How I Spent My Summer Vacation

by Gillian Roberts

  My reveries came to a sharp end. So did a lot of hope. The judge did not grant bail. Sasha would stay behind bars. She was a real and present menace to society.

  I couldn’t believe it and neither could the lawyer. “I protest, Your Honor!” he said. “This woman has no prior record, and is innocent of this crime as well.”

  “File a motion,” the judge mumbled.

  The lawyer nodded curtly.

  They apparently were comfy with the pas de deux of law, the dance of power, but meanwhile, Sasha, wide-eyed with fear, was taken back to jail. I thought I had seen this movie already on the late show, starring Susan Hayward. They were going to fry my friend for a crime she never committed, and worse, everyone was behaving as if this were proof positive that the system worked.

  * * *

  I was allowed to see the real and present menace to society—but only after Mackenzie had a series of good-old-boy consultations with his peers on the Atlantic City force, and only for five minutes, they warned me.

  It was like watching somebody emotionally drown. Sasha would bob up to the surface, her old, buoyant self, then be pulled under, over and over again. I reassured her that all would be well, but her IQ wasn’t sinking, only her spirits, so I stopped making nice or treating her like a child and cut to the chase. We had problems.

  “The old man saw somebody who looks like you, or who was pretending to be you,” I said. “Somebody who knew how to set you up—somebody who knew you had that room. Who?”

  She shrugged. She was being dragged under the waves again. “Didn’t find Dunstan, did you?” she asked in a lifeless voice.

  “No. You remember anything more about him that might help?”

  “Not much, except one stupid thing that probably doesn’t mean anything. The night I met him, three weeks ago, before I’d really even spoken to him much, a person—a very drunk Brit—came up and called him Edgar.”

  “Called Dunstan Edgar?”

  She nodded. “Insisted he was Edgar, and in fact, was somebody named Jeannie’s husband, too, from some little town in Yorkshire. Said how glad he was that Edgar wasn’t dead after all. Always thought Edgar was too good a sailor to fall overboard, like they said. And he really did seem pleased, as if he’d found a long-lost friend. I thought it was funny, everybody did. One of those drunk things that you have to be there for. Except Dunstan just got more and more annoyed, and finally said something like, ‘Whoever Edgar is—or was—he’s still dead, so get lost.’ The Brit finally said he was sorry and backed off. That was all there was to it, completely forgettable, except that Dunstan was unduly pissed for a long while after. I mean, people are always mistaking me for somebody they knew back in high school. That’s all it was. Not much, I guess, except maybe to show he has a temper or a poor sense of humor and tolerance. And other than that, all I know about the man is that he drinks vodka, knows how to do the two-step, is an only child and allergic to shrimp.”

  Okay, then we’d drop back five yards and try again. “About the room,” I prompted. “Who knew what room you were in?”

  She sighed. “I appreciate your efforts, Mandy, but really, who cares? The police think the case is closed. They aren’t interested. Won’t do a thing.”

  “I care. I’ll do something. Mackenzie, too. So who knew what room you were in?”

  “Frankie,” she said in a dull voice. “He’s the one who got it for us. Well, really for me. He thought I was alone.”

  “The bartender?” Was he, then, the second man the witness had seen? I tried to remember whether Frankie was shorter than Sasha, then realized she’d been seated last evening, and he’d been behind the bar. I’d have to check it out myself.

  She smiled with a hint of the real Sasha’s personality. “Frankie always had the hots for me, way back to Dimples, can you blame him? He knew the suite was vacant, and a guy at the front desk owed him a favor, so he—wait a minute!” She sat up straighter. “Last night, at the bar. He made some kind of joke about the room. Anybody could have heard, at least anybody nearby.”

  Finally. The field had opened, the possibilities of a setup had become real. “Who was there? What was said? Think. Whatever you remember might help.”

  She took a deep breath and ticked items off on her fingers. “First of all, this guy in a pin-striped suit. Gray hair, nice-enough looking, must be a high roller because he was usually comped the suite we were in. That’s what Frankie’s joke was about, that I was in the guy’s room, and did anybody object. He made it sound like I was in there with the guy, of course.”

  “Did anybody object?” I wanted her to say that yes, indeed, somebody had leaped up—his furious six-foot-tall wife with curly black hair and her short but loyal man friend—and had publicly vowed to destroy both Sasha and the man in the suit. I wasn’t asking for much, just a clear, speedy, and unambiguous finale to all of this.

  But Sasha shook her head. “The suit made some really stupid joke back about what a thrill it was to share it with me, how much I had improved its decor. You know the riff. Very stale stuff.”

  I tried to think quickly, to get something to hold on to before the matron’s stopwatch reached home. “Backtrack, then. Who else was there besides Frankie and the suit?”

  “Who knows? A bunch of people. An Indian couple—Hindus. She was in a green and gold sari, and he had eyes to die for.”

  “Control the libido until you’re free again, okay?”

  “They were amazing eyes, Mandy. And another great-looking man. I thought he was Harry Belafonte at first. He went off with some girl in a black straw picture hat, like nobody except maybe Princess Di wears when she’s off to a garden party. Looked great, though.” She squinted her eyes. “I’m going to get a hat like that if—when—I get out of this mess.”

  “Good, that gives you some motivation.”

  She rolled her eyes. “And there was a young guy—soft, flabby fellow with acne. Wearing a bowling shirt and a baseball hat. He was with a pregnant girl with straw-colored hair in a ponytail. She had to be his wife, and that was about it, except for a couple of other women.”

  “What about those women?” Sasha had a genetic eye affliction that made her blind to humans with double-X chromosomes. She didn’t fully perceive members of her own sex. Sometimes she noticed their accessories, but seldom their personalities, features, words, or actions. “Think hard. What do you remember?”

  She tilted her head. “Okay. There was a flashy one who looked bolted together.”

  “Like Frankenstein?”

  “Not her head. Her clothing. Brads down the side of the slacks and the sleeves. Gold chains, gold rings.”

  “Gold hair?”

  “No, dark. And big. You know the type, all teased up and out. And a loud voice that sounded like it had rivets in it, too.”

  “Age? Looks?”

  Sasha shrugged. “Thirty-something, probably? And okay looks, except for the metalworks.”

  “And that’s it? Nobody else? You said a couple of women.”

  “Oh…” she said. She shook her head. “No, okay—there was a drab one in there, too. That’s what I remember about her. Drabness.”

  “Come on, Sasha. That’s not at all helpful.”

  She shrugged. “What’s to notice about drabness?”

  “How old? How big? No rivets?”

  The matron cleared her throat. I interpreted the sound as a warning bell and leaned forward, literally pressing for information.

  “Not so young,” Sasha said. “Not a kid and not ancient, you know? But she had a great bag.”

  “Her pocketbook?”

  “Uh-huh. Blue and purple leather.”

  “For God’s sake, Sasha, isn’t there anything more relevant?”

  “I noticed because I’ve been eyeing one like it forever. It’s Italian and way too expensive and they never mark it down, not anywhere.”

  “Okay, then, forget her. Nobody would confuse you with a drab woman, anyway. Can you remember anything or anybody else?”<
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  She shook her head just as the matron tapped her watch with great, pursed-lipped solemnity. I stood up and gave up. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Is there anything you need?”

  “I need to believe I’ll be out of here before tomorrow,” Sasha said. “My cousin Herb the lawyer’s coming down this afternoon. We aren’t telling my parents until we have to, okay?”

  I nodded. Her parents were far away, one in Canada and one in Arizona at last check. Maybe, just maybe, they’d never have to know.

  Sasha suddenly looked panic-stricken. “Oh, God—it’s Tuesday, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. What was wrong with her?

  “What time is it?”

  “A little after nine.”

  “My shoot! It’s supposed to be now! I hired an assistant and a stylist down here, and the assistant rented everything and she’s probably there. You have to call her, lie, make up some reason I’m delayed. A day, tell them. Say I’ll be in tomorrow and…” She lowered her eyelids and shook her head. “I’ll pay them for the lost time.” She sighed. “There go any profits.”

  She told me how and where to call, and I agreed.

  “Tell them I can’t be reached,” she said. I agreed to that, too. But I had great reservations, because I suspected that to fill the waiting time, the assistant might have already looked at the front page of the newspaper and figured out what was delaying Sasha.

  When I finally did call the assistant, I told her that Sasha had been called away. That part seemed true, although hauled away would have been more accurate. I said she’d be gone three days, to give Sasha and the legal system some slack.

  And that was that for the jailhouse visit, except that as she was being escorted away, Sasha half turned. “I forgot. The woman in the sari?” she said. “She had on sandals and a gold toe ring. Is that the kind of thing you want?”

  If ever an accessory committed a crime, Sasha would be a perfect witness.

  * * *

  I relayed the bits and pieces Sasha had offered up to Mackenzie, then told him I wanted to go back to the casino. I wanted my earthly possessions back and that room of my own that Virginia Woolf said all women needed. She had also mentioned a small annuity, which wouldn’t be bad, but I doubted that the hotel would provide it.

  The situation was stupid, perverse. What was I doing in a lavish Atlantic City hotel now that Sasha was bedding down in a cell? But how could I leave town while she was imprisoned—or afford to stay, once the saltwater taffy people noticed that their photographer was missing in action?

  “No problem,” Mackenzie said in his off-in-space voice. “Gonna find me that Farmer boy, meantime. It’s too easy for them to think she made him up.”

  “How?” I asked. “Can the police find the addresses of unlisted phones?”

  He raised one eyebrow.

  “Forgive me for questioning your powers. And thanks,” I added grudgingly. “This is really decent of you.”

  He grinned, quite pleased with himself. “This whole business is an elaborate ruse to get your attention. I had a fear it was wanin’ back in the city, so I set all of this up.”

  I put my arm on his sleeve. The feel of worn-soft broadcloth over worked-hard muscle was tempting. There were better ways to spend the day than what faced both of us, much better ways to perk up the waning attention. Although, of course, I had come here to decide whether or not perking was advisable, and just about decided last night that it was not. “C.K.,” I said before I thought it through, “we really do have to talk.”

  His exhales contained an entire vocabulary that could have been translated into comic book cursing—little stars and question marks and exclamation points whooshing out of him. His accent became acute. Verbal farina. “Ah trust you’re referrin’ to a need for conversation ’bout Sasha and the business at hand,” I thought he said. “Your friend’s in deep trouble.”

  I glared. Obviously my eyes did not speak the volumes that his exhalations did, or he would have been horrified. Instead, he went on figuring out what Sasha needed to get herself out of this mess. I couldn’t fault him for that—she was my friend and that was generous of him, particularly since he’d never approved of her.

  I faulted him anyway.

  * * *

  The hotel management was not glad to see me. Somehow, they blamed me for what had happened in the suite. Who was I, anyway? Ms. Berg’s reservation had been made by her employer. Why was I there? Why did I exist? What was the meaning of life?

  If they gave me—the person who shouldn’t have been there in the first place—a room, did I honestly think the saltwater people would pay for it?

  “Listen,” I reminded them, “I’ve been grossly inconvenienced—and possibly endangered. What if I had been in that room? What kind of security do you have here that lets strangers break into somebody’s room?”

  They huffed and they puffed. They took every precaution, they insisted. Not their fault, certainly. Never happened before. Spotless reputation.

  What were my alternatives? Moving in with Mackenzie, even short-term, didn’t seem like a great idea when what I most needed was space and time away from him.

  Home sounded lovely, but dangerously disloyal to Sasha. After all, I could have easily been the one to come back to the room first. I could have been the one in jail. Or another one dead.

  I finally handed over my credit card as collateral for their least expensive room. If management didn’t relent, or Sasha didn’t return to snap photos and get a free room, I would check out tomorrow and commute from the city to Sasha’s rescue.

  I tried not to remember that this was supposed to be my vacation. While the officious desk clerk grappled with finding me a lousy room, I tapped my too-tight loafers, readying myself for the next battle, the repossession of my wardrobe.

  “Well, young sweetie! Look, it’s Sherwin’s granddaughter.”

  Tommy and Lala seemed characters out of another, more comic, life. “Hi,” I said. “But weren’t you supposed to go back on that bus yesterday?”

  “Well, if you recall, when you left us, we were having a drink and talking about Sherwin,” Tommy said. “One thing led to another, I guess, and we never did make our bus.”

  Lala tittered. There was no other word for the sound that came from between her clenched lips. She batted her heavily mascaraed eyelashes at Tommy, her tormentor, her sexual harasser.

  Tommy, dressed in his white shoes and seersucker, shorter than I remembered, bowed at me and grinned. “Tell Granddad that it’s too bad, but he lost out. Sweet Lala has honored me by promising to become my life companion.” He enunciated with great solemnity.

  “His wife.” Lala eyed me intensely. “I’m marrying Tommy.” Did I get it? His sexual advances were going to be legitimized and therefore no longer offensive or unwelcome. She held out her hand on which glimmered a knuckle-sized diamond ring. “Bought it on the boardwalk last night, the impetuous man!” she simpered. “This big softie had a big win, and spent it all on me!” She winked at me.

  “Told you my luck was changing,” Tommy said.

  It would serve her right if the headlight on her ring finger turned out to be as fake as Tommy’s organized crime stories or his imaginary rival, Sherwin. This betrothed couple should skip the blood test and have a premarital lie detector test instead.

  “Grandpa’s heart will be broken,” I murmured.

  “What a day,” Tommy said. “Good news and bad. You heard, didn’t you?”

  “About you? No, actually, not until you just said.”

  “No, no. I mean the other news. Jesse Reese. It’s all over the papers.”

  “Oh. Yes, I…I heard.”

  “Remember who told you first,” Tommy said. I must have shown my confusion.

  “In the lounge,” he said. “I told you he was in deep trouble with you-know-who. Only I was wrong on one point, I admit. I thought he had three days to live. I was two off the mark.”

  Yesterday. In the bar. That man Tommy had used as one of his
stories? I remembered a man in a suit—the man in the suit? The one that Sasha had mentioned? It had to be the same person; he was the only man in a business suit I’d seen in the hotel. That must be why the photo in the paper had looked vaguely familiar. Jesse Reese had been in the bar last night. Jesse Reese had been the man who’d joked about what was normally “his” suite. I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly.

  I was disproportionately relieved, the doubts and nagging questions I’d had about Sasha now gone. Sasha had not known Jesse Reese, had no prior relationship—but she’d been honest enough to acknowledge a sense that she’d met him, had known him in some way.

  And then I was disproportionately upset. What had happened in the bar after I left? Had Sasha really gone out with Dunstan? I remembered Jesse Reese tilting toward her, my sense that low-level flirting was under way.

  Had Sasha perhaps switched from Dunstan to Jesse, in which case anything was possible? Had she gone back to the bar to make plans with Frankie—or with Jesse Reese? I hated thinking in these terms, but it would be foolish not to consider the possibility.

  The desk clerk rang a bell—as if I had luggage.

  “You and Granddad will come to the wedding,” Tommy said.

  “If he can bear the heartache of the loss,” I said. With Sasha in jail and Mackenzie in limbo, it was good to have an imaginary friend as company for the ride upstairs. Just me, Granddad Sherwin, the dead Jesse, and a hundred million questions.

  Six

  MY NEW DIGS WERE NEITHER gilded nor sophisticated. They were grudgingly designed in serviceable style for those who worried about money and weren’t likely to be real gamblers. A no-frills room. No hair dryer or complimentary bathrobe. A small clock-radio, and no premium channels or in-house movies on the TV. In their place, a VCR—bolted down—and a notice that nearby video rental stores would be glad to deliver one’s tape of choice.

  I pulled the bedspread off one pillow, just to make a personal statement. Otherwise, I had nothing to unpack, nothing to mark the place mine, and no sense of what to do next.

  I had detoured to the scene of the crime en route to this room. The men hanging around the place were unaware of how crucial, how central, a woman’s makeup is to her mental health. They insisted on continuing to hoard every bit of it, including my hairbrush. Either they were doing make-overs on one another or they were as sluggish and inept as I suspected.