Death in the Gilded Cage, A Jake Curtis / Vanessa Malone Mystery

For my beautiful Susan, the half who makes me whole.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Cover painting by John Byam Liston, ca 1907

Cover art by Rocky M.

DEATH IN THE GILDED CAGE

Chapter 1

From The Woman's Diary

July 4

Independence Day, fireworks on the Mall. Today is the start of my partner's and my financial revolution. Today we start putting our plan into effect to achieve our prize, our economic freedom.

Tonight should be a good night at The Gilded Cage, a party atmosphere. The club will really fill after the fireworks are over. I bought a new diary today. I don't know why, I saw it and I wanted it. This the diary of Marjorie Marie Withers, I wrote on the first page. Maybe I need to make a record of what transpired. The diary is bound in white imitation leather with a little brass latch and a tiny key. It reminded me of the little Bible I once had.

One of my mother's temporary husbands thought I could use some religion and bought it for me. He and my mother would drive me to the local Baptist church every Sunday morning, because he grew up Baptist. They would drop me off and as soon my mother and temporary daddy drove off, I turned around and ran down the street holding the quarter they gave me for the collection plate tight in my hand. I was probably eight or nine years old back then.

I headed straight for the drug store in he next block and bought a chocolate sundae. I had to be careful not to get any chocolate syrup on my nice dress. One time I got a drop of chocolate syrup on my new yellow dress. I went into the bathroom and tried to wash it out, but it wouldn't come out. My mother gave me a spanking and next Sunday they went into the church with me. They made me sit up front while they sat in the back row. About fifteen minutes late I turned and looked towards the back. My mother and her then temporary husband had already left the church. It was a while before I made the sundae dash again, but I did.

An hour later when the service ended, I came out of the church's front door, with a fake smile plastered on my face along with the other people. I read the Bible for as long as my young brain could understand it. I got lost with all the begets and begots. The Bible's full of people having visions. The memory of that Bible made me think of the vision I’ve had several times recently.

In my vision, my partner and I are standing in the center of our domain surveying all that lay around us. We don't yet rule over our domain, but we will soon when our plans comes to fruition as soon we can eliminate the many obstacles in our way. The plan is set in our minds. Our plan is not cast in concrete as long range plans are always subject to mid-course corrections. Our course of action is in motion. Nothing would stop us from achieving our prize, nothing.

Chapter 2

The sound of a woman's footfalls tapping her way down the hall attracted the attention of the hot, redheaded, lady lawyer in the office across the hall from mine. She watched as the woman walked into my office. The redheaded lady lawyer gave me a look of disgust. After the woman entered my office, I turned to the redhead and gave her an air kiss. Her look of disgust turned into a warm smile. The hot redhead’s name is Vanessa Malone. She also happens to be married to a very handsome private investigator – me.

My name is Jake Curtis. I’m a licensed private investigator in the D.C. Metropolitan Area. The redhead is Vanessa Malone, as I've said, she's an attorney, and she also has her own private eye ticket as my fictional idol, Mike Hammer, would've said. I grew up reading Mike Hammer. I couldn't get enough of Mickey Spillane's fictional hero. I wanted to be Mike Hammer, I became a real life Mike Hammer.

I heard the woman's heels tapping in the hall before she entered my office. My right hand automatically reached for the .45 caliber pistol I keep in my open top right hand desk drawer.

I learned the hard way about keeping the pistol handy when Angelo Abbate and before him Paulie Molinaro came charging into my office hell bent on blowing me away. Molinaro's automatic jammed giving me enough time to kill him before he could clear his jam. He should've run out the door when his gun jammed. It he did, he's probably still be breathing, or at least died trying again. Angelo Abbate made one fatal mistake, besides trying to kill me in the first place. He shouted at me first instead of shooting. His shouts gave me enough warning. (Death in the Smithsonian.) Long story short, both Abbate and Molinaro bled out on the carpet in my office.

Today was one of those hot, muggy summer days that turns Washington, D.C. into an open air sauna. The temperature hovered around a hundred degrees in the shade. The relative humidity was even higher. Even my sweat had beads of sweat. The air conditioner strained to bring the temperature in the office down to a balmy eighty.

As the auburn haired woman arranged herself into one of my client’s chairs, I knew I had seen the woman before, I couldn't place where. Her auburn hair came straight from a bottle and cascaded down onto her shoulders. A quarter of an inch darker roots showed along the part line on the left side of her head.

Her pale pink tightly knit sweater encased her well developed chest and looked as if it were air brushed on her body like one of the Vargas Girls in Playboy. Her sweater came down over the waistband of her gray linen pencil skirt revealing her narrow waist and broad hips. The skirt fell to two inches above her knees. The pair of black, retro style high heels she wore would've been right at home in a USO Canteen during World War II.

When she stepped through my door, I thought she was in her late twenties but when she sat closer to me, she looked older. The woman's face was not pretty. She wore too much makeup trying to hide her ruddy. Her eye makeup did noting to enhance her mundane brown eyes. The wrinkles at the corner of her eyes gave her the appearance of being in her mid-forties. Her hands were rough and her nails were bitten down to the quick. Tiny red veins made her straight nose look like a Rand McNally road map and the thin layer of foundation on her nose concealed the first signs of a heavy drinker. This woman looked as though she lived a hard life.

Vanessa walked into my office with her empty coffee mug in her hand. I share her receptionist, she shares my coffee pot. It's a perfect marriage all around.

Mr. Curtis, my name is Marjorie Withers, she said in a sweet voice with a slight touch of a southern accent. And I need a private investigator.

Ms. Withers, would you like a cup of coffee? Vanessa asked as she poured herself a mug and topped mine off.

Thank you, yes, Marjorie said. Vanessa poured another mug and placed it on my desk in front of her along with the half and half and the sugar. Marjorie took the time to add a spoon of sugar and a splash of half and half to her coffee.

How did you find us? I asked after she took the first sip of her coffee.

I read about you in the papers. The gang shootout in the Smithsonian. (Death in the Smithsonian) And the embassy killing. (Death in the Embassy) You're quite a famous private investigator, Marjorie said.

Why do you think you need a private investigator?

Someone wants me dead.

Who? I asked.

That's just it, I don't know.

Why would someone want you dead? Vanessa asked.

I don't know that either.

How do you know someone wants to kill you? I asked.

Last night someone tried to run me over.

Did you reported it to the police? Vanessa asked.

I can't.

Why can't you call the police? Vanessa said.

I can't tell you that either. Vanessa and I looked at each other dumbfounded.

Maybe you should start at the beginning and tell us everything, I said. Vanessa reached across my desk for a legal pad and a pen to take her usually excellent notes. Sometimes I have to refer back to the notes she's taken.

Chapter 3

He identified himself simply as Mr. Smith when we first met. I thought it was a strange way to pick up a woman in an after hours club I go to sometimes after work. About four years ago he came and sat on the stool next to mine. I looked at him as he sat. He smiled at me and I smiled back, Marjorie said.

What was Mr. Smith's first name? Vanessa asked.

"Edgar. I thought Edgar Smith wasn't his real name. It sounded phony to me, but it didn't matter much because by then, I had fallen in love with him.

Vanessa's pen stopped moving across the page of her pad. You fell in love with a man who's name you thought was phony? She asked. I liked to have Vanessa take the lead when we're talking with a woman about her love life. It's a woman to woman thing.

Yes.

How could you? Vanessa asked. Curiosity got the better of me. I sat back and wanted to hear her answer.

He was a sweet man, or I thought so back then, but over time he changed.

How did he change? Vanessa asked.

He became colder, more withdrawn into himself. His conversations became curt, more abrasive. It was like he didn't like me anymore.

Did he abuse you? Vanessa asked.

No, he was never abusive physically, but he spoke harshly to me more and more. It was almost as if her didn't have a soft word for me any more.

Were you afraid for your safety? Vanessa asked.

No, not really, not at first.

When did you start thinking this Edgar Smith wanted to do you harm?

I can't say exactly when. It was a feeling I had. Eventually I became afraid of him.

Did he ever threaten you when you felt he wanted to harm you? Vanessa asked.

No, but I could see it in his eyes. Even through all this, I still loved him.

Can you describe him? Vanessa asked.

"He was about six feet tall, a hundred-ninety to two hundred pounds, dark wavy hair combed straight back, brown eyes. He had a brilliant white smile. His teeth looked like a white picket fence. His nose had an odd bend as if it may have been broken once and not properly reset. He dressed neatly but not expensively, probably off the rack. He wasn't movie star handsome but he wasn't bad looking either. His sense of humor had me laughing all night. He seemed like a nice guy when we first met, he seemed to be truly interested in me as a person, as a woman.

I'm forty-five years old. I’ve lived a hard life. I don't know who my father was. I don't think my mother knew either. My mother had a string of temporary husbands; here for a week, gone the next. I remember one actually lasted a whole year. I remember one year we had a real Christmas, a tree, presents, even a turkey for Christmas dinner, Marjorie said as tears rolled down her cheeks. Vanessa handed her a Kleenex. "A month later he was gone. My mother had a series of boyfriends, never anyone longer than a month.

When I was fifteen one of my mother's temporary husbands stabbed her in the stomach killing her right in front of me. Marjorie's tears started again. I watched my mother's blood run out of her body. Vanessa handed her another Kleenex. "I ran out of the two room apartment we lived in and quit school and got a job waitressing in a greasy spoon dump of a diner in my dump of a town. Io looked older than fifteen. I told people I was eighteen and they believed me.

What dump of a small town did you come from? I asked.

A little no name, no traffic light town south of Altoona, halfway to Hollidaysburg, Pennsylvania.

I'm from Altoona myself, I said.

Marjorie smiled when she heard 'im from Altoona. I moved to D.C. when I turned twenty-one and got a job waitressing in a bar on M Street in Georgetown. I was prettier back then and the tips were better. Along with the tips, so were the propositions. The first man who offered me money to let him take me home with him got a tray of drinks spilled on his lap. The boss was pissed. Excuse my French, Marjorie said.

We've heard worse, Vanessa said.

"He made me pay for the tray of drinks. The next time a man propositioned, I was short of money, tips had been bad during the week and the rent was due the next day. I went home with him and – well, let's just say I paid the rent the next morning.

What did Edgar Smith want you to do for him? I asked.

Marjorie gave me a half dirty look No. It wasn't anything like that at all. He was a perfect gentleman. Although, I would've if he asked. I liked him.

How old was Edgar Smith? Vanessa asked.

He said he was forty, but he looked like he was only in his early thirties.

When did Edgar Smith tell you what he wanted you to do for him? I asked.

It came much later. We dated almost every night and like I said, I fell in love with him, but we hadn't slept together.

Edgar took me to dinner every night for the next week and never tried to take me to bed. I began to wonder if there were somethin wrong with me, or with him. Was he gay or something? I did everything I could but tear his clothes off and attack him. Then I felt sure he was gay. Marjorie took a sip of her coffee and made a sour face.

Would you like a fresh cup? Vanessa asked.

That would be nice, Marjorie said. We sat and waited while Vanessa filled three fresh mugs with coffee and returned to the client chair in front of my desk.

"Edgar had a friend who owned a high class night club with a better class of customers called The Gilded Cage on Connecticut Avenue near Dupont Circle. The club is named for the golden go-go dancer's cage suspended from the ceiling near the stage area when a previous club owner featured bikini clad dancers.

What's the address? I asked. She told me.

Edgar put in a good word with his friend and I got a better job.

What did you have to do there? Vanessa asked.

"I started out as a waitress. I made two to three hundred dollars a night in tips. A few months later Mr. Palumbo, the club's owner, offered me a promotion to hostess. I debated taking the promotion. Two to three hundred dollars a night comes to between a thousand and fifteen hundred dollars a week, fifty to seventy-five thousand a year. It's good money for a girl like me. After serious thought I accepted his offer. The base pay was better and the other waitresses had to tip me a small percentage of their tips each night so I took home about the same but the best thing was I didn't have to carry trays.

"As hostess I had to wear a long black dress every night. I have to buy my own dresses and the club would reimburse me. Edgar loaned me the money to buy my first dress. It was an off the shoulder dress that clung to my body like it was sprayed on. I got a lot of complements on that dress and several offers to help remove it from my body.

Edgar and I had an understanding. We could date other people, or rather, Edgar had the understanding, and I didn't have any choice in the matter. I realized he didn't have the same feelings for me as I had for him so when other men asked me out, I went. The first man I went out with turned out to be a one night stand, but it was alright because I hadn't had a man since I met Edgar and I was horny. Marjorie gave me sheepish grin. Vanessa looked down at her hands. Vanessa and I started out as a one night stand which blossomed into a marriage. Vanessa is still embarrassed at the memory of that one night and prefers not to remember it. Others were short term relationships with men I, you might say, had some sort of feelings for. I sensed there was something Marjorie wasn't telling us.

Is The Gilded Cage a private club or is it open to the public? I asked.

It's open to the public.

What about Edgar? Vanessa asked.

He took me out once every a week or so. One night while on a date with him, I decided I would seduce him. I invited him in when he brought me home and I proceeded to undress him and as he stood in his birthday suit, I took my clothes off. I’ve had better, I’ve had worse. We decided we'd never be lovers again, but remain friends who shared a nice once in a lifetime memory. Vanessa and I both could sense Marjorie's loss of something she still wanted. I think Marjorie was still in love with this Edgar Smith after he decided he wanted to date other women.

A couple of months or so later, Edgar took me into his friend's, Mr. Palumbo the club owner's, office. I became scared. Did I do something wrong? Was I in trouble for having had physical relationships with some of the male customers? Was I about to be fired. I made good money as the hostess, I didn't want to go back to slinging hash in some dumpy diner in some one horse town somewhere. I was so scared I had to squeeze myself to keep from peeing my pants.

What happened in the office? Vanessa asked.

"Mr. Palumbo had a broad smile on his face as I walked into his office. I felt more comfortable, but I still experienced a little trepidation. He told me to sit. He had chairs in front of his desk like you do in here. Mr. Palumbo spoke. 'Edgar and I have noticed your work here and we're very impressed with your cheerful, outgoing personality; how you make our customers feel like honored guests and that they are welcome here. We've had many wonderful complements about you,' 'Thank you Mr. Palumbo,' I told him. He said, 'call me Peter.' 'Thank you – Peter,' I said.

"'We want to talk with you about something special which may be financially beneficial both you and the club.' Oh God, he wants me to go out with some men he wants entertained, I thought. I was about to scream no and run from the place. Mr. Palumbo, Peter, must've noticed the look of panic on my face and started to laugh. 'No, I think you may have jumped to the wrong conclusion. We run a card game or two every night in one of the rooms upstairs.' I came to find out later it was more like ten or twelve poker games every night.

"'What we'd like you to do for us is to make the offer of an entrance into one of the games to selective customers who you think would enjoy sitting in on one of our little games.' I told him I wouldn't know how to judge who to invite and who not to invite. He told me I'd learn.

Over the next few weeks Edgar stood at the hostess desk instructing me on who to approach and who to leave alone. Peter wanted well dressed men coming in alone who looked as if they wanted something more from the club than a drink and the chance to meet a woman. One night a couple of weeks later, a man filling most of the requirements approached the hostess desk. I asked him if he would be interested in joining a private card game. He said he would and I waived over one of the floaters to escort the man to the game. As the floater and the man walked towards the hidden elevator, Edgar came up to me and told me he would've let the man in too. Later after closing, Edgar came over to me and slipped a folded fifty dollar bill into my hand. I averaged one player a week into the game, and on good week two, sometimes even three. Each player earned me a fifty dollar bill.

Can anyone off the street get into the card game? I asked.

Only if we think they're serious players. Generally we never ask someone who is a first time customer. And if the customer asks about the game, I tell him he must be mistaken. I had no knowledge of any card game and may I show him to a table?'

Marjorie laughed a deep laugh. I became a carnival shill for an illegal poker game, Marjorie said, with a shake of her head.

Why do you think someone's trying to run you down? I asked.

Someone tried two nights ago.

How do you know it was a deliberate attempt on your life and not simply bad driving? I asked.

I thought he had plenty of time to turn away, but he didn't. He came straight towards me.

So it was a man? Vanessa asked.

I think so. I was too busy staring at the headlights coming straight at me.

What happened? I asked. I tend to take over the questioning when a crime, or possible crime, takes place.

Marjorie looked at me as if I were an idiot. I jumped the hell out of the way, of course. He sped off.

Where did this occur? I asked.

On Connecticut Avenue near the club.

Did you report it to the police? Vanessa asked, the lawyer in her coming out.

Why did you wait so long to contact someone for help. Why didn't you call the police right them when, someone unknown tried to kill you? I asked.

I was in shock. I couldn't believe someone wanted me dead. What did I do to deserve being killed? Tears came again to Marjorie's eyes. Vanessa and her never ending supply of Kleenexes came to the rescue.

So who do you think tried to run you down; Edgar Smith, Peter Palumbo or a big loser you enticed into the game? I asked.

Chapter 4

From The Woman's Diary

July 9

My partner and I argued about my going to the PIs. I saw no sense in it. My partner said it would deflect any attention away from us and point it elsewhere. Where the attention would be diverted to, my partner couldn't, or wouldn't, say. We argued back and forth for almost an hour.

My partner smiled at me when we calmed down. Our plan was foolproof. We've seen what we want and now we know how we plan to make it come to fruition. The obstacles we have to overcome are still blocking our path, but they're all trivialities in the giant scheme of our entire plan. One by one, the obstacles will be remedied. The first obstacle will be removed tonight. I’ve already stolen the SUV.

Chapter 5

I called Detective Lieutenant Robert Murdoch of the MPDC homicide division the next morning. Murdoch is a twenty-two year veteran of the MPDC and he and I have had a love hate relationship since I’ve known him. He doesn't like PIs but has learned from experience he can trust me and