Johnny Staccato by Frank Boyd

Author:Frank Boyd [Boyd, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Munsey's
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

XI

THE RECEPTION ROOM AT RHYTHM Records was half-filled with expectant song writers. They lined the long benches that ran along two of the walls on the outside of a low railing that cut the room in two.

A girl with patently bleached hair presided over a small switchboard inside the fenced-off area. On the walls, giant-sized photographs of Rhythm's top recording stars were recessed in indirectly lighted frames.

Johnny Staccato crossed the room to the railing. The blonde looked up to him with no show of interest, didn't miss a beat on the wad of gum she was chewing.

“I want to see Rudy Marcus,” Staccato told her.

She jabbed at her blondined hair with the tips of her fingers, glanced at the full benches. “You're no different from the rest of the Mozarts. They're all waiting to see him, too. He's taking you boys in turn. I'll call you if he reaches you.”

“He'll see me,” Staccato pulled a badge from his pocket, gave the girl a fleeting glimpse of it. “Tell him my name's Staccato. I'm a detective working on the Les Miller killing.”

The blonde considered it, failed to be impressed. “He don't see anybody on audition day except writers and publishers,” she said doubtfully. “I don't think—”

She finally let herself be persuaded to check Marcus. She plugged in the line, pushed a button. She talked in a low voice for a moment, then yanked the plug out.

“I guess in your case he'll make an exception.” There was a new interest in her eyes as she looked him over. “Know your way to the Snake Pit?”

Staccato shook his head.

She pushed a button that unlocked the small gate set in the railing. “You go through that first door to the end of the hall. There's a flight of stairs. Go down one flight and you'll see an unmarked door. That's the back door to the studio. Going that way you don't have to fight your way through the pluggers.”

He thanked her with a smile, pushed through the door she had indicated. The corridor was lined with small offices, most of them empty. At the end of the corridor, he found an unpainted iron staircase to the floor below.

Rudy Marcus was slouched in a wooden armchair, his face buried in a manuscript when Staccato walked into the studio. At the piano, a thin, undersized man was pounding out a piece with more determination than inspiration and singing in a high-pitched, offkey voice. Marcus listened for a moment, nodded and folded the manuscript. “We'll think about it, Mike. Don't bother calling us, we'll call you.”

The little man stopped pounding the piano, swung around on the stool. “Look, Rudy. So maybe it needs a little work. You're a clever boy with the pencil. You make a few changes here, a few changes there and we—”

Marcus looked past the little man to where Staccato stood. “I'll be with you in a minute.”

The little man turned, saw Staccato for the first time. He walked over to the man in the chair and talked in a whisper.

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