by George Baxt
Keep holding onto me like that, thought Singer, and we just might graduate beyond a mere friendship.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Parker was guiding Woollcott toward Central Park West. Woollcott, not having had his lunch, was feeling both peckish and cranky. “Where are we going?” he demanded.
“I thought we might drop in on Marc Connelly.”
“He loathes being dropped in on, especially when he’s working.”
“How do you know he’s working?”
“He mentioned at lunch yesterday he was starting work on a new play. The Wisdom Tooth didn’t do too badly for him this season, considering he wrote it on his own and without Kaufman.” In 1921, Kaufman and Connelly had collaborated on Dulcy, which, with Lynn Fontanne in the title role, became a smash hit and started the writers on the road to fame and fortune. “And talk about lunch, I’d like some right now.” He referred to his pocket watch. “Good God, it’s almost three o’clock. I must be famished.”
“Connelly will make you a sandwich.”
“I don’t want a sandwich! And supposing he’s not in?”
“Connelly wouldn’t lie about working. He’s so dedicated. It makes me ill just thinking about it.” Mrs. Parker’s own inclination to avoid working at any cost was a familiar aberration to her friends and employers. “I don’t understand disciplined people, or the compulsion to be creative. I did so enjoy being kept by Richman. He was so generous, but such an obstinate ass. God knows I’m well rid of him.” She turned on Woollcott angrily. “Why did you have to bring it up?”
“What the hell are you angry at me for? You’re the one who’s running off at the mouth. How far are we from Connelly’s anyway? I’m ravished!”
Marc Connelly’s apartment house faced Central Park. The doorman announced the intruders over the intercom and both got the feeling they were being welcomed up with reservations. When Connelly opened the door to them, they could tell by the look on his face that their first instinct was correct. “We just happened to be in the neighbourhood and thought you’d be glad if we dropped in,” said Woollcott suavely as he led the way into Connelly’s comfortable living room. The French windows had been thrown open to greet any trace of a breeze. Connelly was mopping his bald head with a handkerchief.
“And exactly what are you doing in this neighbourhood?”
“We thought we’d pop in for a look at Valentino, but al the performances are sold out. Woollcott’s not had any lunch, sweetheart; can you offer him anything substantial^
“Unlike your recent play,” added Woollcott.
“I can offer you hemlock,” said Connelly, trying hard not to clench his teeth. “The kitchen is this way.” They followed him into the kitchen where the sink was piled high with unwashed dishes.
“This is as bad as my place,” commented Mrs. Parker Then espying the pile of dishes asked, “What in God’s name is that?"
“A challenge.” Connelly was rummaging in the icebox. “There’s some cold chicken.” He squinted. “At least it looks like cold chicken.”
“Let me have a look.” Mrs. Parker gently pushed Connelly to one side. Connelly fought hard to control his temper.
Woollcott glared at Connelly, who stood staring at Mrs Parker’s backside while clenching and unclenching his fists “Instead of standing around resembling an infected hangnail, you might busy yourself with a shaker of martinis.”!
“Why don’t you both go to hell!” Connelly exploded as he stormed back to the living room.
“He’s got to learn to control that temper,” said Mrs Parker as she carried plates of leftovers to a table.
Ten minutes later in the living room, the atmosphere was friendlier as they toasted each other’s health, and Connelly sank into an overstuffed armchair to watch the other two gorging themselves on chicken and salad. While chewing, Mrs. Parker asked the playwright, “How well do you know Lacey Van Weber?”
“Van Weber? Don’t know him well at all. Met him once about ten days ago. I was taken to a party at his penthouse on Central Park South.” He shifted in his seat. “As a matter of fact, Valentino was there with that Hungarian beauty of Ziegfeld’s. There was an unfortunate ruckus. Valentino took umbrage at Dr. Horathy. Can’t say I didn’t blame him. Unctuous creature, Horathy. Valentino accused him of all sorts of awful things involving the illegal prescribing of narcotics. And sadly enough, that’s where Valentino took ill.” Then suspiciously, “Why this interest in Van Weber?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Parker, “I read this article about him in the Graphic.”
“How could you read that nasty sheet?”
“A minor vice. Anyway, he interested me as a character. There’s something terribly familiar about the reporter’s description of his life style.”
“Tippecanoe and déjà vu.”
“Alec, that’s contemptible.” She returned her attention to Connelly. “Familiar in the sense that I seem to have seen his mansion in East Cove described in a similar context. Marc, am I getting through to you?”
“Like a saber thrust. It was Lily Robson who took me to the party.”
Mrs. Parker feigned innocence. “Lily Robson?’
“She’s one of Texas Guinan’s girls.”
“I didn’t know you went for that kind of thing.”
“She isn’t a ‘thing’; she’s a terribly lovely, terribly charming young woman. She has a delicious sense of humour and laughs at all my jokes. Yes, I go for that kind of thing. I’ll go for anything that doesn’t slip through my fingers and says ‘yes’ often enough. Are you finished eating? Good! Now do you mind clearing up after yourselves. My housekeeper’s on vacation.”
“I get the feeling you want us to leave,” said Woollcott peevishly.
“I didn’t want you to arrive.”
Mrs. Parker took the tray of soiled dishes and silver ware to the kitchen. Connelly fixed Woollcott with the look of a hanging judge. “What are you two after?”
“Why are you always so suspicious?”
“Why do you always answer a question with a question?”
Mrs. Parker returned. “You have roaches.”
Connelly got to his feet and bowed deeply. “Good afternoon, good friends. I have an assignation with my writing desk.” Mrs. Parker went to him and held his head between | her hands, kissing him lightly on his bald pate..
“Thank you for being such a deadly dull host, and for the new martinis and the old chicken. Now we owe you one. Come, Alec, enough of this intrusion.” Woollcott followed her out of the apartment.
At the elevator he asked her, “What did all that gain us other than a perfectly horrendous lunch?”
“He corroborated Ilona Mercury’s story of the Valentino fracas.”
“Had you thought she was lying.”
“That sort frequently does. They have to. They lead so many lives. Their own and that of the men who go for them. Well, at least we know Kaufman got the story straight from the hussy’s mouth.” In the street, she said to Woollcott, “Is it difficult to get tickets to No Foolin’?”
“In August it isn’t difficult to get tickets to anything And anyway, the show’s been doing only so-so since its opening in June. I panned the hell out of it.”
“Maybe you’ll like it better a second time.”
“I have absolutely no intention of attending that rubbish again. On the street they call it ‘Ziegfeld’s Folly.’”
“Ilona Mercury was in the show. She shared a dressing room with the other showgirls. Showgirls talk a lot. Often indiscreetly.”
Woollcott stopped walking, put his hands on his hips and peppered Mrs. Parker with some verbal buckshot. “Didn’t that detective person tell us to lay off until the body’s found and positively identified?”
“He most certainly did and we have been laying off.”
“Bearding Connelly about the party, tickets for No Foolin’, that’s laying off?”
“Connelly is a dear intimate friend and we just happened to drop in on him. Actually, I was hoping h
e did know Van Weber personally and might bring us together. But isn’t that what detecting work is all about? A blind alley here, a bum steer there. And as for the show, I didn’t intend us to see it tonight. Tomorrow night, though. By tomorrow night I should think Canarsie will have revealed its sordid secret and the poor thing will be properly identified in blazing tabloid headlines. Oh, Alec, I’m having such a good time and I need a good time so badly. I’ve had so many bad times and I’m only thirty-three. And look at all the material you’re gathering for your article. It’ll be such a swell article, too. You’ll have Harold Ross begging you to let him have it for The New Yorker. Or something.”
“I’m such a softhearted, sentimental old fool,” snapped Woollcott. “Indulging you is like making love to a cobra. All right. Tomorrow night. No Foolin’."
“And by then we’ll have thought of some clever reason to go backstage and cross-examine the showgirls. Oh, before I forget, how well do you know Polly Adler?”
Woollcott drew himself up haughtily. “How dare you suggest I would consort with the madam of a whorehouse?”
“I’ve been told she’s quite petite, just like me. Actually, I’ve been thinking of doing a study of prostitutes and what better place to start than at Polly’s house. She might introduce me to Vera DeLee.”
“Who?”
“Vera DeLee. The one who was at Van Weber’s party with Judge Crater.”
“You’re moving too fast,” Woollcott cautioned her.
“I’m just going out to scout the territory.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Woollcott with a change of tone of voice. “Here we are at Columbus Circle, practically) at your doorstep. I’ve walked a distance without realizing it.”
“See how some things can creep up on you. Want to come up for a drink?”
“No, thank you. I shall hail a taxi and head home to West Forty-seventh Street.” Woollcott shared a brownstone with Harold Ross and his wife, Jane Grant. They were an incompatible threesome, but Woollcott chose to ignore all unsubtle hints he seek other quarters until a change was convenient for him. “I’ll phone you later. We’ll plan to dine after the theatre tomorrow night.”
“Perhaps we can ask one of the girls along.”
“Which one?”
“The one who can tell us the most about Ilona Mercury.” She blew him a kiss and hurried towards Fifty-seventh Street, leaving him waving frantically for a taxi.
The phone began ringing as she inserted the key in the lock. The ringing persisted until she had the door open, removed the key, kicked the door shut and almost stumbled on a scatter rug getting to the instrument.
“Hello?”
“Dorothy Parker!” raged the voice at the other end. She recognised Harold Ross.
“You don’t have to shout, Harold. I know my name.”
“Your copy is two days overdue. You have been nowhere near this office for days since you got back from Europe.”
“That’s not true. I was there just the other morning, but somebody was sitting on the chair.”
“I’m cutting off your drawing account!”
“Harold, do you enjoy going through life abusing women? I’ve just gotten home. I’m hot and tired. I need a bath and a drink in no particular order. I’ve had a very trying day and if you’ll leave me alone, I’ll finish the copy tonight and drop it off at the office in the morning.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t blame you.” She heard something rude from the other end of the wire and then they hung up simultaneously. She removed the suffocating cloche from her head and flung it onto a table. She entered the bathroom to run the bath. Once the taps were opened, she stared at her decorated wrists, sat on the throne and burst into tears.
An hour later, Horace Liveright of the publishing firm of Boni and Liveright, who were preparing to issue Dorothy Parker’s collection of verse, Enough Rope, was delighted when his secretary told him Mrs. Parker was in the office wondering if she could see him. Liveright personally went to the outer office to escort Mrs. Parker into the inner sanctum. He greeted her with outstretched hands. “Dear, dear Dorothy, how good to see you.”
“My, don’t you look well, Horace!” exclaimed Mrs. Parker as she selected one of the outstretched hands and shook it gently. She preceded him into his office and sat in the easy chair facing his desk. Once he was settled he asked her if she wanted a drink. “In a few minutes.”
“Now to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Horace. A little while ago I was soaking in my tub wondering how to get an introduction to someone who must certainly be a very sought after man about town, when it suddenly occurred to me … Horace Liveright!”
“You already know me.”
Wit, Mrs. Parker reminded herself, was never Liveright’s strong point. “I know I know you, Horace, but I don’t know Lacey Van Weber, and that’s the man I want to meet.”
All trace of joviality left Liveright’s face. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to meet him?”
“Why do you sound so sombre?”
“Why did you think I’d know him?”
“Because you seem to know everybody. You travel , the best circles. You’re the scion of one of our best families, “Van Weber isn’t.”
“Oh, come on now, Horace, stop acting like a curmudgeon.”
“Why are you interested in him?”
Mrs. Parker gave him her story about the article in the Graphic. “The story fascinated me more for what it didn’t tell than for what was printed.”
“And what do you think it didn’t tell?”
“That’s what I want to find out. I kept missing too much between the lines. There’s a good story in that man, and I’ve convinced Harold Ross that The New Yorker ought to run an in-depth piece on him. After all, that’s what the magazine’s supposed to be all about, New York and New Yorkers, and he’s a New Yorker, right?” She knew Liveright and Ross knew each other slightly, and any likelihood of Liveright’s uncovering her lie was remote. “And frankly, I need the money.”
“I’ll be glad to lend you whatever you need.”
“Oh, no, Horace, you’ve already been more than generous with your advance on Enough Rope. Now I’d like to earn some money honestly.”
“I don’t like Lacey Van Weber.”
“There’s a lot of people I don’t like, but if friends want to meet them, then what the hell, I’ll do them the courtesy.”
“You’re too persuasive.” He signalled for his secretary. When she entered, he told her to try to reach Lacey Van Weber. He looked at his wristwatch. It was almost five o’clock. “You’ll probably find him at the Athletic Club.” A few minutes later, Liveright was speaking on the phone with Lacey Van Weber.
“Well, old sport,” said Van Weber, “what a surprise. I just dropped in for a massage.”
Liveright got straight to the point. “I’m sure you’ve heard of Dorothy Parker. She’s in my office right now. She read about you in the Graphic."
“Tell her that’s not me at all.”
“That’s what she suspects. She’d love to meet you. Wait a minute.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Drinks at Jack and Charlie’s in half an hour?”
“Perfect. I love Jack and Charlie’s.” The speakeasy was on West Fifty-second Street just off Fifth Avenue.
Liveright was saying into the phone, “You’ll know her easily enough.”
“Aren’t you coming, too?” asked Mrs. Parker.
Liveright shook his head no as he described Mrs. Parker and what she was wearing.
“And if that isn’t enough,” said Mrs. Parker, “tell him I’ll be wearing a rose in my teeth. Anyway, I’ll recognize him. I’ve seen his picture.”
After hanging up the phone, Liveright said to her with concern, “Be very careful, Dorothy. You’re treading where angels fear.”
She flashed him a beguiling smile. “I’m your slave, Horace.”
While Mrs. Parker was sailing light-heartedly along Fifth Avenue to her appointment with Lacey Van Weber, New York City’s most notorious madam, the diminutive Polly Adler, was sitting on the piano stool in her carefully appointed apartment, watching her maid, Gloria, arranging flowers in an expensive, cut-glass Tiffany vase. The grand piano at which Mrs. Adler sat had been especially selected for her by the great musician Leopold Godowski, who had also supervised its tuning. The magnificent Spanish shawl artfully draped across the piano had been a gift from the celebrated cellist Pablo Casals. As she idly ran her fingers along the keyboard, she studied the photograph of her parents which the piano supported, the photograph contained in a platinum frame donated by the great Broadway star Holbrook Blinn. A dozen times a day she studied the couple, her father handsomely attired, wearing a white yarmulke, her mother small and dignified, a beautiful lace shawl protecting her sheitel, the wig all orthodox Jewish wives were required to wear. If they knew what I do for a living, thought Polly, they’d convert. The phone rang. “Get it, Gloria,” ordered Polly in the rasping growl that was known to make walls tremble, especially within the confines of an assortment of police precincts after her premises had been raided.
“It’s Mr. Liveright,” said Gloria. Gloria had been with Mrs. Adler for less than a year. She had been interviewed as a prospective prostitute, but her inherent talents for housekeeping soon outpointed her values between bedcovers. It was a satisfactory compromise for both parties. A good maid was hard to find. Good whores could be found in rich abundance.
“What can I do for you, Horace?” She didn’t much like Liveright, but he was a steady and lucrative client.
In his office, Liveright sat with his feet on the desk, his swivel chair tilted back. At his elbow was a glass of Scotch, none of that bootleg hooch, but the real thing off a yacht recently arrived from England. “I could use a half-dozen long-stemmed American beauty roses. I’d like them delivered at midnight. The usual place.”