It had been a good five years, and only that one evening. A very nice evening though. Ships that docked in the night.
We were at the counter now and the bartender gave Nita her ginger ale and made me a rum and Coke; and I made a friend forever stuffing a five spot in his tip jar.
The chairs and couches were long gone but we found a corner to sit in, on the floor, like kids at an after-prom party. She sat with her knees up and a lot of her pretty tanned nylon-free legs showing. Like we said in the service, nice gams. They probably still said that on McHale’s Navy.
“I’m hoping,” she said, after a sip of her ginger ale, “that you remember me for more than my TV walk-ons. Neither Barbara nor Elizabeth are big on giving other girls much airtime.”
“Guess I haven’t seen you turn up on the tube lately,” I admitted. “But you’re still acting?”
The eyes were big and brown; the Cher makeup was overkill, as naturally lovely as she was. “My agent claims I am. Calling myself a ‘girl’ is a little sad, don’t you think? I’m at that age where casting directors say nice things that don’t include, ‘You’ve got the part.’”
“You look young to me.”
“Sure. But you’re, what? Sixty?”
A gut punch but I still managed to laugh. “Maybe, but then I never claimed to be a ‘boy.’”
“Oh, I know you’re a boy. I remember Vegas even if you don’t.”
I shrugged. “My memory is pretty good for a man of my advanced years.”
It had been a JFK campaign event. She’d been heading up the Young Professionals for Kennedy. I asked her if she was doing the same thing for Bob.
“Not quite. I’m attached to the Kennedy Youth campaign. Kind of a den mother for the actual girls out fundraising. I help with secretarial work, too. When you’re an actress in this town and don’t care to wait tables, typing a hundred words a minute comes in handy.”
Smoke drifted overhead forming a cloud that promised no rain, despite the room’s pre-thunder murmur.
“About Vegas,” she said.
“What about Vegas?”
“I was a little drunk.”
“Not on ginger ale you weren’t.”
“Well, I wasn’t drinking ginger ale. Tonight is work, so I’m not drinking. What I mean about Vegas is... uh... I’m not always that easy.”
“Oh, hell, I am,” I said.
That made her laugh.
“Or anyway,” I said, “I used to be, before I got so elderly.”
Her mouth pursed up like a kiss was coming, but it was a promise not kept. “I bet you still do all right with the ‘girls’ — or maybe the ladies. Are you married, Mr. Heller?”
“No. Why, don’t you keep up with my press?”
She put a hand to her bosom. “No, I’m sorry, since the acting roles slowed I’ve had to cancel the clipping service.”
I shrugged. “I can catch you up easy enough. I have one ex-wife and one son who, this morning, said ‘Fuck you, Dad,’ because he’s for Eugene McCarthy. How about you?”
“No children. One ex-husband. I’m fussier about husbands now. I’m looking for a prospect about, oh, sixty, who is very well-fixed. What they used to call a sugar daddy.”
I nodded sagely. “You know, I have certain connections at a prosperous private detective agency. I could arrange a bargain rate for locating such a rare catch.”
We sat and talked that way for a while. We laughed quite a bit. I didn’t recollect her being that funny back in Vegas, but then she admitted being tight that night. I said that’s just how I remembered her, with a sexual tinge that got me playfully slapped on the sleeve. I did not tell her that I also recalled how beautiful she had looked naked with neon-mingled moonlight coming in the windows of my Flamingo bedroom.
Barbara Eden and Elizabeth Montgomery who?
About then I noticed the guy ordering over at the bar — about five-eight, average build, in gray slacks and a dark sweater over a button-down white shirt on this hot June night. Tan with curly bushy black hair including sideburns, his eyes striking me as both furtive and sleepy. Two PRESS badges clipped together around his neck with what I recognized even at a distance was one of the PT-109 tie clips that Bob and his people sometimes handed out.
“You need another refill?” I asked Nita as I got to my feet. She didn’t, and I added, “Well, save my place. I need to freshen mine.”
Other than the guy in the sweater with the double press passes, the bar was in a momentary lull. I stepped up just as the Chicano bartender announced, “Scotch and water, sir,” handing a glass to his curly-haired customer.
Conversationally, I asked, “What paper?”
“Uh, pardon?” He blinked at me, hooded eyes going suddenly wide.
“What paper are you covering this for?”
“Uh... freelancer. Something this important, you know, someone will want it.”
“You have any I.D. you can show me, besides those press passes?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Senator Kennedy’s security chief. Let’s see your I.D.”
He smiled nervously. “Okay, you got me.”
“Have I.”
“I’m just a fan. Bluffed my way in. Snatched a couple of passes. So sue me.”
I nodded sideways toward the door. “You’re on your way out. Leave the drink.”
He had a trembling look now, his voice defensive. “Oh yeah? Let’s see your credentials!”
I put my glass on the counter while the bartender watched with amused interest. I plucked the Scotch and soda glass from the guy’s grasp and set it down, too. Then I took the curly-haired interloper by an upper arm and walked him out quick enough that he barely maintained his balance and during our exit I only had to say “Excuse me” two or three times.
In the hall, I shoved him against the wall and patted him down. Clean. Then I walked him down to the elevators.
“I’m just a fan!” he said.
“Then you can keep the tie-clip but give me the press passes.”
Pouting, he slipped them off his neck and handed them over. I pushed the elevator button and we waited.
He said, “You’re not a very nice man.”
The elevator doors opened.
“I get that sometimes,” I said, and shoved him in.
The elevator doors closed on him.
Returning to the Royal Suite, I found Nita in the corner where I’d left her; she was hugging those nice legs.
I crouched and gave her an apologetic smile.
Her big brown eyes got bigger. “What was that about?”
“An interloper. Harmless fan. But it’s indicative.”
“Of what?”
“The slipshod security around here. Look, I have to get back to the Senator. He doesn’t like it, but he needs somebody looking out for him. And I’m elected.”
Her pink-lipstick smile was mildly mocking. “Did you have to run against anybody in the primary?”
“Yeah. Peter Gunn.”
We shared a smile, then I was moving.
I found Bob in the Royal Suite’s master bedroom, where some of his closest cronies were crowded around the TV sitting on pulled-over chairs or on the floor while David Brinkley on screen echoed Bob’s irritation with California’s new computerized voting machines. Ethel, looking young and fresh, was seated on the foot of the bed in an orange-and-white minidress with white stockings. Bob was pacing off to one side like an expectant father, though his wife was less than three months along.
He saw me enter and came over, sticking a fresh stick of Beech-Nut peppermint gum in his mouth and chewing it into submission. “What are you doing here, Nate?”
“Haven’t you heard? I work here.”