The enemy, whoever they were, were doing a great job, Malone thought bitterly. Every time Burris decided he might need Malone, apparently, they pushed a little mental burst at him and turned him around again.
He could just picture Burris looking blankly at an FBI roster and saying: "Malone? Who"s he?"
It wasn"t a nice picture. Malone took a deep swallow of his bourbon-and-water and tried forgetting about it. The bartender, called by another customer, put the gla.s.s and towel down and went to the other end of the bar. Malone finished his drink very slowly, feeling more lonely than he could ever remember being before.
At last, though, four-thirty rolled around and he got up from the plush bar stool and headed for the Universal Joint, the hotel"s big show-room. It was one of the few places in the hotel that was easily reachable from the front bar on foot, and Malone walked, taking an unexpected pleasure in this novel form of locomotion. In a few minutes he was at the great curtained front doors.
He pushed them open. Later, of course, when the Universal Joint was open to the public, a man in a uniform slightly more impressive than that of a South American generalissimo would be standing before the doors to save patrons the unpleasant necessity of opening them for themselves. But now, in the afternoon, the Universal Joint was closed.
There was no one inside but Primo Palveri, the manager and majority stockholder of the Great Universal, and the new strip act he was watching. Malone didn"t particularly like the idea of sharing his conversation with a burlesque stripper, but there was little he could do about it; he"d waited several days for the appointment already.
As the doors opened he could hear a nasal voice, almost without over-tones, saying: "Now turn around, baby. Turn around." A pause, and then another voice, this one female:
"Is this all right, Mr. Palveri? You want me to show you something else?"
Malone shut the door quietly behind him. The female voice was coming from the throat of a semi-naked girl about five feet eight, with bright red hair and a wide, wide smile. She was staring at a chunky little black-haired man sunk in a chair, whose back was to Malone.
"What else do you do, Sweetheart?" the chunky man said. "Let me see whatever you do. I want some wide-talent stuff, you know, for the place. Cla.s.s."
The girl smiled even wider. Malone was sure her teeth were about to fall out onto the floor, probably in a neat arrangement that spelled out _Will You Kiss Me In The Dark Baby_. That would take an awful lot of teeth, he reflected, but the stripper looked as if she could manage the job. "I dance and sing," she said. "I could do a dance for you, but my music is upstairs. You want me to go and get it?"
Palveri shook his head. "How about a song, baby? You mind singing without a piano?"
"I don"t have anything prepared," the girl said, her eyes wide. "I didn"t know this was going to be a special audition. I thought, you know, just a burlesque audition, so I didn"t bring anything."
Palveri sank a little lower in the chair. "O.K., Sweetheart," he said.
"You got a nice shape, you"ll fit in the line anyhow. But just sing a song you know. How about that? If you make it with that, you could get yourself a featured spot. More dough."
The girl appeared to consider this proposition. "Gee," she said slowly. "I could do "G.o.d Bless America". O.K., Mr. Palveri?"
The chunky man sank even deeper toward the floor. "Never mind," he said. "Go get dressed, tell Tony you got the number five spot in the line. O.K.?"
"Gee," she said. "Maybe I could work on something and do it for you some other time, Mr. Palveri?"
He nodded wearily. "Some other time," he said. "Sure."
The girl went off through a door at the left of the club. Malone threaded his way past tables with chairs piled on top of them until he came to Palveri"s side. The club owner was sitting on a single chair dragged off the heap that stood on a table next to him. He didn"t turn around. "Mr. Malone," he said, "take another chair, sit down and we"ll talk. O.K.?"
Malone blinked. "How"d you know I was there?" he said. "Much less who I was?"
"In this business," Palveri said, still without turning, "you learn to notice things, Mr. Malone. I heard you come in and wait. Who else would you be?"
Malone took a chair from the pile and set it up next to Palveri"s. The chunky man turned to face him for the first time. Malone took a deep breath and tried to look hard and tough as he studied the club owner.
Palveri had small, sunken eyes decorated with bluish bags below and tufted black eyebrows above. The eyes were very cold. The rest of his face didn"t warm things up any; he had an almost lipless slash for a mouth, a small reddish nose and cheeks that could have used either a shave or a good sandblasting job.
"You said you wanted to see me," Palveri began after a second. "But you didn"t say what about. What"s up, Mr. Malone?"
"I"ve been looking around," Malone said in what he hoped was a grim, no-nonsense tone. "Checking things. You know."
"Checking?" Palveri said. "What"s this about?"
Malone shrugged. He fished out a cigarette and lit it. "Castelnuovo in Chicago sent me down," he said. "I"ve been doing some checking around for him."
Palveri"s eyes narrowed slightly. Malone puffed on the cigarette and tried to act cool. "You throwing names around to impress me?" the club owner said at last.
"I"m not throwing names around," Malone said grimly. "Castelnuovo wants me to look around, that"s all."
"Castelnuovo"s a big man in Chicago," Palveri said. "He wouldn"t send a guy down without telling me about it."
"He did," Malone said. He thought back to the FBI files on Giacomo Castelnuovo, which took up a lot of s.p.a.ce in Washington, even on microfilm. "You want proof?" he said. "He"s got a scar over his ribs on the left side--got it from a bullet in "62. He wears a little black mustache because he thinks he looks like an old-time TV star, but he doesn"t, much. He"s got three or four girls on the string, but the only one he cares about is Carla Bragonzi. He--"
"O.K.," Palveri said. "O.K., O.K. You know him. You"re not fooling, around. But how come he sends you down without telling me?"
Malone shrugged. "I"ve been here two weeks," he said. "You didn"t know I was around, did you? That"s the way Castelnuovo wanted it."
"He thinks I"d cheat him?" Palveri said, his face changing color slightly. "He thinks I"d dress up for him or drag down? He knows me better than that."
Malone took a puff of his cigarette. "Maybe he just wants to be sure,"
he said. "Funny things are happening all over." The cigarette tasted terrible and he put it out in an ashtray from the chair-covered table.
"You"re telling me," Palveri said. "Things are crazy. What I"m thinking is this: Maybe Castelnuovo wants to keep this place operating. Maybe he wants to keep me here working for him."
"And if he does?" Malone said.
"If he does, he"s going to have to pay for it," Palveri said firmly.
"The place needs dough to keep operating. I"ve got to have a loan, or else I"m going under."
"The place is making money," Malone said.
Palveri shook his head vigorously. He reached into a pocket and took out a gold cigar case. He flipped it open. "Have one," he told Malone.
An FBI Agent, Malone told himself, had no business smoking cigars and looking undignified. But as a messenger from Castelnuovo, he could do as he pleased. He almost reached for one before he realized that maybe, sometime in the future, Palveri would find out who Kenneth J.
Malone really was. And then he"d remember Malone smoking cigars, and that would be bad for the dignity of the FBI. Reluctantly, he drew his hand back.
"No, thanks," he said. "Never touch "em."
"To each his own," Palveri muttered. He took out a cigar, lit it and returned the case to his pocket. The immediate vicinity became crowded with smoke. Malone breathed deeply.
"About the money--" Malone said after a second.
Palveri snorted. "The place is making half of what I"m losing," he said. "You got to see it this way, Malone: the contacts are gone."
"Contacts?" Malone said.