Free Zoot-Suit Murders by Thomas Sanchez

his brightly colored chest, inky eyes glowing with appreciation at the arm and snake locked in flamboyant indelible combat on his hairless pale white skin. Younger heard thudding on the staircase again. Tony Tomale swept the beaded strings across the doorway back with his fat hand like he was chopping through a canefield.
    “Okay, sports fan, go on up. The Virgin is waiting.”
    Younger went through the beaded curtain; the long hallway was brightly lit. The fast sound of a clarinet on a record player turned down low grew louder in his ears as he trudged to the top of the landing. A sailor in full-dress white uniform was tilted back in a chair, propped against the wall outside an open doorway where the music was coming from. The cloth of the sailor’s white cap was pulled down tight over his forehead almost to his eyes. The sailor jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the music, and Younger went in.
    The dim room flickered from hundreds of candles flaming in soot-ringed bell jars. The smell of incense was thick and syrupy in the stuffy air, mixing with the sweet scent of burning beeswax, wafting over the form of a barely breathing body propped up on stacks of lacy peach-colored pillows strewn over the satin sheets of a large bed. Shiny black patent leather high-heeled shoeswere strapped to the softly breathing body’s thin ankles. Sheer black nylon stockings made a whispering sound as slender legs rubbed together beneath a pink Chinese robe, fastened high around the neck of an olive-skinned face half obscured by a silver sleeping mask in the shape of two startled cat’s eyes. Younger watched the pout of the face’s pink lips as they seemed to tremble in time to the clarinet music on the record player. A thin manicured finger raised, its bright black polished nail wagging back and forth in time to the music.
    “Listen to Benny Goodman blow.” The voice was low and sultry. “Listen to Benny boy blow that black snake.” It was unmistakably the voice of a man.
    Younger moved his feet uneasily, but not in time to the music. “I was told I could make a bet on a Horse here.”
    “Oh?” The Virgin Mary pulled off the sleeping mask. The sharp lines of his oiled golden face were clearly visible, thick blue mascara exaggerating the almond shape of his eyes. “We sell lots of things at lots of prices, but we don’t sell Horse.”
    Younger fidgeted more uneasily as the sailor from the hall came in quietly behind him. The heat from the candles made Younger feel like he was in the boiler room of a ship. “I was told I could make a bet on a Horse called Sea Biscuit.”
    “Sea Biscuit? Oh, my, Johnny.” The Virgin Mary looked wide-eyed at the sailor and laughed. “Did you hear that, Sea Biscuit? Oh, my!” The Virgin Mary’s laughter was nervous, almost girlish, but not coquettish.
    “What’s the joke?” Younger turned around and asked the sailor, who seemed to be inching uncomfortably closer to him all the time.
    “The joke’s on you, dear.” The Virgin Mary stopped laughing, slipping a small pearl-handled derringer from beneath a lacy pillow and aiming it between Younger’s amazed eyes.
    Younger was afraid to take his eyes off the pistol so he didn’t see the sailor move, but he felt the sailor suddenly grab him from behind with a viselike grip, locking his arms down. Younger tried to shake the sailor off.
    The Virgin Mary’s thumb clicked back the derringer hammer. “Don’t get hasty, dear.”
    Younger stopped trying to break the sailor’s iron lock.
    “That’s so much better, dear.” The Virgin Mary slipped off the bed, slinking up to Younger. In his high-heeled shoes he was more than six feet, taller than Younger. “Now, dear.” He nuzzled the barrel of the pistol under Younger’s chin. “Why don’t you be a good scout and tell us who sent you here? Was it the Sinarquistas?”
    “No.”
    The Virgin Mary dug the tip of the barrel into Younger’s jawbone. “Listen, you dirty little dope addict,