Gilded Canary by Brad Latham

man like Hook here, what girl would consider something so mundane as a big Hollywood
     career?” He turned toward Lockwood. “So. What can I do for you, pal?”
    “I’m working on the Muffy Dearborn case.”
    “Oh. Right. Another one of those goddamn no-talent broads—excuse my French, Miss,” Winchell apologized blithely, then continued,
     “it really gripes me, seeing those rich—rich—well, you know what they are—trying to buy their way into show business.” Winchell
     had been a trouper for a time himself, coming up the hard way, and it was obviously a sore subject for him.
    “She’s not so bad.”
    “She stinks. They all stink.” Winchell wasn’t a man to be contradicted. “Imagine, pulling off that supposed heist, hoping
     the critics would forget about her voice and talk about her jewels.”
    “Actually, that’s why I’m here,” Lockwood told him. “I’ve been wondering about that item in your column.”
    “What about it?” Winchell snapped, eyes glittering. He suspected what was coming.
    “I wondered where you got your information.”
    “Come on, Lockwood, you know better than that. I’m a newspaperman. I don’t reveal my sources.”
    “We’re not just talking about a jewel theft here, Walter. We’re also talking about murder.”
    “And I’m talking about newspapers. This is America, Lockwood, land of the free—freedom of speech, of the press, all of that.”
    “Jabber-Jabber Jacoby’s dead.”
    “Too bad. I gave him a nice send-off in the column. Even if the moron had double-planted me a few weeks ago—imagine! Calling
     in the same item to both me and that imbecile over at the
News
—Sullivan. But I gave him two lines, anyway.”
    “I was wondering if Jabber-Jabber had tried to get back on your good side, by calling you about the theft.”
    Winchell raised his hand, and two waiters scurried over. “What would you like?” he asked Stephanie.
    She obviously didn’t know what to say, and Lockwood took over. “We’ll just be here for another minute or two.”
    “Nonsense,” Winchell snapped. “Once you’re done pumping me, I’m going to do a little digging myself. Who knows? You might
     give me another item on this Dearborn thing—and with luck, maybe a front-page lead.”
    Lockwood smiled, and shrugged. “Canadian?” he asked Stephanie, and she nodded. “Two Canadians,” Lockwood told the waiter and
     the man nodded and left.
    “You were asking me whether or not Jabber-Jabber called in the item to me, trying to get back in my column?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you see any of his clients in the paper after that item?”
    “He had no clients, Walter, after you pulled the plug on him—except Muffy, that is.”
    “Well? Did
she
turn up again?”
    “You’re trying to tell me Jabber-Jabber didn’t call you. That if he had, you would’ve repaid him in kind. Is that it?”
    “I’m trying to tell you that I don’t like your questions, Hook. I know you’ve got a job to do, but so do I. And if people
     who trust me find out they no longer can trust me, I’m dead. I might as well be Curly Kramer,” he said, referring to another
     columnist who was a joke in the trade.
    “Damn. This case really has me going.”
    “I’d like to help you, Hook, I really would. You’ve done a lot of good things for me along the way, and I’m grateful. Believe
     me, if there were anything I could help you with….”
    “I understand,” Lockwood shrugged, and then was struck by a thought. “You’re the original crime reporter, Walter. Maybe you
can
help me with something else.”
    “Fire away,” said Winchell. He’d made sure Stephanie had been seated next to him, and he was obviously enjoying having her
     beauty so nearby. “I hope we’re not boring you,” he smiled at her.
    “Not at all,” she said, and Lockwood believed her. She’d been hanging on every word.
    “There’s a mug I’m trying to find,” Lockwood said. “No one around here seems to have heard of