I Like It Cool

By Lawrence Lariar

Bruising Manhattan PI Johnny Amsterdam finds a twisty link between a debauched artist, a Hollywood glamour girl, a beatnik singer, and murder.
 
When popular cartoonist Lawrence Lariar decided to moonlight as a mystery writer, creating comic book artist turned amateur sleuth Homer Bull was a natural. From the 1940s through the 1960s, Lariar continued to switch from sketching caricatures to sketchy characters, writing hardboiled crime fiction under his own name as well as the pseudonyms Michael Stark, Adam Knight, Michael Lawrence, and Marston La France, and creating a series of memorable gumshoes. Now his classic whodunits are available as ebooks.
 
Johnny Amsterdam is up to his neck in trouble when he says yes to the sister of a war buddy. Sandra Tyson, a real-gone headliner at a Village dive, is in a panic over her friend Helen. The recently relocated fashion model, naïve to the ways of the Big Apple—and all its lecherous worms—was found beaten and brutalized in her apartment.
 
The investigation takes an even nastier turn when Sandra’s estranged father, wealthy King of the Comic Strips, enters the fringe. Sandra’s been wanting her deserved share of his fortune, and she was in cahoots with Helen to get it. When daddy-o is murdered, Amsterdam has to find out who among the richnik’s circle of sycophants, bodyguards, rivals—or long-lost relatives—did it.
 
All the private dick knows for sure is that there are more motives to murder than money, and the victims in this case have as many secrets as the suspects.
 
I Like It Cool is the 2nd book in the PI Johnny Amsterdam Mysteries, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Apr 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781504057455

Lawrence Lariar

Lawrence Lariar (1908–1981) was an American novelist, cartoonist and cartoon editor, known for his Best Cartoons of the Year series of cartoon collections. He wrote crime novels, sometimes using the pseudonyms Michael Stark, Adam Knight and Marston la France.

Book preview

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I LIKE IT COOL

A PI Johnny Amsterdam Mystery

Lawrence Lariar

CHAPTER 1

11:15 P.M. Friday

I remember the time well.

And the place.

Because they were both tied up in a tight knot with Sandra Tyson.

She came out from behind the black velvet drapes when Ned Cooney and his combine finished their last riff. The stage blacked out after the jazzmen left. Then she was standing in the small white spot and there was a scattering of polite, upper-class applause. She began to sing in a throaty whisper. She had a nice voice, not great, but loaded with enough of the sexual moxie, to stop all conversation in the bistro.

She wore a black sequined gown, rigged to fit snugly over her elegant frame. She sang with her eyes closed. She tilted her head a bit to the side and used her hands and kept her hips grinding to the beat of the tune. There was magic in her warbling. The cats in the place sat up and gnawed at her with their dirty eyes. She was wowing them in The Purple Pad, a hangout of the dead-gone generation on the fringe of Greenwich Village … fondly known to the cats as Crazyville.

We were sitting off to the left of the small stage, deep in the smoky shadows. She moved with the tune, showing the group her wonderful hips. She came my way and the spot hit me and I wondered whether she’d recognize me with the beard.

Sandra Tyson, I mused.

Our customer, Dave Gross said.

Client, I corrected. Customers are found in meat markets.

You’ll never find her in a meat market.

The hell you won’t. Sandra Tyson knows her way around the steaks and chops. She’s a small-town girl, Dave. From Sundale, in California.

You know her well?

Her brother Jake and I did time together in Korea. Jake Tyson, a great guy, a fine soldier. He was knocked off the hard way, malaria, on the trip home. I met Sandra when I went out to Sundale to spill the bad news to Jake’s mother. Sandra was in high school then, a pretty kid who wore sneakers and thought she’d like to take a crack at show business. I got her a chance in the line at Radio City and she began to move up. She took singing lessons and managed to grab the solo spot with Tony Gilbert’s group. But that was a nice couple of years ago. I’ve lost track of her since then.

A beautiful girl, said Dave. But a girl in trouble.

She didn’t break it down for you?

She wouldn’t give me the right time, Johnny. She walked into the office and almost took a poke at me when I told her you weren’t in. A real spitfire, that one. I explained that I was your partner and she could tell me all. But she wouldn’t buy me. Not for a minute.

Sandra spotted us during her last number. She gave me the full heat of her hot eyes. She smiled at me and sang at me. I was fingering my first highball, but it wasn’t the liquor that made me light up inside. Sandra had the fantastic ability to project immediate intimacy. Her smile rocked you, telegraphed a deep, inner need for you. Her eyes stabbed you. She could start the fire in you with a little gesture, a nod, a wink, a soft sweet word. The sight of her pulled me back in time, remembering the intimate hours in her tiny Greenwich Village pad.

She sang an encore and then came over to our table.

Johnny, she said. Johnny Amsterdam. For a while I didn’t recognize you with the chin shrubbery.

No cracks, I said.

On you it looks good, darling. She stood back and gave me a quick wash with her fantastic eyes. You’re not a beatnik, for God’s sake?

Stop with the tired jokes, I told her. I’ve heard them all, baby. Some boys like crew-cuts, others like chopped chicken liver. Me, I like a beard. Now sit down and say hello to my partner, Dave Gross.

I’ve met Mr. Gross, she said. Would you hate me if I asked you to leave, Mr. Gross?

I want him to stay, Sandra, I said.

What I have to talk to you about is personal, Johnny.

She held her voice on an intimate, friendly level. But you couldn’t miss the undertones of impatience She snapped her fingers for the waiter. She took one of my cigarettes and licked it wet and hung it on her beautiful lip and leaned her pretty face close to mine while I lit her up. It isn’t a two-man job, Johnny.

I’ll let you know when I hear it, baby.

And if I won’t tell it this way?

You can get yourself another boy.

I’d better blow, Dave said.

Sit, I said.

You always were the stubborn type. She laughed. She had that kind of temperament, a quick frown, a quicker laugh. But nothing she did could hide the simmering heat of her personality. It would be an effort for her to control her temper, to sit this way, bargaining with me, pleading with me for intimacy. She laid a cool, soft hand on mine. Listen, Johnny, I need your help. Just you. Isn’t that possible?

Maybe. What’s your trouble?

You didn’t understand me. I don’t want my problem to become public.

I won’t snitch. Neither will Dave. Private detectives are sworn to keep confidences. We’re as tight-lipped as doctors and lawyers, but only one-fifth as expensive.

That’s a fact, said Dave.

Dave is very clever, she said.

Don’t insult him, I said. You may need him. He’s a hell of a lot smarter than I am, Sandra. Now then—what’s your problem?

It isn’t me, she said soberly. I’m trying to find a friend of mine, a girl named Helen Tate. She’s disappeared.

A locate, Dave said, nodding at me in his tired way. Maybe Sandra is right, Johnny. You don’t need me. You can give it to me in the morning, or after lunch. I’ve got things to do tonight. The wife and I—

Sit, I said. Sandra had finished one drink and was signaling for another. She was no lush. In the old days, during the worrisome times between jobs, she drank out of a deep anxiety. She would hang one on when tortured by too much free time. Trouble always faded for her after a few shots of liquor. And she was working to bury her nervousness right now, sucking hungrily at her cigarette, heir green eyes restless and sick.

Maybe Sandra needs action on her problem, I suggested to Dave. Maybe she wants us to begin our search right away.

Oh yes, Johnny. Yes.

How long has this Tate girl been missing?

For a day or so.

Hell, that’s nothing, I said. You don’t begin to worry about strays until after a month or so. Your friend Helen Tate may be in Atlantic City with a boyfriend.

No gags, Johnny. Helen’s not the type.

What type is she?

Helen’s a model, Sandra said.

Cheese?

Fashion. But she doesn’t know her way around in New York, Johnny. She’s a Hollywood girl, one of my best friends. She was supposed to contact me as soon as she arrived, two days ago. I’m afraid something’s happened to her. I’ve got to find her. Right away.

Got a picture of her?

I can get you one.

Good. Did Helen Tate ever do any modeling in New York?

This is her first trip here.

Does she have any friends here?

None that I know of.

Relatives? Dave asked quietly. His little brown notebook was out and in business. In that pose he looked like a dumpy lawyer or an underpaid college professor. He was built in the classic style of the average man, not short, not tall, a character who could lose himself in a crowd, a nonentity, Mr. Man in the Street. His beautiful anonymity was a big plus in our business. Dave Gross could tail a man into his own living room without being noticed. Yet, at times like this, when he worked only with his brain, Dave was always a thought ahead of you. And in the right direction. She ever mention any relatives? he asked. An aunt? An uncle, maybe?

An aunt, said Sandra brightly. Of course. I forgot all about her aunt. Helen hated her.

Hate, shmate, I said. A gal coming into a town like New York is quite likely to get pretty lonely. She’ll sit around in the hotel lobby for a while until one of the wolves comes out from under a potted palm to make a pass at her. Then the girl will either buy an evening with the city slicker—or go looking for a relative. Which type is Helen?

She isn’t easy, Johnny. Maybe you’re right. She might have gone looking for her aunt.

Aunt who?

Aunt Anna.

Anna who?

Funny, Helen never mentioned her last name.

Dead end, I said. Any other leads? Why did she come to New York?

I asked her to come.

Just like that?

I told you we were close friends out on the Coast, didn’t I? The third drink was working in her. She leaned close to me and showed me the edge of her lip, pouting prettily. Haven’t you got enough to begin with, Johnny? Why don’t you let Mr. Gross get started?

A good thought, said Dave wearily. He got up and bowed her way politely. Then he aimed his sly eyes at me to tell me that she was all mine, that he was going home to his wife Molly and the cheese blintzes she would be keeping warm for him. I’ll start on it first thing in the morning, Johnny. Good night, Miss Tyson.

She seemed relieved to see Dave go. One of The Three Brothers, a fat slob in a baggy monkey suit, approached our table and showed his gold-tipped molars in a grin. Would Sandra sing again? There was a customer in from Philadelphia, a slug who owned half of Independence Square and liked the way she sold the torch numbers. Sandra begged off, brushing the fat boy away with an impatient toss of her head. She wrapped an arm around mine and squeezed hard.

Why don’t you sing the rich boy a song? I asked.

To hell with him, Johnny. We’ve got things to talk about, important things.

Helen Tate?

Among other things. Have another drink while I get these clothes off, will you?

You’re going somewhere?

Not I—we. I’m taking you home with me.

Why home?

To cook you some bacon and eggs, she said and leaned down to nibble my right ear lobe. Remember how I used to ply you with eggs down in Greenwich Village?

I’m off eggs. Too much cholesterol.

Or small steaks? she asked herself boozily. I can still broil a good filet, Johnny.

You’re twisting my arm.

That, she said, will do for a starter.

CHAPTER 2

2:30 A.M. Saturday

Go out and look at the pretty view, she told me, while I take off this Jacques Fath straitjacket.

I went out on her small terrace. She lived in a fancy trap in the Sutton Place area, a cozy apartment within spitting distance of the river. Down below, a couple of tugs barked and hooted at each other. To the north, the big bridge was strung with yellow electric pearls. The view was deluxe, the kind of New York landscape available only to the richniks who could buy the river as a backdrop for their moneyed nests.

It suited Sandra Tyson. She had always spent big dough for her apartments, even in the early days of her career. She filled the rooms with her personal décor. The apartment sang with color, canary walls and stark furniture, smart, low-slung pieces that gave the place an air of informal comfort. On the big wall, a collection of pen-and-ink sketches done by somebody who knew his way around in the animal world. On the decorative bookshelves, a variety of ceramic sculpture, frenzied animals in terra cotta and subtle glazes. Even the little terrace reflected her charm. I sat on a canvas masterpiece, a chair that held your rump in a snug embrace.

Here’s a fresh drink, Johnny.

She stood in the doorway and smiled her sleepy, half-crocked smile at me. She wore a white satin outfit, tight toreadors under a loose blouse. She had been careless about the way she buttoned it. She had generous breasts. Her licorice hair fell over her shoulders, a delight against the sugar-white blouse. When she moved toward me to touch my arm, her wise eyes played games with me.

I said: What about the steak, Sandra?

Later. You know why I asked you up here, Johnny?

You’re in trouble.

Smart. How did you guess?

You’re drinking too much.

You have a good memory, Johnny.

Put down the glass.

I’ll finish this one, she said. The last.

You’ve had enough, I said and took the glass away. She glowered at me. She was perpetually touchy when drunk, not angry really, but sensitive about unimportant things. A single word could spark her violent temper. She pouted and pinched my cheek.

You know me too well, Johnny. It could be that you’re the only man who ever understood me. Her mood changed suddenly. She took me by the hand and led me back into the living room. She sat me beside her on the couch. She held her eyes away