“Come on in.”
“Tell me, Charlie, do you have a regular girl who cleans for you, or do you just invite fidgety policewomen over now and then?”
Marie laid the stockings and nightclothes over the back of a chair and set the champagne down on the vanity. It was twice the size of Marie’s, with a three-part mirror in the center, banked with pitiless fluorescent bulbs. The trove of atomizers and stoppered cut-glass bottles inspired in Marie the same childish fascination she saw in Sandy when she readied herself to go out: This is what a grown-up lady can do. And Marie could hardly argue with the result. Even in the harsh light of the vanity, she was amazed at the skill of Charlie’s hand, the palette of pale shades that played up her high cheekbones, the vibrant colors that set off her lips and eyes. She wore a boldly low-cut dress of emerald silk. “Charlie, you’re a vision.”
“Thanks, hon’. You’re a knockout yourself! I meant to tell you before, but your call shook me. Even having you come here early, it’s a break from my routine. I like two hours solid to put myself together. Meeting a strange man when I’m not even halfway ready, I felt like I was getting pushed out of a plane without a parachute. And thanks for the champagne. You read my mind. I have a glass here. Get another for yourself, would you?”
“I know how you feel, with the ‘pushed-out-of-a-plane’ bit. What’s with the spoon in the bottle?”
“It’s supposed to keep it fresh, after it’s open. Gino explained, it’s science. He isn’t stupid, you know. Something about metal and electricity keeps it bubbly.”
Marie was dubious, but she said nothing. She had to get into the habit of not finding Gino so awful. She felt her stomach tighten. “Does it work?”
“Tell you the truth, the bottle never lasts long enough to find out.”
In the twenty minutes that remained before Gino was to arrive, Charlie drank three glasses of champagne to Marie’s one. The spoon-experiment would remain unproven. They kept the conversation light, avoiding cop talk, and confining the girl talk to styles and prices and how to combine two different kinds of eye shadow, rather than the fix in which they’d shortly find themselves. One of them would soon be without a man, and the other would have one more than she wanted.
When three long blasts sounded on a horn downstairs, Charlie rose, and Marie followed. As they left, Charlie glanced around the room and said, “I wasn’t crazy about this place when Gino first moved me in here. But I think I’ll miss it, when I go. Life can take you to some crazy places, you know?”
“No argument there, Charlie.”
When Gino met them on the sidewalk, he approved heartily of both women’s appearance. Marie thought he looked dashing as well, even if his cream linen suit and Panama hat were wrong for the season, or the latitude. He opened the passenger door for Charlie and pushed the seat forward for Marie to get into the back of a sporty little coupe. Was it one of the new compacts she’d read about in Time? She’d forgotten to note the plate number. She could get it later, she supposed. Were Paulie and Paddy tailing them? She wanted to turn back to check, but she stopped herself.
As they drove downtown, she tried to remember the night before. There were a few jitters then, too, weren’t there? No, it was worse than that, much worse. What was the kamikaze impulse that drew people to amateur theatricals? The awful costumes, with the itchy gloves and spangled silver tops that shed scales like old fish. The backstage panic that spread like a flu with the touch of every damp hand, every humid, hurried whisper, as they waited for a choreographer who never showed up. It was more than ordinary stage fright—they were there to show the boys that real ladies could be real cops. Che cosa? What would it prove if these women in mannish jobs looked good in leotards? If they kept time like Swiss watches as they kicked up their heels, would the detective squads fling open their doors to them? And would nondancing lady investigators be welcome as well? There was not a scrap of sense to it. All the while, she knew Sid was out working the room, trading knuckle-cracking handshakes with hard-ass Irishmen, paesan cheek-kisses with paesani. He wasn’t a detective, and he wasn’t dancing for his dinner, but no one would question his right to be there. It was a kind of campaign-stop for him, to pose for the cameras with her, as if he were running for husband. What had she been thinking?
“Here we are, ladies!”
Gino roused Marie from her reveries at 51th Street, east of Broadway. He held the door for Charlie and extended a gallant hand to help Marie clamber out. They were by the Winter Garden Theatre. Were they going to a play? The marquee was dark, but The Miracle Worker had just opened, and Marie would have loved . . . No, a story about a woman who couldn’t see anything, hear anything, or say anything wouldn’t be uplifting at the moment. Was Guys and Dolls still playing? Even a lout like Gino would have enjoyed that one. As they walked down Broadway, Marie hummed, Luck be a lady, tonight.
At 50th Street, Gino stopped and flung a hand out. Marie looked up to see a blue neon sign on the corner, the letters descending as if they’d spilled from a waterfall: Hawaii Kai. Charlie let out a thrilled coo, and Marie couldn’t suppress her pleasure. There had been Tiki bar fads over the years, but Hawaii had just become a state, and the Polynesian theme had come back with a vengeance. There were lines around the corner to get in. Gino cut through, palming cash for the doorman as they shook hands. Perhaps some reappraisal was due him, Marie mused, before opting to wait and see what else he’d arranged. At the threshold, Gino stepped between the women, slipping an arm through each of theirs, and escorted them in.
“Aloha!”
There were girls in grass skirts bearing trays of drinks, some the same azure hue as the neon sign; the booths were framed in bamboo, with thatched roofs, as if they were huts on the beach; there were palm fronds and twists of crepe paper and gaily colored plastic lanterns everywhere. The orchestra played music of a lovely, driftingly lazy quality, as if to wake you from an afternoon nap, or to lull you into one. It reminded Marie of the make-believe of Sandy’s bedroom, with the night-blue ceiling and the twinkling foil stars. Only a cafone would complain that it wasn’t real.
“Aloha!”
Gino broke away from the women when he noticed a man in a white dinner jacket at the bar. Marie blinked when she saw him, unsure how her sight might have been affected by the colored lights, the strain of the day. It looked like Tony Bennett, it really did. It couldn’t be, could it? I know I’d go from rags to riches, if you would only say you care . . . No, she knew it wasn’t him. The man was as handsome as Tony, though, tall and dark-haired, with strong features and soft, kind eyes. Could it be him? The nicest people sometimes had not-nice friends. Wasn’t Marie proof of that?
“C’mere! Marie, meet Nunzi!”
Marie extended a hand, and Nunzi turned it to the side, kissing it, as Charlie had expected Marino to do with her. Marie tried not to think of the dog’s paw. It was gracious when Nunzi did it, she had to admit. His left hand lifted her right, which prevented her from a glimpse of a wedding ring, if there was one.
“Pleased to meet you, Marie.”
“Likewise.”
“Gino told me a lot about you.”
“I can’t say the same. I was kept in the dark, like a mail-order bride.”
Nunzi laughed, almost shyly. “He said you had a sense of humor.”
When he snapped his fingers, half of the hula-skirted waitresses turned around. “Should we sit down?”
“Sure.”
At the booth that had been reserved for them, Marie was placed against the wall, with Nunzi blocking her in; Gino and Charlie took the opposite positions, across the table. Boy-girl, girl-boy, as was appropriate, although the arrangement blocked Marie’s escape, and from exchanging whispered confidences with Charlie. The dictates of etiquette didn’t often coincide with optimal police tactics. Nunzi hadn’t been anything but a gentleman, so far, but the night was young. Charlie lit a cigarette, and then Gino did. Nunzi asked Marie if she wanted one, and then if she minded if he smoked, before he
lit his own.
“Not at all.”
“Would you mind if I ordered for the table? It’s a little unusual here, but the manager’s a friend. He’ll steer us right.”
Gino spoke before Marie could: “We’ll put ourselves in your hands, Nunzi. How do you like this guy, huh?”
“I like him fine, Gino,” replied Charlie, with a chill in her voice that cut through the tropic balm. “Maybe you can introduce us, sometime before dessert.”
“Gino! What’s the matter with you?” Nunzi cried out, affronted by the lapse. “You got me so distracted with this beautiful girl, you forget to say what’s-what with your own. Madonn’! One’s prettier than the next!”
The objection was made with humility, an old-country sense of propriety, and both Charlie and Gino seemed distressed by the distress they had caused him.
“Nunzi! Where’s my manners, you’re right!”
“Nunzi! My Gino, he forgets—”
“Nunzi, this is Charlie, the light of my life!”
It wasn’t as if Marie hadn’t heard the name before, but now she’d never forget it. Nunzi, Nunzi, Nunzi. And it brought her back to the Paulie grilling Charlie: Big Nunzi or Little Nunzi? Nunzi from Delancey Street, or Nunzi from Mulberry, or Nunzi from Arthur Avenue, or Nunzi from Canarsie? Nunzi Farts, or Cross-Eyed Nunzi, or Crazy Nunzi? This Nunzi didn’t seem crazy, and he certainly wasn’t cross-eyed. He was medium-sized. Marie supposed she could ask him where he was from, when the opportunity arose. Until then, the farter couldn’t be excluded. Marie shifted ever so slightly away from him on her seat.
Drinks were ordered for the table, Pink Ladies for the ladies, Blue Dolphins for the gents. The cocktails were sugary and delicious, and Marie was careful to sip hers, and to spill what she could, as successive rounds of Mai Tais and Kon-Tikis and Scorpion Bowls followed. The scene was fascinating, and Marie couldn’t find fault with the company, Gino included. His eagerness to please Nunzi may have been a little obvious, but the genteel tone set by his—Friend? Boss? Supplier?—limited his tendencies toward vulgarity and self-regard. A reference he made to Charlie’s “knockers” inspired a stern glare, and a shake of the head. A waiter arrived with a tray of shrimp and spare ribs and announced crisply, “This called ‘pu pu platter.’”
Gino asked him to repeat it, and the waiter obliged.
“Pu pu platter.”
Gino looked around the table, but Nunzi was studying the menu, and Marie and Charlie were engaged in a discussion about the blueness of the drinks. Marie peeked at Gino and saw the gravity of his predicament. A foreigner—an Oriental!—had just walked up to them and said “poo-poo.” Twice! And he was supposed to just . . . let it go? Were they still in America?
“I can’t think of any blue fruits, aside from blueberries.”
“There’s a blue liqueur called Curacao.”
“Do you think it’s just food coloring?”
Charlie asked Nunzi, “Do you mind if I try a taste of your cocktail?”
“Please do.”
Nunzi didn’t look up when he answered. Marie thought it odd Charlie hadn’t asked Gino, but he hadn’t been paying much attention to her, and she wasn’t pleased. As for Gino, his unspoken joke stuck like a bone in his throat: Is there no justice in this world? Marie was certain that Nunzi was neither an insurance adjustor nor an assistant principal. By biting his tongue, Gino had testified eloquently to his importance. This matchmaking business was more than just business for Gino—his heart was in it, and he didn’t care if everyone saw how soft and large his heart could be. And he had a right to be proud. Marie and Nunzi were plainly taken with each other. She was impressed by the effort he made with her, asking her opinion more often than he offered his own. Sid had never deferred to her like this, even during their courtship. By acting as if she were interested in Nunzi, she found herself interested in him; even if she was only pretending, the pleasure she took made the pretense all the more persuasive. At worst, she’d have a lovely dinner out in the city. How long had it been since she’d had one?
“Try the roast pork, Marie, it’s the best thing here.”
“Please! I have my older sister’s wedding next month. The way you feed me, I’ll never fit into my dress. Twenty-three years old, she is, and she acts like she’s twelve. I guess every girl gets a little silly then, but still.”
“Silly? Marie, she’s more than silly, if she thinks you have to watch what you eat. Besides, I like a woman who looks like a woman.”
“Here’s to that,” Charlie broke in with some volume, raising her glass. “Let’s everyone toast to that!”
Gino tensed for a moment, but when Marie held up her mostly empty Kon-Tiki—the straw had allowed her to spit most of it into the bamboo—Nunzi followed suit, and they toasted to womanly women.
“I’m thirty years old, and to be honest, I’d like to settle down,” Nunzi said. “But I’m willing to wait for the right girl. I’ve been engaged twice. One girl, I found out later, she wasn’t . . . suitable. The other, her parents sent her back to Palermo.”
“Really? Why?”
“I guess they thought I wasn’t suitable,” he said, his eyes narrowing briefly before he laughed. “I’m an American. I’m an old-fashioned man, but this is the New World. Lots of opportunity here.”
“How nice for you. Where do you live?”
“Queens. College Point. A nice big place. My parents live with me. We’re originally from Mulberry Street.”
“How wonderful!”
Marie was too effusive in her response, but she was relieved to have finally learned which Nunzi sat beside her.
“Do you know Mulberry Street? You’re not from there, are you?”
“No, but I get pastries from Ferrara’s, on Grand, now and then.”
“They’re the best! The sfogliadel?”
“The sfogliadel!”
“Marie, would you mind if I asked you to dance?”
“Not at all! But give me a minute to freshen up. Charlie, are you coming?”
Nunzi rose to allow Marie out of the booth, and he bowed when she left, arm in arm with Charlie. They walked from the dining area, past the dance floor, and down the hall toward the powder room before they spoke. Charlie punched a wall.
“Holy shit, Marie! I don’t know how long I can take this. I think Gino wants to screw Nunzi even more than Nunzi wants to screw you! And that son of a bitch is head-over-heels in love with you. Sons a bitches, the both of ’em! I want you to put ’em both in prison, Marie, and let ’em bang each other black and blue. I’ll send Gino one of my negligees in Attica. What a bitch he turned out to be! I can’t stand this—”
Marie was startled by the outburst, not least by the raw language; she could hardly imagine how Nunzi would have reacted. Gino had ignored Charlie during the meal, but the jealousy caught her by surprise. Gino needed Nunzi, and Nunzi wanted Marie; the unfinished business was between the three of them—Charlie’s job had been done. But this wasn’t just a job for Charlie, after all—she was in this for . . . love? It must have been painful for her to witness the kindling of romance, as her own affair was ending. Marie regretted having been sharp with her when she flirted with Marino. What business was that of hers? There was nothing in Paulie’s snitch-maintenance manual that would be of value in this situation.
Marie hugged her and let Charlie weep on her shoulder. Three convulsive sobs led to two deep breaths—that’s all it took, thank God—and then Charlie stepped back. She shook her head and lit a cigarette. “Sorry, Marie.”
“Don’t be, Charlie. It’s a crazy situation we’re in. Who knew that Nunzi would be such a nice guy?”
“I know! He’s wonderful. And he loves you. You want to switch? Gino hasn’t looked at me all night. I’d really love to be there when you finally get him, just to see his face, so he knows it’s me who did it.”
“Honey, I’ll lock ’em both up. That’s the point, remember? And it’s just my luck to fall for the nicest heroin dealer in the world. W
ho looks like Tony Bennett.”
“Doesn’t he? I was wondering all night who it was! First, I thought Victor Mature, or even Tyrone Power, but it’s Tony Bennett.”
Charlie took a drag on her cigarette and then stomped it out on the floor. She had regained her composure, but she clearly had more on her mind. Marie braced herself as Charlie took her hand. “But Nunzi isn’t Tony Bennett. And I’m not in love with Gino, and you’re not afraid of fitting into any bridesmaid’s dress. For your older sister, who’s twenty-three! Him you could fool, but not me. I’m a big girl, and I told you I’d play this game to the end. But I need to know about you.”
“What do you mean, Charlie?”
“You know what I mean. Tell me why you’re here, why you’re doing this.”
“You know, I’m happy to talk, but I really have to go, and—”
Marie began to step away, but Charlie held on. It reminded Marie of when they first met, in the ladies’ room at the precinct, except their positions were reversed. Just a quick strip search, honey, and you’re on your way—
“Me, too, Marie. But neither of us is going anywhere until you tell me what your deal is. You don’t seem like a mental patient, or suicidal. But here, tonight? With Nunzi and Gino? It’s flat-out batshit. A happy woman would never do this. God bless you for it, and I thank God I met you. I believe in you, I do, but I need to know who the hell you are, what the hell you’re doing here.”
Charlie’s grip was firmer than expected. Marie didn’t want to fight her. The hallway wasn’t the place for this discussion, and Charlie wasn’t the person to have it with. On most days, Marie refused to admit how bad her life could be, even to herself. She’d so dreaded the idea that someone might see through her, that she’d be exposed as the wretched creature Sid had so often told her she was. Could she keep on fooling everyone? Now, suddenly, she didn’t want to. She was sickened at the thought that no one would ever know what her life was really like. She’d lived this lie so long, so well, wore it as if it were cut to fit, like second skin. How could she ever escape it, if she couldn’t tell her tragedy from her talent?
The Policewomen's Bureau Page 18