The Yankee Club by Michael Murphy Page A

had more than newspaper clippings and invisible messages. Still, the cops needed to hear about my encounter with Jimmy Vales at The Diamond House. Hawkins wasn’t in, so I left a message for him to call me at the Carlyle.
    If Jimmy wasn’t in the black sedan the night I was shot, who was? Belle Starr could probably tell me. Frankie might be right she’d skipped town. Then again, she could still be in the neighborhood, a place whose back alleys and hiding places a streetwalker would know well.
    An idea came to mind. Only a hunch, but that was all I had. I grabbed the room key and took a cab to my old neighborhood.
    The Grand Theatre had been a fixture in Queens as long as I could remember. It started out featuring vaudeville shows. As a kid I celebrated when the theater switched to movies. Gino and I often snuck inside when we didn’t have the dime for a ticket. Before I left for Florida, talking pictures were the talk of the city.
    The Grand would always remind me of Laura—where we had our first date and our last: our first talkie, The Champ with Wallace Beery and Jackie Cooper.
    I bought a ticket and went inside. Belle picked her name from a movie. The idea I’d find her at the Grand was just a hunch, but Mickey and I often played hunches, and things paid off with greater odds than this.
    My eyes adjusted to the dim light while The Three Musketeers serial played. Only a third of the seats were filled. I walked down the aisle searching for Belle. No luck.
    Struggling with my cane, I climbed the stairs to the balcony with a few dozen seats where fellas took their girls for a cuddle or a smooch. I sat in the back row, my eyes surveying the thirteen people, six couples, and a single woman with a scarf over dark hair. I moved a couple of rows closer.
    I got a good look at the woman wearing the scarf. Definitely Belle Starr. She’d toned down her flashy appearance and barely resembled the dish I met the night Mickey died.
    Her eyes focused on the screen as I made my way down the row and sat behind her. What had she seen the night of the shooting that made her change her appearance so drastically and blend into the neighborhood surroundings?
    I leaned forward and tried my friendliest voice. “Hello, Belle.”
    Her head spun toward me. With terror visible even in the dim light, she covered more of her face with the scarf.
    “Remember me? Frankie’s friend, Jake Donovan.”
    “Shhhh,” a young woman behind me called out.
    Hands trembling, Belle stood, grabbed a bag at her feet, and hurried toward the aisle.
    “I need your help,” I pleaded.
    “Quiet,” came a voice from behind.
    She reached the end of the row and bounded down the steps.
    I got up to follow but sank back into the seat. With my wounded leg, I’d never catch up.
    On the screen, a fight in North Africa, a battle of virtue over evil. I wanted to uncover the evil that had taken Mickey’s life, but flushing Belle from her hiding place was hardly virtuous. She’d disappeared, fearing for her life. We both understood. If I’d found her, the men she feared could find her as well.
    Perhaps I’d lost my touch. I’d been wrong not to consider the impact of my investigation on Belle. I wouldn’t risk her life to learn the identity of the two men in the black sedan.
    I struggled to rise and braced myself as my leg buckled. My cane helped me shuffle toward the aisle. Carefully, I made my way down the stairs. I limped into the lobby then went outside to hail a cab.
    “I thought you were dead.” Belle stepped out of the shadows of the theater awning.
    The lights above the marquee gave me a better look at her appearance. In addition to the changed hair color, brunette, she wore no makeup; her formerly red lips were pale and cracked.
    I liked this version of Belle Starr. Pretty, with more innocence, less flash, mid-twenties or younger.
    “My friend, Mickey, bought it. I got shot in the leg.”
    “You thought I’d tell you who was in the black sedan that