‘He’s a flit, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. He’s an okay guy.’
‘Uh-huh. Well, it’s no business of mine. Live and let live. Where were you? Before New York?’
‘Chicago. You?’
‘Miami. I like the tracks down there.’
‘Now I know where you got the tan. You follow the
horses?’
‘My secret vice,’ he said, his smile a little tighter.
‘You do all right?’
He flipped a palm back and forth. ‘I get by. The luck runs in streaks.’
‘How’s it running now?’
‘Out,’ he said ruefully. ‘But the only thing you can say about luck is that it’ll change, sooner or later. Maybe meeting you will change my luck.’
‘I’ll drink to that if you’ll fill my glass.’
We sipped in silence a few moments. He stared at me over the rim of his glass. His eyes were narrowed. He seemed a little puzzled, a little uncertain.
‘Cocktail waitress?’ he asked finally. ‘I don’t mean to pry; I’d just like to know if I’ve got you pegged. Tell me to go to hell if you like.’
‘That’s all right,’ I told him. ‘Yeah, I’ve been a cocktail waitress. But not recently. Not for the past two years.’
‘Boyfriend?’ he guessed shrewdly.
‘That’s right.’
‘You split up?’
‘Permanently. He croaked.’
‘Sorry to hear it.’
I shrugged. ‘Those are the breaks.’
‘You come to New York to go back to cocktail waitressing?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Never again. Not for me. I’m going to take it easy for a few weeks. Look around. See what I can lineup.’
‘Mmm,’ he said. He looked up in the air. ‘Maybe we can do each other some good.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Well … you know,’ he said cautiously, ‘sometimes there are more chances around for a couple than for a single.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, just as cautiously, ‘that’s true. Got anything particular in mind?’
‘Nooo,’ he said slowly, ‘not at the moment. Maybe we could line up something.’
‘Maybe,’ I said thoughtfully, staring at him. ‘How heavy will you go?’
If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.
‘Depends,’ he said. ‘On what’s in it for me.’
I never doubted for a moment that he was speaking about an illegal hustle.
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘I’ve got one thing going. It’s just an idea right now, but it may work out. If it does, I’ll need help.’
He was silent for a long time, apparently trying to make up his mind. Then he decided….
‘Help? You’ll need help? You’re talking about muscle?’
I nodded.
‘I’d like to hear more about it. When you’re ready.’
‘All right,’ I said. Then I took a chance. ‘You’re not hurting, are you, Jack? If a few bucks will help …?’
He shook his head, grinning.
‘Not that bad. Not yet. But thanks for the offer. I appreciate it.’
‘Just paying for the ice,’ I said nonchalantly.
I wanted to keep the talk going. It wasn’t hard. He was a witty raconteur with a seemingly endless supply of anecdotes about horse racing, poker games, the casinos of Las Vegas. He had a wry self-mockery that I thought might disguise a kind of self-hatred.
‘Married?’ I asked him.
‘Yeah,’ he confessed. ‘Still am. She waltzed out on me when the gambling got too much for her. Caviar one day, beans the next.’
‘Did she know it before you were married?’
‘Hell, yes. I never tried to hide it. I guess she thought she could change me. What did your boyfriend do?’ he asked suddenly. ‘The one who died?’
I thought for a moment, then decided to follow the script. If it scared him, it was better to know now so I wouldn’t be wasting my time.
‘He was in the rackets.’
Donohue didn’t seem surprised.
‘Uh-huh. What was his game?’
‘Jewelry stores. He worked alone most of the time or picked up local talent for a big job. He did all right — until the last one.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, sighing. Always the last one. How did he get snuffed?’
‘I didn’t say he got snuffed.’
‘I know you didn’t. I guessed.’
‘You guessed right. It was a jeweler with more balls than brains.’ ‘Wasn’t your man carrying a piece?’
‘Of course. The other guy was faster, that’s all. Bang, bang. Like that.’
‘Were you there?’
‘No. I was waiting for him back in the hotel. Bags packed and two airline tickets to New York. Ready to take off. When he didn’t show, I knew it had gone sour. So I came east just like we planned. Only I came alone. Jesus, I’m running off at the mouth. The vodka, I guess. 1 hope I can trust you, Jack.’
‘I haven’t heard a word you’ve said.’
‘Good. Keep it that way.’
‘Freshen your drink?’
‘Why not?’
When I reached for the drink he had poured, he didn’t release the glass. My fingers were around his. He looked into my eyes.
‘Were you in love with him? The guy who got burned?’
‘He was all right,’ I said shrugging. ‘He treated me fine. But love? What’s that?’
‘A four-letter word,’ Jack Donohue said with one of his brilliant grins. ‘You’re my kind of woman: no sentiment, no regrets, hard as nails.’
‘That’s me,’ I said.
‘Let’s fuck,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ I said.
He was as good as I hoped he’d be. It was far from the adolescent tumbling of Dick Fleming and the earnest ministrations of J. Mark Hamilton. Jack Donohue was a sword, as hard and as sharp, with demonic energy. He was a oneway lover, doing exactly what he wanted, what gave him the most pleasure. Which happens to be the kind I like.
Later, much later, we had a final drink in bed, talking nonsense in drowsy voices. He fell asleep before I did. I turned on my side to hold his long, slim, smooth weight in my arms. My forearm slid beneath his neck, my hand under his pillow.
I felt the gun.
THE LORD’S DAY
I awoke Sunday morning in my own bed in Room 703 at the Hotel Harding. Awoke staring at that cracked and peeling ceiling, wondering if it might fall and crush me where I lay, a victim of too much realism.
Up, showered (cold, no hot water available), and into my tart’s uniform again. Reflected that Jack Donohue had been gentleman enough not to crack wise when I divested myself of wig and fore-and-aft falsies before climbing between his sheets. There were plenty of old, and bad, jokes he could have made but didn’t. He seemed satisfied with my performance. I know I was with his.
I ventured out into a rainy, bedraggled Sunday morning on upper Broadway — not one of life’s more exhilarating experiences. I had a small breakfast in a fast-food joint where both customers and the staff seemed to be sharing the same large, economy-size hangover. Then I found a supermarket that was open and bought myself some drinking glasses, canned soda and tonic, a few dishtowels, paper towels, toilet paper.
I could have brought all that stuff over from my East Side apartment, but I was being careful to carry nothing on my person or keep anything in my room that might connect Bea Flanders of the Hotel Harding with Jannie Shean of East 71st Street. My driver’s license and credit cards were hidden under the front seat of the rented Ford. Other than that, there were no papers, letters, clothing labels, or possessions that might betray me. If Blanche wanted to toss my belongings or even Jack Donohue, they’d find nothing.
Back to the hotel with my new purchases. Even though the room clerk at the Harding had warned ‘No cooking,’
Jack Donohue had assured me I could get away with a small hotplate, so I had also bought two cups and saucers, spoons, and a jar of instant coffee. When hardware stores opened on Monday, I’d pick up a hotplate or one of those immersion heaters for making a quick cup of coffee or soup.
Then I went back down to the rented Ford and drove home to civilization. On the way, I stripped off the blond wig, wiped most of the guck from my face, and changed into the pair of comfortable loafers I had squirreled in the car. By the time I arrived on East 71st Street, I was a reasonable facsimile of myself. With my trenchcoat buttoned up to my chin, I was able to sail by the doorman with no trouble at all, and even chatted with a neighbor (female) in the elevator with no embarrassing questions asked as to how modest-bosomed Jannie Shean had suddenly become Wonder Woman.