Marie rose from her seat, as if called to attention, and she had to fight her hand to keep it from a salute. She wasn’t in uniform. And now she wouldn’t be, every midnight for the next fifteen years! So awful, so wonderful, the whole day had been. She couldn’t decide whether, she couldn’t . . . No. She wouldn’t think. She wouldn’t think about how the death of a pregnant girl had brought her such good fortune. She wouldn’t think about how her success with so many difficult cases had gained her nothing, but that doing nothing, saying nothing, had won her a chance to be a detective. She wouldn’t think about telling Mrs. M. that she was pregnant, or how it happened, or how she felt about it, or what she’d thought about trying to do. There would be days ahead when she had to think, but today wasn’t one of them. She began to blubber, softly, and she rushed around the desk to embrace Mrs. M., indifferent to decorum. Some sentiment would be indulged, just this once. When they let go, Marie turned quickly, snatched a tissue, and waved without looking back. She had almost recovered her composure, but she knew she’d lose it again if she saw the inspector’s face. “Thank you, Mrs. M.!”
“Thank you, Marie!”
As Marie marched out, she touched Emma on the shoulder, but she didn’t stop. She made for the exit as quickly as she could, swiping at her watery eyes. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She didn’t work here anymore. The last thought made her blub again. As she left, one of the girls said, “I’m glad she left by the door. I was afraid she’d go out the window.”
NO ONE WAS at home when Marie returned. No, not no one. The little dog capered and barked. It didn’t even have a name yet, but it didn’t seem to mind. Marie set Mrs. M.’s manila folder on the kitchen table, desperate to tell someone her good news. It hurt near to bursting to keep it to herself. She almost wished Sid were home. He would know what the transfer meant to her, what it would have meant to any cop. Would he be proud of her, as he had been, once upon a time? She couldn’t wait to tell Dee and hoped the moment wouldn’t be spoiled by any jealousy. What had Dee told her, in her kitchen? You don’t even know your own strength. You can get through anything.
All the grave decisions of this morning had been made. Shut up; speak up. Keep it; don’t. Stay, go. Now, all she had to do was have a baby and start a new job. Piece of cake. She turned on the radio, so the house wouldn’t seem so empty, so still. She didn’t have any demons to keep her company anymore. “Another reported organized crime figure has been found dead, in what authorities fear is a mob war—”
Marie turned it off before she could learn if it was another Nunzi. These things sometimes took on a life of their own, didn’t they? She decided to walk around the corner to Vera’s, to spare herself the agitation of passing the time alone. When the phone rang, she ran to answer. Who wanted to talk now? Her mother and sisters only called in the evening. Was it some kind of salesman, or one of the contractors she’d asked for an estimate on roof repairs? Did Katie have a beau? Whoever it was, they were going to hear that Marie was going to the Manhattan South Burglary Squad. She cleared her throat before picking up the phone, her voice mellifluous. “Good afternoon. This is the Carrara household. How can I help you?”
There was a pause before an answer. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon to you, too,” came the response, still hesitant. A woman with an accent. What was the accent? “Marie. I . . . This is . . .”
Now, Marie knew. “Carmen.”
“Carmen,” Marie repeated. Her expression flattened, as if she were seconding a motion in a boardroom. “How can I help you today?”
“Oh, Marie, it’s me who can help. I want to help you. Sid told me about what happened, how you are going to have a baby that neither of you want. I can help, I can stop it.”
“Can you?”
“Yes, I can, Marie. I knew you would listen. As a woman, you know. I have helped other girls like you. You must, you must . . .”
“Yes?”
To be told of her obligations by this creature was beyond lunacy. If the little dog at her feet had begun to talk, she’d have paid greater heed to its advice.
“You must trust me. Sid, he’d never let you be hurt. He sent your brother to me, and I helped him.”
Her brother? So, Marie had a brother, and he had been pregnant. That news would certainly liven up the next family dinner. Would Papa be pleased? “Go on.”
“It only takes a few minutes. It’s a kind of enema, with bleach.”
That would do the trick, she supposed. It might do less damage than a small explosive charge in the uterus, but probably not by much. It saddened and sickened Marie to think that she might have almost considered it, had the offer not come from such a compromised party. But she was less interested in Carmen’s technique than her service to her family. Excepting, obviously, what she’d done for her husband.
“No, I mean my brother. How did you help him?”
“Sal, his girlfriend, she was—”
Marie let go of the phone. It dropped almost to the floor before the cord reached its limit, and then it dangled and bounced, twisting. She walked over to the kitchen table and sat down. That Sal had cheated on Ann was not a surprise. That Ann was the infertile party in the marriage was also known to the sisters. When Sal had bragged about his brazziole, Marie’s objections were not medical in nature. What made her nearly weep was knowing that Ann would have been glad to have any child, even the bastard of her bastard husband. Marie picked up a paper napkin and wiped her eyes. She didn’t want to think about the poor idiot Sal had knocked up, after Carmen’s chemistry experiment. No more baby-worries for her, after a bleached womb. And then Marie began to feel queasy.
How did Carmen know about her condition? Through Sid, of course, but it was too soon for him to have figured it out on his own. It had to have started from Ann. Ann to Sal, Sal to Sid. Keeping secrets about pregnancy wasn’t Ann’s strong suit. Sid wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t . . . he wasn’t a detective. Not like Marie.
And then she made a series of rapid deductions: Sid had beaten Carmen for calling the house the last time; he had likely shared the news of the pregnancy as the latest reason why he couldn’t leave the marriage. He must have known that if he pressured Marie for an abortion, she would have resisted, out of reflex or spite. He’d taken too much from her already. He’d ruined too many days, too many years. He’d had too much to say in the story of her life. For the first time, Marie felt defensive, protective of the child she was carrying. She didn’t want it just yet, but she wouldn’t have it taken from her—not by Sid, and never by that absurd woman. Of course, now that Marie had decided against ending her pregnancy, she was getting offers for abortions over the phone.
What was Carmen thinking? Sid must have put her up to the call, betting on the chance that the hysterical women might bond, when there would be no chance if he made the offer, or the demand. Marie supposed she should be grateful he hadn’t tried to push her down the stairs. Maybe that was Plan B. She’d have to be careful for the next few months, moving between floors. Sid could be with Carmen now, listening in. Marie ought to take advantage of the situation. Today was the day for that, wasn’t it?
Marie stood up from the table and picked up the phone. She heard Carmen talking as the receiver rotated and recoiled. Her absence hadn’t been noticed: “And the worst thing, for a child, is not to be loved, and I know—”
“Shut up for a second.”
“And the worst-worst, is . . . what?”
“Shut up, Carmen.”
“I . . . Marie, I don’t want—”
“Shut up, Carmen. I won’t tell you again. I’m not interested in anything you have to say. But I’ve had a great day, and I’m gonna start looking at the bright side of things. I got promoted to the Detective Division. It’s a big deal.”
“Oh, Marie, you—”
“Shut up, Carmen. Not that I don’t think you have some use. For example, whenever I think I’m the biggest idiot in the world, I can always picture you and figure I’m not so
bad off. At least I know the mistakes I made—the big mistake, marrying Sid—were mistakes. I got dealt a losing hand, and I want to get out of the game. You keep losing, and you keep doubling your bets. Do you play cards?”
“I play—”
“Shut up, Carmen. I don’t care what you play, or who you play with. I’m gonna have a beautiful baby, and if Sid wants nothing to do with any of us, we’ll be all the happier. But if I hear from you again, I will go to the district attorney to tell him about your bleach trick. I do these cases, these abortion cases. We have so many wiretaps running now, I can’t count them all. Your phone, this conversation, the cops might already be listening in, recording it.”
Marie didn’t need to tell Carmen to shut up again. She didn’t have much more to add, she supposed, but she was curious to find out what she’d say next. She felt dangerous, and she liked it. So many things had changed today. Why shouldn’t she change, too? Now, she was ready to finish the conversation. She didn’t care who might overhear, or what might happen later. Whatever it takes. “And Sid, if you never come home again, it’s fine by me, but if you do, we need a couple of bags of mulch for the garden. And if you have a friend at the precinct who can give us a better deal on the roof, he better speak up soon, because I’m going to pick someone for the job, Monday latest.
“By the way, I do feel a little different, this time around. I think it could be twins, maybe triplets. Who knows? Anyway, I have to run. Call again, Carmen, and I’ll kill you. Good riddance, goodbye, whatever.”
Marie hung up the phone. For all she knew, Carmen had fainted, or Sid had knocked her out cold for failing at her assignment. Marie wasn’t certain Sid was listening in. Maybe he’d told Carmen that she’d better fix things—Or else!—while he was with his backup mistress. Why not? The notion of triplets must have brought it to mind. Why just have two women, when there could be multiples, younger and younger, like Russian dolls? Marie laughed at the idea. She could conceive of so many possibilities with Sid and his captives, his deceits and their delusions, fiendishly elaborate or savagely simple. A detective’s imagination wasn’t a pretty place, but it was never dull.
Marie would have to shop for clothes, once she found out the dress code at the new squad. She’d have to pick out maternity things, as well. Could she really be having twins? She hoped not, but it would be nice if at least one were a boy. Looking out the kitchen window into the garden, she saw the azaleas in the afternoon sun. They’d come in like the blazes this year, but she really did need to pick up some mulch. There would be time for that, later on. Plenty of time. Marie wanted to see Vera, to tell her what had happened. Some of what had happened, anyway. Yes, she’d head over there, like she’d intended. Why not have part of the day go as planned? Marie picked up the ridiculous little dog, whatever its name was, and walked out the back door.
FOUR
IN A FAMILY WAY
14 YOU GET DOWN TO BUSINESS
The aforesaid events may give rise to another thought: the hand that rocks the cradle may rule the world; but if it is to mold public policy, that hand had better learn the ways of governmental process.
—Theresa M. Melchionne
Policewomen: Their Introduction into the Police Department of the City of New York. A Study of Organizational Response to Innovation.
JULY 8, 1963
0900 HOURS
Marie knew better than to believe that real detective work was the stuff of B movies and dime novels. She wouldn’t be solving murder mysteries with a magnifying glass and a sly question. She kept telling herself that it wouldn’t be glamorous, that the change wouldn’t be profound. But how was she supposed to believe that, when she found herself hunting jewel thieves in luxury hotels, and hobnobbing with movie stars? It was too much fun. No episode of Decoy came close. The new job wasn’t a dime novel—it was a fairy tale. She felt like Cinderella with a gun.
What she loved most was that she could talk about work after work, and everyone wanted to hear. When she was with the Degenerate Squad, the Abortion Squad, and most of the others, if anyone asked how her day had gone, her usual answer was, “Umm . . . fine.” The hotel detail was a gas while it lasted, and it lasted a month.
At first, most of the thefts had been kept out of the papers. The hotels didn’t want their clientele to fear their valuables might check out before they did; the cops didn’t want the hoi polloi to think they were stumble-bums. The victims might not want it known which parts of their collections were priceless, and which were paste, or that they happened to be in a suite at the Stanhope on a particular date, let alone with whom. Still, there weren’t many reputations worth more than the twenty-carat diamond ring that was taken from Mrs. Irene Mayer Selznick at the Hotel Pierre.
A dozen men had been assigned to the hotel detail from burglary squads all over the city, and more were added with each passing week, which made Marie’s newness less noticeable. Almost everyone had been friendly, respectful, even grateful for her presence. She could linger in lounges or lobbies without anyone thinking she was a cop; she could pair with a male counterpart and mask his flatfoot spoor with her perfume. Even if some of the men had worked in Manhattan for a while, they didn’t exactly fade into the background at the Waldorf. They were the salt of the earth, but some were saltier than others. One night’s surveillance was ruined when a detective broke out into hysterical laughter at the sight of an elderly man in a top hat, white tie, and monocle: “Hey buddy! Go make a break for it before they put you back in the Monopoly box!”
But Marie didn’t stare, didn’t stutter when she was sent to interview the big shots. Most of the victims were women, and the bosses thought they’d find her reassuring. Week by week, her task shifted—one Monday, she’d be hauling a slop bucket, pretending to be a chambermaid; the next, she’d be kibitzing with the stars. Doris Day had warmed to Marie immediately, drawing her aside to tell her how her skin kept its honeyed glow: “Once a week, I smear Vaseline all over and sleep in footy pajamas.” Dolores del Río confided that she managed to maintain the same complexion, even though she had a good fifteen years on Doris, by bathing in milk. The results of the interviews were duly noted.
Marie thought it beyond brilliant when one of the captains hatched a plan to anticipate the thieves. They’d reach out to likely marks and warn them, to prevent new cases from adding to the mounting pile of open ones; they’d stake out their rooms, and maybe grab a burglar in the act. She met Henry Fonda after they’d set up a tripwire under a mat that set off an alarm next door, where she waited with two other detectives. At the tail end of one festive evening, Fonda returned to his room and forgot about the alarm. When the cops sprang out, guns at the ready, he thought it so marvelous that he repeated his mat-stepping dance through what was, for him, a long and merry night. And Judy Garland, who answered the door in a silk kerchief and sunglasses like hubcaps and seemed as lonely as anyone Marie had ever met. If Judy—yes, “Call me Judy,” she’d insisted—hadn’t moved her arms, Marie would have guessed that she was wearing a couture straightjacket. She offered to sit with Marie and the men for the duration of the shift. When the team politely declined, she ordered a feast sent up for them from room service. Marie hoped someone nice would try to rob Judy, just to keep her company for a while.
And then there was Cary Grant. When he didn’t leave his digs at the Plaza for a troubling length of time—he hadn’t gone out for dinner, or ordered room service—they checked in on him. When he answered the door in a navy silk dressing gown, he was a little thicker than Marie remembered from the last time she’d seen him—North by Northwest?—his hair more salt than pepper, but he was as debonair as ever, his expression droll, his accent not exactly English but English-ish, from somewhere finer, more fun, than wherever you were from. “Are you from the welcoming committee?”
The men with Marie were dumbstruck, as they hadn’t been for Garland or Fonda, as the sadness of one, the silliness of the other, were so remote from their images. But the Cary Grant before
them was Cary Grant, unmistakably, no matter if he lacked overhead lights or makeup. It fell to Marie to make introductions. “Mr. Grant, we’re from the police. I just wanted to make sure you know why we’re here, and what’s been happening.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about it. Do come in.”
Yaasss, he said, drawing out the sound. Do plinked like a violin string. The other detectives’ eyes bulged as they took in the splendid expanse of the suite, with its gilt and velvet, its French furniture and Persian carpets. And the hot plate on a table in the corner, which held bubbling cans of Heinz baked beans and corned beef hash. The contrast of a hobo dinner with the regal room made it hard to concentrate.
“I’d ask you to stay for supper,” he began, “But—”
“Thank you,” Marie interjected, fearful her colleagues might have heard only an invitation. “I just want to let you know, we’ll be right next door. I guess you’ve been told, headquarters had this idea to get the jump on these crooks by reaching out to . . . potential targets, and—”
“Very clever. I was in it already.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was in the movie already. To Catch a Thief. Did you see it? It’s the same plot. I play a retired cat burglar on the French Riviera who has to trap the real bandit to clear his name. The only thing different in your production, my dear, is that you have my part, and I have Grace Kelly’s. Hmm, I wonder if I could write off my salary, as a sort of public service. I’ll have to run that by my accountant.”
That troubled Marie, maybe more than it should have. She hadn’t considered that her new adventure could have been an old story. But the next day, one of the captains called just before she was about to head into work. “Say, Marie, do you have . . . whaddaya call ’em? Nightclothes?”
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