“I’ll be there.”
“It may turn out to be a waste of time, Jack. But if I can’t sew it up, I’ll tell you what I do have.”
“That’s good enough for me. How about dinner tonight?”
“No, thank you. I’ve got to get home and do some things. I’ll take a rain check.”
He accepted that. It was one thing I admired about him: he endured rejection and failure as calmly as success and triumph. But maybe he just didn’t care.
I looked around at that big, spacious loft. Twelve-foot ceilings and a huge skylight. It was about twice the size of my pad. Everything was so open and airy. The Russian Ballet could do
Swan Lake
in there and never touch a wall.
“Like it?” Jack said, guessing what I was thinking.
“I sure do,” I said.
“Want to move in?”
“I’d love to,” I said. “When are you moving out?”
“I’m not,” he said. “I want you to move in with me. Plenty of room. I’ll even buy a regular bed.”
I gawked at him. I couldn’t believe I had heard correctly—but I had. He was looking at me intently, no smirk, and I wondered how I was going to handle this. Slap his face? Stalk out in injured silence? Break into girlish giggles?
“Jack, is this a joke?” I asked him.
“No joke. I like you, Dunk. I like being with you. If you feel the same way about me, why don’t we try living together?”
“For how long?”
He shrugged. “As long as it lasts. Who can predict? You may want to move out after two days. I may want to evict you. But let’s give it a try.”
“What’s the point?” I said.
“Does everything have to have a point? Don’t you ever act on impulse, and damn the consequences? I do—all the time. And it turns out good more often than it turns out bad. I’ll pay the rent and utilities. We’ll go fifty-fifty on the food and booze. You can keep your apartment if you like. In fact, it would probably be smart. A safety net. But you’d be living here.”
“Until you got bored,” I said.
“Or until you did. This would be a two-way street. If you want to leave or I want you to leave, that’s it—no explanations necessary. No excuses, no complaints. But I think we could have a hell of a time together—for as long as it lasts. I don’t foresee any big arguments. We haven’t had any yet, have we?”
“No,” I said faintly, “not yet.”
“I told you I like you, and I do. And I think you like me. Do you like me, Dunk?”
I had to nod.
“So it makes sense,” he said. “It’s really no big deal. But I’m tired of tomcatting around. And I imagine you’d like someone to come home to. Wouldn’t you, Dunk?”
Again he forced me to nod. He knew me.
“Well, then,” he said, “why don’t we give it a try? What have we got to lose? You’ll keep your apartment, keep your job. I’m not saying that living together will be all peaches and cream, but it might turn out to be something great.”
“But not marriage?”
He looked away. “A little early to be talking about that. They used to call it a ‘trial marriage.’ That’s what I’m suggesting. What do you think?”
“You want an answer right now?”
“Oh hell, no,” he said. “Take your time. Think about it. I do admire you. You’re a very mental lady. And you’re sensational in the sack. I think we’re sexually compatible, don’t you?”
I nodded again, thinking that if I kept this up, my head would come off.
“Consider it,” he urged. “You’ll be able to live your own life just as you have been doing. I will, too. We’ll have our jobs. But we’ll also have each other. A lot of laughs. That’s something, isn’t it?”
He was a good salesman. Also a handsome salesman. A charming, rakish salesman.
“I’ll consider it,” I agreed, shocked to realize that after all my drought years, I had a sudden deluge: two proposals (one legal, one illegal) in as many days.
“Sure,” he said, “you do that. I’m not going to pretend to be anything but what I am: footloose and fancy-free. But if you can accept that, I think you and I could climb clouds.”
“For a while,” I said.
He shrugged again. He did a lot of shrugging. “Nothing’s forever, is it?” he said. “Grab what you can: that’s my philosophy. Am I wrong, Dunk?”
I glanced at my Snoopy watch and stood up. “I’ve got to get going.”
“Drive you home?”
“No, thanks, I’ll take a cab. I’m still billing Archibald Havistock for expenses.”
“You’ll think about it? Moving in with me?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I can guarantee I’ll think about it.”
“That’s good enough for me,” he said, and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek before we parted. He was wearing Aramis again.
What an evening that was! I wanted to do some heavy thinking about the Demaretion investigation, but my personal problems kept intruding. Finally I gave up and wallowed in self-analysis, trying to face up to the decisions I had to make: accept Al’s proposal or Jack’s proposition. Or neither. I was determined to be very logical.
I thought I knew the two men well enough to make a rational choice. They were total contrasts: Al heavy, serious, solidly dependable. He would always be a hard worker and good provider. Jack was a lightweight, elegant and debonair, a man to whom irony was a way of life and commitments a curse.
Al needed a wife. Jack didn’t need anyone. Al was a devoted father. Jack was a social chameleon. Al drove a spavined Plymouth. Jack drove a shiny Jaguar. Al wanted to legalize our relationship. Jack wanted a handy bed-partner. Al said he loved me. Jack said he liked me. Both men could cook.
You can see what a state my mind was in. Nutsville! I suppose I had something to eat that night, but I don’t remember what it was. Probably bits and pieces of this and that. I do remember I did a lot of pacing, hugging my elbows and pondering about who I was and what kind of life I wanted. No easy answers to those questions.
I went to bed early, spent a sleepless hour wrestling the sheets, and then got up, sighing. I pulled on a robe, moved back into the living room, and took up my knitting. That was usually a sure cure for insomnia, but this time it didn’t work. My brain kept churning, and I wished someone—mother, father, Enoch Wottle, anyone!—would appear and
tell
me what to do.
I looked up from my clicking needles, and the apartment had never seemed so empty, and I had never seemed so
alone.
I think it was at that moment I came to my Great Decision.
Then I could sleep.
I
DO
REMEMBER WHAT
I had for breakfast on Friday morning because it was special. I figured it was going to be a momentous day in my life so I followed my mother’s dictum: “When there’s work to be done, it’s best done on a full stomach.” A debatable opinion—I can’t see a trapeze artist loading up on spaghetti and meatballs before a performance—but nevertheless I believed it.
So I went to our local deli and treated myself to a double tomato juice, scrambled eggs, kippered herring, and home-fries, and English muffin with apple butter, and two cups of black coffee. Then I walked back to my apartment with the morning
Times.
I searched for some mention of the arrest of Ross Minchen, but there was nothing.
I put the paper aside to read later and began to scribble the day’s schedule on my yellow legal pad. The timing of everything seemed right. The first thing I had to do, I decided, was to contact Al Georgio and get him over to the Havistocks’ apartment for what might or might not be the grand dénouement.
But he called me before I could call him. He sounded absolutely awful.
“Al,” I said anxiously, “what’s wrong?”
“I’ve been up all night,” he said in a growly voice. “Well, I did have about two hours’ sleep on a cot with a mattress as thin as a stale pancake, but then they got me up and it started all over again: There’s good news and there’s bad news. Which do you want first?”
“Oh, God,” I said, “I hate that stupid question. All right, I’ll take the good news first. Maybe it’ll give me strength for what’s coming.”
“Okay,” he said. “We lowered the boom on Ross Minchen. He’s behind bars right now, with his lawyer fighting to get him out. He hasn’t admitted a damned thing, but we found a choice library of porn videocassettes in his apartment—all home movies. Plus a .22 revolver with two slugs missing from the cylinder. The idiot didn’t even clean and reload—can you imagine? The DA’s man is very high on this one. He says if ballistic tests prove out, he’ll go for Murder One on the Vanwinkle kill. Even if Minchen plea-bargains—because he was being blackmailed, you know—he’s still going to do time. Does that make you happy?”
“What about Dolly LeBaron?” I demanded.
“Well, that’d be a tough one to prove. If we can put him away for one homicide, won’t that satisfy you?”
“I guess,” I said, thinking of silly Dolly. Even her murder seemed of no interest to anyone.
“Now for the bad news,” Al Georgio said. “A real shocker.”
“Let’s have it.”
“I told you, didn’t I, that if we waited long enough, everyone connected with this case would get knocked off and we could all go home. Well, it’s happening. Vanessa Havistock is dead.”
“Dead?” I said, beginning to tremble. “Al, I can’t believe that.”
“It’s the truth, kiddo,” he said. “I saw the body—and wish I hadn’t. It happened early this morning. Four or five o’clock, the ME’s man figures. She was murdered, but there’s no mystery about it. Hubby Luther pulled the plug on her. Then he called nine-eleven and reported what he had done. He was sitting there, waiting, when the blues arrived. They read him his rights, but he didn’t care; he admitted everything. I think the guy is cuckoo, and his lawyers will probably plead the same thing.”
“How did he kill her, Al?”
“You don’t want to know that, Dunk.”
“I
do
want to know,” I said fiercely.
“He beat her to death. With his fists and his feet. He destroyed her. You were right about him being on the edge. He finally went over.”
“Ah, Jesus,” I said, sickened and saddened. “The poor woman. The poor man. Poor us.”
“Yeah,” Al Georgio said, “I know what you mean. I hate to turn the day rancid for you, Dunk, but you’d have heard about it anyway, and I wanted to tell you the good news about Ross Minchen.”
“Sure, Al,” I said, “I understand. Thank you for calling. Are you going home now?”
“Nah,” he said. “Wish I could, but I’m sitting in on the interrogations of the Minchens and Luther Havistock, so I’ll be around and semi-awake all day.”
“Good,” I said. “Can you meet me at the Havistocks’ apartment at three o’clock?”
He was silent a moment. Then:
“Got something good, Dunk?”
“I think so.”
“On the Demaretion heist?”
“If all goes well. If I fall on my face I’ll give you everything I do have. Jack Smack will be there, too.”
“Hey,” he said, “we’re becoming like the Three Musketeers.”
“More like the Three Stooges,” I said.
“See you at the Havistocks’ at three,” he said, laughing, and hung up.
Al was familiar with violent, bloody death and could accept it stoically. But I wasn’t and couldn’t. So I shed tears for Vanessa Havistock. Not a lot, but some. I knew there was quality in life, and I supposed there was in death, too. I knew I had mourned more for Dolly LeBaron. Mindless Dolly had been a true victim. Vanessa had engineered her own destruction.
The two were contrasts, in looks, intelligence, lifestyles. But there was something of each in the other. When I thought of it, Dolly was Vanessa when she was Pearl Measley and first came to the Big City from South Carolina to make her way. And Vanessa still had the wants and appetites of a country girl bedazzled by wealth and opportunity.
Now they were both dead, all their hopes and ambitions and greeds brought low. There was a moral there, I supposed, but I couldn’t see it. All I could grieve was the waste: two lives ended too soon, annihilated by passions that went out of control and became sins.
Vanessa’s murder by Luther Havistock added credibility to my theory of what had happened and increased my hopes of bringing the whole thing to a screeching halt. But I found no satisfaction in that. If I had been sharper, smarter, faster, perhaps I might have prevented the bloodbath. A sobering thought, and one I didn’t wish to dwell on.
I tore all the annotated sheets from my pad, folded them up, and stuffed them into my shoulder bag. I started out for my appointment at Grandby & Sons, in no mood to be lied to, stalled, or bullied. I was determined to have my way.
We gathered in that funereal conference room. Felicia was wearing one of her “simple black frocks” that looked like it had been sprayed on her. Stanton Grandby wore his penguin’s uniform. And Lemuel Whattsworth wore his usual earth-colored three-piece suit that seemed ready to mold. All three wore expressions of frozen interest in what I had to say.
“Well, Dunk,” Felicia said with her chintzy smile, “I hope you have some good news for us.”
I ignored her. “Mr. Grandby,” I said, “has Archibald Havistock brought suit for the loss of the Demaretion?”
God looked to his attorney. “Litigation has not actually commenced,” Whattsworth said cautiously. “However, the possibility still exists. We are, in my opinion, legally vulnerable for the loss of the coin since you, Miss Bateson, an employee of Grandby and Sons, signed the receipt.”
He had to remind me of that—the wretch!
“But Mr. Havistock hasn’t made any claim as yet?”
“Not at this point in time,” the lawyer said.
I took the folded notes from my shoulder bag and made a great pretense of shuffling through them, pausing occasionally to read. All flimflam, of course. I knew what was in them and what wasn’t.
“Mr. Grandby,” I said, “do you have any plans to auction the Havistock Collection minus the Demaretion?”
“No,” the penguin said. “Not until this thing is cleared up. Under the contract we have a year before the collection goes on the block.”
“So, as of this date, Mr. Havistock has received nothing, and his collection is still in Grandby’s vaults?”
“That is correct.”
“Dunk,” Felicia said, “what
is
this all about?”
Again I ignored her. How I loved it!