Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

“Yes. Quite another type. Blonde, older and much softer. About thirty, but quite lovely. Kind of a schizo. All soft on one side, all hard on another. Queer dame, but we made out well.”

“And Sophia Sierra?”

“Like unto burst with anger. Didn’t blame me. Blamed Vivian. Hated her guts, at having lost me to her. Felt that Vivian had put the hooks in. Hated Vivian, but stayed along with me as a kind of lost friend.”

“And you and Vivian?”

“Went along for months, and most satisfactorily. But suddenly she began to swing the big bat too, looking for a home run.”

“Like how?” I said.

“Like a sudden interest in travel. Wanted two years in Europe, felt it would broaden her. Tell you the truth, I’d have been glad to be rid of her, if the request were within reason. I’d had enough. I was ready to move on to greener pastures, or should I say blonder. She wanted fifty thousand dollars.”

“What?”

“Fifty thousand. For two years in Europe. And — to be absolutely honest — I might have considered it. If I didn’t realize it was blackmail, pure and simple — blackmail.”

“When did she make the play?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Oh, I was... indecisive. I wanted to think about it, because I was worried. It was, really, the first time, in my varied escapades, that the individual involved with me knew exactly who I was.”

“Indecisive or no — did it come to conclusion?”

“Not exactly.”

“What interfered?”

“I... I suppose she did, really.”

“How?”

“She died.”

Now I was pacing. I helped myself to another drink, neat, one gulp, and slam of the glass. “You kill her?” I said.

“No.”

“Did you think about it?”

“Yes. To be frank, yes. Things like that enter anybody’s mind when... when they’re frightened. I don’t know if she would have gone through with her... with her implied threat — she just wasn’t the type — a sweet, kind person, really — but I do admit to being terribly concerned.”

“Now, look,” I said. “You’ve known this girl intimately for a few months. Have you any idea who... who might have wanted to... to... was there anyone of whom she was afraid, anyone who might have had some definite motive for—”

“Sophia Sierra,” he said.

My head tilted as though a finger had been stuck in my eye. “Sophia Sierra?” I said. “Now how far can a man go when he’s put out about not being able to make it with a dame—”

“That’s not it, not it at all.” He was excited now and showing it. “I’m not accusing Sophia of anything. You’re asking. I’m telling. I know that Vivian was afraid of her, afraid of her Cuban temper, afraid of the smouldering hatred within her. Sophia was convinced that Vivian had stolen this sucker from her, and Vivian was convinced that Sophia had a deep and lasting hatred burning within her. She told me that, told me that many times.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Simmer down, Mr. Phelps. Anyone else that Vivian might have mentioned?”

He looked like a thought had just hit him.

“Okay,” I said, “what’s occurred to you?”

“A threat. A kind of threat.”

“From whom. To whom?”

“From Steve Pedi to Vivian.”

“Steve Pedi?” I said.

“He owns the Nirvana Ballroom. A rough, tough, capable man. I overheard a conversation, there at the Nirvana...”

“Between whom?”

“Between Pedi and Vivian.”

“When?”

“Oh, a couple of weeks ago. I was there, at the Nirvana. Vivian had gone upstairs — Pedi has his office upstairs. I had waited for her, at a table, and when she hadn’t returned, I had gone up after her. Steve Pedi generally has one of his bouncers stationed outside his office — his favorite bouncer, fella called Amos Knafke. Amos wasn’t there when I went up there — had other business, I assume. The door to Pedi’s office was open, and I was able to overhear the tail end of an argument between Vivian and Pedi. She was saying something like: ‘I know just what the hell’s going on around here, Steve Pedi, and you’re making criminals out of a lot of nice sweet kids, and I think you stink, I really think you stink out loud. And you’re going to put a stop to it, and do it fast, and if you don’t, I’m going to the cops, so help me, I’m going to the cops. I always knew you were rotten, but you’re even more rotten than I thought.’ That’s the way it ran.”

“A nice bit of dialogue,” I said. “Do you know what it was about?”

“Haven’t the faintest idea,” Gordon Phelps said.

“Did she get a reply?” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “Something like: ‘Sister, let me tell you something, for your own good. You’re moving in over your head, you and your damned Puritanic ideas. Butt out. Keep your nose clean, or you’ll get your head handed to you, and with a couple of holes in it. Now, that’s final.’ And her answer, before I pushed in the door, was: ‘And so’s this final Stevie. Unless you put a stop to this thing, and within the next couple of weeks, I’m going to the cops with it, and then you’ll get your head handed to you. And it’s got holes in it already.’ ”

I squinted at him.

I said, “Any ideas on what that was about. You visit her often, Mr. Phelps?”