In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,40

the two chairs opposite him. Alistair pulled out his photograph of Michael Fromley.

“We’re wondering,” he asked, “if you’ve ever seen this man?”

Nicky grabbed the photograph and lifted it to the light, turning it first one way and then another, studying it intently. “What’s his name?”

“Michael Fromley,” I responded.

“I’ve seen him around,” Nicky said. “He’s played the back room, but not in a long time. Maybe six, nine months ago? Couldn’t hold his drink, and started trouble at the table—accused one of my guys of stacking the deck. Never let him in the game again after that. And I spread the word.”

That meant Nicky had blackballed Michael Fromley among the Bowery’s other gambling hells, as they were called. With good reason, I might add, for when caught in the game, many men were tempted to sell their very soul to the devil. But while New York was filled with places catering to poker, stuss, or faro, it was far more expensive to get in a game anywhere outside the Bowery.

Nicky took a final draw from his cigar before grinding its stub into an ashtray. “Still, you’d see him come in on occasion to the bar, usually with some dame who fancied herself an actress. What d’ya want him for?”

“He’s the main suspect in our murder case,” I said. “We’re trying to find him for questioning, but it’s tough going—he disappeared a good two, three weeks back. Think anyone here would have seen him?”

Nicky got up and went over to open the door; his steps were heavy on the worn wooden plank floor, causing it to creak loudly. His voice thundered out, “Hey, can someone tell Izzy I need him in here?”

No one ever kept Nicky waiting, so almost before he was seated again, a heavyset middle-aged man with large eyes and drooping jowls had joined us. From the white towel hanging from his waist, I assumed he was one of the bartenders at the Fortune Club.

“What can I do you for, boss?” he asked, his voice deep, soft, and accented in the unique style of a native New Yorker.

“You seen this guy in here lately?” Nicky thrust the photograph of Fromley into the bartender’s hands. “A friend of mine needs to know.”

It was an implicit authorization to talk. Otherwise, I had no doubt Izzy would have passed the photograph back to us with a flat denial and opaque expression.

Izzy studied the photograph a full minute before handing it back. “Yeah, he was in here about two weeks ago. It was a Saturday night. He came in with one of those actress types. You know, I think it was Clara Murphy.”

Nicky grunted. “You don’t say.”

“She’s a regular?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Izzy said. “Fancies herself a Broadway chorus girl, but probably generates her rent doing private shows.”

Izzy’s euphemism implied Clara Murphy was a prostitute rather than an actress—although there were some, I knew, who would maintain there was little difference between the two in the first place.

“Did either of them talk with you?” I asked. In a neighborhood such as this, a bartender like Izzy was often a confidant to customers, especially the regulars.

Izzy shuffled his weight from one foot to another, and replied slowly, “Well, I talked with Clara when her fellow left her alone for a minute. She asked me if I knew whether the rumors were true about him.”

“The rumors?” I shook my head. I’d heard any number of unsavory facts about Michael Fromley, but it was unclear which of them Izzy had in mind. From the look on his face, Alistair was also unsure.

“Yeah,” Izzy said, “lots of rumors fly around about that guy. He always has a wad of cash and can show ’em a good time, so the ladies don’t want to believe the rumors, see? I always tell ’em to stay away, that he is bad news. But mostly they listen to the money, not to me.”

“So what did you tell Clara when she asked?”

“I said steer clear and find yourself another fellow—that this one’d got a reputation for getting rough with the ladies.” He cleared his throat and continued in an even quieter voice. “Some people said he roughed ’em up real bad, using . . . well, stuff that ain’t fit for polite conversation.” He eyed Alistair suspiciously as if uncertain how much detail to give. When he spoke again, he merely said, “She left the bar with him not long after that, so I’m guessing she did like most of ’em and listened to