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 Brenda, My Starr In the late 1950s, a promising young singer is killed, and a Brooklyn cop is surprised to learn that another singer, one void of talent, is said to have recorded a potential hit. Warneke brought Lanz with him, making him strap on the wooden leg. Warneke on his hands and knees, looking for a matching shoe while Lanz brushed his teeth over the dirty dishes, humming the Rheingold jingle. Now, they stepped out of the rattling elevator. "Ben!" Lanz said, as he opened the office door. Zengelman started to smile, but then stopped, and Warneke knew it had occurred to him why they'd come. Two hobbling cops, and Warneke took the chair on the left, putting his fedora on the desk. Lanz kept his straw porkpie on the back of his head. "Got any work for me, Ben?" Lanz asked. "Still in the union, Joe?" Zengelman's stock reply to Grade B musicians. Warneke saw the old man had his spine back. Not shriveled, and no longer contemplating a mausoleum in Cypress Hills. "Ben, this 'Brenda, My Star—" "You heard? Every day in the funny papers you're reminded. Brenda Starr, girl reporter. Mark my words, we're talking here a monster. The Sullivan show! Next week, with the official release on the Laurie label—" "By Vince and the Palomars. Vince Palone, who sings like I'm shifting into third without the clutch." Zengelman folded his hands on the blotter. "The recording studio is a house of miracles, Detective." Lanz said, "Excepting I can't find nobody who seen Palone singing with Sam the Man on sax." Zengelman frowned. "I don't—" Warneke said, "You told me Junior Maddux couldn't be contained by a five-piece combo—" "Drums, bass, piano, guitar and horn," Lanz counted. "These guys, doing six, seven sessions a day, and the singers roll in, roll out, and nobody notices unless it's some doll. But Manny says you mentioned Sam the Man, so I asked the guys why's Sam Taylor in New York, blowing on some sweet thing in 12/8 time. In D major, modulating to Eb major out of the bridge." Warneke rarely used his notebook, but he produced it now for effect. "The Broadway Recording Studio, 1650 Broadway in Manhattan, and Althea says Junior went by subway and you gave him the tokens. A 30-cent investment, round-trip." Zengelman was resolute. "The poor woman is mistaken." Warneke said, "Joe tells me Taylor was back in town for two days. Maybe you called in a favor? They tell me you put him with Alan Freed..." "A hell of an outro," Lanz added, nodding. "Sam played gorgeous." "I have no idea what you're—" "But," Lanz said abruptly, "your Vince Palone looks like a gorilla and Vince Palone sings like a gorilla, and not even Basie in his prime could make that work." Zengelman drew up. "He's taken lessons—" "From who? Mario Lanza and Billy Eckstine?" "And his looks, well, there's a certain earthiness the girls find—" "Ben, in case you need a little nudge, I came up with a Palone composition. Turns out I'd heard him murder it at the Bop House." Warneke cleared his throat to read Liz's scroll. "Tonight is the night and the stars are in flight/We'll stroll under beams of moon/We'll take in a show/To the movies we'll go/And then I'll croon you this tune." "A syllable short," Lanz noted, "unless he goes 'croo-oon.' Or 'too-oon' maybe." Warneke continued, "Then suddenly this: 'I long to hear you say my name/Whisper as you rest in my arms/To wake in the warmth of your sweet embrace/My dear Brenda." He paused, shutting his pad as he said the last line, "'Brenda, My Star.'" "Goosebumps." Lanz. "No, not bad for a 16 year old," Warneke nodded. "You're mistaken," Zengelman said. "First, Palone is 23—" Warneke cut him off. "Ben, either you're in or you're out." Lanz said, "The charts is a funny thing, Manny. Very greasy on the way down." Zengelman said nothing, but Warneke saw he'd begun to calculate. The cop stood, checking to see if Lanz needed his elbow. Zengelman slid his chair from the desk, and he stood too. Warneke said, "He's going throw away everything for that one last shot." "Hell, yeah," said Lanz, making sure his phony foot hit the linoleum right, heel to toe, tapping it twice. "Telling Laurie it's that gorilla on vocal..." "Ben, I break that Palone kid in 15 minutes, but I can't make him for murder. He's knows the game. " Lanz looked at his partner, watched as his thumb flicked the red feather on his hat held chest high. "Think it through, Ben," Warneke said. "How's this thing end?" Appears in Hard Boiled Brooklyn (Bleak House) edited by Reed Farrel Coleman. Published in Spring 2006 All stories © Jim Fusilli 2005. Reprinted with permission. For permission to reprint, contact the author at jimfusillibooks@aol.com. |