Kiki was questioned. Maybe she had an idea of who her man's enemies had been. Maybe not. She wasn't held.
She went back to Boston. Said she was licked—through. She posed for pictures with her mother, ironing, cooking. But she wasn't through. They never are while they can help it.
She came back, danced in cafés, did fan numbers, worked in Jersey, Pennsylvania, sneaked to New York and was hired at an uptown smalltime spot, the Little Casino. The flat-feet tore down the billing and wouldn't let her work. They said she was a peeler. But it is a policy of New York police not to permit exploitation of names connected with crime stories.
Alice also went into show business, got herself an act in which she preached against liquor, violence and violation of the marriage oath. The dicks gave her the bum's rush, too. Soon thereafter she was put on the spot and murdered. The wise crowd said, "She knew too much."
Kiki drifted. She was reported married to an athletic director, but that fizzled. She did marry a beer salesman, in an elopement, and she soon got a divorce. She flew to Memphis and became the wife of a Newark airport attaché.
She was reported running a lunchroom in Bridgeport. Broadway never knew her again.
Perhaps, somewhere, now 40 but undoubtedly still chic and attractive, a redheaded woman lives the simple, unrippled existence of a matured matron. Perhaps, though, in the dark, alone, she recalls the flash of guns, the thud of bullets, the mad love of a murderous madman, third degrees by police and prosecutors, days and nights of fleeing and being hunted with her lover—and the last glimpse of his riddled remains, in a basket in an undertaker's morgue in Albany, where she slunk in after all others—except one of your authors, covering the story—had gone.
This little pig had no roast beef. But she certainly didn't stay home!