the front of the line-ushered us inside. (Moses couldn’t hold a candle to Abby and me. High-priced call girls-even fake ones-can part the waters in a New York minute.)
Corona was slouching indolently in a leather swivel chair on the far side of the small dressing room. His head was lolling against the backrest and one leg was flung wide over an arm of the chair. His jacket was lying in a heap on the makeup table, and his untied black bow tie was hanging down the front of his open-collared dress shirt. His dark brown hair was damp and disheveled, his smile was cold and crooked, and as he watched me and Abby enter his dimly lit lair, his big brown eyes turned small and mean. He didn’t stand up, or say hello, or offer us a seat on the black leather couch against the wall.
“Anything else, boss?” Little Pete asked, heaving his huge body forward, nabbing the empty bourbon bottle off the makeup table, and then huffing his way back to the door.
“A pack of weeds and a bucket of ice,” Corona said, still squinting at Abby and me, sizing us up as if we were horses (or slaves) on the auction block. “And two more glasses,” he added as an afterthought.
“You got it,” Little Pete grunted, turning to leave.
“Hold on a minute,” Corona said. “What’s the scene out in the hall? Anybody waiting to see me?”
“Sure, boss. Lotsa people, like always.”
“Any big shots?”
“Nah, just Georgie Gobel and some TV actress. The rest ain’t nothin’ to honk about.”
“What about Hogarth?”
“He’s still up in the mezz with the wife. They’re havin’ dinner. Said he’d see ya later.”
“Then you can tell everybody else to scram,” Corona grumbled, swinging his leg off the arm of the chair, leaning forward, and raking his fingers through his hair. “I’m not in the mood for visitors and ass-kissers. Tell ’em I’m not feelin’ too good and I gotta rest up for the next show.”
“Okay, boss.” Little Pete nodded and reached for the door-knob.
“One more thing,” Corona said, looking toward the ceiling and rubbing the back of his neck. “Did that dick come back tonight? The rat who’s been sittin’ lookout at the bar all week? He thinks he’s undercover, but he’s not. The bartender made him right off. Said his name is Street and he’s a hotshot in Homicide.”
Little Pete let out a booming laugh. “Yeah, I know the rat you mean. Buys one rye and ginger and don’t even drink it. What a tip-off. Don’t he know any better’n that?”
Corona didn’t laugh or even smile. He jumped to his feet and started pacing, like a caged animal, around the tiny room. “So what’s the story?” he growled. “Is Street out there again tonight? Because if he is, I want you to get rid of him. Once and for all. I’m sick of looking at his ugly mug.”
“No, boss, he ain’t here yet. He usually don’t show up till after the second show.”
“Well, if he does come in, lemme know right away.” Corona continued his feverish pacing, not looking at Abby or me, but brushing so close to us I could feel the heat coming off his body.
“Sure thing,” Little Pete said. “You want that bottle of bourbon now?”
Corona came to a sudden standstill, ripped off his loosened bow tie, and tossed it on top of his rumpled jacket. “Yeah,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt all the way down to his black satin cummerbund, “and don’t forget the ice.”
Chapter 29
I DIDN’T THROW UP, BUT I ALMOST PASSED OUT. A hurricane was howling in my head. Corona and his boys knew all about Dan! And about his stakeout at the Copa! And that meant the city’s most powerful crime boss and the secret owner of the Copa, Frank Costello, knew all about Dan, too! And since Costello was now under investigation in the city’s big crackdown on organized crime, there was a damn good chance that Dan’s identity and recent surveillance activities had also been brought to the attention of District Attorney Sam Hogarth.
Oh, my God! What the holy hell is going on? Could it be that-?
My screaming thoughts were interrupted by Corona ’s silky yet surly voice. “Glad to see you could make it,” he scoffed, walking up to me and screwing his mouth into an ugly sneer. “Which one are you? Gina or Cherry?” He was standing so close I could see every detail engraved on the gold St. Christopher medal visible through the gap in his wide-open shirt.
“Cherry,” I said, without hesitation. (My near-virginal state had prompted Abby to pin that alias on me, and-though I hadn’t appreciated her derisive snorts and giggles at the time- I was now grateful for the name. At least I could remember it.)
“Cherry, huh?” Corona said, changing his sneer to a lusty smirk. “Does that mean you’ve still got a cherry to pop? Because if you do, you’ve come to the right place, honey. Poppin’ cherries is my favorite sport.”
I knew this was my cue to start flirting with the man-to make nice and bat my lashes and shower him with suggestive come-ons-but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was consumed with worry about Dan. He was in danger, and I had to do something about it! I needed to drop the nauseating call girl act and get back to playing detective-now.