People Like Us

by Dominick Dunne

  A car and driver waited for her at the small airport in Vacaville. A decorator friend of Cora Mandell’s had purchased two Remington horse sculptures from a San Francisco collector and placed them in the car for Ruby to take back to New York. She told the pilot of the plane that she was attending an auction but would not be long. In the car was a lawyer from San Francisco.

  “Hi, Mrs. Renthal, I’m Morrie Sable.”

  “Hello,” she replied.

  “All the arrangements have been made. The hearing is scheduled for eleven. It’s about a fifteen-minute drive.”

  “Let’s go,” said Ruby.

  As the car drove over the dusty roads to the prison, Morrie Sable several times tried to make conversation with Ruby, but she was preoccupied with her own thoughts.

  “Shall I send the bill to your husband’s office in New York, Mrs. Renthal?” he asked.

  “Heavens, no,” she replied. “I’ve brought a check with me.”

  “But I won’t know how much the tally is until I’ve figured out the hours involved,” he said.

  “It’s blank, and it’s signed. You fill it in, Mr. Sable.”

  “Okay.”

  “Under no circumstances do I want my husband to know about this.”

  “Mind if I ask you why you’re doing this?” he asked.

  “Four years ago I sat in a car outside a church in Beverly Hills during Becky Bailey’s funeral, feeling too guilty to go in, because I knew that if I had stepped forward when I should have stepped forward, what happened to that poor young girl might not have happened. This is my way of seeing that it doesn’t happen again,” she answered.

  Morrie Sable looked at her.

  In the hearing room, the session was already in progress. Lefty Flint sat at a table, with his lawyer, Marv Pink, at his side. He held a ballpoint pen in his hand and wrote notes on a yellow lined scratch pad. At another table sat the prison warden and two parole officers. Several guards from the prison sat in the spectators’ section, as did Marguerite Hanrahan, Lefty’s fiancée, who was waiting to testify on Lefty’s behalf.

  When the doors of the room opened, everyone turned to look at the beautiful and elegantly dressed woman who entered. She carried an alligator bag with a gold chain. Lefty Flint, seeing Ruby, blanched.

  Ruby walked past the table where Lefty was seated without looking at him and took a chair that had been placed for her next to the presiding parole officer. After introductions had been made, the warden called on Mrs. Renthal to speak.

  “My name is Ruby Nolte Renthal,” she began. “I have come here today from my home in New York to plead with you not to grant Francis Flint an early release from his prison sentence.”

  “Warden, I object,” said Marv Pink, rising from his seat.

  “This is a hearing, not a trial, Mr. Pink. There are no objections recognized. Mrs. Renthal’s lawyer called me and asked that his client be allowed to come here to speak,” said the warden. “Go on, Mrs. Renthal.”

  “I had a two-year relationship with Francis Flint that ended several years before the murder of Becky Bailey. On four separate occasions Mr. Flint beat me. Once when I tried to escape from him, he threw me down a stairway. On two separate occasions I was hospitalized as a result of his beatings. The latter time, Mr. Flint, whom I called Lefty, broke my nose and teeth, blacked my eyes, and fractured my jaw.”

  “Did you press charges at the time?” asked the warden.

  “No,” replied Ruby. She opened her bag and took out a handkerchief.

  “May I ask why, Mrs. Renthal?”

  Ruby looked at Marv Pink and answered, “I was warned not to.”

  “By whom?”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” she replied, wiping a tear away. “The jury at his trial for the murder of Becky Bailey was allowed to think that her strangulation was a single isolated incident on the part of Lefty Flint in an otherwise impeccable life. This is not true. Mr. Flint is a classic abuser of women, and his weapon is his hands.”

  The room was in silence.

  “Are you finished, Mrs. Renthal?” asked the warden.

  “Yes, sir, I am, except to say that I feel this man is a danger to women. I have seen him froth at the mouth in anger. I know how little it takes for him to lose control.”

  Lefty Flint, breathing heavily, pushed back his chair from the table. The ballpoint pen that he had been holding snapped in two in his hand. Marv Pink placed his hand on Lefty’s arm in a cautionary gesture.

  “Sit down, Lefty,” whispered Marguerite from behind him.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Renthal,” said the warden.

  “Am I excused?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  Ruby rose. Morrie Sable rose. As Ruby walked past Lefty Flint on her way to the door, their eyes met for an instant.

  22

  Romantic longevity was never Bernie Slatkin’s long suit. He was used to the adoration of five or six women at the same time, in the compartmentalized way he had always lived his life, with no part encroaching upon another. Women who watched him on television wrote him letters, or waited for him outside the studio in the hopes of meeting him. Even women he met at society parties looked at him across dinnertables in an inviting manner, sometimes even slipping their place cards into his pocket with their telephone numbers hastily scribbled on them. He liked the chase. He liked seduction. He liked the madness of ecstasy that came with new partners. He liked not having to answer to anyone for his time and affections. His affairs, when he had had them before his marriage, were brief, mostly culminating after week-long love-soaked sojourns to tropical islands, when the sameness began to pall.

  Bernie could not deny that Justine’s love had begun to bore him. He preferred the flippancy of Brenda Primrose, in the news room, with whom he had had an affair and with whom, from time to time, for old times’ sake, if they had both been working late, he still sought quick satisfaction. He knew that during their affair she had been seeing two other men at the same time, and he liked her for it because it showed that she played the game the way he did, for sex, not love.

  At the bal masquè following the opening of the ballet, Bernie and Justine Slatkin were the guests of Elias and Ruby Renthal. Ruby, the best dancer on the small dance floor, could feel Bernie Slatkin’s erection boring into her. Looking up, she could see that his eyes had the look of a man in the throes of deep desire. “Uh, uh,” she said, shaking her head in refusal, at the same time backing her pelvis away from him without missing a beat of the dance. “It feels good, Bernie, and I hear you’re great in bed, but I already got myself a fella. And you’ve already got yourself a lady, and I do mean a lady, in case it slipped your mind.” The music stopped. “Thanks for the dance, Bernie. I love to samba. Now I’m off to find my husband.”

  That year Justine gave Bernie many gifts: gold cuff links from Tiffany for day, sapphire-and-gold cuff links from Carrier for evening, silk pajamas with his monogram over the pocket, a maroon polka-dot dressing gown, and writing paper with his name engraved in all sizes and shapes. For a while Bernie loved her gifts and was amused by her extravagances. In return, on Justine’s occasions, Bernie was never ungenerous, but often unimaginative, settling at the last minute for flowers, or a gold bracelet, when their apartment was already full of flowers arranged by Lorenza and Justine had more gold bracelets than she could ever wear. But Justine, madly in love, raved over his gifts as if they were precious and special, conceived only for her.

  Bernie enjoyed Justine’s land of social life, up to a point, although it dismayed him that they went out almost every night. He also enjoyed the kind of sporting life that Justine’s friends led on the weekends in the country: tennis, golf, shooting. He enjoyed the kind of powerful people he met through his marriage into the Van Degan family, like the Elias Renthals. He enjoyed the admiration he felt he received from Uncle Laurance Van Degan because of the kind of money he earned, and the recognition factor he possessed in public. He was quick to act on any tips in the stock market that Uncl
e Laurance offered him. If he were to go into politics sometime in the future, which people told him he could, with his sincerity and his dimple, the kind of people he was meeting and being accepted by were the kind of people to guide and finance him in his political schemes.

  He could have been happy. But he couldn’t be faithful.

  23

  Laurance Van Degan accepted the astonishing news without astonishment. It was not for him to register shock, or surprise, or fear, in front of a servant, although, strictly speaking, Miss Mae Toomey could not exactly be classified as a servant. Laurance Van Degan’s consciousness of his superiority did not desert him during the fifteen-minute encounter with his father’s nurse. However, when Laurance Van Degan imparted that same news to his sister later in the day, in his office, it was almost more than Lil could bear. Their father, Ormonde Van Degan, the head of the family—although stroked, incontinent, and possibly senile—had made it known to Miss Toomey that he intended to elope with Dodo Fitz Alyn.

  Lil, weeping, said, “But, surely, Laurance, there can be nothing intimate in their relationship.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that, Lil,” said Laurance.

  “What do you mean? The man is eighty-four.”

  “She runs dirty videos for him.”

  “Oh, Laurance, for God’s sake. It’s too ridiculous.”

  “It’s also true.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Miss Toomey.”

  “Who’s Miss Toomey?”

  “The nurse.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, Miss Toomey. I always called her Mae.”

  “And then she jerks him off.”

  “Miss Toomey jerks Father off?”

  “No, Lil, for God’s sake. Don’t be so dense. Dodo jerks off Father when he looks at the dirty videos.”

  Lil shuddered. “After all we’ve done for Dodo Fitz Alyn, Laurance. No one wanted her. Reared among all those peculiar people. Her father went to prison for tax evasion. Her mother ran off with one of those awful Orromeo brothers. Her uncle jumped off the Queen Elizabeth after doing whatever unspeakable act he did with that Cockney sailor. And we, poor fools, took her in and gave her a home and paid for her education.”

  “I know her history, Lil.”

  “Next thing I suppose she’ll expect to figure in Father’s will?”

  “More than that.”

  Lil stiffened. In matters of inheritance and heirlooms, Lil Altemus always became alert. “What do you mean?”

  “Up front. Dodo wants money up front as well.”

  “How much money?”

  “Twelve million.”

  She laughed at the absurdity. “I can’t believe any of this, Laurance.”

  “Plus,” he added.

  “What do you mean plus?”

  “She wants the house in Southampton to be put in her name.”

  “Mother’s house?” asked Lil, aghast.

  “And she wants the Romney picture of Lady Rushington to be hers. And the Fabergé eggs to be put in her name as well.”

  “But those were Mother’s things, Laurance,” said Lil.

  “Now they’re going to be Dodo’s,” answered Laurance.

  “But Mother always said they were to be mine. You know that. You heard her say it a thousand times, Laurance.”

  “She didn’t put it in writing, though. She just assumed Father would leave them to you in his will.”

  “All this time we thought ‘poor Dodo’ was pushing around his wheelchair, she’s been taking inventory?”

  “So it appears.”

  “And you’re going to allow this, Laurance? You of all people? The strength of the family. You’re going to let this fat orphan dictate those terms to us? Stand up to that sneaky bitch. Show her who’s boss. What’s she going to do if you tell her no, absolutely no?”

  “She’s going to stop jerking off Father. That’s what she’s going to do. And, apparently, Father likes to be jerked off.”

  Lil, crestfallen, began to gather up her things. “I always thought—” she said and then stopped midsentence.

  “Thought what, Lil?” asked her brother.

  “I always thought Dodo was a dyke.”

  Laurance looked at her. “What’s a dyke?” he asked.

  “A Daughter of Bilitis,” said Lil, in explanation.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Lil,” said her brother.

  “Like Aunt Grace Gardiner.”

  “Oh,” said Laurance, understanding at last. “A lezzie, you mean. Do you know something, Lil? I always thought Dodo was a lezzie too.”

  They looked at each other and started to laugh. Within seconds they became helpless with laughter. Laurance rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window looking down on the street below, and shook with uncontrollable laughter. Lil fell backward onto the sofa and stared upward, shrieking with laughter. Images of their octogenarian father being jerked off by fat Dodo Fitz Alyn brought fresh torrents of laughter.

  Only the appearance of Miss Wentworth, Laurance’s secretary, entering without knocking, quelled their near hysteria. Lil reached again for a handkerchief in her handbag and blew her nose and wiped her eyes. In charge of herself once more, she wondered why Miss Wentworth dyed her hair so very black. She considered offering Miss Wentworth a free appointment with Bobo, to have her hair colored and frosted correctly, and then abandoned the idea.

  “Yes, Irene,” said Laurance, collecting himself.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Van Degan, but I rang and you didn’t hear me.”

  “What is it, Irene?”

  “Elias Renthal is on the telephone. He says it’s important.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you, Irene.” Laurance Van Degan was back to business again, his momentary lapse into mirth already forgotten. He picked up the telephone. “Hello, Elias,” he said, with the sort of cordiality he usually reserved for cabinet ministers. It was only later that Lil remembered that note of affability in her brother’s voice as he spoke to a man she still considered the most vulgar man in New York.

  24

  “I’m thinking of writing a book,” said Yvonne Lupescu.

  “These days everyone’s thinking of writing a book,” replied Gus Bailey.

  “Very few people know anything about Albania, as it was, before communism, of course, but it has a fascinating history. My grandmother was the mistress of King Zog.”

  Gus stared at her. “You once told me that, as I remember,” he said.

  “I wondered if you’d help me with it,” she said. They were sitting at Clarence’s, having lunch.

  “Is that the urgent thing you wanted to discuss over lunch at Clarence’s? Court life in Albania?” asked Gus.

  “Yes.”

  “It is not a topic that enthralls me,” said Gus.

  “But it’s fascinating. You know what Constantine always says, don’t you?” she asked, smiling in advance at the quotation she was about to give.

  “No, I don’t know what Constantine always says,” he replied.

  “He always says, ‘Life at court is rotten to the core, but it spoils you for everything else.’ ” She laughed. “Don’t you think that’s marvelous?”

  “It was even more marvelous when Congreve wrote it,” replied Gus.

  Undeterred, she proceeded. “I’d tell you everything, and you would write it.”

  “I’m planning on writing my own book.”

  “You’re not turning me down?”

  “Yes.”

  “You turn me down a lot, Gus.”

  “You’ve noticed.”

  She stared at him.

  “Why did you aim so badly?” asked Gus.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “People say you shot Constantine,” said Gus.

  Yvonne smiled wearily and shook her head slowly, as if what Gus had said was a falsehood that she had grown accustomed to hearing. “It’s not true,” she said calmly. “Constantine shot himself. What is true is tha
t I was going to leave him. My bags were packed. The police will tell you that. He couldn’t bear it when I told him I was going to leave, and, poor darling, he tried to do away with himself.”

  “Where were you?”

  “When?”

  “When he shot himself.”

  “I was at Justine Altemus’s wedding reception. You saw me.”

  “So did half New York.”

  “I hear Bernie Slatkin’s playing around already,” said Yvonne, her eyes sparkling with the latest gossip.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” said Gus quickly, determined not to let her change the subject.

  “Someone I know saw him at an out-of-the-way restaurant on the West Side with a young lady. Very beautiful,” she said.

  Gus ignored her. “You weren’t invited to Justine’s wedding, and you came.”

  “But I was meeting you.”

  “But I didn’t ask you to meet me.”

  “Gus,” she said, in a tone a mother would use to a favorite forgetful child.

  “Yvonne, it’s me,” said Gus, pointing to himself. “Don’t bullshit with me. You crashed the wedding. You pretended you were meeting me. You caught the bride’s bouquet just to make sure everyone saw that you were there. The wedding reception was your alibi.”

  “You should take up fiction, Gus.”

  “Aren’t you afraid Constantine will blow the whistle on you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Constantine needs me in a way you know nothing about,” replied Yvonne, smiling mysteriously.

  “He likes it when you whip him, is that it?”

  “Wherever did you hear such a story?”

  “One of your cohorts.”

  “That awful Jorgie Sanchez-Julia, I bet.”

  Gus did not reply.

  “It was never an every-night sort of thing,” said Yvonne, dismissively. “Nor remotely dangerous. Quite mild, in feet. I just whip him on his buttocks and sometimes on his back. A few welts, that’s all, enough to feel pain, but nothing serious. I call him a failure, a flop, a nothing, while I whip him. It’s his deepest fear, you see, under all that pomposity of his, that that is what people think of him. Curiously, it excites him. Otherwise he can’t become erect.”