“If I’m a pimp, what’s that make you?”
“I know what I am, you bastard. You’re the one with delusions of grandeur.”
I could have said, that’s not what she thought when she met me, but what would be the point? I left the room, going for the door.
She yelled after me. “You’ll be lucky if I’m here when you get back.”
I went out into the hall. I should have left for the lawyer’s before she got back. I had heard her go through that routine more times than I could count, but it was the last thing I needed this morning. No matter how much she got, she couldn’t get enough. An old man couldn’t satisfy a woman like that. But when I first met her, I hadn’t felt old. She’d made me feel young again, and I hadn’t realized what she was until later. I wasn’t any pimp, I’ll say that, but a man’s got to eat, and she was the only one of the two of us working.
I took the elevator downstairs to the lobby. Instead of pushing through the revolving doors to the street, I went into the hotel bar. The lights were off since enough sunlight was creeping through the Venetian blinds to strike just the right atmosphere. It took my eyes a moment to adjust. When they had, I saw that I was the only person in the bar other than the bartender, who stood leaning against his counter with his arms crossed looking as though he was angry at the stools. I went up to the bar. “Gin Rickey,” I said.
He pushed himself up, grabbing a glass in the same motion. He made the drink, set it on a paper doily, and stood back as if to see what would happen.
I drank the whole thing in one go. I immediately felt lightheaded, but it was a good feeling, as though all of my tension was floating away. I twirled my finger, and said, “Another one.”
The bartender stood for a moment, looking at me.
“Room 514,” I said. If Vee’s “friend” was paying for the room, he could afford a little tab.
The bartender brought my second drink. “Don’t get many early-morning drinkers,” I said, picking up the glass.
“It’s a bad shift,” he said.
“And let me guess. You worked last night too.”
“Until two ayem.”
I tipped my glass to him and took a drink. He watched me like we were in the desert and I was finishing our last canteen. I set the glass down, careful about the paper doily. “If you came into big money, I mean as much money as you can imagine, what would you do with it?”
He twisted his mouth to the side in thought. Then he said, “I’d buy my own bar.”
“But this was enough money so you didn’t have to work again. You could settle down anywhere, or don’t settle down, travel all over.”
“What would I want to leave Calvert for?”
“Get a new start. You said yourself you were miserable.”
“I said it was a bad shift.”
“Aren’t they all bad? Every last one of them.”
He put his big palms down on the bar and leaned his weight on them. “No, they’re not. Are you finished with that? Do you need another?”
I waved him away. “When you’re a kid, you know how you dream you’ll be a college football star or a fighter pilot? How come you never dream of just being satisfied?”
“I like tending bar.”
“Right.” I drained the last of my drink, and felt composed, at least enough for the reading of the will, even with Joe there.
“Kids don’t know anything anyway,” the bartender said. “What do you do, mister?”
“Nothing anymore. I was a writer.”
“Anything I would have heard of?”
“Probably not,” I said.
“You need another?”
I shook my head. I had a soft buzz on, and it felt good. It felt better than it should have. “Put the tip on the tab,” I said. “Whatever you think’s right.”
“Thanks, mister.”
I shrugged. “I just came into some money.”
“Well, thanks.”
I waved away his gratitude. It was making me feel sick.
I walked out of the bar and pushed my way through the revolving door in the lobby onto Chase Street. The August heat and humidity had me sweating before I got to George and turned south towards downtown. Calvert hadn’t changed much since Quinn and I lived here in 1920. Or was it ’21? The Calvert City Bank Building over on Bright Street that now dominated the skyline hadn’t been there, and there had been more streetcars instead of busses, but overall the short and stocky buildings of the business district were the same. I remembered when those buildings had seemed tall, after Encolpius was published and I suddenly had enough money to marry Quinn. Now Quinn was dead and Encolpius and all my other books were out of print and even Hollywood had thrown me out and my life would never be as good as that day here in Calvert thirty years ago.
I was one poor bastard. If I had known how much of our married life was going to be screaming at each other and trying to outdo the other with lover after lover, pill after pill, drink after drink, I would have—at least I hope...yeah, I would have called it off. Quinn knew how to make me jealous from across the room. It was only natural when I started stepping out. And there were the two miscarriages and then Quinn started bringing a bottle to bed and finishing it in the morning, so of course I did the same. It got to the point where I couldn’t think without something to get me going. We tried the cure, once in New Mexico, once in upstate New York, but it didn’t last long, and when we got to Paris, we didn’t care anymore, it was all-out war.
And then I met Clotilde. She set Quinn off more than any of the others. And when I began to sober up for her, Quinn left me. She told me I had a kid only after the divorce had gone through. Then Clotilde and I married and we were happy for a while at least, until we went to Hollywood, or maybe it was still in France... Anyway, she got famous, with thousands of men after her, and the public had forgotten me, so who could blame me when I had a girl or two on the side? No one. But Clotilde ended up in the the madhouse, and I was broke, and I borrowed from everybody who I knew even a little, and now all I had was Vee.
As I walked and felt sorry for myself, my mood sank lower and lower, and the effect of the alcohol wasn’t helping it any. How could Quinn have left me any money after all these years? Maybe Joe had asked for me to be there, but had been too ashamed to contact me directly. I was his father after all. I passed the C&O Railroad building, and turned into the Key Building where the doorman, with a big servile grin, followed me inside, skipping ahead to reach the ornate brass elevators before I did. “Good morning, sir. Where are you off to?”
“Palmer, Palmer, and Crick, to see Mr. Frank Palmer the senior,” I said.
He pushed the elevator call button and then pushed it again repeatedly. “May I ask your name, sir?”
“Shem Rosenkrantz. Do I need to be announced?”
His eyes flicked over, and he smiled and waved at someone who came in behind me. “Morning, Mr. Phelps.”
Mr. Phelps started right for a door that must have led to the stairs. “Sam,” he said with a single nod, and disappeared through the door.
Sam beamed back even as the door shut. How could a guy like that be happy, with a job pushing buttons and kissing ass? I guess some guys have to be that way, making everyone else feel bad because they feel so goddamn good. He turned his attention back to me. “Mr...”
“Shem Rosenkrantz.” The sweat was streaming down my face. The hand of the floor indicator swung counterclockwise, counting down the elevator’s progress.
Then he answered my question from before. “No need to be announced. I just like to keep track of who’s in the building. For security reasons.”
The elevator bell rang and the heavy doors rolled back. A man and a woman stepped off. Sam had fresh smiles. “Mr. Keating. Sally.”
They smiled and nodded and hurried to the door. I started to walk around Sam to get at the elevator. He moved out of my way, nodding his head. Then he leaned into the elevator reaching around to the control panel and he hit the button for floor eig
ht, the top floor. He gave me one last smile, and I almost told him Quinn was dead to knock that smile off his face, but I didn’t. “Eighth floor,” he said, and the elevator doors closed.
2.
The elevator rolled open on the eighth floor revealing the reception room of Palmer, Palmer, and Crick. The place had been redecorated since the last time I’d been there, brought into the 1950s, the walls paneled in dark hardwood, the floor a tawny deep-pile wall-to-wall carpet, and the clutch of waiting-room furniture upholstered in maroon patent leather. The two secretaries behind the high front desk wore headsets. The one on the left was talking into hers, while the one on the right offered me a professional smile.
“How may I help you?”
I stepped forward, not bothering with a return smile. It wouldn’t have looked right given the occasion, and there was no use wasting it on one of those office girls. They probably got the sweet talk from the janitors on up. “I’m here for the reading of Quinn Rosenkrantz’s will. Shem Rosenkrantz.”
“Yes, Mr. Rosenkrantz. Mr. Palmer is in the conference room just through these doors to the right.”
I drummed my hands on the top of the desk, then gave an awkward nod, and headed through the door. It had been maybe twenty years since I’d been to those offices for the divorce. Palmer’s son had still been in law school then, and now he was a partner. Crick had had only four other shysters under him and half of the eighth floor instead of the whole thing. I guess some people have to come up in the world while the rest of us go down.
The conference room was poorly lit. The same paneled wood from the reception room covered the walls, with gilt-framed oil portraits of the senior partners at regular intervals along the inside wall, each lit by its own arc lamp attached to the frame. The other walls were devoted to glass-fronted bookcases with uniformly bound sets of law treatises. I felt the moment of distraction I always get in a library, the need to look at the titles, to flip through a volume, to search out my own books amidst the stacks. But I knew that these books were dry lifeless things that held no interest to anyone but lawyers, which was perhaps more interest than anyone had in my own work anymore.
“Shem, Shem, I’m glad you’re here.” It was Palmer Senior, now almost seventy-five, crossing the room ramrod straight with the vigor of a man half his age. He took my hand in both of his. “I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances,” he said, and held my hand a moment longer than was necessary, trying to be discrete about smelling for liquor on me. So what if he did?
“Mr. Palmer.”
He gave my hand one more squeeze and let it go. “Frank. Please, Frank. And you look well,” he said, which wasn’t true. Then he stepped back and indicated the conference table. “Please, take a seat. We’ll start this shortly. It won’t take long.”
I stepped up to the table and put my hands on the back of one of the oversized leather armchairs. There he was, Joseph and a young woman whom I took to be his fiancée, next to each other on the far side of the table. They talked in a subdued whisper, Joseph purposely ignoring me, and that hurt. It wasn’t right, and it hurt.
It had been three years since he and I had spoken, four since I’d seen him at his high school graduation. He’d grown up; lanky limbs fleshed out, broader face, the hint of a beard or at least the five o’clock shadow that stood in for a beard. If I hadn’t known who he was, I would have said he was one of those angry young men who want something they’re never going to get and are just realizing they’re never going to get it, so they’re going to make the world pay for it. You see lots of those guys hanging around the corner or at the pool halls or the garage. But usually they’re not sitting on a couple of million dollars like Joe.
His fiancée—I’d forgotten the name she’d given on the phone two weeks before when she called about Quinn...that she... about her dying—the fiancée was a prim blonde, with an aura of wispy down over lightly tanned and freckled skin, a soft woman with which to make a wealthy life. She hazarded a look, and when our eyes met, she smiled despite herself, and that made up for Joe some.
In the back of the room, in the corner, not even at the table, sat Connie, Great Aunt Alice’s Negro maid. A stocky woman now in her late forties or early fifties, she held her large trapezoidal purse in both hands on her lap. She gave me a polite nod when I caught her eye.
“Now I’ve asked you all to be here,” Palmer said, taking the chair at the head of the table, “because you or those you represent are mentioned in Mrs. Rosenkrantz’s will in one way or another.” He took a machine-rolled cigarette from a silver case and lit it with a paper match. He waved out the match and tossed it in a brass ashtray, then slid the folder on the table closer to him. He opened it, and talked down into the will, and I sat down.
“I’m going to read the will aloud straight through, and I ask that you hold any questions until the end. We can go through it line by line after that, either together or individually. I want to urge all of you, no matter what has happened in the past, not to get excited here and make any decisions. These things can take time, and there will be time enough for any unpleasantness later.” He looked up at us without raising his head like a judge handing down a sentence. “Not that I expect any unpleasantness. This is a simple will, and to my infinite sorrow, there aren’t many Hadleys left as you can see here today.” He picked up the papers, and tapped them on end to straighten them.
Joseph sat hunched in his seat, his nostrils flared, a scowl cutting valleys that joined his nose and mouth and pushed dimples into either side of his chin. His bride, turned sideways, held his clenched fist with one hand and his forearm with the other, her entire attention on him.
Palmer started, “I, Quinn Rosenkrantz née Hadley, being of sound mind and body, do solemnly swear that this is my last will and testament signed on this Thursday the 12th of June 1941, containing instructions for the dispersal of my estate, both real and liquid, and personal effects. This will is to make null and void all previous wills and agreements...”
It went on like that for several pages, Palmer intoning the words in a rapid-fire monotone. There was an outdated section regarding Joseph’s custody should Quinn die when he was still a minor. I was named fourth in line after Quinn’s grandmother Sally Hadley, who had since passed away in ’45, then Great Aunt Alice, and then Connie Wilson, who shifted uncomfortably when that part was read, for it was surely meant to be a jab at me.
All cash, stocks, bonds, insurance policies, and other liquid assets—in short, somewhere around two million dollars—were to pass into Joseph’s possession if he was of age, and into a trust overseen by Palmer and the elder Hadley women if he was not. The house was also Joseph’s. Its contents, however, were his only after Great Aunt Alice had selected any items of importance to her.
As Palmer had stated, a simple will. Except for this. Should Joseph predecease Quinn, the estate would be dispersed as described, but with me in his place.
“...pursuant to the laws of the great State of Maryland and the United States of America. Signed, Quinn Rosenkrantz, Thursday the 12th of June 1941, witnessed by Frank Palmer Sr. and Frank Palmer Jr., Thursday the 12th of June 1941.”
Palmer cleared his throat and ran his hand across his lips. He took a drag from his cigarette and gathered the papers. There was a palpable and awkward silence. I was stunned. That Quinn might award me anything had been a shock; but that I had been in line for everything—it emptied my mind. But then, Quinn had all the reason to believe that Joseph would survive her. So maybe my place as the next heir in line was meant as no more than a gesture, a way of being the better party and lording it over me. And this was why Palmer had gotten me all the way out from the West Coast? He should have saved me the trouble.
The silence continued. There was an understanding that the cue had to come from Joseph. He had just been awarded a tremendous amount of money. But he sat with the same scowl on his face, his eyes straight ahead, not focused on anything, no doubt fuming at my position in the will. The fiancée, Conn
ie, and I all shifted in our seats, and Palmer cleared his throat again, which turned into a barking cough, and then he stood, picking up the folder in one hand and his cigarette in the other. I stood as well, and Joseph’s gaze remained steady, now somewhere around my belt.
“My secretary can have copies available for any of you later this afternoon,” Palmer said, and he walked around and put his hand on Joseph’s shoulder, which elicited no reaction. He leaned down, and I heard him say, “Joe. Are you okay?”
Joe said nothing. Yeah, he was a hard boy now.
“Joe, we should talk about a will for you at some point.”
Still nothing. Palmer appealed to the fiancée with his eyes, but she shook her head primly. He said, “Joe, we can do it right now, if you want, or you can set up an appointment with my secretary, but it’s important you have a will.”
Palmer looked across the table at me, and that woke me up, and I started to leave. As soon as I made it through the doorway, I heard Joseph say, “Not now. Maybe after we’re married.”
He wouldn’t even talk when I was in the room, my own son. I didn’t care what he thought I had or hadn’t done—and I’m not saying I hadn’t done anything, because you can ask anyone, I’m the first to admit I’ve done something wrong—but to not even talk in front of me, that just wasn’t right.
“Joe, a will...”
“When we’re married,” he repeated, and then I was in the reception area out of hearing range.
Palmer came out a moment later. “Shem.” I turned and he shook my hand again. “I’m sorry about all of this,” he said.
“Sorry about what?”
“Quinn’s dying. I’m not supposed to see you people dying. You’re supposed to bury me.”
“I’ll have someone remind you of that at my funeral.”
“It was spiteful what she did about Joseph’s custody. I advised her not to do it.”
“It’s a moot point now.”
The Twenty-Year Death Page 36