This was not the first time Velda and I had gone through the double doors under the black awning with ROSE’S TURN in white. Sometimes we’d climb the dark stairs to the second-floor cabaret whose stage had been graced by the likes of Woody Allen, Richard Pryor, and Joan Rivers, or (as was the case tonight) we’d take the seven steps down to the piano bar, where lesser-known but no less talented performers shared the microphone with singing wait staff and well-oiled civilians.
This was, however, the first time we had gone to Rose’s on business. We had not dressed for a night on the town, and were still in what we’d worn to the office today. Right now we were comparing notes on our respective investigative endeavors. I started with my visit to Pat’s office and the sharing beers with ex-cop/current security guard Myron Henry. Then, stopping occasionally to sip at her glass of white wine, Velda told me about her afternoon and early evening, which had been spent here in the Village.
I found Helen Wayne (Velda said) at the register in the Paper Book Gallery—over on Sullivan and West Third? Did you know they still have Beat-style poetry readings there? Good-looking young woman. Casually dressed, oversized sweater, jeans, short brown hair, permed like in her photo. Not much make-up. Not surprising she turned out to still be a nice girl from the Midwest.
I bought a copy of The Beauty Myth and she smiled and said “Fine choice”—she’d read it and liked it herself. That’s when I told her I was an investigator working with the Daily News—as you suggested, Mike—and that her name had turned up in the background inquiry on a story about Senator Winters. She seemed more intrigued than alarmed, and agreed to have a coffee with me on her break, in twenty minutes.
So we sat in a coffee shop across the way and I at first said that we had learned she and Senator Winters had an affair. I told her the reporter had no intention of using her name, but we wanted to hear her side of things. She didn’t say anything for a long while, and I was just starting to think she was going to get up and leave me hanging. But then she said, “What do you want to know?”
Rather than ask questions, I suggested she share her story with me. She nodded and said that was fine with her. She would appreciate confidentiality, but she was willing to talk to me. She was a very articulate young woman, Mike, and seemed fairly sophisticated for her age… I think that came not from her Ohio upbringing but her time already spent here in New York.
Anyway, she spoke highly of the senator. She believed in him, in the causes he espoused, and admired him for what he was trying to do for minorities and the poor and the rights of women.
“What a wonderful orator he is,” she told me. “Did you know he writes all his own speeches?”
Yes, you’re right, Mike—she does sound like she’s still in love with him. Or at least enamored or whatever. But she feels quite the opposite about Mrs. Winters.
“That woman is a monster,” she told me. “She has been cheating on the senator for years and years. She plays at being for the same kind of causes as Jamie, but it’s all for show. For how she’ll look in the media and to her rich friends.”
She said that Winters had broken off the relationship, and this is exactly what she said, Mike—“gently and respectfully.” He told Helen Wayne he loved her but he couldn’t risk what he hoped to accomplish in politics if he “strayed from the straight and narrow.” Right! Gag me with a spoon, as the younger generation says.
Helen says the senator told her that he was reconciling with his wife, and that Nicole had broken off her latest affair and intended to behave herself “henceforth.” Did Helen believe Mrs. Winters would do that? Actually, yes. Why? Oh, for her own selfish reasons—to be the famous wife of a famous man, maybe even a president.
“Can you imagine her as First Lady?” she asked me.
Funny how she could feel such contempt for the woman but only admiration for the man, when the couple’s goals appeared so similar.
I then told her she didn’t need to worry about her name getting in the papers. That I wasn’t really working with a journalist, but for the senator himself. Because someone was trying to blackmail him.
Her first reaction to that was concern for Winters. That it was terrible, unfair and so on. It took her a while to think of herself, and to realize that she might be the cause of the blackmail!
Why would she assume that? Well, in the sense that… Mike, remember, she claims no knowledge of the senator’s other affairs. As far as she knows, she’s the only woman. Or I should say… the only other woman.
No, of course I didn’t say anything about the audio recording. If I’d gone that way, it would have been easy to at least imply that it was her on the tape. But I didn’t. I just warned her that somebody had targeted the senator for blackmail, presumably for money but possibly to damage him politically. And gave her our card so that if anyone approached her, or anything unusual or unexpected relating to her time as the senator’s secretary should come up, she could get in touch. Should get in touch.
“It never occurred to her,” I said, “that she might be a suspect?”
Velda shook her head, raven arcs swinging. “No. I did ask her if she was seeing anyone right now, and she said no.”
“You believe her?”
“I do.” Her eyebrows chased her hairline. “If she’s lying, if she’s dissembling? She’s really wasting her time behind a bookstore counter—she has a real career in acting ahead of her.”
I sipped my CC and ginger. We were at a table as far away from the little performing area as possible. At the baby grand, a skinny dark-haired guy in an open-collar white shirt and dark slacks, who was born well after any of the Gershwin tunes he was playing, was having a nice jazzy way with them.
“Okay,” I said. “You saw the McGuire girl, too?”
“I did. In some ways very similar to Ms. Wayne, in others not at all.”
Judy, and she told me to call her that (Velda went on), works at the White Horse Tavern. No, the place hasn’t changed at all since last we were there—are you kidding? Same portraits of Dylan Thomas on the walls, same plaque celebrating his last drink there. I can’t confirm what you claimed to see in the men’s room is still visible…
Velda referred to the “Go home, Jack!” scrawled in a stall, referring to Jack Kerouac, who was well known for getting tossed out of the joint, the inebriated author of On the Road being told frequently to hit the road.
…but I think Judy really likes the literary vibe, all the stories about Faulkner and Fitzgerald and Steinbeck being regulars. I don’t think it’s an accident that the two former Winters side dishes are both working at such literate if low-paying jobs. Both taking college courses, remember. I have a feeling the senator likes them good-looking and smart. So do you, you say? That your idea of a compliment, Mike?
Anyway, Judy took her break with me, too, but we stayed right there at the White Horse in a back booth. Both had iced tea. She’s wearing her hair long, but minus the current big perm treatment, not blonde like in the picture we were given—a light brown now, her real color I’d say. So, I gave her the same routine, Daily News, background for an in-depth piece on the senator, because of all the chatter about him maybe going after that Pennsylvania Avenue address. And so on.
Physically, all of these young women are the same type. Curvy, more cute than beautiful, outgoing personalities. Not unlike Mrs. Winters, if she hadn’t been born to money and prone to… excess? Judy had the same opinions as Helen about the senator and his good causes. Maybe even more so. Right, she was a campaign worker so that was to be expected.
Different how? Oh. Well, I don’t think Judy ever had a thought that something serious was going on between her and the senator. It’s pretty clear she thinks he felt something for her. He said he loved her, that he was crazy about her and all. That he wanted to divorce his wife and marry her.
But Judy says she knew it was just talk. Oh, maybe he believed it, you know… at the moment? But on reflection, she knew he was a powerful man with a rich, famous wife, and sh
e was just a young campaign worker, who… and these are her words… “got his juices going.”
Well, “star fucker” is a little harsh, Mike… but maybe not inaccurate. He’s famous, Judy is young, a kid from upstate getting to travel in rarefied circles. You’ve never heard “travel” used as a euphemism before, Mike? You need to expand your horizons.
Yes, yes, I shifted to the blackmail topic, told her the News bit was phony and that I was working for the senator. The only thing… well, maybe a little off about it… is she asked me if I was with him now. And “with” clearly was a euphemism. I told her no, that I was a private detective working with another, very famous private detective, Mike Hammer himself… no, she never heard of you.
“So fleeting, fame,” I said, and sipped the drink, which was way more CC than ginger. They didn’t scrimp at Rose’s Turn, that was for sure. “So what’s your take on the McGuire woman?”
Velda’s dark eyes were steady. “She immediately wanted to know if the senator was being blackmailed specifically over their affair. Unlike Helen Wayne, Judith McGuire has no illusions that Senator Winters had never had an affair before… or since, for that matter.”
“No kidding?”
“Oh yeah. She said he was the type. She knew that out of the gate. She said the way he looked at her at the job interview told her that if she took the job, she’d be taking on more than one kind of dictation.”
I allowed myself a little smile at that. “She have a current boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Believe her?”
“Maybe. We might want to put an operative on her tail.”
“Since she never heard of me, I could put myself on her tail.”
“I bet you could. So let’s use somebody from the outside. She’s never heard of you, remember? Let’s keep it that way.”
I grinned at her and she tried not to smile.
The skinny pianist in the white shirt got up and went to a standing microphone in front of the framed REMEMBER THE PIANO PLAYER request for tips. He said, “Ladies and gentlemen, Rose’s Turn presents its favorite songbird, Miss Nora Kent!”
A curvy little platinum blonde materialized from somewhere. She wore a clingy, old-fashioned glittery black gown with a low neckline that she did justice to, her hair a big frizzy nest on loan from Bernadette Peters. I had a feeling her get-up and song choice were supposed to be campy, so wrong for today it was tomorrow, but all I could think about was the yesterday of Peggy Lee and Julie London. Her heart-shaped face was home to a generous mouth painted so red it made your eyes water, and her silver-shadowed eyes weren’t any bigger or bluer than the Gulf of Mexico.
She started with “Somebody Loves Me,” in a breathy but right-on-pitch alto that made the room seem even smokier than it already was. The piano player, back at his post, stayed right with her, adding percussion to his already deft noodling. This was exactly what you wanted out of a piano bar. And I would remember him with a tip.
She sang maybe a dozen standards—“It Had to Be You,” “Black Coffee,” a few peppier things, “Fly Me to the Moon,” “If You Ask Me, I Could Write a Book,” winding up with “I’ll Be Seeing You.” That one could have made a weaker World War Two veteran tear up some. If I did, it was surely all that smoke.
Velda and I chatted for a while, mostly about how good Nora Kent was, both of us really impressed. Velda had arranged with the young woman to talk to us after her set. We were waiting for the girl when a waitress came over in a green-and-black plaid shirt and jeans. Her hair was pixie short and as black as Velda’s and she wore no make-up on her cute, young face.
Only she wasn’t a waitress.
“Miss Sterling?” she said to Velda. Then to me: “Mr. Hammer?”
This was Nora Kent, minus the clingy dress, Hollywood makeup and giant frizzy wig.
I half-stood, gestured to the chair between Velda and me. She sat. As big as her presence at the mike had been, she was a little thing here.
“Thanks for agreeing to talk to us,” Velda said.
“You’re welcome,” she said, her speaking voice higher than her singing one. She was a kid, really. Probably not twenty-five yet. In addition to being a hound, our client, the senator, is a consistent cradle robber.
She went on: “What sort of background are you looking for about Senator Winters?”
Velda hesitated, but I stepped up. “That was just a dodge, Nora. Is it all right if I call you that? And we’ll make it Mike and Velda. This is a friendly get-together.”
She narrowed her aqua eyes and looked from me to Velda and back. “Okay, Mike. Velda. But what do you mean, exactly? A ‘dodge’?”
Velda said, “We frankly wanted to ascertain your attitude toward the senator. Whether it was positive or negative or… or what exactly.”
“We know about the affair,” I said quietly.
The pianist was playing tunes from Gypsy, now. That made sense, what with the place named after a song from that show. Right now it was “Small World.”
“So,” Nora said warily, but not getting up to go as she might have, “this isn’t for an article. I won’t be quoted or anything.”
Velda said, “No. We just need to talk to you.”
“Then what is this about—really?”
I said, “The senator is being blackmailed.”
Her eyes widened, just briefly. But she was calm as she said, “About his women?”
I traded glances with Velda. “You’re aware that he’s had multiple affairs?”
She fingered a pack of cigarettes, Virginia Slims, in her plaid shirt’s breast pocket. She got out a smoke, lit it off the table’s central candle. She nodded as she got the cig going.
She raised one of the dark eyebrows that with the silver shadow were all that remained of her make-up at the mike. “I knew he was… what’s the old-fashioned word? A rounder. I wondered if he might not get in trouble over that, one of these days.”
“Our understanding,” Velda said, “is that the senator was a one-woman man, where his affairs are considered.”
“One-woman-at-a-time man,” I further clarified.
She nodded. “He told sad stories of marital discord. How his wife cheated on him, from the beginning. How they hadn’t made love in years.” Her smile was as big as it was ironic. “He loved me, did you know that? Wanted to marry me.”
I said, “You didn’t believe any of it.”
“Not for a heartbeat,” she said, and exhaled smoke, not seeming young at all now. “Oh, he was genuinely taken with me. He was one of those men who is in love with being in love. But eventually he tires.”
Velda asked, “Did he tire of you?”
She smiled. The way she held her cigarette in an outwardly angled hand was as yesterday as her singing style. “Not quite yet, he hadn’t. But I sensed it.”
I asked, “What were the signs?”
“The way he looked at waitresses. The way he looked at women passing in the street. He likes women. And not just sexually. He likes brains. He likes talent. Tell me, that secretary—Helen something? She quit right after Jamie and I started up. They were a thing, weren’t they?”
Velda and I both nodded.
She smiled and this time the smoke came out her nostrils, dragon-style. She looked seventeen. She looked a hundred and seventeen.
“He was here at the Turn with some friends of his,” she said. “Probably business stuff. Potential campaign donors, maybe. Powerful men of industry. Possibly other political types in town for something or other. Anyway, he came here one night with some men and saw me, and then did the same a few nights later, minus any male company. He sent a note back to me, asked me to join him.”
Velda said, “How direct was he?”
A shrug. “Oh, he was subtle enough. That first night all he talked about was my singing and how much he liked the American Songbook stuff—Gershwin, Cole Porter, Johnny Mercer. Took several weeks for us to get into bed.”
Velda and I exchanged glances again.
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“Look, he’s a handsome man,” she said, not defensive, just explaining. “Very smooth. Nice to be around. Fun to be around. And a hell of a lover. Thoughtful, too. Strictly safe sex, which in this day and age is about as thoughtful as it gets.”
I said, “I’m going to take a wild swing and say you weren’t in love with him.”
“Mike,” she said, with half a smile, “I haven’t been in love since the high-school quarterback knocked me up and I had to pay for getting rid of it out of my college savings.”
She must have made it to Julliard on a scholarship.
“So,” I said, with a shrug, “you and the senator—that was just for kicks?”
“For kicks and for… well, he’s obviously well-connected. Used to be a top publicist, you know. I thought Jamie might whisper in the ear of one of his Broadway benefactors. I do whispery stuff here, getting the girls wet and the guys hard. But I can be heard in the back row, if I need to.”
I said, “So it was all about his show business connections.”
She shrugged a single shoulder. “To some degree. But I did like him. And he was generous. Money. Gifts.” She opened her eyes wide and half-smirked. “How much do you think I make here?”
Velda said, “You’re very good. I would imagine you do all right.”
“Tips and a stipend. You want to know part of what the appeal was with the senator? Free meals. He took me to some very nice, very expensive, very out-of-the-way places. There were trips, too. Cancun. The Bahamas.” She shrugged, tamped her cigarette ash in a glass ROSE’S TURN tray. “Fun while it lasted.”
“Are you blackmailing him?” I asked. “Maybe you and your latest boyfriend?”
She laughed. “Do I look desperate? And the guys I run into here, both on staff and in the audience, are mostly gay.” She flashed me an impish smile. “All the real macho men, Mike, are taken.”
I grunted a laugh. “I’m old enough to be your father, honey.”
“You’re older than my father. But also richer. I know who you are, Mr. Hammer. You’re famous in this town.”
At least some of the young babes had heard of me.
Mike Hammer--Murder, My Love Page 6