Free A Pure Double Cross by John Knoerle Page B

“Short Vincent.”
    â€œWhere else?” said the hackie. The cab drove there by itself.

Chapter Sixteen
    Short Vincent was a five hundred foot block between E. 6 th and E. 9 th downtown. Five hundred feet of earthy pleasures, neon come-ons and bad memories poorly recalled.
    I paid the hackie and climbed out. I pushed my way through the throng, past the French Quarter, featuring the Bare-ly Burlesque Revue, past Mickey’s Show Bar, where dentists from Dayton shared bottles of bubbly with young women of negotiable affection. I pushed on till I reached it, the city’s premier watering hole, Morris ‘Mushy’ Wexler’s Theatrical Grill.
    I was glad of my vicuna topcoat when the doorman opened the portals and permitted me entry. It was a rug joint. Waiters in tuxedos serving drinks, Oysters Rockefeller and more drinks to plushy upholstered booths crammed with movers and shakers. I goggled the first booth, the famed barrister’s table. They were all buttoned down and Brooks Brother’ed save for two men in sharkskin suits, dark shirts and loud ties. Mob attorneys.
    I looked deeper into the room. My plan was a hallucination sketched on tissue paper. All I knew for sure was it required the presence of Mushy Wexler. I’d read up on him. He’d retired from the rackets to become a snooty
restaurateur
but he’d made his pile running a horseracing syndicate and the head mucks of the Bloody Corners Gang weren’t strangers to his table.
    They wouldn’t be dining with Mushy tonight of course. They were eating bologna sandwiches down at central lockup. Tee hee.
    I spotted him, had to be. A dapper old gent alone in the elevated back booth, the one with the unobstructed view and the telephone on the table. He was inspecting a waiter’s tray. The waiter did an about face and returned to the kitchen.
    I checked my topcoat and parked myself at the enormous horseshoe-shaped bar. The barkeep plunked down a napkin-wrapped basket of salt sticks. “Fresh from our own bakery! What’ll it be?”
    Growing up in Youngstown gave me very limited experience with rug joints. I’d seen plenty of nightclub swells in the movies though. “Make it a Rob Roy.”
    â€œYes sir, what’s your flavor?”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œWhat brand of Scotch do you prefer?”
    Scotch, ugh. Old man hooch that smelled of peat bogs. “Whatever you recommend.”
    â€œAnd sweet vermouth, dry vermouth or 50-50?”
    â€œWhatever you recommend.”
    The barkeep went to work, I tried not to look. Mushy Wexler hurried to greet an elderly man and a mink-draped matron who had shuffled in from the cold. “Your Honor” said Mushy above the din, or “Senator” or “Governor.” One of those important
or
words.
    My tissue paper plan curled up and blew away. I wasn’t going to be able to drop a stray comment about the murdered cop to the barkeep, sit back and see who sidled up for a chat. The Theatrical wasn’t a well-lubricated mob hangout. The Theatrical was formal as a church.
    Or was it?
    An otherworldly apparition appeared. A platform rose and locked into place several feet behind and above the horseshoe-shaped bar. On it sat a sloe-eyed bottle blonde in a sparkly dress and a slight Negro at a baby grand. The blonde sang,
“This town is full of guys, who think they’re mighty wise, just because they know a thing or two...”
    The long-fingered pianist darted in and around her vocal.
“You can see ‘em all the time, up and down old Vine, tellin’ of the wonders they can do, hoo hoo hoooo...”
    I nibbled my Rob Roy. It tasted fine, if you liked peat moss.
    â€œ
There’s con men, boosters, card sharks, crap shooters, they congregate around the Metropol,”
sang the siren as three young men took seats at the bar, four stools down, closer to the door.
    I rested the back of my head against my hand and looked them