And here’s what it all boiled down to: Harrington had known Sabrina during her debutante days. He was twelve years her senior-too old for her, he knew-but that hadn’t stopped him from admiring her beauty and style. He took her out on a few dates, hoping she would find his maturity, keen mind, and vast wealth attractive, but she’d been more interested in the young, dark, and dangerous type. They remained friends for a while, but lost touch after he married and started his family.
Harrington didn’t hear from Sabrina again until many years later, when she called to tell him about her new call girl enterprise. He’d been shocked to learn that she’d become a madam, but after she told him about her abusive husband, and the physical, emotional, and financial damage she’d suffered at his hands, he understood her motivation. And he approved of the “respectable” way she was running her business. And since he was a man with a healthy sexual appetite, a frigid wife, and a huge discretionary income, he soon signed on as a client.
Shortly after that, Sabrina introduced him to Melody. And he became so enamored with the beautiful young call girl that he started phoning Sabrina two or three times a week to schedule appointments with her. And as a result of those regular phone conversations, Harrington and Sabrina became friends again. At first they just talked about old times, but then they began having intimate chats about their personal and business lives-sharing confidences, offering and asking for advice, listening to each other’s problems.
“And now I feel like a brother to Sabrina,” Harrington concluded. “A very close and concerned older brother. And I don’t want to see her get hurt by the sex-and-murder scandal that’s about to rock the city. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s worked very hard to protect me and her other clients from the press and police, and I want to return the favor.”
“But if you’re so close to Sabrina, why didn’t you call her after Melody was murdered?” I asked. “She was suffering a lot, and scared to death the killer might go after her other girls. She could have used some comforting and encouraging words from you, but you didn’t call even once!”
“I was too devastated to speak with anybody,” Harrington said, his massive shoulders falling into a slump. “Melody’s death hit me really hard. I was so upset that I told my family I thought I was getting sick, and then I locked myself in my study for days, swilling bourbon, eating nothing, sleeping on the couch. It was a childish and cowardly thing to do, but I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t leave my study until late Friday morning, when I finally sobered up and dragged myself back to the office. That was the day you burst in and accused me of firing you.”
“Right,” I said, looking down at my lap, suddenly feeling ashamed of my brash behavior. “I’m sorry I made such a fuss.”
“Don’t be. You had a right to be angry and hurt. Pomeroy treated you very unfairly. He thought he was helping me, of course, but still… that’s no excuse.”
“How was hurting me supposed to help you?”
Harrington gave me a sad look. “I’m not proud of that part of the story, Mrs. Turner, but here’s what happened. Pomeroy came to my home last Wednesday morning to ask me for a loan, but found me drunk and sobbing in my study. I had learned about Melody’s murder on Tuesday-the day before the news hit the papers-so I was in the depths of depression. Pomeroy asked me what was wrong, and-too weak and stupid and inebriated to know what I was doing-I blubbered out a full confession.
“And that,” he went on, “is why Pomeroy gave the Virginia Pratt assignment to Mike Davidson instead of you. He knew that you would conduct a thorough, relentless search for the truth, and he was afraid that you’d uncover my infidelities in the process. He had you fired for the same reason. He wanted to derail any thoughts you might have about investigating the story on your own in order to save me and my family-and, by extension, his family-from the ruination of a raging sex scandal. I didn’t know about any of this at the time, of course. I was too busy wallowing in pain and self-pity and booze. As soon as I found out about it, though, I told Crockett to give you your job back.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said.
If Harrington noticed my sarcastic tone, he didn’t let on. He just pushed his glasses higher on his nose, raised his bushy eyebrows, and said, “Now about that contract, Mrs. Turner. May I have my lawyers draw up a draft for your approval?”
I sat quietly for a few seconds, giving the matter further thought, coming to the realization that I was already in accord with Harrington’s terms. He had had nothing to do with the murders of Virginia and Jocelyn, so I saw no earthly reason to expose his private affairs to the public. And as for his brotherly resolve to protect Sabrina… well, given the fact that I was determined to protect her myself, I certainly couldn’t find fault with that.
“Okay,” I finally agreed. “Give me a buzz when it’s ready.”
ABBY THREW A SURPRISE ENGAGEMENT PARTY for Dan and me that night. Well, it wasn’t exactly a surprise, since she called us both at work to tell us to be at her place at seven, and it wasn’t exactly a party, since Jimmy, Otto, Lenny, Dan, and I were her only guests. What it was, actually, was an engagement dinner-with an enormous turkey cooked by Abby, and about a thousand potato pancakes cooked by Lenny’s mother. (Lenny carried them across town in a suitcase.)
Oh, yeah, there was some champagne, too. Quite a few bottles, as I recall.
Abby had strung colorful Christmas lights all around her studio and decorated her kitchen table with a dark blue madras bedspread and a small vase of yellow mums. We dined by candlelight, listening to the hi-fi sounds of Thelonious Monk and the Modern Jazz Quartet. Everything was swell. With Otto curled up on my lap, and Dan’s arm resting on the back of my chair, and my best friends gathered so closely around me, I would have been content to sit at that table forever.
Abby cleared the dishes and served the dessert and coffee (she wouldn’t let me lift a finger!). Then, motioning for us to quiet down, she stood up and said, “It’s time for another sweet treat, you dig? While I spent the day basting the bird, our soulful hero, Jimmy ‘The Bard’ Birmingham, was writing a poem for this engaging occasion. And he’s going to read it for you now, kids, so listen up!”
Abby sat down and Jimmy stood up. Fingering his beard and looking slightly embarrassed, he took a crumpled piece of paper out of his hip pocket and began to read.
Umm… well, what can I say? There seemed to be a message in there somewhere, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. But who cared what the words meant, anyway? They were written by Jimmy Birmingham! The grooviest poet in Greenwich Village! The original slam pan man! The man who, along with his cool hot dog, had snatched me from the jaws of death! It was the best poem I ever heard in my whole darn life, and if I live to be a hundred (which is beginning to seem like a distinct possibility), I will never hear another one like it. (Unless Jimmy writes a sequel tomorrow-which is also a distinct possibility.)
After the poem, the chocolate cake, the coffee, and several additional rounds of champagne, Abby put a stack of 45s on the record player and tried to get everybody up to dance. Lenny, Jimmy, and Otto joined her on the floor-cavorting to the beat of Chuck Berry’s hot new single about a car named Maybellene- but Dan and I remained seated at the table, smooching, nuzzling, sighing, and making plans for the future.