Card Sharks wc-13

by Stephen Leigh

  A longer pause. Brand sighed again. "When and where?"

  "I'll give you the details tomorrow at lunch."

  Thursday morning at breakfast, while Clara played with her oatmeal and blueberries and Brand read the New York Times Business section, I cupped my coffee mug in both hands and sipped at it, stared with burning, red-rimmed eyes out the window.

  The housekeeper had put fresh-cut tulips in glass vases on the end tables in the living room, straightened up a bit, and opened the windows. Fresh air and sunlight streamed in through the picture window; the hyacinths and lilies-of-the-valley in the flower box outside were in full, fragrant bloom.

  Too beautiful a spring morning can amplify one's misery.

  Clara tugged at Brandon's arm and stepped on Frou Frou's, our Llasa Apso's, tail, as he was lapping up the last of the oatmeal she'd dropped on the floor for him. Frou Frou retreated under the table, yelping.

  "Papa, will you take me to the zoo on Saturday?"

  Brandon didn't answer right away. Clara tried to scramble up into his lap, and in so doing tore a page of the Business section. Brandon scowled and started to chide her, but caught my warning glance. To assuage my own guilt, I had chewed his ear for quite a bit the prior night, over how he'd brutalized Clara.

  At any rate, at my glance he laid his paper down, picked her up, and wrapped his arms around her instead, and kissed her curls.

  "I have to work on Saturday. Sorry, Tookie."

  "Please? Please?"

  "Papa has to work," I told her. "I'll take you shopping with me instead."

  "It's all right," Brandon said. "Maybe we can go to the park for a while on Sunday. Well take Frou Frou along. OK?"

  She beamed, grabbed his ears, and gave him an excited shake. "Groovy! Then Maman and I can go shopping on Saturday, too."

  "Where did you pick that up?" I asked.

  "What?"

  "The 'groovy.' "

  "That's what Uncle Henry says. And Jessica says it all the time, too, when she talks on the phone to her boyfriend. She's hip."

  "She's what?" I asked.

  "Hip, Maman. In the groove."

  I gaped at her, flabbergasted.

  "That sort of slang may be all right for some people but it's not appropriate language for you, little lady," Brand said. To me he said, "You'd better have a talk with Jessica. And I'd better talk to Henry."

  I might have felt the same way myself, if Brand hadn't suggested it first. But the slang did sound kind of cute, coming from her. "It's just a word, for heaven's sake. It's not an obscenity."

  "Can we go shopping Saturday, Maman?"

  "Well see," I said, and smiled at her.

  Brandon's and my eyes met over the top of her head.

  "I'll be working late," he said. It occurred to me that I might as well have had Jessica set a place for Marilyn. She was right there at breakfast with us.

  "Of course you will," I replied, and sipped coffee.

  "I'm a friend of Patricia Wright's," I said into the phone. "Joan Moresworth van Renssaeler. We met last year at her Christmas party."

  "Oh — yeah, yeah. I dig." Franklin Mitchell sounded as if he didn't have a clue what I was talking about. He also sounded like a flake. Not a good phone personality; he'd made a better impression in person. "How's Patsy doing these days? Has she, you know, like, dropped the kid?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Has she had the baby?"

  "Oh. No. Not for several months yet. Listen." Through the open bedroom door, I saw Jessica and Clara playing with Clara's Barbie Dolls on the living room carpet.

  Jessica had been helping me care for Clara since she'd been born. She was a strawberry blond, at least forty pounds overweight, and had the most beautiful, freckled face. She was also Irish, but I didn't mind the Irish so much. At least they were Protestants, some of them.

  I dried my palms on my skirt, lowered my voice.

  "This may not be your usual type of job, but I need someone I can trust and you come highly recommended. I need you to follow someone and take some photographs. This afternoon. And possibly — well, the job may take a few days, before you get the chance to catch — exactly what I'm looking for — on film."

  "Yeah? And what's that?"

  My voice failed me for a moment. "Does it matter?"

  "Well — yeah. Of course it does. How'm I gonna, like, know if I got what you needed, if you don t tell me what you need?"

  "Oh. Well." I cleared my throat.

  "Maman, Maman, look!" Clara came running in, holding up her Ken doll. She'd put a dress on him and was giggling. "He dresses funny."

  "Amusing, dear," I said to Clara, and glared at Jessica, who entered behind her. "This is an important call; do you mind?"

  A sullen look crossed Jessica's face. She scooped Clara up and carried her back out.

  "Hello?" he said. "Hello?"

  "My husband is cheating on me."

  "Ah."

  "I want you to get pictures of them together. Lots of them. In bed, if possible. I'll pay you well."

  "I charge a hundred fifty a day, plus expenses. I'll get you all the pictures you need. Since you're a friend of Patsy's, you can pay on delivery."

  "Don't be surprised when you see whom it is."

  He chuckled. "Man, nothing gets to me any more. Not in this business."

  Over the next few days life carried on in a travesty of its old routine: Brand ate breakfast with us, went to work, stayed late or didn't come home at all. Clara seemed to sense that something was wrong; she needed a lot more attention and reassurance than usual. Jessica and I had difficulty controlling her.

  On Sunday after services, Brand stayed home all day. He paced the house like a caged wildcat. When I asked what was going on he told me to mind my own business. I grew afraid that he'd invited her over — that they were going to announce their intention to run away together.

  That afternoon he surprised me by keeping his promise to take Clara and Frou Frou to the park. Afterwards, while Jessica and I helped Clara press the flowers and leaves she had picked in the park between sheaves of waxed paper and then glue them into her scrap book, he spent a good deal of time in his office on the phone. I couldn't listen in because Jessica was around, and in the evening after she'd left he didn't make any calls. After we put Clara to bed he went out again, and didn't come back.

  Franklin Mitchell called on Monday rnoming. "We'd better talk. Right away."

  "I can't, not today. It's the babysitter's day off."

  "I'll come there, then."

  "You certainly will not! What's the urgency? Did you get the photos?"

  "I got more pictures than I know what to do with, man. Something weird is going down."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Listen," he said. His voice was strained. "Your old man is into some heavy shit. I don't know what it is, but this is more than I bargained for."

  I closed my eyes, strove for calm. "Did you get photographs of him with Marilyn, or not?"

  "I did. It was hot stuff, too. She's one sexy lady." He whistled.

  "It'd be nice if you'd leave off with the commentary."

  "Uh, right. Anyhow, you were right about them. It took till last night for me to get everything you wanted. You know," he cleared his throat. "Them together in bed."

  I couldn't bring myself to respond.

  "They spent the evening in a room at the St. Moritz," he went on. "I got some great shots from the fire escape. And then he left. I was going to split but then the chick started tailing him."

  His slang confused me. "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about Marilyn, man. She tailed him. You know — followed him. So I tailed her. We all took cabs to a deserted parking lot in Newark, where I lost her. But not your old man."

  "Oh?" This didn't sound like Brand at all. He hated New Jersey.

  "Yeah. He met a couple of dudes there. Heavy dudes, man. They went off and hid behind a wall, and then your old man stood around for a
while under a street lamp near this big graffiti wall mural. Then a fourth dude arrived and your old man gave him a big envelope.

  "And While I was taking pictures, one of the other dudes spotted me. He tried to kill me. He shot at me and chased me for several blocks." He sounded indignant. "I think your old man is messing with the Mob, or something."

  "Preposterous." But I thought about the odd conversations Brand had been having with Dr. Rudo. Card Sharks? A Mafia connection?

  Brand's recent court case, the one that had earned him a big promotion, had been a Fourth Amendment case, and the newspaper involved had reputedly had connections with the Mafia. But Dr. Rudo had been so nice. And so — so Germanic. It didn't seem possible he was Italian.

  "Look." No offense," Mitchell said, "but I want to unload these pictures, get my money, and say good-bye. You'll have to take them now, or I destroy them. I don't want any trouble with the Mob."

  I looked down at Clara, lying atop big sheets of yellow, green, and red construction paper with her crayons scattered about her and her tongue poking out.

  I didn't want her involved in this, in any way, no matter how urgent Mitchell felt matters were.

  "Patricia will hold them for me. You have her address?"

  "Of course."

  "I'll call her now and tell her what to expect. Seal the photos and the negatives in an envelope with my name on it and drop it off at her place. She can pay you. I'll get the photos from her and reimburse her tomorrow."

  Look at the hour. And I have to be at the Clinic at eight in the morning. I wonder if we could continue this some other time?

  No, no. I understand. There's not much more to tell, actually. It's just, this is all rather painful to recount.

  I'll make some sandwiches and coffee for you, then. I have a frozen pie in the freezer, too. And we'll get this over with.

  The photos; I was about to tell you about those. Patricia dropped the sealed envelope off the next morning, with an accusatory look and a cool greeting. I repaid her the money she'd given her cousin, excused myself from our shopping spree, and asked Jessica to entertain Clara in her room. Then I spent a while looking at the photos and trying to think what to do.

  Franklin Mitchell had indeed taken many photos. Brand and Marilyn at a cafe in the Village. Brand buying a diamond and sapphire necklace. A close-up of his hands putting it aroun Marilyn's neck. Brand and Marilyn eating a meal at I Tre Merli's. Marilyn, laughing, wrapping a scarf about Brand's head, in Washington Square Park. And about two rolls' worth of Brand and Marilyn frolicking about in various stages of undress in a hotel room.

  I had to give her credit; she had excellent taste in lingerie.

  And then there were the "conspiracy photos," as I thought of them. A long shot of Brand talking to two sharply dressed men who loomed over him. Close-ups of each. A blurry shot of Brand standing alone under a street lamp. Brand talking with another man — a short, dark-complected man, perhaps an Italian, with a thin, serious face. A close-up of Brand and the other man, with the envelope exchanging hands: the clearest picture of the bunch. A blurred human-shaped form in the foreground, with Brand and a piece of the big mural in sharp focus in the background. The blur presumably being the man who had chased Mr. Mitchell.

  I had the photos spread all over the kitchen table when Jessica brought Clara out for some juice and crackers. The first I realized they'd left the bedroom was when Clara touched my arm and asked if those were the photos of Papa I'd promised her.

  The thought that Jessica would see the pictures of Brand and Marilyn filled me with terror and rage. I swept Clara out of harm's way, held onto her arm as I came to my feet and shrieked at Jessica. Blocking her view of the table, I ripped her to verbal shreds for bringing Clara out of the bedroom when I'd said they were to stay in there. She was disobedient, I said; slothful and incompetent. It was all in keeping with her scatter-brained, Irish nature.

  She was no shrinking violet, was Jessica; she raised a few nasty welts, herself, about my brittle, supercilious nature. I'm certain she used the 'b' word at least twice, and she slammed the door on her way out.

  Instantly I knew I'd been a fool. In spite of my ways, I trusted and needed Jessica. I told Clara to stay right where she was, then yanked the door open and caught Jessica before she got to the end of the hall.

  She refused to be mollified. "I may not be some wealthy lady from Philadelphia, but that doesn't mean you have the right to insult me and treat me so poorly."

  And when I offered excuses she said, "It's a wonder to me a girl like Clara could have a mother like you."

  And she left.

  To my relief, Clara was humming to herself in her bedroom when I returned. She was playing with her scrap book and her Barbie doll and making up stories. I suppose she'd seen me like that often enough before. She told her Barbie not to be afraid, Maman sometimes just yells a lot. That brought tears to my eyes.

  I'd tried, oh, I tried hard to be a good mother to her. But whatever it was inside me, some reptilian beast, ugly and hate-filled, it just got out of control sometimes. I rarely lashed out at her, but even when it isn't aimed at them, children get caught in the crossfire. Poor Clara.

  Quickly, I gathered up all the incriminating photographs and hid them in the rolltop. Then I sat down on the couch and cried for a while.

  I sure had my custody case. No court in the world would refuse me a divorce, nor grant him custody of Clara over me. The trouble was I didn't know what else I had. What was Brand involved in? I was frightened for him.

  It can be hard to let certain feelings go.

  ***

  That evening I reached Jessica by phone and begged her forgiveness. She finally agreed to return, for a raise in pay and the full day off on Sunday, instead of just mornings.

  I took a sleeping pill and went to bed early, at the same time as Clara. I slept heavily. Brand must have come in during the wee hours. By the time I got up Jessica had arrived and was straightening Clara's room, Francine, our cook, was washing dishes, and Brand and Clara were eating breakfast. Clara gave me a hug and a kiss. Brandon didn't even look up, just continued to read his paper.

  On my plate was the New York Times, neatly folded open to page seven. I sat down and picked it up.

  The article exposed said, "Private Investigator Killed in Crossfire." Franklin Mitchell's body had been found in the south Bronx, full of bullet holes. It was believed he'd been caught in the crossfire, in a shootout between the police and a roving mob of looters.

  I looked up at Brand. He was watching me. All the warmth drained out of my body.

  "Jessica," he called, without taking his gaze from mine.

  She appeared in the doorway. "Sir?"

  "I wonder if you could take Clara to her room and help her dress? Francine, you, too."

  "I can dress myself!" Clara replied, indignant.

  "Do as I say. Now." His tone was much sharper than it needed to be. Clara's face started to scrunch up, but Jessica murmured kind words as she and Francine hustled her away. Brand ate a bite of his toast and made a pretense of reading the Business section.

  Numbed, I refolded the paper, then caught a look at the main headline on page one. I had a second shock. Bobby Kennedy had been shot.

  I skimmed the article. The senator had been gravely wounded early that morning at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, upon winning the California primary. On an interior page they had a photo of the unidentified gunman who had been captured by Kennedy's supporters.

  The man was the same young man as the one in the photos Franklin Mitchell had taken on Sunday, the swarthy man who had accepted an envelope from Brand.

  I looked up at my husband. He was watching me now.

  "I got an odd call at the office yesterday afternoon," he said.

  "Oh?" I'd had years of practice disguising my own weaknesses; my voice didn't tremble.

  "Mmmm. Patricia said you'd hired her cousin the detective."

  Patricia knew where the real power lay, b
etween Brand and me. She'd played it safe. Maybe even told herself she was doing me a favor. "Do tell."

  "Mmmm. She said you hired him to take incriminating photographs of me, for the purpose of securing a divorce and custody of Clara."

  "She certainly has an active imagination."

  "Doesn't she, though?"

  Jessica and Francine came out with Clara. Clara wore her peach corduroy dress. It had a felt poodle with blue rhinestone eyes on the bib over a white, short-sleeved blouse trimmed in lace. She also wore her white patent leather shoes and white stockings. Her dark hair was pulled back in white bows. I took Clara into my lap and buried my face in her dark chestnut-and-gold hair, which smelled of baby shampoo. I clutched her tight. She hugged back.

  "Your hands are cold," she said.

  "Go get dressed," Brand told me. I looked up at him, and my terror must have shown.

  "NO."

  "Yes. Now."

  We both looked at Jessica and Francine, who knew something was up but not what.

  "Are you going out, Maman?" Clara asked me. She'd put her hands on either side of my head and those beautiful, speckled green eyes were only inches away.

  "Yes, she is," Brand said, lifting her out of my arms. He handed her to Jessica.

  I should have fought him. I should have clung to her and not let him have her. I could have run with her; maybe one of the neighbors would have helped me. Someone would have helped me.

  I should never have let him take her like that.

  Brand took me to an office in a skyscraper down in the Financial District. Dr. Rudo was there, dressed in a different Nehru suit, a black one that made his pale skin and hair and his violet-blue eyes seem luminous in contrast. He greeted me in a way that made me shiver and shrink away.

  Brand said, "I believe you wanted to speak to my wife?"

  The room looked like a doctor's office, with the requisite diplomas and certifications. An overstuffed couch and cubist paintings on the walls made it a little less medical-looking.

  I thought about Dr. Isaacs's office, and what he had said about stress. I wondered if I was going to die.