“I don’t wear a lot of prints,” Judith said. “Let me think about it.”
Maddie was rebuffed. No, she felt as if she should feel rebuffed, then realized that her taste was more modern than her young friend’s. Judith was a conservative young woman in so many ways. She still wore her hair teased, with a flip at the end, whereas Maddie now wore a chignon to the office, literally letting her hair down when she was on her own time. And, no, Judith didn’t wear a lot of prints. She liked a matchy-matchy style, shoes and purse and dress all the same color. Living at home as she did, she was able to afford quite a wardrobe for a young woman. Today, she was all in yellow—yellow pumps, yellow shift, a pastel yellow linen cardigan cinched at her shoulders with a butterfly clip-chain.
“That’s pretty,” Maddie said, touching the butterfly’s golden head lightly with one finger. Its green eyes glowed.
“Korvette’s,” Judith said. “Only two ninety-eight.”
Maddie widened her eyes, as if amazed by the detail. The clip was pretty in its way and did not look as if it had come from Korvette’s. But here, among Betty Cooke’s creations, the fake gold butterfly with its green glass eyes seemed almost an affront. She decided to buy a bolt of fabric for herself, all the while glancing longingly at the jewelry. Oh, to be able to afford these lovely things. But it would be a rare man who understood how beautiful these items were. Men were so traditional in their idea of what women desired. Cleo Sherwood’s mysterious boyfriend, the one Maddie had yet to identify, had bought her clothing, not jewels. That detail still stuck out. A fur stole, not at all surprising. But the other clothes—a Chanel suit. (Well, a copy, but an excellent one.) That striking dress, something one of the Supremes might wear. The perfect little black dress from Wanamaker’s. These did not seem like typical gifts to a mistress, if Cleo Sherwood could be called that.
Not that it mattered. Maddie had wasted so much time in looking into Cleo Sherwood that no one cared what she had discovered. She had proposed a piece on the psychic, then another one on the grieving parents, only to be told, no, not now. “Maybe a year from now,” Cal had said. “On the anniversary.”
“Anniversary?” How could such a lovely word be invoked for this circumstance?
“You know, a year to the day she went missing or, better, a year to the day she was found. Rutabaga, rutabaga, rutabaga.”
June 1967, maybe January if she was lucky. It felt like a lifetime.
Over lunch at the Village Roost, she brought up her work woes to Judith. She and Judith had an odd way of relating to each other. They shared the conversation, as women are wont to do, but it was as if they were delivering unconnected monologues, cut down to socially acceptable chunks. Maddie talked about her job. Judith hinted, not for the first time, at how she wished she had a private place to “visit” with her boyfriend.
“Doesn’t Paul have a place of his own?”
“Not Paul,” Judith said. “Someone new. His father is gone, so he lives in the family house with his mother and has a much younger sister—there’s no privacy to be had there.”
“You have a new boyfriend?”
She blushed. It was possible, Maddie saw, for a woman to blush with pride. “I guess I have two! I don’t know how I got myself into this situation, Maddie. This guy, Patrick Monaghan, he totally bird-dogged me after we double-dated at the drive-in two weeks ago. I wouldn’t normally dream of going to a drive-in if it wasn’t a double date because, well, you know.”
Maddie did, although she had never attended a drive-in without Seth in the backseat. How seven-year-old Seth had thrilled to the adventure of going to the movie in his PJs, watching it through the windshield. It was funny about drive-ins. Almost everything about the moviegoing part of the experience was subpar—the sound, the film, the film’s appearance, the refreshments, for which one had to trudge such a long way. Yet for a child, novelty trumped everything. How had that little boy, so easily excited by the world around him, ended up surly and monosyllabic? Was he that way with Milton? She wished she could ask.
“Paul knew Patrick from high school and I had seen him around at the Stonewall Democrat meetings. We fixed him up with a girl I know. I swear I didn’t plan this.”
So you planned it, Maddie thought.
“Anyway, he called me the very next day and there’s just something about him. But—Monaghan! My parents would die. And he’s not much more respectable than a cop. He works for the state liquor board. But, well, he’s cute. The strong, silent type. I think I could really fall for him.”
“It sounds—premature to be meeting him somewhere privately.”
“We have to be careful! I mean, I’m still seeing Paul and it would hurt the other girl terribly if she knew that Patrick was pursuing me. We’re just thinking about others.”
Thinking about others while you cheat on them, Maddie thought. Was it cheating, though? The other girl had no claim on this Patrick; Judith had never been serious about Paul. She couldn’t be. She had explained to Maddie several times that she had to marry a Jewish man. But then—she couldn’t be serious about Patrick, either, in that case.
“Secret loves,” Maddie mused. “The world is full of secret loves.” She realized she had come too close to revealing her own secrets and added hastily, “I’m thinking of Cleo Sherwood, of course. I’m sure she had a boyfriend, or—a patron. But no one will tell me anything. I went to the Flamingo and they treated me like a leper.”
“Shell Gordon’s club?” Judith asked.
“Yes, he had me thrown out.” A little melodramatic, but essentially true.
“Well, if Shell Gordon is worried, it probably has something to do with Ezekiel Taylor.”
Maddie should have been thrilled to hear the name, any name. Yet it was a letdown that the thing she had been seeking fell so casually from the young woman’s lips, that it could have been hers long ago if she had just thought to ask Judith more questions when Shell Gordon first came up.
“Where have I heard that name?”
“You probably haven’t.” Maybe it was Maddie’s imagination, but Judith seemed to stress the you, as if Maddie’s ignorance were specific to her, and anyone else would know. “But you must have heard of EZ Kleeners. ‘Whatever you need cleaned, EZ does it!’”
“That’s a dry cleaner, right?”
Plastic bags. All the clothes were in plastic bags. She had been looking at the labels, but maybe it was the dry-cleaning receipts that mattered, the paper on the hangers.
“Yes. He’s also the man that Shell Gordon is backing to defeat Verda Welcome in the Fourth District.”
“And Taylor was Cleo Sherwood’s boyfriend?”
“No idea. All I said was that if Shell Gordon was protecting someone, Taylor’s the most likely person. They’re thick as thieves, and that’s not just an expression. Clothes aren’t the only thing that get cleaned at EZ Kleeners, or so people say.”
“Who says?”
A blithe shrug. “People. My uncle’s friends. They also say Shell Gordon is a Baltimore bachelor, for what it’s worth.”
Maddie turned that phrase over in her head a few times, finally got it. “So Ezekiel Taylor is running for the senate. Obviously, a man running for office can’t have a girlfriend.”
“Oh, they can have them, Maddie. But they have to hide them. If—and I really don’t know anything—but if EZ Taylor was seeing this woman you’re so obsessed with, all he had to do was be discreet. Women aren’t going to vote for a man who humiliates his wife, especially Negro women, especially when there’s a female incumbent in the race. But Taylor plays by the rules, appears in public with Mrs. Taylor, doesn’t make waves.” She smiled at Maddie’s look of wonder. “I told you—the Stonewall Democratic Club is a good place to meet people. And to learn the skinny on stuff. I know so much about how the city works now. I’m making connections for myself, too. One of the state senators that my brother knows thinks he can get me a job at a federal agency, a good one. But I would need some way to commute, it’
s down in Fort Meade—I’ve probably said too much already.”
“Everyone keeps telling me that the boyfriend doesn’t matter because Cleo went out with a different man, someone no one knows, on New Year’s Eve,” Maddie said, almost to herself. “But what if it was all part of a plan? What if someone sent that man to kill Cleo?”
“Or what if Cleo died while she was with Taylor and they needed to create a story to cover up what happened? As they say, never get caught with a dead girl—or a live boy.”
“Who says that?”
Judith just laughed. “Anyway, will you think about it?”
“Think about what?”
“Letting me use your apartment when you’re not there.”
“I’m always there, Judith. Except on Wednesdays, when I have dinner with Seth.”
“Even that little window would be enough.”
Yes, Maddie knew. It was enough. It could also be too much. “Judith, please be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“With your heart. That’s the part they never tell us. They’re so busy making sure that we, um, protect our bodies. But bodies are resilient, bodies can withstand a lot of pain. But your heart. If the first man you let into your heart isn’t a good person, you’ll never be the same.”
Judith’s blush this time was more traditional, the bright red of high embarrassment. “Honestly, Maddie, we’re just going to—well, we’re not going to do that.”
“You could meet him at the movies, like you did with Paul.”
“But I want to talk to this man,” Judith said, almost as if surprised by her own desire. “If this were only necking, well, yeah, sure, we could go to the movies. I want to get to know him. He’s so quiet. But I could tell, that night at the drive-in, he was looking at me. He wants to get to know me, too. But I can’t even linger on the phone with him without my parents’ getting suspicious.”
Maddie didn’t have much experience feeling envy for other women, but she knew a pang of it now. Ferdie was the strong, silent type, too. She had been seeing him for six months and she hardly knew anything about him.
“How do I find this Ezekiel Taylor?”
“Maddie, you should really meet my brother who’s in politics.”
“Judith, I’m not—I’m happy as I am. I don’t need a fix-up.”
“My brother’s not looking to be fixed up, either. But he knows stuff, Maddie. He’ll know if you’re on the right track. I keep telling you—”
“I know, I know. I should come to meetings of the Stonewall Democratic Club.”
The B’hoy
The B’hoy
The second I walk into the bar at the Lord Baltimore, I know which brunette is my brunette, the one my baby sister asked me to see. The woman is quivering like a greyhound, eating pretzels one after another. Judith has assured me that this is not a social meeting. God, I hope so. Judith seems to be the only person in the family who has a sense of who I am, although we never talk about it, of course. She tells people I’m married to my job, too hard-driving for a romantic life, much less marriage and family. That’s not untrue. It’s truer than most things you could say about me. I wouldn’t have time for a family even if I wanted one.
But, oh my God, if I were to choose a bride, my mother would plotz if it could be someone like this Madeline Morgenstern Schwartz, although she wouldn’t be happy about the divorcée part. My mom is very hard on other women. Can you blame her? My father—well, let’s just say we’re lucky that the only public shanda in the Weinstein family was the bankruptcy of Weinstein’s. Not that I know things. I don’t want to know things. That’s our specialty in the Weinstein family, not asking questions, leaving the stones unturned.
She sips a martini, eyes demure. Flirtation is her automatic mode, I can tell, natural as breathing. The women I interact with, because of my job, are either flirts or steamrollers. I wonder, sometimes, in which camp Judith will land. Once she hooks a guy, I suspect she’ll be more like our mother, trying to control everything, which is the obvious way to be when you control nothing. I don’t think Judith has picked up on all the things I’ve figured out about our parents. She was so young, a baby really, when everything was happening. She’s still a baby, in a way, living at home. She thinks she wants out, but I’m not sure why. I’m trying to get her a secretarial gig at NSA, through a guy who knows a guy. I hate calling in favors, don’t like to be in anyone’s debit column. But I’ll do it for Judith, although if she thinks she’s going to be allowed to move down to Howard County she really doesn’t know our mother. Only marriage is going to get her out of that house. And the guy better be Jewish. Judith has shaygets fever. She thinks I don’t know, but I do. Redheads, she’s forever running around with redheads. She better get that out of her system or she’s going to be disowned, not that there’s anything to inherit.
“What do you need to know?”
“Why does Shell Gordon want Ezekiel Taylor to get the Democratic nomination for senate?”
I love how she just pulls her big gun out. Experienced reporters palaver, toy with you, waste your time. This one has no idea what she’s doing, but at least that means I won’t be here long.
“He sees an opportunity, pure and simple. Willie Adams is beefing with Verna Welcome, thinks she’s not loyal to him. Jerry Pollock, who used to control the Fourth, thinks he can get the seat back. With the field this crowded and two senate seats open, anything could happen. But, hate to burst your bubble, Shell had no reason to get rid of Cleo Sherwood. She made Ezekiel happy and the affair gave Shell even more power over EZ.”
I don’t tell her that I’ve heard Shell has been trying to find new girls for EZ, but he’s not having it right now. Maybe he’s waiting to see how the election turns out, if he’s going to have to learn a new level of discretion. He’s a long shot and maybe he likes it that way. But Shell isn’t going to give up on Taylor. He’s almost like a nagging wife trying to force her husband to be ambitious.
The girl frowns. It’s a pretty frown. “But if she had gone public, made a fuss, that would have been bad for everyone.”
“Girls like that never make a fuss. She knew the score. Besides, she was with another man the night she disappeared. That’s an established fact.”
“Is it?”
It’s hard not to reach over and pat that earnest little head. “Everybody loves a good conspiracy theory. I bet you think the Warren Commission was wrong when it ruled that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.”
“No—no. It never occurred to me to question that.”
“Life is very simple, miss.”
“Mrs.,” she corrected.
“More often than not, things are pretty much as they seem. Maybe that doesn’t make for good movies or page one newspaper articles, but that’s how the world works. Okay, sure, this girl they found in the fountain, she dated EZ Taylor. Successful men, rich men—they’ve always had women on the side. It’s no big deal.”
“But he wouldn’t be able to run for office if people found out.”
“No one was going to find out. This happens all the time, ma’am.” Heh. She doesn’t like ma’am any better than she liked miss. Be careful what you wish for, honey. “All the time, at every level. Men are men. Presidents have fooled around—look at Warren Harding. FDR, probably. LBJ, almost definitely. But it’s understood if you keep things discreet, keep up appearances, no one talks about it. And Taylor’s a long shot, anyway. Shell hasn’t built the coalitions he needs to get his own candidate in. Maybe two, four years from now, but not this year.”
She looks chastened but not defeated. The set of her jaw—she’s going to keep going. Not my problem. I’ve told her how things work, the way I promised my baby sister I would. Maryland politics 101. It’s all about money and organization. The Democratic primary is the real contest, especially in Baltimore city, and it’s winner take all, no runoffs. We’ll know the winners by the morning of September 14, but we’ll pretend it’s a contest until November.
; I pay for our drinks, or try. She picks up the check, says she’ll expense it. Says a newspaper reporter can’t have sources buying her anything. I wonder where she heard that one? I pick up checks for reporters all the time, send them whiskey at Christmas, hams at Easter.
We part ways at the corner of Charles and Mulberry. It’s close to dusk, but she says she lives only a block away.
“Do you live up this way?” she asks me.
“Oh, I’ll just catch the Charles Street bus,” I say, not answering her question.
Once I’m on my own, I take a circuitous route, although it’s not as if anyone is following me. I’m heading to Leon’s, a discreet place on Park Avenue, not even ten blocks from where she lives, but it’s a whole different universe.
Once there, I realize all I want is a drink. I don’t have the energy for company. A burden lifts the second I walk through the door at Leon’s. It’s just a relief sometimes to have a drink in a place where I’m allowed to be myself, in total. I can finally be me. Not Donald Weinstein, macher, mensch, the hard-driving chief of staff for a guy who could be governor in eight years. I used to be just a muldoon, a foot soldier, but now I’m a b’hoy, calling the shots, making the deals, getting things done. I’ll know I’ve really made it when I have a nickname, like Harry “White Shoes” McGuirk, or even Shell Gordon, who’s nursing a beer in the corner. I don’t care what my nickname is, as long as it isn’t fagalah.
My life, my preferences—plenty of people know, but no one ever talks about it. I guess people—my boss, my sister—think they’re doing me a favor, ignoring the obvious, making jokes about “Baltimore bachelors.” I have two friends, Ron and Bill, they share a little house in an out-of-the-way neighborhood up in the Northwest, and everybody seems to think they’re just two swinging single guys, on the prowl for women. Ron drives a flashy little sports car, they’re both handsome guys. I was over there on Halloween last year and the boy across the street came to the door, trick-or-treating, dressed as a woman. We all had a good laugh at that, gave the kid extra candy. One day, he’ll look back, connect the dots, a house full of men at a Halloween party. Heck, maybe one day he’ll be one of us. Who knows? I was in my teens before I figured it out, in my twenties before I dared to act on my desires. And I have to be so careful, while the Ezekiel Taylors of the world just have to avoid embarrassing their wives.
Lady in the Lake Page 20
