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“LEAVE IT TO YOU TO find a friend in the mafia.” Keane chuckled as he pulled a cigarette from his case. He looked more like himself now than he had when he appeared at the party. His wavy hair was washed loose from confining pomade and now dangled at the tips of his ears as blonde-grey curls. A dark blue dressing gown had been wrapped loosely around his athletic form. A white, silk pajama shirt stuck out over the collar; a new purchase for the fictional Leslie McCormic, no doubt. I sighed and tipped my head over the back of the settee.
“This is a nice hotel. Exceptionally nice.” And indeed it was. Not quite so elegant perhaps as those grand, old establishments in Europe, but far superior to all in which we had stayed on this journey thus far. The carpeted floors were more reserved in color. The decor was less vulgar than most. Even the upholstery on which I sat was more of a faded blue of yesteryear, rather than some audacious pattern of ill-matched stripes.
Cigarette dangling from his mouth, Keane casually lifted my hat from my side and tossed it onto an ancient basket chair. He sat himself in its place, but looked at the floor beneath his slippers, rather than me. His voice; however, bore the quiet directness I both admired and loathed.
“Will you be alright?”
“About what? Cohen?”
“Come now, I know women in an emergency; all sobs and smelling salts. Heaven knows I keep enough handkerchiefs in my study to save an entire regiment of emotional females over the menial trials of life.” I replaced the first tinglings of laughter for a frustration that was never far beyond my reach.
“Really, Keane, if you think that low of me—after the past few hours especially—we might as well introduce ourselves as the strangers we are. What on earth have I to be weepy about?”
“Why your . . .” His voice fell to a whisper. “. . . Your hair.”
My hair.
Ah.
Admittedly, it had been a cause of some discomfort over the past few days, but I hardly thought one’s physical annoyances were cause for hysterics. Not a tear had been shed over the loss, though it did take a bit longer to recognise me in the mirror when I gave a damn enough to look.
My fingers tread self-consciously along my pruned, reddish-blonde curls. It was not a fashionable color by any means, but one I bore with an arguably foolish pride.
“I take it you don’t like it then?” I tried to sound vaguely disinterested with whatever his answer might have been; however, somewhere between my vocal cords and mouth, the words took on a tone that seemed uncharacteristically melancholy in comparison. Keane looked at me then; not hard, yet acutely. His eyes carefully ran from my brow, back to the top of my head, and returned to an unidentifiable place near my temple. His cigarette had shrunk considerably.
“I can’t say I dislike it, though it will look a great deal better when that grease is washed out. It still goes past your ears a bit, which is good. And you needn’t worry about the play. If it doesn’t grow miraculously by then, wigs were invented for a reason.”
Blast.
The play.
I had forgotten about that.
“I did what had to be done.” I defended feebly as Keane tipped my head forward with his forefinger to inspect the hair curling at the nape of my neck.
“Indeed you did, and, considering the circumstances as they are, it is a rather fine job of it too.” My pride flourished.
“I did most of it at the beach house with a pair of cooking shears.” My companion ran his thumb over the finely trimmed ends.
“Most of it?”
“I went to a barber to finish it. I wanted something modern enough to keep some length, and we both know I pay little attention to fashion. It did get a bit awkward though. He insisted on giving me a shave. Something about him having never cut a man’s hair without one.” My companion’s amusement was reflected magnificently as glimmers danced through his ice-blue eyes. I squelched the impulse to grin and stared down my nose at the dark, cream carpeting. “You know, Keane, I believe I can appreciate the luxury of a hot towel on one’s face, but to have someone holding a razor so close to your throat.” I flinched. “It’s ridiculous.” At that he did not chuckle as I thought he might. No, he laughed. His rich baritone erupted so close to my ear I started convulsively at the deep tremor. So rare were those great shows of humour that were constantly in wake of his presence. To earn a chuckle—however brief—was a joy.
A laugh? An honour.
I must have drifted off soon after, for the next recollection was based upon a hushed voice, not at my ear or side, but lingering over my shoulder.
“As much as I relish your company, Lawrence, I fear a scandal would ensue if the hotel’s staff found your bed already made.” My mind slowly wrapped itself around his words. A part of me had thought Keane’s melodious tember only a part of a dream. It would be a very nice dream, rich with sails and sea salt, but a dream nonetheless. Then, when inevitable realisation at last occurred, I leapt up to find him leaning over the back of the sofa, a waggish grin positively glowing on his familiar face. How blue his eyes were; how deep the laugh lines running and crinkling along the side of his face. I rushed back into my own room just as an intricate mantle clock made some muddled declaration of the hour. Clothed in all but my suit jacket and a pair of brown, polished shoes I had bought sometime in the last forty-eight hours, I flung myself into bed.
I had not thought myself tired or prone to more sleep than I had already enjoyed on Keane’s sofa, but it was not long before I found my mind swinging in the belly of a great ship, where lanterns creaked and swayed above my head and a first mate called down that all was well.
All was well.
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WE AVOIDED THE CASINO for the next few days, fearing a more bountiful harvest from the gambling tables and finding the time better spent regenerating our energies. Breakfast and lunch we took at the hotel by having it hauled up to our rooms, rather than enduring the inconvenience of spotting ourselves at two different tables. There was little between us that was incredibly private to our lives, save our pasts, which were entirely separate and infinitely more complicated than our unusual companionship. I knew little of Keane’s own life. Exceptionally little. I had heard stories of his days in the navy during that first war, as well as his doctorate from some Irish university I had momentarily forgotten, and yet it was not until a few months before I had found he had two siblings and a history that existed long before I.
He knew something about me as well. He knew of my unfortunate American birth, doubly cursed by any maternal lineage, and torn over the rocks of an unusual child scorned by all. At that point, I had come to suspect Keane was more aware of my tragic history than I was of his.
We never discussed these things during meals. Or if the subject did occur, it was just as quickly brushed aside by a wave of a hand or the arrival of our waiter. It was only on the eve of that Tuesday morn that Keane or I dared venture away from our played roles into those two people who had met all those years before. Two lost people: a greying man whose life had followed little of his direction, and a young woman searching for a direction to follow. As usual, his bluntness was preceded by no unnecessary pleasantries. It simply shot across the table as Keane balanced a piece of steak onto his fork.
“Lawrence, I will not be joining you at Mr. Barker’s tomorrow.” I paused to return my knife from where it had fallen from my plate.
“You said we would go. We, Keane. Not me.” My companion peered down at me as though what I had just said was an idea never considered in the minds of humanity. He shook his head, chewed thoughtfully on his steak, and cut another browned square before continuing.
“It cannot be helped. As it happens, my presence has been requested to attend a gathering of psychologists tomorrow.”
“And you didn’t feel it was convenient to tell me until now?”
“The telegram only arrived this afternoon.” He pulled the paper from his jacket and gently pushed it across the table. “It cannot be helped.” The words were all there, carefully written with the official stamina which could have made even Freud weep. I gently refolded the telegram along the creased edges. No, it could not be helped.
Keane pulled out another, thinner paper, which had been folded only once, and slid this too in my direction.
“I suspected you might need a large sum of money tomorrow.” I opened the check, allowing my eyes to wander slowly along the neat curls and strikes of Keane’s handwriting, though it was signed to an account number as foreign as the alias signature scratched across the bottom. Perhaps it was not the finest example of prime calligraphy, but it was beautifully done with an endless amount of manual dexterity and the great male ego. I gasped.
“Ten thousand dollars?”
“If it is not enough, I have authorized my bank to release to you any amount.” I grabbed his long, dry hand and thrust the piece of paper into his large palm.
“Keane, I have my own money. I have plenty of my own money. More than any I would ever need. I can use that. I—” His other hand fell over the check, gently pinning my fingers easily between his palms.
“Do you realise how much I have won day after day behind those infernal craps tables?” He leaned forward and whispered a series of numbers that made my head spin. Then, as the wheels of reality still wobbled along the razor edge of shock, I was half aware of Keane paying our bill and climbing to his exceptional stature. He was Zeus; his thunderous bolts thrashing downward and thrusting life into even the fallen. “And, Lawrence, I do mean any amount.”
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I FELT WELL ARMED AGAINST the elegant fortress up to the very second the door opened. Then I felt nothing. I was numb; awash with that which I did not know. Men in elaborate suits stood idly in the enormous foyer, with glasses of pale liquor in their hands and international forms of tobacco crushed between their teeth. There were cigarettes from the hierarchy in France, clay pipes from the highlands of Scotland, and thin twigs of cigars from . . . India perhaps? I refused the last of these when presented to me and took out a package of Keane’s cigarettes. There is a safety—a comfort—in that which is familiar. I could only hope Keane would forgive me for taking less of the smoke into my lungs; allowing thin tails of white to rise from the cigarette’s smoldering end. It was better this way, for I stood there with the gentlemen for the better part of half an hour, and a person can only inhale so much of the stuff before finding themselves hopelessly infatuated with the infernal things. Sam Barker’s butler appeared and escorted our dull band of heavy billfolds into a large sitting room dominated by a loathful fireplace so abnormally intricate, one questioned whether it was of any practical use at all. The colors were again conservative, but there was no subtlety in the vast amounts of wealth this man held. One by one as we passed through the door, each man received a cordial nod and firm handshake from Mickey Cohen. His cream-colored suit had been replaced by one of a moderate grey. It appeared equally expensive, but not nearly so obnoxious as the bright necktie dangling from Sam Barker’s neck as he drank a glass of champagne by the fireplace. Suddenly there was a strong hand grasping mine and shaking it firmly as two old friends meeting after a long separation.
“So ya made it, Kid. Good. A man who keeps his word is one I can trust.” His dark eyes flickered briefly over my shoulder. “Where’s McCormic?”
“He couldn’t make it. Last minute business deal. But he gave me a check on his behalf and said he would get more if he needed to.” What I had worked so diligently to lose from my American habits now returned in full force. Granted, I was glad to have them as I played this fatal role, as long as I was able to brush them once more beneath the carpet when I was to return to Harrison’s theatre. Cohen smiled and patted me on the shoulder before nearly sprinting off toward the hallway. Only once had I seen a man so desperate to wash his hands; a germaphobe tucked away in the hills of Switzerland. However, as Keane rightly observed, this was different. There was a separation, for Cohen seemed not so concerned about falling ill as he was to commit himself to the practice of scrubbing his hands raw.
Sam Barker positioned us in a circle along the various chairs and settees, rather like a class of overgrown children smoking and drinking and talking and laughing. And all about things that would not matter the next day. The young host seemed to enjoy this intimately, as though he had done something profound for this gathering of businessmen. There were all sorts of money; old money, new money, and even those who had the slightest possibility of stumbling into money somewhere along the road. The man smoking those horribly Indian cigars stood lazily on the other end of the fireplace, slurring out some drowsy words about how he hoped the little meeting wouldn’t take too long because he had a girl waiting in some motel. She charged by the hour. The rest of the group cackled their approval of his situation, and I—a person who had created a sound sum of money by setting myself far away from society—suddenly regretted having not been made by God to be more sociable. At least Keane understood at least a little of humanity and was able to enter and exit each scene of life with the same gentlemanly grace I admired. I had none of this. Looking back, I could understand it was in part because of my youth, and a person must never feel guilty for the small selection of years they set aside.
And yet I did.
As many of the other men muttered jokes and profanities, I felt increasingly ashamed to have been young and not quite having swallowed enough of my own life to understand the great moral travesty of theirs. Just as my mind had defensively numbed itself from words demeaning to my concealed femininity, Mickey Cohen entered the room.
And everything stopped.
Well, perhaps it didn’t stop, per se, but a ripple of silence swept over the room; engulfing all language in his presence. It took several minutes to realise there was another man behind him. It was even longer before my mind was able to comprehend that the man was a priest.
I was Catholic. I had been born Catholic. And, in the end, I would die Catholic. But such did not mean I was unaware of those other religions. In my travels I had feasted with Arabs and Monarchs, celebrated the Passover with a Jewish family, and prayed in tongues I knew not. I was the first to stand when he entered the room, and the last to sit when he bade us to do so. He introduced himself as Father James Kennedy. The long, black cassock he wore jerked stiffly as he spoke.
“Mr. Cohen has kindly invited me to speak to you fine gentlemen about an orphanage our parish has run for the last seventy years. It is a good establishment; large enough to house over two dozen unfortunate youths. We educate them in a few classrooms we were able to build into the house itself; however, our congregation is not a large one, nor do they have the funds necessary to sustain such a program.”
A general succession of nods and sympathetic murmurs arose from the other men. Mickey Cohen smiled. “Right, so what’ll it be? Jack, you go first. Name your donation.”
“Six hundred dollars.” Cohen’s smile faltered and he wagged his head.
“That’s not enough, Jack. I know you can do a lot better than that. Now, say it again, but a better number.”
“Three thousand.”
“Much better. Stoney?”
“Sixty-three hundred.”
“Good. Hank?” And so it went; one after another. If the chosen amount wasn’t to his liking, Cohen had the man raise it until it was at least an honest man’s yearly wages. After the first victim; however, he had little trouble coaxing a generous donation from each man. At last, it was my turn.
“Well, wadaya say, Kid?” Cohen asked; his smile more expectant than it was threatening.
I named the amount.
The men gaped at me. The priest’s eyes grew wide. Mickey’s smile only broadened.
I stood and edged over toward the stunned priest, taking out Keane’s enormous check and adding an equally abundant amount of paper cash. In total, our twenty thousand completed the deal with a sound sixty thousand dollars, which Cohen promptly doubled. One hundred twenty thousand dollars, and we had only been there only a little over two hours. In the time to follow, Sam Barker and Father Kennedy retreated from the house and the drinks and tobacco returned in full force. A few of the business men wandered off to the billiard room, leaving me to face a man I found as equally curious as I did frightening. He had killed men, no doubt: shot dead in cold blood. Perhaps our greatest similarity is that we had both seen death. His suffering; however, had been planned by a murderous heart. Mine was the wicked hand of chance. He motioned for me to sit on one of the low armchairs while he took his natural perch along the edge of a sofa. One was never to doubt his dominance in a room. Perhaps he had been a king in the east, but here he thought himself a god.
“So tell me, where’d ya get all that dough. I didn’t make that much boxing even on good fights.” I pulled out a cigarette and rolled it between my fingers. I was beginning to understand Keane’s adoration of the little things.
“Boxing isn’t all I did. Writing can make a pretty penny, ‘specially if you have a good story.” The cigarette nearly fell from my hand when I instinctively dropped an ‘e’ from my words. My midnight hour was drawing near. Soon the illusion of English heritage would fall away even from myself, and a rotting pumpkin would forever take its place.
God, this needed to end.
Soon.
Mickey grinned calmly; folding his meaty hands over his legs and edging eagerly forward.
“So you’re in the media?” I waved a lit match in some vague attempt at casual ease. Casual ease. Can one ever find comfort in the presence of a murderer?
“Something like that. Saw you in the papers a few times. Good stories, those. Keep it up and you’ll be as big as Capone.”
“Bigger, Kid, if fate pays its dues.” And I suspected it often did. “You gotta take what you can when you can. No questions. No hesitation. Just take it.”
Carpe Diem.
Seize the day.