The Blonde Wore Black

floor. Martello saw me coming and waved. When I reached him the other man looked at me with interest. Hamilton just looked.
“Hi ya Preston. Long time no see.”
Martello held out a soft pudgy hand sparkling with diamonds. I held it briefly.
“Hallo Jake. You wanted to see me.”
“Sure, sure, they’s plenty time. Why doncha siddown. Take a cuppa coffee maybe, little brandy?”
“I’ll take the brandy, leave the coffee.”
He sighed.
“So many people just don’t know what’s good. Coffee is good, brandy is good, fine. But together, man that’s an experience.”
To show he was a man who believed in his own theories, he tipped most of his brandy into the half empty coffee cup and gulped at the mixture. When he put down the cup his face was wreathed in smiles.
“That’s a real breakfast,” he beamed. “Oh say, I nearly forgot. This here’s my brother Charlie. He’s down from Frisco. You know Clyde.” The brother nodded, Hamilton stared at the table, Charlie was not unlike Jake, fifty-ish black curly hair going thin on top, heavy jowled face that needed two shaves a day and got them. I’d never heard of any brother before, it might be worth having him looked up. His voice had the same nasal twang to it.
“We don’t say Frisco, Mr. Preston, We say San Francisco. Only outsiders like Jake here say Frisco.”
“I’ll remember.”
Jake chuckled.
“Always he tells me about it, always I forget. Some brandy for my guest here, the best in the house.”
A waiter had materialized behind me and Jake waved him on his way. I noticed Hamilton was only drinking coffee.
“You on vacation, Mr. Martello?”
I knew Jake wouldn’t talk until the waiter had carried out his mission, and I had to say something. Charlie nodded slowly.
“Kind of. Little family business, I like to keep in touch.”
“That’s the trouble with the world today,” sighed Jake. “People don’t have proper respect for the family no more. All these terrible things going on, they wouldn’t happen if people paid attention to their families.”
All I knew about Jake’s family was that he had an uncle shot down in a bank stick-up back in the thirties. But this was not the occasion for little reminiscences of the kind.
“Guess that’s true,” I muttered.
My drink came then and I sipped at it.
“Luck,” I said to Jake.
“Bottoms up,” he counselled. “Now then, there’s a little thing I’d like you to be looking at, Preston.”
“What kind of thing?”
“There was a guy bumped off last night, or maybe early this morning. Name of Poetry Brookman, if you can believe it.”
“Bumped off?” I queried. “It said in the paper he fell off Indian Point, or else he jumped.”
“You musta caught an early edition,” Jake told me. “Fact is the guy’s head was all stoved in by them rocks. It wasn’t till the doc got a good look at him they found there was two slugs in his head. The back of his head.”
“All right, somebody knocked him off. What about it?”
Jake leaned forward, his voice little more than a whisper.
“This about it. This Brookman was in to me for nearly eight grand. Today is payday. Only Jake don’t get no payday. And I don’t like that.”
Now it was clearer. In the bookie business you don’t get to be a big name like Martello by having people go around welshing on you. Not even corpses.
“You got the message now?” he asked.
“Sure. You want me to dig around, find out who took care of him.”
“Right.”
“I hear tell we have a police force in town. You don’t suppose they might do just as well without me?”
“Maybe. But to them this is just another number. In this fine city last year we had one hundred and sixty seven killings. That’s better’n three a week. What chance has Homicide got with that little squad of theirs? The odds are way out.”
“They have a good record,” I pointed out.
“By comparison with other cities, sure. But they still come up with less than forty per cent answers. Those kinda odds are no use to me with this Brookman thing. You can hire all the help you need, spend whatever you want. Spread around plenty of the sugar. That’s the kind of thing brings up answers. The cops can’t do that.”
“I can’t guarantee results,” I reminded.
“I know that. But I know you’ll sure as hell try. And that’s all I’m asking. Is it a deal?”
I took another sip at the brandy. The golden glow of the first was just beginning to spread through my body.
“You say spend money. With a thing like this I might even spend the eight grand.”
He made a face of disgust.
“Eight grand. I’d spend that on a good dinner if I wanted. Spend it, spend eighty if you need. I want answers.”
It wasn’t a question of money. It was a matter of professional standing. Somebody had cost Jake the Take Martello money, and somebody had to be told what a bad idea that was.
“And suppose I get lucky?” I questioned. “What happens then?”
He flapped a hand and the sun struck colored sparks from the bedecked fingers.
“Maybe nothing. If it was personal, like you know his wife maybe, or some guy fighting over a broad, well that’s O.K. I don’t want to interfere with personal people. These things happen.”
“And if it wasn’t like that?”
His eyes became heavy and the voice was flat.
“If it was other people, then they have to be told about the eight g’s. Some mob guys or like that, they’ll have to be told. They’d pay most likely. No, I’m not really worried about personal people or hard guys. What I want to know is, where’s the dough? If this Brookman had it ready, it just could be somebody figured to take it away from him. That’s the guy I want, the one who stole my money.”
“He may not have known it was yours.”
“Maybe. It don’t make no difference. I want it back.”
Hamilton spoke for the first time.
“I get the feeling Mr. Preston doesn’t have the stomach for this type of