Heaven Is to Your Left

by Vanda Writer

  He sucked on his cigarette so hard, I thought he might swallow it. “I have to find a new job too.”

  “You do? Why?” A panic gripped me. I didn’t like my life being turned upside down.

  “I can’t keep working in the clubs, seeing him every day. That would—well, it would hurt too much. I have a few interviews lined up for bookkeeping and accountant positions in some good companies.”

  “You should be playing music.”

  “Yeah, well, music won’t support a family.”

  “What am I supposed to do without you?”

  Scott smiled for the first time. “I think you’ll manage, and we’ll get together. I’ll make a nice dinner for you in my new place.”

  I wanted to put a foot through Max’s face. Hurting this sensitive man. Then, I remembered men weren’t allowed to be sensitive. How hard that must be.

  “Let’s try not to be so sad tonight,” Scott said. “Let’s dance. I need to move.” He stamped out his Lucky in the ashtray, took a sip from the dribble of martini that was left in the bottom of his glass, and led me to the dance floor.

  As we got up, I expected another rock and roll or rockabilly song, but the girl started singing an old song from the thirties with a slight fifties flare, “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” We wrapped our arms around each other and held tight. We slowly moved to the haunting sounds and words. We didn’t talk, we just clung to one another. Then I felt Scott’s back writhing under my arms. He pushed his face into my neck. He was crying. Men don’t cry. I held him close so no one would see.

  The cab pulled up to the curb in front of my building Charles, our doorman, hurried to open the door. Scott gave me a little push toward Charles, while he sidled out of the cab behind me. I fell into Charles’s arms and held onto the red sleeves of his uniform. Things were spinning a bit, but so what. Scott’s voice, distant, “Wait a minute, Charles. The cab is going to wait for me. I have a new address. But first I want to take her upstairs.”

  The night air was cool, and the voices were faint with a hollow, faraway sound.

  “I can take her, Mr. Elkins. You shouldn’t keep the cab waiting. That’s gonna cost you.”

  I pushed away from the two of them. “I don’t need you or him. Leabe me.”

  I reeled over toward the door, missed the small step, and fell onto my rear on the cement. “Now, how’d that happen?” I laughed.

  I sat on the cold cement wondering what to do next. I couldn’t remember how to stand up. That was very funny, and I laughed and laughed. Scott and Charles were bending over me saying words, but I wasn’t quite sure what they were. Who cares what they’re talking about? In the morning, I knew, I’d regret acting like this. Soon I’d regret all of it, but I couldn’t get the regretting to come out and stop me from doing the things I’d soon be regretting.

  “Come on, Al, I’ll take you up.” Scott grabbed my arm to lift me, but I shook him off.

  “Go away. You don’t belong here no more. Charles, get rid of this intruder. He don’t live here no more.”

  “I can help her upstairs to the hallway, Mr. Elkins, and ring the bell for Mr. Harlington.”

  “See, nobody needs you here no more. No more. Go away. We don’t need you.”

  Scott put some folded bills in Charles’s hand. “Thanks, Charles. I’ll call you tomorrow, Al.”

  As Scott ran to the car, I pointed a shaky finger at him yelling, “Don’t you dare! I don’t never ever want to talk to you ever again. Traitor!”

  The cab took off and he was gone. “He’s gone, Charles.” I hung onto Charles’s arms as I lifted myself up. I stared at the ring on his third finger. Its gold color made the whiteness of his finger look whiter, but the rest of his hand was kind of a rosy red like Santa Claus’s cheeks. It made me laugh, so I laughed and laughed and embraced Charles’s shoulder. “He’s gone.” I flicked my finger at a piece of the yellow fringe on the black epaulet he wore on his shoulder. “Jeez, that’s pretty. I never noticed that before. Did you know, Charles, that everyone’s a traitor? But not you. You wouldn’t betray me, would you?”

  “No, miss. Let me help you upstairs.”

  I squiggled out of Charles’s grasp. “Leabe me be!” I half stumbled, half ran into the building, dashed past Horace, our night elevator operator, who sat on the stool inside the elevator reading a newspaper. I ran into the elevator and slammed myself against the back wall. “Take me up, Horace! Right up to the top. Charles is chasing me.”

  “What, miss?”

  “Up, up!” And up we went. As I pressed my back against the wall of the elevator, my thoughts slipped and slid through my mind. The elevator door opened, and I swayed into the hallway. I stood outside our door trying to find the hole where my key was supposed to go.

  “May I help, miss?”

  He took my key into his hand and unlocked the door. He returned the key to me and hurried back to his elevator to answer the buzzing.

  I pushed through the door to our apartment. It was dark in the living room and oh, so quiet, so quiet I could practically hear the furniture breathing. There was a slight shimmer of light coming in from the moon that shined through our French windows.

  Max must be asleep in his room. Unless he was out with some hustler or new fling. Damn him! He made me so mad. He hardly ever stayed at the Mt. Olympus late on a Monday night, so he should be home. I was glad he wasn’t sitting on the couch in his bathrobe reading Variety like he usually was when I came home at this hour. I didn’t want to see him. Maybe never again.

  I knew I should just crawl up the stairs to my room and collapse in bed, but my insides were all ajangle. I hurt, and even the booze wasn’t taking that away. Not now that I was back in our so-called home. I turned on the small end table light and threw my coat and handbag on the couch. To hell with his satin couch! I’ll leave my stuff all over it if I want. I sat on it and kicked off my pumps, then slid the stockings down my legs. I headed barefoot to the breakfast nook. Maybe I’d have some tea. Have some tea and think about Juliana. She and I hadn’t sat down in her living room to talk over a cup of Turkish tea since before Paris. Now, with the world watching everything we never did, maybe we’d never sit in her living room having tea again. But I had to get her that opera.

  I filled the kettle, the water overspilling the spout. It got so heavy, I could barely lift it to the burner. I poured the water back out. But now, there was nothing left in the kettle. I wasn’t handling this tea-making very well. I filled the kettle again and dropped it on the burner. I took off my suit jacket and threw it on the seat of one of the bar stools, missed, and it fell onto the floor. Oh, hell, you can just stay there. I don’t care. I kicked it and sat down on the stool to wait for my tea. I found a copy of Theatre Arts on the counter. On the front it said, “Special Opera Edition.”

  I pushed it away. I couldn’t stand it. Juliana and I should be at the top of all of this. We would be. I’d make it happen. Even if I had to talk to one of Bart’s “friends.” Where was that goddamn tea? I looked over at the stove. I hadn’t lit the burner. I got up and slid a match out from our cast-iron match holder that hung on the wall. I saluted the American eagle on the front and struck the long wooden match against the scratch plate on the side. The match burst into flames. I stared into that burning light, wondering. Wondering where the God I used to pray to went. Wondering if he had ever been real or had he always been something I only wished was real. I wished I could talk to him now, but what would I—. Ow! Damn! Damn! I threw the match in the sink and put my fingers under the running water. I heard a sound. I turned off the water and listened. Nothing. Then . . . There it was again. Could it be Max? I didn’t want to see him. But who else could it be? It was just the two of us now. Unless a mobster had broken in and . . . How would they get way up here? Surely, Charles or Horace would stop them before . . . Unless, the bad guy paid them off. I slid out the silver drawer, afraid to breathe. It could be one of those guys. I lifted out a large carving knife. Another sound. I gripped the handle
so hard my hand hurt. I tiptoed towards the end of the breakfast nook. I peered around the corner. I didn’t see anything but darkness and the shadows of our furniture in the living room. I struggled to slow my breathing, to listen. I didn’t hear anything. I crept into the living room, one careful barefoot step at a time, passing the overstuffed chair and . . . I tripped over my goddamn shoes and fell onto our white wool rug with a thud, my hand still gripping the knife handle.

  “What the hell?” a voice said.

  I jumped up, the knife pointed. “Don’t move.”

  A light snapped on.

  Marty stood behind the couch gripping a bath towel around his waist, “Shit, Al! What the hell—?”

  Max hurried into the living room from the dining room, tying his striped bathrobe over his naked body. “You scared me half to death. Put that knife away before you hurt someone. There are naked men in here.” He jumped onto the couch and sat.

  “What are you doing?” I shouted. “Max, what are you doing?”

  “What the hell do you think we’re doing?”

  “In the dining room?”

  “What business is it of yours? We heard a noise. What are you doing down here? You live upstairs. You never come down here at this hour.”

  “Scott loves you. And . . . and you’re with this . . . this”—I pointed the knife at Marty and he backed up— "this traitor.”

  “Hey!” Marty said. “I told you that was an accident. I’m going, Max. I don’t have to listen to this.”

  He swung around, and the towel came undone exposing his naked rear. “Oh, Christ,” he said, running off.

  “How can you do this?” I put the knife down on the coffee table.

  “Don’t put it there,” Max squawked. “It’ll scratch the finish. Put it in the kitchen.”

  I grabbed the knife and ran into the kitchen.

  “Do what?” Max called to me.

  I stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the sill.

  “I don’t see that my relationship with Scott is any of your business.”

  “He loves you.”

  “And I love him. Okay?” He got up, took a bottle of sherry from the liquor cabinet, and

  poured. “You want some?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  He put the bottle on top of the hand-knit doily coaster that sat on the coffee table and

  handed me my glass. “This is just temporary. He needs to think things over.” He sat back down on the couch.

  “Yeah? And what are you doing? Don’t you know Marty was the one who put that book

  in my office? He was plotting with Schuyler.”

  “He told me all about that tonight. He also told me you talked to someone about something you had no business talking about. It was Bart, wasn’t it?”

  “Well, someone had to do something.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what it means. I have been waiting for months for you to do something and

  you’ve done nothing. Nothing. You won’t even talk about it.”

  “She’s in a hit Broadway show. Is that really such a terrible thing? That’ll be over next year. Schuyler should be happy with his newfound prestige and his career will be—”

  “He’s not. He’s not ‘satisfied.’ That’s what he told Juliana on opening night. She’s his security. He’s going to get her to do his next musical and every one after that. She’ll never be free of him.”

  “I was afraid of something like that.”

  “You were? And still you didn’t do anything?”

  “I hoped he had more smarts like his father, Tony. I guess not. Greed.” He leaned forward, took a cigarette from the glass case on the coffee table, put it in his holder, and lit it.

  “So, you see, Max? I had to do something.”

  “By talking to Bart and his ‘friends’? That’s not something you should even know about. My God, Al, you have no idea what you’re saying. You’re a sweet country girl from Huntington, Long Island.”

  “Not anymore I’m not.”

  “Oh? And are you prepared to take out a contract on Schuyler’s life. Huh? You want to live with that on your conscience for the rest of your life? You, who feels guilty if she just crosses against the light? Is that what you want? To get a contract on Schuyler’s life?”

  “No! I never thought—”

  “I know you never thought. That’s my job in these matters.”

  “So, are you going to…?”

  “Oh? Is that what you want me to do? Would that make it easier for you? If I had him . . . exterminated?”

  Marty came back into the room dressed in his usual, while Max and I stared at each other. Everything inside me shook with a new realization of what we were really talking about.

  “I’m going now, Max. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

  Max nodded, and Marty walked out.

  “I’ll refill that,” Max said, taking my glass out of my hand.

  “I got her an opera, Max. Schuyler will never let her do it.”

  He poured the sherry and handed it back to me. “An opera, huh?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I dragged myself to the office at the Haven the next afternoon. My head throbbed, and my whole body ached. The mere sight of food made me sick. The only thing I had in my stomach was three large glasses of tomato juice— an attempt to use Juliana’s cure for next day hangover. It wasn’t working. I threw up the first two before I left for the club.

  I sat at my desk, trying to sort through the mound of dailies Lucille had piled up, but concentrating was difficult. So was keeping my eyes open. Slowly I let my head and eyelids droop into the pillow of newspapers on my desk. I floated through a long dark tunnel, electric sparks bursting around me. A gunshot! My eyes popped open. They were open, weren’t they? A banging at my door. Was I asleep still? A guy stood on the other side. I could see a hat through the glass. A fedora. Who could it—? I must be sleeping. I dreamt him up.

  I rose slowly, my heart pounding in my throat. I knew no one but me was in the place. Me and this guy on the other side. Lucille had left for lunch a few minutes ago, and it was too early for the waiters. My hand shook on the doorknob. I pulled and opened the door an inch. “Yes?” I said through the crack. My voice came as a whisper.

  “Miss Huffman?” A kind manly voice. “I believe you sent for me.”

  “No, I don’t think—”

  “Bart Honeywell, our mutual friend?”

  “Oh, uh, no, I changed—”

  He pressed against the door, entering the room. He took a few long strides into my office and turned to face me. He removed his fedora and held it in his hands in front of him. “I think we got a few friends in common.” He smiled pleasantly, as if there were no special meaning behind his words. We were just neighbors occupying the same world and should get to know each other.

  He wore an expensive gray suit; everything hung on him perfectly, and the texture of the cloth—I could practically feel it without touching it—was of the purest quality. He was handsome, somewhere between forty and forty-five, his dark hair swept back off his brow. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place . . .

  “Alan Ladd,” he said with a broad grin.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I often remind people of Alan Ladd. You looked like you were trying to figure out how you knew me. Sorry. I’m not him.”

  “Oh. Of course not.” The resemblance was remarkable though, and I couldn’t help staring at him. It was like being in the same room with Shane. “Won’t you have a seat?” What was I doing offering him a seat? I wanted him out, but he seemed so nice; he couldn’t possibly be what I knew he was. “So, Mr. . . .?”

  “Wilferini. Samuel Wilferini. I believe you know my boy, Sammy. Scrawny kid. Doesn’t know how to dress. Comes to the Haven quite a lot. Spends a lot of time with Jimmy the Crusher.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve met him.”

  “Here all right?” he asked, indicating the straight-ba
cked chair next to my desk.

  “Yes. That’s fine. Uh, I don’t have much time, though, I’m expecting . . .” I couldn’t think of anyone who would sound dangerous enough to show up at my door.

  “I won’t take much of your time, Miss Huffman. I wouldn’t mind taking a few minutes to warn you about Jimmy the Crusher, though. He’s quite taken with you.”

  “I thought that might be the case. He’s sent me little notes, but I don’t think he’d ever—”

  “Don’t trust him. He’s got one evil heart on him. Anyone with a face like that . . . I’ve been trying to get my son to stop palling around with him, but you know how the young are nowadays. Think they know it all. I suggest you watch yourself around Jimmy.”

  “Do you have any specific things I should watch out for?”

  “When Bart told me you had a need, I wanted to come right over. I love the Haven. I’ve been here a few times. Whenever I’m in town. You got yourself quite a club. You’ve done a terrific job with it.”

  “Well, thank you, but Mr. Max Hartwell—”

  “Is rarely here. He’s put you at the helm of this club. You own quite a big share of the Haven, doncha? I’ve had my eyes on the Haven for quite some time.”

  “Have you?”

  “And we know you’ve been running into a little trouble what with this new noise the kids call music nowadays. Don’t you miss the good old days of Glenn Miller?”

  “I liked the big bands, Mr. Wilferini, but I also find a lot to commend the rock and rollers.”

  “Well, I spose that’s why you’re in this business. Still, the word’s out. The Olympus and the Haven are both struggling, just like so many of the older clubs. My boys and I would like to help you out.”

  “Oh, I don’t think we need any help. We’re doing fine. That little blurb in Kilgallen’s “Voice of Broadway” was a mistake. Maybe you missed her retraction. Don’t think we don’t appreciate your concern because we do, but Max Harlington has everything under control.” I stood. “Thanks for stopping by but—”