Clayton had a fit of coughing, and the Father had to pound him on the back until he calmed enough.
"Of course," Callaway continued blandly, "I realize ten thousand is a large donation for any one individual to make. But perhaps a large New York corporation might be willing to contribute to the welfare of the city's poor and hungry."
"Yes," Clayton said, much relieved, "that makes sense. Would you be willing to accept a ten-thousand-dollar contribution from Starrett Fine Jewelry, Incorporated?"
"Gladly, my son, gladly," Callaway said. "And bless you for your generosity. The donation, of course, would be tax-deductible. And when may I expect the check?"
"I'll have it cut and mailed tomorrow. You should have it by the end of the week. And when do you plan to give mother your recommendation on my divorce?"
Father Callaway smiled benignly. "By the end of the week," he said.
Chapter 24
Eleanor and Clayton Starrett sat at a round table for eight, and directly across from Clayton was Bob Farber's new wife. She was a petite young woman wearing a strapless gown of silver lame, but all he could see above the starched tablecloth were the bare top of her bosom, bare shoulders and arms, bare neck, and head topped with a plaited crown of blond hair. It was easy to imagine her sitting there absolutely naked, amiably chatting with her husband, laughing, her sharp white teeth nibbling a shrimp.
He tried not to stare but, uncontrollable, his gaze wandered back. She seemed to him soft, warm, succulent. And beside him sat his hard, cold, bony wife.
He dreamed of the day when he might be seen in public with his new wife, Helene. He would wear her proudly: a badge of honor. Her youth, beauty, and sexuality would prove his manhood and virility. What a conquest Helene would be. What a trophy!
His wife kicked his shin sharply under the table. "You're allowed to blink occasionally, you know," she said in a low, venomous voice, smiling for all the other diners to see. "You keep staring like that and your eyeballs will fall into your soup."
"What are you talking about?" he said, injured.
Eleanor paid him no more attention, for which he was thankful. He sneaked continual peeks at Mrs. Farber and let his fantasies run amok. The candlelfght gave her flesh a rosy glow, and he dreamed of Helene, a fireplace, a bearskin rug.
The remainder of the party was endured only by drinking too much wine. At least, he told himself, he had sense enough not to dance. Eleanor was a miserable dancer, stiff and unrhythmic, and Clayton didn't dare ask Mrs. Farber lest he might suddenly become frenzied, wrestle her to the floor, and then… He shook his head. He could, he reflected gloomily, get twenty years for what he was thinking. Just for thinking about it.
He put his wineglass aside and rushed out onto the terrace. He stood there, breathing deeply of the cold night air, until his brain cleared and his ardor cooled. Then he was able to think rationally, more or less, and felt frustrated that so much time-perhaps a year!-must elapse before his dreams might be realized.
Eleanor was silent on the ride home, and so was he. They remained silent when they were alone in their suite, and finally this embittered silence convinced him that now was the moment. If he was going to do it, then do it. So, as she was removing her jewelry, he said, almost casually, "Eleanor, I want a divorce."
Her reaction was totally unexpected. He had thought she might faint, scream, weep, or at least express disbelief. Instead, she nodded, continued to take off her jewels, and said coolly, "It's Helene Pierce, isn't it?"
"What?" he said, aghast. "What are you talking about?"
She stopped what she was doing and turned to face him. "You're really brainless, Clay-you know that? I knew it before we were married, and nothing you've done since has changed my mind."
"I swear to you," he said hotly, "Helene and I have never-"
"Oh, cut the bullshit," she interrupted in a tone of great disgust. "You've been banging her since the day you met. Do you take me for a complete idiot? I've seen the way you look at her. The same way you looked at Bob Farber's new wife tonight. Is that what gave you the idea, Clay?"
"I'm telling you there's nothing between Helene and me."
"Laughing at her feeble jokes," Eleanor went on relentlessly. "Agreeing with all her stupid opinions. Rushing to help her on with her coat. Any excuse to touch her. There's no fool like an old fool, Clay."
"I'm not old," he shouted at her. "And you're dead wrong about all those things. I was just trying to be a good host."
"Oh sure," his wife jeered. "That's why you made certain you sat next to her every time she came to dinner. Playing a little kneesy, Clay? Listen, don't ever get the idea that the wife is the last to know. The wife is the first to know. When her rotten husband starts being extra pleasant and accommodating. When he starts buying clothes too young for him and gets facials. That's you, Clay. You're really a moron if you think I haven't known what's been going on. Sure, you can have a divorce, sonny boy, but it's going to cost you an arm and a leg, now and forever."
"Believe me," he said wrathfully, "whatever it costs, it'll be worth it to dump a sour, dried-up hag like you."
Still she would not weep. "Oh, Helene will marry you," she said, showing her teeth in a mirthless grin. "That greedy bitch has a bottom-line mentality. I give it a year, and then she'll walk. That's another alimony check every month, Clay. Then you'll find a new conversation piece- and I do mean piece- and do it again, and keep on doing it until you grow up, which will be never. You're a victim of your glands, Clay."
"Just have your attorney contact Arthur Rushkin in the morning," he said stiffly.
"With pleasure," his wife said. "Before I get through with you, you'll be lucky to have fillings in your teeth. Did you tell your mother about this?"
"Yes."
"Poor Olivia," she said. "She's the one I feel sorry for. She's had more than her share of troubles lately. But she's a tough lady; she'll survive. I'm sure she already knew her only son was short-changed in the brains department. Now I'm going to bed, Clay, and I think it would be best if you slept somewhere else."
He was outraged. "Where am I going to go at this time of night?" he demanded.
"You can go to hell," Eleanor spat at him. "You miserable shit!"
Chapter 25
Turner Pierce paced about Helene's apartment, head lowered, hands clasped behind him.
"My God, you're antsy," Helene said. "Calm down; it's only Sid."
"I have bad vibes about this," he said. "I reminded him we had agreed on no private meetings unless there was an emergency. He said this was an emergency, but he sounded so damned smug. I don't like the way he sounded."
"He's such a scamp," Helene said.
"A scamp?" Turner repeated. "Darling, the man is an out-and-out crook-and a slimy crook at that."
"It takes one to know one," she said, and he turned to make certain she was smiling. She was.
He sat down on the couch, took a swallow of his Stolich-naya. "At least we don't promise suckers everlasting life in the holy oneness. Now that's slimy."
"Yes," she said, still smiling, "we do have our standards, don't we. Did I ever tell you Sid has the hots for me?"
"That was obvious in KC. Did he ever make a move on you?"
"Once," she said, not smiling now. "I told him what I'd do to him if he tried anything. He backed off."
Turner glanced at his watch. "If he's not here in ten minutes, I'm splitting. I have a date with Felicia tonight."
"Where are you going?"
"Who said we're going anywhere?" he said.
"Have you figured a way to stall her?"
"I have, but you don't want to know it, do you?"
"Not really."
"What about Clayton?"
"I can handle him," she said. "He's pussy-whipped. All we want is another year-right?"
He nodded. "That should do it."
The phone rang and Helene picked it up. "Yes? That's correct. Send him up, please. Thank you." She hung up. "That was the concierge
. Sid's on his way up."
"I'm not looking forward to this," Turner said.
The first thing Father Brian Callaway did when he entered the apartment, even before he removed his hat and coat, was to rip off his clerical collar. "That damn thing is going to cut my throat one of these days," he said.
"We should be so lucky," Helene said, and Sidney Loftus laughed.
"What a kidder you are," he said. "What're you guys drinking?"
"Stoli rocks," Turner said.
"Sounds good to me," Loftus said, rubbing his palms together. "With a splash of water, please."
Helene rose, sighing, and went into the kitchen. Sid sat down heavily on an armchair. The two men looked at each other with wary smiles.
"How's the church doing?" Turner asked.
Loftus flipped a palm back and forth. "Not hellacious but adequate," he said. "The take is good but I've got to live in that shithouse on Twentieth Street, kip in the back room, and ladle out slop to a bunch of crumbums."
"Why don't you move?"
The other man shook his head. "No can do. It's the reverse of a flash front, y'see. Living in that dump proves my spirituality. I couldn't live in a Park Avenue duplex and plead poverty, now could I?"
"Image-building," Turner said.
"You've got it," Sid said, nodding. "Very important in our game, as you well know. Thank you, my dear," he said, taking the glass from Helene. He raised it. "Here's to crime," he toasted. But he was the only one who drank.
"Sid," Turner said, "I've got a meeting to get to. What's this big emergency you mentioned?"
Loftus crossed his knees. He adjusted the crease in his trousers. He leaned back. He took a pigskin case from an inner pocket. He extracted a long cigarillo carefully. He lighted up slowly.
"An impressive performance," Turner said. "Keep it up and I'm going to waltz out of here. Now what's on your mind?"
"Business, business," Sidney said, shaking his head. "With you it's always business. You never take time to smell the flowers. Very well, I'll be brief. You know, of course, that Clayton Starrett is divorcing Eleanor."
"Who told you that?" Helene demanded.
He looked at her, amused. "Olivia," he said. "She tells Father Brian Callaway everything."
"My God," Turner said, "you're not porking the woman, are you?"
"Oh, dear me, no," Loftus said. "I am her confidant, her father confessor. She dotes on me."
"You've got a sweet little scam going there," Turner said.
Sid shrugged. "To each his own," he said. "And Olivia also told me that as soon as Clayton can give his wife the boot, he plans to marry Helene." He turned to her. "Congratulations, my dear," he said. "May all your troubles be little ones."
"Stuff it," she told him.
He smiled and took a swallow of his drink. "Too much water," he said. "Now this is the way I figure it… Clayton has told you, Helene, of his impending divorce and has already proposed. I'm sure you've discovered that Clayton is not the brightest kid on the block. He's easily manipulated, and I'm guessing that you'll play him along until his divorce comes through, and then you'll take a walk. Am I correct in my assumptions?"
Helene started to reply, but Turner held up a hand to silence her. "Suppose you are," he said to Loftus. "What's it got to do with you? Where do you come in?"
"Why," the other man said, "it seems to me unjust that only you two should profit from this unique situation. And profit mightily, I may add. After all, I was the one who introduced you to the Starrett family. Surely I deserve a reward."
Turner nodded. "I figured it would be something like that," he said, "you're such a greedy bugger. And if I was to tell you to go take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut, what would be your reaction, Sid?"
Loftus sighed. "I would have to give the matter serious consideration. It's possible my decision would be that it was my bounden duty, as spiritual advisor to Olivia, to inform her of certain details in the background and history of you two charmers."
"Blackmail," Helene said flatly.
Loftus made a mock shudder. "That's such an ugly word, dearie," he said. "I prefer to think of it as a finder's fee. For helping you aboard the gravy train."
Turner smiled coldly. "You're bluffing, Sid," he stated. "It works both ways. We might find it necessary to tell the Starretts about your history."
"Would you really?" Loftus said, beaming. He took another swallow of his vodka. "To save you the trouble, I should tell you that Olivia is already aware of the indiscretions of my past. Not all of them, of course, but most. I told her, and she has forgiven me. Y'see, these religious mooches just love repentant sinners. They put their heaviest trust in the lamb who has strayed from the fold and then returned."
Turner said, "I underestimated you, Sid."
"People sometimes do," Loftus said complacently, "and end up paying for it."
"And what do you feel would be a reasonable finder's fee?"
"Oh, I thought fifty grand is a nice round number."
"Fifty thousand!" Helene cried. "Are you insane?"
"I don't believe I'm ready to be committed," Sid said, then laughed at his own wit. "Actually, Helene, it is not an outrageous request, considering what you have taken and will take from Clayton before the divorce is finalized. And I haven't even mentioned your split, Turner, from that lovely finagle at Starrett Fine Jewelry. No, I don't consider fifty thousand unreasonable."
"In cash, I suppose," Turner said bitterly.
"Not necessarily, old boy. A donation to the Church of the Holy Oneness would do the trick. It's tax-deductible, you know."
"Uh-huh," Turner said. "You will allow us a little time to consider your proposal, won't you?"
"Of course," Loftus said heartily. "I didn't expect an immediate answer. I should think a week would be sufficient time to arrive at the only rational decision you can make. Thank you for the refreshment."
He rose and took up his hat, coat, and clerical collar. The Pierces remained seated. Sid nodded at them affably and started to leave. Then he turned at the door.
"Remember," he said with a ghastly smile, "no pain, no gain."
Then he was gone.
"I think I need another drink," Helene said.
"Me too," Turner said. "I'll get them."
She lighted another cigarette while he went into the kitchen. She looked with amazement at the ashtray filled with cigarettes they had both half-smoked and then stubbed out during Sid Loftus' shakedown.
Turner came back with the drinks. They sat close together on the couch and stretched out their long legs.
"You were right," Helene said. "He is slimy. Turner, couldn't we tip off the buttons about that phony church of his?"
"Negative," Turner said. "He'd know immediately who had ratted on him and cop a plea by giving them the Starrett Jewelry job. We can't risk that."
"We're not going to pay him, are we?"
"No way," he said. "If we did, it would just be a down payment. He'd bleed us dry."
"So?" she said. "What are our options?"
He turned to stare at her. "Not many," he said. "Only one, in fact. We've worked too hard to split our take with a bastard like Sid."
She nodded. "Could Ramon handle it?" she asked him.
"He could, but I don't want to ask him. First of all, it's a personal thing, and Ramon has no need to know about you and Clayton. Second, it would give him too much of an edge on me. I'm afraid we'll have to handle this ourselves, babe. You willing?"
"Hell, yes!" she said, and he kissed her.
Chapter 26
Dora Conti figured she'd spend the day on Jewelry Row- West 47th Street between Fifth and Sixth-talking to merchants and salespeople, hoping to find answers to some of the questions nagging her. She was heading for the door when her phone rang, and she went back to answer it. The caller was Gregor Pinchik, the computer maven.
"Hiya, lady," he said. "Listen, I'm in my new place, my hardware is all hooked up, and after I check it out I'll be ready t
o roll. Probably by tomorrow. Meanwhile I've been making a lot of phone calls, trying to get a line on that Turner and Helene Pierce you gave me."
"Any luck?" she asked.
"Maybe yes, maybe no. There's a hacker in Dallas who's a good friend of mine. I've never met him, but we been talking on computers for years. He's paralyzed and works his hardware with a thing he holds between his teeth. You wouldn't believe how fast he is. Anyway, I asked him about this Turner Pierce, gave him the physical description and all, and he says it sounds like a young hustler who was operating in Dallas almost ten years ago. This guy's name was Thomas Powell, but the initials are the same so I figured it might be our pigeon. What do you think?"
"Could be," Dora said cautiously. "Wrongos who change their name usually stick to the same initials so they don't have to throw away their monogrammed Jockey shorts."
Pinchik laughed. "You're okay, lady," he said.
"What was this Thomas Powell up to?"
"Dallas hackers called him Ma Bell because his specialty was telephone fraud. He started out by developing a cheap whistle that had the same frequency the phone company used to connect long distance calls. You blew the whistle into a pay phone and you could talk to Hong Kong as long as you liked. He sold a lot of those whistles. Then, when the phone company got hip to that and changed their switching procedure, this Thomas Powell started making and selling blue boxes. Those are gadgets that give off tones that bypass the phone company's billing system and let you make free long distance calls. Listen, the guy was talented, no doubt about it."
"Didn't they ever nab him?"
"My pal says he always stayed one step ahead of the law. For instance, he never sold the whistles or blue boxes to the end-user; he always sold to a crooked wholesaler who sold to crooked retailers who sold to the crooked customers. Powell was always layers away from the actual fraud. By the time the cops traced the merchandise back to him, he was gone."
"Where to? Does your friend know?"
"He talked to a couple of local hackers and called me back. One guy says he heard that Thomas Powell took off for Denver when things got too hot for him in Dallas. I have some good contacts in Denver, and as soon as my machinery is up to speed I'm going to try to pick up Ma Bell's trail there. Okay?"
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