“Which way’s the Lyric Theatre?”
“Huh?”
“The Lyric. Where they show Alias Jimmy Valentine. It’s about a detective trying to mistreat an innocent safecracker.”
An angry thumb gestured a route into the freight district.
Having ensured that he would be remembered as a tough who rode the rails if someone asked questions later, Harry Warren made a quick tour of streets clogged to a standstill by horse- and mule-drawn wagons, exasperated teamsters, and motor trucks belching blue exhaust. He breakfasted on sausages in saloons and washed them down with German beer. He met some local hard cases, and passed a pint of whiskey to a city cop; you never knew who’d come in handy later.
Quickly absorbing the nature of the city—skilled craftsmen packing saloons midday, their women working lo
w-paying jobs in the factories—he worked his way to the section where they showed movies, vaudeville, and plays.
The Clark Theatre’s electrics ballyhooed
DR. JEKYLL and MR. HYDE
Direct from BROADWAY
JACKSON BARRETT & JOHN BUCHANAN
Present
The Height of Mechanical Realism
Two Sensational Scenic Effects
Posters out front showed a red airplane and a speeding subway.
Warren headed next door to the Lyric.
ALIAS JIMMY VALENTINE
Direct from NEW YORK
“Top O. Henry Short Story Topped Onstage”
—VARIETY
“Nate Stewart’s expecting me,” he told the old guy at the stage door and gave a name trusted by the wrong element in Hell’s Kitchen. “Tell him Quinn’s here.”
The head carpenter had received a telegram of introduction from a New York guy who knew Harry Warren as Quinn. A boy was sent running. Nate Stewart hurried out with a welcoming handshake.
“How was your train?”
“Free,” Harry Warren replied, with an us-against-the-bigwigs grin that said he saved his ticket money for better things. “Still got room for a sceneshifter?”
“You timed it perfect. The sons of guns at Jekyll and Hyde poached my top hand when their feller lit out for the Oklahoma oil fields.”
Lucy Balant loved the Dow Drugs pharmacy at the corner of Fifth and Vine, just down the street from Alias Jimmy Valentine. It had a Becker’s “iceless” soda fountain—the latest thing to chill syrups, soda water, and ice cream mechanically instead of with ice—which made drinks ambrosially colder on a hot day. The fountain was surrounded by an octagonal marble counter and sixteen stools that had a rapid turnover, since it was near the train station. So for an actress who finally had a steady job, even if it was only as an understudy, and could afford a treat, it was perfect to drop in for a quick ginger ale. Plus, the soda jerkers made darned sure mashers didn’t bother a girl alone.
A tall, dark-haired lady detective took the stool beside her the second it was empty. “I hope you remember me, Lucy.”
“Vividly. What are you doing in Cincinnati?”
“Hunting Anna’s killer.”
“Because of what happened to the vaudeville dancer?”