The Mammoth Book Of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits Part 41

Millie giggled. She had a wonderful giggle. Her face lit up, her head was tossed back and those two big, round, succulent b.r.e.a.s.t.s of hers bobbed up and down for the best part of a minute. Skip couldn't take his eyes off them. Leaning across the bar counter, he lowered his voice to a seductive whisper.

"You on duty this evening, Millie?" he said.

"No, Mr Halio."

"That mean you're open to offers?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr Halio."

"Ah," he went on, noting her tone of regret, "in other words, you wish that you did have some free time. That correct?"

"I'm not saying."

"Hey don't be coy with me, honey. There's only two of us here."

"I know, but I'm supposed to be working."

"Entertaining a guest is working, Millie. And you sure as h.e.l.l are entertaining me. I just hate to think that the most exciting thing that's gonna happen to you today is to serve me a gla.s.s of lemonade."

Millie Eberhard was a full-figured woman in her late twenties, one of those pretty gals who can look almost beautiful when you see them, in a flattering light, all gussied up. She'd been working behind that bar for over five years now and was used to customers trying to hit on her. Most of the time, she pretended that she didn't even hear their brash propositions or their sly innuendoes. Millie had certainly never taken up any of the invitations that routinely came her way. She had standards. Until, that is, Skip Halio turned on his charm.

"I'm new in town," he explained, beaming at her. "All I need is a guide, for a couple of hours, to show me the sights of Philly."

"I'm sorry, Mr Halio. I can't help you."

"Would you like to, Millie?"

"I don't think I should answer that, sir."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm married."

"So am I," he said, pointing to one of the rings on his left hand. "That means it's perfectly safe. We pick up a cab, hit a few nightclubs then I deliver you back to your husband without a fingerprint on you. Where's the harm in that?"

"It won't work, Mr Halio."

"How do you know if you don't try it?"

"I've got plans for tonight."

"Then how about tomorrow?"

"Look, Mr Halio-"

"Millie," he interrupted, putting a gentle hand on her arm, "don't be frightened of me. I'm not suggesting that we run off and commit bigamy. You're happily married and so am I. All I want is the pleasure of your company for a while. You're my type. I could tell it at a glance. "Come on," he said, squeezing her arm softly. "Gimme a chance, will you? What can you lose?" He released her arm. "Or, to put it another way, when was the last time a guy was ready to buy you a meal for a hundred bucks?"

Millie's eyes widened in surprise. n.o.body had ever spent that kind of dough on her. She lived in a world where a two-dollar tip was the most she could expect. Yet someone was prepared to lay out fifty times that amount to show his appreciation of her. Millie was tempted. Skip Halio clearly had money to burn.

"Think it over," he suggested.

Millie was uncertain. "I don't know. I really don't."

"Sleep on it tonight."

"What do I tell my husband?"

"That's up to you, honey. Though my guess is that you got nothing to worry about. Your husband trusts you. He knows you're not in the habit of going out with guests."

"That's right, Mr Halio. I'm not."

"Then I'm the exception to the rule."

"I haven't said that I will yet."

"But you promise to give it every consideration?"

"Maybe."

"I'll settle for that. Goodbye, Millie."

"Goodbye, Mr Halio."

"Ah-ah," he said, wagging a finger. "The name is Skip."

"Okay, then goodbye, Skip."

Millie giggled again. She was hooked.

Until he blew into town, I hadn't taken much interest in gambling. I hate playing cards for money and I've never placed a bet on a horse in my life. Mind you, I've met dozens of guys who have, real suckers, always down on their luck, always boring you with stories of how they almost cleaned up, always trying to borrow those few bucks that they're convinced they can turn into a fortune. Dreamers, all of them. It ain't never going to happen. Why? Because they're up against the pros like Skip Halio, seasoned experts, smooth-talking jaspers who live on their wits and who make sure that they live well.

The only way you can hope to make a killing is by getting to know one of these privileged insiders, hard-nosed masters of their trade who seem to have a telepathic relationship with every horse that runs, every baseball player who picks up a bat, every golfer who steps on a tee in a major championship, and every boxer who puts his life on the line. In short, with someone like Skip Halio. Sniffing the chance to make some real money for once, I did my best to befriend him.

"Hi, Skip," I said. "Just bought me a ticket."

"Didn't know you was a fight fan, Walter."

"I'm not, but something tells me this bout is gonna be special."

"Oh, it is," said Skip, chuckling. "I can vouch for that."

I b.u.mped into him outside the Sesquicentennial Stadium, the only place in Philadelphia big enough to host such an event. After queuing for hours, I paid my money and made my own small contribution to what turned out to be a two million dollar gate. Lots more dough would be generated by betting. Skip was clearly determined to have his share of it.

"I been reading the newspapers," I told him.

"So?"

"Most of them reckon that Dempsey is clear favorite."

"Then why not stick your money on Jack?"

"I got my doubts, Skip."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, it seems that Dempsey hasn't had a fight for three years."

"Except with his wife," he said with a chuckle.

"The guy must be outa condition."

"Don't you believe it, Walter. The reason Jack has kept the t.i.tle on ice for three years is that he can make more money out of the ring than inside it. Last year, he notched up half a million bucks as a vaudeville and movie star. Everyone loves a champ. But he has to look like a champ," he added, adopting a fighting pose. "That means he has to keep in shape. Jack's trained hard for this fight. He'll get into that ring real mean."

"You backing him to win?"

"I'm offering odds of 4-1 on Tunney."

"But he's had over sixty fights with only one defeat."

"That's because he's never been tested. Look at the guys he's been in with second-raters and no-hopers. Besides, they weren't all victories for Tunney. Some of those fights ended with no decision."

"They say that Tunney can move like lightning."

"Then how come someone as slow as Harry Greb beat him? Okay, Tunney's a good-looking guy who can prance around a ring like a ballet dancer but he hasn't got the punch to finish off Dempsey. Jack will split him in two."

"You advising me to bet on Dempsey, then?"

"It's your choice, Walter."

"Can't you just give me a hint?"

"I've told you the odds I'm offering. How big a hint do you need?"

"Sounds to me as if Dempsey is a cert."

"Nothing's certain in the fight game," warned Skip. "Look at Jess Willard. Six foot, five inches, weighing near on three hundred pounds. When he took the t.i.tle from Jack Johnson, everyone said he'd hold it for a decade or more. Then along comes this unknown from Colorado, this hobo by the name of Dempsey. n.o.body gave him a chance."

"Yet he beat Willard to a pulp in three rounds," I said. "At the start of the fourth, someone threw in a blood-soaked towel from Willard's corner." I smiled quietly. "I been reading up on Dempsey's career."

"Enough to make you put money on the guy?"

"Not yet."

"What's holding you back?"

"I always got a soft spot for the underdog."

"Underdogs go under."

"Dempsey didn't go under against Willard."

"Jack is one in a thousand, that's why?"

"What about Tunney? I like what I've heard about him."

"In that case if you promise to keep this between the two of us I'll give you odds of 5-1. Just think, Walter. Give me ten bucks and you could walk way with fifty."

"Unless you get to the railroad station first," I pointed out.

He laughed. "Oh, I don't aim to skip town this time."

"You sure?"

"Dead sure. I got the betting rigged so I can't lose. Besides," he said, airily. "I got personal reasons for staying around for a while. Philly is growing on me. Tunney wins, you get your dough. That's a promise."

"Okay," I decided. "Let's shake on it."

Millie Eberhard had also decided to trust him. The first night she went out with Skip Halio was a revelation. Prohibition was keeping most of the restaurants in the city dry but he knew exactly where to take her to get the very best champagne. Millie had never tasted food like it or danced to the music of the finest band in Philly. Being with Skip was exhilarating.

"You never told me where your wife lives," she said.

"Let's not talk about her. Tonight is a night when my wife and your husband don't even exist."

"I just wondered. Is she far away?"

"Far enough," he said. "She's in Chicago."

"I've always wanted to go there, Skip."

"Who knows? Maybe you will one day."

Millie giggled. "You gonna invite me, then?"

"We'll see."

"Will you be coming to Philly again soon?"

"Now that I've met you, I'll have a job keeping away."

It wasn't just the delicious meal in the luxurious surroundings that excited Millie. She was being given a glimpse into a world of the elite, the freemasonry of the wealthy and powerful. Skip pointed out the more celebrated diners to her with the ease of a man who'd rubbed shoulders with Presidents.

"That's Andrew Mellon," he said, knowledgeably, "and the guy on the table behind him is Joseph Pulitzer. I reckon you never been in a restaurant before with a Biddle, a Rockefeller and a Roosevelt, have you? Not to mention the greatest baseball player of all time Babe Ruth. See him in the corner? He's the big fella, chewing his food like he's got no table manners."

"What are they all doing here?"

"Hoping to take a peep at Millie Eberhart."

"Don't tease, Skip. I'm n.o.body special."