I'll Get You For This

  I told the reception clerk who'd come up with me that the view was swell.

  When he had gone, I went back onto the balcony, hoping to see some more of the dumb-bells, but I'd seen all there was to see.

  I hadn't been out on the balcony more than three minutes before the telephone rang. I answered it, thinking maybe it was a wrong number.

  "Mr. Cain?"

  I said as far as I knew it was.

  "Welcome to Paradise Palms," went on the voice: a rich, fruity baritone with a dago accent. "This is Speratza talking. I manage the Casino Club. I hope you'll come over. We've heard about you."

  "You have?" I said, pleased. "That's swell. Sure, I'd like to come over. I'm on vacation, but I still gamble."

  "We have a line place here, Mr. Cain," he said, goodwill oozing from every pore. "You'll like it. How about tonight? Can you make it?"

  "Sure. I'll be over."

  "Ask for me: Don Speratza. I'll see you're fixed good. You got a girl?"

  "Not right now, but there seem to be plenty kicking around." "But not all of them are obliging, Mr. Cain," he said, laughing. "I'll fix you with one who knows her way around. We want you to have a good time while you're with us. We don't often have such a celebrity. You leave the girl to me. You won't be disappointed."

  I said it was pretty nice of him and hung up.

  About ten minutes later the telephone rang again. This time it was a bass voice that said it belonged to Ed. Killeano. I didn't know any Ed. Killeano, but I said I was glad he had called.

  "I heard you were in town, Cain," the voice said. "I want you to know we're glad to have you here. Anything I can do to make your stay a pleasant one be sure to let me know. The hotel will tell you where you can find me. Have a good time," and before I could think of anything to say he rang off.

  I was human enough to call the desk and ask who Ed. Killeano was. They told me in a hushed voice that he was the City Administrator. They made it sound like he was Joe Stalin.

  I thanked them and went back to the balcony.

  The sun shone on the golden beach, the ocean sparkled, and the palms nodded their heads in the lazy breeze. Paradise Palms still looked wonderful, but I was beginning to wonder if it was too good to be true.

  I had a hunch that something was cooking.

2

  I drove down Ocean Drive. The traffic was heavy, and I moved slowly, the damp, salt smell of the sea in my nose, the pounding of the surf in my ears.

  It was the kind of night you read about in books. The stars looked like diamond dust on blue velvet.

  Two blocks further up I came upon a lighted drive that led to a big building with one of those fancy fronts made of marble or glass or porcelain or something—a kind of powder blue with "Casino" in sizable letters on a ledge at the top of the first floor. The whole building was lit by indirect lighting, and the over-all effect was pretty nice.

  The Negro doorman's brass buttons gleamed in the light. He pulled open the door of the Buick, and another Negro stepped forward to drive the car to the garage.

  I walked in under the blue canopy and found myself in a corridor fined on both sides with discreet private dining-rooms with numbers on the doors. At the other end of the corridor was an arch and beside it was the booth occupied by a blonde hat-check girl.

  "Check, Mister?" she asked nasally.

  I wolfed her over. She was wearing a tight little bodice in sky blue satin, open all the way down the front and laced together loosely by black silk cords. Apparently she had nothing on under the bodice. It was one of those outfits that keeps everyone warm except the wearer.

  I gave her my hat and a friendly leer.

  "That's a nice view you have there," I said courteously.

  "The night some guy doesn't make that crack I'll drop down dead," she returned, sighing. "It's part of my job to have a nice view."

  I paused to light a cigarette. "A view to what?" I asked.

  "No dice. That gag's transparent with age."

  "Sorry," I said. "I don't often come to a joint like this. I'm a home lover, and one gets kind of old-fashioned in fife's little backstreams."

  She looked me over and decided I was harmless. "That's all right by me," she said, smiling. "I like variety. The trouble here is that all men seem cast in the same mould."

  "But surely some are more mouldy than others?" I said.

  She giggled. Three men came up to check their hats, so I drifted on through the arch into as sweet a night club layout as you would wish to see, done in pastel shades with indirect lighting and with a beautiful crescent-shaped bar on one side. It was a terrific room with a place for an orchestra and small dance floor made of some composition that looked like black glass. Out of the floor, out of blue and chromium boxes, grew banana trees with broad green leaves and clusters of green bananas. Vines clung to the trunks of the trees, bearing fragile blossoms; pink, orange, bronze and henna. Half the room had no roof and overhead were stars.