“That’s it.”
Passing me close, he whispered, “Maybe I should have done this sooner, it seems to be the age of man you prefer,” and I pretended not to have heard. It was the only word he’d spoken all day that hailed back to our standoff the night before, but it showed his feelings were still on a boil, even if he’d put a lid over the pot.
On the way back to the IRS office, I shelled out another twenty dollars for a loose-fitting jacket and five more for a pair of eyeglasses with plain glass in the frames. I let Tom go in first, alone, and at least from across the room Mr. Christopher didn’t know him. “Yes, sir?” he asked, very polite, coming to the counter. “What can we do for you?”
“All we want is the money,” Tom told him, and Mr. Christopher’s eyes opened wide. Then he called Mr. Schwartz over, and though Schwartz saw through it, he nodded seriously and pronounced the disguise “good enough.” We lined it out then, what we would do the next morning at the airport—how Tom would take a seat in front of United Airlines, open a magazine, start to read, and peep over the top. They would take positions at either side of the room, and the moment Tom saw either Mr. Lacey or the girl, he’d get up, walk past, and close the magazine as he went by. If Lacey was with the woman it would all be very simple. If not, it might get complicated. I, meanwhile, would be in the back of the room watching from a distance, dark glasses having been deemed sufficient cover for me, as first of all they are less unusual on women indoors than men and second of all, as Tom put it, “he only saw you once, for half an hour, at midnight in a bar after being let out of jail, and he spent most of the time looking at the gap in your blouse anyway, not your face.” And the girl, of course, had never seen me at all.
With this all set, Tom and I started to go, but Mr. Schwartz reminded me I’d better call Marlboro and let Deputy Harrison know how things stood, so he could come to the Airport Police office at once when he arrived, and not search the waiting room with his men and possibly get spotted by “the quarry,” as they termed Lacey.
18
We got home a bit after four, and took stock of what we should do. Tom sat by the window again, and pretty soon began to talk: “First thing, Joan, at least as I see it, is that we get where the action is—to a motel somewhere near National Airport, so we’re not fighting traffic tomorrow morning and maybe we arrive too late. So—hold everything.” He got the Yellow Pages, looked, and found a big motel that might not want to be named, on account of what happened next day, so I don’t say which motel it was. He went on: “O.K., we go there— but not together. We go in separate cars, arriving at different times. I take a single with bath. You take a suite.”
“… Suite?” I asked. “Why?”
“So we can see each other without being seen. Suppose Jim’s staying there too? If he sees us in the lobby or some other public area like that—?”
“But why a suite? What does that have to do with it?”
“In a suite, you can have anyone up that you choose, male, female or neuter. They assume that with a sitting room it wouldn’t occur to you to do things you might be tempted to do, if all you had was a bedroom.”
“Are you sure that’s the rule?”
“Well? Call them, why don’t you? And ask.”
“… That’s O.K. I trust your superior knowledge of motels.”
*
He went in his car to pack his things, and after I threw a bag together, I drove on down to the motel, a big one in three sections. At the registration desk I asked the price of a suite, “bedroom, living room, and bath.” The clerk didn’t seem at all surprised by a woman registering alone, and said: “We have them from thirty-seven fifty up.”
“Is thirty-seven fifty outside?”
“All our suites are outside. The thirty-seven fifty tier looks out on the airport. For forty-five seventy-five, you can look out on the river.”
“Airport’s fine.”
He gave me a key and told me how to go. I took my bag to the elevator, went up, followed his directions down a hall, unlocked a door, and suddenly was in my suite, feeling guilty and excited and a little dry in the throat. I went through the rooms—they were done in pale green, with darker green furniture to blend, and everything so recently cleaned you could smell it. I tried not to look at the beds, of which there were two, “though of course,” the clerk had explained, “for two persons the charge is forty-two fifty.”
After I put my things in the bureau drawer, such few things as I had, I went back to the sitting room. Out the window, I could see planes landing and taking off, but they were far enough away that I couldn’t hear them. On one table was a telephone, and I used it to dial the Garden.
“Bianca please, Sue. Thank you.” When Bianca picked up, I said: “I’m going to be out again tonight—and maybe tomorrow, I don’t know.”
There was silence on the line.
“I can’t help it, Bianca. It’s something personal and important.”
“You sick in bed? On death’s door?”
”…No. Not like that.”
“Then you’re not leaving me short-handed two nights in a row, never mind three. You get down here right now, Joan.”
“I can’t.”
After some more silence: “You want to explain to me why I shouldn’t fire you this time? Tom’s not around to talk me out of it again.”
“No he’s not,” I said. “He’s here with me.”
“… Oh!”
“He and I have something that can’t wait. One way or another, it’ll be done tomorrow, and then I’ll be in again like always. But tonight—”
“I heard you, you can’t. I hope you know what you’re doing, Joan.”
“This time, I do.”
Still sounding upset: “… I’ll go tell Liz.”
As soon as I put down the receiver, the phone was ringing, and then Tom’s voice was in my ear: “Just checked in. Feel like going over it again, maybe?”
“No maybe about it.”
“On my way up.”
Once he arrived, I called Room Service and had them read me the dinner menu, repeating each item to him. Maybe because of the day we had ahead of us, we were both hungry—we took salad with French dressing, chicken fricassee, baked potato, peas, ice cream, and coffee. Presently, a man rolled our order in on a metal table, served us and left, telling us: “When you’re done, put the table out in the hall—I’ll come for it later.” When we finished the meal I poured the coffee, taking mine black, while Tom took two lumps and cream. “This feels awfully domestic,” he said. “Like playing man and wife.” He was right, it did—friendly, warm and comfortable. But his putting it that way suddenly got me nervous.
“… Let’s get on to tomorrow,” I told him.
We went through it all one more time. I’d help him put on his face in the morning, and the wig, then we’d drive to the airport separately. We discussed where he’d sit and where I would, what he’d do if he saw them together and what he’d do if he saw one of them alone. We ran through it all twice.
“What if the Airport Police ask you what you’re doing there?” he asked.
“Why would they?”
“If they do.”
“I’m waiting for a friend who’s bringing our tickets.”
“O.K. Fine.”
“And what if they ask you?”
“Same, I guess. Or maybe I can whisper to them I’m there to help grab a rat who jumped his bail.”
“Maybe—but don’t.”
“No.”
“… Tom? You realize, don’t you, that this will be the end of any chance you might have with Lacey for that help you wanted, with his cousin. All that work you put into him, getting close to him, doing errands for him—like covering for his son that day.”
“Well, I’m glad I did that one, for other reasons entirely.”
We both smiled. But I said, “I’m serious.”
“Yes I do realize it.”
“And you don’t mind?”
“Yes I mind. But he can’t
get away with what he’s trying here. If my house hadn’t been in hock to a bank, it would be me he was doing this to, and I’d be on the street. The only reason it’s you is because you know me and wanted to do me a kindness. So—if I lose him, I lose him. There are always other ways to a goal, and I’ll find one.”
“If you lose him? Tom, how could you not?”
“I am going to be wearing that wig you got me, and the glasses. Who knows, maybe he won’t tip to who it was turned him in.”
I saw then why he’d been so insistent on the wig. But I thought back to how quick Mr. Schwartz had seen through it, and didn’t have the heart to be too encouraging on the point.
“Well—I thank you,” I said.
After a moment in which neither of us seemed to know what to say, Tom set down his coffee cup and stood. “… So, I guess that covers that,” he said. “Time we were getting to bed.”
My stomach clutched—but he simply blew me a kiss and left.
Next morning I took great care with his face, putting three fine lines, like crow’s feet, at the corner of each eye, and one heavier slanting line on each cheek beside his mouth, doing it careful so they followed actual grooves in the skin and didn’t look like makeup even seen from close up. I did the same with the lines on his forehead. I kept telling myself, “Don’t overdo it,” and didn’t. I realized when I pulled the wig on that he was sixty years old at a distance of more than six feet, and the plan was for him to stay that far away from anyone. He slipped on the jacket and glasses we’d bought and blinked at me, then put on his old-man gait as he headed for the door to my suite. It was strange seeing him go, as I did have a flash, just for an instant, of what it would be like if I married Mr. White, seeing him off in the morning and welcoming him home each night. I shivered.
Once he was gone I dressed myself in a quiet and practical outfit like you might wear for a plane trip, and went down to breakfast, first buying a magazine, the Ladies Home Journal, at the newsstand. Tom was across the room, finishing his own breakfast, and let his eyes cross mine, but we didn’t speak to each other. He left before my food came. I ate quickly, paid my check, and went at once to my car, which I had parked in sight of the door. When I got to the airport I parked on their lot, added a pair of dark glasses to my ensemble, and walked to the main building.
The waiting room was huge but I marched myself slowly down it, from the foot of the stairs to the restaurant, past the ticket offices of the various airlines, to the far end. I didn’t see Mr. Lacey, but did see Mr. Christopher, and then, on the bench facing him, Mr. Schwartz. I saw them each nod slightly when they spotted me, and Mr. Schwartz inclined his head in the direction of the corner of the room. I took a seat there, facing United Airlines, but also commanding a view of the entrance. I opened the magazine, holding it down by my lap in such way as to let me look over the top. The clock said 10:30, which meant it was getting up tight, as with the plane leaving at twelve o’clock, passengers were expected to show by eleven, and while Lacey might take a chance, and wait till the last minute, he ran the risk of being paged under the Barnaby name, and in that way calling attention to himself. But there was nothing to do but wait, and I did, getting more nervous by the minute.
At 10:55 a man bumped my legs going by and blocked my view of the entrance. I craned my neck to look around him. He was an old man, white haired and leaning on a cane, and he was slow going past. I cursed silently to myself—Lacey might be coming through right now and I would miss him, all because of this guy—
Then I took a closer look at the old man. He had his face turned away from me so all I caught was a portion of his profile, but I knew it at once. That angular nose, the jowls hanging down beneath his chin—it was Lacey! He’d had the same notion we had, only he’d gone us one better, shaving part of his skull bare to make himself bald on top, all except for a fringe around that he’d powdered white. Add a cane and a stoop and you had a harmless granddad that no one would think was Jim Lacey if they didn’t look carefully, and then only if they were as near to him as I was sitting.
He hadn’t noticed me, or hadn’t recognized me, at least—that was to the good. But he’d passed me by now and was heading in his slow, measured way toward the gate at the end of the room, and I could see, looking around desperately, that none of Tom nor Mr. Christopher nor Mr. Schwartz had noticed or recognized him either. I wanted to get up and point, or shout, or do something—but then the game would be up, since Lacey had nothing on him but the cane in one hand and a light topcoat over his other arm. The money was surely with his girlfriend, and if I raised the alarm, she would bolt.
Where was she? Where—? I scanned the room left and right, looking for any female figure that looked out of place. But there was no reason, I knew, for her to look out of place. She’d be a woman, traveling alone, carrying a heavy case—but the room was packed, at the very height of the noon rush, and there must have been two dozen women traveling alone, every one of them with a heavy case in hand.
Then I looked over toward the gate. There were several women standing there, but one in particular caught my eye. She was holding a big dispatch case by her side and wearing dark glasses like mine. Neither of these facts was a guarantee of anything, of course. But as I watched, Lacey glanced at her and I saw her chin dip minutely in a nod.
Or had I imagined it? Had she been nodding at someone else? But no: he was heading straight for her, and though I couldn’t see her eyes behind the shadowed lenses, she was facing him directly, her lips were drawn tight, and looking down I saw the toe of one of her feet tap impatiently.
I glanced over at Tom. Behind his raised magazine he was staring toward the entrance, the wrong direction entirely. And Mr. Christopher and Mr. Schwartz were looking at each other—I saw one glance at his wristwatch and shrug.
There was no time any longer for subtlety. In a minute he’d be at the gate and it would be too late. I got up and crossed quickly, my heels clattering loudly against the tile floor. I watched Lacey’s back in front of me and prayed he wouldn’t turn around at the sound.
He didn’t. He just kept going, aimed like an arrow at the gate and the plane beyond, and the freedom they both represented.
A dozen hurried steps brought me to Mr. Schwartz’s side and I bent to whisper in his ear: “That’s him, the old man with the cane, the one who just went by. He did himself up like Tom did!”
He looked, and got up. Across the way, Mr. Christopher stood as well, seemingly casual—but not really so casual if you noticed how quickly he moved. They exchanged a glance, and I saw his eyes shoot along Lacey’s path to his destination. And now at last Tom looked over too, following what was going on from where he sat.
Mr. Schwartz was at Lacey’s side in an instant, one hand sliding in to grip his upper arm. Mr. Christopher, meanwhile, shot past, to the gate, and clamped his hand over the woman’s on the handle of the dispatch case. I couldn’t hear what she said, but saw a look of alarm on her face, and an attempt to pull away from him, until he flashed a badge that he held in his hand. At that point her shoulders fell.
They walked back past me toward a door marked PRIVATE—NO ADMITTANCE, all four of them, first Mr. Schwartz leading Lacey, who was no longer stooping or using the cane, and then Mr. Christopher leading the woman. I wondered what spectators might be thinking about the arthritic old man’s miraculous recovery. “Come with us,” Mr. Christopher said as he passed, and only after a moment did I realize he was addressing me. I shot a glance back toward where Tom sat, some distance off, and he hadn’t budged; perhaps grateful that things had come to a head without his having to show his face at all. I was nearer in any event, and time was at a premium.
“Ma’am, please,” said Mr. Christopher. I followed quickly in his wake.
He and the woman went through the door, then down a steep set of stairs, to a room marked AIRPORT OFFICE. Inside were some uniformed officers to whom Mr. Schwartz was showing his badge, and of course Lacey, looking frightened and combative. Mr. Christo
pher showed his badge as well, and then Mr. Schwartz got down to brass tacks: “We don’t want any trouble, cause you to miss your plane or anything like that—but we hear you’re carrying a large amount of money out of the country.”
“Who said that? They’re lying—”
Mr. Schwartz turned to me. “Is this the man?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Who are you?” Lacey said, still not recognizing me. “What is this?”
“We’re not the police,” Mr. Schwartz said. “We’re Internal Revenue. We don’t care where the money came from or what you did to get it. We just care that Uncle Sam gets his fair share.”
Mr. Christopher, meanwhile, had wrestled the case out of the woman’s hand and as we watched he unpacked a top layer of clothes and toiletries and then turned the case over to dump packs of money out. I could see they were held by paper tapes with printing on them—apparently the denominations of the bills, and how many. I saw some fifties, some hundreds, and one stack of twenties.
The woman suddenly sat down heavily in a chair. I confess I felt sorry for her.
Mr. Schwartz leafed through one pack of bills and Mr. Christopher leafed through another. They didn’t take off the tapes, but did each take out a card and write down an amount on it after checking a pack and putting it to one side. “O.K.,” said Mr. Schwartz when they’d finished and compared cards. “We make it fifty-five thousand even, and the tax on that is twenty—which we’ll impound, as taxes paid on account, giving you a receipt, and noting it’s subject to repayment, in part or in whole, if, as, and when warranted by your timely filed federal income tax return.”
Mr. Schwartz got a book out of his briefcase, a thing that looked like a checkbook, and wrote. It must have taken him just a few minutes to fill out the receipt, but it felt like ages as we all stood there in silence, glaring at one another. Then Mr. Schwartz tore out what he’d written, checked the carbons, of which there were two, and handed the original to Mr. Christopher. Mr. Christopher looked it over, handed it to Lacey, then put several packs of money into his briefcase, first letting Schwartz count each. I suddenly felt horror-stricken—they were almost done and still I didn’t have Lacey. He was right there in front of me, but his plane would leave in ten minutes and there was no way I could stop him from taking it. “Are we done?” he asked Mr. Schwartz, suddenly.
The Cocktail Waitress Page 13
