[Celebrity Murder Case 08] - The Mae West Murder Case Read online

  “What time tomorrow night?”

  “Nine. I’ll pick you up a quarter to.”

  “Now what have I got to wear that’s seductive?”

  “Wear your enchanting smile. The one you use on the landlord when you’re late with the rent.”

  She shot him a look and then said, “Maybe I’ll put a chip of chocolate in my navel and go as a Toll House cookie.”

  There was a knock on the door and Jim Mallory entered empty-handed. “Neon Light’s file is somewhere down in the basement.”

  “What’s it doing down there?” Herb asked, annoyed.

  “The clerk said it was getting overcrowded up here so case files they figured unsolvable were moved downstairs.”

  Herb slammed a hand down on the desk and Hazel yelped. “Who the hell’s the clerk to decide a case is unsolvable? Just because it’s been up a dead end the past six months doesn’t mean there couldn’t be a break.” He thought for a moment. “Do you suppose somebody asked the file be put in an icebox?”

  “I’ve been entertaining that thought myself. Anyway, he’s digging around for it and thinks he might find it in a couple of days or so.”

  “Why so long?”

  “Herb, how long’s it been since you paid a visit to the basement?’*

  “Back in the days when the toilets were down there.”

  “It has changed. You wouldn’t recognize it. And that’s because there are floor-to-ceiling packing boxes jammed together, of course alphabetically.”

  “Very clever idea,” Villon offered glumly. He told Mallory about Mae’s invitation to the Halloween frolic at the Tailspin. Mallory’s face responded like the sun rising in the east.

  “Are we supposed to wear costumes? It’s awful short notice.”

  “I don’t think it’s expected of us elderly folk.”

  Hazel stared daggers. “I am a long, long way from elderly.”

  “Now, Hazel,” said Villon with a wink to Mallory, “didn’t you once tell me you marched with the suffragettes?” He ducked swiftly as a lead pencil went sailing over his head and struck the wall behind him.

  With Seymour Steel Cheeks behind the wheel, Mae’s limousine pulled up in front of Jake Hasseltine’s gymnasium on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood. It was a three-story brick building surrounded on one side by an empty lot overgrown with weeds and littered with trash and on the other side by a tacky-looking luncheonette known to the locals as the Ptomaine Pit. Seymour hurried around to the back door on Mae’s side and opened it for her. She extended her hand and he helped her out. Timony got himself out on the opposite side. He surveyed the rundown neighborhood and thought, If I knew real estate I could buy these parcels up and build and develop and make a handsome profit. But he didn’t know real estate and wasn’t about to find out about it. He knew he’d soon be heading back East—back to civilization, as he frequently referred to New York—and he was beginning to look forward to it. Looking forward to it despite the three thousand miles that would separate him from Mae. He didn’t have to remind himself that now there was more than three thousand miles separating him from Mae. He heard her speaking to him.

  “You lead the way in, Jim. And to be on the safe side, just in case Jake ain’t the same Jake I knew back in Chicago, you pernt him out to me.” Then she added, “But don’t be obvious. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

  Seymour preceded them to the entrance and held open the unusually large steel door. Mae commented, “Is this a gym or a fortress? I ain’t seen a door that size since I served my time on Welfare Island.” There was an oversize cement step at the entrance. Realizing she couldn’t maneuver it wearing platform shoes, Mae asked Timony to help her up. He put his hand under her elbow and realized it was their first physical contact in over a year. Once inside, Mae groaned. There was a long flight of stairs leading up to the gym. “For cryin’ out loud, ain’t he heard of escalators?” She said to Timony, “Why didn’t you tell me we were goin’ mountain climbin’?”

  “I suppose I could have told the boys to come to the apartment, but you don’t like people to know where you live.”

  “People, yes, men, no.” She took a grip on the handrail and hoisted herself up. “Seymour, you climb behind me in case I lose my grip and start to fall. On the other hand, keep your distance upstairs when I’m interviewin’ should I lose my grip and start to fall.”

  As she ascended the staircase slowly, she heard sounds of her childhood when her mother took her and her siblings to the gymnasium where her father, Battlin’ Jack, trained. A wave of nostalgia overtook her and, with it, a tinge of sadness. She could hear gloved fists connecting with punching bags. She heard the nimble footwork of an athlete jumping rope. The familiar sounds of two fighters in a sparring match made her wonder if she looked to her right, would her mother be there warning her there might be blood and not to throw up. Mae never threw up. The sight of the blood excited her, but there wasn’t blood too often. Sometimes a sparring mate got carried away and threw one at an opponent’s mouth, loosening a few teeth, but that didn’t happen too often. She reached the top of the staircase and paused to compose herself. Seymour and Timony knew the routine and waited while she checked herself in a floor-length mirror conveniently nailed into the wall on her left. She knew that future prizefighters liked to pose in front of the mirror with fists poised for imaginary action, a snarl on their lips, heads lifted high, waiting for an imaginary bell to ring and send them into action. They were the modem counterparts of ancient gladiators, soon to go into the arena and face the challenge. We who are about to die salute you. Hail, Caesar.

  Mae West always enjoyed her reflection in a mirror. She was no great beauty, but she was one of a kind. She had invented herself and owned the patent and would never sell it. The picture hat was just right. The dress had a simple flower pattern. The girdle she wore under it had been especially designed for her so that it gave her a figure what Nature had not seen fit to provide. She was constantly fighting the battle of the bulge, which is why she favored stories that required period costumes rather than modern dress. Go West, Young Man was modern, and dress designer Travis Banton almost had a nervous breakdown satisfying the demanding Mae West. There was a simple strand of pearls around her neck and on eight fingers there were a blinding assortment of sparkling diamonds. Her wrists were decorated with six exquisite jeweled bracelets, three to a wrist. It was a miracle that she had never suffered a robbery or been waylaid by bandits when out in public. She was indeed a darling of the gods.

  “Let’s go in, boys. Jim, you first. Seymour, you follow him and stay a few feet in front of me. Let’s not crowd each other.”

  After Mae made her entrance, there was a gradual diminishing of noise. It was as though every man in the gymnasium was being mesmerized in a mass hypnosis by a master magician. And the smile on Mae’s face was indeed magical. At that moment, she heard a tremendous clap of thunder. It was applause. Boxers had removed their gloves to join trainers and handlers in paying tribute to their dream woman. Mae fought back tears, she was so completely taken by surprise. She raised her right hand and gave a perfect imitation of Queen Mary of England standing on a palace balcony acknowledging a tribute from her subjects in the street below.

  And then she saw him. Jake Hasseltine. He stood in the center of the ring where he’d been supervising a sparring match between two aspirants who looked as though they were barely out of their teens. Hasseltine wore a T-shirt on which was boldly lettered the champ. He wore black gym shorts and also sported a black patch over his left eye. Mae lowered her hand and watched as he climbed out of the ring, a wonderful smile that displayed a set of strong but crooked teeth, hands outstretched as though he expected her to run to him. Fat chance. Mae ran to no one. They ran to her, walked to her, crawled to her, especially when drunk. Her professional eye examined him minutely. The arms were still muscular, the stomach was still flat—a hell of a lot flatter than her own—the legs were as sturdy as ever, and the nose, which had been bro
ken too many times to keep count, was an imposing one. Happily, the ears showed no sign of cauliflower.

  “I gotta give you a hug, baby, I just gotta.”

  “You better, you big lug, or I’ll jiggle your jewels with my fist.”

  Timony watched with a set look on his face as they embraced. Seymour Steel Cheeks was perplexed. She once found this old man attractive and sexy? Hasseltine was now in his early forties and in better shape then most men half his age. Seymour was hard put to realize that fifteen or sixteen years earlier, Jake Hasseltine looked like a bronzed Adonis.

  Hasseltine’s voice was his autobiography. Born on the Lower East Side of Manhattan where he first learned to exercise his fists in order to survive, where he worked alongside his parents and his brothers behind a pushcart on Delancey Street offering a fine array of fresh, and frequently not so fresh, fish for sale. He was a born battler, and his rise to the top in fisticuffs was rapid, almost as rapid as the descent of his star.

  “Mae, I seen every one of your pitchers.”

  “Oh, yeah? There ain’t been that many.”

  “That’s okay. I seen them all ten times.”

  “Ten times? Hmmm. To build up an immunity?”

  “Still kiddin’ around.” He took her arm. “I got some java and sinkers set up. Thought we’d chin a little before I bring out the boys.”

  “You sure know how to whet my appetite. Where are the boys?”

  “They’re upstairs practicin’ lookin’ tough.”

  “I ain’t climbin’ no more stairs!”

  “Don’t worry, babe. They’ll be troopin’ down here when I send for them.”

  Jake led them into his office. On his desk was a pot of coffee on a burner and a plate of small doughnuts. He said with pride, somewhat shyly, “I even got paper napkins, sugar, and milk.”

  “I hope you got spoons.”

  Jake guffawed. “Ain’t she a kidder? Still kiddin’ around, that’s my Mae. Sit over here behind my desk, Mae. I bought a new cushion just for you.”

  “Now, ain’t you thoughtful.” She sat and emitted an exaggerated sigh. “Ohhhh, ain’t that nice and comfortable. Just like you.”

  “Ahhh, you can’t remember all that far back,” he said with a grin as he poured coffee for the four of them.

  “Oh, no? Why, Jake, I still remember where you’ve got that mole.”

  “Ah, cut it out, babe, yer embarrassin’ me!”

  She said to Timony and Seymour, “Help yourself to the refreshments, boys, and tell me if they’re safe. No milk, no sugar for me. I take it black.”

  “I ain’t forgot that, babe.” He sat on a wooden chair next to her. “Say, listen, what’s goin’ on with all these impersonators of you gettin’ murdered?”

  “That’s just what’s going’ on, Jake. They’re gettin’ murdered. Seems like there’s a local Jack the Ripper out there warmin’ up for the big time, meanin’ killin’ me.”

  “No way!” remonstrated Jake.

  “Any way,” said Mae. She had a wicked thought and was delighted to express it. “It couldn’t by any chance be a Jake the Ripper, could it?”

  “Huh?” Then he grinned. “Still the kidder! That’s my Mae! Always kiddin’!” He dunked a doughnut in his coffee and bit off a chunk. As he chewed he talked and resembled a cement mixer in action. “Ain’t the cops got no leads?”

  “No leads, no nothin’. Except that maybe there’s a vampire out there lustin’ for me.” She told him about the puncture wounds above the jugular veins.

  Awed, Jake shook his head from side to side. “Just like in the pitchers. Hey! Maybe it’s just a publicity stunt.”

  “If it is, it’s a pretty sick one.” She nibbled daintily at a doughnut. It proved to be amazingly good, crisp on the outside and soft on the inside. “Say, these doughnuts are pretty good. Where’d you get them?”

  Jake said with pride, “You see that six-footer jumpin’ rope, the one that looks like a station wagon? He makes ‘em. He’s a great baker. He’s hopin’ to make enough money fightin’ to open a chain of doughnut shops.”

  “Ummmm, I might consider backin’ him myself.”

  “Listen, Mae,” said Jake, suddenly serious, “I know you’re here to pick up some bodyguards, but if there’s anything I can do ... I pack a rod and the fists are still two slabs of granite. I can give you great protection.”

  “That’s sweet, Jake, real sweet. But I wouldn’t dream of separatin’ you from your gym. Anyway, I got some other protection. I got a priest prayin’ for me and today a rabbi gave me a mezuzah.”

  “What’s that?”

  Mae explained it to him, at the conclusion of which she said, “One of these nights, why don’tcha come up and kiss my mezuzah?”

  SIX

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, TEN MUSCULAR YOUNG men were lined up for Mae West’s inspection. Mae whispered to Jake, “Maybe you better get rid of one or two of them. I had a pretty rough night last night.”

  Jake looked startled and then he roared with laughter. “Ah ways the kidder! Ha-ha-ha! What a kidder!” He said to the line-up, “You gotta watch out for this gal, fellers. She’s always kiddin’.”

  “Not always, boys. Every so often I get serious and then it’s every man for himself, and every other man for me.” She sauntered up to the first young man in the lineup. “Young man, your tongue’s hangin’ out.” He shut his mouth fast. “What’s your name?” He mumbled. She smiled. “The cat got your tongue, or are you just glad to meet me?”

  He swallowed hard and raised his voice a decibel. “Salvatore.”

  “Salvatore, eh. Like in San Salvatore?”

  “No, Miss West. Salvatore Puccini.”

  “Puccini, eh. It’s got a nice lyrical sound. Did you know there was a Puccini who wrote some real cute operas?”

  “Yes, Miss West. My pop’s got some records. He plays them all the time.”

  “Ohhh? Well that’s somethin’ your pop and me got in common. I love grand opera. The grander the better. One of these days I’m plannin’ to sing grand opera, and I can promise you I’ll be real grand. In fact, I’m thinkin’ of startin’ with Madame Butterfly. Of course they’ll have to make a few changes to accommodate me. Y’know, in the last act she commits harry carey. You know what that is?”

  “Yeah, he acts in the movies.”

  Mae was stumped, but only momentarily. “It means committin’ suicide by stickin’ a knife in your stomach and twistin’ it until you get nauseous and die. How old are you, Salvatore?”

  “Twenty-three. “

  “Oh, yeah? There ain’t nobody that young anymore. Do you think you could do a good job protectin’ me, Salvatore?”

  “Miss West,” he said with the deepest sincerity, “I’d give my life for you.”

  She turned to Timony, who stood to one side with Jake and Seymour. “You hear that, boys, how’s that for generosity?” She returned to Salvatore. “You won’t have to go that far, Salvatore.” She eyed him again from head to crotch. “You may have to go some kind of distance, but not all that far, if you know what I mean. Jim? You takin’ notes?”

  “I’m not missing a thing, Mae.”

  “I didn’t think you was. Well, if it’s all in your head which I assume since you ain’t holdin’ no pencil and paper, put a nice check mark next to Salvatore Puccini.”

  She chatted with three more and then found herself in front of a big black man who towered above her, arms folded and a smile that could have lit up Beverly Hills. “Well, well, well. What have we got here? Looks like your muscles have muscles. What’s your name, big boy?”

  “Selma.” He didn’t stop grinning.

  “Selma! That’s a girl’s name. You puttin’ me on?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m Selma Hamilton Burr. I was born in Selma, Alabama, and my mama promised herself she’d one day have a girl and name her Selma. Well, I’m the ninth son, and Mama was just too plumb tired to go any further so she named me Selma and that’s why I had to learn to use my fists.” He lau
ghed. “Can you imagine how many times I had to defend myself when some kid asked me my name and I told him? Anyway, everybody calls me Sel for short.”

  “Oh, I could never see me sellin’ you short, Sel. You’re sure one big hunk of man. How old are you?”

  “How old do you think?”

  “Now, don’t be coy. You know with colored people it’s always hard to tell their ages until they’re white-haired and stooped. I got two great colored gals workin’ for me now …

  “Oh, yeah?” His eyes lit up with anticipation.

  “And I’ve yet to figure how old they are. As a matter of fact, from day to day they range in age from twenty to thirty-five. So you’re Selma Hamilton Burr. What’s the Hamilton for, some granddaddy of yours?”

  “Oh no, ma’am. Ain’t you heard of Alexander Hamilton?”

  “Sure I have. I got his picture on a lot of bank notes.”

  “Then you know that Alexander Hamilton had this here duel with Aaron Burr way back a ways, and my daddy insists we’s descended from Aaron Burr so that’s how come I’m Selma Hamilton Burr.”

  “Wasn’t Aaron Burr a white man?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But my daddy said he fooled around a lot.”

  “Sel, do you think you could do a good job of protectin’ me?”

  “Ma’am, do you think anyone could harm you with me surrounding you?”

  She laughed. “Yeah, I’ll bet you could surround me, and without touchin’ me. I’d ask about your eight brothers but I got enough appetite as it is. Jim! Put a check mark next to Selma Hamilton Burr.”

  She continued along, a general reviewing her troops. How eager these young men were, how blissfully young. There indeed was one with a wart at the end of his nose, but that wasn’t a mark against him. It was his buck teeth. They made Mae think of vampires, and Mae had enough to think about on the subject of vampires. She came to the last man on the line. He had blazing red hair and his face was dotted with freckles, but his physique, in Mae’s own words, “is a masterpiece.” There was no mistaking the insouciance in her voice as she spoke to him. “Do you know your hair’s on fire.7”