Free Jimmy and Fay by Michael Mayo Page A

paper, the Gotham Comet , from the stack. Looked like he’d been reading his own column and marked it up with a fountain pen.
    Dunbar was a tall, narrow-shouldered guy with a cheviot suit, tartan plaid bow tie, smudge of a mustache, and a British accent. His column was called “Dunbar’s Rialto.” It was gossip and news about Broadway, moving pictures, nightclubs, and speaks. He was about half as popular and powerful as Winchell in his heyday. All the guys who wrote that kind of stuff could cut deep when they wanted to, but it always seemed to me that Dunbar took more pleasure from it, saying that somebody or other was Red or lavender.
    I recognized him from the caricature that ran over his column, and I saw him around here and there. Even though we knew a lot of the same mugs, he’d never given me the time of day, and that was the first time he’d ever been in my place. But then, he never wanted anything from me before.
    He shook my hand and went into his pitch, “I’ve heard a lot about you. Glad to finally make it official. Nice little place you’ve got here. I must admit that I didn’t completely believe it when I heard that you serve only the McCoy. How do you manage?”
    Connie came over before I could answer. I asked for a short brandy and another of whatever the ink-stained wretch was drinking. Rum and ginger ale with a cherry, as it turned out. She brought the drinks, and he danced around for a few more minutes, talking about this and that. There had been a time just a few years before when I’d have been pleased as punch to have Dunbar in my place, hoping that he’d say something wonderful about it in his column. Then after the free publicity, I’d have to turn away dozens of famous folks every night and sell twice as much of the most expensive booze as I did. But things didn’t work out that way.
    Jimmy Quinn’s was a neighborhood bar. The gang guys who had a taste for the good stuff came around, and the cops who could afford it had always found their way in, too. But the limelight eluded us, and the place was popular enough without being so busy that we went crazy. Maybe I was lying to myself when I said that it didn’t bother me, but I don’t think so. I just didn’t have the white-hot ambition that drove guys like Lansky. I made a living, and enough interesting things seemed to happen to keep me from getting bored. Yeah, I lacked a private library, but I’d get around to that by and by.
    When he finally decided to get to his point, Dunbar cut his eyes back and forth, making sure nobody was listening in on him and lowered his voice. “I’ve been told that you are in possession of some extremely graphic and embarrassing photographs of a certain leading lady who’s the toast of the town right now. Is there any truth to that?”
    He smiled, looking like we were both in the know.
    My first reaction was simply to lie and say that I didn’t know what he was talking about. It figured that he’d been tipped by the two dimwits from the diner. On orders from their boss, the guy in the backseat of the big Olds. What were they trying to do? Just tighten the screws on the studio? Again, it figured that they didn’t know what they were doing.
    When I didn’t answer, Dunbar got chummier. “Look, I understand you’re caught in the middle on this business, and I don’t have all the facts yet, but I smell a good story here and I’m willing to do whatever I have to do to get the scoop. I know she was here tonight. They were still talking about her at the bar when I came in. Fay Wray.”
    That, I could work with. “Sure, she was here. So?”
    â€œHow are you involved with the photographs?”
    I decided to play dumb. “I don’t know how to answer that. Exactly what are we talking about?”
    â€œAll right,” he said, starting to get tired of my act. “Since you read the