THE COTTON CLUB

         The fan was clicking lazily overhead.  The room was hazy with smoke and I was on my third bourbon.  The jazz band was on the stage and I was tapping my fingers to the brush on the high hat.  The girl had given me the password to get into the back room after The Cotton Club closed its doors at two a.m.  It was cookie.  Here, the alcohol flowed as though Prohibition didn’t exist in Harlem.  Cops seldom ventured this far up Manhattan so there were dozens of speakeasies operating without fear of raids.  Owen Meany, the owner of this club, was good friends with the mayor of New York City.  Even he was an occasional guest.

 

            My secretary told me there was a girl, Stella Early, who wanted to meet me here and speak to me about a case.  Halfway through my drink, she shows up.  A blonde in a dress with a plunging neckline, a high slit, and a body that screamed sin.  She sat down next to me and took out a cigarette.  I lit it for her and ordered her a dirty martini with three olives, as she requested.

 

            ‘I’m glad you can see me,’ she said, slowly working the olive with her red lips across the toothpick into her mouth.

 

            ‘What can I do for you, Miss Early?’

            ‘Please, call me Stella.’

            ‘Alright, Stella.  How may I be of service?’

            ‘Bruno Bragiole has something of mine that I want back.’

           

            Bruno Bragiole was a rumrunner operating out of the docks in Bayonne, New Jersey.  He sold seafood and smuggled alcohol from Canada, hiding it under tons of King Crab legs.  That’s what you would order if you wanted liquor.

 

            ‘What is it that you want back?’

            ‘It’s a ruby-studded scarab brooch.’

            ‘What’s so special about this brooch?’ I asked.

 

            She slipped five bills into my hands and said, ‘Just get it.  There will be another five hundred when you give it to me.’  Business wasn’t so good so I took the cash and told her to give me a couple days.  She ate the rest of her olives, took one sip of the martini, then walked out.

 

            It just so happened that I knew a guy who worked as a delivery man for Bragiole.  He lived on the Lower East Side so I decided to pay him a visit this morning.  He was on his way out when he saw me standing by my car.

 

            ‘Well, if it isn’t Sam Slade.’

            ‘How you doin’ Louie?’

            ‘What brings you to this side of Houston? (pronounced how-ston)

            ‘There’s this dame, see, says Bragiole has something of hers that she wants back.’

            ‘What is it?’  Louie asked.

            ‘It’s a ruby brooch.’

            ‘Yeah.  I seen it.  He keeps it in a safe in his office.’

            ‘I gotta get in there.’  I said.

            ‘The only way you’re getting in is if you make an appointment and have business.  He doesn’t like it when people waste his time.’

            ‘Don’t worry about that.’  I said.

            ‘You don’t think you’ll actually get that brooch, do you?’  He asked.

            ‘Just get me in there tonight.  Tell him I have a business proposition for him.’

            ‘Alright.’