Overwhelmed by my liberal colleagues who, in the privacy of their locked bedrooms, must have cursed the day while they publicly rejoiced in it. I could not believe – I still cannot believe – that in their secret hearts they yearned for that mad degradation of all standards. It had to be opportunism, that pedagogical disease, a yielding to the political tide, a readiness to yield all issues rather than have our buildings leveled by the invading Bulanga.
The liberals who finally saw the consequences of their political folly must have shuddered at it. I, who could have predicted those consequences, stood with those betrayers as their ally. A greater coward than any because so much less a fool.
In the end, early retirement. This one and that one and the other one. And myself.
Sauve qui peut.
Well.
Refuge elsewhere? A job elsewhere? Too late. Retirement was almost due anyhow. And my college
Very much my college. I entered it while it was still only a fresh addition to the city’s free system, was still without its own identity. I obtained one of its rare fellowships five years later in the depths of the Depression. I have served it all my working life. Home, sweet home.
Except for those years in the military.
But
In my youth I was intended for very private Princeton, not any public institution. My grandfather was Princeton. My father was Princeton. My grandfather with honors, my father spasmodically brilliant.
Then, as the silent movie captions would have put it, came the crash. October, 1929. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put together my grandfather’s portfolio again.
His in name.
Dapper Dan Kirwan’s in spirit. My high-flying stepfather with one trophy already in hand. Four-oh-nine Witter Street. Money coming from it as proof of his sagacity. Be smart, Hendrick, the stock market’s going right through the ceiling. Get in now. Never mind that Witter and Son is barely turning a profit. Up up up. Ninety percent margin. Get in now now now.
Crash.
Acceptance from Princeton in hand, I entered college in September 1930 and it wasn’t Princeton. It was Makeshift College, far from Princeton Junction, New Jersey.
But in time it did find an identity and – yes – a distinction. Yes. And I will say it myself, I served it well as those years. Served it very well.
And, in the end, betrayed it, betrayed myself, betrayed all decency. Kissed those plump liberal asses. Sat silent in the face of Open Admissions. More than that, manufactured excuses for it.
Did not even exercise the instincts of those geese who cackled a warning to the Romans that the barbarians with torch and sword were moving in to sack their city.
Utter betrayal.
And now, absolute atonement.
John Milano
TWO SWINGS OF THE BAT, TWO STRIKES. When DeLong Heywood, a sobersided lad never mind that golden earring, made his midnight call it was to report that the Tuesday Lorena was as pristine as the Monday Lorena.
“No action at all?” Milano asked.
“None. I got the notes here covers her from school right through to lights out. Want a run-through?”
“Not now.” Notes droned over the phone drew no picture in depth. “Tomorrow morning you and Gracella meet me for breakfast that place across from the office. Eight sharp.”
“No more Lorena?”
“Not tomorrow,” Milano said. “After that we’ll see.”
He got Christine first ring of the phone, and she took the news – or absence of it – dispiritedly. “Good one way, bad the other,” she said. “I guess the question is how bad.”
“We could know more after I meet with the troops in the morning. Meanwhile, how about Eugene Louis Boudin?”
“Oh, yes. That. I started checking through the files with that list of names you gave me, and so far nothing. But if it’s crates you want, Milano, we just got some great big ones in the gallery.”
“Only great big ones?”
“Four of them, all big. You said those Boudins went fourteen by seven inches; these things look more like fourteen by seven feet. And no West Coast. All Miami.”
“You mean Archbold’s being replaced by some new non-talent?”
“A Raoul Barquin. From Cuba, now lives in Miami. Rammaert’s very high on him.”
Barquin. Milano ran through the mental index and drew a blank. “Never heard of him.”
“This is his first major show. Anyhow, Archbold comes down tomorrow, and Barquin goes up. Opening’s Saturday.”
“I see. Now how about telling me all about it at lunch tomorrow? Some place out of the boss’s range?”
“No way.” It was decisive, but not hostile. “Tomorrow’s picture-hanging time right through.”
Since it had been decisive but not hostile Milano took his chances. “Dinner?”
“Well—”
“I could have more on Lorena. And you might be able to offer more on her too.”
“Man, that is clumsy of you, that approach.”
“Pathetic. I know. Dinner? I’ll be outside the shop in the car any time you name.”
“It’ll be overtime tomorrow – that’s really today, isn’t it?—so you can make it about seven o’clock. And just dinner, Milano. Got that? Steak and potatoes and good night, that’s the program. Read me?”
“Loud and clear,” said Milano cheerfully.
The good news Wednesday wake-up time was that there was suddenly slack in the waistband of his trousers, at least enough room for a couple of thumbs inserted in it to wiggle freely. The full-length profile in the mirror still didn’t show concave, but it was definitely no longer convex. Straight up and down was how it read right now, even without straining to suck in the gut.
The bad news was that when, full of self-congratulation, he joined the stolid DeLong Heywood and the pert Gracella Smith at the breakfast table in Sudie’s coffee shop across from the office he found he was in the company of a pair of World Class eaters. Bacon, eggs, and toast for openers; double order of wheatcakes, heavy on the syrup, as an entree. Milano, single scrambled and black coffee, sustained himself with the hope that sooner or later in their young lives both his guests would wind up permanently bloated beyond recognition. DeLong already suggested a metabolism in that direction. Gracella, however, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, had the look of one of those blessed who turned every calorie into instant energy.
They went through DeLong’s notes of yesterday, Gracella adding footnotes. He was exact and methodical, she was sharp-eyed and perceptive. A good team, Milano saw. For instance, it was Gracella who had gotten to the home-room teacher – strictly confidential, you know – and put together the picture of a change in Lorena lately. Last few weeks that is. Had been sociable, talkative, even if hot-tempered and with a tendency to flare up at teachers she felt were putting her down. Now in her classes she was withdrawn, uncommunicative. The silent one.
“And outside classes?” Milano asked.
“Well,” said Gracella, “pretty much the same. At least that’s how she came on yesterday. Steered clear of everybody. The action boys – older stuff, you know – they go for her all right, but she sure don’t go for them. Across the street – you know in front of that church there – one of them kind of put an arm around her, and, man, she reacted like a big snake dropped out of a tree on her. I mean she really landed on that dude. Landed that hand across his face as hard as she could.”
“Really shook him up,” said DeLong. He sounded as if he disapproved. “What do you expect? She walks around waving that butt at people—”
“Fact,” said Gracella. “But the way she turned off, that was the weird thing. I mean, too much of a turn-off.”
Milano said, “Anybody at all she seemed close to?”
“Not yesterday,” said DeLong. “School, then straight home alone. Into the house and stayed in.”
So they went back to Monday’s input. Monday, the subject’s mood had been a little brighter. Socialized
with some kids. A couple of the girls walked her up Bedford Avenue to Witter Street where she turned off toward 409. Into the building, then out again and into that big house next door. Out of there at four-fifteen and back home for keeps.
“A loner,” said Milano.
“But didn’t used to be,” Gracella reminded him. “That homeroom teacher said she used to be kind of a ringmaster for that circus there. You know, watching her I had a thought.”
“Yes?”
“Pregnant. Doesn’t show yet, but there’s that look about her, you know? I’ve seen it too much. The whole world on those skinny shoulders. And not letting anybody know why.”
And that, thought Milano, was all Christine and her mama needed. But it made painful sense. Knocked up, given abortion money by the stud, and using the money to dress herself up with instead of for the doctor.
Milano’s hackles rose. The old intuition.
Doctor.
But hell no. This one was a Ph.D., not an M.D.
Retired Ph. D. A widower living alone.
With binoculars.
Enjoying a Zeiss superview of a bedroom not fifty feet away.
And this was where you cooled it. Gracella had said pregnant, he had thought Peeping Tom, and all of a sudden he was drafting a presentment for the grand jury. But, in fact, he hadn’t actually seen binoculars any more than Gracella had seen a bulge in the subject’s belly.
He said to Gracella, “When the kid went next door did she just open the door there herself? Did she have a key to the place?”
“Didn’t have to. She pushed the bell, the man opened the door for her.”
“What’s he look like? Black or white?”
“White,” said DeLong. He flipped through the notebook. “About six foot. Skinny. White hair. Bathrobe.”
“Bathrobe?” said Milano.
“That’s what it was,” said DeLong. “Couldn’t get much of a look at him, but it was a bathrobe all right. Kind of tacky-looking, too. Seemed to me he was probably sick in bed and had to get out of it to answer that door.”
The bright-eyed Gracella cocked her head at Milano. “Seem like more than that to you?”
He dissembled. “No reason why he has to dress up for his hired help. But he is the only one we know so far who’s a connection between the kid and any cash money.” He turned to DeLong. “So now we do a little fishing. This subject’s name is Charles Kirwan, Ph.D. Used to teach at Borough College. Retired a few years ago.”
DeLong was scribbling in his notebook. “Backtrack him?”
“Start with the college, and handle with kid gloves. They must have a public file of yearbooks, college newspapers, faculty indexes. That could be a couple of day’s work right there.”
“Am I in on this?” Gracella said.
“Well, this kind of investigation—”
“Research. That’s just another word for research, Mr. Milano, sir. And in case you don’t know it, I’ve got a Master’s degree from N.Y.U.”
The tone was light, but she wasn’t putting him on, Milano saw. And experience with touchy Christine warned him not to ask why, with a Master’s, she was down there in the steno pool at Watrous Associates. But of course, as his high-achiever sister Angie liked to point out on occasion, he himself had kissed off three years of Fordham to go gumshoeing for a notorious shit like W. Watrous.
Kind of classy gumshoeing, but gumshoeing nevertheless.
So much for all the hard-earned money she had invested in him.
“I think,” Milano said to Gracella, “you just got yourself an assignment.”
“Well, all right. And after this one? Any chance of moving over to investigations for good?”
“It’s Mr. Watrous who—”
“Oh yeah. I already spoke to him about it. You want to know what he said?”
“I can imagine. So I’ll do what I can when the time comes.” He cut this off before it got really heavy and said to DeLong, “First thing now, stop off at the office and give Mrs. Glass this stuff so far on Kirwan. Tell her it’s a million to one shot, but if there’s any P.D. record on him, I want a copy of it.”
“Police record?” said Gracella. “You mean the police department’ll just hand you over something like that?”
“Not the department,” said Milano. “Some dear old friends of Mr. Watrous in the department. You see, he can come in handy now and then.”
Seven o’clock, Christine had said. Steak and potatoes. No problem.
He had half a dozen first-class steakhouses on his list; it was just a case of picking the right one for suitable ambiance and maximum impact.
But late afternoon, robustly giving Vesti la giubba the full treatment while soaping himself in the shower, Milano began to see problems, all named Christine Bailey. By richly pleasurable examination, most often covert, sometimes unblushingly open, he had, as the song goes, become accustomed to her face. Was even growing accustomed to her charms for that matter, a process which Daniel might have undergone with his feline companions in the lion’s den. But it was a vivid image of that face being introduced to the restaurant of choice that stirred uneasiness.
He had the list down to three possibles: Peter Luger, great old-fashioned style under the bridge in Brooklyn; Christ Cella, East Side luxurious; Gallagher’s, Broadway, but old Broadway. Now the vision of that face, lip curled, had him mentally tripping over the doorstep to each one.
The vision had a way with words too.
Brooklyn slumming, man? Just so’s I can feel at home?
East Side de luxe, man? You itching to show all these beautiful Caucasian-type people the black person you are making it with?
Fifty-second and Broadway, man? With all those soul-sister hookers outside that window to let me know how lucky I am?
Ridiculous, for chrissake, to emotionally revert to sideburned, leather-jacketed, New Utrecht High Johnny Milano who, surprisingly accepted by the dazzling Esther Hershkowitz as her Senior Prom date, was then unnerved by the thought that he’d have two thousand years of religious misunderstanding to contend with that night, misunderstanding being the polite word for it.
Really ridiculous for any mature, well-seasoned male to develop adolescent qualms. Next thing he’d be digging through the medicine chest for a tube of Clearasil.
Proving, if nothing else, that it takes a paranoid to make a paranoid. The bottom line? The Bailey person wanted steak, potatoes, and goodbye, and that was what she’d get. A strictly business dinner. No subtle working around to the question of your place or mine. Afterward, let her wonder why.
Which, of course, saved him the trouble of finding a hideout for some intimate garments of the recent Betty Cronin, now stashed in his dresser. Another case, Betty. Had landed on him with both feet for inadequate cause, given him troubled conscience, and had cut out just like that. No doubt, now forgiven her indiscretions by her doting dad, she was making novenas in Staten Island to shorten the sentence in purgatory.
Milano struck Peter Luger’s off the list and, with admiration for his own sensitivity in the matter – Christine in workaday garb might not relish being ushered into high-fashion company without warning – he struck Christ Cella off the list. So Gallagher’s it would be.
As it turned out, Christine, in workaday garb and bone-weary from a day’s work wrestling with Raoul Barquin’s oversized oeuvre, liked the Mercedes, liked the wood-paneled, sporting-life look of Gallagher’s, liked her steak and potatoes, and seemed oblivious to the white middle class theater-bound throng around her. She was also amused by her host’s having taken her steak-and-potatoes order literally when it was intended as hyperbole, and was openly curious about whether this spread was his treat or was being charged to Mrs. Smith, his rich and vindictive client. When Milano, weighing his response in one second flat, told her it was the client’s treat, she said, somewhat deflatingly, that she had certainly hoped as much.
No paranoia at all. Not even later on when Milano wondering about her long-term schedule – hers and hi
s, that is – brought up the question of Two Stops Before The End of The Line.
“Any chance it’ll reopen?” he asked. “With you?”
“Not with anybody,” Christine said. Bad part was, she went on, that playwright Pearl and director Lenardo had really been reamed by the situation, and to make it worse they were so goddam forgiving to her about it that it made her teeth ache. Getting a little hard to live with these last few days.
“Too bad,” said Milano soberly.
The sobriety might have been overdone. Christine gave him a hard look and said warningly, “All the same, that does not mean you now come up with any envelope full of green.”
“No envelope. But just talking about acting jobs, there’s a lady lives right upstairs from me got heavy theater clout. Off and on Broadway. If I got you two together—”
There went that curled lip. “Somebody I’d know about?”
“Could be. Since you’re in the business. Name’s Grace MacFadden.”
The lip instantly uncurled. “The Grace MacFadden? You putting me on, man?”
“Nope. But she’ll ask you to call her Grade.”
“And she lives right upstairs from you? Where do you live anyhow, Milano?”
“Right downstairs from Gracie MacFadden.”
“Very funny. But you want to know something. I believe you. Man, I do want to believe you. But what’s she got to do with casting? She backs shows, Milano, she doesn’t produce them.”
“It’s Johnny.”
“All right, it’s Johnny. Which does not answer the question.”
“Figure it out for yourself. You show a check for a hundred thousand to a producer, and he goes all over friendly. She’s no star-maker, Gracie, but she’ll get talent a chance at a part. And in case of a tie, she’s the tiebreaker. When it comes to casting a musical—”
“Oh?” Christine cut in. She opened her eyes very wide and held both clenched hands up high, forefingers aimed at the ceiling. “You mean like, hey man, it’s dat oldtime Harlem again. Just hear dem saxophones and watch dem flyin’ feet.”
The Dark Fantastic Page 14