Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [87]
“You know where the Hippodrome the-a-ter is?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Don’t crack wise with me, Fin,” Mitford said. “I’ll shovel you out of here with the rest of the horseshit.”
“Yeah, I know where it is,” Finlayson said, “up 6th and South.”
“Well, that bum Bobby Monoldo was in here last night. I figured he was gonna try and put the bite on me so I was ready to chuck him into the street, but he said he had some info for you. That you was to show up at the Hippodrome ’round ten in the a.m. and that if you did, a guy there would make it worth your while.”
“He say who this guy was?”
“Didn’t I just get finished tellin’ ya what he tol’ me? That’s what he said. No names, no numbers, no angels singing alleluia. And if that’s not enough, mebbe you should hire a secretary.”
“Okay,” Fin said. “I guess I ain’t got time to clean up.”
Mitford laughed. “Ten o’clock’s in ten minutes. Cleaning you up would take until St. Patty’s. No, I’d say you ain’t got time to get dainty. I’d say you should get the fuck out of here.”
Now, Finlayson looked up at the huge marquee. It was the kind that had giant letters bolted to a framework attached to the building’s archway. He figured that the letters spelled out Hippodrome, but the only word he could read was printed boldly on all of the exterior posters: RATS.
He walked up to a tired-looking woman sitting inside the box office. She was reading a copy of Aunt Sally’s Policy Player’s Dream Book.
“My name’s Finlayson,” he said. “Somebody here wants to see me.”
The woman glanced up from the book and immediately remembered the days when someone like this would never have been allowed near the Hippodrome, not even to haul away the garbage. Her mouth turned down in disgust at the torn coat and blackened shirt collar, the matted red hair and filthy hands. She could smell him through the glass of the booth.
“Yeah,” she said. “You’s expected. Go t’ru the lobby and where it says Lounge, head downstairs. Make a right and you’ll see another sign says, Artistes. Walk t’ru that and it’s the first door. Don’t talk to none of the patrons.”
Fin did as instructed. He walked quickly past the few customers milling about, waiting for the eleven o’clock matinee. When he got to the bottom of the steps he spotted the sign and opened the heavy iron door.
The first thing he saw in the corridor was a rat. It was dressed in what looked like red and gold silk. Almost by instinct, Finlayson jumped toward it. In the old days before he could afford traps, he caught hundreds of rats with his bare hands. Terrified, the rodent scurried through the first door on the left. Fin followed it into what appeared to be a dingy dressing room, just in time to watch it vault into the lap of a man sitting in an old caned chair.
Had he been standing, the guy probably would have measured only five-three or -four, but he had the confident air of a man twice his size. He wore a splendid suit of brown gabardine intersected with thick chalk stripes. His pale blue waistcoat was of silk floral brocade and his dark blue necktie was stuck with a good-sized sapphire. Black patent leather shoes peeked out from gray buttoned spats and his left hand rested on a silver-headed cane. Sitting on his shoulder, his arm, both his thighs, and the crown of his cream-colored Stetson were rats; each one attired similarly to the first, in shining silks of multiple colors. On closer inspection Finlayson noticed that every tiny outfit bore a number on its back.
“Ah, thank you for coming. I see you’ve already met Commodore Dutch. My name is Professor Alois Swain. If you are indeed Mr. Finlayson, then I am the one who