“Starr, you’ve gone off your head. I all but kill myself gettingue you the most favorable settlement so you can go back and start in again at the top. For a paltry little sum of . . .”
“Of how much?” I turned and saw that Mrs. Worthington Pomeroy had been standing in the patio unnoticed, an almost incredible fact as she was wearing low-slung slacks and a very brief top with a large expanse of abdomen, diaphragm, and navel exposed in between. “Leander, sweetie, poor little Clarice has been sitting all alone in that great big lonely house and not even so much as a ting-a-ling on the telephone. You’ve been neglecting me, sweetie. What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Guber?”
“Trouble? Here I go and work the biggest deal in the history of the Department of Internal Revenue—a discount like that on my taxes I should get—so Mr. Starr can pay up and go back to the States a decent, law-abidingue citizen, and what does he do but go out and blow the whole bank roll. It’s disgustingue!”
“Oh come now, Mr. Guber,” Clarice said with a sharklike smile. “I’d be only too happy to pay up Mr. Starr’s little bill with you folks—sort of a wedding present. Shall we say tomorrow afternoon—right after the ceremony?”
“Clarice, my dear. So soon? The papers . . . licenses and all that . . .”
“My Mr. Overton has fixed all of that. He’ll take care of you, Mr. Guber, as soon as we’re married. We’ll be filing our taxes jointly after that.”
“Clarice . . .”
“It’ll be just a simple wedding in the garden. Of course all of you will come?”
“We have to meet our children at the plane at three . . .” my wife said.
“Bring them, too. I love children. Heavens, look at the time! I gotta rush. So many things to do. People to call. Flowers to order. You just come along with me, Mr. Guber, and I’ll attend to everything. Husta man-yana!”
XVII
The airport at Mexico City is always a busy place, but on the last Friday before Holy Week it’s a madhouse with practically everyone in the district trying to leave it for vacation. The mariachi band was out playing for all it was worth, the peafowl were strutting their stuff, luggage was being lost, children strayed from their families, taxis rammed into one another, people were cursing and screaming and weeping—a real holiday spirit in the air.
My wife and I got there good and early to learn that our children would be arriving good and late—two hours late. “Oh, dear,” my wife said, “that means we’ll miss Starr’s wedding.”
“Good. Somehow I don’t think I could stand there and see Clarice slip the noose around the old bandit’s neck.”
“How did he seem this morning?”
“Surprisingly calm and self-contained. St. Regis was much more nervous. They were packing.”
“All set for the big move into Casa Ortiz-Robledo, poor saintly man.”
“Well, I suggest that we wend our way up to el bar and do our waiting there, unless you want to be trampled to death by all the holiday makers.”
“I’m with you,” she said.
The bar was a little oasis of peace and quiet—no one except the waiters and us. We got a table near the window, ordered drinks, and settled down for the long wait.
“I thought I’d hire a car, and we could take the children to see Chapultepec Castle and possibly the floating gardens at Xochimilco and then . . .”
“Jesus!” a voice boomed out.
I looked across the room to the entrance and saw two Episcopal clergymen—one flat on the floor. The younger was dressed in black clericals and a large panama hat with the brim turned down all the way round. “Oh, sir, have you hurt yourself, uh, father?”
“Help me up, brother, and be quick about it.” Once back on his feet the senior reverend was the picture of a Dickensian English country vicar—gaiters, shovel hat, and the thickest pair of spectacles I have ever seen. “Just get me to the bar, sister.”
“Yes, father.”
The vicar groped his way blindly to the bar, knocked over two stools, took the Lord’s name in vain, and then squared things by adding “Amen.”
“What’ll it be, mother?”
“A daiquiri, please, father.”
“Ah, my good man, a daiquiri for my curate and a big planter’s punch for me.”
“Si, padre.”
“Happy carefree Latin children, sister. Even though they embrace a faith different from ours, I feel certain that Hhhhhhe has a special place for them in Hhhhis capacious heart.”
“Yes, father.”
“Now you’ve got the tickets—Mexicancan or whatever it is, brother?”
“Yes, father. Nonstop to Montreal.”
“One of the Seven Cities of Sin, isn’t it, mother?”
“I’ve always had a lovely time there, father.”
“Ah, yes, that dear little vine-covered church—St. Leukemia of the Mounties. And a jolly rectory as well.”
“Excuse me,” I said to my wife. I sidled up to the bar and stood beside them.
“And you left all of our excess luggage with Father Dennis?”
“Yes, father.”
Their drinks were set down on the bar before them. “Peace on you, brother,” the vicar said, hefting his glass.
“Peace on both of you—you big clowns,” I said.
They wheeled around, and when they saw me I thought they were both going to faint.
“Starr, what in the name of God are you doing here in that getup?”
“Please, dear boy. Not so loud. We’re traveling incognito.”
“You couldn’t be more conspicuous if you were wearing neon lights. Where did you get those goldfish-bowl glasses and that dominie’s drag?”
“A farewell gift from St. Regis’ friend, the wardrobe assistant.”
“Farewell? Is Clarice hauling you off on some long honeymoon trip and why in clericals?”
“I don’t know quite what Mrs. Pomeroy’s plans are. My own call for flying direct from Mexico City to Canada without once touching on my native soil. I feel like Philip Nolan.”
“But what about the wedding?”
“Malheureusement, dear boy, I shan’t be able to attend it.”
“You look as though you were officiating at it. But Clarice?”
“Cad though I feel, Clarice and Mr. Guber will be left waiting at the altar while I am winging my way to Canada—a fugitive from justice perhaps, but a free soul. Oh, I took the liberty of storing a few odds and ends in your apartment. Nothing much—six trunks, my golf clubs, photographs, a few old costumes, and theatrical mementos. When I settle in Canada I’ll let you know where to send them.”
“But you’re just flying off like this when . . .”
“Yes, dear boy. I owe Clarice nothing. Every cent of her investment has been paid back. My money is hers, but Leander Starr is mine.”
“Not so loud, father,” St. Regis said.
“Oh, shut up, sister.”
“All passengers departing on Mexicanadian Flight 113 nonstop jet to Montreal will please embark through gate three,” the public-address system squawked. For good measure it repeated the message in Spanish. “Todos los pasajeros . . .”
“That’s our flight. We’re off, dear boy. Thanks ever so for all you’ve done and do write and tell me how the wedding went.” He bussed me resoundingly on both cheeks and blew a kiss to my wife. “Come, brother,” he said to St. Regis.
“Yes, father.” With that they were gone.
“Ole! Padre! La cuenta!” the bartender shouted.
“Never mind,” I said. “This round is on me.”
“Now what?” my wife asked when I got back to our table.
“We’re not the only ones who are missing Starr’s wedding. He is too. The old escape artist is at it again.”
“Good!” my wife said.
“Bunty, darling, you’ve got to get control of yourself. Your face is a perfect river of mascara.”
“Oh dear, and they swore this stuff was waterproof. Well, I don’t care. I shall turn old
and ugly and haggard and never so much as look at another man. Oh, Monica, the humiliation.”
“A drink is what you need, Bunty. And so do I.”
Lady Joyce entered the bar, all but supporting Bunty Maitland-Grim. Bunty, dressed in the blackest of black, carried a number of fur coats. She was weeping a fountain of tears.
“May I?” I said, unloading the furs.
“Oh, thank heaven, there’s at least one man who has some consideration for me.” Then Bunty caught a glimpse of my wife and, with a thunder of bracelets, collapsed into her arms.
“Thank heaven is right,” Lady Joyce said, sinking onto a chair and ordering two double whiskies.
“What’s the matter with Bunty?”
“It’s Henry.”
“Is he dead?”
“Oh, no. Bunty could bear that. Far worse. He’s run off. Run away with none other than Catalina Ximinez!”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“It’s all my f-fault,” Bunty sobbed. “I should have locked his leg up at night. If he’d run off with the cook I could understand it, but that broad-bottomed Mexican c-caricature. O-o-o-o-oh.” She was off again.
“I’m sure it won’t last,” I said.
“The sacrifices I’ve m-made for Henry. G-gave up a career as a Bluebell Girl with a heavenly tour of the C-continent and now I’m cast aside like an old . . .” She couldn’t finish.
“Poor darling. I’m taking her home with me for a little rest until Henry comes to his senses. I hate to miss poor Leander’s wedding, but with Bunty in this state . . .”
“You’re not the only one who’s missing it,” I said. “Look.”
A great silver jet was poised directly beneath us waiting to receive its few passengers. Two servants of the Lord were at the very head of the first-class queue.
“Mexicanadian? Isn’t that that strange airline that’s owned outright by some odd American woman who . . . Oh, do look. Really, that dear little C. of E. vicar. He looks like my father.”
“Look a little more closely,” I said.
At the mouth of the plane Starr turned, removed his shovel hat, and bowed deeply in the general direction of the bar.
“Leander!” Lady Joyce said. “So he’s standing her up. Bully for Starr!”
“Just like a man!” Bunty sobbed. “Brutes, all of them. Darling, do get me another whiskey. I’m that shattered.”
“He’s made it,” I said. “Safe from Clarice Pomeroy at last.”
“And that little tax man?”
“From him too—for the time being.”
“Poor Clarice,” Bunty sniffled. “We’re just toys to the whole pack of you.”
“Mexicanadian isn’t wasting much time on the ground,” my wife observed. Already the motors were beginning to turn over, the doors closed, and the stairway was being removed.
“Heavens, do look!” Lady Joyce said.
I turned. There was a lot of confusion on the field, and I saw a man and a woman racing hell-bent for leather out toward Starr’s plane.
“Why, there she is now,” Bunty said. “There’s Clarice Pomeroy.”
“And Mr. Guber,” my wife added.
Together they flew up the stairway, the door opened, and they got into the plane. Then it began rolling across the field.
XVIII
Things just aren’t the same at Casa Ximinez. Our children are here and that’s nice, but there’s very little in the way of local color to show them. Starr is gone, and so are Emily and St. Regis. Lady Joyce and Bunty are back in England. Henry Maitland-Grim and Madame X have departed for points unknown. Mamacita has learned to say “Mai . . . dotter . . . Inglis . . . laddy,” but she doesn’t do it with the same old spirit. Mr. Guber and Mrs. Pomeroy have not been heard from. Even Dr. and Miz Priddy have gone off to some quaint spot for Holy Week. Perro has given up barking almost entirely and, with no dog barking or rent collecting to set him off, Loro roosts silently in the patio.
Nor is our apartment the same. What with six of his trunks and a few tons of other memorabilia cluttering up the place, it is not easy to forget Starr. In addition to his silver-framed photographs of late notables, we are also about to come into Valley of the Vultures. The film and González have been found in a miserable little town down on the Guatemala border—González dead of a knife wound, the picture very much alive. Lopez and Heff have gone down to give the old crook a burial—at a public crossroads with a mahogany stake through his heart would be my suggestion—and to see how much of Starr’s stolen money can be found among the dead man’s effects. If any, I hope they give a liberal reward to the one who stabbed him.
Guadalupe has just slapped the morning’s mail down on my desk. In addition to the usual bills and ads there is a very proper card from Philadelphia saying that Mr. and Mrs. Llewellyn Cadwalader Strawbridge announce the marriage of her daughter Emily, etc. There is a letter from that virtuous women’s magazine, which I quote in part:
“All of us here in the fiction department flipped over your story about Salli, Mr. Right, and the broccoli. Simply adorable. We loved it so that at today’s ed meeting we decided to inaugurate a whole new series called The Right Set. It is to concern Salli and Mr. Right in their years as young marrieds. We definitely want six a year for three years with an option for three more years. No author since Ethel M. Dell has ever been so honored. Congratulations!”
A letter from Boar Hall announced that Henry Maitland-Grim had “come to his senses at last” and was seeking a reconciliation with Bunty, but that he was being held prisoner in Yucatán—without his leg—and that Bunty was in Paris having her face peeled.
Finally there was a letter from a YMCA in Los Angeles, the I’s in Patrick and Dennis dotted with voluptuous O’s. I quote it in its entirety:
Dear Mr. Dennis,
I am writing to you because you have always been such a good freind to my imployer Mr. Starr and I.
The trip to Canada was not a success. Through the use of my Mexican friend’s clever disguises Mr. Starr and I was able to get onto the Montreal airplain but could not take off before we were discovered by Mr. Guber and that awfull Mrs. Pomeroy.
As Mrs. Pomeroy owns the whole Mexicanadian Airline she ordered the pilot to land in Los Angeles—not even caring that we had all bought tickets non-stop to Montreal ! ! !
She was so mean that she even had the radio operater send ahead for “G. Men” to be at the airport waiting for poor Mr. Starr. (If any man made it so obvious that he did not care for me I would be too proud to demein myself so!)
But it was dark and raining when we got to Los Angeles (“sunny California” ha-ha!) Mr. Starr was the first one out of the plain and when we got to the imigration desk he was nowheres to be seen. He just vanished into the thin air!
But that is not all. In all the exitement he seems to of picked up Mrs. Pomeroy’s jewel case instead of his own hand luggage so that mean lady is now charging him with the theft of more than a million dollars worth of her ugly diamonds. Some people just are not well bred ! ! !
Noone has seen hide or hair of Mr. Starr since then. I am ever so worried! But with Mrs. Pomeroy’s jewel case at least I know that he is not in want.
But in the mean while I am in a very unpleasant situation as Mr. Starr has all of my money. I would not presume upon your freindship if I was not going to be locked out of my room at the end of the week. If you could loan me $100 I will pay it back as soon as I find work. I spend my days making the rounds of the studios (there is very little casting) and the nights waiting for my imployer to contact me. Where ever he is, I know he will return.
Thank you for any help you can give me. My best wishes to you and Mrs. Dennis for a very happy Easter.
Your freind,
Alistair St. Regis
I have just wired a hundred dollars to St. Regis, and now I’m waiting in the silent, lonely patio for my wife and children to come home for lunch. A voice just called out, “Dennis, dear boy!” I leaped from my chair with shock
, but it was only Loro, the parrot. He has, at last, learned something new.
I look up at the windows of his apartment and expect that he will suddenly appear, imperious, ridiculous, and demanding. Yet he is not there. A family from Cleveland have leased the place as of Monday. Starr has, as usual, disappeared into thin air.
And yet I know that he has not. Somewhere, somehow, he is hard at work—ordering people about, complaining about the accommodations, the service, the cleaning, the pressing, the credit. And someday, at some inconvenient time, he will return to our lives like—can I say it?—like a bad penny, getting me out of bed, out of the tub, out of the middle of the golden-wedding anniversary of Salli and Mr. Right (and the broccoli), ready to charm me and con me, beleaguer me and bully me, take my money and the shirt off my back (while criticizing its cloth and cut). Starr is gone, but never for long. He will be back and be back fighting—saint and sinner, innocent and ingrate, benefactor and blackguard, charmer and charlatan, sage and scoundrel, gallant and grifter, wit and wastrel, sophisticate and simpleton, rebel and rake, dreamer and dope, but always unabashedly and unaffectedly a genius.
Casa Ximinez
Mexico City
Good Friday, 1962
’Twas the Night
Before Christmas in the Railway Station
* * *
By Patrick Dennis
Chicago Tribune Magazine of Books
December 12, 1962
Leander Starr is no stranger to Chicago. He has visited many times between alighting from the Super-Chief and boarding the Twentieth Century, and vice versa, on his pilgrimages from one coast to the other. While in town, he has run up considerable tabs in the Pump Room, as all good Hollywood citizens are expected to do.
It is perhaps because of those large luncheon checks, still unpaid, that he prefers now to fly over the city. But the Christmas I speak of happened a long time ago when hotels hadn’t yet assumed aliases and were called simple things like the Stevens, the Medinah Club, the just plain Blackstone or Congress, and when Starr was the hottest director in the picture industry.
Genius Page 31