The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

called to the stripper and two seconds later, we were out in the alley.
    “What’s the big idea?” I demanded, straightening my little blue suit.
    “Every yegg in this neighborhood knows who Curly is, baby. You don’t need a lead on him. I’ll take you.”
    Then we were off again, hurrying down the block.
     
    CURLY THE BOOKIE took illegal bets in a run-down apartment on Ninth Avenue. Jack was an occasional client, so he got us in easily. We climbed three flights of a narrow staircase and Jack knocked a certain way. A bolt slid aside in the door like a speakeasy. Eyes peered through then the door opened and a muscle-bound guy with a crew cut and an anchor tattoo greeted Jack with a handshake.
    The men exchanged words about some big boxing match. Then Jack grabbed my gloved hand and pulled me along like a little coal car behind a massive steam engine.
    The apartment was shotgun style, with one room leading into another. Each was full of smoke—cigarette and cigar. A radio was playing loudly somewhere, the announcer calling a horse race. A dozen men were sitting around on easy chairs, reading papers and drinking. A half dozen more sat around a table playing cards, also drinking. We plowed through room after room until we came to a closed door. Jack knocked three times.
    “Come!”
    Curly the Bookie didn’t have any curls. He didn’t have any hair, either. In an irony that didn’t get past the Three Stooges, “Curly’s” head was shaved clean as a billiard ball. He had a bulky, half-muscular body, as if he’d been a boxer once and had gone a little to pot—but only a little. The man’s bulldog face and ham-sized biceps didn’t look worth challenging in the ring or out.
    He greeted Jack with a stern but not unfriendly, “Howya doin’, Shep?” The men exchanged some views on a race-horse and more on the same boxing match Jack had discussed with the muscle-bound doorman.
    “. . . but I’m not here to lose my money today, Curly,” Jack said all of a sudden. “Got a girl partner here today wants to ask you a few questions. That okay?”
    I tensed. Curly’s bulldog face didn’t move but his black eyes narrowed on me from behind his desk. “Depends on the questions.”
    Jack stepped back and pressed me forward. “You’re on, baby.”
    “Crap,” I muttered.
    “Excuse me?” Curly said.
    “I was wondering, Mr. . . . uh, Curly, if you know a man named Frankie Papps?”
    “Why?”
    “I, uh, need to find him for a little boy who wants to locate his mother. Frankie was the woman’s boyfriend. And she’s disappeared. Can you help me find Frankie?”
    Curly took a long time looking me over. He took a long drag on the stub of a cigar. “Frankie places bets here,” he finally said. “Does it once a week, like clockwork. He ain’t been here in two.”
    “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
    “He mentioned his boss owed him a big cut of back pay and he was sick of waitin’ for it. He was going out there to collect so he could place a nice big bet on Graziano vs. Zale at Yankee. Frankie don’t show soon, he’s gonna miss the book.”
    “You said he was going ‘out there’—where is that? Long Island?”
    Curly nodded. “Said his girlfriend worked for this rich guy, too, and they were both going to get their cut, quit while they were ahead.”
    “What does that mean? What were they doing for this man?”
    “From what Frankie told me, they were running some kind of elaborate scam. There were whales involved, a big payoff.”
    I glanced at Jack. “Whales?” I whispered.
    “Rich people were being scammed, baby. Very rich people.”
    “So that’s it,” Curly said. “That’s all I know.”
    We were clearly dismissed and Jack led me out again, back through the shotgun rooms. We were almost to the door when someone stopped him.
    “Well, if it isn’t my favorite slugger. What brings you here, Jack? A bet or a case?”
    “I’m done talking to you about cases, Brennan. Unless you want another shiner?”
    My ears pricked at the name. “Timothy Brennan?” I leaned my head around Jack’s wide shoulders and my jaw dropped. The famous late author of crime novels (in my time) was standing in front of us, now very much alive—much younger than I remembered, too, and about a hundred pounds leaner. But then, the man wouldn’t be keeling over at my in-store appearance for another sixty years.
    “Who’s the cutie?” Tim Brennan winked at me. “Introduce me, Shepard. Don’t