Free Haunting Melody by Flo Fitzpatrick Page B

me. I nearly fell over. Did I
mention -the man was big.
    “Chicago ain’t exactly most excitin’ place on
the map, ma’am. It’s gen’raly cold and gen’raly dirty. Decent
bar-b-que and that’s about it. What’s Memphis like? Any hot spots I
should look into sometime? Lloyd and I are takin’ a trip there next
month. We usually do some diggin’ overseas, amateur archeologists,
but I told him it was time to get out of the dirt and give America
a try.”
    I smiled sweetly. “My experience is with
Memphis music, Grady. I’m not the best person to recommend wild
dens of iniquity.”
    He roared again. “Sugar, I’ll bet you could
turn a church bazaar into a den of iniquity if you put your mind to
it. Yore the prettiest gal I’ve seen since I’ve been up here.”
    “How long is that?”
    “Oh, ‘bout a month now. Doing some business
with some foreign gentlemen from Persia. They didn’t want to come
to Texas and I knew Lloyd would help me out while I was here so I
agreed to come to New York. I usually get up here once every six
months or so. Wanna help me out?”
    “Help you out?”
    “Keep me from bein’ bored. You ever get
bored?”
    I was at a loss as to how to respond to this
last question. Fortunately, I didn’t have to.
    “Grady. Lloyd. I need you.” Lili’s soprano
trilled across the room. She was standing by French doors and
waving vigorously.
    “Sorry to leave you, Hon. Looks like duty
calls.”
    The Prince had kissed my hand before he’d
taken off with Eloise. But Grady Martel was more direct. He
enveloped me in a hug that nearly broke my ribs and lifted me at
least six inches off the floor.
    A voice murmured near my left ear the instant
I was set down. “Come, lovely lady. Forget the prince and the
cattle baron and have a glass of bubbly with me. Make this tired
heart sing.” Izzy Rubens materialized at my side. He was still
wearing the grubby brown ensemble from our meeting in the alley
this afternoon.
    “Izzy! I’m surprised to see you here. I
assumed reporters were persona non grata at these affairs.”
    “The opposite. Rich people love seeing their
names in the papers. But I’m off duty, tonight. I promised Briley.”
He paused. “Truthfully? I hate working for Clow. I’d love to find a
nice juicy murder or train robbery or political coup happening
somewhere and get back with a respectable newspaper. One that pays
well of course.”
    It was funny but Izzy reminded me of a male
version of Savanna. My best friend was full of humor and bluster
and good will, which hid a formidable intellect. I suspected Izzy
possessed the same.
    The reporter took my hand. “Come with me,
kiddo. Let me give you the Rubens guided tour of the Ellingsford
mansion. I’m a fairly frequent guest. I can give you the scoop on
all the grand sights - and there are many.”
    I’d seen "The Great Gatsby"(Robert Redford
version) and thought that’s what a jazz age party was like. I
always believed that things had gotten wilder through the Twenties,
not before the age of flappers really started. I was wrong.
    These folks made the characters of F. Scott
Fitzgerald’s novels look like monks. Booze flowed from every
container in the house. Men and women sans clothing were jumping
into the backyard pool, champagne glasses still in their hands.
Couples in various corners of every room were doing some serious
making-out. Also sans clothing. From a huge balustrade on the
second floor, chorines in silky lingerie slid down into the waiting
arms of eager gentlemen in tuxedos. A sweet smoky odor drifted out
of one corner of a room filled with Egyptian objects d’art.
Marijuana?
    I was way too innocent to be here. College
and four years in Manhattan in Greenwich Village had never been
like this.
    Izzy and I hastily backed out of a room where
the occupants were engaged in more than heavy petting on top a huge
brass bed. Two seconds more and we’d be witnessing porn.
    “Izzy? Izzy Rubens? Where are you?”