Every night I hope and pray
A dream lover will come my way
A girl to hold in my arms
And know the magic of her charms
Bobby Darin? Yes. She didn’t want to hear it. Not here, not now, and not from Paddy.
‘Cause I want—A girl—
To call—My own—
I want a dream lover
So I don’t have to dream alone
When Artie returned, the dish he set before her had a sharp aroma—it was made with vinegar, the Italian way—and she looked forward to keeping her mouth full, not least to avoid conversation with Paddy. Both men seemed pleased with themselves. Artie asked, “So?”
“The best,” she said, in complete candor. “You didn’t exaggerate. I wish I didn’t have to pay for this, but I do.”
As Artie loomed over her, she smiled and chewed, biding her time. A new song played on the jukebox. She didn’t have to guess who it was—Sinatra—and she didn’t want to contemplate its message.
Just what makes that little old ant
Think he’ll move that rubber tree plant?
Anyone knows an ant—Can’t—
Move a rubber tree plant.
“Sinatra, everybody loves Sinatra,” Paddy opined. “You like Sinatra?”
Yes, everybody loves Sinatra, you jackass. Jackass! Marie dipped her head down and filled her face with liver. She tried to keep her mind on the game. On the set, as they said. On the part she’d signed up for, and not Paddy’s private sideshow. Why wouldn’t he let it go? Still, he’d boxed her in beautifully, and she had to admire his cunning, if nothing else. She had to pretend not to hate him. If she made her feelings clear—Shut up, jackass!—Artie might throw Paddy out, and their chance of a collar would go from slim to none. And who would be blamed? Paddy would say she couldn’t think on her feet. He and Paulie were partners, and this was her first day. They didn’t need any reason to kick her off the team.
As it was, she saw Artie look over at Paddy, and the clean plate in front of him. He cleared it and wiped the counter with a rag. His tone was less welcoming, Marie thought, when he asked if there would be anything else. Paddy considered the matter, planting a fist beneath his chin, his pose all the more absurd as the slaphappy anthem plonked away.
But he’s got—
High hopes, he’s got—
High hopes—
He’s got high, apple pie, in the sky hopes—
“Well, I’ll have some apple pie, I guess,” he said, breaking into a grin at the inspiration. When Artie turned to lift a slice from under the glass bell, Paddy treated Marie to another wink. She didn’t believe she had much to learn from him as an undercover. Would he have ordered an ant or a rubber tree plant if he were asked during the verse instead of the chorus? They were playing for time. What would pie buy them, another two minutes? Her plate was nearly empty. She made a point of eating her last fries, one by one.
Once there was a silly old ram
Thought he’d punch a hole in a dam
No one could make that ram—Scram—
He kept buttin’ that dam!
Artie set the pie down in front of Paddy before turning again to Marie. “So, sweetie, anything else for you?”
“You know, that pie looked good. But you know what I read in one of the magazines? That I should try it with a slice of cheese melted on top.”
“Seriously?”
Artie seemed perturbed, but Marie pressed on. “Yeah, it sounded crazy to me, too, but I like to try new things. ‘You only live once.’ That’s my motto.”
“Are you sure? It doesn’t seem normal.”
Artie was rather parochial in his tastes for a man who sold heroin. But pie with melted cheese would take more time than pie without, and she’d have the upper hand on Paddy. “It was in Good Housekeeping. Maybe McCall’s.”
Paddy butted in, “Say, Artie, I’d like to try a little cheese on my pie, too.”
So any time you’re feelin’ bad,
‘Stead of feelin’ sad,
Just remember that ram—
Oops! There goes a billion kilowatt dam.
“You know,” she mused, eyeing Paddy. “That’s a pretty funny song you picked, mister. Why should we be rooting to knock down a dam? A billion kilowatts. Don’t we need the electricity? Where’s the American taxpayer in all this, I’d like to know?”
Artie harrumphed in assent, glaring at Paddy as he picked up his half-eaten plate. When the kitchen door closed, Paddy stage-whispered, “Don’t make things so complicated! Cut out this shit about taxpayers!”
Marie shot back, “What’s with calling him ‘Artie’? He never told you his name. Stop trying to pick me up. I’m married, and I hate you.”
“Hate is a very strong word, honey.”
“Don’t call me ‘honey.’ And stop talking, the song is over.”
“I’ll put another one on.”
“No, I will—”
But Paddy was closer to the jukebox, and he was there before Marie could leave her seat. At least she’d have a minute of peace while he made his next ever-so-clever selection. Besides, how many songs were there about girls who weren’t interested? Better to let Paddy waste his nickel. When Artie returned with the desserts, Paddy flashed Marie another grin. Artie watched them both anxiously as they took their first bites, as if he risked poisoning them. Marie didn’t care for it.
“Not bad,” she said. “Interesting.”
It wasn’t, really. What was interesting was the song that began to play. There were martial drumbeats, and a volley of trumpets, and then a massive choir. She recognized the song, but the valentine was difficult to discern.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword;
His truth is marching on.
Marie looked over at Paddy and saw, for the first time, shame in his face. The expression passed quickly, but knowing that he had the capacity for it was a comfort. Artie coughed. “Let me know if there’s anything else.”
Marie wasn’t unhappy to wrap things up, even if it meant her first day at Narcotics hadn’t finished with the hoped-for flourish. She wondered how many heroin capsules Artie sold every day. Would there be forty-nine left tomorrow, or three? Paddy ate his pie. The two of them wouldn’t come back here again, at least not together.
“Oh, shit, I forgot,” Paddy said, his mouth full. He held his hand up and chewed for five seconds, ten. Marie was interested in his gambit. He’d piggybacked on her cheese-on-the-pie line; maybe she’d jump on whatever bit he had now. What was good for the goose . . .
“Let me get a cheeseburger and fries, to go,” he said, before his voice softened and slowed. “It’s for Ma. She’s at home. Can’t get around, not lately, poor old gal.”
“Your mother! I’m sorry, I’ll get that packed up for you,” Artie said, rushing back to the kitchen as he called out, “What’s the matter with her?”
The door closed before Paddy answered, fixing Marie with a look of malevolent satisfaction. “Crabs. Real bad crabs. A filthy old whore, me old Ma is.”
Marie shook with disgust. It sickened her that anyone could even think of such a thing. Worse, he hadn’t left her room to improvise any further delay. She’d considered ordering a cup of coffee, but now, she only wanted the check. The pot was right in front of her, and it smelled fresh. She tried to shut everything out of her mind except the music.
I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:
“As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on.”
Marie was so desperate to leave that she didn’t hear the bell ring when the door opened, as Artie emerged from the kitchen with a brown paper bag.
“Here you go—”<
br />
All of it happened so fast, and her wits were so scrambled by Paddy’s crudity, that her first apprehension of trouble didn’t come from the two teenagers who charged into the luncheonette, but by Artie’s face, which was—what? Shocked, was her first thought—actually electrocuted. Had he touched a live wire? Marie must have looked shocked, too, when she saw the first teenager holding a gun. He kicked Marie, sending her spinning around on her stool. As she neared completion of her circuit—nine o’clock, ten—she saw the second teen behind Paddy, holding a knife to his throat. The motion didn’t make her dizzy; she found it oddly head-clearing. The first teen had vaulted over the counter during her gyration. “Give us the sugar, baby,” he said, gun pointed at Artie. “Everything else, too.”
When Marie came to rest, she was furious—at Paddy, mostly, for his nasty distractions; at Artie, for his heroin; and at the thieves, of course. She found herself angriest at the first teenager. He was in charge here, making the demands, holding the gun. That he’d pointed it at Artie made sense. That he’d sent his sidekick to contain Paddy with a knife wasn’t a bad plan, either. But didn’t Marie deserve more than a kiddie-ride spin on a stool? Didn’t she deserve to be threatened as well? She leaned over the counter and picked up the coffeepot, splashing it into the first teen’s face, and then she flung the pot at his head. He screamed like a girl—Yeah, like a girl!—and collapsed. The pot hit Artie, bouncing off his temple, but he didn’t react, aside from dropping the takeaway bag with the hamburger to the floor. Paddy’s dirty mother would go hungry tonight.
Glory, glory, hallelujah
Glory, glory, hallelujah
Marie heard a gunshot. When she saw Artie hadn’t moved, she guessed the scalded gunman hadn’t pulled the trigger. No, it had to be Paddy. She saw the man with the knife fall before she heard him scream. Paddy raised the first of many fists to pound the lights out of him. “Hold a knife to me, will ya?”
“Please, mister, stop—”
And then there were flashes of light outside of the windows of the luncheonette. Were they shooting outside, too? No, no sounds accompanied the lights, aside from muffled shouting:
“Hey! Get out—”
“No, you get out of the way!”
Marie knew she wouldn’t understand what had happened until later on. And she knew that if she stopped to figure things out, it might end very differently. She hopped over the counter to get the burned man’s gun. When she pushed Artie back, he tipped over. She picked up the gun from the floor—a snub-nosed .38, just like hers—as the teenager bawled, clutching his face. As she put her foot between his shoulder blades, the bell at the door rang again.
Paulie was inside, barricading the door with his foot, his body, as if the greater threat remained outside. He looked at Paddy, and then at Marie. “You okay?”
Marie nodded. “I need cuffs.”
Paulie pulled a pair from his belt and tossed them over to her. She caught them and knelt down, yanking the boy’s hands behind him. The shouting from outside the luncheonette was growing louder than the music.
He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave,
He is Wisdom to the mighty, He is Succour to the brave—
“Who‘s out there, Paulie?”
“The press. Paddy does that. You should get out before they come in.”
“What? Why?”
“If you’re gonna work this case, with Gino, you can’t—”
Marie understood at once. She left the gun on the counter.
“There should be a back way. Before you go? Do me a favor, and—”
“Yeah.”
Marie stepped over Artie into the kitchen. Inside, she looked to the left, to the third shelf, and saw the blue-and-white sugar bowl, filled with capsules. Yes? Yes. She gave the thumbs-up to Paulie and found her way out through the alley.
6 YOU WHILE AWAY THE HOURS
Once the wife knows there is another woman in the case, she frequently makes every conceivable mistake. . . . Ideally, she should behave as if the situation did not exist. . . . Finally the wife’s mistake is to assume that the catastrophe which has befallen the marriage is entirely the fault of the husband . . .
One of the best ways a wife can help her husband grow emotionally is to eliminate her own childishness. Significant evidence of maturity is the ability to compromise and adjust to a difficult or even a hopeless situation.
—Paul Popenoe and Dorothy Cameron Disney
Can This Marriage Be Saved? From material featured in the Ladies’ Home Journal
DECEMBER 16, 1959
1500 HOURS
Marie knew how to pretend to be in love, but the meeting with Gino in the coffee shop had been hard on her. It had taken some time to arrange—Charlie had gone away to Atlantic City for a week, to calm her nerves, and then she wanted to play hard to get for a while. She was sure Gino would beg her to take him back, and she was right. Marie trusted Charlie to play the part as she saw fit. She wouldn’t be a stage mother, barking at her little starlet to smile, smile, smile, or an acting coach, urging her to remember when her dog died to bring a tear to her eye. You couldn’t force these things. Charlie was a volunteer, which was unusual. Unique, even—Paulie had explained that every other informant he’d known was either facing prison time, or hustling for petty cash. Nonetheless, he impressed on her his view of how the relationship was to be overseen. For him, it was less like managing an actor than handling a rattlesnake.
“Remember, Marie, these people are the lowest of the low. They’ve turned against their own. I’ve have had snitches give up their best friends, their own brothers. My view is, it’s better to be nice than not-nice, but never too nice. With a rat, the most important thing is control. Never turn your back on them. Never let your guard down. And never make a move without asking me first.”
That didn’t seem right to Marie, in many ways. Both cops and crooks seemed to hate informants, calling them the same names—snitch, rat, fink, stoolie, squealer—as if sticking to your side was what mattered most. Couldn’t bad people try to do good things? Besides, if Paulie knew how to handle Charlie, Marie wouldn’t be involved. She was heavily invested in the case—if Charlie didn’t deliver, Marie wouldn’t remain in Narcotics—and she should be coolheaded, she knew. But she suspected that a lot of the men who held that informants violated the natural order of things thought of lady detectives in the same way. Not that she was entirely on the same page with Charlie, either.
“Believe me, Marie, I’ve seen his wife. I stopped at the bakery once, to check out the competition. I’m surprised they got any pastry left to sell. Fat as a house, and she could pass for forty. If Gino had something better to go home to, he wouldn’t be all over me, like he is.”
Marie didn’t want to debate the theory and practice of adultery. She didn’t want to dwell on their rival roles as wife and mistress. But man trouble was what had brought them together, and she believed that they could be genuinely friendly, even if they weren’t genuine friends. She could work with Charlie without living through her. The only personal case Marie was taking on was her own. It wasn’t as if she were practicing with Charlie, as such—she still believed her marriage was a fixer-upper, not a teardown, as they said in real estate—but if she learned something she could take home, so much the better.
The chance meeting in the coffee shop had begun as scripted: “Charlie! How are you! You look terrific! And this is your fella—”
“Gino, you’re not gonna believe it! This is Marie, I know her from the beauty parlor. We’ve been talking for months about getting together for lunch or coffee, but we never did, and now . . . here we are!”
The coffee shop had been chosen because it wasn’t busy; the beauty parlor scenario allowed them a frothy measure of affection without any real knowledge of their backgrounds. Charlie wouldn’t have to memorize many details, and Marie didn’t have to commit to a story that might prove inconvenient. It wouldn’t do for her to be married, but she didn’t want to
be completely up for grabs, so to speak.
“Gino, take a look at her. Isn’t she adorable? You gotta fix her up with somebody! Somebody decent. Let me think . . .”
“Wouldja look at you,” Gino said, approvingly.
Marie blushed as she took the seat across from them in their booth. “Now, Charlie, you know I’m engaged.”
Charlie slapped Marie’s hand before taking hold of Gino’s. “Marie’s supposedly getting hitched to a guy named Sid. Only problem is, she barely knows him, and she’s not gonna see him again until next year.”
“Is he doing time?” Gino asked, solemnity in his voice.
“No, he’s in the Navy.”
Gino sucked his teeth and frowned. Sid the Inmate might have been deserving of respect; Sid the Sailor was a chump. Charlie went on, “Me, I think you should live a little. God knows when you’ll see him again. You know what they say about sailors, having a girl in every port.”
“That’s not all they say about sailors,” added Gino, eyes gleaming as they bore down on Marie. “Some of them, they don’t like girls.”
Charlie let out a cackle, and she gave Gino a shove before turning her attention to the menu. “Honey, don’t be such a tease! I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
As Gino smiled, Marie imagined what Sid would have done, had he been here for the wisecrack. She laughed, and Gino looked at her with new approval. She could read his mind like a billboard. Three simple sentences, all fatheaded fantasies: This is a broad with a sense of humor. I could see spending time with her. Who knows where it could go?
Marie didn’t know where it would go, either. She knew where it wasn’t going—to bed, with Gino or any of his friends. Gino was handsome, but she wrestled with her revulsion toward him. He reminded her of Sid, with his doggy need for female approval, his confidence that he’d win it. Sid had six inches and seventy pounds on Gino, and the self-assurance that came with the size, but dogs they were, the both of them, always sniffing the air, showing their teeth.
The Policewomen's Bureau Page 14