Chapter 14
IF I’D HAD MY WITS ABOUT ME, I WOULD HAVE chased Jocelyn to the elevator and wangled an invitation to join her and Sabrina for dinner. I might have learned a lot from such a cozy confab. As it was, though, I didn’t have my wits about me (or anywhere else, for that matter). All I could see or think about was the lovely bowl of corn chowder the waitress had put down in front of me. It was hot, creamy, fragrant, and hearty— and it came with a basket of rolls and three pats of butter.
Five minutes later every corn kernel, bread crumb, and butter pat was gone.
And five minutes after that, I was gone—busting out of Saks, dashing down Fifth Avenue to 45th Street, then heading west toward Ninth Avenue and the Hell’s Kitchen tenement where Ethel Maguire—otherwise known as Brigitte—lived. It was a quarter to six. With any luck, Ethel’s classes at the nursing school would be over for the day, and she’d be at home taking care of her crippled husband.
I climbed the cracked and worn cement steps to the front door of Ethel’s building and, seeing that the lock was broken, let myself in. The hallway mailbox for apartment 3B was labeled MAGUIRE, so I darted across the dingy foyer and scrambled up the creaky wooden stairs to the third floor. The odor of boiled cabbage was strong, and a baby was crying somewhere overhead.
I shifted my unwieldy bag of office effects to my other arm, took a deep breath (which was a big mistake, since the smell of cooked cabbage makes me gag), and knocked on the door of 3B.
“Just a minute!” cried a female voice from the other side of the battered wooden door. “I’ll be right there!”
Suddenly overcome with exhaustion from the many physical and emotional ordeals of the day, I whined out loud, leaned my back and shoulders against the wall, and waited. . . .
A short while later a young woman opened the door. I knew it was Ethel: She was wearing her uniform, and—even with little to no makeup and her blonde hair pinned up under her student nurse’s cap—she was a dead ringer for European sex goddess Brigitte Bardot. “Yes?” she said, brown eyes widening as she wondered who I was and why I was there.
“Hi, Ethel,” I said. “I’m Paige Turner. I believe Sabrina told you I’d be coming by. I have a few questions I’d like to—”
“Shhhhh!” she hissed, holding one finger up to her lips and hurriedly stepping into the hall. She pulled the door partially closed behind her. “My husband’s sitting in the living room! He’ll hear every word you say!”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, “but Sabrina said I could—”
“Who is it, Ethel?” a man called out. “Who are you talking to?” His voice was rough and booming—like Broderick Craw-ford’s in Born Yesterday.
A stormy cloud fell over Ethel’s striking face. “We can’t talk here!” she said to me. “Quick! Go downstairs and wait for me on the stoop. I’ll be down as soon as I can.” She ducked back inside her apartment and firmly closed the door.
I TRUDGED DOWN TO THE FIRST FLOOR AND WENT outside. It was beginning to get dark. The sun was sinking fast below the Hudson River horizon, and there was a distinct chill in the air. The people on the sidewalks, presumably making their way home from work, were hunching their shoulders and tucking their chins inside their coat collars. Wobbly with fatigue, I propped my bag against the metal railing and collapsed on the top step of the cement stoop. So what if the seat of my skirt got dirty? I was too tired to care. And I couldn’t bear the agony of my sadistic stilettos for one more second.
When Ethel finally came downstairs and out on the stoop, I didn’t even try to get up. I just sat there like a stump until she ventured over and sat down beside me.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, putting her purse in her lap and tucking the hem of her navy blue coat tight around her knees. “He’s always so suspicious. It took me all this time to convince him that you came to see somebody else in the building and knocked on our door by mistake.”
“What excuse did you give him for coming downstairs?”
Ethel sighed. “I said I had to pick up some chops at the butcher. For our dinner. When the subject turns to food, he’s always more agreeable.”
I laughed. “So the fastest way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she sniffed. “Most of the other men I know prefer a more southern route.” Her expression was so grim, I knew she wasn’t trying to be witty.
“Speaking of other men,” I said, leaping into the opening but keeping my voice as soft and supportive as possible, “do you have any dates tonight?”
She gave me a puzzled look. “Just one. At ten. Why?”
“I need to know if the man you’re meeting was ever one of Melody’s clients,” I said, switching to a firmer tone. “Because if he was, he may be a prime suspect in her murder. And if that’s the case, I don’t want you to go out with him.” I was challenging Sabrina’s authority, I knew, but I didn’t give a good goddamn.
Ethel shook her head. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, Paige. The man I’m seeing tonight is one of my regulars, not Melody’s. And you shouldn’t be concerned about me, anyway. Sabrina is very protective of me; she loves me like a daughter. She would never fix me up with a violent man.”
“Are you sure about that?” I asked, thinking poor Melody had probably felt the same way.
“I’m positive,” she said. Her expression was adamant, and her jaw was set in stone.
I took my cue and moved on. “Does your husband know how you spend your nights?” (I don’t know why I asked that question—it had nothing to do with the murder. I guess pure nosiness was to blame.)
“Of course not!” she gasped. “His legs are crippled, but his arms are strong. If he ever finds out what I’ve been doing, he’ll tear me limb from limb.”
“But how have you kept him in the dark? He must see you get all dolled up and go out. Where does he think you’re going?”
“He thinks I’m a hostess at a fancy nightclub—that I’m paying all our bills and putting myself through school with my salary. Ha! He’s so out of touch he doesn’t realize that a hostess makes even less than a busboy—no matter how fancy the nightclub is. It’s a man’s world.”
“Tell me about it,” I said, thinking how all the guys at DD made much more than I did, and how—if I really had been fired—I’d soon be making nothing.
Ethel turned up her collar and buttoned it tight around her neck. “It’s getting cold, Paige,” she said. “And I have to go to the butcher before I hurry back upstairs. If you have any more questions for me, you’d better ask them fast. I can’t sit here much longer.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll make it quick. First question: Why did Melody become a call girl? I realize she must have needed money, but do you know what she needed it for?”
“No, and I always wondered about that. She certainly didn’t spend much on herself. And her job at the accounting office paid enough to take care of her rent and expenses. She wanted to be a successful singer and songwriter, but that’s not something you can buy. Maybe she was saving up for something special—a house or a car or something like that.”
“A mink jacket was found with her body,” I said, “and also some diamond jewelry. Do you know if she bought those items herself?”
“I doubt it,” Ethel replied. “Melody didn’t care about things like that. They were probably gifts from her clients.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said with a shrug. “She went out with a number of wealthy men. It could have been anybody.”
“Sam Hogarth or Tony Corona, for instance? Or Oliver Rice Harrington?”
“She went out with all three of them, but she never mentioned any presents.”
I was nearing the end of my investigative rope. “Okay, here’s my final and obviously most important question,” I said. “Do you have any idea who murdered your friend, or why anyone would want her dead? Please think carefully before you answer.”
&
nbsp; Ethel turned and gave me the saddest look imaginable. “I’ve thought of nothing else for two days,” she said, “but I still don’t have an inkling. Melody was the kindest, sweetest person in the world. Yes, she was a prostitute, but that didn’t diminish her goodness in any way. Her beauty was astonishing, and her heart was as big as the sky.” Ethel’s body began to shake and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, God!” she cried, dropping her head in her hands and grasping her face with her fingers. “She suffered such a horrible death. Why would anybody want to kill her? Who could have done this terrible thing?”
I leaned closer and put my arm around her trembling shoulders. “I don’t know, Ethel,” I said, a jolt of fresh energy shooting up my spine, “but I intend to find out.”
Chapter 15
BY THE TIME I LIMPED BACK TO SEVENTH AVENUE and made my way down to Times Square, my energy had evaporated. Just putting one foot in front of the other was a strain. My bag of office stuff felt as heavy as a bag of bricks. I tried to jump-start my engine at Nedicks—rapidly consuming a chili dog and an Orange Crush at the sidewalk counter—but the food (if you could call it that) just made me feel queasy. And the blinking neon lights of the movie and peep show marquees— coupled with the loud pops, whizzes, bings, and bangs of the surrounding penny arcades and rifle ranges—did nothing to soothe my frazzled soul.
On the verge of another crying jag (were my days at Daring Detective really over?), and too weary to seek out Tony Corona at the Plaza Hotel as I’d planned, I staggered down the steps to the 42nd Street subway station and caught a downtown local for home.
Emerging from the subway at Sheridan Square and walking the few blocks down Seventh to Bleecker, I was praying to God (and Jesus and Allah and Vishnu and Buddha, et al.) that Abby would be home. I needed a good friend to talk to. I needed to sit down, take my shoes off, and unbosom my dreadful new troubles and secrets. I needed a drink.
When I reached our building and saw that the lights in Abby’s living room-cum-art studio were on, I yelped with joy and darted up the stairs to the landing between our apartments. My prayers had been answered! Relief was at hand!
Oops. Not so fast.
Abby’s door was wide open, and she was standing at her kitchen counter mixing up a batch of cocktails as usual—but she was not alone. A lean, dark, outrageously handsome young man stood right behind her, pressing his body close to hers, pulling her long, thick black hair to one side and planting a string of steamy kisses on the exposed nape of her neck.
Rats! It was Jimmy Birmingham, Abby’s sometime lover—a wildly popular Village poet whose work, I thought, was downright dopey. Likewise, his personality.
“Cut it out, Jimmy!” Abby said, giggling. “You’re getting me hot. If you don’t stop, we’ll have to strip down and do it right here on the floor.”
“Ahem!” I croaked, hastening to announce my arrival before the strip show started. “I hate to interrupt, but the door was open and I—”
“Oh, hi, Paige!” Abby butted Jimmy off her back and turned her smiling face toward me. “What’s tickin’, chicken? I was wondering what happened to you. I’m making a pitcher of martinis. Do you want one, or are you still drunk from last night?”
“Ha, ha,” I said, setting my bag of belongings on the floor near the door and taking a seat at the kitchen table. (Had my boozy breakdown been just last night? It seemed more like a month ago. No wonder I was so tired!) “I’d love a martini,” I confessed, ignoring the possible consequences. “Make it a big one.” I slipped my arms out of my jacket and tucked it over the back of the chair. “Hi, Jimmy,” I said. “What’s new?”
“A lot!” he replied, stroking his dark, neatly trimmed Vandyke and politely hiding the fact that he wasn’t any happier to see me than I was to see him. He sat down across the table from me, took an Old Gold out of the pack in his shirt pocket, and lit up. “I just finished a far-out new poem and came over to read it to Abby.”
Uh-oh!
“Did she like it?” I asked, hoping against hope that the reading had already taken place. I was not in a poetic mood.
“I haven’t heard it yet,” Abby said, setting a martini— complete with olive—in front of me. “Ain’t that swell, Nell?
Now you can dig it with me.” Her emphatic ear-to-ear grin made it clear that she expected me to sit tight for the recitation. (Misery loves company, they say, but Abby demands it.)
Stifling a groan and rolling my eyes at the ceiling, I took a big gulp of my drink. “Hey, where’s Otto?” I asked, looking around for Jimmy’s little dog—the miniature dachshund who was always at his master’s side, or tucked under his arm, or curled up like a sausage in his lap.
At the sound of his name, Otto poked his sleepy head up over the arm of Abby’s red velvet loveseat (which sits smack between her kitchen and art studio) and started whimpering. Then, when he saw me, he let out a happy yip. He jumped off the loveseat and ran over to me, toenails tapping across the linoleum, skinny tail twirling out of control.
“Hello, sweetie!” I cooed, picking up the little dog and giving him a big hug. Otto and I were old friends. We’d endured many poetry readings together. I helped the friendly pup get settled on my lap, then began stroking his soft brown back— from his wet, pointy nose to his wagging tail.
“So let me tell you about my new poem,” Jimmy said, getting excited. His eyes were shining, his beard was glistening, and his young movie-star-handsome face (Tony Curtis with a hint of Gregory Peck) was glowing. If he’d had a tail, it would have been wagging like Otto’s. “It’s the most important opus I ever wrote!” he proclaimed. “It’s so way out, it’s gone! I created it special for the big Dylan Thomas blowout they’re gonna have at the White Horse next month.”
“Blowout?” Abby asked, becoming more interested. (She loves wild parties.)
“White Horse?” I inquired, just to be polite.
“Yeah, that’s where Dylan Thomas died!” Jimmy exclaimed. “At the White Horse Tavern right here in the Village! So that’s where we’re gonna celebrate. Isn’t that cool?”
Not to my mind, it wasn’t. “In the first place,” I said, “Dylan Thomas died at St. Vincent’s hospital, not at the White Horse. He just drank himself to death at the White Horse. And in the second place, Thomas was—like a lot of other Welsh poets—a very serious and solemn person. And he was deathly afraid of dying. So, do you really think it’s cool to celebrate his demise?”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea,” Jimmy yowled. His normally mellow baritone had risen to a high-pitched whine. “The Downtown Poets Society planned the whole thing. And they asked me to write a special poem for the occasion. What’s wrong with that? It’s a real honor, you know!”
“It sure is, baby,” Abby cut in, swooping to Jimmy’s defense. She handed him a martini, then sat down next to him with her own. “I’m so proud of you I could plotz.” Grabbing hold of his whiskered chin and pulling his face toward hers, she planted a whopping open-mouthed kiss on his pouting lips. (Abby, if you haven’t already guessed, was a tad more attracted to Jimmy’s idyllic body than to his poetic soul.)
Averting my eyes from the sloppy spectacle, I stared down at Otto and fondled his soft, warm ears. He snuffled loudly, laid his head on my knees, and went back to sleep.
“So can I read it now, Ab?” Jimmy pleaded, as soon as she let him up for air. “I’m dyin’ to know what you think. I mean, I think it’s a masterpiece, but if you don’t dig it, I’ll write another one—and another one, and another one, and another one—until you tell me I’ve got it right. You’re my muse, you know!”
Abby shot me an apologetic look, then said to Jimmy, “Sure, babe. You can read it now. Finish your cigarette, and then stand over there in the light, where we can get the full effect. (Translation: get a better look at your fine young physique.)
“All right!” Jimmy crowed, stubbing out his cigarette and bounding to his feet. He took a fast slug of his martini, strutted over to the exact spot Abby had indicated (under the ha
nging paper lantern she’d bought last week in Chinatown), and pulled a folded cocktail napkin out of his back pocket. Then he cleared his throat and announced to Abby and me—or, rather, to the worshipful, cheering, standing-room-only crowd in his mind— that his name was Jimmy Birmingham and he was here to read his latest poem, a special tribute to Dylan Thomas titled “The Doomer.” He stood silent in the spotlight for a few seconds and then, when the imaginary applause died down, he unfolded his napkin and began:
It may come your way
By twist or turn
A case of free samples to all.
Bedlam’s brethren all swallow in the greed!
If you want to get beat,
Hang around Sucker Street.
That dank drunky poet’s D.T.’s
Gives me the doomer . . .
Mops and brooms together
Make me swoon.
Hot fires and cold night tomorrows
New beats to the jive
Further to oblivion.
Whew! I said to myself, as soon as it was over, that was mercifully short. And not as painful as I thought it would be. Is Jimmy getting better, or am I just getting soft in the head?
“Oh, baby!” Abby said, rising from her chair and joining Jimmy in the spotlight. She grabbed him by the sideburns, kissed him on both cheeks, and pronounced that “The Doomer” was, indeed, a masterpiece. “It’s powerful and it’s perfect,” she declared, laying stress on the last word. “It’s atomic! It’s going to shoot you into the stratosphere.”
But Abby didn’t fool me. I knew what she was doing. She was praising Jimmy’s poem to the hilt because if she didn’t, he’d go back to his apartment and write another one. And then another one. And maybe another one after that. And Abby thought all of that time would be much better spent in her bedroom.
“You really mean it, Ab?” Jimmy asked, looking more like a bashful little boy than the bearded twenty-two-year-old grown-up he really was. Well, sort of was.
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