“Look here, I see you’re way down low,” he said. “What can I say that’d restore the nip to you?”
Davy Mogaill, ever the rabbi. Had he not warned me in this very bar the day before I left? Sorry to say, Hock, there’ll be no easy sleep under your Irish roof. Now here was I returned, full of the predicted grief and regret, and drinking in this unattractive way.
“You’re a right-born Irishman,” I said. “Tell me, how much time did it take you?”
“Time for what, Neil?”
“To get over what it means being Irish.”
“And what are you thinking that is?”
“I’m thinking, there’s no sense to being Irish unless you know the world is going to break your heart.”
Turn the page to continue reading from the Neil Hockaday Mysteries
Chapter 1
Smooth and confident, he rose from the table as she approached, guided by the arm of the sleek captain. All six feet four of him in his charcoal gray Savile Row suit and his custom Turnbull & Asser bold-striped shirt and Hermès cravat and his carefully shaped hair, black with wings of silver at the temples. He took Ruby’s extended hands, slender and caramel brown with pale white frosted nails, and kissed them.
“Back to the old salt mines, hey, kiddo?” he said with a smile, and with the lighter-than-air affability of the well bred. She thought, He always smiles that way when he wants something, like an elegant alligator.
“Table eighty-nine,” Ruby said admiringly, her face uptilted to receive a kiss on the left cheek, then the right. He had introduced her to the continental buss years ago. She liked it. She liked nearly everything he had taught her, especially the things that took her far away from where she came. In her deepest privacy, she liked thinking of what might have been with this man had she taken the chance. She said, “Some salt mine.”
“Well, one must eat, mustn’t one? Welcome back to the beanery, Ruby dear.”
Back? Was that where she was? Five minutes’ worth of intriguing phone conversation that morning with the eminent Bradford Jason Schuyler III of Madison Avenue, followed by a frantic three-hour search through her theater wardrobe downtown for just the right thing to wear to lunch at the Four Seasons on a sunny October day, then a dollar-and-a-quarter ride on the uptown Lexington Avenue local since she was quite broke, after all—and already, she was back?
She wondered, A dubious welcome to a dubious return? And as usual when she found herself in Jay Schuyler’s stylish company, Ruby Flagg could not prevent the fugitive thought, Can a Louisiana colored girl like me ever really look good enough to be with some Mayflower-to-Manhattan old-money white boy like this?
She smoothed the sleeves of her blue linen jacket and poked a finger in her nappy hair, and said, “Jay, I don’t know about—”
He interrupted. “I do. You appreciate the perfect irony, right?”
“Sure …”
“Check. So hear me out on this project. It’s ironic as hell.”
“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you, Jay?”
“Check.”
At the Four Seasons, one does not hear the coarse bustlings of waiter or wine steward. Instead, such men (for they are always men, never women) simply materialize. Thus did Henri appear at the table, with an iced bucket of Dom Pérignon and a pair of chilled champagne flutes. Without a word, Henri poured. And Jay Schuyler smiled his smile.
So it was to be one of those patented Schuyler luncheons, slow and boozy and politely crafty. In years past, she had been his comrade-in-arms when others were the subjects of these smoothy pitches; now she was to have the same treatment.
She knew all that was to follow: Jay would make her think everything he said was her idea, then he would send her home by limousine, a nice touch; then sometime that evening when she sobered up from all the drinks and alligator smiles, she would suddenly realize how much her wrists and elbows ached from all that Mayflower-to-Manhattan old-money white boy arm twisting.
Ruby should have figured as much, based on the tantalizing nature of the morning phone call. Schuyler had reached her at her theater, the Downtown Playhouse on South Street.
“There’s something very attractive in the wind, Ruby. I’d like to have you aboard.”
“So what’s the sell?”
“It’s big. It’s more than big.”
“Please, that sounds like something from your jinglewriting days. ‘Say there, folks—buy the new jumbo box of Suds-O detergent! It’s big—it’s more than big!’”
“Don’t laugh. I’m talking immense.”
“I should laugh when a man talks immense?”
“There’s money—”
“Big money.”
“Check. And lots more, Miss Smarty Mouth.”
“Such as?”
“The new world order, peace in our time … little things like that.”
“Jay, have you been talking to some plate-head who wants to run for president?”
“Hear me out over lunch today. You won’t be sorry.”
“Thank you, Henri,” Schuyler said.
The waiter clicked his Gallic heels, ever so softly. Then he vaporized.
Ruby began to feel sorry she had come. But damn, she was so broke! Then there was Hock.
… And who could say about Neil Hockaday, her husband of only five and a half months? Not Ruby. Certainly not during these past six weeks of Hock’s being off where he had to go. Six weeks that had filled her with doubt and anger and regret and pity and fear such as she had never known. One minute she ached for Hock’s big arms wrapped around her; the next minute, she was horrified by the short odds of his becoming the sorriest breed of spouse: a souvenir of love.
Should I fly home and ask Mama about it all? Oh, Mama, you know all about being strong for a man, don’t you?
Ruby tried to keep such questions from her crowded mind, questions she considered girlish. Thus far during the luncheon at the Four Seasons, she had thought of home and Mama merely a dozen times. Once for every thought of her absent husband.
The separation was for the good of poor Hock’s body and soul, of course, not to mention for the salvation of his marriage. This was Father Sheehan’s counsel when Ruby wept to him over the telephone, on those blackest of her lonesome nights; nights she believed she might go barking mad if she couldn’t get a plane home right away and crawl into the big four-poster bed in Mama’s room; moonless nights of no sleep as she paced the floor in the dark, worried about money, and her eyes all flooded from listening to the tape she put together of Billie Holiday’s all-time saddest songs. “Moaning Low,” and “The Man I Love,” and “Foolin’ Myself,” and “Where Is the Sun?” and “It’s Like Reaching for the Moon,” … and, especially, “Gloomy Sunday.” Ruby believed such wallowing in the lowest of low-down blues might expedite her mourning. But then again, who could say…?
Of course, Jay Schuyler probably knew full well her sorry-ass situation: the money trouble, the theater trouble, the husband trouble; whatever, whichever, and however her damn troubles. All else might be uncertain, but of this Ruby was dead sure: Bradford Jason Schuyler III was bred to understand that one man’s pain is another man’s profit. Thus had he become a mogul of Madison Avenue.
“Some things never change,” Ruby said, lifting a delicate crystal flute filled with roughly fifty dollars’ worth of Dom Pérignon. With fifty bucks, she marveled, she could get her Visa bill back under the limit. “Do you think that’s good or bad, Jay?”
“Yes.”
“I see I’m right.”
Ruby took a look around the room. From the corner vantage point of table eighty-nine, she had the whole sweep of the place: the big green-carpeted Pool Room, so-called because of the marbled square of potted palm trees and lily-padded water in the center; the copper link draperies that worked with the light from Park Avenue to cast the place in a faintly sepia tone; the Grill Room beyond, and the genteel hubbub of the bar; the widely spaced tables; the smattering of old-school celebrities—thos
e able to use cutlery, chew with their lips closed, and speak in complete sentences.
Two tables over, for example, there sat Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. He was with a woman about Ruby’s age, with fair skin and straight, upswept auburn hair. The fair one chattered while the still elegant matinee idol of long ago sipped his iced tomato juice. Douglas Fairbanks’s spotted hand shook under the weight of a chunky goblet, but not a drop of red stained his silver mustache.
At that very incongruous moment, Ruby thought of her two homes. The one with Hock, now only half a home, and then the other one: the St. Bernard Projects on the northwest side of New Orleans.
Mama Violet stood in the dimness of early morning, already dressed for the day in her maid’s uniform and heavy support hose, hanging up her own family’s wet laundry on a line in the tiny garden patch behind the cinder block row house on Gibson Street. Upstairs in Mama’s bed lay her husband, Willie, with nothing to do but complain about his long wait for death’s deliverance. Ruby’s beautician sister had come over the day before to press and straighten Mama’s hair, and there was still the powerful whiff of processing fluids hanging around the kitchen.
Ruby thought of colors, too. Mama’s hair was dyed auburn, the same shade as the white lady at the table with the movie star. At the Four Seasons restaurant that Violet Flagg would never know, here now sat her daughter Ruby, the one with the coal black nappy head.
“You notice Fairbanks?” Schuyler asked her, breaking the spell of Ruby’s remembrance.
“Who’s that with him?”
“A new beautiful woman. Some things do change.”
“And others never do, like I said.”
“Well then, here’s to all of it.”
Schuyler lifted his own flute, in a wordless toast. To the prodigal daughter who had found her way back to Madison Avenue? Why not? Ruby clinked her glass against his.
She looked beyond Schuyler to a large poolside table framed by palm fronds. Five achingly young women in shimmery dresses chattered among themselves. The topic might have been business, but Ruby had her doubts as to whether it was corporate. There was also a sixtyish fat man at the table. He had a bald head and a puffy, olive-complexioned face half hidden by tinted aviator spectacles. He was very busy with somebody on his cellular telephone, his hands making a lot of looping motions as he talked.
“I see the Bullfrog is still holding out there by his pond,” Ruby said. Schuyler laughed, remembering the tag Ruby had given him. She asked, “Did you ever manage to figure his story, Jay?”
“Not really. Everybody around here is sworn to secrecy. Nobody says much about him that means anything. Not even to me, and I give very brisk Christmas tips.”
“Still the same routine?”
“It hasn’t altered a bit in the four years he’s been coming here. Every day, the Bullfrog arrives fifteen minutes before the place opens. Every day with his hands full. There’s the fresh bottle of catsup, there’s the greasy bag of bagels, there’s the fresh batch of bimbos.”
“Raoul must love it.”
Schuyler shrugged. “Raoul is a very well-seasoned maître d’, he knows when to keep his nose to himself, and he knows how to make discretion pay.”
“What about the house?”
“One day I calculated the man’s daily bill. Then I multiplied this by two hundred and fifty-five, which is the number of business days in a year, allowing for a few holidays. The Bullfrog spends better than a quarter-million dollars a year on lunch. For this kind of trade, even the Four Seasons is not going to fuss about a brown-bagger. Especially one who comes early. That way, practically nobody ever sees the mess he hauls in with him.”
“The bagels and catsup you mean, not the bimbos.”
“Check.”
“So, no questions asked.”
“Ask? Nobody speaks, apart from the Bullfrog and somebody on the other end of that dork phone of his. Raoul seats this guy and his bevy at the same table every day. Then he takes the bag out to the kitchen. He holds it with two fingers, out away from him, like there’s something in there that’s just died. A couple of minutes later, one of the assistant chefs comes out in his long white apron and toque and he’s got the bagels sliced up and slathered in catsup—all on a covered silver tray. The Bullfrog’s happy, and practically nobody with a decent palate is the wiser.”
“The Bullfrog and his guests, they really eat this?”
“For starters. But like I say, he also buys a lot of lunch.”
A waiter materialized. He set down two plates of pâté de foie gras and a baguette, sliced thin. Schuyler dug in. Ruby preferred to drink.
“You’ve spent a lot of time studying the scene here, haven’t you, Jay?”
“Nowhere near a quarter million a year’s worth. But yes, I know the room. In this line, you should be a student of rooms.”
“Speaking of which, you mentioned how you wanted me aboard?”
“Of course.” Schuyler smiled, and it was deadly. He added, “After all, you’re a genius.”
“You told me that before.”
“See how you remember the good old days?”
“You used to say there were two kinds of people who mattered. Smart people and geniuses.”
“Quite so. And do you remember the difference?”
“Smart people know what smart people want, geniuses know what stupid people want.”
“Check.”
“So on that score, things are exactly the same in the advertising dodge?”
“Yes, folks, she’s still a genius.” Schuyler paused and leaned close to add, “And she has remained gorgeous.”
“Steady, Jay. Let’s stick to business.”
“Plenty of time for that. There’s a rumor in the street that you got married last spring.”
“It’s true.”
“To a policeman?”
“Also true.”
“Jesus, Ruby.” He waited a moment, but Ruby said nothing. Schuyler sighed, and this was the closest thing to personal defeat that Ruby had ever heard or seen in him. Then he said, “Well, you know what this means.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“The chase is over. I don’t fool with married women. You’re finally safe from me.” Schuyler gazed in the direction of the pool, specifically the Bullfrog’s table. Ruby followed his gaze. Schuyler said, “Also, I don’t sit over there anymore.”
“What’s the connection?”
A waiter glided up to the table, whisked away the pâté de foie gras and the baguette and poured out another round of champagne. He suggested that the king salmon and the milk-fed veal were especially good that day, as each had been flown in that morning from Alaska and Japan, respectively.
“Very good,” Schuyler said. The waiter raised his hand and clicked his fingers softly; in a moment the wine steward appeared, to suggest a bottle of light Bordeaux to complement both entrées. “Very good,” Schuyler repeated.
When the waiter and steward were gone, Schuyler asked Ruby, “Now, you wanted to get down to business?”
“First tell me about the pool and married ladies.”
“It happened before you came to the agency. Also before Margot.”
“How is your wife, by the way?”
“Still writing, still doing good works for the opera crowd.”
“Anyway, about the pool?”
“I was once crazy for a certain blonde actress. She was half-Swedish and half-Polish and so beautiful she made you want to go bite something. We used her for the old Erik cigar spots, back when you could still advertise tobacco on the tube. You know, the Scandinavian chick on the deck of the Viking ship as it sailed into the New York harbor?”
“The blonde smoking the little cigar? Very tasty.” “She was that.”
“Married, too?”
“Not that you’d notice.”
“Somebody usually does.”
“You have a point there.” Schuyler shook his head in the slow, involuntary way a man will when remembering some
thing especially stupid and embarrassing from his past. It was more a wince than a shake. “Seems like only last week. But my God, it’s been so damn long ago.” Schuyler sighed, this time the way a man will when remembering a lost youth for better or for worse. “I don’t suppose you ever heard of Earl Wilson.”
“Sure, and I heard about the dinosaur age, too. Even though I wasn’t here at the time.”
“Wilson was the last mastodon of yuk and titter journalism. And still around when it happened.”
“It?”
“One day, late in the afternoon, we’re sitting over there.” Schuyler nodded in the general direction of the pool. “Two tables this side of where the Bullfrog is right now.”
“We, meaning…?”
“Blondie and me. We’re just about to slip off to my place when somebody comes by to nix the plan. Take a guess who.”
“Mr. Blondie?”
“Check. And he’s a big guy. Built like a wall that learned how to walk.”
“What did he do to you?”
“Not what you’d think. He just walks over and smiles down at us for a couple of seconds that seem like a couple of weeks. Then first he says to me, ‘It’s not your fault, my friend.’”
“Then what?”
“He picks up the missus right out of her chair and heaves her into the pool. So this lovely fracas, it naturally becomes one of Earl’s pearls.”
“In his Mirror column.”
“But that’s not the half of it.”
“The Erik people were not amused?”
“Lost the account.”
“You’ve led a harrowing life, Jay.”
The salmon and the veal and the wine arrived. Ruby spent the next hour eating, and catching up on two years’ worth of Madison Avenue gossip. She also had enough Bordeaux to feel a pleasant buzz. Which made her feel guilty, considering where her husband the alcoholic cop was.
Schuyler would occasionally ask her something about the struggling theatrical company she had started up with all the money she had earned from being a genius at what she used to do. But it seemed to Ruby as if he somehow already knew all the answers. Oh yes, he had done his homework.
Drown All the Dogs Page 35