Tender Is LeVine: A Jack LeVine Mystery Read Online Free Page B

elevator without giving me a glance.
    “Afternoon, Mr. Aaron,” said the elevator jockey, a light-skinned Negro in a blue uniform. I got in with Aaron. It was just the three of us in the cab.
    “It’s kind of a special matter,” I continued.
    “Beautiful day outside, Mr. Aaron,” the jockey said.
    “Certainly is, Sam.”
    “A very special matter, I’d say.”
    Aaron stared at me with a carefully calibrated blend of indifference and contempt.
    “Listen, friend—” Friend.
    “Jack LeVine.”
    “Listen, Jack LeVine, if you wish to see me, speak with Miss Hamilton and make an appointment. I don’t have meetings in hallways and I don’t have meetings in elevators.”
    “It concerns the orchestra.”
    “Tickets have to be ordered by mail.”
    “That a fact,” I said, lighting up a Lucky. “Maybe I’ll order up a few. Make nice Chanukah presents. Thing is, actually, I need to speak with you concerning a problem you’ve got in that orchestra, and it’s something you better address pronto.”
    Now Aaron turned all the way around. It was the first time his body had actually faced my body.
    “What are you talking about?” His voice had dropped a full octave.
    I took out my wallet, flashed my license.
    “I’m a private investigator.”
    “Lobby,” said the jockey. “Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Aaron.”
    The doors opened. Aaron and I walked out into the lunchtime melee.
    “Gorgeous girls in this lobby,” I brayed.
    “If you don’t get away from me right now,” Aaron muttered, “I’m going to call security.”
    “That’s your right, Mr. Aaron, and in fact I don’t blame you. I’ll admit I’ve been more than a little pushy—”
    “Good afternoon.”
    Aaron started walking away from me. I took my hat off and inspected the sweat band. Not surprisingly, it was stained with sweat. “The thing is,” I called out, “some people in the orchestra are convinced that Toscanini is missing.”
    Aaron stopped walking. He turned around and wiped his mouth, as if he had just ingested a large meal. Then he took one large step forward.
    “What did you say?” His voice had dropped to a hush.
    “Toscanini. Some of the musicians think that he’s a missing person.”
    Aaron looked around the lobby.
    “I think the security cops are by the desk.”
    Now the NBC honcho walked back to me.
    “Who told you this?”
    “A member of the orchestra.”
    “Who?” Aaron stepped closer. I could smell his breath, warm and sour, with a distant hint of colon problems.
    “Sorry. That’s a professional confidence.”
    Aaron stared at me.
    “Be in my office at six-thirty sharp.”
    Aaron turned and walked away. He moved quickly, favoring his left leg, as if he had suddenly willed himself a limp.

    “This is a hell of a view.”
    Sidney Aaron’s office faced east; standing at the window, you could take a large bite out of New York, all the way from St. Patrick’s, where rich and poor alike knelt and prayed for the end of communism, across the dark and briny East River, to the matchbox vistas of my beloved Queens.
    “Not bad for a poor kid from Brooklyn.” Aaron walked toward me holding two tumblers of scotch. “Flatbush, to be precise.” He smiled. The guy was a real democrat; he had sent Miss Hamilton home prior to our meeting and was playing the host.
    “Flatbush,” I said. “Dodger fan, huh?”
    “You bet, Jack. Tried and true. I think we’ll go all the way this year.”
    “I’m not so sure. The pitching’s only been so-so.”
    Aaron laughed heartily. If this guy was a baseball fan, I was a Hottentot. Nobody laughs when you say the pitching’s so-so.
    “Here we are.” Aaron handed me my drink in a cut-crystal tumbler. “Cheers.”
    We clinked our glasses. Aaron sat down in a leather chair and gestured for me to sit in a facing leather couch. I sat down and kept on going; the couch was deep enough to hold a rhino. Aaron’s desk was parked at the other end of the room, on a raised platform; behind the desk