In a black suit and tie and blue suede shoes, a clowning Chuck Berry was on stage doing “Maybelline,” a radio hit I’d heard on the trip from K.C.; he and a bass player, drummer and piano man were squeezed onto the small platform with a backdrop that said COSMO in pink sparkle lettering. I’d seen this outstanding showman on the South Side at the 708 Club, where one of my black A-1 operatives had succeeded in making me appreciate Chicago blues. This variant had humor and crisp diction and told kids Negro and white the kind of stories of high school, cars and young love they could all relate to.

Berry, after getting a big round of applause, whistles and whoops, announced a break, and a female voice next to me, a bored alto, said, “He used to get twenty-one bucks a weekend in the house band. Now he gets eight hundred a week.”

I glanced at the short, curvy dish beside me, who did nice things to a red-aproned white waitress uniform. As some of the crowd threaded out to smoke in less smoky environs, Mollie Baker directed me to a vacated table in a back corner. Pool balls clacked not far from where we settled.

“How did you know me?” I asked. “I forgot to say I’d wear a white carnation.”

“You didn’t need one,” she said, as we settled into the red vinyl-and-metal chairs. “You’re Nate Heller. I saw you in Life or Look or something.”

She had a heart-shaped face, a bright red-lipsticked kewpie-doll mouth, a pug nose, and drawn-on eyebrows over big blue eyes that had seen it all and not been impressed. Her hair was black and hovered over her forehead in a pompadour Elvis Presley would have killed for.

“‘Private Eye to the Stars,’” she said with a smirk. “Somehow I don’t think you’re here for that kind of client.”

“I’m not. But any kind of client of mine gets the same confidentiality.”

She produced a cigarette from somewhere, the way Bugs Bunny can a carrot. She stuck it in her kewpie lips and waited to see if I’d light it for her. I told her I didn’t smoke, which seemed like disgusting news to her, and she got a Zippo from a pocket of her uniform.

“Here’s the thing,” she said, firing up the smoke. “I can use a hundred bucks right now. My fat fuck of a husband has a new wife, who is about twelve and comes from Iowa of all the stupid places. Why she’s still alive after he climbs on top of her, I couldn’t tell you.”

“One might say the same thing about you, Mrs. Baker.”

“Make it ‘Mollie,’ and I’ll call you ‘Nate,’ just to keep things friendly. I’m not as delicate as I look, Handsome.” She made “Handsome” sound like an insult. Of course, this was a doll who could put sarcasm into “Hello.”

I said, “So we’ve established you can use a hundred bucks.” Somebody started the jukebox up and it began blaring Berry’s “Roll Over Beethoven,” which was a nice gesture if redundant.