Heaven Is to Your Left

by Vanda Writer

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked, remaining in his seat.

  I slowly returned to my seat. “No, but I don’t have much time.”

  “So you said.” As he reached into his inside pocket to retrieve a package of Viceroys, I saw his leather shoulder holster. The handle of a small black gun stuck out. It was no accident that I saw it as he grinned at me and slapped the bottom of the cigarette pack so that one popped up. He held the pack toward me. “Miss Huffman?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

  “Then you don’t know what you’re missing. Still, I prefer a girl who doesn’t smoke; more ladylike.” He pulled the upraised cigarette free from the pack with his lips, his eyes still focused on me. He held the match book in his left hand and bent a single match against the scratch pad on the front of the book; he flicked it with his thumb and leaned the cigarette into the flame. I feared the whole book would go up at once, burning his hand, but he blew the flame out in time.

  “Does Mr. Harlington have everything under control, Miss Huffman?” He sat back, blowing out a stream of smoke. “You sure about that? I heard you got a particular problem with a certain producer. I might be of some service to you in that area.”

  My breath quickened. Some part of me wanted to know what he had in mind? But another part was horrified. Could I just talk to him about the problem and see what he would do? Could I do that without making any kind of commitment? Not ask him to do anything? Just find out what he might do. Maybe it wouldn’t be what Max said. Maybe he’d just threaten Schuyler, and then Schuyler would leave us alone. Al, you’re not that naïve.

  There was a knock at my door and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Lucille! Lucille!” I ran to my door. “Come in, come in!”

  “No need,” Lucille said. “I just wanted—”

  I pulled her in.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Wilferini, but Lucille, my secretary, has something important to discuss with me. Being a man of business yourself, you understand.”

  He was already rising from the chair. “I do. But we’re gonna talk again soon.”

  “Of course.”

  “Real soon. Both being business people, I’m sure we can help each other.” He nodded at Lucille and then me. “It’s been a pleasure, ladies. Good day.” He stepped out the door.

  “Are you all right, Al?” Lucille asked. “You look even paler than you usually do.”

  “Uh, I was out last night. I’m fine. What did you want?”

  “I took a short lunch, so I wanted to know if you wanted me to summarize this month’s Cabaret magazine. They have an interesting—”

  “Yes. Yes, do that.” I pushed Lucille out the door. I hurried to lock it; I pressed my back against the door, shaking

  Chapter Sixteen

  Later in the week, Max surprised me—or scared me—by showing up outside my office door around six. I wasn’t expecting him; I hadn’t spoken to him since that time in the apartment. I was on constant guard in case Mr. Wilferini came back. Max stood at my open door looking disheveled, his tie undone, no jacket, his white shirt wrinkled. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course. What happened to you? You look like you’ve been dragged by a bus for a couple of miles.”

  “No, no bus. Just thoughts.” He sat in the chair next to my desk. “I know you’re disappointed in me. I’m sorry about that. I liked it better when you looked up to me.”

  “I looked up to you? When was that?”

  “Stop. I need to hang on to at least that. Everything’s falling apart, and I don’t seem

  able to get it back on track. Things are worse than ever in both clubs. I have visions of losing everything. It’s going to be the thirties all over again, only worse.”

  Fear grabbed me, but I didn’t want Max to see it. “We’re going to ride this out, Max. But we do need to switch completely into rock and roll and rockabilly. Once we have a reputation for that . . . I’m working on making contacts in that area.”

  “What about all our old standbys? All the singers and musicians who have stuck by us through the years. We just dump them?”

  “I’ll come up with something. But you know—even Frank Sinatra’s having trouble getting work with this new music. The teenagers are taking over the clubs. Their parents are at home watching TV. If we’re going to survive, we have to focus on the young. But we can make it, Max.” “I hope” was buried in between my words, because I was plenty scared.

  “Forever the optimist. I always liked that about you, Al.”

  “It’ll be a real stretch financially, but I think it’ll be worth it. I want to try to get Little Richard or Buddy Holly. They’d bring those kids in.”

  “Look, Al, Marty and I—”

  “It’s not my business.”

  “I want you to know that just because I see him once in a while doesn’t mean I don’t still care for Scott. I know how you feel about both of them. They’re good friends, and I don’t want to come between any of that, and I certainly don’t want you to be mad at Marty just because he and I—”

  “That’s not the reason I’m mad at him. He told you why.”

  “It was an accident. Schuyler tricked him. That Schuyler has to be dealt with.”

  “The last time you and I spoke about Schuyler it sounded like there wasn’t anything we could do. Have you got some ideas now? Something we can do?”

  “We aren’t going to do anything. You stay out of it.”

  “Then are you?”

  The phone rang. “I’ll let Lucille take it. I want to hear what you have to say. Have you thought of something you could—?” Lucille’s line rang on my dictograph.

  “See what she wants,” Max directed. “It might be important.”

  I picked up the phone. “Yeah, Lucille?”

  “Oh.”

  Still holding the receiver, I said to Max, “It’s Juliana.”

  “You need to take that.”

  “Don’t go. I’ll make this short. You and I have to finish.”

  He sat back, crossing one leg over the other. He took his cigarette holder out of his pocket and pushed a Philip Morris into the end of it.

  “Jule? I don’t know if you should call me here, uh . . . What? Say that again.” A chill buzzed up my spine.

  I stared at Max, barely able to breathe. He was puffing on his cigarette while he read the Journal American that he’d slipped off my desk.

  “No, of course not,” I said into the phone as I continued to watch Max, trying to read behind his placid expression as he puffed away. “I don’t know what I feel right now. Scared? Relieved? I don’t know. I’ll get there as soon as I can.” I slowly hung up the phone and stared at it. My heart banged against my chest.

  “Well?” Max asked. “Is she okay?”

  I swallowed, numb. “Schuyler was killed. Shot to death.”

  “Oh?” Max said.

  “Max you didn’t . . .?”

  “Al, really.”

  Juliana and I sat at a corner table at Reggio’s sipping our hot cappuccinos, looking like we didn’t belong. We wore spring dresses. She even wore low heels. Most of the other customers, sitting at their own iron tables in their iron seats with red cushions, were dressed in black pants and tops with berets on their heads, many smoking cigarettes in long holders like Max’s. It smelled like some were smoking other things besides tobacco. It was hard to tell the men from the girls.

  Juliana took a few sips of her cappuccino as if gathering courage. “Do you think . . .

  Max? Not himself, but hired . . .”

  “No! Gosh, no, he couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. Would he?”

  “We both wanted him to do something.”

  And in my brain, I remembered I kept asking him. “No,” I told her. “I asked him and he

  said no. Well no, he didn’t exactly say no, but that’s what he meant. I think.”

  “Is that the kind of thing a person ever says ‘yes’ to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A
nd, you didn’t?”

  “No! I don’t know anybody who would do that.” Yes, I do. I know lots of people who

  do things like that, but they wouldn’t do that for me. Jimmy the Crusher might. Mr. Wilferini’s handsome smiling face flashed in front of my eyes. “How could you think that I’d do something like that?”

  “It’s just that you seemed so adamant about the opera. It crossed my mind. Only for a second.”

  “I couldn’t. Don’t think that about me.”

  “I’m not. I’m sorry I even had a moment’s thought. I’m so nervous I’m not thinking straight. It was such a shock. Who expected something like this?”

  Mr. Wilferini. Handsome in his expensive suit. Offering to help me. I couldn’t tell Juliana about him. But surely, he didn’t . . . Not for me. There was no reason for him to . . . He didn’t know me. The club. Oh, damn, the club. I told him we didn’t need his help, but . . . Did I? Did I exchange the club for a hit? Oh, damn, do I owe him for Schuyler? The little food that I had in me started to race upward. “I’ve gotta use the bathroom, Jule.” And I dashed over to the small wooden door in the back of the room, threw it open, and hung onto the sink. I didn’t throw up. I just felt weak and sweaty. If I wasn’t clear . . . Some unconscious communication? No! Never! I was clear. Clear as glass. Glass breaks, Al. I hobbled out of the bathroom back to Juliana.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Fine. I think the cappuccino wasn’t quite agreeing with me.” I sat back in my chair.

  “I wanted to be free of him.” Juliana set her cup on the saucer. “But this way? No. Not this way. I hated him so much and now this. It makes me feel a little responsible.”

  “No!” I said with too much force. “You are not responsible for any of this.”

  “Well, my rational side knows that. They said the body was riddled with bullets, unrecognizable. The cops had to look at his driver’s license to identify him.”

  I took a few deep breaths, not wanting to imagine it. “Who said?”

  “Harry. He called all the actors and crew himself, so we wouldn’t hear of it on the news.”

  “That was nice of him. To do it himself. I mean directors don’t usually . . . He could have left it to Ron. It seems like more a stage manager’s job.”

  “I suppose, but I don’t think something like that is on anyone’s job description.”

  “No, of course not.” I took a sip of water. “Where did they find him?”

  “In the trunk of his car, uptown, in the absolute worst part of the city. The seventies. What on earth was he doing up there? Harry said it was an obvious mob hit. He was crying.”

  “I didn’t think the two of them were that close.”

  “I guess it’s hard to lose a colleague, close or not,” Juliana said.

  “I suppose so.”

  One of the beats in the corner stood at the table to recite a poem about the meaninglessness of existence, one banged on a bongo, and others beat on the table.

  “Schuyler certainly wasn’t any kind of a peach of a guy,” I said, “but he didn’t deserve to die.”

  “No one’s going to try to find the guy who did this, are they?”

  “No.”

  “Jule, I almost prayed for it.”

  “I think it must be a sin to pray for the demise of another person, but you did say almost.”

  “I couldn’t do it. My whole body feels creepy talking about this. I feel like I wanted him to go away so bad that somehow my mind did something to cause—”

  “Your mind didn’t do this,” Juliana said.

  My mind went back to Mr. Wilferini, and I thought, No, not my mind, but . . .

  “I have to go to the funeral,” Juliana said. “The whole cast is going. It should be quite the

  Broadway affair. Young producer of a hit Broadway show cut down in his prime. Lots of press. They’ll expect me to be there.”

  As I took another sip of water, I looked over at the entrance and saw Margaritte flirting with our young waiter. “Oh, no, not her. Jule, look. That’s the last thing we need now. I want to be alone with you. We haven’t been alone in more than six months. Just us. And you know, Max isn’t coming home till late tonight. We could have my whole place and . . . you know.”

  “You can think of that after what just happened?”

  “I need to feel close to you.”

  She winked. “I’ll get rid of her. Politely, of course. We are in public.” Margaritte sashayed over to us in her silky blue dress with a scoop neck and matching wide-brimmed hat. “Well, hello, Julien,” — she carefully pronounced Juliana’s male French name in her overdone French accent — “and the little one.” She pulled off her gloves and waved them around. “The name, the name? What is little one’s name? I just can’t seem to remember . . .”

  “Margaritte,” Juliana said. “You know perfectly well that this is my friend, Al Huffman.”

  “Mais oui, Al. Excusez moi. Al she is.” She came around the table and kissed Juliana once on each cheek. “It has been much too long, ma cherie.” She nodded at me. “You too, dear.”

  She kissed me from three feet away, pulled over a chair from a nearby table, and sat down. “Waiter, oh, waiter,” she called, flagging the young man with her gloves.

  “Margaritte, Al and I were just about—”

  “You know, Julien,” she threw her gloves into her purse, “I was thinking of our youth and I remembered the funniest little stories you used to tell about the girls who would chase you after your show.”

  “Well, we can reminisce another time, but right now . . .” Juliana’s chair scraped against the floor as she pushed it away from the table. Quite a loud social cue.

  “Do you still tell the girls who ask you to sign their programs that you will not . . .You’ll enjoy this, Al. You used to tell them you will not sign their programs because you have a feeling you are going to get to know them better in the future and—”

  “What?” I gasped, looking at Juliana.

  “Margaritte, I never—!”

  “Oh, you did.” She giggled. “It was your best line for getting into the girls’ panties.”

  I jumped out of my chair and hurried for the door, pushing customers who were trying to get in out of my way. I heard Margaritte saying, “What did I say?”

  The last I heard of Jule before I burst out onto the sidewalk was, “Margaritte, you are a perfect ass.”

  I dashed down MacDougal Street, around outdoor café tables, past Jimmy the Crusher, into Washington Square Park and kept going. My most treasured memory was just a line to her. A line to get sex out of me. I was breaking inside. Our whole relationship was a joke. My whole life was a joke. I ran faster. I sped past the fountain and out the arch; I cut across Waverly and onto Fifth. I wanted to run right out of my skin. I ran harder, my pumps pounding into the pavement. I ran all the way to my apartment on Twenty-Fourth and Fourth Avenue. I charged past William, the day doorman, who I think said, “Good afternoon, miss,” and into the elevator. Archibald, our only colored elevator operator, pulled the lever and up we went toward my apartment. As soon as we arrived on my floor, I dashed out of the elevator. I was about to close the door when Juliana jumped out of the second elevator and shoved the weight of her whole body against the door on the other side.

  “Don’t you dare shut this door on me,” she shouted.

  I pushed from one side, she pushed from the other. “Open this damn door!”

  “No! Go away,” I shouted back. “Or I’ll call the cops.”

  She slammed her body against the door, catching me off balance, and I fell to the floor.

  She burst through. I ran for the stairs that led to my upstairs apartment.

  “You listen to me.”

  “I don’t ever want to hear you again.” I charged up the stairs.

  She jumped on my back — “You’re going to listen to me” — and we fell onto the steps with her gripping me around the shoulders.

  I clawed at the ke
lly-green carpeting that covered the stairs, trying to get her off me. She turned me onto my back and held my arms down at my sides. “Listen!”

  “No. I hate you!”

  She kissed me. Her mouth went all over my lips and my face. I got my arms free and punched my fists into her shoulders. She tore open my blouse. One of the blouse buttons flew into the air.

  I grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled.

  “Ow! Dammit!” She pulled my bra up to my neck and ran a finger over my breasts.

  “You bitch, you . . . you . . . My breathing was becoming heavy, my back arching. My hand slid from her hair. She pushed her hand past the waistband of my skirt and past my girdle into my underpants, and I wanted to tell her to go to hell, but, but . . . I was breathing too heavy and her mouth was on mine, so talking, talking was hard and . . .

  “No! Yes! Yes!” I shouted as I climaxed and climaxed and relaxed into her arms.

  “Now, maybe you’ll listen to me.”

  “No,” I whispered, because that was as loud as I could go. “I don’t want, want . . .”

  “Yes. I used to not sign some girls’ programs. The ones I thought were cute. And yes, I told them that was because I had a feeling we were going to get to know to each other better in the future and if I signed it later, it would mean more. And yes, it was a line. But Al, you’re smart. How could you have thought I could predict such a thing between you and me?”

  “You looked wise. So, what? You shouldn’t have done it. Don’t blame me. I thought that was an important moment between us. I still have that program preserved in my end table drawer?”

  “That’s sweet and so you.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure.”

  “It is. But I had no way of knowing, then, that you would be different from the others. That you’d be still hanging around all these many years later.”

  “Sorry I’m such an annoyance, but you don’t have to worry. I won’t be ‘hanging around,’anymore.” I tried to get up, but she held me down.

  “I kept wondering when you were going to leave me like the rest. Why you hadn’t taken off a long time ago. I haven’t used that ‘line’ in years. I couldn’t use it anymore.”