With a sneering voice the man said, “Yeah. We know you don’t have your immigration papers. We can get your sexy little ass kicked out of the country in forty-eight hours by proving to the Immigration Department that you are posing for pornographic pictures.” He had a mean laugh.
“We can give the pictures to the people where you work, and you’ll be fired and be in big trouble with immigration. Think about it. We’ll be back to you tomorrow at seven in the evening.”
The man hung up, and in my life I never remember being so upset. I had been on my own for less than a year since Carl Cordon left. Apart from Sonia, I didn’t have any real friends because of the wild life I had been leading. I knew some lawyers and influential men who were customers, but all of a sudden I was faced with the problem of raising $5,000. I looked through my address book wondering whom I could call.
For about four months I had been “dating” a lawyer named Martin Joffrey, a very sweet, very uptight Jewish boy, whom I had met just after Carl went away. He knew what I had suffered and that I was basically a very sensitive person. Martin had seen me going the way down, as he put it, ever since I was introduced to Pearl. He hated to see this happen to a nice Jewish girl from Holland. But Martin and I had a tender, almost loving relationship. I really cared for him and knew I could call him anytime for advice.
So the first person I called was Martin and he really didn’t know what to say. The one thing he did say was, “Don’t pay them. Once you pay a blackmailer, he’s on your payroll for life.” This answer didn’t help me, and I called other people I knew, but nobody could help me.
Finally I started asking if I could borrow $5,000. “I’ll work it off, even if it means I have to leave my job and screw it off,” I begged.
Some of the men I had been dating were really rich, but now, very early in the game, it was driven home to me that a man who goes to a prostitute doesn’t want to be bothered with her private problems unless he really gets involved with her.
So I was on the phone all night, and no help was coming.
The next morning I was in almost a state of nervous collapse when I found in my pocketbook, just before leaving for the office, the piece of paper on which Murray the Mover had written his name and phone number.
I remembered how he had know instinctively I was working as a prostitute even though I had a daytime job. Murray, being a mover, wasn’t exactly a sweet pussycat, and I thought this is precisely the time to call a rough boy instead of all those nice, sophisticated jet-set people who are full of words without any action. So I called Murray just before leaving for work and explained what had happened. He said if this blackmailer was going to call me tonight at seven, he would be at my apartment at six-thirty. Murray told me not to have any dates and not to plan on going anywhere until this thing was settled. “I just want you to be with me, and that means that I will be with you, and you will do what I tell you – that’s all.”
This was an order, and right after five o’clock I went home. I had made a date for nine that night with a lawyer from Canada to go to dinner, and I had no way to reach him. He was recommended to me by my stockbroker, and when I called Wall Street, my broker didn’t know how to find the lawyer. I just had no way to cancel this nine o’clock date.
I was home before six and canceled every person I was supposed to see before nine that night, and I was so nervous I barked at the men who called me on the phone. “Leave me alone; don’t bother me for the rest of the night.”
At six-thirty sharp, Murray rang the doorbell. I had not seen him since he moved me in three weeks before. He is a very tough-looking man and has a dark, pockmarked face and bushy black hair.
Murray seemed nervous himself when he came in. He looked around my studio apartment, first into the bathroom, where I had a phone so I could call people while I was in the tub. He said this was good, and as he looked around, he was talking.
“Xaviera, I want you to do exactly what I tell you. If anything happens tonight, we will be together. Just don’t be afraid. I know what I’m doing.”
Murray told me not to be frightened, but I was frightened and trying to keep from shaking. I was not really intending to do anyone – even Mac, who stole the pictures – any harm. All I wanted was to have a man with me when I met the people who were blackmailing me, somebody powerful who would maybe smack them on the nose a little and say, “Listen, give the pictures back to the girl and stop the bullshit!”.
“Okay,” Murray said, “now remember, usually blackmailers are not there to hurt you, they just want money, that’s all. When they call at seven, you answer in the bathroom and I’ll pick up in the living room. We’ll pretend that I’m your uncle. The only living relative you have in this country. I’m representing you, see? I have a car, and if they want to meet us we’ll meet them.”
Exactly at seven o’clock the telephone rang. I answered, and it was the guy who asked me for the money the night before. Murray picked up in the living room, and with the door open I could see him from the bathroom. He is nervous, too. I told the man that my uncle was with me and would handle the matter.
Then Murray started talking. “Hello, this is Mr. Arkstein, I’m Miss Xaviera’s uncle and only living relative she’s got here. I’m representing the girl. I know it is a very bad thing you found those pictures of her. I don’t want my niece to be deported.”
Murray really sounded like a meek, worried uncle. “Tell me how much you want, and we’ll meet you,” he went on. “I want to meet you tonight and get this thing over with, because the girl didn’t sleep last night, and I don’t want her to go through any more of this aggravation.”
Finally the man said, “Okay. We want five thousand dollars. We will meet you in front of the monument entrance to the Queens cemetery at eight o’clock tonight.” It was past seven already.
Murray agreed, and after we hung up he said to me, “Xaviera, why don’t you get me a beer? I’ve got to make a phone call.”
I went into the kitchen and poured Murray’s beer, and came back just in time to hear the last part of the conversation, which sounded more or less in code. I heard him say, “Be ready to pick up the bag of potatoes at the monument in the cemetery in Queens at eight-fifteen.”
I didn’t know what he meant, but I was petrified with fright, because it sounded like gangster talk. Murray drank his beer, and at ten minutes after seven he said, “Okay, let’s get moving. The car’s outside.”
“What’s going to happen, Murray?” I asked. It was a horrible, cold, sleeting, and raining night. No way did I want to go out.
Murray said, “Xaviera, do what I tell you and don’t ask questions. We’ll drive out to Queens, and I’ll tell you about myself on the way. Bring your umbrella.”
I took my umbrella along; it had a long spike at the end. We left the apartment. My hands were perspiring, something that never happened to me before. I was perspiring all over, and I never in my whole life have experienced so much nervous tension as that night. Out on the street we got into this old, smashed-up car.
“Couldn’t we go in a better car, Murray?” I asked.
He told me not to worry, and we started out for Queens. It was pouring rain, and we could hardly see through the windshield. I don’t know how Murray found the way. And as we drove, Murray told me some things about himself.
“Xaviera, you should know that I’m not only a mover. I’m involved in many other things. I’m sure you’ve heard about the Mafia. Even though I’m Jewish, I work with them.”
I started to tremble when he said the word.
“What do you mean, the Mafia?” I practically shouted. “I don’t want to get involved with the Mafia.”
I had seen movies and read about the Mafia, how people get killed, and disappear from the face of the earth. And up till then I had been so careful not to get involved with the Mafia.