The Witch and the Borscht Pearl

by Angela Zeman

  “Did you catch that van’s license plate?” I grumbled.

  “No,” snarled Charlie. “I was busy driving.”

  “Aaaah, you were driving! That’s what you were doing?”

  “Charlie. Rachel. Never mind. As for the license plate, I think it was daubed with mud, anyway. I suspect the entire car was wearing a coat of mud, courtesy of this storm. Us, too, no doubt. Rachel. What did you notice about the vehicle?” she asked.

  Charlie opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, I answered, “That engine restarted dead cold—it had to be sitting at least twenty minutes in this icy rain, because he got to Solly’s before us. With that engine, I would’ve heard his arrival otherwise.” I shook my head. “I couldn’t tell the make or color. Pre-’85 is my guess, though, from its shape. The engine couldn’t have been stock, because the body was one of those cheap models, not good enough to justify that size of engine. Actually, it sounded an awful lot like an old Chevy engine, one of the bigger ones. A 405 maybe, or a Chevrolet truck 350, obviously modified for speed. That acceleration was powerful. Don’t feel bad, Charlie. We never would’ve caught up with it in this truck, van or no van.”

  “Would you recognize the car again in sunlight?” she asked sharply.

  “No,” I admitted. “But I might recognize the engine if I heard it again. It’s been well taken care of. Really hummed.”

  Charlie swiveled around to stare at me, prompting me to tell him sharply to watch the road. I had no intention of dying in some ridiculous milk truck.

  “Let’s stop someplace along the road, Charlie. As you’ve already mentioned, Rachel’s freezing,” commented Mrs. Risk.

  About ten minutes out of East Hampton, he pulled into the parking lot of a small country inn. Within minutes, I was huddled next to a blazing fire in the lobby, my blue-fingered hands clasped around a hot toddy.

  Charlie poked me. “So? Tell me.”

  “What, the car stuff?” I answered irritably. “I hung out at a couple of garages when I was a kid.” I’d found most garage mechanics to be easy going, uncritical human beings, unlike the other adults in my life. Not that that was Charlie’s business.

  Mrs. Risk strode off towards the hostess’s tiny reservation desk, and after a small passage of time, returned.

  “I called Michael,” she announced. “Informed him of the peeping tom. He’s going to post an officer to keep an eye on the house.” She shook her head. “I’m really annoyed with Ms. Bella. Our ridiculous chase might’ve turned out differently if she’d allowed us to stay. Tchah,” she said irritably, and took a swallow of wine.

  “I wonder if he was really just spying on her,” I murmured.

  “What do you mean?” asked Charlie.

  “You mean, what if he’d gotten inside?” asked Mrs. Risk, interested. I nodded. She gazed speculatively at the fire. “And if he’d gotten inside, what would’ve been his mission there? Or did he achieve success after all and we only saw him leaving?”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  Charlie pressed his coffee cup to his cheek and shut his eyes. “I’m too tired to think.”

  Mrs. Risk let me thaw to a comfortable temperature before announcing her intention of sending me into the city the next day. She had in mind that I would masquerade as a show-business hopeful and keep an appointment with Simon Lutz, theatrical agent.

  “You want what?” In despair, I ordered another hot toddy, and callously ignored the bill. Mrs. Risk paid.

  “Tell him you’re a dancer, dear.” She turned to Charlie and announced, “She can’t sing a note. But her body is remarkably limber and well muscled.”

  Charlie’s eyebrows lifted at this, and he cast me a sardonic grin. “Glad to hear it,” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  “No, your body’s not limber?” asked Charlie mildly.

  I ignored him and stared reprovingly at Mrs. Risk, “I mean, thrilled though I might be to do as you asked, no, I can’t go to Manhattan tomorrow. I don’t think I should leave the shop again this week. Thanksgiving’s getting close and I need every customer I can get.”

  Mrs. Risk said blithely, “Oh, I’d be happy to work in the shop for you until Daniel arrives after school.”

  I gazed at Mrs. Risk with narrowed, skeptical eyes. “I have a hard time picturing you behind the counter of my shop. You might lose every customer that comes in, that attitude of yours.”

  “What attitude?” asked the witch, astonished.

  “That attitude: ‘Do this now, my way’s the only way, I’m always right.’ That attitude. You’d probably only let them buy what you think they should have.”

  Mrs. Risk gasped in mock astonishment. “But I am always right. Aren’t I, Charlie?”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  They laughed uproariously.

  “You two should take that act on the road.” I twitched my shoulders, aggrieved but still worried at the thought of leaving my shop in anyone’s hands but Daniel’s. “Oh, okay. I know you wouldn’t ask unless it was important. I’m sure there’s some incredibly brilliant reason why we can’t just go and ask Simon Lutz questions right out in the open. And of course it’s a reason you’re sure only you could understand, so you won’t explain. But if you did it’d be something too weird to understand anyway.”

  I stopped for a breath. Charlie was staring at me in interested surprise, which made me want to ask him what he was looking at, but one thing at a time.

  I pulled myself to my feet, tipsy from the two hot toddies, and thrust my arms back into my coat. “Promise me you’ll wait to leave until Daniel arrives?”

  Mrs. Risk relaxed. “I promise.”

  “You better, and you better have racked up some sales before he gets there, too. No intimidating the customers.” I leaned towards her for emphasis, weaving slightly. “Smile at them.”

  “You can count on me.” And of course then she smiled at me in that charming way she can when you least expect it. She and Charlie rose and began wrapping themselves up against the cold. They followed me to the door. Just as I was beginning to think positive thoughts about tomorrow, and was nearly out the door, she added, “And don’t forget. You owe Charlie your company at dinner one night. You should probably plan on it for some night this week, but not tomorrow night, because we’ll be going to Solly’s funeral.”

  I stopped in the middle of the doorway but didn’t turn around. I muttered, “We’ll see,” but I have no doubt she took small notice, taking my compliance for granted. Which, let’s face it, she can. What are friends for?

  9

  I TOLD THE RECEPTIONIST my name was Julie Harvey and that I had an appointment—and looked right into the eyes of the aging, over-tanned, emaciated redhead Leeann Horstley, last seen by me at the far end of the table at Bon Nuit Bistro, giggling at everything Solly said before he keeled over and died.

  My prepared speech left me, gone forever, and my mouth hung open while my brain stalled. Regardless, I heard with a feeling of dizzy unreality how nice that I was right on time, that Mr. Lutz would be with me in a moment, just take a seat.

  I groped sideways for a chair, twisted around, and sat down hard.

  Leeann Horstley. I remembered how at Pearl’s party she’d stuck to Mrs. Lutz’s side. Two shriveled, short, devoutly designer-fashioned redheads, Mrs. Lutz showing the advantages of an obviously higher income. I remembered thinking how cute they looked together. So she was also Simon Lutz’s receptionist. Had she recognized me? I snuck a glance into the open window over my shoulder. She met my eyes with an impersonal but warm smile before sliding the small glass door shut in my face.

  How could she not?

  Because today I’d twisted my hair into a bun? The night of the dinner I’d left it flying free, as usual. And today I’d put on lots of makeup, where usually I wore none. The leotard, with leg warmers and stuff—no, she couldn’t have seen that beneath my coat. I took some deep breaths to quiet my thumping heart.

  As my stomach muscles uncle
nched, I wondered how Mrs. Risk had accomplished the miracle of acquiring my appointment for exactly the time she’d told me to arrive. Because the LIRR (Long Island Rail Road) took two hours to reach midtown Manhattan’s Penn Station, I’d boarded the train before office hours, so she couldn’t have called until after I left. Another amazing feat by Mrs. Risk. Soon she’d qualify to open her own side show.

  I was alone in the theatrical agency’s outer waiting area and had six molded plastic chairs from which to choose. I slid sideways to put an extra one between me and Leeann’s closed glass window.

  A line of framed glossy black and white photos stretched across the pastel green walls, no doubt Simon’s clients, past and/or present. Each 8x10 projected an image of bright, energetic faces, spoiled only by the repetitive poses—either tilted heads with fists propping up chins, or opened mouths and arms as if photographed in mid-song or laugh—depending, I suppose, on the performer’s specialty. One magician pulled a fat rabbit out of an oversize top hat, surely a magic cliché.

  Through Leeann’s window came floating the voices of a young man and an older woman shouting good-naturedly at someone on a speaker-phone about the incredible, not-to-be-believed talents of a client. Their boisterous tones mimicked the energy pictured on the reception room walls. I took note. Maybe some enthusiasm of my own would lend me a theatrical authenticity. They evidently reached some kind of agreement, because the shouting abruptly stopped, leaving the office in eerie silence.

  Suddenly, I heard a deeper man’s voice cut through the stillness. “Is the goil still here? I’m still trying to send this fax. Give me another minute, then tell her she should come in.” I heard shuffling footsteps recede.

  After the requested minute passed, the glass panel screeched open. “Mr. Lutz will see you now. Come in, dear.” She pointed. “Through that door.” A harsh buzz split the air as she released the lock to let me in.

  I approached the frosted glass door, which was on the other side of her window. Taking a deep, enthusiastic breath, I turned the knob and the alarm racket stopped. I entered.

  Leeann beamed at me as if we’d discovered relatives in common, and said, “That way, dear. Go on in and sit down, he won’t mind. He’s faxing. He’ll just be a sec.” I beamed back at her brown, shriveled-skin face. So, no busty dimpled blonde receptionist for Simon Lutz. The thought cheered me unaccountably.

  I must have hesitated a moment too long because she stood and, leaning across her desk, gave me a gentle urging nudge on the arm. “Go on, sweetie.” She no doubt had had years of experience with frightened theatrical wannabes.

  Still amazed at her lack of recognition, I went. Simon Lutz’s office was a large wood-paneled rectangle, plushly carpeted, and containing, besides a huge desk, club chairs grouped around a coffee table at the far end. His walls were also covered with pictures, but these were framed more expensively and included a far more illustrious cast. Some included Simon Lutz. All were signed ‘To Simon’, with endearments.

  I studied his pictures while I shed my coat and scarf. He looked only vaguely familiar to me. I’d worried that he would recognize me from Pearl’s birthday party. Mrs. Risk’s argument was that I had an extraordinary memory for faces and if I couldn’t remember him very well, he’d never remember me. This was one occasion I hoped she was right every time.

  At that moment, I heard the door open and turned around. A large-featured heavyset man a few inches shorter than me entered with a rolling gait. He stopped, cocked his head, which caused his jowls to waggle, and examined me shrewdly. “Dancer, eh?”

  I couldn’t even nod. I hadn’t thought of it until this second—would he ask me to demonstrate? There was plenty of floor space.

  But he only waved a palm toward one of the club chairs, so I walked to it and sat, trying to conceal vast relief.

  He settled into the chair next to me and leaned, extending one sausage-fingered hand, which I shook. “You walk like a dancer. Can always tell a dancer by her walk. What’s your specialty?”

  Specialty? Rapidly I thought, trying not to panic. “Not ballet,” I ventured.

  Wryly, he said, “That’s good. No market for it. Anything else you’re not?”

  “Not square dancing.”

  He sighed, already tired of the game. “What do you do, honey?”

  “I do modern. Like hip hop. Contemporary,” I said, trying desperately to remember what music Daniel played in my shop while he worked. Despite Mrs. Risk’s best efforts, I’m a music illiterate.

  He shifted his haunches sideways in his chair, crossing a leg and exposing a sheer patterned black sock. “Why come to me?” he asked.

  “Because you’re a theatrical agent,” I answered, nonplussed. Wasn’t that a logical assumption?

  “Honey, I’m in the market for Borscht Belt, not rock and roll. Can you do ballroom? A few tap and ballet steps thrown in for interest?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Stand up.”

  I stood. Then, inspired, I held out my arms, and twirled. I thrust out my chest when I stopped, cocking one knee which presented him with a thigh, and grinned big at him like in the pictures on the wall. He liked it. I remained standing and held the pose, but relaxed my shoulders a little as if I could stand this way all day.

  “Well,” he said more enthusiastically, and stood up. He rubbed his hands together. “Well, well.” I noticed patches of black hair on the joints of his fingers. “You got the looks for it. I dunno. You might be too hot for the Catskills. Let’s see your book.”

  Mrs. Risk had warned me about this one. “I didn’t bring it. It needed updating. I’ve been too busy to keep up with the clips. I can run it over to you tomorrow.” By tomorrow, I should be far away from this office, never to return. Mrs. Risk had promised.

  “I can’t wait to see it,” he said. “Where’ve you worked?”

  I recited the names of a few clubs in Philadelphia and Chicago as instructed by Mrs. Risk. “And I just finished a two month engagement at the Oceanside Theater in Atlantic City.”

  His eyes narrowed. “So what agent got you those jobs? And where’s he now?”

  “We had an artistic disagreement.”

  He nodded and said shrewdly, “He wanted you to take more clothes off and you refused, huh?”

  I shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly. It wouldn’t seem professional to explain too much, Mrs. Risk had said.

  His arm encircled my shoulders. “Well, don’t worry, honey. The Catskills don’t go for that stuff. Atlantic City—we’ll see. But you understand, I have to wait til I see your book to make a decision.” He tightened his hold and squeezed.

  “Of course,” I said, and got a nose full of the acrid cigar smoke embedded in his suit jacket. He turned us around and began edging me towards the door. “On your way out, let my secretary know when you’ll be bringing your book by. We’ll talk again then. Won’t take me two minutes to glance through it.”

  Involuntarily I turned my face away from him, seeking air. With one eye on the too-rapidly approaching door, I asked desperately, “Uh, those are terrific pictures on your wall. Do you really know all those famous people? Were they your clients, too?”

  I remembered again to thrust my chest towards him. His eyebrows trembled as he took in the view. Of my chest.

  “Yep, some of ’em I discovered. Moved them up into becoming the stars they are today.” With his arm still clamped tight around my shoulders, he swiveled us both back around, this time to face the wall. With his free hand, he pointed out the various famous faces in the pictures.

  Obediently I looked where he pointed.

  “Isn’t that Pearl Schrafft?” I prompted breathlessly, leaning across him to see better. The breathlessness was no act. The odor would’ve made cockroaches faint.

  “Oh, yeah. But I was pointing to Elmer Desmond. You heard ’o him, haven’t you?” I hadn’t, but I nodded eagerly.

  “Great comic, one of the greatest. I discovered him. Yeah, no kidding. It really can happen like the
movies. Found him entertaining some guys in a drugstore, ’cause he had nothing better to do. Unemployed.” He started rubbing my arm.

  “Now, he’s ready to retire, got a house in the Poconos.” He nodded sagely, his eyes on my chest. “’Cause he listened to me. Some clients think they know it already, don’t need an agent. The good ones listen, know savvy when they hear it.”

  Suddenly he released me and began patting his chest, digging in pockets. I dreaded to think he was looking for a cigar.

  “Are you Pearl Schrafft’s agent, too?” I asked, sounding, I hoped, properly starstruck.

  “Uh, no. She’s got—at least, she had—a manager. He did her agenting for her. One of the best. Poor guy, died night before last.” He found a cigar and began twisting off the cellophane wrapper.

  “He died? He was that old?” I continued, desperately trying to unearth information while simultaneously keeping him too distracted to light the cigar.

  “Not old, honey. Same age as me.”

  “Oh, he was in his prime, then,” I said, easing my aching back by shifting into a different pose.

  Simon beamed as he clipped the end off the cigar with a gizmo he pulled from a vest pocket. He poked the fat brown tube into his face and answered from one side of his mouth. “Yeah. Freak thing. I don’t think they’re sure yet what it was. Anyway, he was Pearl Schrafft’s agent at the beginning of her career, then took up personal managing. After Pearl’s career shot off, he managed her exclusively. She didn’t catch cold without his approval.” He winked. “Shows what listening to your manager can do for you.”

  He began patting his trouser pockets.

  “Do you manage people’s careers, too?”

  “Nah. Can’t. I’m an agent, which is a little different. Gotta be either an agent or a manager. It’s a law. Keeps the shmucks from milking the client with double commissions, stuff like that.” He bobbed his head. “You get a few who can’t keep their hands clean, then the government sticks it to all of us. It happens, like in any other business.” He found his lighter and as my heart sank, he thumbed it for a flame.