by Angela Zeman
“So Pearl’s manager was a really good guy, huh?” I asked.
“The best. The best. Well, look at her career.” He took a few seconds to puff and puff to get the cigar lit, then, with success, mouthed out a big round ‘o’ of smoke. I tried not to cringe as the cloud enveloped me.
“He met her when she was just starting out. She was skittish then, didn’t know who to trust, which is a good rule in show business, don’t let anybody kidja.”
“Good agents can spot talent just like that?” I asked.
“Sure. Gotta have a nose to climb over the sludge. No nose, no talent to work with, you stay down in the bum pool forever.”
He poked at me with an elbow. “Got that nose for you, honey. I can see you’re gonna be a star.”
“So why didn’t you ‘find’ Pearl Schrafft way back then, instead of him?”
“Never saw her work. Luck is like that.” He shrugged.
“Who’s going to be her manager now?”
He heaved a big sigh. “Well, I don’t know. I—uh—” he glanced at me from under his heavy brows. “Solly Mansheim was a close friend of mine, we were like brothers,” he said as if changing the subject, but I wondered. Was he rather suggesting something like royal progression to the throne?
“Maybe Ms. Schrafft’ll be turning to you to manage her? If so, maybe you’ll be too busy to take me on. I really want a lot of work. I’m very serious about my career,” I said, sounding almost panicked that I’d sign up with him only to have him abandon me in mid-stage.
He laughed, a fruity little chuckle. “A goil like you can find a new agent only too fast, don’t give it a thought.”
He raised a hand toward one picture of Pearl. “There she is with Shecky Greene and Henny Youngman. The greats. Not many greats in the comedy business. Lots of good ones, but very few greats.”
“She looks young there,” I pointed out.
“Not a spring chicken, though. She must ‘of been about, oh, forty in that picture.” He shrugged. “Hard to tell, these are the glory days of the plastic surgeon. My mother looks younger than me.”
He took another few deep puffs on the cigar. A layer of smoke hovered at eye level across the room.
“Mr. Lutz,” I began hesitantly, “Would you ever consider managing my career, instead of just being my agent?”
He laughed. “Nah, not enough money in dancers, even if you were Nureyev, which you probably ain’t. I got regular eating habits and a wife who shops for a living. Don’t worry, if I represent you, you’ll get the best advice. Dancers don’t need a manager anyway.”
“What if I went into comedy? I won’t kid you, I’m really ambitious!”
This time Simon’s laugh was like a bark. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder again and squeezed. As he spoke into my face, smoke drifted from between his lips. Tears welled in my eyes. “Only if you was Pearl herself would I consider changing—”
At that moment, the door flung open and in marched a tiny woman in spike heels, wrapped in a full length fox fur that encased her body in fat horizontal rolls. She stripped off her gloves, slapped them onto Simon’s desk, and whirled to face us. Roselle Lutz had arrived.
Simon jumped away from me as if stung.
“Simon!” she snapped as she riffed manicured fingers through her short auburn hair. “Who’s this, huh? Leeann told me it was someone new.” She made it sound like I was the fifth person she’d caught in bed with her husband today. She pushed her coat back, perched fists on chicly swathed hips, and looked me up and down.
“Roselle, heh, heh, dear. Going shopping?”
“No. I came to pick up Leeann for lunch, but she told me she couldn’t leave without telling you.” She smiled evilly at me.
She tilted her head at Simon without shifting her gaze from me. “So I’m telling you: Leeann’s going to lunch.”
“That’s great, have a nice lunch. Miss Harvey was just leaving. You can escort her to the door as you go, heh, heh.” Simon shuffled back even further from me, then fled to the safety of his desk chair. With the wide expanse of wood between him and us, he ventured an introduction. “Roselle, this is Miss Harvey. A dancer. She’s thinking of signing with our agency.”
“Oh, I’ll escort her to the door all right. Listen, honey, you think just because he’s got a plush office he’s got a fat bank account? Think again. It’s all the schlemiel can do to keep me in a two bedroom walkup. And in bed he’s no Solly Mansheim, so hustle your hoofs outa here.”
“Roselle! She might be a client.”
“Client shlient, don’t make me laugh. Dancer she told you? Look at the beef on her. Maybe a stripper, but—”
“Hey!” I’d had enough. “Look, Mrs. Lutz. I don’t know what you’re worried about. No female on this planet would get within ten feet of him unless it was business. As desirable as I’m sure he is to you, to me he stinks like a dirty ashtray.” I grabbed my coat, figuring my usefulness had ended.
Roselle frowned and peered at me and, as I pulled on my coat, scarf, and gloves, I could see the arrival of recognition as it changed her expression from nasty suspicion to nasty knowledge. “Dancer? Dancer my ass. She’s that witch’s girl, Rachel whatchacallit. Miss Harvey, she told you? Simon, you’re a schmuck.
“Has she been pumping you for information? Don’t you remember what Zoë said? What’d you tell her? Who’d you finger for this shiksa police rat, you putz?!”
I stalked out the door in as good a huff as I could muster. “I’m taking my talents elsewhere,” I declared to the air behind me. “And don’t expect me to show YOU my book!” I slammed his office door as hard as I could. As I reached the glass door, I heard a sudden crash which told me that somebody had lofted one of those nicely framed photos at somebody else. Leeann half rose from her seat at the noise.
Her eyes widened as I twiddled my fingers at her. “Bye, Leeann,” I said, my hand on the knob.
She hurriedly stabbed at the button and as the shrill release sounded, I jerked open the glass door, then the outer door, and left the Simon Lutz Agency behind me as fast as possible.
I will never ever go into show business.
My walk back to the train I spent calming myself by giving a professional once-over to the flower and fruit displays banked against the sides of the immaculately kept Korean delis on each street corner.
To my dazzled eyes these little sidewalk delis offered glimpses of parts of the world that I hoped to visit someday: brilliant red and delicate pink Chinese peonies (in November!); blue-purple agapanthus, as bright as if they were still blooming in their native Nile Basin; several types of South American orchids. Tightly wrapped rosebuds of every hue. And of course, because of the season—giant, petite, ruffled, simple, bronze, yellow, cream, and fuchsia mums. I marveled at the lush gorgeousness of it all.
Nestled next to the blossoms were examples of perfectly formed ripe fruit, brought in, like the flowers, from far away—treasures spilling out over the dank gritty sidewalks. Manhattan always seems to get the best, somehow. I bought a pear ready to burst in its own juices and ate it while I plunged back through the underground hordes in Penn Station.
When, from a phone booth I called Mrs. Risk at my shop to report, I heard people in the background. She had customers!
“You can tell me all about it when you get home, dear,” she said. “I’m too busy to listen now. Hurry. I want to get to the funeral home before the bulk of the crowd. Daniel will be here before your train gets in. School closes early today for some inexplicable reason. That school has more obscure holidays than a third world country. Change and then pick me up at my house. Heaven help me, you can drive us to the funeral home.”
“Okay. Sounds good there! Rent’s due in three weeks,” I reminded her.
“You always worry about the wrong things, Rachel. Forget money. Vivian’s bound to be at that funeral. That’s what we’ve got to concentrate on.”
“Who?”
“Snoopy Steiner, dear.”
“Oh.
Well, since nobody wants to talk to us, don’t you think—”
“Isn’t your train about ready to leave?”
“Yeah, okay. Bye.”
The dial tone in my ear was her goodbye. The woman has no concept of manners.
I ran for my train, licking pear-honey from my fingers, and tried to imagine how many dollar bills would be cuddling up to each other in my nice warm register by the time I got home. I would love, just once, to send in my mortgage payment on the exact day it was due, sans penalty. Me, worry about the wrong things? Hah.
10
IT TOOK FORTY MINUTES to relate the details of my visit—excluding Mrs. Lutz (since she had nothing to do with my errand) and including answers to Mrs. Risk’s questions. She then fell into a strictly enforced silence in which she mulled things over, forcing me to finish the drive to Shevrosh Hills alone with my thoughts.
The storm from the day before had left behind a Long Island dressed just right for a funeral. Even the garish strip malls that lined the road where we entered Queens looked bleary and washed out. The scenery also matched my mood, for reasons you’ll soon understand.
My train had pulled into Wyndham’s station at two. With visions of three whole weeks of financial security dancing tantalizingly in my head, I had run, not walked, to my shop from the station, a matter of seven minutes, to check out the day’s receipts—and found evidence of only one sale. Made by Daniel after he’d arrived. In spite of Thanksgiving’s approach, and in spite of Mrs. Risk’s promises. One sale. The profit wouldn’t even cover Daniel’s wage for an hour.
What about those customers I heard in the background when I called from Penn Station? Who’d kept Mrs. Risk too busy to talk?
In our haste to make the funeral on time and with Mrs. Risk’s pre-emptive pressing for information, that question had had to wait. But it burned behind every word I’d spoken during the last forty minutes. Depending on her answer, Solly might not be the only dead person at this funeral.
I parked the car in the farthest corner of the lot, forced to by the mass of cars of those who’d arrived before us.
“This is why I wanted to arrive early,” she said testily, eyeing the muddy trek to the entrance. “Practically everyone Pearl knows must be here. What kept you so long at home?”
Counting broken promises, I answered to myself grimly as I exited the Corvette.
My car, perhaps in sympathy with my hostility, obligingly refused to open it’s passenger side door. Mrs. Risk wriggled and twisted in the low bucket seat. “This so-called performance automobile,” she puffed as she jerked uselessly on the door handle, “is a laughable specimen of ergonomic design. But no one will ever hear about it because the cramped configuration allows insufficient lung space for uttering complaints.”
It hasn’t stopped you, I thought to myself as I stood impassively watching her struggle.
She hammered at the door with her shoulder. “Would you get me out of here?”
An encouraging kick was all the stubborn door needed to make it swing submissively open. I grabbed her wrist and gave her a helpful heave that may have been a smidgen more energetic than necessary, but we shan’t quibble, shall we?
As she picked her way around mud puddles on the way to the entrance, silence finally descended and I seized the moment. I asked her stiff back what’d happened to all the business she’d had when I called from Perm Station?
“Oh, you mean all those people in the shop?” she replied airily without turning around.
“Yes. Those very ones.”
“That wasn’t business. I invited a few people in for lunch. Black Dan brought over some salads from Harrington’s and a couple bottles of excellent Duck Walk merlot. Bart Peacock was there, and some others. It’s a shame you missed out.”
“A shame, yes it is,” I said through clenched teeth. “Did I get any customers at all? While you were entertaining, I mean.”
“Customers? Oh, dear, how many people do you think your little shop can hold? Of course I put out the ‘Closed’ sign while my friends were in.”
I stopped stone still.
I took a deep breath, but found that wasn’t enough, so I took four more. Finally, giddy on excess oxygen, I caught up with her in time to step through the door she’d opened. I shouldered past her, unable to speak.
She continued blithely, “But while he was there, Barton ordered six extra deluxe Thanksgiving arrangements for the Inn. I warn you, though, he says he’ll need to increase the order if some VIP guests he’s expecting confirm their reservations. I didn’t know how to properly write the order but I took notes, of course. He left a $500 deposit. That’s the check you no doubt found in the drawer beneath the cash register. I didn’t think you’d want it in with the cash. Twenty percent down, is that right? Well, I had to guess at prices, but he’ll understand if you have to adjust them somewhat. Oh, yes, and Black Dan mentioned needing table arrangements for Harrington’s for the holidays. He said to call him.”
Dazed, I collided breast first into the rather prominent nose of Mrs. Simon Lutz.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. She pulled herself rigidly to attention in her fuzzy navy blue Chanel suit with pearl and gold buttons. “Oh!” She seemed to be unable to get past the syllable. She swiveled on her spike heels and plunged through the closely packed crowd behind her, disappearing among the taller heads.
“What’s wrong with Roselle?” asked Mrs. Risk.
I turned to face her, biting my lip. She took one look at my face and said, “Ah. What did you say to her, dear? Something a little too truthful?”
I nodded.
“Did your deadly honesty include Simon also, so that you, and therefore I, have made enemies among people who already don’t want us around? People who we need to tell us things so that Pearl and/or Bella won’t be accused of a murder they didn’t commit?”
I gave her a weak smile.
“Rachel, darling, we’re going to have to work on your tact.” She shook her head, tsk-ing, then forged past me and plowed ruthlessly through the crowd blocking her way. I hurried to keep up. “Yes,” I heard her say, although her voice was muffled among the cashmere and mink-draped shoulders, “honey attracts so much more than vinegar.”
Suppressing a giggle, I leaned forward to hiss in her ear. “You’re not exactly the best role model for honey. Besides, honey draws flies, don’t forget. And thanks for the great order from Bart.”
She waved a hand negligently in the air, then turned her head slightly. “What happened with Roselle?”
“Well, I told you she came in just as I was leaving, but what I didn’t mention was how she popped in on us as if trying to catch us naked on the couch. It was insulting.”
“And?”
“I told her she was worried about nothing. No female on this planet would go near him because he stunk like a dirty ashtray.”
Her voice cracked in an explosion of laughter which she hurriedly covered with a cough as a couple of curious men turned their heads towards us.
Suddenly a man and a woman in front of her separated and Pearl stood before us.
Mrs. Risk embraced Pearl. Pearl’s eyes were pink-rimmed and she looked exhausted, but less agitated than yesterday afternoon.
“Hi, Pearl,” I murmured in my turn, clutching her hand. She nodded and smiled down at me. Mrs. Risk had instructed me to reserve any sympathetic words for after the funeral. She’d blathered something confusing about not being certain whether Solly was conservative, reformed, or orthodox, and she wanted to be sure we didn’t blunder. She meant, that I didn’t blunder.
Sometimes I think Mrs. Risk works too hard in the detail department. I could tell her that Solly was very conservative, just from the way he’d dressed. Of course, if he’d been responsible for Pearl’s wardrobe, maybe I was wrong. Better keep to Mrs. Risk’s script, I decided.
Bella stood nearby, but merely flicked a glance at us and kept talking to a couple standing beside her.
Solly’s casket was placed immediatel
y to our left. At least, I assumed it was Solly, since the lid was shut. To my surprise, it was made of a plain wood that looked like pine.
An older man in a white silky shawl and the small hat of a Jewish man stood nearby. The Rabbi, I suppose. He nodded to people as they drifted by. Several of the men, I noticed, wore the small hat like the Rabbi, mostly dark blue or black. White roses draped the lower half of the casket, but, to my surprise, few other flowers among the funeral home’s potted palms could be seen.
I nudged Mrs. Risk when she’d released Pearl’s attention to other condolers. “Why so few flowers?” I whispered at her. “Didn’t anybody like him?”
She explained in a low murmur that Jewish people usually make a donation to charity, called a tzedakah, in the name of the deceased instead of sending flowers to the funeral.
“Yeah? That’s nice,” I said.
Mrs. Risk smiled. “I’m glad you approve.”
“Hey just because I sell flowers doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like the idea. Sounds like a good thing to do. Something that can sort of live on after you.”
“I agree,” she said, then she went on to answer other questions I hadn’t asked. Yet. She’s good at that.
“The men’s hats are called a kipah or yarmulke, and the prayer shawl around the rabbi’s shoulders is a talit. On the talit, the tassels, or tzitzit, and the knots tied in them, represent the 613 mitzvot, or good deeds, a Jewish man is obligated to perform in his adult life. In the casket, Solly is probably draped in his very best talit, with one of the tzitzit cut off to signify that Solly is no longer held responsible for the performance of the good deeds.” Her eyes glittered as she glanced at me. “They’ve probably placed a little bag containing earth from Israel inside the casket. It’s every observant Jew’s wish to be buried in Israel, but barring that possibility, this bag is intended as a symbolic ‘homing device’ in hopes of being included in the resurrection in Israel when the Messiah arrives.”