THE FAT MAN FINGERED his pearl necklace and asked Easy. “What’s your favorite show tune, dear heart?”
Easy had just stepped through the tufted red leather doors of Superpop’s bar. “You doing a survey?”
“God bless your ready wit,” said the fat man, shifting on his bar stool. He poked two plump fingers into the bosom of his evening gown to fetch out a large business card. “No, I’m going to do my ten o’clock set at any moment, dear heart, and I’m nothing if not a crowd pleaser.”
“ ‘Mr. Evelyn Jazz, World’s Leading Female Impersonator,’ ” read Easy from the scented card. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jazz.”
“Contrariwise, dear heart.” The blond-wigged fat man snatched his card back, stuffed it down his lacy front. “I specialize in famous stout ladies, past and present. I’m best known for my Sophie Tucker. You look almost old enough to remember the late great Sophie, God rest her soul.”
Superpop’s was about the size and shape of two railroad cars laid end to end. The dominant smell was that of the soap they used to disinfect the urinals. None of the five customers looked to be Poncho. “Has Poncho been in tonight?” Easy asked the female impersonator.
“Oh, him,” said Evelyn Jazz, tugging at his necklace. “You’ll also love my Kate Smith. I jazz it up a little, living up to my name, and throw in a few bumps and grinds while I render God Bless America. It’s a real show stopper.”
“Let’s hope,” said Easy. “What about Poncho?”
The fat man lifted his powdered shoulders. “Ask Superpop.” He reached out and caught Easy’s hand. “Who’s your very favorite plump lady? I’ll put her in the next set especially for you, dear heart.”
“Amy Lowell,” said Easy, moving free.
“God bless you, dear heart.” Evelyn Jazz swung around to face his drink.
Behind the long bar a small weathered old man leaped up and grabbed a rope hanging from the ceiling. A boat whistle went off, the cash register lit up yellow and green. The old man let go the rope, picked up a hammer and a tin pie plate. He whanged the plate several times and shouted, “Happy days are here again!” Dropping the plate and hammer he came toward Easy. “Welcome to Superpop’s. We’re always having a good time here.”
“I noticed,” said Easy, taking a stool. “You Superpop?”
“You can bet your ass I am,” replied the old man. He was wearing a stained gray sweat suit and sneakers, with a white apron tied around his waist. “Would you believe I’m eighty-two years old.”
“Yes,” said Easy. “Do you have any dark beer?”
“This isn’t the Mark Hopkins. The best I can do you is a Bud.”
“Okay.”
The man reached into a wooden-doored ice box behind him for a bottle of Budweiser. “Wait a minute.” He trotted down to the rear end of the bar, put a bugle to his thin lips and blew a few shapeless notes. “Happy days are here again!” Back facing Easy, Superpop said, “There’s little enough joy in life. We have to snatch it where we can. Am I right?” He opened the beer bottle on an opener mounted over the bar sink, letting the foam run down his wrist where it stained the cuff of his sweatshirt. “Want a glass?”
“It would add to the joy of the occasion, yes.”
After clunking the bottle near Easy’s right elbow, Superpop reached down under the bar. He came up with a glass and held it toward one of the pink ceiling bulbs. “Almost pristine, I’d say.” He stuck the glass between his knees and wiped a trace of white-orange lipstick off the rim with his apron. “There you go.”
Easy let the glass sit next to the bottle. “I’m looking for Poncho,” he told the gnarled old man.
Superpop trotted down to Mr. Evelyn Jazz’s end of the bar. He snatched a tambourine off the floor, gave it a half dozen vigorous shakes high above his wrinkled bald head. “Happy days are here again!” Back at Easy, the old man asked, “I know all the narcs. You aren’t a narc?”
“I’ll tell you the truth,” said Easy. “But I don’t want this to get around. I’m a friend of an actress named Nada …”
“Beanpole spade chick,” put in the old man. “I know her. She’s an exceptional representative of her race. If I was looking to change my luck, I might think about dipping the wick thereabouts. Did you know I can still get a hardon at my age?”
“No, it wasn’t in the papers,” said Easy. “What I’m planning to do is give this Dean Constance guy a little competition …”
“Gimpy fellow,” observed Superpop. “Some dames go for crips. One time in Panama I was living with a Portugee floozie and what really turned on her water was …”
“So I’d like to hire Poncho. Nada tells me he’s a potential star.”
Superpop dived back to tug the rope again. After the whistle and the colored lights, he yelled, “Happy days are here again!”
Easy said, “I understand you can help me get in touch with Poncho.”
A lean man in a khaki jacket and work pants came over and sat on the stool next to Easy. “Give me a dollar,” he said in a low polite voice.
“Go away, Slim,” Superpop told the lean man.
“I’m Sonoma Slim,” the lean man said to Easy. “I intend to use the dollar to bail my only daughter out of a Spanish prison.”
“That’s a bargain price.” Easy handed Sonoma Slim four quarters. “What about Poncho?” he asked the old man.
“I’ve got to take a leak now,” said Sonoma Slim. “I’ll be back in a short while to express my gratitude.”
When the lean man had swayed off, Superpop said, “Eleven dollars.”
“For what?”
“One buck for the beer, ten bucks for your boy’s current address.”
Easy took the money from a supply in his inside coat pocket. “Here you go.”
Superpop took the bills, trotted down to the bugle. He tooted out three sour notes, spun the silver horn over his head, shouting, “Happy days are here again!”
“The address,” reminded Easy.
“Your boy is at the Pearl Hotel. You know it? It’s just over on Eddy, a block up from the bowling alley. Poncho is calling himself Phil Tucker at the Pearl.”
“You going to drink that beer?” asked Sonoma Slim.
“No, it’s yours.”
“Thank you. This’ll help me forget my poor imprisoned daughter.”
“Let me know when I can see one of your films,” said Superpop as Easy left the bar.
“Aren’t you sticking around for my set, dear heart?” asked Evelyn Jazz at the doorway.
“Reluctantly,” said Easy, “I have to go some place else.”
“Try to get back for the midnight show,” suggested the fat man. “That’s when I really let my hair down.”
Easy pushed out into the night street.