Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

Mr. Gordon Phelps had not thought, for instance, of the possibility that a lady named Sophia Sierra might be attracted to a member of homo sapiens, gender male, without such member depositing a bag of loot at her feet like a sacrifice at an altar. He had not thought of the possibility that Sophia Sierra might be attracted to an individual half his age without such individual having to barter for her affections like they were jewels for sale in a forbidden marketplace. Gordon Phelps had not thought, for instance, that he had absolutely no alibi: the fact that he was alone in his hideaway apartment during the time of the murder of Vivian Frayne was exactly that — no alibi. He had not thought of the fact that he was a prime suspect, adorned, like a harpooned whale, by three deadly shafts, and all of them sticking out of him: motive, opportunity, proximity. He had not thought of the fact that, even if innocent, he was withholding information necessary and pertinent to police investigation of a capital crime. He had not thought of the fact that, no matter what his lawyer had told the police, they were, right now, in all probability, making every effort to seek him out and take him in. He had not thought of the fact that perhaps the police had thought of the fact that the lawyer was transporting a load of fertilizer shipped direct by the client. He had not thought of the fact that, perhaps, Sophia Sierra—

I stopped it right there.

Once it was back to Sophia Sierra — I stopped it.

I flailed fingers at a cab and had a ride through the morass of New York traffic to the precinct station wherein were housed the minions of the law in charge of Homicide in that section of Manhattan. There, too, was housed the brain and bulk of one Detective-lieutenant Louis Parker, staunchest of the minions of the law: cop, friend, gentleman, human being. And there was informed, after prodding lesser minions, that the good Parker was on the “crazy shift,” the middle one of the three eight-hour tricks, that he was out, and that he had called in and was expected back in his office some time at about eleven o’clock.

That gave me time.

It gave me time to go to a fine restaurant and have a leisurely lonely supper. It gave me time to go home and divest myself of my clothes and put away a five thousand dollar fee. It gave me time to get into a warm tub and digest the supper and digest the facts I had about the murder of a dance hall lady named Vivian Frayne. It gave me time to think about Gordon Phelps (having his own kind of fun as George Phillips), and Vivian Frayne (having fun too until the fun stopped all of a sudden), and Sophia Sierra (and Phelps’ admonishment that she was as mercenary as an ancient Hessian), and Steve Pedi (who owned the dance hall), and the Nirvana Ballroom (which was the dance hall that Steve Pedi owned). Nirvana Ballroom. I knew where it was. On Broadway at Fifty-fifth Street. Nirvana Ballroom: perhaps the very name was a tip-off to Steve Pedi. It certainly was an imaginative name. Only someone with a weird imagination could have named it. Nirvana Ballroom. Nirvana. Nirvana, an expression contained in Buddhism, a religion that taught that pain and suffering is a part of life, and that the extinction of all desire and passion is the entrance into Nirvana: the attainment of perfect beatitude. I thought, as I climbed out of my warm tub, that to some of us Nirvana can signify the beginning of true life, but to others, Nirvana can also mean death.

At ten o’clock in the evening — fresh, clean, unsullied and unphilosophical — I presented myself at the Nirvana Ballroom.

Mr. Steve Pedi was running an enterprising joint. You paid an admission of a dollar and a half, trudged up a flight of stairs, passed through an arched doorway and entered upon a crowded blue dimness. There were at least three hundred couples on the floor, swaying in various embraces to swoosh-soft music wafted from an excellent orchestra on a podium to the right. I had to squint to get accustomed to the gloom of the manufactured lovers’ twilight. To my left, there was a carpeted stairway, going up. In front of me was a wooden barrier with swinging-gate breaks for entrance to the dance-floor proper. Against the inner section of the barrier lounged shapely young ladies in enticing attitudes, smiling invitingly at each new customer as he entered. The customers smiled back or gaped in embarrassment at the ladies, all of them encased in shimmering evening gowns. I moved along the barrier looking for Sophia and could not find her. I found a roped-off section, in an area even dimmer than the rest of the place, that contained chairs and tables and huddled couples. I also found a bar.

I went to the bar.

“Scotch and water,” I said.

“Sorry, no hard stuff,” the bartender said. “Against the law. We got coffee, raisin cake, all kinds of soft drinks, soda, and ice cubes if you need them. This the first time you been here, Mac?”