The Big Kiss-Off of 1944: A Jack LeVine Mystery by Andrew Bergman Page A

sounded agitated when he broke into the hum. “Jack, for Christ’s sake, I don’t want to handle any of this over the phone.”
    “The cameras aren’t rolling yet, Mr. Butler, so calm down. Stop acting like it’s high espionage.”
    “This case may be a joke to you, Mr. LeVine, but I don’t like being hounded by blackmailers. I think it’s damned serious.”
    “Al Rubine doesn’t think it’s all that serious.”
    “Who the hell is Al Rubine?”
    “He just might be the ‘Friend of the Arts’ we all know and love. Also, he’s taken a powder.”
    I was back on hold and after Butler’s hysterics, I kind of preferred it. The phone hummed to me a little more and when Butler came back about a half-minute later, he was a little more subdued.
    “Sorry, Jack. Eileen came in with a telegram and I had to put you off for a bit. Now, exactly what is the story? I’ve had a madhouse of a day, so you’ll have to excuse my snappishness.”
    “Don’t worry, you’re always aces in my book, Mr. Butler. The story is this: I showed up in Smithtown, which is a hell of place to be even if it isn’t ninety-five degrees, a little after twelve o’clock. Number fourteen Edgefield looked deserted so I had a little chat with a lady who lives at number twelve.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “It’s not important. She told me she used to see two pretty unpleasant-looking mugs hanging around number fourteen on an irregular basis. The house doesn’t look too lived in, so it seems to check out. On Monday and Tuesday of this week, there was just one of them around. He came back last night, loaded up his car with cartons, took one suitcase and blew. The lady says he was driving very fast. The house is empty, except for a lot of boxes and newspapers lying around.”
    “Did you recover the films?”
    “I said the house was empty.”
    “Jack, I’ve got to run,” Butler said abruptly. “If you can be here by around six, I’ll pay you the rest of your fee. See you then.” The man was a whiz at getting off the phone. Having nothing better to do, I hung up on my end.

 
    T HE DRIVE BACK to New York wasn’t all that interesting: weeds, gas tanks, and sun-baked concrete. I suffer in the heat and it was well over ninety. I also suffer from ignorance and what I didn’t know about this case was enough to fill up a library wall. If “Friend of the Arts” was leaving this line alone because he had a bigger sucker caught on the other, there wasn’t much to do but wait. Maybe not even that. Kerry and Butler might just say the hell with it and go to the police, but that was a long shot. I could be a sweet guy and tell Kerry that the producer knew someone in his show was being shaken down, yet I had a feeling that that wouldn’t change anything.
    Maybe the case was just beginning.
    I reached home by a little after four, giving me time enough to stand in a cold shower, knock off some Blatz and a salami sandwich, and lie down to stare at the ceiling and ponder nothing more profound than getting in a good Friday night of poker. It didn’t take a long time to figure out my needs. I was a basic model 1944 prole. Given plenty of beer and cigarettes, a sympathetic woman, the Yankees on a winning streak and poker at the end of my week, LeVine could be made happy. A simple man. I was very content working straights and full houses in my brain; when I realized that I had to go see Butler again at six, it was like awaking to discover that I had wet the bed.
    Halfway into dressing, I heard the phone ring and hopped into the living room with my pants around my knees, like a guy in a potato race. I was pretty sure that Kerry Lane would be at the other end and wasn’t disappointed.
    “Mr. LeVine, am I disturbing you?”
    “No, I was just hopping around the house.”
    “I see.” She didn’t know how to take it, so she didn’t take it all. “You sound jovial. I hope that’s a good sign.”
    “It’s not a good sign or a bad sign, Miss Lane. When