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zoo?”
    “The zoo? What do I need with a zoo?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “Try one on for size some time. Might be a good fit.”
    My last shot of her as I went out the door was an open red mouth round as a hula hoop framing a shapeless wad of gum atop her pink tongue.

NINE
    There were two bars on the ground floor of the Brill Building, facing Broadway on either side of the entrance. One was Jack Dempsey’s, watering hole for the prizefight crowd. The other, the Turf, on the corner of 49th, was a hangout for musicians and songwriters. Its facade of blue mirrors made it seem as cool and inviting as a grotto in Capri.
    Inside, it was just another gin mill. I made a circuit of the bar and found the very man I had in mind, Kenny Pomeroy, an accompanist and arranger since before I was born. “Whaddya say, Kenny,” I whispered as I climbed on an adjacent stool.
    “Well, well, Harry Angel, the famous shamus. Long time no see, pardner.”
    “It’s been a while. Your glass looks empty, Kenny. Sit still and I’ll buy you a refill.” I signaled the bartender and ordered a Manhattan and another round for Kenny.
    “Skoal, kiddo,” he said, lifting his glass when the drinks were set in front of us. Kenny Pomeroy was a bald fat man with a lightbulb nose and a set of chins stacked one on top of the other like replacement parts. His mode of dress ran to hound’s-tooth jackets and star sapphire pinkie rings. The only place I’d ever seen him outside of a rehearsal hall was at the bar in the Turf.
    We jawed for a bit about old times before Kenny asked: “So what brings you to this end of the street? The pursuit of evildoers?”
    “Not exactly,” I said. “I’m working on a job you might be able to help me with.”
    “Anytime, anyplace.”
    “What can you tell me about Johnny Favorite?”
    “Johnny Favorite? Talk about Memory Lane.”
    “Did you know him?”
    “Nah. Caught his act a few times before the war. Last time was at the Starlight Lounge in Trenton, if I remember it right.”
    “Haven’t seen him around anyplace, say in the last fifteen years or so?”
    “Are you kidding? He’s dead, ain’t he?”
    “Not exactly. He’s in a hospital upstate.”
    “Well, if he’s inna hospital, how am I supposed to see him around?”
    “He’s been in and out,” I said. “Listen, take a look at this.” I slid the photo of the Spider Simpson orchestra out of the manila envelope and passed it to him. “Which one of those guys is Simpson? It doesn’t say on the picture.”
    “Simpson’s the drummer.”
    “What’s he doing now? Still leading a band?”
    “Nah. Drummers never make good front men.” Kenny sipped his drink and looked thoughtful, furrowing a brow that ran without interruption onto the top of his head. “Last I heard he was doing studio work out on the Coast. You might try calling Nathan Fishbine in the Capitol Building.”
    I made a note of the name and asked Kenny if he knew any of the sidemen.
    “I worked a gig in Atlantic City with the trombone player once years ago.” Kenny pointed a pudgy finger at the photo. “This guy, Red Diffendorf. He’s blowing corn with Lawrence Welk now.”
    “What about any of the others? Know where I can find them?”
    “Well, I recognize a lot of the names. They’re still in the business, but I can’t tell you who with. You’d have to ask around the street, or call the union.”
    “How about a Negro piano player named Edison Sweet?”
    “Toots? He’s the greatest. Got a left hand like Art Tatum. Very tasty. You won’t have to look far for him. He’s been playing uptown at the Red Rooster on 138th Street for the last five years.”
    “Kenny, you’re a fund of useful information. How about some lunch?”
    “Never touch the stuff. But I wouldn’t say no to one more seven-and-seven.”
    I ordered us both another drink and a cheeseburger with fries for myself and while waiting I found a pay phone and called Local 802 of the American Federation of