“Well…Alice Jean,” Weiss said, clearly shaken by her presence. “Hello.”
The bodyguards and male secretaries mumbled their hellos; I gathered her last name was “Crosley.”
She was in her mid-twenties, slim yet bosomy, in a black satin dress with ruffles at the throat and cuffs, touched with winking rhinestones here and there; her hat was a black beret plumed with black ostrich feathers, at a rakish angle.
The delicate features of her heart-shaped face were highlighted by hazel eyes, framed by perfect dark curls, though her mouth was thin, making a little bow of a smile.
But the smile didn’t last long. It flattened into a single hard line at the sight of Huey dancing and flirting with Miss Carr.
Seymour, noticing this, got suddenly conversational, half-turning in his chair. “What brings you to New York, Alice Jean?”
“What do you think, you phony son of a bitch?”
Alice Jean cut as straight a path as possible through the tables out to the dance floor, where the Kingfish and his new illustrator were taking the orchestra’s rendition of “Cheek to Cheek” literally. She tapped Cleanthe Carr on the puffy-sleeved shoulder.
When Huey looked back to see who was cutting in, he frowned in surprised displeasure; even from this distance, his reddened face looked fearsome as he spat some harsh words at the pretty intruder.
I couldn’t hear exactly what he said, but his young dancing partner looked as shocked as Alice Jean did hurt.
Alice Jean almost ran from the dance floor, moving as fast as the tight gown would allow. She was biting her lower lip with tiny perfect white teeth, her big hazel eyes liquid with tears as she rushed out of the room, wearing dozens of cafe society eyes.
“A dame with a shape like that,” I said to Seymour, “usually gets a warmer reception.”
“She’s lucky Huey didn’t slap her,” Seymour said. “He told her to stay away.”
“Why? Who is she?”
“Alice Jean Crosley.”
“I gathered. Who is she?”
Seymour was pouring himself another glass of champagne. “She used to be his confidential secretary.”
“Used to be?”
He nodded. “She wanted to go to Washington with him, but he told her she couldn’t.” Seymour’s voice was only faintly edged with sarcasm, as he said: “After all, how would it look, an attractive girl like Alice Jean…and the senator, a happily married man with children…”
“A ‘happily married man’ with his eye on the White House, you mean.”
Seymour nodded.
“So he gave her the brush,” I said, “and she’s pissed off.”
Seymour laughed soundlessly. “Hardly. He left her home in Louisiana, all right…but he made her Secretary of State.”
Before I could inquire of Seymour just how even a Huey Long could get away with appointing his mistress to a high office like that, the Kingfish was back at the table, holding the chair out for Miss Carr, his spirits high again.
“Son,” he said to Baker, even though they were probably about the same age, “your niece is as light on her feet as she is proficient with a pencil.”
The girl seemed a little unnerved, which didn’t escape the Kingfish’s notice.
“Folks, I’m sorry about that nasty little spectacle out there,” he said. “’Fraid I lost my temper with the child.” He shrugged. “But when people throw stones at me, I throw brickbats back at ’em.”
“Excuse me,” a female voice said.
We all looked back and there she stood, Alice Jean Crosley, hands fig-leafed before her, head hanging, like a repentant little girl.
“Could I please join the party?”
She didn’t address him directly, but it was Huey she was talking to.
Huey was glaring at her, but as he stared at her, something like real affection melted the stern expression. He nodded, and pointed down toward my end of the table. She pulled out the chair next to me, and sat.
She leaned her head out to look down the table toward Huey. “I just wanted to surprise you for your birthday,” she said meekly.
The Kingfish nodded. “I know you meant well, darlin’. Have yourself a li’l ol’ drink, and relax some.”
Baker said, “Aren’t you having anything, Senator?”
“Nope. But jest ’cause I’m off the likker don’t mean everybody else shouldn’t have a party.” He found a Havana in an inside pocket of his suit coat. “I’m jest gonna smoke this heah birthday cigar…the last one I’ll smoke ’til my presidential campaign is over. In keepin’ with my new, wholesome public image.”
He winked at the honey blonde.
Frowning, Alice Jean poured herself a glass of champagne. She drank it quickly, without glee.
“My name’s Heller. Nate Heller.” I held my hand out. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Crosley.”
She smirked at me, ignoring my offered hand, poured herself another glass; she kept pouring and drinking-I lost count how many times. She just sat drinking quickly, quietly, morosely, while Huey held court down the table, trading laughs with the unfunny radio comic.
“Ha, ha! Oh boy,” Baker said, for no apparent reason. “If you really want to see what Cleanthe can do, you should come up to my penthouse.”
That got double takes from just about everybody at the table, and Alice Jean spilled a little of her latest glass of bubbly.
“We’ve got her portfolio back there,” Baker said, “and some of her watercolors and some serious things, hanging on the wall. Why don’t we go there for a nightcap?”
“That’s generous of you, son,” Huey said.
“We could discuss the illustrations for your book,” Cleanthe offered.
She was no dummy; she wanted something in writing.
“Everybody come,” Baker said, looking down the table. “You’re all welcome…. And if you’ve had your fill of spirits, Peggy’ll whip up some good black coffee….”
Going to a radio star’s New York penthouse sounded good to everybody, with the exception of Alice Jean, who hadn’t said anything for a long time, but whose expression was getting surly.
Then the caricature that was Huey’s real face was looming next to me, as he bent down to whisper.
“Min’ doin’ the Kingfish a li’l ol’ favor, son? Escort Miz Crosley back to the hotel, would you? That’s a good boy….”
He patted my shoulder, and he and the party were wandering off, as “Miz Crosley” sat up in her chair, glaring at them as they went, and then at me.
She was about to say something very nasty, I’ll bet, when she threw up in my lap.
Ha ha.
Oh boy.
4
My arm around her waist, I guided the still very tipsy Alice Jean Crosley down the carpeted hallway of the thirty-fifth floor of the Hotel New Yorker; she was no help in the effort, and frequently stumbled, but had no trouble expressing herself.
“Lousy bastard,” she said, referring to Huey, not me (I didn’t seem to exist). “I’m bad for his public image…me! Bad! Lousy goddamn bastard…”
I had heard slurred, Southern-tinged variations on this theme all the way back from the Stork Club, where the help had been gracious about getting the two of us cleaned up. Posh as the Stork Club was, it was a saloon, and people had thrown up in there before.
Alice Jean had managed to get very little on herself, and it was mostly liquid anyway, mostly that champagne she’d been swilling. So the front of me was damp, from where I washed it off in the Stork Club men’s room, but that was about it. No rank smell or anything. Why, glancing at me, you wouldn’t think I’d been thrown up on, at all; merely that I was incontinent.
Getting a room for her had been no problem; apparently the management kept several rooms free, on the Kingfish’s floor, for the senator’s use, at his discretion-whether in anticipation of business or pleasure or both, the desk clerk didn’t say.
“This way,” I told her, as she tried to veer down the wrong direction.
“Tell me this,” she said. “Will you tell me this one thing? Tell me this.”