But that blonde in the chorus: She was something else. Hoffman could recognize class when he saw it, even in a twenty-five cent costume in a nickel-and-dime chorus line.
They met. Close up, she was one of the most breathtakingly beautiful girls he had ever known. He was one of the most handsome, exciting, and wealthy men she had ever known. They made love—off and on—as often as business brought him to Manhattan.
Eventually, he had set up house for her in a twenty-first floor luxury apartment in 1300 and she had become his full-time mistress. The rest, as they say, was history.
A key turned in the lock. She would have been alarmed but for the cough. The cough was unexpected, but it came from the voice box that was unmistakably Frank Hoffman’s. All unforeseen, her master had arrived.
“That you, honey?”
“It better be, or you’re in a lot of trouble.”
She went quickly to the hallway. Hoffman had hung his coat in the closet and was draping his silk scarf over a hanger.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming tonight.” It was neither complaint nor protest, merely a statement.
“Didn’t know till this evening that I would be here. The day started horribly, but it got better as it went on. So, I decided to reward myself.”
She took that as a compliment and smiled. As always, there was a glitter to her eyes. She reached up and threw her arms around his neck. He lifted her from the floor and kissed her. But then, as quickly, he lowered her, turned slightly, and sneezed.
“God bless you. Where did you get that? It sounds ugly.”
“This morning, I think. The upshot of a score yet to be settled. But it will be.”
“I’ve got some aspirin . . .”
“No. No, I stopped at the doc’s this afternoon and got this prescription.” He fished a pill bottle from his pocket. “Been eating them like candy. Should do some good.”
Her brow knit. “You shouldn’t overdo that.” She smiled. “You probably need some food in you. How ’bout I whip you up some steak and salad?”
“No, that’s OK. I stopped for a bite on the way over. Why don’t you just make me a drink. I just want to relax for a bit.”
Now that they were in the living room there was a little more light. He looked at her more critically. “Why are you wearing that rag?” he said harshly. “I told you I didn’t like it!”
She clutched her old faithful housecoat about her. “I feel comfy in it. It’s warm. Besides, I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Well, take it off! And get rid of it—I’m sick of it!”
She turned abruptly and disappeared into the bedroom. He settled into a reclining chair near the window and marveled at the fog that blotted out the river. All he could make out was the Canadian Club sign.
Jacqueline had known her share of drinkers. However, none but Frank drank a perfect Rob Roy. With talent born of long practice, she mixed one. Two small ice cubes in a large glass. Dewar’s Scotch nearly filled the glass. A bit of dry vermouth, a bit more of sweet vermouth. She no longer measured, merely blended to the proper color. Then a dash of bitters and a maraschino cherry.
She returned to the living room carrying the drink. As she entered the room, she felt a chill. She had replaced her cozy housecoat with a revealing peignoir Frank had given her last Christmas.
He took the glass wordlessly, popped a pill in his mouth, and swallowed it with a sip of the drink. She almost warned him that pills and booze were a dangerous combination. But she did not.
She sat on the arm of his chair. He had removed his jacket and tie, rolled up the sleeves of his monogrammed white shirt, and unbuttoned his collar. Her arm dropped familiarly and she began to massage his shoulders. “Remember how it used to be, Frank?”
“When?” He sipped his drink.
“In the beginning.”
“No. God, that was . . . what? . . . five, six years ago.”
“It used to be different, Frank. You used to talk to me. We hardly ever talk anymore. About your problems at work . . . about your work at all.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
You’d be surprised, she thought. She was growing desperate for him to discover her mind. All he ever groped for now was her body.
“What’s the official reason you didn’t go home tonight? It is Friday.”
“Had to put in some extra work. And then decided to stay downtown. Which,” he laughed, “come to think of it, is true.”
“Maybe it’s because we never go anywhere, Frank. Maybe that’s why we don’t talk much anymore.”
“That’s ridiculous! What difference would going anywhere make?”
“I never see you outside these walls. You never see me outside of them. We never have anybody in for dinner or drinks or anything. There isn’t anybody outside of ourselves to add a dimension to our relationship.”
“Don’t try to pull that! You knew how it would be when you moved in here. You know I can’t be seen with you. I aim to reach the top at The Company. Which means I’ve got to maintain a good measure of invisibility. And that’s a long way from the image of a swinger. Besides, a scandal with you would be all my wife would need for a divorce wherein I would get the diving board and she would get the pool and everything else. I don’t need that and neither do you!”
During the lengthy silence that followed, he gazed out at the rising fog while her fingers toyed with the back of his head.
“Look at it this way . . . .” His voice softened. “I’m about a quarter of a century older than you. Plus, women are supposed to be more long-lived than men. And I’ve taken excellent care of you in my will—”
“Frank! Don’t talk that way! You make me feel like a vulture just waiting for you to die so I can pick your bones! Besides: You’re a healthy and fairly young man!”
He looked up at her and smiled. “Well, let’s find out how young and healthy I really am.”
They made love. At least he thought they did. She was forced to call on the skills she had learned so well as a thespian. As usual, she passed the test with flying colors.
If all he considered her to be was a body, that’s all she could find it in herself to be to him. Quite beyond her control, the emotions needed to participate in the act of love were held in check. Besides, she thought, he obviously doesn’t give a damn whether he’s giving me his cold.
He lay back, smiling. He was warm, relaxed, satisfied, and pleased that once again he had proven his manhood.
After a while, she propped herself on one elbow. “I’ve been wondering . . .”
“There you go, thinking again. I told you you weren’t supposed to try that.”
“. . . why do you do it? I mean, why do you need it?” she persisted. “Why do you need more than one woman? What’s the matter with your wife?”
“Variety, my dear girl; variety. I don’t think women will ever understand the male need for variety.”
Variety! Somewhere out there there must be men who didn’t need variety . . . even if she had never had the good fortune to meet one.
They lay side by side silently. Hoffman was almost asleep.
“Frank,” she said softly, without moving. “Frank?”
“Mmmm?”
“I have a confession.”
“It’s not my field. I build cars. You’d better find yourself a priest.”
“Don’t make fun, Frank. I’ve got a confession that involves you, Frank.” She paused. “Frank, I saw her.”
His eyes opened in premonition. “You saw whom?”
“Your wife. I saw Em.”
“Where?”
“At Madame Tirana’s. You said she had a weekly appointment there. I phoned and got an appointment at the same time.”
“When?” His anger was evident.
“The other day.” She grew defensive. “I didn’t talk to her or anything, Frank. She was with another woman. I’m sure she didn’t notice me.”
“Didn’t notice you!” Furious, he sat bolt upright. �
�Do you think she is goddamn blind? Everybody’s nude in there! Tell me she didn’t notice your goddamn perfect body! Don’t make me laugh! And you’re not, you know!”
“Frank, she’s gorgeous. OK, so she’s fifty, but she’s obviously kept in good shape. She looks like Susan Hayward. I mean, after I saw her, I couldn’t help wondering why you need me. I couldn’t help wondering,” she spoke more slowly and deliberately, “how long you would continue to need or want me.”
“Until this moment, I never had cause to consider that. But now, I wonder too!
“First you case the woman; next, you’ll probably invite her up here for tea!” He got out of bed and began to dress, jerkily, furiously. “I can save you some time. Don’t bother asking her to share the bed with us. Her tastes do not run to the ménage à trois scene. She’s never been a chorus girl or been through the casting couch routine with every agent and producer in New York!”
He was trying to hurt her by throwing back her confidences at her. He was succeeding all too well.
“Frank! Where are you going? Please don’t be angry—”
“For your information, I’m going to spend the rest of this night at the Collegiate Club. I tell you that just in case you want to call Em and keep her informed as to my whereabouts.”
“Frank, don’t go! Please don’t go angry!”
“I’m going! And I’m going angry! And you can just think about that while you’re wondering—and with damn good reason now—how long I will continue to need or want you!” He slammed the door as he left.
She stood staring unseeing at the closed door until she heard the elevator begin its descent. Her eyes filled with tears; they flowed freely down her cheeks.
She turned and went to the window. Even the Canadian Club sign had disappeared in the fog. Her prison walls had closed in. She was buried alive.
One day soon she would be forced to break out of this prison, and she feared the only avenue of escape might involve an act of violence. She didn’t care for the prospect—but one did what one had to.
After all, she hadn’t spent years living on the underworld fringe of Manhattan without learning a few tricks of the trade.
12.
“Building a nuclear weapon?”
“Huh?”
“This sign . . .” Father Koesler read aloud from the warning hung on the greenhouse door: “‘Extreme danger! Keep out until further notice.’ Not only did you hang this rather ominous warning, you bolted the door.”
“That’s because I meant it,” said Bishop Ratigan. “Having a bit of a problem with aphids. Actually, a bit of an infestation. So last night I lit a nicotine bomb.”
“Will that get rid of the nasty bugs?”
“Them and anything else that goes in there before I ventilate it . . .which I will be doing in just a few minutes.”
Koesler reflected. “Sounds sort of powerful. Isn’t it dangerous?”
“You betcha. So dangerous you can’t get the product on the retail market.”
“Then, how—”
“How did I get it if you can’t get it? Nurseries, garden shops, professional horticulturalists can get it. Which includes Sharps, the landscapers for whom I used to work while you were being God’s gift to little campers.”
“Oh . . . so they’ll still sell it to you for old times’ sake?”
“How many of their summer helpers grew up to be a bishop? Besides, they know I know how to use it.”
“We’ve got a little time till January first, but I’m going to anticipate and make one resolution right now.”
“What’s that?”
“From now on, I’m going to pay attention to your signs.”
The lines around Ratigan’s eyes crinkled. “You’ll live longer.”
“By the way,” Koesler’s tone indicated a change of subject, “speaking of January first, tomorrow happens to be November first.”
Ratigan checked his calendar watch. “You’re right. So?”
“Just that they both used to be holy days of obligation, and today is Saturday and old habits die hard . . .”
“So?”
“So, there may be a few more confessions than usual. Any chance you could give me some help either this afternoon or evening?”
“Sorry; I’ve got a meeting with the Cardinal this afternoon. Won’t even be here for dinner.”
“OK; just wondered. Will you be back later this evening?”
“Why?” Ratigan, after almost being trapped into hearing confessions, was wary.
“We could go together to the Mercury’s party. About eight? Easier that way. And we can cut out early if we want to.”
“OK; but if I’m not back by the time you want to leave, why don’t you just go ahead, and I’ll see you there later.”
“Right.” Koesler left to see whether the janitor had removed the rice that had been thrown at last evening’s wedding.
Ratigan busied himself venting his greenhouse. Hear confessions, indeed! He had no meeting scheduled this afternoon. But he’d find something to occupy him outside the parish. Obviously, he thought, Bob Koesler doesn’t understand that, generally speaking, bishops retire from hearing confessions by the very fact that they become bishops. That was the good news.
The bad news was that bishops had to confirm virtually every child in the diocese. He knew one auxiliary bishop in Minneapolis who publicly announced that the reason he had been made a bishop was because he had a car rugged enough to get him around for confirmations during a typical Minnesota winter.
Hear confessions, indeed!
Ratigan recalled learning in seminary moral theology class that according to the Church law of the time, Cardinals, among the many, many ecclesiastical perks they enjoyed, had automatic faculties, or permission, to hear anyone’s confession anywhere in the world without being deputized by the appropriate bishop. The only thing overlooked by the canonist who wrote that law was that it had been so long since any Cardinal had heard a confession that no Cardinal could remember the formula for absolution.
He could see no one on the course as he drove down Golf View Drive. But the pins were still upright in the greens. There was life in the old Dearborn Country Club yet.
Frank Hoffman had once belonged to the D.C.C. But no more. He had moved on to the Orchard Lake Country Club. It was all part of his plan, his timetable, his upward mobility.
He turned up Hawthorne, then quickly onto Lawrence.
Take his present home, for instance. A good house, a good substantial Dearborn address. As nice a house as any in Bloom-field Hills. Just not as prestigious. But that would come as he climbed The Company ladder.
When they had bought their present home on Lawrence, they had been in Dearborn’s Sacred Heart parish. Among West Dearbornites, it had been known as The Parish, which seemed appropriate to Hoffman since he worked for The Company. Then, St. Anselm’s parish had been formed in Dearborn Heights, and the Hoffman home had been just within the cut by three blocks. But he’d been a good sport and had gone along with the redistricting. It had become a bit of a joke among some of the other Catholics at The Company: how, inevitably, one day the Hoffmans would belong to St. Hugo of the Hills—nicknamed St. Hugo of the Wheels—in Bloomfield Hills.
As he drove down Lawrence, Hoffman was conscious of the trees that lined the pavement and sidewalks. Stately old maples, oaks, sycamores, and firs. A tribute to the neighborhood’s age. No recent suburban spread this, with newly planted infant trees. Most of the leaves gone now. Oaks still holding on. Well, after all, it was, what . . . the end of October.
The end of October . . . Damn: Halloween! And they were scheduled to attend the Mercurys’ dinner party tonight. He’d have to check with Em and make sure their maid would house-sit this evening, and that she’d be well supplied with candy for the little beggars. Beggars . . . Dearborn beggars; almost a contradiction in terms.
And if this was Halloween, tomorrow must be All Saints. What the hell, if he found time today, he might just go to co
nfession. For old times’ sake, if nothing else.
He left the car in the driveway and entered the house through the back door. He had to give Em credit: She certainly kept a neat house. Of course she had help: a maid who came in six days a week, seven if needed. And two cleaning women twice a week. And no kids to mess it up. Their three, Mark, Claudia, and Charles, were married and living in other states.
He rambled through the downstairs. It seemed no one was at home. Not a sound. He climbed the stairs to the second floor. The master bedroom door was closed. He opened it.
Em was seated at the vanity, back to the door. She wore only a bra and half-slip. She was applying makeup. She could see his reflection clearly in the mirror. But his entrance had startled her. Even though she recognized him, her back had stiffened.
“I didn’t hear you come in. I didn’t know you were home.” She spoke to the mirror.
“Just.” He was tired. He hadn’t slept well at the Club, and he hadn’t had a change of clothing. And despite all the pills, that chill he’d gotten seemed to be waging a winning war. That plus his spat with Jackie had not created a euphoric mood this morning. But here was an attractive woman in a state of dishabille. Never mind that she happened to be his wife. Hoffman considered the scene a challenge to his manhood. What should he think of himself if he were to leave a half-naked woman alone!
He walked up behind her and unsnapped her bra. She stiffened further, but was not surprised. From long experience, she had known from the moment he entered the room that she was headed back to bed. Just her luck! A few minutes more and she would have been dressed and he would not have felt impelled to action.
They went to bed. A repeat performance of the previous night’s encounter. Except that Em didn’t bother trying to be the actress that Jackie was. And so, since he apparently had not satisfied his wife, Frank was not as pleased as he might have been.
After a few moments of lying motionless, Em swung her feet over the side of the bed and retrieved the bra and petticoat that had been tossed to the floor in one-half of an act of lust.
“You really ought to see someone, Em. Maybe a psychologist. It’s been a really long time since you’ve gotten anything out of lovemaking—at least on a regular basis. You’re really missing something.” Hoffman remained in bed.
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