Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders Read Free Page A

concealed weapon,” Groucho told him, parking on a stool next to a chopping block.
    The kitchen smelled strongly of herbs like rosemary and oregano, with an overlay of aftershave lotion and hair tonic.
    Salermo, who was the head of Mob gambling in southern California, nodded at one of his men. “Untie this damn thing,” he said, indicating his apron.
    “I was just mentioning to Frank today,” said Groucho while a young hoodlum helped Salermo free of the apron, “how much we like conundrums and puzzles and riddles. But, Vincent, rather than letting us figure it out ourselves, suppose you tell us why the hell you grabbed us off a peaceful Beverly Hills street and dragged us into this culinary sinkhole?”
    Salermo gestured to another of his men and was handed a copy of the Los Angeles Times. “This is why,” he said, angry, pointing at the front-page story about the shooting of Nick Sanantonio.
    “One of your boys, wasn’t he?” asked Groucho, plucking a sliver of bell pepper off the chopping counter.
    “Yeah, Nick was one of my most prized lieutenants, you might say.” He slapped, backhanded, at the newspaper columns. “This rag says he was gunned down this morning when he left his Brentwood mansion to take a short walk. Why that bastard wanted to walk when he’s got three cars, I don’t know.”
    “As I understand it, there were a couple of witnesses,” said Groucho. “They say a black car came roaring by and somebody felled your boy with a shotgun blast. Sounds pretty much like a typical—”

    “We’ll come to that, Groucho,” cut in the gangster. “The thing is, you and Denby here have been doing pretty good catching killers.”
    “We’re semiretired,” Groucho assured him. “Fact is, I’m thinking of opening up a snake farm near Palm Springs and Frank—”
    “Let me finish, huh?” Salermo moved closer to Groucho. “The papers and the assholes on the radio are saying this was a gang killing. But it wasn’t at all.”
    “Black car, shotgun,” reminded Groucho. “Those are all the standard props for a traditional—”
    “Listen, Groucho, I didn’t have Nick rubbed out and, trust me, neither did any of our rivals.”
    Groucho took out a fresh cigar and slowly unwrapped it. “Meaning what?”
    “Nick Sanantonio was killed for some other reason altogether.”
    “Any ideas what that reason was?”
    “No. Which is where you two guys come in,” answered Salermo. “See, I know damned well this was some kind of private murder and whoever did it worked real hard to make it look like a gang killing.”
    “Tell the police about it, Vincent, and—”
    “I’m not in a position at the moment to discuss my theory with the cops,” cut in the gangster. “However, Groucho, I’m willing to pay you and Denby a fee of, say, five thousand bucks to work on the case. With a bonus if you find out who killed the poor guy and why.”
    Biting down on his cigar, Groucho gave a shake of his head. “The way you state your case, Vincent, it sounds as though solving this mystery is almost our civic duty,” he said. “But, alas, my partner and I are, for separate reasons, shortly going to be departing for far-distant New York City. In which mecca we’ll be staying for an untold period of time. Therefore, much as we’d adore it, we can’t possibly work on this particular—”
    “Postpone your trip,” Salermo told him.
    “These are business deals,” I said. “In my case, my wife and I have to be in Manhattan to—”

    “How about you, Groucho?”
    “I’ve signed a contract to tread the boards and warble,” he answered. “Such a legal document is inviolate. Besides coming in violet, it can also be ordered in several other fashionable shades for your fall wardrobe.”
    “He’s razzing you, boss,” complained one of the attendant hoods.
    “Aw, that’s just his way,” said Salermo, though not looking especially pleased. He took two slow breaths, in and out. “I’ve got to tell you,