“Yes, how can I help you? What is this?” She looked at him, confused.
“My … my sister Sarai vas in the camp with your sister Chana. They vere together till the end. I am so sorry,” he said, a tear welling up at the corner of his eye.
“Camp?” Josephine uttered the unimaginable.
“They vere at Bergen-Belsen together vhen your Chana died of typhus. I am so sorry. I am sure you vill vant to speak to Sarai, who is still recovering. She said Chana vas an angel.” He placed a kindly, gentle hand on her shoulder as he saw her register the shock and grief. That was, of course, before Josephine Herz, the world’s richest woman and the Princess Orlove, promptly fainted.
48
BROKEN GLASS
New York City, 1946
The opalescent Lalique vase crashed with such force that a chunk of glass was now embedded and suspended from the wall. Despite the crash, the shattering glass was less piercing than the screaming.
“You no-good lyin’ son of a bitch!” Myra Heron shrieked. “I’m tired of your cheatin’! You’re a lowlife, do you know that?”
She stood firmly, facing Mickey. All he could see were big, glossy red lips, as if her lips and mouth were a screaming machine detached from her body. The timbre of her voice was usually loud even when she was just speaking, but when she was screaming, it was a world war–worthy event. Mickey tried his best to calm her, saying they were in a fancy hotel on Central Park South and that the neighbors could hear and “they could get kicked out.” This only seemed to enrage her more.
“You’re nothing more than a low-class fruit peddler! How I married you, you piece of shit. Look at you. Lipstick on your T-shirt and you don’t even bother hiding it.” She was going nuclear and her voice only kept getting louder. And louder.
“Myra, it was from a new lipstick we’re launching. Some of it got on my clothes. I’m in the fuckin’ lipstick business!” He tried to reason with her, although the child was now starting to scream as well. “You’ve already woken up the kid with your big trap!”
“What real man is in the lipstick business, anyway?” She walked up to him, screaming in his face, getting closer, assaulting him with her accusations. “Maybe you’re really a fairy?” She poked him. “You should be ashamed of yourself. My cousin Essie married a doctor, Sarah Kaplan, a lawyer, and you … the big macher Mickey Heron … the lipstick king. You’re an embarrassment. A mobster is more respectable. You run around with your models and your whores. I hear you like darkies too.”
“Don’t you…” He couldn’t believe she had brought up the likes of CeeCee. How did she know?
“Don’t I what? Or maybe you like boys, since you care so much about makeup. Maybe that’s the reason you don’t come near me anymore, ’cause you’re a queer.” Her voice quivered as she lobbed the crazy accusations at him like tennis balls, one after the other, although she knew none of them were true.
Mickey tried to control his temper, but she was pushing him toward war. And she couldn’t help unleashing more and more epithets like the German Blitzkrieg, each one designed to devastate.
“You gotta be kidding me. I love women, but you think I’m attracted to the likes of you? Just look at you!” he screamed back with venom. “You’re a fucking whale, Myra. You had the baby years ago and all you do is stuff your face. You think I want to sleep with you? Your mother is more attractive. Keep eating them doughnuts.” He pointed to boxes of half-eaten doughnuts and chocolates that littered the hotel room.
“My father was right. He should have knocked you off when you got me pregnant. How did I end up like this?” She threw her hands up in the air, bemoaning and bewailing her fate as the fat on her arms jiggled unattractively.
“You’re lucky he kicked the bucket before he saw you blow up fat as a house!” Mickey screamed, beet-faced. Her father, the hefty and ever-expanding Moe Stein, hadn’t been felled by a mobster’s bullet, but expired a year earlier from a heart attack after consuming a few extra-hearty portions of brisket and stuffed derma at the prime L.A. delis. Mickey would have been out of there the next day if it weren’t for Mickey Jr.
“My father was a saint. Don’t you ever talk about him.” She slapped him in the face, gashing his cheek in the process with her razor-sharp red nails. Mickey Jr. was crying loudly from all their screaming. Being incredibly vain, Mickey became even more enraged when he saw the blood on his hand.
“Here, have another doughnut.” He picked up a glazed one, then rushed forward and in anger shmushed it, grinding it into her face. “And you know what he said? He told me he was lucky I took you off his hands.” Mickey laughed. “You … you fat slob.”
“Take your hands off me!” She ran after him and pummeled him. Mickey was impressed; her punches felt like those of a prizefighter, and he actually emitted a laugh as she socked him in the stomach.
“You could fuckin’ box the Golden Gloves. What woman packs a punch like that? You’re a fuckin’ fat beast.”
“I eat because I hate you!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. “And I hate you more than I hate myself. I am going to get as fat as I can, so you can be Handsome Mick with the fat, ugly wife. That’s what I’ve been up to!” Her face was contorted with rage.
“Well, you’re doing a great job because I wouldn’t fuck you with Uncle Irv’s dick!” He picked up a heavy crystal ashtray and with one swift motion threw it like a talented quarterback into the onyx fireplace.
“You think I want to be married to you, you hairy, ugly animal? And to top it off you’re as stupid as a brick.” She pushed him.
“I’m stupid? I’m stupid?” He rushed her and pushed her back. “You have a fuckin’ bagel between your ears. You’re a disgusting pig. I’m outta here.”
“Outta here? You walk out, you’ll never see Mickey Jr. again. Never.”
“Don’t threaten me.”
“You see this…” She twisted off her round, five-carat diamond ring. “It means nothing. You know what I’m gonna do with this?” She ran toward the windows facing Central Park South.
“Are you crazy?” Mickey rushed her. “That ring cost me twenty-five grand. You’re fuckin’ ugly, but stupid, too…?” He pulled at her arm and twisted it. She whimpered in pain.
“You’re stupid, you fuckin’ moron. You think I care about your low-grade diamond that’s probably hot and fell off a truck? It’s fake like you. Probably glass. You think I care about your piece-of-shit low-grade junk of a diamond? Here’s what I think about it!” she howled. She made it to the window as he was grabbing her elbow … and twisting her arm. He backhanded her as she fell against the window, moaning in pain.
“Help me—police! He’s beating me!” she wailed. With one hand she managed to open the metal latch of the window.
“Don’t you dare!” he screamed. She just looked at him with hate as she threw the engagement ring out the window onto Central Park South, twelve stories down. He slapped her one more time for good measure … just before the police broke down the door.
* * *
The wind was brisk and howled liked a stray dog at the moon and the trees shuddered under a grey-canvas sky that looked as if it had only recently been gessoed. Mickey pulled the collar of his navy cashmere coat up under his chin to try to block the chill. He hadn’t shaved and touched the ointment on the gash by his cheek and winced. It was deep and raw. The thought of Myra’s nail sinking into his cheek only angered him more. Central Park was dark, cavernous, and empty, even though it was only seven P.M.; no one, it seemed, wanted to brave the elements. Mickey just walked, still in shock from what he had seen. What he now knew. And what he had to do.
He knew the divorce from Myra would come. He knew that it would be painful and expensive and that Mickey Jr. would be used as a pawn—a virtual tug-of-war between the two battling factions. That his own son would be turned against him by his bitter and unrelenting mother. This he knew and expected. He also knew that since Moe’s death he had nothing to fear. Everyone in his network knew t
hat Mickey was a stand-up guy who had honored his commitment, and at Moe’s funeral the men all patted him on the back with compassion when they saw how obese Myra had become. No man was expected to stay with that, or at least not have the freedom and the blessing to play the field. Especially Handsome Mick. There was even an ongoing bet on how long Mick could last with a sumo wrestler in his bed. They all chuckled and shrugged. “Poor Mickey, especially with all the talent he’s had.” What he didn’t know was what he had seen the previous evening, and it rattled him to the core. He knew he had a rip cord and he had pulled it. He had called CeeCee in the middle of the night and asked her to come and bail him out. Said that he and Myra had come to blows and a divorce was at hand. He thought she might have been petty or joyous or nasty, but she was only sad and silent. She would come, she said, and she would do for him what he had once done for her: bail her out. But she’d told him not to expect anything and that she would be introducing him to someone. Not to be shocked or surprised. And then she hung up. He waited in the holding cell, and when they came to release him, he had fully expected a handsome boyfriend or a husband who was angered and jealous and fuming or steaming at having been awakened and summoned to a police station. He was soon to find out it was none of those things. It was a beautiful four-and-a-half-year-old girl with light skin, green eyes, and a mop of curly black hair, holding hands with her mother. “Layla, meet my friend Mickey. Mickey Heron, Layla Lopez.”
“So nice to meet you.” He took her little hand in his and tried to be charming, although he knew his eyes were bloodshot, his face gashed, and his chin sprouting stubble. He knew he didn’t smell good either. He was so embarrassed to see CeeCee this way. Like a good-for-nothing. Like a bum. What man, no matter how angry, would hit a woman and get locked up? He was kicking himself. And there was CeeCee looking silky and beautiful as ever, and with a baby. And as he looked at Layla’s little face and told her just how pretty she was, that’s when he saw it and knew for sure.
“You, Layla, are as beautiful as your mother, and my, you have dimples.” He paused. “Oh, and you have a cleft in your chin. Just like me.” And in that instant Mickey knew. And he also vowed he would do anything in his power to get CeeCee and Layla back.
49
MIRIAM
New York City, 1947
Constance shook her perfect blond coif and sighed as she read the morning paper and groaned at the news. “What’s the world coming to?” She felt a cold terror. Staring up at her was the black-and-white photo of the Hollywood Ten in The New York Times and an accompanying list of those having Communist sympathies and ties. She read the names of more than 150 actors, writers, and directors who had been accused by the House Un-American Activities Committee and effectively blacklisted, and just her luck, there was the name, featured prominently on the list. And not even M. Rollins, but good old Marilyn Rollins, her sometime lover, who was now a bona fide card-carrying member of the Communist Party. Constance blanched at the potential scandal on all levels of being associated with such a person and deep down knew what she needed to do. She shook her head and frowned. The news seemed to reflect an ever-changing world and brought home conflicting issues. It was the same feeling she had had months earlier with the headlines of Jackie Robinson, the first African American to be admitted to the Major Leagues. The controversial decision had her thinking about CeeCee. It seemed she couldn’t escape her inner passions despite her outwardly conservative views. Yet, her ties to Marilyn were even more concerning. There had been one frantic late-night call, then a silent period where Marilyn had all but disappeared before the news broke. She’d had no idea where she was until she received a call from Mercedes de Acosta that Marilyn had officially been blacklisted and summoned to appear in Washington before the committee. She was hiding out at her apartment on Twelfth Street in the city and Mercedes gave her the phone number. Constance decided to wait it out, knowing that Marilyn would eventually reach out to her when the time was right. Marilyn finally rang the following Monday and asked if they could meet at a small bar in Greenwich Village. She hadn’t wanted to, but felt she needed to handle the potentially explosive situation carefully. To “tidy” things up. Her car ride downtown was met with a bit of anxiety mixed with nostalgia as she remembered James’s apartment on Ninth Street. How young, naive, and hopeful she had been then. Now she felt as if she were going to a wake, not to see a lover but to meet a dead woman walking.
Marilyn was already sitting in a booth of the Cedar Tavern on University Place, drinking with the guys. She was wearing their uniform: a pilled black turtleneck, cuffed blue jeans, and black ballet flats … inhaling a cigarette like a water-deprived bedouin and downing a dirty glass of whiskey with two local artist friends she had collected, Willem de Kooning and Franz Kline.
“Modern trash art.” Constance shook her head, remembering the canvases she’d seen stacked against the wall in Marilyn’s Santa Monica cottage and adorning the walls. “A child could paint those,” she had declared upon learning that Marilyn had purchased them from the group of surly men known as abstract expressionists. Always on the cutting edge, Marilyn embraced the new, buying future masterpieces at $100 a pop or for drinks when the crew couldn’t afford the bar bill and she had sold a script. Her nonsensical and capacious drip canvas by little-known artist Jackson Pollock inspired particular ire. “A kindergartner could do that!” Constance had hissed.
“And only someone with infantile taste wouldn’t appreciate it, Miss I-Only-Like-Art-with-Bowls-of-Fruit,” Marilyn had retorted. And so they had sparred and then had fallen into bed.
The Cedar, Constance thought, was as good an out-of-the-way bar as any in the decidedly down-market Village, and she knew she wasn’t going to see any of her uptown friends. Hopefully! Constance gave a nod to Marilyn and thought she looked even more attractive in her beat costume. She rose when she saw Constance and walked over. Constance was her formal self and gave her a brief and unsatisfactory kiss on the cheek. She didn’t want to feel any attraction to this woman any longer. After a quick introduction to the artists, whom she knew she would never see again, and the particularly drunk one, Pollock, who called out, “The debs are invading,” to raucous laughter, they settled into the wooden booth. When Constance threw her mink beside her like a bundle of laundry, they all looked her up and down as if she were visiting from another planet with her Chanel suit and triple strand of pearls.
“Thank you for using your passport and coming downtown,” Marilyn quipped. “I see you dressed down for the event.”
“I’ll have you know I used to live on Ninth Street. Just two blocks over.” Nearly overcome with the smell of stale beer and cigarettes, Constance scanned the crowd of degenerate artists and writers to see if she knew anyone. She was relieved to find that she didn’t.
“Yeah … in your salad days!” Marilyn raised an eyebrow as she nursed her whiskey. “I took the liberty of ordering you a gin and tonic since they don’t serve Lillet and caviar here.”
“So we’re being snippy, are we. Is that it?” Constance lobbed it back at her. “Well, it’s better here than at the Monkey Bar.”
“Yeah, better for you.”
“Perhaps. How are you?”
“You know I am not in the best of moods since I was just fired off the Gable movie and am officially blacklisted. I cannot get work. No one will return my calls, including my agent. I am what’s known as Hollywood poison. Oh, let’s not forget being summoned to Washington, where I will be raked over the coals in public: ‘Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?’”
“And have you?” Constance blotted her lips with the napkin.
“You’re damn right. I’m as red as a Maine lobster on a summer day. With drawn butter. Tallulah was right. The only thing pink about me is my pussy.”
“Don’t be vulgar,” Constance huffed. “Well, I told you that your politics would get you into trouble, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“Okay, Mrs. Lindbergh 1939. What el
se do you have for me? He gets rebuked by FDR for his war views and is living the high life in Darien and I can’t get arrested. Well, maybe I can!” She laughed bitterly. “They are throwing us into jail now, you know.”
“Here.” Constance thrust a Gardiner Cosmetics bag at her. “There are some lipsticks, rouges, and eyeliner in there. Perhaps when you make your debut with the House Un-American Activities Committee you’ll try to be a bit more feminine. I can assure you they’ll go easier on you if you wear a dress and some lipstick. Not if you look like a beat poet or a dyke.”
“Oh, so you want me to dress the part of the lipstick lesbian, is that it?”
“Marilyn, I adore you and love the term. Very clever. And clearly, you are one of the smartest women I have ever met. But you are a stubborn bitch and you dig your heels in. You need to rethink your strategy if you ever want to work again.”
“Maybe I don’t. Maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to live in a world where I can’t be me.” She paused.
“Don’t say such things, Marilyn. Just put on the lipstick and rouge, wear a dress, and be polite and forget the fire and the fury and you’ll get back to working again.”
“Yeah, maybe if I was like you—blond, Republican, and”—she blew smoke out of the side of her mouth—“a Christian.”
“Wait…” Constance was wide-eyed at the revelation. “Don’t tell me you’re also … Jewish to boot?”
“Yeah, and so was Mary. The first famous Jewish mother. What’s it to you?”
“Nothing, you just never told me.” Constance tried to remain composed as she processed it all. Her world was unraveling. After all this time, she had been in love with a Jewess!
“Given name”—she hand-blocked it—“Miriam Goldstein. Problem with that too?” Marilyn said point-blank.
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