What the hell was this about?
“Jesus, Hannan — have you seen the papers lately? I’m kind of hot right now. You might have just let some Outfit bimbo lay a trap for me.”
His eyes showed white all around. “This is a trap I’d give my left nut to lay. Look, she’s clean — I made her let me go through the suitcase, and her cosmetics case, and then she stood for a frisk.” He grinned and his eyes narrowed and kind of glazed over. “And what a frisk... Sometimes this is a great job.”
I shook my head, not knowing whether to smack him or tip him. “Does this Texas girl fresh off the bus have a name?”
“Sure — Vera something.”
Vera Jayne Mansfield, née Palmer — in a short-sleeve white blouse with gaucho collar and black pedal pushers ending over nicely curving calves and red-painted toenails — was asleep on my sofa in the living room of my suite, her powder blue suitcase next to her, a matching train case too. On her back, her cute face to one side, the brunette pageboy tousled, her magnificent bosom rising and falling, Vera was lost in a deep sleep, clearly exhausted.
I sat on the edge of the sofa and wondered why I wasn’t irritated with her. For some stupid reason, I was glad to see her. Maybe that she was a gorgeous girl of nineteen or so, asleep in my apartment after driving cross-country to see me, had something to do with it. Maybe if I couldn’t have the former Miss Chicago on my sofa, the almost Miss California would make a sweet substitute.
She didn’t wake till after dark. I’d been sitting in my easy chair, with a lamp on, reading the afternoon papers, when she purred and, moving sinuously, stretched and yawned and cracked her neck this way and that. Blinking a few times, she finally noticed me and beamed.
“I’ll bet you’re mad at me,” she said.
“Furious.”
“I bet you wonder what I’m doing here.”
“Visiting?”
She touched her breasts, eyes doing an Eddie Cantor. “I must look a fright.”
“Horrible.”
“I was on the bus most of last night and a lot of today.” She tasted her mouth and didn’t like it. “I’ll be right back.”
She snatched up her train case, scampered off into the bathroom, and fifteen minutes later emerged with fresh makeup and brushed hair and a big white smile. Returning to the couch, she patted the cushion next to herself with one hand, while crooking the forefinger of her other hand. It was insulting, really, even demeaning — like she was summoning a child, or maybe a dog.
I obeyed at once.
“Thanks for not being angry,” she cooed. “I didn’t call because I thought you’d try to talk me out of it.”
“Out of what?”
“Coming to Chicago to see you. To get you to help me. You know — to get work, modeling assignments, maybe some nightclub thing, in a chorus line. Doesn’t that make sense? Starting here, sort of small, and working up to Hollywood?”
This girl — who was nineteen or at most twenty — had something almost scarily intense in those wide-set hazel eyes; beneath those soft curves and that sweet face was a ferocious drive, a willingness to do whatever was necessary. Most girls who went after show biz careers were ready to settle for a husband or a sugar daddy; this girl wanted to be in show biz for one reason, and one reason only: to make it big. To be a star.
I asked, “What about Paul?”
“Paul — my husband, Paul?”
“Yeah — that Paul.”
“He’s at Camp Gordon in Georgia. Intense training for a month — no wives allowed — before he goes to Korea.”
“What does he think about you coming to Chicago?”
She shrugged, batting the big hazel eyes. “He doesn’t know. Nate, you have to understand something... Back in high school, some boys at a party got me high and raped me, or anyway took advantage of me, I don’t really remember the details, too out of it... I just know I got pregnant. Paul was a decent-looking guy, president of his class, and he always wanted to date me. So we got secretly married my senior year and he gave my daughter a name... and a father.”
“Sounds like you got yourself a nice guy. A good catch.”
“Paul really helped me out — but he doesn’t understand my ambition.”
“Why don’t you divorce him, if you’re unhappy with him?”
“I’m not unhappy. He’s going to Korea — when he gets back, if he’s willing to go out to Hollywood with me, I’ll give him a chance. I owe him that much. In the meantime, I have a dream to pursue.”
I shook my head. “Vera, I don’t know if Chicago’s the best place to do that.”
“What about modeling jobs?”
“Well... The Patricia Stevens agency I have an in with; I’ve done some security work for them. And there’s no denying you would make a swell swimsuit model.”
“Oh, Nate — you’re wonderful.”
“I can’t guarantee anything, Vera...”
“Thank you... thank you... thank you for not being mad at me.”
She put her arms around my neck and kissed me with those soft full lips. The only light on was the lamp by my chair, and I got up and switched it off, and returned to her on the sofa, where she was already unbuttoning her blouse.
Vera was a married woman — sort of — and I was still in the throes of an emotional attachment to another beauty queen. And I should have either thrown this one out on her pretty behind, or just been a friend to her, helping her make some connections in the big town.
About two minutes later, she was naked on my lap, her hips churning, my pants around my ankles, and I was deep inside her, my face burrowed first in one generous breast, then the other. Her devil-may-care, giddy sexuality was infectious, but she noticed something different about me, and — slowing but not stopping the motion of her hips — she placed a soft tender hand against my face and her eyes were caring as she stared into me, saying, “You’re hurting, aren’t you, Nate? Why are you hurting?”
“Nothing... it’s nothing...”
“Vera Jayne’ll make you forget... or die trying...”
I was the one who almost died — we did it on the kitchen table next, after I’d fixed us sandwiches, and eventually we even got around to the bedroom. It was close to midnight, with Vera curled up against me, her full lips smiling in slumber, when the phone on the nightstand rang.
Catching it on the first ring, hoping not to disturb my guest, I said, “Hello.”
“Nate... Nate...”
It was Jackie!... and she sounded strange... out of breath... was she crying?
“What is it, baby?” I said into the phone.
Vera, half-awake now, looked up at me, propping herself on an elbow.
“Nate,” Jackie said. “Please help me... you have to help me...”
“Where are you?”
“Riverview. A lad...”
“A lad? Baby, what—?”
Now another voice came on the line, a male voice, rather high-pitched but gruff. Was this the “lad” she was referring to?
“She’s hurting, Heller. She needs a fix.”
“Who the fuck—”
“Bring those notebooks to Aladdin’s Castle.”
“Notebooks?”
“Don’t play dumb. We know your pal Drury gave ’em to you — notebooks, diaries, tapes, the works. Come alone. Before one a.m., or the next injection this junkie slut gets is forty-five caliber.”
And the phone clicked dead.
Sitting up in bed, clutching the receiver, eyes and mouth wide open, I must have looked like a madman, because Vera backed away as she said, “What’s wrong?”
“I have to go somewhere.” I swung over and sat on the edge of the bed; then I was using the phone again — dialing this time. “You’ll have to stay here, Vera.”
“Where are you going?”
“Riverview.”