She went back to what fascinated her most.
“And feeling this way,” she said, “knowing all this, you still feel that you are being changed?”
He nodded miserably.
“The other night,” he said, “I was eating my dinner in front of the TV set. Franks and beans. With a can of beer. I was watching the evening news. They had films from the refugee camps in Thailand. The Cambodians.
“I sat there eating and drinking, and saw kids, babies, with pipe-stem arms and legs, and swollen bellies, flies on their eyes. I sat there eating my franks and beans, drinking my beer, and watched people dying. And after a while I discovered I was crying.”
“I know,” she said sympathetically. “It was terrible.”
“No, no,” he said in anguish. “That wasn’t why I was crying—because it was so terrible. I was crying because I wasn’t feeling anything. I was watching those pictures, and I knew they were true, and those people really were dying, and I didn’t feel a thing. I just ate my franks and beans, drank my beer, and watched a TV show. But I didn’t feel anything, Zoe. I swear, I didn’t feel anything. That’s what I mean about this world changing us in ways we don’t want to be changed.”
Suddenly, without warning, his eyes brimmed over, and he began to weep. She watched him helplessly for a moment, then held her arms out to him.
He stumbled over to collapse next to her on the couch. She put an arm about his thin shoulders, drew him close. With her other hand she smoothed the fine flaxen hair back from his temples.
“There,” she said in a soft, crooning voice. “There, Ernie. There. There.”
In the days following Zoe Kohler’s phoned tip to The New York Times, she searched the newspaper with avid interest. But nothing appeared other than a few brief follow-ups on the slaying of Frederick Wolheim at the Hotel Pierce.
Soon, even this case disappeared from the paper. Zoe was convinced a cover-up was in effect. As Everett Pinckney had said, it wasn’t good for the hotel business. Hotels advertised in newspapers. The economy of the city was based to a large extent on tourism. So the newspapers were silent.
But on March 24th, a two-column article appeared in the Times’ Metropolitan Report. Headlined: KILLER SOUGHT IN TWO HOMICIDES, it reviewed the murders of George T. Puller and Frederick Wolheim, pointing out the similarities, and said the police were working on the theory that both killings were committed by the same person. The motive was unknown.
The Times’ article reported that the investigation was under the command of Detective Lieutenant Martin Slavin. He had stated: “We are exploring several promising leads, and an arrest is expected shortly.” A special phone number had been set up for anyone with information on the crimes.
The Times did not mention the Son of Sam killings, but the afternoon Post and the evening’s Daily News were not so restrained. The Post headline was: ANOTHER SON OF SAM? The News bannered their page 4 report with: COPS CALL ‘DAUGHTER OF SAM’ A POSSIBILITY.
Both papers suggested the police were afraid that the Puller and Wolheim murders might be just the first of a series of psychopathic, motiveless slayings. Both papers repeated Lieutenant Slavin’s statement: “We are exploring several promising leads, and an arrest is expected shortly.”
After a brief initial shock, Zoe Kohler decided she had nothing to fear from Slavin’s optimistic prediction; it was intended to reassure New Yorkers that everything that could be done was being done, and this menace to the public safety would soon be eliminated.
More worrisome was the Daily News’ reference to “Daughter of Sam.” But a careful reading of the story indicated that the police were merely investigating the possibility that a prostitute had been responsible for both murders. Midtown whores and their pimps were being rousted and questioned in record numbers.
So, Zoe Kohler felt, nothing had been discovered that really threatened her. It was, she admitted, becoming increasingly exciting. All those policemen running around. Millions of newspaper readers titillated and frightened. She was becoming someone.
Her exhilaration was dampened two days later when Everett Pinckney came into her office with a notice that had been hand-delivered by the police to the chiefs of security in every hotel in midtown Manhattan.
It was, in effect, a WANTED poster, asking the security officers to aid in apprehending the killer of George T. Puller and Frederick Wolheim. It was believed the murderer made contact with the victims in the bars, cocktail lounges, or dining rooms of hotels, especially those hosting conventions, sales meetings, or large gatherings of any type.
The description of the person “wanted for questioning” was sparse. It said only that the suspect could be male or female, approximately 5’ 5” to 5’ 7” tall, wearing a wig of black nylon.
“Not much to go on,” Pinckney said. “If we grabbed every man and woman wearing a black nylon wig, we’d really be in the soup. Can you imagine the lawsuits for false arrest?”
“Yes,” Zoe said.
“Well,” Mr. Pinckney said, studying the notice, “the two murders happened around midnight. I’ll make sure Joe Levine sees this when he comes on at five tonight. Then I’ll leave it on my desk. If I miss Barney McMillan in the morning, will you make sure he sees it?”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
When he was gone, she sat upright at her desk, spine rigid, her back not touching her chair. She clasped her hands on the desktop. Knuckles whitened.
The black nylon wig didn’t bother her. That was a detail that could be remedied. But how had they come up with the correct height?
She went over and over her actions during her two adventures. She could recall nothing that would give the police an accurate estimation of her height. She had a shivery feeling that there was an intelligence at work of which she knew nothing. Something or someone secret who knew.
She wondered if it might be a medium or someone versed in ESP, called in by the police to assist in their investigation. “I see a man or woman with—yes, it’s black hair. No, not hair—it’s a wig, a black nylon wig. And this person is of average height. Yes, I see that clearly. About five-five to five-seven. Around there.”
That might have been how it was done. Zoe Kohler nodded, convinced; that was how.
On Thursday night, she went down to Wigarama on 34th Street. She tried on a nylon, strawberry blond wig, styled just like her black one. She looked in the mirror, pulling, tugging, poking it with her fingers.
“It’ll make you a new woman, dearie,” the salesclerk said.
“I’m sure it will,” Zoe Kohler said, and bought it.
Madeline Kurnitz called and insisted they meet for lunch. Zoe was wary; a lunch with Maddie could last more than two hours.
“I really shouldn’t,” she said. “I’m a working woman, you know. I usually eat at my desk.”
“Come on, kiddo,” Maddie said impatiently. “You’re not chained to the goddamned desk, are you? Live a little!”
“How about right here?” Zoe suggested. “In the hotel dining room?”
“How tacky can you get?” Maddie said disgustedly.
When she showed up, twenty minutes late, she was wearing her ranch mink, so black it was almost blue, over a tight sheath of brocaded satin. The dress had a stain in front; a side seam gapped. She couldn’t have cared less.
She led the way grandly into the Hotel Granger dining room.
A wan maitre d’ approached, gave them a sad smile.
“Two, ladies?” he said in sepulchral tones. “This way, please.”
He escorted them to a tiny table neatly tucked behind an enormous plaster pillar.
Maddie Kurnitz opened her coat and put a soft hand on his arm.
“You sweet man,” she said, “couldn’t we have a table just a wee bit more comfortable?”
His eyes flicked to her unholstered breasts. He came alive.
“But of course!” he said.
He conducted them to a table for four in the center of the dining room.
&
nbsp; “Marvelous,” Maddie caroled. She gave the maitre d’ a warm smile. “You’re a perfect dear,” she said.
“My pleasure!” he said, glowing. “Enjoy your luncheon, ladies.”
He helped Maddie remove her mink coat, touching her tenderly. Then he moved away regretfully.
“I made his day,” Maddie said.
“How do you do it?” Zoe said. She shook her head. “I’d never have the nerve.”
“Balls, luv,” Maddie advised. “All it takes is balls.”
As usual, her hair seemed a snarl, her makeup a blotch of primary colors. Her feral teeth shone. Diamonds glittered. She dug into an enormous snakeskin shoulder bag and came out with a crumpled pack of brown cigarillos. She offered it to Zoe.
“No, thank you, Maddie. I’ll have one of my own.”
“Suit yourself.”
Maddie twirled a cigarillo between her lips. Instantly, a handsome young waiter was hovering over her, snapping his lighter. She grasped his hand to steady the flame.
“Thank you, you beautiful man,” she said, smiling up at him. “May we have a drink now?”
“But of course, madam. What is your pleasure?”
“I’d tell you,” she said, “but it would make you blush. For a drink, I’ll have a very dry Tanqueray martini, straight up, with two olives. Zoe?”
“A glass of white wine, please.”
The waiter scurried off with their order. Maddie looked around the crowded room.
“Never in my life have I seen so many women with blue hair,” she said. “What’s the attraction here—free Geritol?”
“The food is very good,” Zoe said defensively.
“Let me be the judge of that, kiddo.” She regarded Zoe critically. “You don’t look so bad. Not so good, but not so bad. Feeling okay?”
“Of course. I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh. Have a good time at our bash the other night?”
“Oh yes. I meant to thank you before I left, but I couldn’t find you. Or Harry.”
“Never did meet David something, did you? The guy I told you about?”
“No,” Zoe said, “I never met him.”
“You’re lucky,” Maddie said, laughing. “He was picked up later that night with a stash of coke on him. The moron! But you didn’t leave alone, did you?”
Zoe Kohler hung her head.
The waiter came bustling up with their drinks and left menus alongside their plates.
“Whenever you’re ready, ladies,” he said.
“I’m always ready,” Maddie said, “but we’ll order in a few minutes.”
They waited until he moved away.
“How did you know?” Zoe asked.
“My spies are everywhere,” Maddie said. “What’s his name?”
“Ernest Mittle. He works for your husband.”
Madeline Kurnitz spluttered into her martini.
“Mister Meek?” she said. “That nice little man?”
“He’s not so little.”
“I know, sweetie. He just looks little. Didn’t try to get into your pants, did he?”
“Oh Maddie,” she said, embarrassed. “Of course not. He’s not like that at all.”
“Didn’t think so,” Maddie said. “Poor little mouse.”
“Could we order, Maddie? I really have to get back to work.”
Zoe ordered a fresh fruit salad.
Maddie would have the fresh oysters. Bluepoints weren’t her favorite, but they were the only kind available. On each oyster she wanted a spoonful of caviar topped with a sprinkling of freshly ground ginger.
Then she would have thin strips of veal sautéed in unsalted butter and Marsala wine, with a little lemon and garlic. Cauliflower with bacon bits would be nice with that, she decided. And a small salad of arugula with sour cream and chives.
The ordering of her luncheon took fifteen minutes and required a conference of maitre d’, headwaiter, and two waiters, with a busboy hovering in the background. All clustered about Maddie, peered down her neckline, and conversed volubly in rapid Italian. Other diners observed this drama with bemusement. Zoe Kohler wished she were elsewhere.
Finally their meals were served. Maddie sampled one of her oysters. The waiters watched anxiously.
“Magnifico!” she cried, kissing the tips of her fingers.
They relaxed with grins, bowed, clapped each other on the shoulder.
“So-so,” Maddie said to Zoe Kohler in a low voice. “The oysters are a bit mealy, but those dolts were so sweet, I didn’t have the heart … Want to try one?”
“Oh no! Thank you.”
“Still popping the pills, kiddo?”
“I take vitamins,” Zoe said stiffly. “Food supplements.”
Maddie finished the oysters, sat back beaming.
“Not bad,” she admitted. “Not the greatest, but not bad. By the way,” she added, “this is on me. I should have told you; maybe you’d have ordered a steak.”
“We’ll go Dutch,” Zoe said.
“Screw that. I have a credit card from Harry’s company. This is a business lunch in case anyone should ask.” She laughed.
She had another martini while waiting for her veal. Zoe had another glass of white wine. Then their entrees were served.
“Beautiful,” Maddie said, looking down at her plate. “You’ve got to order for color as well as taste. Isn’t that a symphony?”
“It looks nice.”
Maddie dug in, sampled a slice of veal. She closed her eyes.
“I’m coming,” she said. “God, that’s almost as good as a high colonic.” She attacked her lunch with vigor. “Sweetie,” she said, while masticating, “I never asked you about your divorce. Never. Did I?”
“No, you never did.”
“If you don’t want to talk about it, just tell me to shut my yap. But I’m curious. Why the hell did you and what’s-his-name break up?”
“Kenneth.”
“Whatever. I thought you two had the greatest love affair since Hitler and Eva Braun. That’s the way your letters sounded. What happened?”
“Well … ah …” Zoe Kohler said, picking at her salad, “we just drifted apart.”
“Bullshit,” Madeline Kurnitz said, forking veal into her mouth. “Can I guess?”
“Can I stop you?” Zoe said.
“No way. My guess is that it was the sex thing. Am I right?”
“Well … maybe,” Zoe said in a low voice.
Maddie stopped eating. She sat there, fork poised, staring at the other woman.
“He wanted you to gobble ze goo?” she asked.
“What?”
“Chew on his schlong,” Maddie said impatiently.
Zoe looked about nervously, fearing nearby diners were tuned in to this discomfiting conversation. No one appeared to be listening.
“That was one of the things,” she said quietly. “There were other things.”
Maddie resumed eating, apparently sobered and solemn. She kept her eyes on her food.
“Sweetie,” she said, “were you cherry when you got married?”
“Yes.”
“After all I told you at school?” Maddie said, looking up angrily. “I tried to educate you, for God’s sake. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Well, how was it?”
“How was what?”
“The wedding night, you idiot. The first bang. How was it?”
“It wasn’t the greatest adventure I’ve ever had,” Zoe Kohler said dryly.
“Did you make it?”
“He did. I didn’t, no.”
Maddie stared long and thoughtfully at her.
“Have you ever made it?”
“No. I haven’t.”
“What? Speak up. I didn’t hear that.”
“No, I haven’t,” Zoe repeated.
They finished their food in silence. Maddie pushed her plate away, belched, relighted the butt of her cigarillo. She looked at Zoe with narrowed eyes through a plume of smoke.
“Poor little scut,” she said. “Swe
etie, I know this wonderful woman who treats women like—”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Zoe Kohler said hotly.
“Of course there isn’t, luv,” Maddie said soothingly. “But it’s just a shame that you’re missing out on one of the greatest pleasures of this miserable life. This woman I know holds classes. Small classes. Five or six women like you. She explains things. You have discussions about what’s holding you back. She gives you exercises and things to do by yourself at home. She’s got a good track record for helping women like you.”
“It’s not me,” Zoe Kohler burst out. “It’s the men.”
“Uh-huh,” Maddie said, squashing the cigarillo butt in an ashtray. “Let me give you this woman’s name.”
“No,” Zoe said.
Maddie Kurnitz shrugged. “Then let’s have some coffee,” she suggested. “And some rich, thick, fattening dessert.”
She was conscious of other things happening to her. Not only the acceleration of time, and the increasing intrusion of the past into the present so that memories of ten or twenty years ago had the sharp vividness of the now. She was also beginning to see reality in magnified close-ups, intimate and revealing.
She had seen the pores in Maddie’s nose, the nubby twist of Mr. Pinckney’s tweed suit, the fine grain of the paper money in her purse. But not only the visual images. All her senses seemed more alert, tender and receptive. She heard new sounds, smelled new odors, felt textures that were strange and wonderful.
All of her was becoming more perceptive, open and responsive to stimuli. It seemed to her that she could hear the sounds of colors and taste the flavor of a scent. She twanged with this new sensitivity. She saw herself as raw, touched by life in marvelous and sometimes frightening ways.
She wondered that if this growing awareness increased, she might not develop X-ray vision and the ability to communicate with the dead. A universe was opening up to her, unfolding and spreading like a bloom. It had never happened to anyone before, she knew. She was unique.
It had all started with her first adventure, a night of fear, anguish and resolve. Then, when it was over, she was flooded with a warm peace, an almost drunken exaltation. When she had returned home, she had stared at herself in a mirror and was pleased with what she saw.
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