SOUTH WIND
Jerry Tracy, maker of wisecracks, cuts in on a bit of Southern tragedy
B UTCH’S BIG FEET always shuffled when he was worried or puzzled. As he led the old man into the private Broadway cubby of the Planet’s famous columnist, he squirmed his huge shoulders sidewise and his soles dragged like twin ashcans.
He shot a brief glance at Jerry Tracy and resumed his fore and aft scrutiny of the visitor.
In the canny experience of Butch old guys like this worked the novelty grift between Longacre Square and the lobby of the Republic Theatre. They were hired by the Minsky Brothers or maybe Luckyfield cigarettes. Every few yards on their strolling they pressed a button and an electric sign lit up on their shirt-front, or maybe on the seat of their pants. They all wore crummy Prince Alberts like this in the daytime and changed to dress suits with shiny shirt-fronts after dark; and they all sported that white, goatlike whisker under the lower lip. Must be a rule of the union, Butch figured.
Butch waited stolidly to get the office from Jerry—either a discreet scram for himself or a swift bum’s rush for the old bird.
“Mistuh Je’y Tracy?”
A soft, blurry voice. Southern. The columnist looked at the straight back, the mild eyes. Sixty, he guessed. His gaze dropped to the veined back of the hand resting on the knobbed cane. It was puckered and fragile looking, spotted on the skin with faint brown marks like overgrown freckles. Jerry changed his guess. Seventy, at least.
He answered the formal query with a brisk; “Check. What’s the complaint?”
The old man sat down.
“Why, no complaint, I reckon. It’s merely that I’ve been info’med, suh, that you’re in a position by virtue of yo’ knowledge of theatrical matters and Bro’dway, to render me a kindly service—”
Uh, uh! Here comes the bee, Jerry thought He could almost hear it buzz. In a moment it would alight painlessly on his wallet and fly away with a buck. Well, maybe two, damn it! The old fella looked pretty tired; the hand that mopped his face was trembly …
“I’ve come to see you about my granddaughter, Mist’ Tracy. I tho’t—I’ve been reliably info’med—that you could probably help me find her.”
Tracy’s eyes narrowed. Might be the McCoy; might be a build-up. Too hot to speculate. The dead pan of his bodyguard wasn’t much help.
“Outside, Butch,” he suggested curtly.
The old man was fingering the edge of an inner pocket. “I’ve got a photograph—”
“Just a minute, Colonel.”
“Major, suh,” he corrected courteously. “Major Geo’ge Fenn.”
“Okey by me … What makes you think I find women? Somebody tell you I was a private op? And who gave you the address? Been over to the Planet office?”
“Yes, suh. I forgot—I saw a gentleman named Hennessey, I believe, and he gave me this yere note.”
“Let’s have a look, Maje,” said the columnist grimly. Dave Hennessey was getting to be pretty much of a lousy nuisance lately! Him and his nose for news! Jerry would put a cover on his can the next time he saw him!
He ripped open the envelope and read the thing with a scowl.
“The attached prise package has been getting under our feet and walking around presses looking for you. He refuses to spill the plot except to Mistuh Tracy, suh. Maybe there’s a gag in the guy. If there isn’t, toss him to Butch. D.H.”
Jerry crumpled the message disgustedly and flipped it into the waste-basket.
“That makes everything as clear as the depression,” he grinned. “Who sent you over to the Planet in the first place?”
“The clerk at the hotel. Mr. Collins. A ve’y nice man. Most helpful an’ courteous. When I explained to him that Alice Anne was in the theatrical profession he said that—”
“I know. He said Jerry Tracy, just like that. He’s not Snitch Collins, by any chance, of the dear old San Pueblo?”
“That’s right. That’s where I’m stoppin’. I like it first-rate, suh. Ve’y
Jerry Tracy, maker of wisecracks, cuts in on a bit of Southern tragedy
B UTCH’S BIG FEET always shuffled when he was worried or puzzled. As he led the old man into the private Broadway cubby of the Planet’s famous columnist, he squirmed his huge shoulders sidewise and his soles dragged like twin ashcans.
He shot a brief glance at Jerry Tracy and resumed his fore and aft scrutiny of the visitor.
In the canny experience of Butch old guys like this worked the novelty grift between Longacre Square and the lobby of the Republic Theatre. They were hired by the Minsky Brothers or maybe Luckyfield cigarettes. Every few yards on their strolling they pressed a button and an electric sign lit up on their shirt-front, or maybe on the seat of their pants. They all wore crummy Prince Alberts like this in the daytime and changed to dress suits with shiny shirt-fronts after dark; and they all sported that white, goatlike whisker under the lower lip. Must be a rule of the union, Butch figured.
Butch waited stolidly to get the office from Jerry—either a discreet scram for himself or a swift bum’s rush for the old bird.
“Mistuh Je’y Tracy?”
A soft, blurry voice. Southern. The columnist looked at the straight back, the mild eyes. Sixty, he guessed. His gaze dropped to the veined back of the hand resting on the knobbed cane. It was puckered and fragile looking, spotted on the skin with faint brown marks like overgrown freckles. Jerry changed his guess. Seventy, at least.
He answered the formal query with a brisk; “Check. What’s the complaint?”
The old man sat down.
“Why, no complaint, I reckon. It’s merely that I’ve been info’med, suh, that you’re in a position by virtue of yo’ knowledge of theatrical matters and Bro’dway, to render me a kindly service—”
Uh, uh! Here comes the bee, Jerry thought He could almost hear it buzz. In a moment it would alight painlessly on his wallet and fly away with a buck. Well, maybe two, damn it! The old fella looked pretty tired; the hand that mopped his face was trembly …
“I’ve come to see you about my granddaughter, Mist’ Tracy. I tho’t—I’ve been reliably info’med—that you could probably help me find her.”
Tracy’s eyes narrowed. Might be the McCoy; might be a build-up. Too hot to speculate. The dead pan of his bodyguard wasn’t much help.
“Outside, Butch,” he suggested curtly.
The old man was fingering the edge of an inner pocket. “I’ve got a photograph—”
“Just a minute, Colonel.”
“Major, suh,” he corrected courteously. “Major Geo’ge Fenn.”
“Okey by me … What makes you think I find women? Somebody tell you I was a private op? And who gave you the address? Been over to the Planet office?”
“Yes, suh. I forgot—I saw a gentleman named Hennessey, I believe, and he gave me this yere note.”
“Let’s have a look, Maje,” said the columnist grimly. Dave Hennessey was getting to be pretty much of a lousy nuisance lately! Him and his nose for news! Jerry would put a cover on his can the next time he saw him!
He ripped open the envelope and read the thing with a scowl.
“The attached prise package has been getting under our feet and walking around presses looking for you. He refuses to spill the plot except to Mistuh Tracy, suh. Maybe there’s a gag in the guy. If there isn’t, toss him to Butch. D.H.”
Jerry crumpled the message disgustedly and flipped it into the waste-basket.
“That makes everything as clear as the depression,” he grinned. “Who sent you over to the Planet in the first place?”
“The clerk at the hotel. Mr. Collins. A ve’y nice man. Most helpful an’ courteous. When I explained to him that Alice Anne was in the theatrical profession he said that—”
“I know. He said Jerry Tracy, just like that. He’s not Snitch Collins, by any chance, of the dear old San Pueblo?”
“That’s right. That’s where I’m stoppin’. I like it first-rate, suh. Ve’y