I entered hesitantly, leaving the door half-open behind me. If he noticed, he gave no sign. He went into the bathroom and in a few seconds I heard water running in the sink.
His room was larger than mine and looked more lived in. He had two armchairs, two pillows, two blankets, a small TV set and smaller radio. Best of all, he had a refrigerator: one of those waist-high jobs that holds a six-pack, a pint of milk, a deck of sliced salami.
He came out of the bathroom, polishing a glass with a towel that was, I noted enviously, larger and thicker than the ones Blanche had given me.
“How about ice?” he asked casually.
“Oh, I couldn’t—” I started.
“I don’t even know your name,” he said suddenly. “You know mine.”
He said this in an odd, challenging way, as if we were making a bet.
“Beatrice Flanders,” I told him. “Bea for short.”
“But not for long, eh?” I didn’t know what that meant, but it seemed to amuse him.
He went over to the refrigerator and busied himself prying the trays loose. I had a chance to inspect him.
It wasn’t accurate to call him handsome. There was an inhuman regularity in his features. Each side of his face was an exact mirror image of the other, a rare thing in human physiognomy. The result was cold perfection. Only that frequent smile gave warmth and humanity to what otherwise would have been a chilling and disturbing mask.
He moved well, lithely and with grace. I imagined his body would be dark, smooth, all long muscles covered with soft, almost hairless skin. All his actions—bending, turning, lifting—seemed fluid and effortless; his gestures were just as light and flowing.
His voice was musical, with a remarkable range. He knew how to use it for effect.
He wore his slacks and knitted sports shirt well; he had the kind of relaxed body that makes clothes look good. His hands and feet were surprisingly small for such a tall man, tapered in a pleasing fashion; they completed him, as if he were enclosed in one artful, continuous line.
He emptied the ice cubes into a plastic bowl, then went into the bathroom to refill the trays.
“Where you from, Bea?” he called.
“Here, there, everywhere,” I said casually after he came back into the main room.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“This and that. Well, I’ve got the glass and the ice ready for you.”
He looked at me.
The ball was in my court.
“Care for a drink?” I asked. “I have vodka, scotch, brandy.”
“Thought you’d never ask.” He grinned. “What are you having?”
“Vodka.”
“That’ll do fine.”
“I’ll bring it in here. Your place is more comfortable than mine.”
“Sure,” he said.
We drank the vodka on ice, with a splash of water. My first of the day. We sat sprawled in the armchairs. He had kicked off his loafers, and we wiggled our stockinged toes at each other.
“Just arrived?” he asked idly. “I mean in New York?”
“A few days ago.”
“Who’s the Tooth Fairy?”
“Who?”
“The guy I saw you with.”
I tried not to smile, but it was a descriptive name for Dick.
“A friend of a friend. He helped me move in.”
“He’s a flit, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He’s an okay guy.”
“Uh-huh. Well, it’s no business of mine. Live and let live. Where were you? Before New York?”
“Chicago. You?”
“Miami. I like the tracks down there.”
“Now I know where you got the tan. You follow the horses?”
“My secret vice,” he said, his smile a little tighter.
“You do all right?”
He flipped a palm back and forth. “I get by. The luck runs in streaks.”
“How’s it running now?”
“Out,” he said ruefully. “But the only thing you can say about luck is that it’ll change, sooner or later. Maybe meeting you will change my luck.”
“I’ll drink to that if you’ll fill my glass.”
We sipped in silence a few moments. He stared at me over the rim of his glass. His eyes were narrowed. He seemed a little puzzled, a little uncertain.
“Cocktail waitress?” he asked finally. “I don’t mean to pry; I’d just like to know if I’ve got you pegged. Tell me to go to hell if you like.”
“That’s all right,” I told him. “Yeah, I’ve been a cocktail waitress. But not recently. Not for the past two years.”
“Boyfriend?” he guessed shrewdly.
“That’s right.”
“You split up?”
“Permanently. He croaked.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
I shrugged. “Those are the breaks.”
“You come to New York to go back to cocktail waitressing?”
“No,” I said. “Never again. Not for me. I’m going to take it easy for a few weeks. Look around. See what I can line up.”
“Mmm,” he said. He looked up in the air. “Maybe we can do each other some good.”
“How’s that?”
“Well … you know,” he said cautiously, “sometimes there are more chances around for a couple than for a single.”
“Yeah,” I said, just as cautiously, “that’s true. Got anything particular in mind?”
“Nooo,” he said slowly, “not at the moment. Maybe we could line up something.”
“Maybe,” I said thoughtfully, staring at him. “How heavy will you go?”
If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.
“Depends,” he said. “On what’s in it for me.”
I never doubted for a moment that he was speaking about an illegal hustle.
“Fair enough,” I said. “I’ve got one thing going. It’s just an idea right now, but it may work out. If it does, I’ll need help.”
He was silent a long time, apparently trying to make up his mind. Then he decided …
“Help? You’ll need help? You’re talking about muscle?”
I nodded.
“I’d like to hear more about it. When you’re ready.”
“All right,” I said. Then I took a chance. “You’re not hurting, are you, Jack? If a few bucks will help …?”
He shook his head, grinning.
“Not that bad. Not yet. But thanks for the offer. I appreciate it.”
“Just paying for the ice,” I said nonchalantly.
I wanted to keep the talk going. It wasn’t hard. He was a witty raconteur with a seemingly endless supply of anecdotes about horse racing, poker games, the casinos of Las Vegas. He had a wry self-mockery that I thought might disguise a kind of self-hatred.
“Married?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he confessed. “Still am. She waltzed out on me when the gambling got too much for her. Caviar one day, beans the next.”
“Did she know it before you were married?”
“Hell, yes. I never tried to hide it. I guess she thought she could change me. What did your boyfriend do?” he asked suddenly. “The one who died?”
I thought a moment, then decided to follow the script. If it scared him, it was better to know now so I wouldn’t be wasting my time.
“He was in the rackets.”
Donohue didn’t seem surprised.
“Uh-huh. What was his game?”
“Jewelry stores. He worked alone most of the time or picked up local talent for a big job. He did all right—until the last one.”
“Yeah,” he said, sighing. “Always the last one. How did he get snuffed?”
“I didn’t say he got snuffed.”
“I know you didn’t. I guessed.”
“You guessed right. It was a jeweler with more balls than brains.”
“Wasn’t your man carrying a piece?”
“Were you there?”
“No. I was waiting for him back in the hotel. Bags packed and two airline tickets to New York. Ready to take off. When he didn’t show, I knew it had gone sour. So I came east just like we planned. Only I came alone. Jesus, I’m running off at the mouth. The vodka, I guess. I hope I can trust you, Jack.”
“I haven’t heard a word you’ve said.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“Freshen your drink?”
“Why not?”
When I reached for the drink he had poured, he didn’t release the glass. My fingers were around his. He looked into my eyes.
“Were you in love with him? The guy who got burned?”
“He was all right,” I said, shrugging. “He treated me fine. But love? What’s that?”
“A four-letter word,” Jack Donohue said with one of his brilliant grins. “You’re my kind of woman: no sentiment, no regrets, hard as nails.”
“That’s me,” I said.
“Let’s fuck,” he said.
“Okay,” I said.
He was as good as I hoped he’d be. It was far from the adolescent tumbling of Dick Fleming and the earnest ministrations of J. Mark Hamilton. Jack Donohue was a sword, as hard and as sharp, with demonic energy. He was a one-way lover, doing exactly what he wanted, what gave him the most pleasure. Which happens to be the kind I like.
Later, much later, we had a final drink in bed, talking nonsense in drowsy voices. He fell asleep before I did. I turned on my side to hold his long, slim, smooth weight in my arms. My forearm slid beneath his neck, my hand under his pillow. I felt the gun.
THE LORD’S DAY
I AWOKE SUNDAY MORNING in my own bed in Room 703 at the Hotel Harding. Awoke staring at that cracked and peeling ceiling, wondering if it might fall and crush me where I lay, a victim of too much realism.
Up, showered (cold, no hot water available), and into my tart’s uniform again. Reflected that Jack Donohue had been gentleman enough not to crack wise when I divested myself of wig and fore-and-aft falsies before climbing between his sheets. There were plenty of old, and bad, jokes he could have made but didn’t. He seemed satisfied with my performance. I know I was with his.
I ventured out into a rainy, bedraggled Sunday morning on upper Broadway—not one of life’s more exhilarating experiences. I had a small breakfast in a fast-food joint where both customers and staff seemed to be sharing the same large, economy-size hangover. Then I found a supermarket that was open and bought myself some drinking glasses, canned soda and tonic, a few dishtowels, paper towels, toilet paper.
I could have brought all that stuff over from my East Side apartment, but I was being careful to carry nothing on my person or keep anything in my room that might connect Bea Flanders of the Hotel Harding with Jannie Shean of East 71st Street. My driver’s license and credit cards were hidden under the front seat of the rented Ford. Other than that, there were no papers, letters, clothing labels, or possessions that might betray me. If Blanche wanted to toss my belongings, or even Jack Donohue, they’d find nothing.
Back to the hotel with my new purchases. Even though the room clerk at the Harding had warned “No cooking,” Jack Donohue had assured me I could get away with a small hotplate, so I had also bought two cups and saucers, spoons, and a jar of instant coffee. When hardware stores opened on Monday, I’d pick up a hotplate or one of those immersion heaters for making a quick cup of coffee or soup.
Then I went back down to the rented Ford and drove home to civilization. On the way, I stripped off the blond wig, wiped most of the guck from my face, and changed into a pair of comfortable loafers I had squirreled in the car. By the time I arrived on East 71st Street, I was a reasonable facsimile of myself. With my trenchcoat buttoned up to my chin, I was able to sail by the doorman with no trouble at all, and even chatted with a neighbor (female) in the elevator with no embarrassing questions asked as to how modest-bosomed Jannie Shean had suddenly become Wonder Woman.
Upstairs, alone, door locked, I treated myself to a hot, sudsy bath, a big glass of chilled chablis and, later, a decent breakfast: a sardine sandwich with sliced onion, half a pint of strawberries, and a cup of yogurt.
Then I called my sister and chatted awhile. Or rather, she chatted and I listened, saying “Oh?” and “Really?” and “Fantastic!” at the right moments. Finally, when she ran down, I mentioned casually that I might be going out of town for a few weeks, doing research for a new book with a St. Louis background, and if she didn’t hear from me for a while, not to worry.
“I’ll call you when I get back,” I told her.
“Call me when you get back,” she said.
That’s my sister.
I made a few additional calls of a similar nature to friends, and told all of them the same “may be going to St. Louis” story. Their interest was underwhelming. Then, having accounted for my absence, I got down to business.
When I told Dick Fleming that I would be coming back to the East 71st Street apartment occasionally to pick up my mail, pay bills, etc., it was the truth. But it wasn’t the whole truth. I came back to keep my journal, Project X, up to date.
That diary was the raison d’être, the only justification for enduring the discomfort of the Hotel Hard-On and the danger of conning the likes of Jack Donohue. I referred to him as “Black Jack” in my account. I thought it was an apt description of his physical appearance. And not a bad label for his membrum virile either.
I wrote steadily for almost three hours, then locked the ms. in my top desk drawer. Answered two fan letters, sent Con Edison their monthly ransom, and scrawled a few lines to mother Matty in Spain. Then back into my floozy’s costume again, and I sallied forth to resume the life of Bea Flanders, Master Criminal.
I discovered that getting out of a disguise is a lot faster and easier than getting into it. I had to pull into a parking area in Central Park for about half an hour before I had the wig adjusted and the heavy makeup applied to my satisfaction, a process watched with some amusement by a young couple parked in a nearby car. The hell with them.
I couldn’t have been back in Room 703 for more than three minutes when there was a knock on the door.
“Bea? Jack.”
I let him in. We were both very cool. No reference to our acrobatics of the night before. No passionate kiss, not even an intimate hug. We were both casual acquaintances. Maybe I was a bit hurt and disappointed. I don’t think I was, but maybe I was.
“Been out?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Buying a few things I need. Like drinking glasses. Now I won’t have to bother you.”
“Uh-huh. Hungry? Want to grab something to eat?”
“Sure. We’ll go Dutch‑okay?”
“What else?”
We walked through the drizzle, two blocks south to a side-street bar-restaurant called Fangio’s. It advertised “Oriental and Puerto Rican Food.” If that sounds odd to you, you haven’t been in New York lately.
Fangio’s was a basement joint, three steps down from the sidewalk. In the rear was a squarish dining area lined with booths. That’s where we went, to a booth against the far wall where we could see everyone who entered and everything going on.
I wanted a glass of white wine. I ordered a vodka on the rocks instead. Donohue asked for a double bourbon and grabbed the waitress’ wrist before she could get away.
“Ribs okay for you?” he asked me.
“Fine.”
“Two on the ribs,” he told the waitress, releasing her. “And heavy on the sauce.”
I looked around. The bar was crowded. Most of the customers were watching a football game. It was noisy, smoky, more a drinking than an eating place. The smell of stale beer and old cigars, a few framed photographs of horse races and ballplayers. Realism.
Donohue seemed distracted.
“Waiting for someone?” I asked him.
“Sharp
gal,” he said, smiling bleakly. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Sure you want me here? I can take off.”
“No, no,” he said hurriedly. “It won’t take long. A minute or two. You stay right where you are.”
I may have been imagining it, but I didn’t think so. I thought he was using me, that my presence was needed and wanted. I stared at him as he kept his eyes on the front door, inspecting everyone who came in. I didn’t think he was frightened exactly, but he was tensed, coiled. He sure didn’t look like a man expecting good news.
We were on our second round of drinks when Donohue said, “There he is.” He slid out of the booth, then smiled tightly and patted my cheek. “This won’t take long, Bea,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
He moved toward the bar to meet a man who had just entered. If they shook hands, I didn’t see it. The other man was short, squat, and smiling. My God, did he smile! Donohue grinned frequently, but this man smiled constantly. But it was more grimace than smile: a stretching of his mouth, a squinching of his eyes. It looked painful: a contortion of his features. You kept waiting for that frog face to relax, to melt into something easier and more natural. It never did; that smile was frozen.
They spoke for a few moments, both standing away from the bar, heads close together. Once the smiling man struck Donohue’s shoulder with his knuckles, a little harder than just a friendly tap. Then Donohue jerked his thumb toward me, and the short, squat man stepped clear to glance in my direction. I saw he was wearing a sweater under his suit jacket, no raincoat or topcoat. He had on a black leather cap, rakish as a beret. I thought he tipped the cap to me, but he may have been merely adjusting it.
Donohue put a hand on the other’s shoulder, patted him a few times. Then he turned, came back to our booth. He arrived just as the waitress brought our ribs.
“Pleasant fellow, your friend,” I said casually. “Always smiling.”
“Yeah,” Donohue said. “That’s what they call him—Smiley.”
“A close friend?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does he do?”
He didn’t look at me. He finished a rib, put the naked, gleaming bone carefully aside, wiped his fingers delicately on a paper napkin.
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