Jimmy and Fay by Michael Mayo Page A

Polly, it was different. Somebody made enough noise about whores—even in a place as nice as Polly’s—the cops would have to do something. And if some of Dutch Schultz’s boys got carried away and knocked a girl around, Polly couldn’t go to the cops.
    Cynthia knew that if I decided to be a hard-ass, there was nothing to do about it.
    I thought Miss Wray’s money would be more persuasive and slipped her another ten. It smoothly joined the first ten-spot in her bra.
    â€œLook,” I said. “I don’t want to queer her deal. I like Daphne, you know that. I just need to talk to her a little, that’s all. Hell, if she can help me, I’ll make it worth her while. Even with this rich guy, I bet she could use a little folding money. What do you say?”
    It turned out that Cynthia and Daphne had been pretty close pals, too. Polly and all the girls had been happy for Daphne when she told them that one of her regulars, a Wall Street banker no less, wanted a “more exclusive relationship.” They congratulated her and gave her a nice send-off. Daphne called Cynthia a few weeks later and said they should meet down in the Village for lunch, and that’s what they did.
    Cynthia said, “She’s got a really cute little place. Hot water, her own bathroom and telephone, the works.”
    I asked for the address and number. As she was writing them down, a worried look crossed her face and she said, “You got to promise me you’re not going to make trouble for her. Daphne’s a sweet kid. It was good for her to find this fellow. I’d hate it if you messed it up for her.”
    â€œI’m only interested in the other girl, and I don’t even know if it’s that important I find her. This sure is a screwy business that I’ve got myself into.”
    I didn’t know how right I was.
    Back out on Madison, I hailed a cab and told him to take me to my speak and to wait for me when we got there. I still couldn’t quit thinking about Connie. If you’d asked me why, I probably couldn’t have told you. Whatever the reason, I thought it would be good if she came with me to see Miss Wray again. If we weren’t too busy. Or maybe I was just hoping that we’d finish the business and tell Miss Wray that, yes, we knew who the other girl was, and Saxon Dunbar wasn’t going to screw her over, and Miss Wray would say that was great, and Connie and I would leave after ten minutes and spend more of Miss Wray’s money on another cab back down to the Chelsea where Connie would invite me up to her room. Fat chance.
    It was probably about quarter after three Friday morning when we got to the speak. The cabbie double-parked. I gave him a buck and he was happy to wait while I went inside and found that the damn Democrats were still whooping it up. Connie and Frenchy were busy behind the bar. Marie Therese was taking care of the tables. They needed help. I handed Fat Joe Beddoes another dollar and told him to give it to the cabbie and tell him I wouldn’t be needing him. Then I headed upstairs to my office.
    I called the Pierre, asked for Miss Wray’s room, and Hazel answered.
    I told her that I didn’t have anything more, but tomorrow I’d talk to a friend of the girl in the picture book. Maybe tomorrow, I couldn’t be sure.
    â€œFay would still like you to come over,” she said, sounding pissed, like people didn’t say no to Fay very often.
    â€œI don’t have time to talk,” I said. “ See you tomorrow. Maybe.”
    I shed my coat, rolled up my sleeves, and went to the basement where I helped Arch Malloy load a fresh keg into the dumbwaiter and send it to the bar. Then while Frenchy moved it into place, I stacked three trays of dirty glasses into the dumbwaiter and sent them upstairs to the kitchen of the Cruzon Grill. I ran the glasses through the washer and dryer and gave them a quick once-over with a