cards, stacked and bundled with rubber bands. Fleisher riffled through three stacks of the cards for the previous month with great impatience, working rapidly.
Three weeks before the murder there was a chicken-scrawl signature reserving three nights: Jack Sugarman.
Two weeks before the murder, another three nights: Jack Sugarman.
The week of the murder, just one night: Jack Sugarman.
Bingo, he thought. I’ve got Sugarman in town. The first time he comes up from Baltimore to stake Vicki out, see what she’s doing. The second time, he works on her schedule, gets her hours and habits down. The third visit is brief—he points her out to Vorhauer. It would be trickier proving Vorhauer’s whereabouts. Vorhauer was a wanted fugitive and master of disguise; he would never have used his real name.
That evening Fleisher went to the dim, smoky cave of the Caribe Lounge, the best known of the Combat Zone’s nude bars. A young redhead was dancing on a small stage circled with men watching through clouds of cigarette smoke. The redhead would occasionally flash her G-string and pasties—total nudity was banned in Boston—but not with a cop in the room. George Tecci, the owner-manager, stopped him cold near the door.
“What do you want?” Tecci asked, his lip curled in distaste.
Fleisher took out his wallet and showed his badge. “FBI, I’m looking for Cinderella.”
“What about?”
“I want to talk to her about the murder of Vicki Harbin, who danced at 222.” He showed Tecci a portrait photograph of the dancer, a brunette with a round, aging face. As the manager led him downstairs to the dressing rooms, a tall woman in her twenties, at least six feet in heels, blond and buxom, came walking toward them with a leonine grace that took his breath away. She was the sexiest woman Fleisher had ever seen, and when he studied her face, one of the prettiest.
“Cinderella, this fellow wants to talk to you,” Tecci said. She smiled—she had high and delicate cheekbones, and her smile was dazzling. The eyes were big and blue and brittle. Fleisher took the portrait out of his folder.
“I understand you were a friend of Vicki Harbin’s?” Cinderella’s smile disappeared as she led him to her dressing room.
“I don’t know anything.”
They sat in the mirror lights, so close Fleisher breathed her scent, and he gave her his warmest, most sympathetic smile. She was a knockout and she was sweet and she liked him; he could feel it behind the hard eyes. Their legs were almost touching. She had incredible legs. He looked closer in the hazy light and focus returned like a blow to the head— Her Adam’s apple is the size of Johnny Appleseed’s, he thought. Her hands are as big as Sonny Liston’s. A fantasy about a he-she, he thought, could wake you up like twenty-four ounces of cold coffee.
When had she last seen Harbin?
Her eyes were dead. “I don’t know anything.”
Was Harbin afraid of Bernie Brown?
“I don’t know anything.”
Had she seen these two men? He took out the faxed photos of Sugarman and Vorhauer.
“I don’t know anything.” It sounded like a mantra to an empty universe.
Fleisher knew it would be difficult. According to his sources, Cinderella’s husband was Bobby Urbin, a doorman for Bernie Brown. He watched the gangster’s door in Baltimore and “ran a card game for some wise guys in Boston,” Fleisher said. He and Cinderella traveled the circuit together.
“You don’t know anything, but now you know this. Let me show you what they did to your friend Vicki.”
He reached into the folder for the close-up of Harbin with the knife wounds in her heart.
Cinderella let out a small gasp and put a hand over her mouth; the big blue eyes were moist.
“I’m trying to find out who killed Vicki. Here’s my name and number. Call me if you want to help.” She said nothing as he gave her his card and left.
It was time, he thought as he got in his car, to put pressure on Cinderella and her
Three weeks before the murder there was a chicken-scrawl signature reserving three nights: Jack Sugarman.
Two weeks before the murder, another three nights: Jack Sugarman.
The week of the murder, just one night: Jack Sugarman.
Bingo, he thought. I’ve got Sugarman in town. The first time he comes up from Baltimore to stake Vicki out, see what she’s doing. The second time, he works on her schedule, gets her hours and habits down. The third visit is brief—he points her out to Vorhauer. It would be trickier proving Vorhauer’s whereabouts. Vorhauer was a wanted fugitive and master of disguise; he would never have used his real name.
That evening Fleisher went to the dim, smoky cave of the Caribe Lounge, the best known of the Combat Zone’s nude bars. A young redhead was dancing on a small stage circled with men watching through clouds of cigarette smoke. The redhead would occasionally flash her G-string and pasties—total nudity was banned in Boston—but not with a cop in the room. George Tecci, the owner-manager, stopped him cold near the door.
“What do you want?” Tecci asked, his lip curled in distaste.
Fleisher took out his wallet and showed his badge. “FBI, I’m looking for Cinderella.”
“What about?”
“I want to talk to her about the murder of Vicki Harbin, who danced at 222.” He showed Tecci a portrait photograph of the dancer, a brunette with a round, aging face. As the manager led him downstairs to the dressing rooms, a tall woman in her twenties, at least six feet in heels, blond and buxom, came walking toward them with a leonine grace that took his breath away. She was the sexiest woman Fleisher had ever seen, and when he studied her face, one of the prettiest.
“Cinderella, this fellow wants to talk to you,” Tecci said. She smiled—she had high and delicate cheekbones, and her smile was dazzling. The eyes were big and blue and brittle. Fleisher took the portrait out of his folder.
“I understand you were a friend of Vicki Harbin’s?” Cinderella’s smile disappeared as she led him to her dressing room.
“I don’t know anything.”
They sat in the mirror lights, so close Fleisher breathed her scent, and he gave her his warmest, most sympathetic smile. She was a knockout and she was sweet and she liked him; he could feel it behind the hard eyes. Their legs were almost touching. She had incredible legs. He looked closer in the hazy light and focus returned like a blow to the head— Her Adam’s apple is the size of Johnny Appleseed’s, he thought. Her hands are as big as Sonny Liston’s. A fantasy about a he-she, he thought, could wake you up like twenty-four ounces of cold coffee.
When had she last seen Harbin?
Her eyes were dead. “I don’t know anything.”
Was Harbin afraid of Bernie Brown?
“I don’t know anything.”
Had she seen these two men? He took out the faxed photos of Sugarman and Vorhauer.
“I don’t know anything.” It sounded like a mantra to an empty universe.
Fleisher knew it would be difficult. According to his sources, Cinderella’s husband was Bobby Urbin, a doorman for Bernie Brown. He watched the gangster’s door in Baltimore and “ran a card game for some wise guys in Boston,” Fleisher said. He and Cinderella traveled the circuit together.
“You don’t know anything, but now you know this. Let me show you what they did to your friend Vicki.”
He reached into the folder for the close-up of Harbin with the knife wounds in her heart.
Cinderella let out a small gasp and put a hand over her mouth; the big blue eyes were moist.
“I’m trying to find out who killed Vicki. Here’s my name and number. Call me if you want to help.” She said nothing as he gave her his card and left.
It was time, he thought as he got in his car, to put pressure on Cinderella and her
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