by George Baxt
“You’ll never know now.”
He was back on his feet again. “I gotta get out of this town, I tell you.”
“Why don’t you go to Chi for a couple of months?”
“You trying to get rid of me?”
“For crying out loud, you’re the one who’s bellyaching about getting out of town!” She took a long gulp of gin, winked one eye with pleasure and smacked her lips with gusto. “What a way to die!”
“They better lay offa me, Tex, they really better lay offa me.”
“Or …?”
“They’ll see.”
“They better not see. Or you won’t see. Now sit down and tell me I’m gorgeous. Then maybe if you’re a good boy, I’ll take you to a real wild party. You see, Georgie, it’s like I keep telling you. You’re too anxious. You push yourself where you’re not wanted. They told you to relax and hold your water. They told you if you ran their errands like a good boy, they’d spend the money and groom you for the big time. But you can’t rush them. You got to let them do it in their own good time. Look at me. Look at where they put me. And look at Van Weber. They sure made him look good.” He started to speak, but she waved him not to interrupt. “I wasn’t impatient, and Van Weber wasn’t impatient. So you mustn’t be impatient. You should also learn to look before you speak.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“You don’t think. You just start running off at the mouth. Half the times you sound as though you don’t know what you’re saying. And just too often you say the wrong thing. Little things, but the wrong little things. I heard about that slip-up you almost made on Denny.”
‘‘That’s all it was! A slip-up!”
She swung her legs off the chaise and sat up with anger. “A damn dangerous slip-up! That’s why they sent the man up to your room.”
“You knew he was sent and you didn’t warn me?”
“Tex Guinan looks out for number one and only number one. I told you that when we first hooked up. I ain’t no spring chicken, kiddo. In any other society I’m a back number, yesterday’s news. With these guys, God bless every one of the murdering bastards, I’m the one and only Texas Guinan! The Queen of the Nightclubs!” She waved the bottle of gin imperially, her sceptre. “And someday the whole world will know about Georgie Raft. But in the meantime, while they’re waiting for the news, come crawl over here and give me a big fat nasty old wet kiss.”
Mrs. Parker had thoughtfully provided Chinese food for her guests. Neysa McMein rarely catered her parties with other than peanuts and other nibbles, not wishing to detract from the main attraction, her homemade gin. Woollcott was not a partisan of Chinese food, but the delicious aroma soon lured and entrapped him and he piled his plate high. Jacob Singer was a Chinese food enthusiast, he could eat it every night of the week, and this week it seemed that was exactly what he was doing. Mrs. Parker nibbled daintily at a spare-rib when she remembered there was food on her plate. While the men ate, Mrs. Parker described the estate, the impressive boat dock, the magnificent landscaping, at one point Woollcott testily commenting her discourse belonged in an edition of Vanity Fair. She then told them of the automobile tour with Lacey Van Weber and the wrong turning that brought them to the compound within the compound and the imposing stone building with smoke pouring from the slate chimney.
“That’s their lab,” said Singer.
“How do you know?” asked Woollcott.
“I know. I know a lot of things. I know what they do to morphine there. You know anything about morphine?” He put his plate aside. “It’s odorless, tasteless. It takes great skill and patience to convert it into cocaine.”
“Why do they bother,” asked Woollcott. “Isn’t morphine effective as just morphine?”
“Bigger bucks in cocaine. The chemist who does the converting has to really know his job. Because to produce the powder, you run the risk of deadly toxic fumes and an explosion.”
“No wonder the building’s isolated,” realized Mrs. Parker.
“Exactly,” corroborated Singer. “Continue, please, Mrs. Parker.”
He resumed eating while she picked up the thread of her narrative. “I saw two incredibly ugly men at the lab. Quite ugly and I’m sure quite threatening.” She described the scar on the cheek and the partially missing ear. Woollcott grimaced with distaste. Singer continued eating, now picking in the chop suey for pieces of shrimp.
“Tell us about Van Weber,” prodded Singer. “What did you get out of him?”
“Not too much, but I think what I got is choice. You won’t like this, Mr. Singer, but I told him just about everything you told us was in the reports from Los Angeles.”
“That’s okay. Sometimes you got to feed them carrots to get their jaws moving.”
“At one point I asked him about his life and I got this much, or at least I suspect this much and I’m pretty sure I’m right. He was born in London, came to New York while a youngster where I think he first met Valentino …”
“… and Raft,” contributed Singer.
Woollcott snapped his fingers. “Of course! They were probably dance floor hustlers together.”
“By all means,” said Singer matter of factly, “which is why Van Weber was probably not all that happy when Valentino showed up at his party that night with Ilona Mercury. I have a feeling it was Raft that brought the two of them to the party. I’ll have to ask him, but it’s not all that important. We know they were there and set off a little explosion.”
“Van Weber has probably changed a great deal since those days,” suggested Mrs. Parker. “I mean physically.”
“Oh, sure,” agreed Singer, “he’s got a different look because he’s got more class.” He smiled at Mrs. Parker. “Go on. From New York to where, Hollywood?”
“Yes.”
“Try to get into the movies? He’s got the looks.”
“I think he went there to look up someone he knew quite well, someone in with that whole doping crowd. Desmond Taylor, Mabel Normand, that fun bunch.”
“Okay. Sounds good. Out there he meets Horathy and Mercury under whatever alias she’s using at the time, and then where?”
“I think big trouble sent him to earth.” Woollcott was fascinated with Mrs. Parker’s deductions.
“What big trouble?”
“Well, the only big trouble I can think of is Desmond Taylor’s murder. That sent an awful lot of them scurrying for cover.”
“Mrs. Parker, if I wasn’t chewing on some lo mein, I’d give you a big kiss.”
“That’s all right,” said Mrs. Parker with an unusually sweet smile, “it’s the thought that counts.”
“So what else you got to tell us?” asked Singer.
“Did he make a pass at you?” asked Woollcott.
“Alec,” said Mrs. Parker softly, “this is my apartment, not a china shop.”
“Well, if he made a pass at you and you responded, it’s one way to loosen his lips.” He thought for a moment. “I’m sure I didn’t mean to say that that way.”
“Any way you say it, Alec, would be the wrong way.” She examined a fingernail. “Yes, he made a pass at me, and yes, I responded, and no, it didn’t loosen his lips, it loosened mine.” Singer kept his eyes on his food. She hoped she hadn’t embarrassed him. After all, they were adults, and what’s a roll in the hay in this day and age. “We are now in his car driving back to town, me anxious to make my six o’clock deadline.”
“One of the few you’ve ever made,” said Woollcott while trying to cross a leg.
“I laid it on the line,” not caring whether “laid it” was the right choice of words or not. “I asked him how come he patterned himself on a petty racketeer like Jay Gatsby.”
“Weren’t you the brave one,” commented Woollcott.
“Well, our boy is not exactly a babbling brook. There’s a rather dear, sweet sadness about him if you ignore his rather cruel eyes, but in the conversation department, he’s just about a barrel of laugh. Anyway, he made rather light of the suggesti
on, but I could tell I’d struck a nerve. Like the way he reacted when I asked him had he ever met a Magda Moreno in Hollywood.”
Singer looked up. “You didn’t tell us you’d asked him that.”
“Didn’t I?” She looked as though she’d been caught with her hand in a cookie jar. “I could have sworn I did, but I guess I’ve been skipping all over the place. I didn’t dare take notes, it’s just all in my head, somewhere. Well, I asked him that, and I thought he had a momentary difficulty steadying the wheel.” She looked at her friends gravely. “We’re not kidding him, you realize. He’s wise to what we’re up to.”
“It’s no secret,” said Singer, finally finished eating. “I want him to know. I want them all to know. I want them nervous, worried …”
“Or just plain angry and gunning for me,” snapped Woollcott petulantly. “Dear God, do you realize Neysa’s party might have been my wake?”
“What a sweet thought,” said Mrs. Parker.
Singer reclaimed centre stage. “Your boyfriend seems pretty sure he can outsmart us, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, he does. He’s coming to the party.”
“Nice. I like that,” complimented Singer.
“It is a nice touch, isn’t it,” said Mrs. Parker amiably. “I think he’s quite smitten with me.”
“I think you’re quite smitten with him,” countered Woollcott.
“It could be easy, you know. Oh, dear, I can see Mr. Singer disapproves of this trend in our conversation. So let me tell you my theory.” She had their attention. “I don’t think any of this wealth Mr. Van Weber displays is his.”
“Really?” Woollcott was gazing out the window while digesting what Mrs. Parker was feeding them.
“I think he’s a front for an organization. He was created by them to be Lacey Van Weber, wealthy man about town, man of mystery, landed gentry, though God knows where he’s landed, a seductive celebrity who gets to know everybody who’s anybody.” She added somewhat sadly, “I think one day they’ll be finished with him, and he’ll be discarded.”
“How sad,” said Woollcott wryly, “just when I was beginning to like him.”
“What are you thinking, Mr. Singer?” One couldn’t ignore the wistfulness in her voice.
“I’m thinking if the two of you ever decide to give up writing, you’d make one hell of a pair of detectives.”
“Isn’t that sweet. Alec, that is sweet, isn’t it?”
“Don’t overdo it, Dottie. The role of Little Eva ill suits you.”
Singer steered the conversation to Cora Gallagher and the man who hid his face with a handkerchief. He shaded his information with an occasional nuance, theorizing on what Ilona Mercury’s part had been in this misbegotten melodrama.
“I think she knew Lacey Van Weber in Hollywood,” said Mrs. Parker.
“More than likely,” agreed Singer. He thought for a moment, and then said, “There’s some hot action scheduled out at East Cove this Saturday night.”
Mrs. Parker’s eyes were again wide with surprise. “You have an informant out there!” They heard no denial. “I’ll bet you knew everything I had to tell you before I told you.”
“I’m not that good, Mrs. Parker.”
“You’re certainly trying to be,” she replied.
“I hope I still have my guardian angel following in my wake,” said Woollcott grouchily.
“Indeed you do. And there’s one for you, Mrs. Parker.”
“Why, Mr. Singer, are you telling me you think I’m— how does gangland put it—on the spot?”
“You may be in for a little more action than you planned on.”
“How funny. I’m not the least bit afraid,” she said.
“Well, why should you be!” exploded Woollcott. “As often as you’ve placed yourself at death’s door!”
“Well, darling man, we both know there are two things in life that are completely unavoidable, death and taxes!” She went to a floor-length mirror to examine her dress for wrinkles. “Do you like my dress? I bought it in Paris. It’s by Edward Molyneux.”
“It’s a knockout,” said Singer.
“I’m so glad you like it.”
“I’m sure he’ll like it, too,” said Woollcott.
“Who?” she asked.
“Mr. Van Weber.”
“Oh. Yes. I’m sure he’ll like it. He’s picking me up at ten.”
“It’s almost that now,” said Singer, rising and speaking to Woollcott. “Is it too early for us to join the party?”
Woollcott had arisen and was preening at Mrs. Parker’s mirror. “It’s never too early to join a party. It shall undoubtedly be Neysa’s usual madhouse. Utter bedlam. A tower of babel. But I shall look after you, Jacob, I’ll most certainly look after you.”
Mrs. Parker was at the window. If he came in his car, Van Weber would have trouble finding a parking space. A cab had pulled up at the canopy disgorging what looked like Franklin P. Adams and his wife, Esther. “I think Frank Adams is here. I can’t really tell without my glasses.” She said with a smile to Singer, “I’m so nearsighted. Oh, come now Alec, why such a dour expression? What are you thinking about?”
“Zippers,” replied Mr. Woollcott.
The man. Mr. Man. Mr. Mann. My man?
Mrs. Parker was reviewing Singer’s, interrogation of Cora Gallagher in her mind as she hurried to the kitchen to dump the remnants of the Chinese dinner. It was a rare sight, Dorothy Parker tidying up her apartment, and she thought it was too bad there was no resident movie camera to record the historic occasion. She opened the windows and with her flowing silk handkerchief, which she waved like a sailor gone berserk making semaphores, tried to whisk the stale odour of food out of the room. For good measure, she attacked the air with an atomizer, the odour of which reminded her of a French whorehouse the Murphys had taken her to one larkish night in Cap d’Antibes. She drew the screen that separated the tiny kitchen from the studio and then decided to rearrange the furniture. There was not much furniture to rearrange, so that chore was completed in under five minutes.
She was uneasy. She sat down. Her heart was pounding. She fluttered the handkerchief under her nose. This Was worse than trying to compose a poem or outline a short story. This anxiety now enveloping her was born of fear. It had finally sunk in. It was no longer a lark. An attempt had been made on Woollcott’s life; an attempt might be made °n hers. Indirectly, she thought it had. She had been taken bed by Lacey Van Weber. Was it genuine emotion on his Part or a move to lull her into a sense of false security, to give her the feeling she was safe because he was falling in love with her? Love, nepenthe, it was all the same. She looked at her wrists.
What are you thinking about?
Zippers.
Dottie’s declared war on her wrists again. Big joke. Ross laughs at Dottie and Benchley laughs at Dottie and Ferber laughs at Dottie. Ferber with her head like a bison. She belongs on a nickel. Ferber doesn’t slit her wrists for the loss of love; she writes another best-seller and fattens her bank balance. She’s not just rich, she’s RICH. And what do I do when the guy walks out? I write a sad little poem with a cute little twist in its tail, and most everyone chortles and says “Dear little Dottie, she’s so cute and clever.”
Oh, Christ. Her eyes were misting up. She hurried to her dressing table to repair them. There was a knock at the door. Oh, Christ. “Just a minute,” she yodelled, while in the hallway. Lacey Van Weber could hear the party hotting up from behind the door of the Baragwanath manage. Mrs. Parker opened her door wide and smiled, “Well, here you are.”
“Not too early, I hope?” he asked as he walked in and she closed the door ever so gently. He was dressed in Palm Beach blue and wore smart white and blue oxfords. His shirt was open at the collar, and she wished he’d take her right then and there. But no, one mustn’t look too messy when making an entrance at Neysa’s.
“Not at all. Don’t you look cool? Would you like a drink, or should we go straight on in to Neysa’s?”
“I want to talk to you first.” He took her hand and led her to the couch, where they sat down, his grip on her hand tightening.
“I may be going away soon.”
“Oh?”
“For quite a long time.”
“Well, I guess there goes the profile I wanted to write on you. Shot down in flames.”
“Come with me.”
She was jolted by those three words. It was always like that when under the siege of a surprise attack. It was an occasion when she wished she had a delicate pink lace fan which, with the practiced dexterity of an antebellum Southern belle, she could pop open and flutter under her chin while making delicate little movements with her eyes, half-shaded demurely by their lids. Even what she said matched the banality of what she was thinking: “Why, Lacey, this is so sudden.”
“Something’s come up and I’ve decided to get away.”
Get away. What he means is, he’s lamming out. “Lacey, we hardly know each other. You can’t be serious. To go away together we have to be in love, we have to … I don’t know, I’m not thinking straight.”
“We could go somewhere where nobody would know us.”
“Not know us?” Dorothy Parker eternally condemn herself to anonymity ? Is he madly in love or is he just plain mad? “I don’t know what to say. It’s not a decision I can make on the spur of the moment. You can’t expect me to throw over my life, my friends, and for God’s sake there’s my husband …” She knew someday he’d come in handy. “Supposing he falls in love with somebody else and wants a divorce and there’s no means of locating me and oh my heavens he goes back on the booze and narcotics and even worse, whatever that could be.” She pulled her hand away from his, got up and walked to a window. There was a murmur of a breeze, and, from Broadway, the buzzing of taxis with klaxons squawking and the heartwarming clanging of a trolley. From the open window of an apartment above her, someone was strumming a ukulele and softly crooning “Somebody Loves Me,” she hoped to someone who loved him. Give up all this for an unknown quantity, anonymity, a life on the run?
She hadn’t heard him come up behind her. His hands "'ere pressing on her shoulders. Her heart was pounding like a dynamo. It would be so easy now, she realized. Just a gentle shove and over the sill and into the void … to grandmother’s house we go.
