Do You Promise Not To Tell?

by Clark, Mary Jane

  “It’s all right,” said the man who bent over her. “It’s all right. You just had a fainting spell.”

  Olga struggled to get up on her feet. She held tight to the man’s arm as she tried to regain her equilibrium.

  “Thank you, mister. Thank you.”

  “Is there someone I can call for you?” he asked.

  “No. No one. I am all right in a little while.”

  “Do you live far from here?”

  “Just a few blocks.”

  “Then, please, let me take you home. You shouldn’t walk home by yourself.”

  Chapter 35

  Before closing for the evening, Charlie took the pink ham from the shiny glass display case and shaved off a generous portion. He filled three plastic containers, spooning in creamy potato salad, pickled beets, and rice pudding. He packed everything up in a brown paper bag, along with a couple of seeded rolls.

  He switched off the store lights and locked up. Standing out on the sidewalk in front of the delicatessen, Charlie didn’t have much to look forward to in the night ahead. Maybe he’d stop on the way home and rent a video.

  As he walked in the chilly evening air toward the garden apartments, he realized how much it bothered him that Pat had a date tonight. . . a date not with him. He’d be home, sitting in front of the television, and she’d be out with someone else.

  Well, it was his own fault, wasn’t it? He never got up the courage to ask her out for dinner and a movie. He’d watched her for years, admired her, dreamed about her. But he did nothing about it. Nothing to move his dream toward reality.

  So here he was, good old Charlie. Dropping off some food to the elderly on Saturday night.

  He knocked on Olga’s apartment door and waited. He could hear the faint sound of her slow, shuffling progress to the front door.

  “Who is there?”

  “It’s Charlie, Olga.”

  He heard the lock slide open as Olga unbolted the door. The diminutive woman’s old face smiled with pleasure and anticipation at the sight of Charlie and his package.

  “Ah, Charlie. I not know you coming tonight. You good man. So kind to think of Olga all the time.”

  As Charlie reached out to hand the paper bag to Olga, he looked over her head into the apartment. Before Olga closed the door, Charlie caught a glimpse of something gleaming on the table behind her.

  Chapter 36

  Pat noticed that she was taking too much time trying to decide what to wear.

  Six dresses were strewn across the gaily-flowered quilt on her antique iron-and-brass bed, and five pair of shoes were arrayed on the floor.

  It’s just dinner, for God’s sake. What’s the big deal?

  When Tim Kavanagh called asking if she’d like to have dinner, she’d only hesitated a moment before saying yes. It had surprised her how much she’d been anticipating the evening all week. Most times she found herself dreading new dates.

  Not that there really had been that many of them. She knew that she didn’t give out the signals that said “approachable” and “available.” Truth to tell, she usually didn’t want to get involved. It was simpler that way, which translated into “safer that way.”

  But it felt different this time. Pat laughed to herself. You idiot! What makes you think you are exempt from the natural human desire for the companionship of the opposite sex? Admit it. You’ve missed it for a long time. Too long.

  She’d narrowed the selection down to her black wool long-sleeved dress or her blue velvet cocktail dress. The black was always safe. She could dress it up with her pearl earrings and necklace.

  But the velvet was more sensuous and, frankly, sexier. It hugged her well-exercised figure. When she wore it, she felt decidedly more feminine.

  Go for it.

  On went the velvet. She fastened on rhinestone earrings but chose to wear nothing at the open neckline. She slipped on black suede high-heeled pumps over her sheer dark hose. As Pat turned before the full length mirror, she felt confident about her appearance.

  Farrell and Peter applauded when she came out of her bedroom.

  “What a bod, Pat! You look fabulous,” exclaimed Farrell. “You make me want to get right to the gym.”

  “Okay, you two. Thanks for the compliments to this nervous mother going out on a date for the first time in a long while. Farrell, you’re sure this is okay?”

  “Of course it is. You’re the one doing me a favor, having me out for the weekend after I invited myself. I’d feel terrible if you canceled your date. Go, have a good time. Peter and I will have a little dinner and then I’ll let him get back to Seton Hall where he should be on a Saturday night.”

  Pat went out into the cold March night and slid into the front seat of her eight-year-old Volvo. Tim had wanted to pick her up, but she’d insisted on meeting him at the restaurant. She always felt safer when she had her own car.

  She drove the thirty miles into Manhattan and miraculously found a parking spot on West 58th Street, a half-block from her destination.

  Tiny, twinkling white lights glittered, framing the entrance to Petrossian. Even in the dark, Pat could see the architectural ornateness of the building that housed the renowned restaurant. Amid the limestone gingerbread and scrollwork, bizarre little gargoyles perched on the walls, smiling or grimacing upon the people on the sidewalk below.

  You guys look like you’re daring me to come inside, Pat thought as she went up the steps, where an imposing doorman awaited her. She drew a deep breath as she entered.

  Inside, a small shop offered the delicacies for which Petrossian was known. Jars and tins of caviar, foie gras, and pâtés lined glass shelves, while packages of smoked salmon, sturgeon, and eel rested in glistening display cases. Truffles, Russian caramels, and vodka- and cognac-filled chocolates beckoned temptingly.

  Pat looked to the right, into the restaurant, and spotted Tim Kavanagh waiting at the art deco-style bar. She saw his eyes sweep over her and she could tell by his expression as she walked toward him that he was pleased. She was glad she’d opted for the midnight-blue velvet dress.

  Tim rose to greet her.

  “You look wonderful,” he whispered.

  “Thank you.” Pat felt the old tingling sensation, something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

  A navy-blazered gentleman guided them to their table for two. As Pat took her seat, she noticed that most of the other tables were meant for two as well. The restaurant was smaller and more intimate than she had imagined it would be.

  “Pat, would you like some champagne?”

  “Mmm. Perfect.”

  As the waiter, also attired in a navy blazer with the Petrossian insignia on his breast pocket, went to fetch the Charles Heidsieck 1985, Pat enjoyed the loveliness of the surroundings and the allure of her dinner companion. How delicious to be sitting there with a man she was drawn to. God, how she had missed it—the chemistry, the attraction.

  “How did you come to love all things Russian?” she asked.

  Tim thought a moment before answering. “I guess it was when I read Nicholas and Alexandra in high school. The whole thing about the Imperial family and the czarevitch’s hemophilia and Rasputin and the overthrow and murder of the Romanovs intrigued me. Also, about the same time, I saw the old Ingrid Bergman and Yul Brynner movie Anastasia, about the woman who claimed she was the youngest daughter of the czar and had escaped her executioners. After that, I was hooked.”

  Pat smiled. “You remind me of Peter. Once he started hearing stories from Olga, an elderly Russian woman who has become a surrogate grandmother for him, he couldn’t get enough.”

  The couple sampled Sevruga, Ossetra, and Beluga caviar, as Tim explained the differences between the Caspian Sea sturgeons that produced the tiny eggs. Pat selected a salmon with lobster sauce as her main course, while Tim chose a sea-scallop soufflé served with truffles and a pressed-caviar sauce. They sampled each other’s dishes, both declaring that dinner was fabulous.

  Over coffee, Tim reached
for Pat’s hand.

  “I really enjoyed myself tonight, Pat.”

  “I did, too. The food, the surroundings. . .” She paused. “The company.”

  Tim smiled. “I hope there will be more evenings like this.”

  “Me, too.”

  Chapter 37

  Farrell and Peter both ordered the juicy cheeseburgers for which the Iron Horse was famous, and sat back with their drinks.

  “I watched you and your mother today, Peter, and I admired you. I guess I should admit it, I’m envious.”

  “You—envious of us?” Peter laughed incredulously. “I can’t believe it.”

  “It’s true. You guys have a solid life. Your mom makes a living doing something she likes to do and she does it well. She’s raised a good son, and on her own, too. That’s a lot to be proud of.”

  Peter took a drink of his Coke.

  “Well, what about you, Farrell? You’ve accomplished a lot—you’re a television news producer.”

  Farrell looked at the train prints that were scattered along the wall over their table, trying to decide if she felt comfortable taking in so young a confidant. What would it hurt for the kid to hear a little about how the real world worked? “Peter, I think it sounds more impressive than it really is. It’s a job—or, at least, it has become a job. I don’t seem to have the enthusiasm I once did for it. Besides, it doesn’t look like I’m going to have a place at KEY News for much longer.”

  Peter listened intently while Farrell told him the story of what had been going on with her career.

  “The Fabergé story was just the final straw. It had been coming for a long time. I just hate to go out on such a defeated note.” Farrell finished off her wine and then turned philosophical. “Hey, look at the bright side. At least I ran into you and your mother again at that auction. It was worth going for that.”

  The burgers arrived. As Peter poured ketchup over his railroad fries, he decided to tell Farrell about the story of Olga’s Moon Egg. He’d known that something had to be done with the information. Maybe it was meant to be, that he entrust Farrell with the story. KEY News could investigate as well as the police. That way he didn’t have to drag his mother into it.

  Farrell listened to the story Peter told. Could she actually be getting a lead to a fascinating story from this college kid? She knew that news often came from unexpected sources, but the tale Peter was spinning for her now was so fabulous that Farrell was extremely skeptical—skeptical that the story would turn out to be true, and skeptical that she would have the good luck to have it fall right into her lap like this.

  “Peter, do you think you could get Olga to let us shoot some videotape of the Moon Egg?”

  Peter’s eyes widened and Farrell saw the Adam’s apple dip as he swallowed.

  “Are you kidding? In a million years, Olga’s not going to allow anyone to see the Moon Egg, much less a television crew.”

  “Look, Peter, it won’t be a big production. Just me and my cameraman, B. J. He’s a great guy. It will be very calm and we’ll be as unobtrusive as possible. We can do the whole thing in a half an hour.”

  “She won’t go for it.”

  “I’ll need this, Peter,” Farrell urged. “I’ll need some proof that another, real Moon Egg exists. Unless, of course, you could get Olga to turn the egg over to us.”

  “Not a chance in hell.”

  Farrell grinned sheepishly. “All right, all right. But if anyone can talk her into letting us have a glimpse of the Moon Egg, it’s you, Peter.”

  Peter looked troubled.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want to put Olga in any kind of danger.”

  Farrell’s expression turned serious. “I know you don’t. But the truth has a way of coming out eventually. And Olga won’t be in any trouble, she hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “What about her taking the egg from the Fabergé studio in St. Petersburg?”

  “Her father took the egg. And it was over eighty years ago. Ever hear of the statute of limitations? Who do you think is going to prosecute her anyway?”

  “How ’bout the Russians?” Peter offered.

  “I doubt the United States government is going to hand over a little old lady to Moscow.”

  Peter finished off his soda, his face brightening.

  “So Olga doesn’t have to be scared of going to jail?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “She’s sure gonna be relieved to hear that.”

  Chapter 38

  B. J. had a litmus test: Hogs and Heifers.

  If a woman could deal with a night at the biker bar in the heart of the New York City meatpacking district, there was hope that she would be his type. He was past the point of progressing through the series of dinners, movies, and concerts that was the traditional dating routine. That’s what he used to do to get his dates ready for the big test.

  Now he got right to it. What was the point of beating around the bush? If a woman couldn’t deal with Hogs and Heifers, ultimately she wasn’t going to be able to deal with him. He loved the wildness of the place, its total abandon.

  He watched Meryl’s face. It was inscrutable. What was she thinking as they maneuvered their way past the transvestites that strutted the streets leading to the bar? Did she realize that the heavily made-up, long-legged, booted and miniskirted creatures were actually men?

  A tall, thin blond approached them and arched a darkly penciled eyebrow. “Want some, honey?” asked the deep baritone.

  Meryl looked up at B. J. “You really know how to impress a girl, don’t you?”

  Outside Hogs and Heifers, dozens of Harleys were parked, their owners openly guzzling beer on the street. Passing through the black motorcycles and the sinister-looking, black-leather-jacketed bikers, Meryl took tight hold of B. J.’s arm.

  It’s working already, he thought.

  The couple entered the smoke-filled bar, the Allman Brothers welcoming them from the blaring sound system. Confederate flags hung on the wall. A long bar lined the left wall and, overhead, scores of bras hung from the ceiling.

  B. J. checked out Meryl’s reaction.

  “Charming,” she said sarcastically, but her dark eyes sparkled.

  The female bartenders wore bikini tops and short cutoffs, with cowboy boots and hats. Through megaphones, they jeered insults at the customers who left lousy tips.

  “Twenty-five cents? That’s what your mother gets for making out with the sailors when the fleet’s in.”

  There was nowhere to sit and B. J. was reminded of a packed subway train that stunk of stale beer, cigarettes, and cheap cigars.

  “Two PBRs,” he called to a bartender over the din.

  “Wow, you’re a sport, B. J.,” Meryl remarked. “Pabst Blue Ribbon . . . mmm.”

  “Come on, Meryl,” B. J. laughed. “Get with the program.”

  The bartender popped the tops of the two cold cans of beer and plunked them down on the bar. “Now, you gotta get three shots with that, bud.” She poured three jiggers of tequila, immediately swallowing her own. B. J. followed suit and grinned at Meryl expectantly.

  Without blinking, Meryl put away her shot neatly. “I thought it was illegal for bartenders to drink on the job,” she related earnestly.

  B. J. answered with an impish shrug of his shoulders, as if to say, Who cares?

  “What’s that over there?” She pointed. A pole with barbed wire at the top stood next to the bar.

  “If you can scale to the top, you get a free shot of tequila,” B. J. explained.

  “Clever.” Meryl took a long drink of PBR.

  “Come on, Mama,” the megaphone called. “Get on up here and drop that bra.”

  She’d heard about this place, read about it in the newspaper. A lot of young movie stars came down here to party with abandon. The bras of some of the biggest Hollywood box-office draws hung over the Hogs and Heifers bar.

  “Come on, now, yo! You, China girl. Get on up there and show off what you
r Mama gave you.”

  B. J. was watching Meryl for her reaction. Her face remained passive as she tried to ignore the megaphone’s demands.

  The bartender wasn’t giving up.

  “Come on, baby, we’re all friends here. Share the wealth with your friends.”

  Meryl chugged back the rest of her beer and resolutely placed the empty can on the bar. She hoisted herself up on the bar, and before B. J.’s admiring eyes, she began to sway in rhythm to the country-rock music. As the tempo increased, so did the gyrations of Meryl’s hips and the cheering of the crowd. From beneath her black wool sweater, she wiggled free of her bra and swung it over her head to the audience’s delight.

  When they left Hogs and Heifers an hour later, the stench of dead meat hung in the night air, and packs of moldy bacon lay strewn before them on the sidewalk. Meryl seemed not to notice, and B. J. knew this chick had passed the test.

  Chapter 39

  First Sunday of Lent

  It had been a long time since Farrell had been to Mass at blue-bricked St. Andrew’s Church, and she found it comforting this Sunday morning. Things may be unsettled in her life right now, but the church she had gone to growing up was pretty much the same as it had always been.

  Farrell crossed herself with holy water from the font at the entrance, said a silent prayer, and took a seat in a pew at the back of the church. As she rubbed and blew on her icy fingers, cold from the several-block walk from Pat’s house, she looked around. Nope. The old place hadn’t changed. Farrell could picture all those Sunday mornings that she and Robbie, uncomfortable in their good clothes, had been marched in by their parents. They alternately sat quietly and fidgeted, eager for Mass to end so they could get their reward at Purity Bakeshop, Farrell always getting the thick crumbcake, Robbie always choosing the chocolate creme-filled donuts.

  Chocolate had been Robbie’s passion even back then. Thirty years later, his breakfast of choice was Cocoa Puffs or Cocoa Krispies, cereals which he’d readily accept as lunch or dinner courses as well.