Trigger Mortis by Frank Kane

Author:Frank Kane [Kane, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781440540356
Publisher: Prologue Books
Published: 1958-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

The Miss America Ballroom is on the northwest corner of 44th Street and Broadway. A string of blinking, multicolored lights throws interesting shadows on the flyspecked studio photographs of tired-looking blondes and brunettes in a dust-covered showcase at the street level.

The flat, nasal tones of a barker spill out onto the street to clash with the traffic sounds. “Come and see ‘em, boys! Fifty of ‘em. Fifty of the most gorgeous show girls on Broadway waiting to dance with you. Come in and meet ‘em!”

Johnny Liddell dropped the cab on the corner, turned and checked his watch with the big Paramount clock. It was almost 12:20.

He walked down the flight of steps to the ballroom, stopped in front of the ticket booth. A fat disheveled blonde sat behind the glass of the booth, chewed her wad of gum with the contentment of a cow chewing its cud. She pushed a strip of tickets through the aperture, scooped up Liddell’s dollar bill, regarded him with blank, unseeing eyes. He pushed his way through the turnstile under the unfriendly eye of a huge ticket taker dressed to resemble an admiral, passed into the ballroom itself.

It was a huge, upholstered cellar lit with dim blue lights. The air was heavily spiced with an odor compounded of equal parts of perspiration and cheap perfume. A multicolored globe in the ceiling revolved over the floor, shooting spangles of light at the floor. There, slowly gyrating couples were locked in close embraces, the hostesses making circular rhythmic motions with their hips, the customers trying desperately to get everything to which their ticket entitled them.

Liddell found himself a place at the railing that ringed the dance floor, looked around. Off to the left, a group of hostesses clustered together, laughing, chattering, bickering. One of them, a heavy-set blonde, peeled off from the group, paraded in front of Liddell with an exaggerated flip of her hips, dancing solo in time to the music and finishing off with a quick bump.

“Like to dance?” Her voice was heavy, raspy. In the half light, her lips were heavily rouged, her eyes heavy lidded. Her gown was cut in a deep V that bared the deep cleft between her breasts. She reeked of cheap perfume.

“Not right now. I’m looking for Les Ringer.”

The blonde sniffed. “That phony. He’s all the time setting us up for some publicity, but all he ever does is set us up. I’d be more fun,” she rasped.

“It shouldn’t take long.”

She shrugged. “He uses the rear storeroom for an office. I don’t know if he’s in. I didn’t see him tonight.”

Liddell nodded. He walked to the rear, skirted a row of rickety wooden tables where couples and stags were drinking beer from paper cups. The light was dimmer back here, no one paid him any attention as he headed toward the rear storeroom.

The door was closed, but a thin ribbon of light was visible under it. Liddell rapped his knuckles against it, decided that a knock couldn’t be heard above the racket of the five piece combo.

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