And when she wasn’t taking pictures, she was with Leonard, Corky, and Lillian. Several nights a week, they met for drinks, and they introduced Billie to a wide variety of people. Many of them were in the arts or the newspaper business. They were witty, intelligent, and fun, and for the first time in her life, Billie was with people that challenged her mind. They talked on a variety of topics but never lingered too long on any one subject. Their discussions were educated and thought-provoking, but they never took themselves too seriously. They would examine, argue, and debate and always end with humor. Many nights, Billie returned home, her sides aching from laughter.
Corky’s sarcastic sense of humor and outspoken attitude was particularly appealing to Billie, and over time, they became best of friends. Corky was determined to show Billie a different side of New York City, so they met for dinner one night a week at different restaurants. The establishments were varied; some were small, family-owned eateries, and others were slick clubs. Some nights Lillian would accompany them; sometimes it was just the two of them.
“Do you miss that man back in North Gowanus?” Corky asked one night as they entered the 21 Club.
“Sorry, what did you say?” Billie had been looking up at the lawn jockeys adorning the balcony above the entrance, a signature detail of the former speakeasy.
“Do you miss, Virgin?” Corky asked, opening the restaurant door.
“Oh, stop it,” Billie replied, laughing. “His name was Virgil.”
“Do you miss him?”
“Sort of.”
“That’s a no,” Corky replied and sailed through the door.
They walked into the lounge and sat down by the fireplace. It was early evening, and the establishment was still quiet. The room had a warm atmosphere perfect for late autumn with dark paneling and rich leather club chairs.
“Are you ready to try something with a little kick tonight?” Corky asked Billie as the waiter walked up.
“Yes, I am.”
After ordering cocktails, Corky continued, “So when are you going to start dating again? Some of the men in the group have expressed interest.”
Billie chuckled as she sipped her scotch mist. “Oh yes, they are all drooling for the crime scene photographer from Minnesota,” she said sarcastically, “the one who rode the rails.”
“Your past is what makes you interesting,” Corky argued. “To say nothing of those eyes and that figure. But kid, you need to hang some new clothes on that rack. Honestly, your wardrobe looks like something from the outhouse catalogue.”
Billie looked down at her dress. “I haven’t had the money until now.”
“Well, now you do. I’ll have Lillian take you shopping next week.”
“Now, let’s talk about why you don’t date,” Billie said. “I think Chick Barnes is interested in you. Ever thought of going out with him?”
Corky shook her head.
“Or what about Dick Christie? He was flirting with you at the Carlton Room.”
“Billie,” she said, swallowing hard. “I don’t date men.”
“What?”
“I don’t date men. Lillian is my companion. We have been together now for almost five years.”
“Companion,” Billie echoed. “You mean?”
“Yes, it’s not something we advertise. We could lose our jobs. We could lose everything. Lillian is particularly at risk because she’s a school principal.”
Corky opened her purse, took out a cigarette, and lit it. Her movements were suddenly stiff and wooden, and it disturbed Billie to see her tense. She was usually so cavalier.
“You’ll tell no one?” Corky asked.
“Of course not. Has anyone in the group guessed?”
Corky shrugged and blew her smoke. “Oh, I imagine. They probably don’t care. Nevertheless, we need to be careful.”
“I understand.”
“Now, let’s order another drink and talk about your new wardrobe.”
* * *
For the first time in her life, Billie had a little money, and she was supporting herself without help. She felt proud. Yet, the grinding poverty she had endured in the past still haunted her. So, when it was time to start making purchases, she was wary.
“This look is better for you,” Lillian said when Billie came out of the dressing room at Lord and Taylor in a slim-cut herringbone skirt and short navy jacket. “You’re more a Garbo than a Gaynor. Your look is sophisticated, not frilly. So many women wear flounces and shouldn’t.”
Billie turned around, looking at herself in the mirror. She remembered seeing women on the street and wondering if she would ever have fine clothing. At last, it was a reality. Lillian was helping define her particular style, and it was exciting. Nevertheless, she was reticent. “Two dresses and a suit today. Don’t you think I should stop?” Billie asked uncertainly.
“No, you have more than enough money for another blouse and a hat.”
Lillian stood up. “Oh, and you’ll need several pair of these too,” she said, holding up her gloves. “Now make a quick change. We have more shopping to do. I want to get you started on Elizabeth Durant’s line of cosmetics too.”
Billie bit her lip and went back into the dressing room. It was obvious Lillian was having a good time. She was used to being in charge, and most people would have thought she was bossy, but Billie knew she meant well.
“Next paycheck, we buy evening wear,” Lillian called in through the curtain.
Billie grimaced. “Remember, I work for the precinct. It’ll take more than one paycheck for evening wear.”
* * *
By the winter of 1935, Corky and Lillian had created a new woman, and Billie couldn’t have been happier. She had a limited but chic new wardrobe, a new circle of friends, and a different apartment. In March, she moved from the boarding house into a small but well-kept flat in Yorkville in the same building as Leonard.
It wouldn’t take a great deal of money to furnish it, since it was small. The tiny kitchen had a built-in, drop-down table, so she bought two chairs, some cookware, and curtains. In front of the miniature fireplace in the living room, she placed a divan and two low-backed club chairs with a semi-circular end table. After adding two geometric-shaped lamps and a round rug, she accented with some flowers in an Egyptian vase. Les’ watercolor adorned the wall, as well as a few of her favorite photographs. With a new bed and nightstand, she was done.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Bassett,” Corky said one evening. She was sitting with Leonard in the apartment, waiting for Billie. “You’ve got style on a shoestring.”
“That’s the way we started too,” Leonard said. “Pop was a longshoreman, not a steel magnate.”
“Yes, but we always had enough to eat,” Corky argued. “And Grandma put me through college.”
“The amount Grandma gave you for school paid for your hankies. Your journalism scholarship took care of your expenses, and you know it.”
Billie stopped pinning her hat and looked at Leonard in the mirror.
“Corky will never tell you. She thinks it’s bragging,” he said. “But she won a full scholarship to Barnard.”
Billie’s jaw dropped, and she turned around. “Corky!” she gasped.
Corky shrugged and puffed her cigarette.
“Hard to believe she’s smart, isn’t it?” Leonard said with a chuckle. “Those were the days when she was known as Coralynn.” He struggled to his feet and started for the door. “Enough of that. Let’s go. I’m hungry.”
Chapter 16
One morning in May, when Corky arrived for work, one of the reporters said, “Canfield is looking for you.”
Nodding, she threw her coat on a chair and started across The New York Times newsroom to the editor’s office. Like every newsroom, it was an assault to the senses. Phones were ringing, and keyboards were clattering. The room was crammed with desks, file cabinets, water coolers, glaring overhead lights, and typewriters. On the wall were maps peppered with pushpins and clocks displayin
g the time on every continent. Drawers slammed, reporters thumbed through papers or grabbed swigs from bottles hidden in desk drawers.
Corky sailed past a tall, dark-haired man, who was throwing items from his desk into a trashcan. “Quitting again, Max?” she asked.
“This time I mean it, Quiggle. He’s gone too far. He’s given Bagley the overseas assignment.”
“All right. Nice knowing you,” she said and knocked on the door to the editor’s office.
“Come in,” Edward Canfield said.
Canfield was a massive man with tiny eyes, round glasses, and a wide face. Even though he was managing editor of one of the biggest newspapers in the country, he never uttered a word in anger to anyone or raised his voice. He was the quintessential iron hand in the velvet glove. When Canfield spoke, you listened.
Everyone except, of course, Max.
“Did you bring the portfolio?” Canfield asked.
“Right here, boss,” Corky said, handing him a large book.
After turning a few pages, he looked at her and murmured, “Jesus, Corky.”
“Good, huh?”
“What’s her name?”
“Wilhelmina Bassett. She goes by Billie. She’s from the North Gowanus community.”
“Indian?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “It may open doors where she’s going. What did you tell her when you asked for her portfolio?”
“She thinks it’s about a job here.”
“Max doesn’t know the whole story yet either,” Canfield said.
“He won’t like it,” she warned.
“I know,” he replied, but a smile flickered around his lips. “F.D.R. is the one we have to please.”
* * *
When Corky left the office, Max was back at the typewriter. His pens and pencils were back in the cup, notes were back on the blotter, and a cigarette was burning in the ashtray.
Harry Johnson, who was sitting across from him, shrugged and said, “The phone rang, and voila he works here again.”
“Prima donna,” she muttered and walked to her desk.
Max Rothman and Corky had been friends for almost ten years, meeting at The Times in the early years when they were newsroom messengers. It was a roller coaster ride being Max’s friend, but she coped with it better than most. Her blasé attitude and unflappable personality paired well with his passionate outbursts.
Born to poor Jewish immigrants, Max Rothman came up the hard way. He put himself through school, and after meeting the right people, he married into one of the most prominent Jewish families in New York City. Although the girl’s parents opposed the love affair, their worries were short-lived. In less than a year, the bride found someone new and divorced Max. But he was far from devastated. He had come away from the union furthering his career by making friends and connections in high places. Contacts always benefited a newsman, and most of these contacts were women.
Attracting the opposite sex had always been easy for Max. He was tall, handsome, well-dressed, and had the firm physique of a man in his prime. Clean shaven with dark whiskers shadowing his face, he had jet-black eyes and a firm jaw. He was polished without being pretentious and comfortable in any setting, from Joe’s corner bar to the Ritz Carlton. Whether he behaved in those surroundings was another matter. Charming and glib, he was always getting himself into trouble. Corky thought he would have made an excellent flim-flam man, conning his way across the globe, but instead, he chose the newspaper business.
No one bothered to ask Max that day why he decided to stay on the job. No one had to. They had seen the routine a million times. He would get angry, announce his resignation, and be back on the job in less than an hour.
Max was on the phone when Canfield left the office that afternoon. “Call Miss Bassett,” Canfield said to Corky.
“You got it,” she replied.
“I want us to meet at Kelly’s in an hour. Rothman should be there too.”
“I’ll tell him, boss.”
Canfield nodded and left.
When Max hung up, he asked, “What was that all about, Quiggle?”
“We have to meet Canfield at Kelly’s in an hour. That’s all I know.”
“All right,” he replied. Putting a cigarette between his lips, he swung back to the typewriter.
An hour later, they were at Kelly’s Pub. They spotted Canfield at a table in the back with a paunchy man in his middle years. He had untidy blond hair and pale skin. The man looked as if he spent too much time behind a desk.
“Five bucks says he’s a mind-numbing bureaucrat,” Max muttered to Corky as they walked up.
“Shut up,” she replied out of the side of her mouth.
When they sat down, Canfield introduced the man as Leo Steiner of the Resettlement Administration Historical Division.
Max kicked Corky under the table.
After ordering drinks, Edward Canfield said, “I’ll get right to the point. Leo has been approached by President Roosevelt to put together a team of reporters and photographers to document the effects of the economic depression on ordinary citizens across the country.”
Max narrowed his eyes.
“This is the reason I couldn’t give you that overseas assignment, Max,” Canfield explained. “I needed you for this.”
Steiner added in his wheezy voice, “The President would like to introduce America to Americans. It’s an effort to educate and find support for The New Deal. Mr. Rothman, you will be on the road with a photojournalist. Together, you will document the lives of everyday Americans. Your work will be concentrated in the Dustbowl.”
Max gestured suddenly to the waiter. “Cancel my drink,” he said and snuffed out his cigarette. “Thank you, gentlemen, but you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Now wait a minute, Max,” Canfield said. “Hear us out.”
Max flared. “With all the trouble brewing in Germany, you’re going to stick me in some goddamn backwater town interviewing Okies?” he barked.
He stood up and put on his hat.
“Please, Mr. Rothman,” Steiner said, “you are the best man for the job. The president specifically requested you.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
Max strode off, and Canfield called, “Don’t make us play hardball, Max.”
“Yes,” Steiner added, “refusing us could be a very bad career move.”’
Max stopped. He knew men in high places could ruin a career with just a few phone calls. He ground his teeth, turned around, and said, “Why, you pasty-faced─”
“Sit down, Max,” Canfield said sternly.
Max threw his coat and hat on a chair and sat back down.
Canfield ordered him another scotch.
“Will Joe Lanner be doing the photography?” Max asked.
Canfield shook his head. “No, Billie Bassett.”
“I don’t know him.”
Corky and Canfield exchanged looks.
“How long will we be on the road?” Max asked.
“Several months,” Steiner replied.
Max moaned. “Whoever he is, he better be good company. Is Corky going?”
“No.”
“Then why is she here?”
“She’s friends with the photographer.”
Max looked at her with surprise. “You knew about this?”
“Just that they needed a photographer for some project. Mr. Canfield approached me about Leonard, but he doesn’t do documentary work. Say, about this Billie Bassett─”
Just then, she walked into the pub.
“Oh, there she is,” Corky said, waving.
Max was stunned. A poised, confident brunette approached the table. She had a broad, white smile, a sleek figure, honey-colored skin, and dark, almond-shaped eyes. She was wearing a burgundy suit with large black buttons and a beret cocked smartly to one side.
The men stood up to greet her.
“This is Billie Bassett,” Corky said.
* * *
Billie did not sleep that night she was so excited about her new job. They were to leave for the Midwest within the week, so preparations had to be made immediately. The first thing she had to do was give notice at the precinct. No one dared to give her a bad time about quitting; she was on a special assignment for the President of the United States.
“Bud, may I ask a favor of you before I leave?”
“Anything for a celebrity,” the bald detective said, leaning back in his chair, putting a toothpick between his lips.
“Could you possibly track down the address of my grandmother?”
“Sure, I can try.”
“I know you have resources for that sort of thing, but it might be hard. She lives on a reservation.”
“A reservation!” he exclaimed, followed by a whistle. “That’s a whole other world, doll.”
“No one knows that better than I do.”
“You’re Indian?”
“Yes.”
“What tribe?”
“Chippewa. I’m from Minnesota. My grandmother still lives up there with my aunt and uncle. I’m guessing they live on a rural route.”
Billie put a piece of paper on his desk. “Here’s my uncle’s name and the name of the reservation.”
“Alrighty, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks for your help, Bud.”
“Sure thing.”
As she was walking away, he called, “Hey, Bassett, why didn’t you ever tell us you were Indian?”
Billie shook her head and laughed. “You’re the detective. You figure that one out.”
* * *
A few days later, Bud found the address, and Billie packed it away in her new luggage. Dressed in a sleek blue suit and narrow-brimmed tilt hat, she hailed a taxi and headed to Grand Central Station.
Billie should have been exhausted; she hadn’t slept for a week, but instead, she was excited. Not only was she s on assignment for The New York Times and the U.S. Government, but she was about to ride a train as a paying passenger.
The Image Seeker Page 15
