by Judith Gould
'No, no, that isn't necessary.' Harriman shook his head and the tremendous wattle at his neck trembled. He looked, Tamara thought, rather like a particularly bony, featherless, and ancient turkey. Even his sparse white hair looked like remnants of an imperfect plucking. But no turkey dressed in such a flawlessly tailored dark grey suit complete with white shirt, waistcoat, dark tie, and what was an obviously inherited and very fine antique gold watch.
'You wished to see me,' Tamara said smoothly, tucking her skirt under her buttocks and taking a seat opposite him. She folded her hands in her lap and sat erect, her face composed in a clear calm expression which gave no hint of the uneasiness she felt stirring inside her. Ever since he had telephoned for an appointment two days previously, she had had the nagging feeling that something was amiss. Why else would the banker have asked to see her—alone? She had hardly ever dealt with him. 'As a rule, my husband takes care of our finances, Mr. Harriman. Quite frankly, you should be speaking with him.'
Harriman nodded at her from across the huge expanse of glass and chrome. 'I have been dealing with Mr. Ziolko for some years now, but I felt it would be to your advantage to get you personally involved in your finances. It is no secret that your income is the larger of the two. Therefore, you have the most to lose.'
She stared at him in confusion. There was a nervous tic in his left eye, and his almost translucent eyelid fluttered with tiny, rapid jerks, like a butterfly's wing. 'Yes?' she said cautiously, her anxiety growing.
Harriman wasn't one to mince words or beat around the bush. He cupped a liver-spotted hand in front of his mouth, coughed discreetly, and came right to the point. 'We at New West Bank are quite concerned about your assets, Miss Tamara. Or, I should say, your lack of them. Since the end of last year, all your accounts, and your husband's, have been consistently overdrawn. Also it pains me to have to tell you this, but this is the second month in a row that your mortgage payments have ... er . . .' He coughed again. '. . . have been insufficiently covered by the required funds.'
She stared at him. 'You mean the . . . the mortgage cheques bounced?' she asked incredulously.
He nodded. 'We covered them, but yes, they did.'
'I . . . I had no idea,' she said shakily, nervously reaching for a cigarette from the square cut-crystal box on the coffee table. She picked up a silver lighter and lit it with trembling hands. It was true. Long ago, she'd allowed Louis to take all their combined financial matters into his hands, and although they always seemed short of ready cash and lived from one day to the next, running up mountainous bills, she hadn't been aware that things were quite this bad. Perhaps Harriman was right. It might indeed be high time for her to get involved.
'Please, Mr. Harriman,' she said softly, 'don't spare me anything. I would appreciate it if you would put all the cards out on the table.'
His look was one of growing respect. 'Very well, I will be quite frank,' he said, and she braced herself for the worst. 'Between your income and your husband's, you are running into debt at slightly more than two thousand dollars each month. As of yesterday you owed the bank just over sixty thousand dollars. That includes both secured and unsecured loans, but does not include the overdrafts.'
'That much!' she exclaimed, staring directly at him.
'That much,' he agreed, 'with interest adding to the burden each day.'
'But how could this happen?'
'I hope you do not think that I am speaking out of line, but you have expensive tastes, Miss Tamara. You have been living beyond your means for many years.'
She nodded miserably. 'What do you suggest I do?'
'Perhaps if you . . .' He coughed delicately again. 'I do not know how to say this, Miss Tamara. You must believe me when I say I find it distasteful in the extreme to have to mention it.'
She raised her chin. 'Please say what is on your mind, Mr. Harriman.'
He took a deep breath. 'The major part of your problem seems to stem from the power of attorney you gave your husband.'
'Power of attorney? What power of attorney?' She searched her mind and then it came to her in a blinding flash. 'But that was years ago!'
He inclined his head. 'Yes, but it is still in effect. However, if you were to stop it, you might be able to gain better control of your own income, which is quite . . . well, shall we say, substantial?'
'But I don't see how that in itself would help any,' she said. 'Surely the only way to get things back on track and dig ourselves out of debt is to drastically cut back on our expenses.'
'Then you haven't been going through your monthly statements and cancelled cheques, I take it?'
'N-no,' she said carefully. 'My husband has been doing all that. Is there some reason why I should?'
He reached for his briefcase, swung it on to his lap, and unlatched it. He took out a thin sheaf of papers that had been stapled together. 'If you will be so kind as to glance through these ... on the left of each you will find the cheque number, next to that the date it was written, then the payee, and finally the amount. The cheques have been paid. Incidentally, they are on your current account and were signed by your husband—which is legal since he has your power of attorney.' He passed them to her and she quickly glanced through them. Hundreds of dollars at a time, sometimes thousands, had been made out to a single payee. She let the papers fall to her lap and looked at him. 'I ... I don't understand. Could you explain this to me?'
He nodded. 'Those cheques were all made but to Persiani Enterprises.'
'Yes, I can see that. But what is Persiani Enterprises?'
'You do not know, then.'
'Know what? Please enlighten me.'
'Persiani Enterprises is a local construction firm owned by one Carmine Persiani, who came to this city from New York some fifteen years ago.'
'Then they must be payments still outstanding from building this house.'
'No, Miss Tamara,' he said softly. 'I see that you do not understand. Persiani Enterprises is a well-known front. Oh, the construction firm exists, no doubt about it, but that is not where Carmine Persiani is said to earn his money. The construction firm is probably just a way of hiding illegal funds.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'To put it bluntly, Persiani is an extremely unsavoury man. He is suspected of being part of the underworld. Rumour has it that he runs all the illegal gambling in this town.'
He watched the colour drain from her face.
'Gambling? I don't understand! Louie doesn't gamble.'
'Then how do you account for these cheques?' he asked quietly.
She sat there completely devastated.
Louis was a secret gambler. Without her ever having suspected, he had been gambling their hard-earned money away, pushing them further and further into debt. But when? And where?
She took a deep breath, forced herself to rally her strength, and pasted on a smile she did not feel. She rose to her feet in a studied, fluid motion. 'I appreciate your having informed me, Mr. Harriman,' she said with dignity, holding out her hand. 'I know it cannot have been easy for you. Now, if there's nothing else . . .'
He hung back and lowered his eyes. 'Well, there is one thing. Could I . . . My wife's sister . . .'he explained in disjointed embarrassment. 'She is out here from Pittsburgh. It's her first visit and she asked if I knew . . . any film stars. Well ... an autographed picture?'
A fan's request for an autograph was something Tamara was eminently equipped to deal with. She summoned her most dazzling smile. 'Of course, Mr. Harriman,' she said smoothly. 'I'll have one delivered to the bank first thing in the morning.'
'Her name is Charlotte. If you could . . . you know, write a little message for Charlotte . . .'
'It's as good as done. Esperanza will show you out.'
As soon as he was gone, she sank numbly back down onto the couch, leaned her head back on the cushions, and stared blankly up at the glass-domed ceiling. Her entire body was shaking and she was physically and emotionally drained. She knew that she had no choice.
She would have to face Louis about the gambling, and they would have to find a way for him to stop it. Such a financial drain could not continue. God only knew what other debts—to friends or merchants—he had run up on top of what they owed the bank. There was really no excuse for their being financially strapped all the time. None.
She shut her eyes. If only there was some miraculous way she could wish away the unpleasant scene she knew was going to result from all this.
But there could be no avoiding the issue. Like it or not, she had to face it and do something about it.
She sighed heavily.
Why, she asked herself, hadn't she shown any interest in their finances? And how could he have found the time for gambling? Above all, how could she have been so blind?
There were so many questions that needed answering. Oh, Louie, Louie, she prayed. Please prove to me that Clifford Harriman is wrong. But, she feared, too much evidence pointed to Harriman's suspicions being true.
'Señora.'
Startled, Tamara opened her eyes and looked up. Esperanza was standing in the doorway again. Tamara felt an irrational surge of anger. The woman had the amazing ability, not unlike a cat's, to sneak up on you without making a sound. 'What is it now, Esperanza?' she asked wearily.
'Miss Rice. She here to see you.'
Tamara jerked upright as though she'd been electrocuted. 'Oh, my God!' she exclaimed, slapping her forehead with the palm of her hand.
With all her worrying about Clifford Harriman's visit, she'd completely forgotten that Marilee Rice, the scourge of the stars, the same woman who had written the scathing article about the house for Screen Story several years ago, had been scheduled to interview her over tea again this afternoon. She felt a heaviness steal over her. She was in no mood to face Marilee. Certainly not now. There were enough problems to occupy her.
Still, wheedling out of it at this point would only raise the gossip's ire, which was something she didn't want. Marilee Rice had become more powerful than ever. For the last years, as her column continued to appear in newspapers and magazines cross-country, she had begun hosting her own weekly syndicated radio show as well. According to surveys, as many people tuned in to her Hollywood Talk as listened to FDR's 'Fireside Chats'. More than ever, Marilee Rice was a woman to be reckoned with. There was really no way Tamara could avoid the interview. Not this late. And she would have to be on her toes—the gossip didn't miss a trick. Like a shark, if she smelled blood, she closed in for the kill.
'Give me a minute,' she told Esperanza. 'Then show her in.'
'Darling!'
The voice was a high trill.
The woman it belonged to came sweeping dramatically in behind it, blowing noisy kisses past Tamara's cheeks. 'Really, how well you look today,' Marilee purred, emphasizing the present as she took a step backward and smiled, showing two rows of razor-sharp teeth.
Tamara squared her shoulders as though to do battle. She hated interviews. She hated Marilee. Careful, she cautioned herself. Simmer down and don't rise to the bait. Be kissy-kissy, even catty, but keep it all on those arch feminine terms.
'You look splendid yourself!' Tamara lied effusively, hooking her arm through Marilee's and leading her visitor outside to the sunny terrace.
In truth, there was no way Marilee could look remotely splendid. Her figure could have been drawn by a six-year-old: she was a stick figure with no breasts, buttocks, or curves. Despite its tailoring and cut, her exquisite silk dress, printed with magnified African violets, seemed to hang as though from a scarecrow, but she'd dressed carefully as always nonetheless: matching shoes on her pigeon-toed feet and one of her signature hats, for which she was justly famous, towering on her head. Marilee's face was also singularly unattractive and rather mannish, with a long straight nose and a lantern jaw. In a pathetic attempt at beautification, violet eye shadow shone thickly above her eyelids, and her mouth and nails were gashes of bright vermilion. One would have expected her voice to be deep and mannish as well, but it was high-pitched and feminine, each drawn-out vowel sugar-coated in that special way only true Southern ladies of breeding can confect the language.
Her pale eyes were sharp and alert—one could almost hear them click like a camera shutter.
Tamara steered her past the giant pool, shaped like a five-pointed star, toward two cotton-upholstered easy chairs under a deep blue, linen parasol. 'Wasn't that Clifford Harriman, the banker, I saw pulling out just as I drove up?' Marilee asked in a honeyed, innocent voice.
Damn the woman. 'Yes,' Tamara said, 'that was Mr. Harriman you saw. He's such a nice gentleman, isn't he? Imagine him taking the trouble to drive all the way up here just to give me some banking advice.'
'Well, it must have been about saving,' Marilee said archly, 'since I don't think either you or Louis need any advice on how to spend.'
The actress in Tamara knew a casual laugh was called for, and she gave it her all. 'You do get away with saying the most outrageous things, Marilee.'
'That's because everyone is frightened of me.' Marilee took a seat, kicked off her shoes, and dug into her handbag for a notepad and pencil. She lifted an eyebrow archly. 'Are you frightened of me, my dear?' she asked, holding Tamara's gaze.
'No, not frightened,' Tamara said thoughtfully. 'I respect you.'
'They're often one and the same,' Marilee said, deftly depositing a well-planted barb. 'Now, before we begin . . . you probably know that my radio show has caught on extremely well?'
Tamara nodded. 'I read somewhere that even FDR has been known to listen.'
'Oh, that rumour.' Marilee waved a deprecating hand. 'I wouldn't go so far as to say that, but it is popular, and I am rather pleased with it. There's a kind of magic about listening to a star that people don't get just by reading about them. Last week I had Elsa Lanchester on, and the week before, Ruby Keeler. She even tap-danced in front of the microphone. It was a huge success.'
Tamara nodded. 'I listened to that one.'
'It's done live, of course, which makes logistics a little difficult sometimes. Anyway'—Marilee smiled brightly—'I would like to have you on next week, dear. What do you say to that?'
'Me?' Tamara looked astonished. 'I'd have to check with O.T. first, of course, but if he's amenable—'
'Oh, he is. I've already asked him.'
Tamara looked at her in surprise. 'He didn't tell me.'
Marilee laughed, delighted to have scored one over Tamara. Then she got serious. 'He agrees with me that this is a good time for the country to hear the real you. In fact, he was the one who called me about it.'
Tamara looked thoughtful. 'Do you know something you're not telling me?'
'Who, me?' Marilee asked innocently, placing a hand over her heart and trilling a laugh.
Esperanza flapped toward them and came to a stop beside the parasol. She looked at Tamara expressionlessly.
'Would you like a drink?' Tamara asked. 'I'm having iced tea without sugar.'
Marilee made a face. 'How can you bear to drink that? Tell you what, I'd just loooove a mint julep. That is, if you have the makings.'
'Of course we do. And Roberto's a whiz at bartending.' Tamara smiled at the maid. 'Esperanza, would you be so kind as to bring Miss Rice a mint julep? And a tall glass of iced tea for me? Lemon on the side, as usual.'
'Si, señora.' Esperanza nodded. 'I bring soon. Señora!'.
'Yes, Esperanza?'
'The señor, he back. He ask see you.'
For an instant Tamara shut her eyes. First she'd had to face the banker, then Marilee, and now Louis. It seemed as if the day itself were conspiring against her. She smiled apologetically at Marilee. 'I'd better see what Louis wants. I really am sorry. Could you excuse me for a minute? I won't be long.'
'Take your time,' Marilee said magnanimously. 'I'm in no rush. I've kept the entire afternoon open for you.'
Tamara managed not to show her chagrin and hurried into the house.
She found Louis standing in the shade in front of the gara
ges, his arms crossed, grinning like a Cheshire cat. A set of keys dangled from his fingers. He turned his head slowly, and following his gaze, Tamara let out a gasp.
There was a new car in the driveway—a huge Packard convertible, all streamlined curves and white lacquer outside and tawny fragrant calfskin inside—crisscrossed with a foot-wide white satin ribbon.
'What's this?' Tamara whispered.
'Yours,' Louis said, grinning wider.
She felt a surge of elation. 'The Oscar!' she cried, jumping up and down. 'Don't tell me! Fire and Blood has been nominated!'
He picked her up and whirled her around in the air. 'They say third time lucky, princess. I just found out.' He put her down and handed her the car keys.
'Louie . . .' She pushed herself away from him and frowned at the car.
He gave her a strange look. 'Don't tell me you don't like the car?'
'No, no, of course I like it. It's a beauty.'
'Then what's the matter?'
She turned to him, a pleading expression on her face. 'Please, Louie, try to understand. Now's not the time for us to buy a new car.'
'It's as good a time as any. Besides, we've made it a tradition. Remember, each time you're nominated for an Oscar, you get a new convertible. And if you win the Oscar you get a brand new Rolls.'
'Louie.'
Something in her voice stopped him and his grin faded.
She saw his disappointment and reached up to his neck, consoling him with an affectionate touch. 'It's not that I don't appreciate it, Louie,' she said softly. 'It's just ... we have to cut back. I just found out that there's no other choice.'
'What did you find out?' he asked in a voice devoid of inflection.
She could see that he was starting to get angry. She could always tell when he got that stony look. 'I can't talk about it now, Marilee's interviewing me and I have to get back to her. We'll talk later. Over dinner.'