Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

“Ah, Mr. Chambers,” he said in a voice like the purr of a cream-fed cat. “Always welcome.” He sat down, sighingly, opposite me. “I am breathless in anticipation. I hope it’s big.”

“Not too,” I said.

“That’s what all my customers say — but, of course, since it is their money, they’re prejudiced. I’m prejudiced too, I suppose, but let me be the judge. What is it, Mr. Chambers?”

“Steve Pedi. Mousie Lawrence. Kiddy Malone.”

“Together, or separate?”

“Pedi is separate. Mousie and Kiddy are together.”

“Which is as it should be,” he said. “On one category, you’re going to save money. What I have to offer on Pedi isn’t worth any money.”

“Will you offer it, please?”

“With pleasure,” he said. “Stephan Burton Pedi owns a ballroom called The Nirvana. He bought the joint about ten years ago, but he didn’t operate it himself. He had connections in California, Canada, Florida, and France — some kind of business connections. He’d come in, now and then, and look things over at The Nirvana, but he only took over active operation a few months ago.”

“What kind of business connections?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Lorenzo said. “He’s a shrewd guy, a smart apple, and he sits very strong with some of the best people.”

“By the best people, I take it, you mean the worst people.”

He shrugged, smiled. “He’s fixed tip-top in the connections department. He’s a good guy to stay away from, if you want my advice.”

“I’m not here for advice.”

“That’s all I know about Steve Pedi. For free.”

“What do you know about Mousie and Kiddy, not for free.”

He studied buffed fingernails, looked up and cocked his head at me. “I don’t get you,” he said. “I think you know about as much as I do about those two. Why are you trying to throw your money away?”

“I don’t want to know about their past history. I want to know about their present. Are they here in New York?”

“Yes.”

“How long they been here?”

“Oh, about a month, I think.”

“Why are they here?”

“I don’t know why they’re here — yet. I’ll know, sooner or later, but I don’t know yet. You want to be in touch with either one of them?”

“You know where?”

He rubbed his hands together. “I sit worth a thousand bucks to you?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Lorenzo doesn’t kid. You know that.”

“And what do I get for my thousand bucks?”

“You get where they’re staying, you get under what names they’re staying, and you get information about the brand new gal Kiddy’s palsy-walsy with.”

“Deal,” I said.

“Cash?” he said.

“What else?” I said. “You call at my office tomorrow at four.”

“Excellent, dear Peter.” He sat back, clasped his hands over his stomach, and closed his eyes as though he were communing with the spirits. His eyebrows came together in concentration as he said, softly. “Mousie is Emanuel Larson. Kiddy is Kenneth Masters. They have a suite at the Montrose Hotel, Fifty-seventh and First, Suite 916. Kiddy’s new gal is a waitress, works in a fish restaurant on Fulton Street called Old Man Neptune. She’s a red-head with a terrific shape, and she ought to be in a pleasant mood these days, because she’s a user and Kiddy keeps her well supplied with the stuff. Her name is Betty Wilson, three room apartment at 244 West 65th Street, first floor, rear apartment to the right; there are four apartments on each floor, two in front and two in the rear; its an old brownstone, a walkup, and you don’t have to ring downstairs if you don’t want to because the entrance door is on the fritz and it doesn’t snap shut on its lock.” He opened his eyes. “Okay?”

“Wow,” I said in wonderment.

The Montrose was one of those newly-built thousand-room monstrosities, tier upon jagged tier of stone and chrome, brick and steel. I stalked through the lobby as though I belonged there, went into one of the shiny-doored elevators, got out at nine, marched to 916, put my finger on the doorbell and squeezed.

Nobody answered.

I took the elevator back down to the main floor. I wanted a look-see into Suite 916. I was right there at the premises, and you never can tell what a look-see can turn up, even a fast look-see.

I went directly to the desk.

It was long and wide with a white marble top. There were five clerks behind it. I reached across and grabbed the lapel of the youngest of the three, a slender kid with a butch haircut, sad eyes, a white face and a black bow tie.

“I’m Jack Larson,” I shouted. “I got a brother here. Emanuel Larson. 916.”

“So what?” said the slender kid. “Leggo, will you, Mac?”

Two other clerks moved over. One was a portly, white-haired man with glasses.

“My brother called me,” I shouted. “Called me, threatening suicide. I got here fast as I could.”

“Suicide?” breathed the slender kid.

“You heard me. Suicide.”

I let go of the kid and he sagged. “Suicide,” he breathed, wetting his lips.

The white-haired man took a ring of keys quickly, came out from behind the desk quickly, said, “All right, Mr. Larson, come along with me.”

He was sprightly for a fat man. We ran across the lobby and into an elevator. “Nine,” he said to the elevator boy, “and no other stops.”