Taco Noir by Steven Gomez Page A

was running, and it was her dime.
                “When I returned to my life in America,” she continued, “I dedicated myself to the cause of bringing enlightenment to the deprived masses.”
                “By means of opera?” I asked.
                “By means of opera.”
                “All was well as society welcomed me back with open arms. I found a place with the Met, and established myself as a driving force in the creative community.” Her eyes had that far-way look, and for a moment, I feared she might break out in song. “Everything was falling into place in my life.”
                “Until…?” I interjected.
                “Until the letters arrived,” she sighed, and the faraway look in her eyes vanished, replaced by a here-and-now look of resignation. “Just one or two letters, but there were more letters out there, and they were by far more…” The words escaped her.
                “And I am assuming that they came from Maurice?” I asked.
                “Never!” she protested. “What Maurice and I shared was a special bond. A melding of the spirits! What we had he would never betray for filthy lucre! I can only assume that some tragedy has befallen Maurice. Our passion may have been star-crossed, but our love was eternal! He must have perished, and our letters fallen into unscrupulous hands.”
                “So,” I said standing and making my way to the door. “You want me to find your blackmailer and …?”
                “And retrieve my letters!” she commanded. “I want to make sure that my good name remains untarnished and that the Metropolitan’s season opens without scandal of any kind!”
                “And if it turns out that old Maurice is the guy pulling the strings?” I ventured.
                “Impossible!” she said, dismissing me as the help I guess I now was. “I want you to find this cretin and return to me the memories of my youth.” She stood and turned her back to me, letting me show myself out. As I made my way back to the gorilla at the door, Mrs. Bancroft called to me from over her shoulder.
                “Detective, if you have to give this ne’er-do-well a thrashing in the process, I shan’t mind!”
     
     
                It took me about fifteen minutes to find Maurice. His full name was Maurice De Leon, and he had kept anything but a low profile. Working through my list of contacts, I simply had to describe the slimy little weasel to Benny at Chez Petite Francois, cross his palm with a sawbuck, and Benny sang me a tune that was both enlightening and nauseating.
                Maurice was a gold-digging hustler, but managed to keep his trade secret by virtue of his appearance. Although he was a short, sweaty, doughy, pug-like man, Maurice dressed in tailor-made suits that cost more than my annual rent, and adorned himself in jeweled tie-clips, pinkie rings, and watch fobs that defied imagination. If clothes made the man, then old Maurice was a prince.
                Maurice, according to Benny, had never worked a day in his life but was accustomed to the finer things. He was often seen on the arm of rich, if not desperate, older women in society, and would feed off of them like a leech until the well ran dry or until marriage was unavoidable. Then he would run off in the night as fast as his fat little legs would carry him, often to greener and more lucrative, pastures.
                I caught up to the snake as he was leaving the Leaping Lord, an old-fashioned, honest-to-goodness private club in the city. The Lord was an old-world joint that cost an arm and a leg to join, but apparently was a little lax on character requirements.
                I tailed Maurice past the park, to a brownstone off Weber Street. The building was an impressive piece of architecture.