by Peter Quinn
The couple at the bar rose to leave. The man slapped several bills on the counter. “Half is yours, Carlos. The other half is to buy that fish a mate. I can’t stand watching him anymore. He reminds me of myself.”
The woman took his hand. “Come on, let’s fix that.”
“In a minute. First I got a song I want to hear.” He took some change from the bar and went to the jukebox. Nat King Cole began to sing “Unforgettable.”
Miss Renard returned from the ladies’ room. Her well-formed, high-heeled frame swayed slowly, almost as though underwater, half-floating across the ocean floor. Two men at the end of the bar turned and looked. She lifted the Scotch from Dunne’s hand and nestled the glass beneath her chin. “How about a night cap at the Stork? Only a short cab ride. I have use of Mr. Wilkes’s table in the Cub Room, a primo spot. We’ll be treated like stars.”
“This star’s battery is low. How about a rain check?”
“How about a nightcap at my place? I’m down the block, across Park.”
“I’ll see you home, but then I have to get back to the hotel.”
“What’s the rush?” She put the glass down on the bar with an emphatic bang.
“Have to pack.”
“Pack?”
“Going home in the morning.”
“Home?” She nearly shouted. Carlos looked up from the service sink.
She buttoned her coat, flipping up the collar with an abrupt snap. Dunne took her by the elbow and led her into the street. She pushed away his hand. “We have to start now. The deadline is impossibly tight as it is.”
“Boyle’s Law.”
“Life isn’t that predictable.”
“Tell that to Wilkes.”
“Don’t you think I already have?” She turned and walked away.
He caught up and fell in beside her, vapor of their frozen breath all that was left of the Coral’s mellow, enveloping mood. She hugged herself, head down, isolated pose directed, he surmised, as much at him as the cold. “Do me a favor,” he said when they reached her building. “I called your office earlier to have the clippings from the Crater files sent to me. Make sure they’re expressed to me in Florida.”
“My career is riding on this, so if I seem nonplussed by your taking a break before we even start, it’s because I am.”
“Business to settle, that’s all.” Away from New York, café moods, and the sense of being seduced. By who? Mulholland? Miss Renard? Walter Wilkes? Try to get perspective on the Crater case, on the sense he wasn’t seeing what must be in plain sight.
“‘Talented girl, but in a hurry,’ that’s what Mr. Wilkes told you, right? He says that about me to everybody. Well, tell me, who in this town isn’t in a hurry? And any hurry a man is in, double it for a woman. If I want to get where I want—where I deserve—it has to be now. For the Anna Resnicks of this world, a chance like this never came before and may never come again. I need this to work. Don’t be long.”
She turned and went into the building without another word. He went back to the Savoy Plaza along the north side of 59th Street. The Coral’s front lights were off. The green-electric glow from behind the bar, radiating through the window, made it seem one big fish tank. There were two messages at the front desk, both from Roberta. First was short: How was he planning to travel home? And when? Second was longer. Eddie Moran had called from Havana. Said it might be important. Want me to call him back with your number in New York? Or will you call him when you get home?
Dunne laughed to himself. Eddie was undoubtedly miffed his old pal didn’t show up at the Starlight Room to say hello, share a drink and some memories. That was the inviolable protocol with old buddies like Eddie. You were anywhere within a thousand miles and didn’t drop by, they got insulted. He’d make it a point to see him next time he was in Havana.
He turned on the TV and stretched out on the bed. After a spate of commercials, the late show of “Million Dollar Movie” came on: Force of Evil, with John Garfield. Though he hadn’t brought it up with Mulholland, he’d met Garfield once, a chance encounter in Danny Schwartz’s gym, where Julie—that’s what everybody called him—was sparring with ex-featherweight Jimmy Ryan. Garfield was back east before filming Body and Soul, which would earn him his second Oscar nomination.
Out in Hollywood, Jeff Wine had laughingly recounted the names of the tough-talking, square-jawed leading men who showed up early on the set so they could insert dentures, don hairpieces, squeeze into a corset and get comfortable in elevator shoes. Garfield wasn’t one of them. Everything about him was real. Though, well-built and nimble, he didn’t have much of a punch. Ryan went easy with him. Julie joked about it when he came out of the ring. “Jimmy coulda killed me,” he said. “Instead, he waltzed me.”
He didn’t have any airs either, especially for a Hollywood star. A shooting star, as it turned out, silver trail fading fast, incandescent halo of movie fame passing to his sullen heirs, Brando and that other brooding malcontent, baby-faced James Dean.
“Garfield came and went,” the joke went around when he died. Or: “Did you hear? Garfield was all set to star in a remake of ‘They Died with Their Boots On.’ The new title: ‘He Died with a Hard-On.’” The smirks and stories were legion. He died high in the saddle. He died smiling. He got stiff and stayed stiff.
Except maybe he wasn’t smiling. Maybe he’d lost his bearings. Maybe he was afraid. Maybe he was grabbing for what was slipping away and what was already gone. Maybe he died wishing he could have his prime back, wondering how suddenly the destination that he thought was ahead was in the rear-view mirror and there was no brake to hit and no way to turn around. Whoopi-ty-aye-oh. Maybe that’s what it meant to go the John Garfield way.
Dunne drifted off to sleep. When he awoke the movie was over and the station had signed off. The screen held a stationary test pattern in the shape of a Maltese cross. He got up and turned it off. He’d call Roberta first thing with his travel arrangements.
Part III
Girls! Girls! Girls! Excerpt from Variety, July 30, 1930.
Army of Femme Floaters
Wanderlust—Girls Go from City to City—
Never Stick in Any Spot—Employment Agencies Surprised
at Number—Girls Almost Always Broke
A horde of floaters—girls who never stay long in one spot but work their way from week to week or month to month from city to city—is flooding the country.
Employment agencies have been astounded by the number applying for positions. The male variety is no novelty, with employment agencies already accustomed to large bunches of them.
Agencies can spot the floaters by the manner in which the application cards are filed. Frequently girls are found who list their last place of business in Kansas City, second Calgary, and their last in San Francisco. They rarely ever stay more than three months in any city. Constantly on the go, in the majority of instances they say that they wanted to work their way to the big city, where they would stand a chance to get ahead.
Employment agencies express surprise at the type of femme floaters who apply for work, and the type of work and salary they will accept. Some are highly intelligent, speaking and looking like professionals, yet will work for $12 a week. This is because they are usually broke when they hit New York.
When asked how they manage to travel around as they do when they’re supposedly broke, the girls reply that they go any way they can, mostly by hitch-hiking. Hardly any of them report being passengers on a train.
Femme floaters in show biz are the natural and expected thing, but their numbers have risen steeply, and the numbers of non-pro femme floaters are now just as high if not more so. The agencies expect that as times get better, the tide of femme floaters will ebb. If times get worse, the opposite is anticipated.
Playa de Oro, Florida
“Turn back and seek the safety of the shore
Tempt not the deep, lest, losing unawares
Me and yourselves, you come to port no more.”
THE CRIMSON SUN’S PERFECT CIRCLE BARELY TOPPED THE DISTANT line of trees beyond the mist-covered marsh. A tumble-down barn came into view with its three-word question painted in tall white letters on the side: ARE YOU SAVED? Seen from the window of his sleeping compartment, the landscape and the question told Dunne the train’s nighttime progress had brought them to South Carolina or Georgia. A moment later, another barn-side message added a note of urgency undoubtedly intended for fast-moving trainloads of unredeemed and/or unredeemable travelers: HELL IS REAL!
It was afternoon when the train pulled into its destination. A long line of autos was lined up by the tracks. Roberta was in the shade on the platform. White straw hat. Green silk blouse. White silk skirt. She took a small oval mirror from her purse, pouted her lips, applied fresh lipstick, put it away and chatted with two women standing nearby. Framed in the window, the trio of stylish middle-aged women could have been posed for a picture spread in Life or Look (soon, maybe, Snap) on, say, “America’s Weekday Widows” or “The New Immigrants: Northern City Folk Head to Southern Suburbs.” Whatever title they put on it, Roberta was by far the most youthful and attractive of the three.
Dunne removed from his wallet the handwritten note that had been waiting for him at the front desk when he checked out of the Savoy Plaza. He read it again:
Dear Fin,
Sorry if I seemed rude. I had a wonderful time, but it came at the end of a long, trying day. (They’re all that way in the House of Wilkes!) I’m afraid I behaved badly. Forgive me. I’m already looking forward to your return. I know we’ll make a great team!
Fondly,
Nan
P.S. The files you requested are on their way.
He folded the note in half, quarters, tore it into pieces and dropped it in the ashtray.
On the way out, waiting for the conductor to open the car door, Dunne faced a portly, sixty-ish man with a carefully tended head of silver hair he recognized immediately from the Savoy Plaza. Parading through the lobby, Mr. Silverhair’s attention had been absorbed by the tall twenty-something redhead in an elegant mink coat hanging on his arm. She kissed him behind the ear and whispered something that made him smile.
Now, companionless, he glowered impatiently at the train car door and gave Dunne the slender, minimally cordial smile exchanged between travelers who’d never seen each other before (he thought) and expected never to see each other again. First to exit, he threw his coat over his shoulder, dashed past the porter and made a showy embrace of one of the women chatting with Roberta.
Roberta drove off with the top down. They rode beneath a canopy of stately trees. Hat off, eyes closed, he lifted up his face to bathe in palm-flickered light. If Crater had engineered his own disappearance, if he’d made it out with spoils enough to start a new life somewhere, he probably wouldn’t hole up in the hills or in the rear of a basement apartment with the shades drawn. More likely, he’d hide in public, using as disguise the general indistinguishability of stout silver-haired gents populating every part of the country, moving amid a ceaseless flow of strangers with the well-tested assurance that if people see what they expect to see in the context they expect to see it—milkman at their door in the morning, boy entering the bus with his school bag, silver-haired sugar daddy with young honey in the lobby of the Savoy Plaza—they really don’t see anything at all.
Steering with her left hand, Roberta reached with her right and gently squeezed his fingers. “Why so quiet? Aren’t you glad to be home?”
“Who’s that woman you were talking to?”
“Which one? I was talking with two.”
“The one whose husband gave her the bear hug.”
“Louise Wilson.”
“What’s her husband do?”
“He’s an executive at Florida Gas & Electric. Obvious he’d missed her, wasn’t it?”
“Sorry. Silly question.” He knew she was miffed at his abrupt tone. He put his hand over hers.
“Your hand’s cold.” She pulled hers away.
“Still in my New York mode. Cold place, getting colder.” The reflexive coil that had settled in his bones, sunk into shoulders, and pulled shoulders toward chest, seemed to loosen. He flexed his knee.
“Maybe it’s not New York. Maybe the blood doesn’t flow to the extremities the way it once did.”
“Depends on which extremity you mean.” He moved his hand to her leg, fingering the fine silk, bump of garter snap beneath. Would the time come when such things had no effect? Could be. But not yet. “How about we get the blood flowing again?”
“Dancing?”
“That’s one way.”
They tried another when they reached home. He enjoyed the leisurely familiarity and practiced intimacies of their lovemaking, except for the consummate moment, when he closed his eyes and saw Adrienne Renard’s face, a vivid illusion, more startling than arousing, almost interrupting his momentum, though Roberta didn’t seem to notice.
Afterwards, he swam in their re-filled, renovated pool. Roberta had surrounded the entire area with a high fence so they could swim nude, which on occasion they both enjoyed. She made dinner. They ate on the patio. “Eddie Moran called again. Guess you never called him back.”
“I will. But it was a rush in New York, and I didn’t have a chance.” He gave an abbreviated version of what transpired in New York, adding that the higher-ups at ISC were pleased he’d taken the case, which they would most definitely not be if Pully got around to mentioning it to them. Miss Renard, a young go-getter, was in charge. She seemed to know what she was doing.
“It’s nice to hear a girl can make a career for herself in a business like that.” She paused and took a sip of water. “But are you sure that business is the only motive?”
Her question came across to Dunne as an accusation. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He didn’t try to hide his resentment.
“Maybe she has other motives, as well.”
“For instance?”
“You won’t know until you look into the case, will you?” Her tone of resentment matched his.
“No, I won’t.”
“And you’ll be headed back to New York, no doubt, as soon as possible.”
“The newspaper files are being shipped here. As soon as they arrive, I’ll get started reading. Once I’m done, I’ll head back.”
“The files arrived this morning. They’re in the living room.”
“You’re just telling me now?”
“Sorry. I thought we could enjoy some time together before you got back to work.” She threw her napkin on the table and went inside. The bedroom door closed with a loud slam.
He cleaned the table and washed the dishes. After he was done, he opened the boxes piled on the coffee table in the living room. Inside were stacks of cardboard clipping books from all the major New York papers—Standard, News, Mirror, Times, Journal, World, et al.—filled with chronologically arranged, day-by-day accounts of the Crater disappearance and investigation. As he lifted one of the books, a square piece of paper slipped from it and fluttered to the carpet. Joe Crater’s face stared up at him.
Dunne recognized the paper as one of the police flyers that had flooded the city. They’d been everywhere, strewn across sidewalks, parks, subway cars, barrooms, lunch counters, until interest waned and they were shredded for ticker-tape parades, or used for scrap paper, or turned into toy boats, paper hats and sun visors. Several years later, on an outing to Coney Island, Dunne ordered a beer and French fries. Half-finished with the fries, he noticed that instead of newspaper, the paper cone in which they came was a rolled-up police flyer. A dollop of ketchup obliterated half of Crater’s head.
Dated September 8, 1930, the bare-bone facts of the case were headlined above and below Crater’s picture:
MISSING SINCE AUGUST 6, 1930
Honorable Joseph Force Crater
Justice of the New York State Supreme Court
A brief description fol
lowed of what Crater looked like and what he was wearing:
Born in the United States – Age, 41 years; height, 6ft.; weight, 185 lbs.; mixed gray hair, originally dark brown, thin at top, parted in the middle and slicked down; complexion, medium dark, considerably tanned; brown eyes; false teeth, upper and lower jaw; tip of right index finger somewhat mutilated, due to having been recently crushed.
Wore brown sack coat and trousers, narrow green stripe, no vest; either a Panama or soft brown hat worn at rakish angle, size 6 5/8, unusual size for his height and weight. Clothes made by Vroom. Affected colored shirts, size 14 collar, probably bow ties. Wore tortoise-shell glasses for reading. Yellow gold Masonic ring, somewhat worn; may be wearing a yellow gold, square wristwatch with leather straps.
The black-and-white photo of Crater looked as if it had been taken as an official campaign portrait. Along with parting his hair in the middle, he sported the high, stiff, celluloid collars that were mostly out of fashion by 1930. The hair style and collar gave him a passing resemblance to the president at the time, Herbert Hoover, who had the same passé fashion sense and was also destined for obscurity, though without the mystery that surrounded Crater.
In the photo, Crater stared resolutely at the camera. He had a fleshy face, not fat, but headed that way, and a sharp, triangular nose. The stern, properly judicial pose was belied by the smile creeping out from the corners of his mouth as though he’d shared a small joke with the photographer the instant before the flash went off, and by the bulging, almost frog-like prominence of his eyes. His brown pupils were two black dots. The hint of a smile didn’t come close to revealing his false teeth.
The overall effect was of a man ten to fifteen years older than his stated age of forty-one, an impression probably the result of a deliberate effort on Crater’s part to project the gravity and experience of a justice of the State Supreme Court appointed to fill an interim term and set to run for a full fourteen-year term the following November. Dunne guessed that this was the source of the phantom smile, a quick aside shared with the photographer, I want to look grave, but not like I just came out of one!