A Curtain Falls by Stefanie Pintoff Page A

the assumption that you understand everything about Mr. Iseman just because you know his job title. He does more than manage the theater’s day-to-day operations. He not only has Charlie Frohman’s ear— he also has his trust. And mark my words,” her voice was suddenly sober, “you’ll learn nothing of value so long as anyone thinks Mr. Iseman may hear of it.”
    I considered the woman in front of me. She gave every appearance of being forthright and honest. Yet I did not forget for a minute that just a moment ago she had offered me a roundabout bribe. Furthermore, she was an actress: the art of deception was her livelihood.
    “Rest assured Mr. Iseman is not here now. So you’ve nothing to fear by talking with me,” I said again.
    She scanned the room once again.
    “Or—” I leaned back and regarded her with a steady gaze, “does this have something to do with the favor you wanted?”
    She flushed a deep red and avoided looking at me.
    “I have a friend who needs help, and you’re in a position to intervene.” She looked down at the table, where her fingers idly played with her empty whiskey glass, tipping it first one way, then another.
    “What kind of help?” My voice took on a more cautious tone.
    “He needs more time to repay someone you know for losses at the table. He’s good for the money, of course— he just needs a couple extra weeks.” She gulped hard, watching my face anxiously for a sign of my reaction.
    “And your friend’s concern has become yours because . . . ?” I raised an eyebrow.
    “Because he owes me money, too.” Her face twisted oddly and her voice took on a desperate tone. “I’ll never get it so long as he’s in the hole to this sort of man. A man who’ll take it from him one way or another, leaving him in no position to work.”
    So it wasn’t a favor she wanted, it was a fool’s errand. Whether she was talking about an in de pen dent bookie or the owner of one of the gambling joints downtown, she was right that I knew such men. I’d grown up among them on the Lower East Side, though after I joined the police force, I’d done my best to avoid them— at least in any professional capacity.
    “And your friend owes the money to . . . ?” I asked warily. Her answer was certain to be no one I had any wish to meet.
    “Let’s just call him an associate of Mike Salter’s.”
    So I had guessed right. Salter’s Pelham Café in Chinatown was just like any number of saloons in the Bowery: its public restaurant area was a front for all kinds of criminal activities that happened in back behind closed doors, sanctioned by Mike Salter himself.
    I made a careful reply. “Do I know this particular associate?”
    She nodded, though she did not look at me, and her voice was low when she replied. “You don’t need to see him or talk with him. You could just let me mention your name. It would buy us— or rather, my friend— a little more time.”
    I sized her up carefully. I knew it was possible there was no “friend” involved at all. It was likely she herself owed the money.
    And the “associate” was as likely to be a police officer as a saloon owner like Mike Salter himself. That saloon owners colluded with the police was an open secret in the Bowery called the protection racket: money was directed to certain policemen in exchange for their turning a blind eye to illegal backroom activities. And Molly was right: I didn’t want to know more.
    “Let me think about it,” I finally said. I made it a point never to involve myself in dealings of this sort. It would compromise my reputation and involve me in a shady transaction of which I wanted no part— and for what? To help Molly, I supposed. But it remained unclear to me whether she was worth that sort of risk.
    “Tell me about Annie Germaine.”
    She downed her third whiskey shot.
    “I’ve understudied her the better part of this month. Ever since I came back to town.”
    I took advantage of the opening. “So