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WHEN A DC-7 touched down on Runway 20 Left, everyone spilled out of the terminal and congregated on the tarmac. The airliner taxied into position as flags, banners, and cheers greeted its approach.
I drew beside Starr. “Bet you didn’t know the DC-7 was first put into service a year and a half ago.”
His eyes sliced sideways. “Go on.”
“Offered the first non-stop coast-to-coast service in the country, taking just eight hours to fly from New York to L.A. Takes a crew of four and holds up to 110 passengers.”
“You have my undivided attention.” He was admiring a blistering babe dressed in an off-white two-piece suit, very stylish and very sleek, both the babe and the suit. She posed in a nonchalant manner, one hand propped on hip and head angled sideways. Starr gave her the onceover from her toes to the top of her French-clipped hair.
“The DC-7 is a marvel of modern aerodynamics. It has a cruise speed of 350 miles per gallon, a range of 4,600 miles, and a ceiling of 25,000 feet. Its four Turbo-Compound radial piston engines are capable of achieving 3,400 horsepower and a maximum speed of 400 miles per hour.”
“To think I could’ve died happy without ever knowing what keeps seventy-one tons of steel from crashing down to earth.”
“Her name is Esther Weiss,” I said, referring to the blistering babe, “and she doesn’t like boys.”
“What about men?”
“Them either.”
“What does she like?” He was playing with a toothpick, moving it from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Starr, she’s coming on to me, not you, so stuff your ego back into your pants.”
He peered toward our right flank. Standing not very far from the mayor, Monica and Shirley shared gossip behind shielding hands and lowered voices. “Think you can hook me up with someone who doesn’t recite the Encyclopedia Britannica from A to Z?” His eyes shifted back. “A delirious debutante or two will do.”
“And waste the Doublemint Twins on you?”
Mild interest cheered up his otherwise vapid expression.
“Cammy and Pammy Neulander. Copyeditors at the office. Figuratively conjoined at the hip.”
“Heard about them. Four boobs for the price of two.”
Shirley and Monica continued chatting, occasionally tossing up their heads and laughing. They made a pair of queens in a deck of spades. Both brunettes. Both endowed with flattering assets of the second-balcony variety. Both with a penchant for black. Both insecure in flamboyant ways. And both replacing emotional attachment with work. In many ways, they were nearly indistinguishable from me, except for one essential ingredient. Neither possessed moral character.
“What was your boss talking about,” Starr asked. “Something about your father’s sins?”
From his position beneath a sun-shaded portico, Kirk was keeping a low profile, the wide brim of his Homburg partially obscuring his face.
“Careful, Starr,” I said, “I’m onto you.”
The fake brunette reappeared, emerging from the terminal and shielding her eyes with a raised hand.
“My life’s a shut book,” Starr said. “Nothing you can get on me.”
The girl tucked her purse under an elbow and tried to light up. A breeze blew out the match. A man hurried to her rescue, flipping open his Ronson lighter. She held his hand steady, lit up, and nodded her thanks. Taken in by her beauty, his attentions lingered. She gave him a frosty look, and he moved on.
“Richard Coolidge Starr,” I began. “Born in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Named after maternal grandfather and dead president. Father Stanley. Mother Sophie. Served in the Army Air Corps the last year of the war but never shipped overseas, unless Hondo Airfield, Texas, qualifies as overseas. Rents an apartment near the lake and keeps a parakeet named Fred. Has a string of girlfriends, most of them one-night stands. Former Chicago cop. Left the department in ’52 on a disability suspension. Resurfaced a year later running a one-man detective agency. Want me to go on?”
Watching the mayor and his entourage, the girl propped the cigarette close to her mouth, elbow crutched atop a crossed arm. Monica had broken off her conversation with Shirley. Mayor Moore was standing just behind his secretary. He must have said something important because she wound around to give him her full attention, eyes large with esteem. After nodding, she reentered the terminal building, her step brisk.
Starr snapped the rim of his fedora. “Iris Esther Rebecca Grenadine. Born under the sign of Cancer. Five-foot-seven in three-inch heels. Named after a Greek goddess and deceased grandmothers. Raised on the west side until her folks moved to a mansion near the lake. Father a lawyer. Mother a psychic. Parents separated when she was little. Graduated from Northwestern University, Medill School of Journalism. Ranked top in her class. Her lifelong dream is to live in a garret on the Left Bank, eat Gruyère cheese and fresh strawberries by day, drink champagne by night, and sleep until noon. Acts as if she’s got a lineup of boyfriends for every day of the week, but she’s usually seen with theater critic Freddie Bickel. Bickel is closer to a girlfriend than a boyfriend since he has a honey on the side, a blonde number with a goatee who wears buffed Italian leather. Want me to go on?” He shot me a sidelong glance. “Didn’t think so.”
The girl crushed her cigarette and strode in the mayor’s direction. Just as she came within speaking distance, Pennyroyal sidelined Moore and said something meant for the mayor’s ears only. The girl veered away and disappeared into the terminal.
The hatch of the DC-7 opened. A parade of passengers blinded by sunlight descended the gangplank. Brown-suited businessmen and bespectacled ladies passed in review. Stewardesses congregated near the portal, giggling behind cupped hands.
I was beginning to worry that my hick singer hadn’t made his flight, but like an epiphany, a striking male specimen appeared in the doorway. He stood out in loose-fitting trousers, a beige sports coat, shoulder pads up to his earlobes, and a starched white shirt with the collar turned out. His nose was strong, straight, and flared at the nostrils. A permanent snarl made for kissable lips. Wicked sideburns went with the cruel expression. Dirty blond hair slopped over his forehead. Once he smiled and revealed a row of perfect white teeth, my heart soared. “My, oh my. I have a gut feeling that’s my hayseed.” He traveled light, carrying a guitar case and a BOAC flight bag. Accustomed to late-night gigs, he blinked into the sun.
“The yokel’s name?” Starr asked.
Three buddies wearing pegged jeans, white T-shirts, and leather jackets accompanied him. One of them carried a guitar case, and another lugged a bass fiddle case.
“Jazz band?”
“You fracture me, Starr.”
Tom Stacy elbowed his way between Starr and me. “Hard work. Remember that, Grenadine. Leads, tips, and sources, not a complicated formula for a top-notch investigative reporter. The Byrnes story? Mine. Nobody else’s. Remember that, too.” He skated thumbs beneath the lapels of his sports coat and beamed. Out of the blue, he doubled over, wheezing for breath.
“Say again, Stacy. Which story? Remember what?” Leaving groans behind, I stepped onto the tarmac. Starr nipped at my heels. The closer I neared the dreamboat, the more he lived up to the promise. He was raw meat, a troglodyte straight out of the cave, a Greek god disguised as mortal man. If I were a Southern lady raised on mint juleps and hot summer nights, an attack of the vapors and an elegant swoon would have been in order. But I was a career woman with a reputation to protect and a story to get out. Thrusting forth a hand, I introduced myself. “Iris Grenadine, Daily Standard.”
“Elvis Presley, ma’am.” Instead of shaking, he locked his bedroom eyes onto mine and lifted my hand to his puckering mouth. His face was simon-pure, his manners impeccable, and his mouth sweet country molasses and eminently kissable. Still bent over my hand, he teased me with an irrepressible smile. Sweat slathered the base of his throat and trickled towards a hairless chest. Opening his fine fingers, he released me from their grip. The unexpected slackness prompted my knees to buckle. He caught me on the way down. As a natural consequence of Newton’s Laws of Gravity, my face angled up for a kiss. He suffered a sigh of regret, set me back on my feet, and motioned his companions forward. “Meet the boys, ma’am. This is my bassist, Bill. Scotty here plays guitar. And my drummer, D.J.”
They were grinning at my expense, but ridicule hardly ever fazes me, not when I’m in the presence of a god. Reinstating a professional attitude, I tugged at my suit jacket and cleared my throat. “If you’ll follow me ... boys.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Monica standing off to the side, arms crossed and eagle eyes watching my every move. She was drooling. Covering parades and grand openings, I decided, had its upside.
We sashayed past Starr. Jealousy stuck to his face like a cellophane wrapper. He stared at us until we escaped into the coolness of the terminal. The boys prattled among themselves and urged their leader with entreaties.
Elvis stuttered and hesitated but finally came out with it. “We were hoping, ma’am, if you could give us a few pointers.” His speaking voice was as mellow as a bass fiddle. If his singing voice measured up, he just might have a career ahead of him. And if his self-effacing manner and raw sexiness counted for anything, he’d be the next Frank Sinatra.
“Such as?” I asked.
“We hear tell Chicago’s a hip town. Places to go, people to see, music to hear.” His brow pinched with discomfort. He wanted to be more direct, but being a Southern gentleman, said no more. He didn’t have to. His eyes said it all.
“Fast girls and slow nights?”
“No offense, ma’am, but we’re just country boys looking to have a good time in the big city.”
“Easy change and quick fixes?”
“You do have a way with words.” His own words fair dripped with corn pone and maple syrup.
Chicago may be the only completely corrupt American city, but it knows how to swing. In its heyday, it flaunted a string of bright lights from Howard Street to 138th and State. And though sexual perversion and other edifying delights could be found on every other street corner, the fact was kept quiet from outsiders lest our reputation grow any more sullied than it already was.
“We were hoping, ma’am, you could recommend a few juke joints.”
From the speakeasy days until the modern era, Chicago has been celebrated for one commodity: music. Jazz and blues were the city’s ticket to heaven. Canaries, lip-splitters, ivory ticklers, and string whangers warmed us on cold winter nights, chilled us on hot summer days, and filled our hungry bellies with infinite possibilities.
“Then you’ll want to ease on over to Maxwell Street.”
“Maxwell Street?”
“You’re in Chicago, honey. In Chicago, Maxwell Street is the only street on the map.”
“Iris Grenadine,” Elvis said, sliding my name over his tongue like marzipan. “Where did you get a name like Iris Grenadine?”
“Family tradition.” I wrote down a quick list of the swingiest blues clubs, the toniest restaurants, and the most trustworthy sources for reefer. I also added a phone number where he could leave me a message. I tore the sheet from my notebook, folded it into fourths, and tucked it into the V of his shirt. “From here on out, you’re on your own, honey, but if I were you,” I said, lowering my voice, “I’d head on over to the Charleston Club. Sometimes they book special guest stars, headliners trying out new acts but without advance publicity.”
Starr sideswiped me with a jostling elbow, throwing me headlong against Elvis, who caught me in his arms and set me aright. Without missing a beat, Starr strolled off, fedora raked over a calculating eye and chuckling under his breath. Monica trailed in his wake, cackling.
When we stepped outside, I hailed a taxi, and slipped the cabbie a ten-dollar bill. “When you get to the hotel,” I told Elvis, “ask for Damian Kane. He’ll set you up in a suite. On the house.”
After they piled into the taxicab, Elvis cranked down the window. “Just curious, ma’am. How’d you pick us out of the crowd?”
“You’re pulling my leg, right?”
The taxi drove off, leaving behind a wind tunnel and an empty heart. Some women bury their sorrows in a gin bottle. Others take a bubble bath. Still others soothe themselves in the night as best they can. None of these distractions works for me. Not counting the tears of self-pity and regret, a glass of wine, a midnight movie, or a walk on the beach is the best I can manage. And work. Work takes the place of meaningful relationships. Work keeps me from thinking, regretting, worrying. Work is the aphrodisiac for the troubled mind.
I folded a stick of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum into my mouth. Celebrants began emptying out of the terminal, talkative and in high spirits. In no time at all, the road became choked with traffic. Members of the high school band filed onto buses, instruments in tow. Reporters poured onto the street, barking farewells and rushing off to make deadlines.
Kirk roamed outside and stomped on a cigar butt. He crossed to the other side of the roadway, where a forest-green Ford Woody with Wisconsin plates was parked in a barricaded area reserved for dignitaries. After giving the valet a two-bit tip, he tucked himself behind the steering wheel, lit up a fresh cigar, and pulled away.
Starr exited next and made a beeline for his ragtop. When he slid behind the wheel and reached for the door handle, he saw me standing on the pavement with feet braced apart and hands hitched on hips. A smirk of gamesmanship leapt to his grinning lips. He acknowledged me with a tap to the rim of his fedora, slammed the door shut, and roared away, tires squealing and rear bumper fishtailing.
Monica emerged, tottering on high-heeled shoes, squinting into the noonday sun, and flushing pink as a carnation. I deduced that she had just engaged in a little afternoon delight against a whitewashed wall in an abandoned walkway. She answered my glare with a loathsome look and strutted toward the parking lot.
Surrounded by hangers-on, the mayor exited the terminal. I saw my chance to grab a quote or two, but before I could get close enough, Pennyroyal grabbed me around the waist and hustled around to the shady side of the building, where he backed me against the wall and delivered a rude kiss. Within seconds, my squeals and squawks turned into satisfied groans and heavy breathing. He had me exactly where he wanted me, submissive and loving it. Damn the man.
He lifted his lips away but left his body pressed against mine. From the corner of my eye, I saw the mayor’s limo cruise away. Pennyroyal stroked a finger along my jaw. “Forget it, Grenadine. You’ll have to wait on line like the rest of your kind.”
“By ‘rest of your kind,’ you mean old family friends?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, remembering. “You went to school with the mayor’s daughter.”
“It’s not what you know, Pennyroyal. It’s who you know.”
He tipped his hat and strolled toward a ’54 Pontiac Star Chief. An outstanding automobile with a coral-red paint job, white hardtop, and white interior, it was loaded with all the options including a Straight 8 flathead engine, wire wheels, four-speed automatic transmission, spare tire holder hanging off the rear deck, and chrome trim. As homicide detectives went, he was rolling in more dough than Betty Crocker. He lit up a Lucky Strike before taking off. He hadn’t looked back to see my one-fingered salute, but he must’ve seen it in the rearview mirror because I heard a loud honk of amusement.
When he was gone, I sashayed across the street and climbed into the Bel Air, the classiest chassis for miles around. The coupé had been purchased from a Chevy dealership on Western Avenue, a gift from Daddy on graduation day. The top-of-the-line model was loaded with a Blue-Flame 115 horsepower valve-in-head engine, Powerglide automatic transmission, power steering, and all the options known to woman. Other girls my age doted on their spoiled brats. I doted on my Bel Air.
I switched on the radio. Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White filled the airwaves with its wailing horns and mambo rhythm. I swept into traffic just as the fake brunette hurried out from the terminal and waved in my direction. She could have been flagging down any vehicle, but her eyes connected with mine. Hemmed in by traffic front and rear, I had no choice but to keep going. By the time I circled around, the terminal was deserted and the girl was gone.
