Murder Doll

***a selection from *CHAPTER ONE:** The Golden Spoon was strictly for suckers. Located a block north of the river in a renovated three-story building, it sported a white-and-red striped canopy which stretched from plate-glass door to curb, a huge tri-colored neon sign which flashed* Follies Parisienne* -*Twenty Beautiful Girls*-*No Cover Charge,* and a sharp-eyed doorman with the build of a heavyweight pug and more brass buttons than a general. As I approached, he pulled back the door with his right hand and exposed the white-gloved palm of his left hand, all in one smooth synchronized movement. I ignored the hungry palm, nodded, and walked in. He let the door bang behind me.

The joint's main floor was the standard layout: first, a plushy foyer with the inevitable cloakroom and framed, glossy blow-ups of the come-on girls; next, a crystal-and-chrome bar, at one end of which a dozen B-girls in flashy, low-cut evening dresses clustered like flies around a bruised banana; and, at the rear, for guys who were dragging their own mamas or wanted to eat and put on the dog, an elaborate, dimly-lighted dining-room, complete with tables, chairs, waiters in black ties, a Latin-American orchestra, and a ten-by-twelve dancing arena.

A young kid was poised at the entrance to the bar, indolently balancing a tray of cigarettes against one hip. She had thin crimson lips, dark eyes, and thick black hair which had been lacquered into a shiny up-do. A rhine-stone-studded Spanish comb stuck jauntily into the air from the bulge of hair at the back of her head and a red rose emerged from a puff over her forehead, except for a black, lacy mantilla, most of the rest of her was out in the open.

I stopped beside her and eyed the expanse of bare skin. "So this is what they wear in South America," I said, grinning.

Without cracking a smile, she said: "It's awfully warm down there, mister. Cigarettes?"

"Pack of Tareytons." I tossed her a half buck. "Where'll I find Millie White?"

As she handed me the smokes, her lips started to open, as though to answer my question, and her eyes looked over my shoulder. Her eyes suddenly jiggled nervously and, sucking in her breath, she dropped the half buck. "Sorry!" she exclaimed. I bent, picked up the coin, and turned casually as I straightened. A tall, sad-eyed guy in a well-worn tux was lounging near the checkroom entrance, apparently gabbing with the peroxided babe on duty. He wasn't looking in our direction, but the girl's sudden alarm had a reason-and, he, obviously, was it. I gave her the half buck, waved away the change, and strolled into the bar. Except for the B-girls and a couple of early bird martini guzzlers near the center, it was deserted. I climbed aboard a stool. The girls looked up and several of them started toward me: A neat little trick in a blue satin gown got to me first.

"Buy a girl a drink, big boy?" she murmured.

I gave her the eye. "Why not?" I asked.

She smiled and fitted her hips onto the stool beside me. Her perfume was sweet and cloying, almost rendering superfluous the care with which she had brushed her blonde hair into a sleek high pompadour, the artistry with which she had sketched full, promising lips over a rather thin mouth, and the skill with which she had tightened the blue satin over the pads in her bodice.

"What'll you have?" I asked.

"Oh-" Her eyes plucked at the lapels of my blue suit as she decided what sort of a catch she'd made. "-a brandy, I guess."

I nodded to the bartender. "Two brandies."

She fluttered mascaraed eyelashes and laid a hand on my arm. "Has anyone ever told you you're handsome?"

I grinned at her. I've got short dark hair, features like a fistful of dough, and the beginning of a paunch. The only things I've got that are in my favor are height and broad shoulders. "Sure," I said, "my mother. What's your name, baby?"