“I can answer questions from here,” she said, “without a bullhorn. I know my rights, young man. I’m not some wet-behind-the-ears pushover. You got questions—unless you’ve got a warrant you spit ’em out from where you are.”
“I just thought it would be more comfortable—”
“Comfortable? For who? For you? I suppose you’re worried about those kids downstairs? Yeah—they’re scary, but how did they get that way? Because America gave them the shaft, that’s how. I’m watching the television the other day, and some fat fuck from City Hall says kids like that would be okay if they didn’t play hooky from school. What do they learn in school? Someone tells them that everyone’s born equal. Bullshit! After you’ve been fed that kind of crap and you come home to this kind of shit, you’re not gonna believe anything they feed you. They tell you one and one is two, and you want to know, ‘Says who? Why should I believe that? Feels like three to me.’”
I gave up on trying to talk my way into the apartment.
“I just wanted to ask a couple of questions about your nephew Jerry.”
“Was it you that called earlier? Okay, you heard what I said then—that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“Mrs. Pedrosian—if you’ve got any idea where I could reach him—”
“First of all, why would I tell you? What’s he accused of?”
“He isn’t accused of anything. It’s not like that. We think he could help us with an investigation.”
“Yeah—I bet that’s what they said to Sacco and Vanzetti, and look what happened to them.”
“We’re not talking Sacco and Vanzetti,” I said.
“You talk about who you want to talk about,” said Aunt Ida. “I’ll talk about Sacco and Vanzetti. I went up to Boston, to the courthouse, to protest. I was there. Let’s talk about Emma Goldman. Let’s talk about the Rosenbergs. Railroaded, all of ’em.”
“This is not that kind of case,” I said. “Jerry might be able to help us with a missing persons investigation.”
“I might have known there’d be a woman involved,” said Aunt Ida.
“As a matter of fact, it does involve a woman.”
“Jesus Christ—of course it involves a woman. We’re talking about Jerry. So, big deal. Anyway, what makes you think I would know where he is? Jerry’s the big-time artist now. Hangs out with Nelson Rockefeller and a bunch of filthy plutocrats. He calls once in a while—came to see me once on my birthday—offered to buy me a plane ticket down to Florida. Why would I want to go to Florida? Play canasta with a bunch of old farts who’ve sold their souls for a condo with a view of a swamp? Stand meekly on line in a cafeteria for the blue-plate special? Florida! It’s full of Republicans. I raised money for the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, for Christ’s sake!”
“About Jerry…”
“What about him? He’s not a bad boy. I tried to teach him right, because he didn’t get much—what should I call it?—ethical guidance from his parents. All they wanted was a Buick and a picket fence on Long Island. Yeah, I have an address and telephone number for Jerry, but I’m sure you’ve got those, too.”
“What about his sister?”
“Shirley? Don’t tell me you want to speak to that bitch?”
“I thought she might have some idea where Jerry is.”
Aunt Ida laughed.
“You don’t know Jerry, and you certainly don’t know Shirley. They don’t have much to do with each other. I haven’t spoken to her since I found out she was campaigning for Barry Goldwater. Then I heard she married that Neanderthal windbag Don Baldridge. That was the end. She belongs in the salt mines.”
Donald Baldridge was a Republican councilman known for his far-reaching ambitions and reactionary views.
“And now,” said Aunt Ida, “if you’ll excuse me, young man, it’s time for me to watch Jeopardy!”
She slammed the door in my face. Too bad. I would have enjoyed talking to Aunt Ida some more.
I walked down the stairs—past the sleeping bum, past the necking couple, past the smell of burning fat, past the garbage, and past the gangstas in the lobby. As I descended the front steps to the street, somebody behind me yelled “muthafucka,” but I let it go. I half-expected to find the Datsun trashed, but it seemed to be untouched, so I unlocked it, got in, and started the motor. The car did not explode. I eased out of the parking space, and just as I was about to pull into traffic, I heard a loud crack, and a bullet smacked into the safety glass a foot from my left ear, passed through the driver’s side headrest, and lodged in the framework of the right side rear door. I hit the gas and didn’t slow down till I reached the Cross Bronx Expressway.
Probably just a fond farewell from Friendly Freddie and his boys, but the way things had been going I couldn’t discount any possibility.
SEVEN
I drove back to Manhattan, and stopped for a bite at a coffee shop on 96th Street. In the phone book, I discovered that Donald and Shirley Baldridge were listed at a Park Avenue address that figured to be somewhere in the 70s. I called their number, and the phone was answered by a woman with a West Indian accent. She told me Mrs. Baldridge was not at home. I asked if she knew when Mrs. Baldridge would be back. She said that Mrs. Baldridge was at a reception, and she had no idea how long it would last. Someone had left a late edition of the News in the phone booth. I took it back to my booth and combed it for stories on Republican receptions or rallies. It didn’t take me long to discover that there was a fundraising event for Richard Nixon at the St. Regis Hotel that evening.
It was already getting dark outside, so I headed for the St. Regis, passing the Baldridges’ apartment on my way. Nothing could have provided a greater contrast to Aunt Ida’s building than this grandiose pile, lit up like a drunken stiff in a screwball comedy, with not one, but two costumed doormen swaggering on the sidewalk, fly casting for taxis to stuff mink-wrapped matrons into. I continued south to 55th Street and left the Datsun at a ten-bucks-an-hour underground parking garage, earning looks of pity and derision.
I had been to the St. Regis a couple of times when I was working on a case that involved truckloads of fake Salvador Dali prints. Dali maintained a suite there for himself, his old lady Gala, and his pet ocelots. It’s where he once told Ali MacGraw to take her clothes off, and then sucked her toes. Dali didn’t suck my toes, or even ask me to undress, but it was a trip anyway.
I doubt if Richard Nixon ever sucked anybody’s toes, but the thought of him peeling off Pat’s pantyhose and having a go is humbling. In any case, he was running for president—again—and serial home owners with Gestapo haircuts were prepared to pay four figures to be in the same room as him, even though they could have watched him make a fool of himself for free on Laugh-In. That night, he was in town after winning a primary in some sparsely populated territory west of the Hudson. He was addressing the faithful from the stage of the St. Regis Roof Ballroom, and the media was out in force to cover the event, with television vans parked along 55th and photographers clutching their Speed Graphics at the entrance. That made it easy for me. I had the slovenly, down-at-the-heel, seen-it-all, this-guy-must-work-for-the-tabloids look down pat, and it didn’t hurt that a couple of the photographers knew me and greeted me by name as I strolled into the hotel. I didn’t even need to use my fake press pass. The doorman and porters ignored me, and the two spooks in dark glasses—dressed in Johnny Carson suits with three-button jackets tailored to conceal their weapons—barely looked me over. Even after Dallas, and after Martin had been shot in Atlanta, security was still pretty lax at these affairs. Who would want to harm a white guy with a five-o’clock shadow just because he wanted to hang his hat in the White House? That changed forever a couple of weeks later, when Bobby went down for the count.
I rode up in an elevator and stepped out into the lobby adjacent to the ballroom. Staff and media people were milling around, trying not to trip over the cables that snaked into the ballroom. As a door opened, I caught a glimpse of the future president addressing the GOP grou
pies.
“My opponents are three peas in a pod,” he chortled, attempting to sound folksy. “There’s not a shred of difference between them.”
That produced a smattering of applause and a polite undertow of what passes for laughter in Republican neighborhoods.
It was about then that I spotted Donald Baldridge, who I recognized from his frequent appearances on local news shows. He had slicked-back hair and wore a tuxedo with a red cummerbund, which did nothing to distract attention from an expanding waistline. He was standing near one of the doors to the ballroom, arguing in whispers with a woman in a low-cut black dress and a black lace bolero jacket. Going only on Steve Schuller’s description of her as a former neighborhood sweater girl, I was prepared to bet that this was Mrs. Baldridge. It must have been twenty-something years since her Lana Turner phase, but she was still a striking woman with a figure that begged for attention. Her face, however, was distorted with rage, and she seemed on the verge of tears. Donald Baldridge hissed something that caused the woman to freeze, as if she had been smacked across the face, then he pivoted on his heel, and returned to the ballroom.
Mrs. Baldridge didn’t try to hold back the tears anymore. They poured down her cheeks, and she didn’t even attempt to wipe them away. I moved in closer, just as she headed for the elevator. I joined her and couldn’t help noticing that she smelled very nice. She was too preoccupied to pay any attention to me—not sobbing, just weeping silently, with an occasional heave of the shoulders. When she exited, she headed for the King Cole Bar, and I followed at a discreet distance. The room was full of tourists drinking Red Snappers because that’s what the guide books say you’re supposed to drink at the King Cole Bar. Mel Tormé, or one of those smooth guys, had just finished a set and there was the babble of chatter that comes after five choruses of Mountain Greenery. Mrs. Baldridge was approached by a waiter, who offered her a table, but she shook her head and walked to the bar where she grabbed a perch. There was an empty bar stool next to her so I moseyed over and asked if she was expecting anyone. She shook her head, without looking at me. The barman placed a martini in front of her, and asked me what I was having. I ordered a Dewar’s and soda, no ice. Mrs. Baldridge sipped her cocktail, ate the olive, played with the swizzle stick, and stared at the Maxfield Parrish mural behind the bar, tears still trickling down her cheeks, a few dripping onto her impressive cleavage.
I took my time, then said, “Excuse me—are you okay, lady?”
She looked at me, sardonically and said, “Do I look okay, sonny?”
“You seem upset.”
“I’ve got to hand it to you,” she said. “Your powers of observation are remarkable. You should be a detective or something.”
“I always loved Dick Tracy in the Sunday funnies,” I said, “and Rip Kirby, too.”
“Yeah? Brenda Starr was more my cup of tea. I always thought I’d grow up to be a girl reporter. That seemed pretty glamorous.”
“I know what you mean—Brenda Starr, Hildy Johnson.”
“Yeah, Hildy was bitchin’.”
She stared at me, swallowed the rest of her martini at a single gulp, and asked what I was drinking. I told her I was okay, but she insisted on buying me another scotch.
“I know who you are,” she said, showing the first signs of the booze having hit. “You’re one of those boy reporters. You’re here to cover Tricky Dick.”
I didn’t say I wasn’t.
“Drink up,” she said. “You don’t look like Cary Grant, but you’ll do.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but I obliged.
“I might have a story for you,” she said. “Do you know who I am?”
“You’re the very attractive wife of Councilman Baldridge,” I said.
She liked that.
“Maybe you are Cary Grant,” she said.
“I can do the accent, too,” I told her.
“Don’t spoil it. So, I guess it wasn’t an accident that you sat down next to me?”
“Yes and no. You probably didn’t notice, but I was in the elevator when you came down from the ballroom. I knew who you were because I’d seen you with Councilman Baldridge earlier. I couldn’t miss that you were upset, so I followed you to the bar because that’s what sneaky people like me do. The stool next to you was open…”
She had already drunk most of her second martini, and now she smiled a puckered smile, placing a hand on my knee.
“So,” she said, “are you in pursuit of a story, or is it the councilman’s wife that you’re interested in?”
“You never know where you’re going to find a good story,” I said.
With her fingers spread, she touched a snowy expanse of bosom, batted her eyelids in my general direction, and took another gulp of her martini.
“You don’t know how true that is,” she said.
I figured I’d better put out a feeler before the booze really hit.
“If I remember right,” I said, “you have a brother who’s a well-known artist.”
Her expression changed.
“You were doing so well,” she said, “and now you have to go and bring him up.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize that was a touchy subject.”
“If Jerry’s involved,” she said, “it’s a touchy subject.”
“I brought up his name only because I used to drink with Jerry, once in a while,” I improvised. “He used to come into a bar called The Red Lion, down in the Village. It’s a hangout for journalists, but it gets artists, too.”
“Jerry never did care who he drank with,” said Shirley the sweater girl, “so long as there were cute waitresses around, and someone to pick a fight with.”
“Yeah, he got into a few fights,” I said, hoping to unlock some more sisterly insights.
“Usually,” she said, “they start with art or politics. He thinks he knows more about both than anyone else. I know fuck-all about art, but he knows shit about politics. He’s a half-baked lefty through and through. Got it from our aunt Ida.”
She signaled to the barman to bring her another drink.
I asked if she was sure she needed one.
“Don’t you start getting on my ass,” she said. “You’re not even a councilman. Do you realize that my regular fuck is going to be the next goddam mayor? If I don’t kill him first.”
“The future mayor didn’t seem to be treating you very nicely upstairs.”
“Nicely? What’s that supposed to mean? Were you spying on us or something?”
“I couldn’t help seeing you were fighting.”
“Lucky for him, it was in a public place; otherwise, I’d have castrated him with my nail scissors.”
“It’s none of my business, but…”
“Fucking A it’s none of your business,” she said. She hesitated for a tipsy moment then continued, “But if you’re a newsman, maybe I could make it your business. You want a scoop, sonny? You stick with me, and maybe I’ll tell you something that will curl your hair—and straighten out other parts of your anatomy.”
This kind of dialogue continued for a while longer, until she finished her third martini. Then she waited till I caught up with her, though she took the last two fingers of my scotch for herself. Afterward, she tottered from the bar stool and with studied nonchalance adjusted her shoulder straps for the benefit of interested onlookers.
“Let’s get out of here before the warbler gets back,” she said. “I know that bird. He’ll just sing something sad and get me weepy again.”
At the hotel entrance, she told a doorman to call one of the hacks—the horse-drawn carriages catering to tourists—from the rank on 59th Street. Ten minutes later, during which time Mrs. Baldridge struck some choice poses for bored paparazzi, a trim-looking buggy, drawn by a pony with ribbons in its mane, and driven by a tough-looking broad in Annie Oakley drag, clattered to a halt. We clambered aboard, and in another ten minutes, we had swished into Central Park, and were trotting along somewhere near the Wollm
an Rink.
I don’t know why, but hacks were somehow immune to the mayhem that was otherwise endemic to Central Park after dark. Maybe they paid protection. Maybe there were little people—the Leprechauns of the Sheep’s Meadow—riding shotgun. In any case, the sky was mostly clear that evening, and there was a sliver of waning moon, which was outshone by the trellises of light bordering the park. It was mild for that time of the year, but Mrs. Baldridge snuggled up to me as though she were freezing. I noticed again that she smelled nice—Lancôme something or other, blended with a generous whiff of Smirnoff and musky effusions from beneath Mrs. Baldridge’s clothing—but I warned myself that volatile emanations alone were not grounds for unprofessional behavior. There was also her cleavage, now available for closer inspection, which aroused fantasies of spelunking in fleshy caverns. Nothing wrong, I concluded, in putting a protective arm around her. She snuggled closer.
If this sounds romantic, it wasn’t. It was weird and faintly disturbing, but undeniably sexy. Shirley Baldridge was a woman who was incapable of not agitating the surface of any nearby reservoir of testosterone, and stimulating the adjacent glands, as I could now bear witness. The surreally erotic setting, and the rhythmic motion of the hack as it bounced along, did not help my efforts to resist her allure. At the same time, common sense, and a vestigial sense of old school manners, told me to keep my pants zippered.
Shirley’s politics are anathema to everything you believe in, I told myself.
But then again, didn’t James Bond make out with Tatiana Romanova? And did Bond lose sleep over the geopolitical implications of that? On top of which, my political antennae had been dulled by the fact that I had drunk three scotches, which Mrs. Baldridge had, after all, graciously paid for. And the King Cole’s barman was famous for pouring generous measures.
At those prices, he had to be.
I felt a little bit like Brer Rabbit stuck to the Tar Baby, but there was no Brer Fox around, so I had only myself to plead with.
Whatever you do, I silently begged, don’t throw me into that briar patch.
Good Girl, Bad Girl (An Alex Novalis Novel) Page 6
