II.

Outside hoofing asphalt, I slit the envelope open and palmed the contents. A dinner invitation. The Harper Cox brood was going to have a banquet this evening, and attendance was requested. Leslie gave good cover. She had sniped someone else’s meal ticket to get me past the gate. A plan formed in my head.

After a quick stop for a pack of cancer, I reached the lobby of the Daily Metropolitan. A five-spot gave me access to the morgue of the city’s biggest rag. I sifted through stacks of galley proofs, peeling an eye for society pages. A lot of this stuff never saw print for one reason or another.

I didn’t have a tuxedo, and after rifling through the proofs it looked as if I would be the only one not wrapped like a penguin at the banquet. Sore Thumb Theatre. That wasn’t all. There were several sheets on Leslie: Her graduation from the finest schools, her debutante ball, charity work. Photos and kudos. All buried. The family had been buying out the Met’s editors for at least a decade. This grudge had some serious history.

There was something she hadn’t come clean on. I lit a smoke and left the building, stopping at a payphone to dial her number. It rang unanswered for a minute before I hit the receiver and got friendly with the sidewalk. Car keys were needed.

The Buick rolled west. An hour or so would put me at the gig. I topped off my hip flask, watched the hills grow out of the horizon, and thought about those legs.

Swing radio made the drive a little shorter. It was darker out here, far from stale city lights that bleached nickel hustlers, corner sirens, and gumshoes like me into one big faceless urban junkyard. Rich types liked it dark: It was cover for their own flavor of sin. But tonight I was the flashlight. My land shark snaked past several mansions before the address clicked. Parking a few blocks up, I gargled and spat a shot, then walked back.

There were counties smaller than this house. A broad iron gate was the welcome mat, with a couple of chiseled butlers playing as crowd filter. They looked at me like I was a rat fresh from the sewer. Invitation in hand, I coughed to show them a whiff of the booze. Now for some fast lip to hammer the point home.

“Hey, boys. License to swank. Fly those gates, I’m here to graze the buffet, leak the sauce, pinch the hostess. Yeah sure.” I lunged forward, playing it up.

My little act worked. The bigger of the suits jabbed a finger at my chest. “You, sir, are drunk. And this event is black tie only. I’m afraid that your invitation will not remedy either of these transgressions.” They closed ranks to shield the gate from reach.

“Well, there’s always the Marina. My money’s good there. I’ll bring a yacht around for valet parking.” I staggered off. There goes one bad mark as far as they were concerned and no threat to the banquet--as long as they were out front.

Once I lost sight of them, I turned heel where the fence ended and pulled a monkey act on a sycamore. Before jumping, I blew a quick low whistle. No dogs. Strange, you’d think a barn this size would have a couple of rhinos roaming the yard. I had a good view of the driveway. The suits were still parked in front, making sure that drunken fool didn’t come back to crash the party with a stolen boat. Good for them.

Hitting the lawn, I noticed a pair of canted doors leading to the wine cellar. There was light streaming through the wooden slats. I crept forward and cocked an ear. A minute crawled by.

Bupkis. I yanked the latch and dropped inside.