Round the Clock at Volari's Read online

  W. R. Burnett

  Round the Clock at Volari's

  ***

  Among the bright lights and the bar girls he traded honor for a harlot's kiss…

  MURDER ROUND THE CLOCK!

  Volari's was a place shunned by the law, stalked by the lawless and patronized by bored, idle people looking for kicks.

  The big safe in the back room was ripe to be cracked-$200,000 ripe. Whispered word of heist came and spread-and with it came terror.

  First a bar girl disappeared. Next a waiter. Then two of Volari's strong-arms were sent to find out why. They never came back…

  ***

  B. (scanning and OCR) and P. (formatting and proofing) edition.

  ***

  1. THURSDAY

  Jim Chase stood at the window, staring bitterly down into the street, while behind him his partner, Larry Packard, nervously read a brief and kept glancing at the clock. It had been hot today, near 92. Outside, the city, at eleven o'clock at night, still had the stuffiness of an old attic. Inside, the air conditioner whirred on mindlessly, spraying chilly air through the cramped little suite of offices.

  Jim could never get used to the new place. He'd preferred their old offices in the ancient Taft Building, the creaking cage elevator, the old colored elevator man who'd known his grandfather, the air of leisure it still retained from a vanished past. But all that was gone now.

  Gone forever. Ancient history. Dead and buried with the Patton administration. A top-to-bottom sweep, and other men were in the Taft Building now. At the thought, Jim's jaw muscles clenched in tense memory. The humiliation still rankled within him. The son of such a father, the grandson of such a grandfather-swept out of office with the rest of the corrupt ones.

  Not that he wasn't to blame, he thought.

  Not that it had been undeserved or even unexpected.

  But it hurt. When he walked in the street, he hardly looked anyone in the eye any more. He felt like an exile in his own home town.

  The phone rang.

  Larry made a nervous grab for it. Jim turned to listen.

  "Oh, Gert," Larry said. "No. Nothing yet. Expecting a tip, but-no. You just go to bed. Get some sleep. See you tomorrow."

  "Good old Gert," said Jim, turning back to the window.

  "We'll lose her yet," Larry muttered. "Bryson down the hall's been trying to… and he's got more money than…" Larry broke off, went back to his brief.

  Jim scowled at the window. When Larry's nerves began to kick up he always talked in that disjointed manner. After the collapse of the administration Larry had got to drinking heavily for a while, to ease his nerves. But his new marriage had saved him, or so Jim thought.

  The cleanup had hit them both hard. One day, both members of the D.A.'s staff. The next-back in private practice, and lucky to be on the outside of the City Jail. Larry had started to salvage some of his life. Jim hadn't. His marriage had gone down the drain, his career-everything that counted.

  The phone rang again. Larry grabbed, nearly knocked it off the desk. "Honey. Yes. Still waiting up?"

  Jim felt a pang of envy. Larry's young wife Beth was calling, and Lany relaxed visibly in his chair, smiling with delight.

  "No, no word yet, baby," Larry said, smiling at his wife's picture on the desk. "Jury's still out. I can't tell. You never know. Sure, sure, I'll come right home. Sleep tomorrow? How can I? But-look-" He grinned up at Jim now. "But he needs his sleep, too." He covered the receiver and said to Jim, "She claims you're big and strong and I'm small and weak, so I should sleep till noon tomorrow."

  "Okay by me," said Jim, laughing.

  "He says it's okay, baby. But I just couldn't do it." He listened, then laughed loudly.

  Another phone rang, and Larry glanced up at Jim in distress. Jim hurried into Gert's office, threw the switch and took the call on their second line. They had three; but one was all they needed as a rule, though they tried to pretend otherwise.

  "Mr. Packard," said a guarded male voice.

  "This is Chase," said Jim.

  "Oh, then I can talk to you just as well. The jury's about to come in. I hear they've reached a verdict."

  "And?"

  "Not good, Mr. Chase. Not good for your client."

  "Thanks," said Jim.

  Larry was still talking to his wife, laughing it up a little too much now. Jim gestured for him to get off the phone.

  "Well?" Larry demanded, nervously.

  "Your tipster thinks we blew another one," said Jim.

  Larry scowled. "I was afraid… I had a feeling… maybe he's wrong, though. It's happened. Well… that jury… a couple of hard-faced old bitches bothered me… well… I'd better…"

  He grabbed up his brief case, took his hat from the closet. They looked at each other in silence. Both felt guilty, as if they'd deliberately let each other down. Jim had prepared the brief; Larry had tried the case. It was the third loss in a row, none of them of anything approaching major proportions, but a matter of record all the same.

  Their relationship at best was an uneasy one. They were from different parts of town, different strata, different schools; and actually they had little in common except the law. Jim was the son of a well-known lawyer, Robert Chase, now dead; and the grandson of the civic-ally famous Judge Weldon Chase. Jim had gone to a private military school and a small exclusive Midwestern university. Larry, the son of a mechanic, had worked his way painfully through State. Probably they never would have met if they hadn't both worked for the D.A. during the last city administration: Jim as chief investigator and general trouble-shooter, Larry as one of the prosecutors.

  "Well," said Jim, "we tried."

  "Yeah," said Larry. "Well… see you tomorrow."

  He saluted and left. Jim heard the faint whoosh of the self-closing door, then poured himself a drink, sat down at Larry's desk. His own was in another office across the little anteroom. He hated his office. It seemed to him like a plush-lined, air-conditioned cell, with its rust-proof furniture and uncluttered design.

  Sipping his whiskey, he studied the pictures of Larry's wife. A real doll. A damned nice kid. He hoped the marriage worked out better than his own had. The thought led him to his own messed-up life, and he was at once going back over the old quarrels, the reconciliations, the second and third chances, the bewildered kids. Divorce court. Humiliation. Public shame.

  It had been a wild time, an entire city administration gone haywire. The big boys set the pace, and the rest followed, like silly sheep. Too much power, that was the trouble. They had all thought it would never end. They were swell-headed, arrogant-too much liquor, too many women. Like college boys up for the weekend, he thought coldly. And then the joyride had ended. Then had come the shock of defeat. A whole administration flattened, from top to bottom. And none of them had been smart enough to see it coming From political boss Tom Patton to the youngest recruit in the D.A.'s office, all laughing at the pretensions of Judge Bayard-a hardbitten reformer, who'd been around for years. Judge Bayard-for Mayor? Judge Weybrecht-for D.A.? (Another hard-bitten old reformer.) Preposterous! And yet it had happened. A landslide! And the two old grayhaired judges had cleaned out the City Building and the Hall of Justice.

  And now the leaders of the old administration were scattered about over the country like the remnants of a defeated army. Jake Webb, former D.A., known all over town for years as His Highness, was in Florida, and it was rumored that he'd had a stroke and no longer made sense when he talked. Tom Patton was in hiding around the edge of town some place, or so it was said, and nobody knew where. Various other remnants were spread from Canada to Southern California. Jim remembered his own resignation with shame.

  He'd been told that Judge Weybrecht wanted
to see him. Having a pretty good idea what this meant, he'd written out a curt resignation.

  The old judge had read it in silence, then after a long pause had said: "Very well. I accept it."

  Jim had said nothing, but the old judge had studied him a long time, making him uncomfortable, before saying, "From Jake Webb I never expected anything, nor from Tom Patton, our esteemed Highway Commissioner-nor from their followers, all predatory politicians of the worst kind. But from Judge Chase's grandson I expected something. I intended to say nothing. I was merely going to ask for your resignation. But I find I can't keep still. I'm baffled. You want to try to justify yourself?"

  "No," said Jim.

  "Well, that's something," said the judge. "Good day, Mr. Chase."

  Now Jim rose from Larry's desk, put the bottle away, grabbed up his hat, and left hurriedly.

  The coffin-like automatic elevator shot him from the fifth to the first floor in a matter of seconds. Outside, the heat hit him like a physical blow.

  He found a cruising taxicab. "Volari's," he said, as he got in.

  He'd been staying away from the place lately, embarrassed at the huge tab he owed and was unable to pay. In fact, he had no more than a few hundred dollars to his name. His income was uncertain but the outgo was not. Alimony payments; regular payments on his debts; office rent; apartment rent; food-a treadmill.

  Down the street he saw the huge, diagonal, golden neon sign: VOLARI'S. In the old days it had been called "Administration Headquarters," for laughs. The D.A. could be found there nearly every night, surrounded by sycophants both male and female.

  In fact Tom Patton's brother, Al, had bought the place from Gino Volari-and, as everybody had said at the time, "Now it's official."

  ***

  Chauncey, the colored boy who picked up the cars in front of Volari's and parked them for the patrons, opened the cab door. As he paid the driver, Jim noticed that the gold braid on Chauncey's royal blue "Volari" jacket was tarnished. It figured.

  "How's business?" Jim asked.

  "If every night was Saturday night it'd be okay. You can shoot deer in the parking lot tonight. Not like the old days."

  Chauncey had been around for nearly five years now. Tom Patton had recommended him for the job. It was one of the many ways Tom had had of carrying the colored districts. Word got around. White Man Patton's party was okay. Getting good jobs for colored boys Downtown, where the money was.

  Jim went in.

  There was a new check-room girl who did not know him and glanced at him indifferently as he deposited his hat and picked up his check. It was just another sign of the change going on all around.

  Gus, the young barman, saw him and nodded hello. Jim returned the nod. There were no more than six people on the bar stools, and only three wall-booths were occupied. Tully Burke and his boys were playing discreetly under the big archway, and Jim could see the lighted candles in the round supper-room beyond. Tully played bland dinner music. "Digestive" music, he called it. He was a fixture at Volari's.

  Where was Judy, Jim wondered? As always, there was the little pang just back of his breast pocket. Judy was a symbol to him of the old gay life before the crackdown. He'd had some good times with her, back in the glittering past. She was one of the reasons his marriage had gone pffft.

  "Judy around?" he said to Gus.

  "She and Zena are out back, smoking. Things kind of slow. How you been, stranger?" Gus was a ruddy-faced blond in his late twenties, with big shoulders and an easy grin.

  "Well, well," a high-pitched man's voice said behind him. Jim turned. Gino Volari! Looking as suave and sleek as ever. Gino was fifty or better, but he didn't have a single gray hair, nor had he put on an ounce of weight in the last twenty years. Gino now acted as maitre d'hotel in the place he formerly owned.

  "How've you been, Mr. Chase?" Gino asked. "We've been wondering about you."

  I'll bet the credit department has, Jim thought uncomfortably. He owed the house almost a grand. But Gino was too tactful even to hint at that.

  "Been busy, Gino," said Jim with a forced grin.

  He signalled Gus for a Scotch-and-soda. Gino patted Jim's arm and moved up front to corral a bewildered-looking couple who were obviously in strange surroundings. Gino guided them to a table, then returned.

  He shrugged. "Sightseers. Since we hit all the papers as a hangout for you bad boys, they all come down for a look."

  "Maybe they want to meet an authentic villain," Jim said mirthlessly. "I'll autograph their menu for a buck-fifty."

  Someone tapped his shoulder. Jim turned. It was Cecile, the third bar-girl, a French-Canadian with a cute little mouth and a cuter figure. There were only three, now: Cecile, Zena, Judy. In the old days there'd been as many as six. The jobs had been fought for. Back then, Volari's had boasted the lushest tippers in town.

  "Bon soir, m'sieu," she said. "Have you been away?"

  Cecile had never paid the slightest attention to him until he'd started taking Judy out; then she'd made a pitch. But that was all long ago and far away-in another world.

  "No," said Jim. "Just busy."

  Cecile passed on to the slot and called: "One Manhattan, two Burgies."

  Gus winced. Jim signed the tab, then carried his drink to a booth in a far comer, near the supper-room. He glanced in. Four tables taken! Pretty feeble for half-past eleven on a Thursday night, even if it was still summer. Al Patton must be worried as hell. Bad enough the top had blown off his brother's reign-but lousy business at the restaurant too!

  The music stopped. Tully Burke came over to shoot the breeze for a few minutes. Mostly, the conductor was griping about the slim pickings lately. "You should have seen it on Tuesday night. Echoes. I'm not kidding. You think Al might fold it, God forbid?"

  "I doubt it. How is Al?" Jim asked.

  "Aging, man, aging."

  Jim glanced up. Judy and Zena were at the bar now, looking over at him. They were both wearing the royal blue Volari jacket with gold braid, and short, tight, skimpy white skirts. They were about the same height and build, but the similarities stopped there. Zena, with her dark-red hair butchered into a shaggy-looking boyish cut, her handsome, tense, aquiline face and her hard green eyes, seemed at opposite poles from Judy. Judy was slender, but all round contours and softness, her black hair silky and luxuriant, in a bun at the back, her face creamy-looking, her big gray eyes pleasant and friendly. Zena always seemed on guard: ready to strike, like a snake. Judy was always relaxed, calm, confident-looking. Opposites attract, Jim thought. Maybe that was why Judy and Zena had been roommates and close friends for almost four years.

  He didn't signal to Judy. She didn't come over. There was tension between them since the breakup of his marriage. Everyone in town knew who was responsible, who the "other woman" was. And he'd been staying away from Volari's for just that reason, till the tensions inside him had driven him to come back this evening.

  He watched them-Judy and Zena bickering about something beyond his hearing. They looked surprised to see him. If he didn't miss his guess, they were talking about him, Zena downgrading him as usual, Judy trying to defend him.

  Gino drifted over, gave each girl a pinch, sent them on to take orders. Jim saw Judy cross to the tourists, the couple who sat looking about them with awe and embarrassment at the dim-lit, continental lushness of Volari's, the most expensive supper club in the state. The man was wearing a wrinkled white coat and a gaudy Hawaiian shirt. No tie. In the old days he couldn't have gotten inside that way. The woman had on a backless cotton dress. Her hands and arms were covered with cheap costume jewelry, outsized rings, bangles, charm bracelets. She was smoking a cigarette in a long holder and trying to look haughty.

  Jim watched Judy take the order. She handled herself well, he thought, making strangers feel comfortable in Volari's. He looked away. She was seeing someone else, he had heard. Well, what of it? Did you expect her to go into a nunnery when you broke up with her? he asked himself.

  It hurt, thoug
h. It hurt to think of somebody else taking Judy home, someone else swapping wisecracks with her, someone else in bed with her…

  Especially that. That hurt.

  He could close his eyes and see her now standing next to the bed, naked, all that lovely creamy flesh out for grabs and all of it his. And the little smile, and the quick quip. "Here's your thrill for the night, mister. One pinch, that's all you get. Fellow your age has to watch his blood pressure."

  All over with now. Somebody else was having the fun and games with Judy.

  Jim had been brought his third drink by Cecile before Judy stopped by for a moment. He looked up at her awkwardly. She was tense, too, he saw.

  "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" she asked.

  "I didn't know."

  "Going to sit here alone all night, or you expecting someone?"

  "Alone," he said. "I'd ask to see you home, but-"

  "But what?"

  "But I know somebody else does that job now."

  Anger flared in her eyes. "You say that like you're annoyed."

  "I am. Just a little."

  "Got any right to be?" she asked hotly. "Expect me to stay on the shelf waiting for you to call?"

  "No, but-"

  "But what?"

  He shook his head. "But nothing. You aren't any vestal virgin and I've got no call expecting you to be one."

  "That was a rotten crack, Jim."

  "Sorry. But it's true, isn't it?"

  "What's true?" she demanded.

  "That you've been keeping company with someone else?"

  "Sure," she said.

  "Who?"

  "A dozen guys. A different one every night. Sometimes two or three." There was bitter sarcasm in her voice. "You ought to come around some time. I take on all comers."

  "Stop it, Judy."

  "What did you want me to say?" She clenched her fists. "It's been months, Jim. I'm not involved very… deeply… with anybody. But I haven't been sitting in the icebox, either. Okay?"