Laurel and Hardy Murders by Marvin Kaye Read Free Book Online Page A

of Wayne Poe, I figured he was too sloshed to stand a chance against my own deck if we played gin.
    For double insurance, I bought him a straight Bombay and Michelob chaser at the bar, then suggested riding over to West End Avenue for a rematch. He agreed and wanted to drive us there, but I hastily told him to leave the Packard in the Port Authority lot and let me treat us to a cab. It was a small price to pay for personal safety.
    We walked over to Broadway and I stepped out in the street to flag down a taxi, but Butler tapped me on the shoulder. I turned. He was waving a couple of one-dollar bills in my face.
    “Hey, boy, you got any quarters in change? This is important!”
    I rooted in my pocket and found three quarters, a nickel and two dimes. He exchanged the coins for one of the dollars, told me to come along if I liked, and hurried up the block toward 43rd.
    I followed, and saw him duck into Nathan’s. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t just tell me he was hungry. But then, that didn’t make sense, either...there was no reason why he needed quarters to buy a hot dog.
    Opening the door of the raffish frankfurter emporium, I glanced around to locate Butler in the crowd. I saw him right up front, between the clam bar and the ice cream stand. He had both hands around a radar scanner, part of a kids’ coin-play machine. His eyes were pressed to the visiplate, and he was gleefully demolishing enemy submarines.
    “I saw this on the way over tonight,” he told me when he’d blown up his final enemy vessel. “Figured it’d steady my eye for our game.”
    We didn’t leave till he’d used up the other pair of quarters and bought a can of Schaefer’s to “tranquilize” his nerves against the upcoming cab ride.
    “You know what they say about New York City drivers, boy!”
    In the taxi, I asked him why the sudden surge of admiration for Wayne Poe. He looked at me in astonishment.
    “Are you loco? I’m gonna fry that bastard’s ass!”
    “How? By telling lies about how good he was?”
    “Never mind,” he said sullenly. “You just leave it up to the Old Man.”
    By way of informing Butler that I had no use for Poe, either, I said I’d never seen anything crummier than what Poe pulled on Bryan Harper, the young singer.
    “He murdered the poor punk,” Butler replied.
    “You could say that.”
    “No, I mean, he murdered him!”
    I looked sharply at Butler. His big face was grim. “What are you talking about, Old Man?” I asked, unconsciously adopting the label he regularly employed for himself.
    “I mean, Poe killed that kid sure as if he’d shoved ’im under himself. Who do you think told the little dope to sing without the orchestra, instead of picking another number?”
    “Yeah, but that’s not—”
    “And the combo got paid off by Poe, I checked. Y’know why?”
    “Why?”
    “Cliff Waxman was in the audience. Produces “Bright New Stars” for WCAU, big talent agent, too. Harper broke his nuts getting Waxman to come hear him (not that the kid was ready to be heard). But Poe sets the kid up, then sings the song himself with the band, and Cliff sees Poe afterwards and signs him for some rat’s-ass cruise ship gig—right in front of Bryan! So junior gets the career-nipped-in-the-bud blues, goes out, gets sozzled, and steps off a curb in front of a truck— whammo ! Instant gravy! Only thing didn’t get twisted like a pretzel was some damn-fool good luck medal his uncle gave ’im. They fished it out of the pudding that was left on the street.”
    “Jesus Christ,” I murmured.
    “ He wasn’t there,” Butler snapped. “Unless you think singing off-key’s a good reason for Divine Zapping.”
    We were silent the rest of the ride, mulling over Harper’s fate.

H ILARY CONTROLLED HERSELF WITH considerable effort.
    “He doesn’t look all that drunk to me,” she snapped.
    “I am! I am!” Frank Butler assured her from his vantage point behind me.
    “Trust me, he is,” I told her in