Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 09/01/12 (32 page)

 
Harley Mazuk’s private eye Frank Swiver debuted in Black Mask
in January of 2011, with the story “The Tall Blonde With the Hot Boiler.”
Normally, the story would have appeared in our Department of First Stories, as
it was the author’s first work of fiction, but the tone and style so perfectly
suited Black Mask that it found its home there. Swiver is back this month in a
case full of action and dramatic tension. His creator is a public affairs
specialist who lives and works in the Washington, D.C.
area.
 

1.

 
The ballroom of the Hotel Biarritz had more ice floating in it than
all the martinis-on-the-rocks north of the Artic Circle. Sparklers were draped
around necks, dangled from ears, and danced on fingers. The gaslights in the
swanky room flickered, and made the ice flash even more.

I had spotted my old pal, Stan Kosloski, when I’d come into the lobby. Stosh was
an ex-SFPD flatfoot who was now working as the house dick at the hotel on Nob
Hill. He told me the Jamisons had arrived already. “They went up to their rooms.
What’s your interest, Frank?”

“A necklace,” I told him. “I’m on a job for an insurance company.”

“Must be the White Tiger necklace, eh?”

I nodded. “Did you say rooms?”

Stosh rolled his eyes. “Yeah. The marriage is on the ropes, and they don’t sleep
together. See, that’s the kind of thing I know, ’cause of my job, but it ain’t
common knowledge. When they come down to the ballroom, they’ll come in together,
like a couple. But after that,” he turned up his open palms, “well, anything can
happen. Just watch.” He didn’t wait for me to answer, but went on, “You go ahead
into the ballroom. I’ll see ’em when they come down, and I’ll send Felipe in to
put you wise.” He indicated one of the bellboys. I had thanked him and made my
way to the ballroom, where the 1948 Sonoma Harvest Ball was just beginning.

I ordered a glass of red wine, and the barman poured me a ’47 Louis Martini
Zinfandel. I leaned with my back on the bar so I could watch the room,
especially the door. I was responsible for only one piece of the ice, the White
Tiger necklace that Mrs. Jane Jamison would have around her neck when she came
in. Jed Jamison insured the White Tiger through Golden Gate Insurance Company,
and Golden Gate got nervous when Mrs. Jamison wore it to a party. For
twenty-five dollars a day, Golden Gate paid me to stand in the room and make
sure no one lifted it off her neck, at least while she was at the party. I was
cheap insurance for the insurers.

I let my eyes run over the guests who were already there. I didn’t see any known
jewel thieves. I did recognize a few faces from the Napa and Sonoma wine trade,
and a couple others I knew from the San Francisco restaurant business. I was a
little alarmed to spot Joe Damas. He was as bent as they come, but he was a
scratcher, not an ice man, so I didn’t expect Joe’s business interests that
night to conflict with mine. I hadn’t spoken to him since the Thursby affair, so
I pushed off the rail and wandered over to say hello to the little
Frenchman.

“Evening, Joe. Still smoking those stink weeds?” A Gauloises drooped from his
lip. “Maybe you should switch to American cigarettes.”

“Bonsoir,
Swiver. Imagine running into you here,” he said, reaching into
his jacket pocket and pulling out a flat blue package. “Want one?”

“No thanks, Joe. I might have to breathe tomorrow. You making out okay?”

He gave me his usual shrug.
“Couci-couça,”
he said. The smoke from the
wide stub of his cigarette curled up into his eye. “I’m going to work the room.
See if I can line up some new clients. What are you doing here, Swiver?”

Joe was a wine distributor. When we met in the spring, he was forging labels and
running up his profits by selling cheap plonk as choice-quality juice from
Sonoma. He was a good forger; he had to be. He’d learned his trade forging
identity papers for the Resistance in France. After that, wine labels were duck
soup.

Joe lost two of his major accounts while the case I was on, the Thursby murder,
played out. Now, six months later, he still had a way to go to rebuild trust.
But Joe was slick, and a survivor. If anybody could do it, he could. “I’m on a
job,” I told him.

“Uh-oh,” he said, and crossed himself.

“Relax,” I told him. “I’m not here to protect anybody.”

“You know, your blond girl is here. What’s her name . . . Velma?”

That was swell to hear. I hadn’t seen Velma Peregrino since the Thursby case,
when she’d quit her job as my secretary and moved home to the Russian River
Valley to work the Blackbird Vineyard, which she inherited from the late General
Thursby. I looked around the room.

I’d been watching the ice, but as soon as I looked beyond jewelry, I couldn’t
miss her. Velma was a real gem—blond, tall, slim, and beautiful. Throw in
smiling and happy. She was holding a glass of Champagne, talking to some jasper
with a beard in a tweed sport coat. She was wearing that same little red
cocktail dress she’d worn the night of Thursby’s last tasting. “Later, Joe,” I
mumbled, and drifted towards her.

She drew me across the room like a magnet pulls iron shavings. “Velma,
sweetheart,” I said, “I’ve missed you. How you been?”

She did a double-take. “Frank, my God. ’Scuse me if I don’t toss this drink in
your face, but it’s Schramsberg—too good to give you a bath with.” She took a
pull.

“Come on, Velma. You’re not still sore, are you?”

She paused for a second. “No, I guess I’m not. If I thought about you, I might
be. But I’m making wine. My first vintage. Life’s good.” She relaxed a little.
“So . . . what are you doing here, Frank?”

“I’m on a case, sweetheart. Do you know the Jamisons?”

“Jed and Jane Jamison? No, they’re big-time. I only have four acres.”

“Yeah, but everyone knows your vineyard is the best four acres of old mixed black
in Sonoma.”

“Maybe so, but Jamison’s big business. I’m just a small grower. We don’t run in
the same circles. Besides, they’re competition for Peregrine Vineyards.” Velma
Peregrino’s folks had a big ranch adjacent to her little spread. Just then,
there was a tug on my jacket. It was Felipe.

“Mr. Swiver, Mr. Kosloski says tell you Jamisons come in.” I dug in my pocket for
two bits to give Felipe, and Velma and I looked toward the entrance of the
ballroom.

“That’s Jed Jamison,” said Velma, indicating a tall man in a tux who’d just come
in. He had a hard-edged, weathered face, grey hair, and a thick grey moustache.
He looked past middle age, though he seemed trim and fit enough. Just off his
shoulder was a brunette I took to be Jane, and she looked like a real stunner
from across the room. Jed stopped to talk, and the dame touched his arm and
whispered something. He nodded, and she headed into the fray.

“She’s going to the bar, Frank. Why don’t you get me another one of these?” Velma
drained her Champagne flute and wiggled it for me to see.

I wanted a closer look at Jane. “Okay, sweetheart. Schramsberg, right?”

“Blanc de blancs.”
I gulped the rest of my Zin down and set a course to
intersect with my target.

Jane pulled up to the bar first and I got there in time to hear her order a
Campari and a Prosecco. I stood next to her and gave her the up-and-down. She
was a good-looking broad with a curvy figure. She wore a red gown, a deeper red
than Velma’s, and full-length, whereas Velma’s was cut short to show off her
long gams. Jane’s wine-dark gown had a deep vee, and was gathered tight in front
under the bosom, down to the waist, then it was sheer and flowed out loosely.
There were layers of sheer, like a seven-veil dress, but it was clingy, and a
guy could really see the arcs of her long thighs. Mrs. Jamison was shaking as
fine a pair of maracas as you’d want to see, but you’d barely notice them
because of the stunning necklace that hung about two-thirds of the way down into
the vee of the dress. The White Tiger was strung with alternating diamonds, in
baguette cuts, and opals about the size of black beans. At the center, a diamond
pendant lay against her chest. It was large for a single diamond, but it had a
flaw. A vein of black, like a tiger’s stripe, ran through the heart of it.

“See something you like, Bo?” Her voice cut clearly over the tinkle of glasses
and polite patter of party talk mixed with laughter.

“Oh, you caught me admiring your . . . uh . . . stones. I’m Frank Swiver, Mrs.
Jamison. I’m a private dick. I’ll be keeping an eye on your assets this evening
for the Golden Gate Insurance Company.”

“Strictly business, Mr. Swiver? Not a personal interest? Well, I hope you enjoy
your work. Excuse me; I must get back to my husband. He likes to keep an eye on
me too.” She picked up her drinks and headed across the room, moving her rear
end like a washer tub with an unbalanced load.

2.

 
When I returned with the Schramsberg, I found Jed Jamison wasn’t
doing a very good job keeping an eye on his wife. He only had eyes for Velma. Up
close, it was clear he must have been at least fifty, but he was acting like a
teenager in lust around Velma. She seemed to be enjoying the attention, and took
her glass from me without a word of thanks, listening to Jamison’s line. He was
going on about the size of his grapes or something like that. I drifted a short
distance away with my glass of wine to keep an eye on the ice.

Joe Damas was flitting around the room, a Gauloises drooping from the side of his
mouth, trying to squeeze into tight circles of conversation. Most people looked
at him like they’d look at something they stepped in, and kept right on chinning
with each other as if he weren’t there. Another drink and I might have started
to feel sorry for him. He was a crook, but he’d been square with me. Joe worked
his way over to the Jamisons and Velma. Jamison shook his hand and draped an arm
across the Frenchman’s shoulders. He moved his head close to Damas and smiled
while he talked into his ear. But soon, Jamison turned and took Velma’s elbow
and guided her away. Joe didn’t have anything to say to Jane, so he gave her a
little bow and moved away to look for another prospect.

Well, I guess Jane Jamison started to feel the chill from her husband, and before
I knew it, she was walking up to me. “How’s your drink, shamus?” she said.

“Excellent Zinfandel, Mrs. Jamison. What happened to your Prosecco?”

“I think the bartender must have poured me a short one. Buy me another?”

“Sure,” I said, and we walked over to the bar. I ordered two more. Jane Jamison
brought her glass up to her lips and bent her head back. Her long, dark walnut
curls hung free, her smooth neck rose in a graceful curve, and the Champagne
flute pointed straight up at the ceiling as she drained it all at once. I half
expected her to toss the empty at the nearest fireplace but she slammed it down
on the bar. She looked me in the eyes and licked her lips.

“The case of the disappearing drink,” she said. “It’s gone, but I’m still
thirsty.” She licked her lips again.

“I’ll get you another,” I said. “But slow down a little, all right?”

Her eyes bored into me and for an instant, I thought she was going to give me an
argument. But she softened and smiled. “You’re right. I just get so mad at that
husband of mine sometimes. He’s making a fool of himself with some dish half his
age.”

“I don’t know. He seems to be doing okay.” We looked over. Velma and Jed were
sitting on a small davenport. She was sitting up straight, with her legs
crossed, and he was leaning towards her ear, jawing softly. Velma laughed; Jed
put his Campari, which was still half-full, on a little table, and withdrawing
his hand, let it linger on Velma’s knee. I had to turn away to keep calm.

I was working, but as long as Jane was staying this close, I wasn’t having much
difficulty doing my job, keeping an eye on the White Tiger. So I had another
drink with her and we talked.