I AWOKE SUNDAY MORNING in my own bed in Room 703 at the Hotel Harding. Awoke staring at that cracked and peeling ceiling, wondering if it might fall and crush me where I lay, a victim of too much realism.
Up, showered (cold, no hot water available), and into my tart’s uniform again. Reflected that Jack Donohue had been gentleman enough not to crack wise when I divested myself of wig and fore-and-aft falsies before climbing between his sheets. There were plenty of old, and bad, jokes he could have made but didn’t. He seemed satisfied with my performance. I know I was with his.
I ventured out into a rainy, bedraggled Sunday morning on upper Broadway—not one of life’s more exhilarating experiences. I had a small breakfast in a fast-food joint where both customers and staff seemed to be sharing the same large, economy-size hangover. Then I found a supermarket that was open and bought myself some drinking glasses, canned soda and tonic, a few dishtowels, paper towels, toilet paper.
I could have brought all that stuff over from my East Side apartment, but I was being careful to carry nothing on my person or keep anything in my room that might connect Bea Flanders of the Hotel Harding with Jannie Shean of East 71st Street. My driver’s license and credit cards were hidden under the front seat of the rented Ford. Other than that, there were no papers, letters, clothing labels, or possessions that might betray me. If Blanche wanted to toss my belongings, or even Jack Donohue, they’d find nothing.
Back to the hotel with my new purchases. Even though the room clerk at the Harding had warned “No cooking,” Jack Donohue had assured me I could get away with a small hotplate, so I had also bought two cups and saucers, spoons, and a jar of instant coffee. When hardware stores opened on Monday, I’d pick up a hotplate or one of those immersion heaters for making a quick cup of coffee or soup.
Then I went back down to the rented Ford and drove home to civilization. On the way, I stripped off the blond wig, wiped most of the guck from my face, and changed into a pair of comfortable loafers I had squirreled in the car. By the time I arrived on East 71st Street, I was a reasonable facsimile of myself. With my trenchcoat buttoned up to my chin, I was able to sail by the doorman with no trouble at all, and even chatted with a neighbor (female) in the elevator with no embarrassing questions asked as to how modest-bosomed Jannie Shean had suddenly become Wonder Woman.
Upstairs, alone, door locked, I treated myself to a hot, sudsy bath, a big glass of chilled chablis and, later, a decent breakfast: a sardine sandwich with sliced onion, half a pint of strawberries, and a cup of yogurt.
Then I called my sister and chatted awhile. Or rather, she chatted and I listened, saying “Oh?” and “Really?” and “Fantastic!” at the right moments. Finally, when she ran down, I mentioned casually that I might be going out of town for a few weeks, doing research for a new book with a St. Louis background, and if she didn’t hear from me for a while, not to worry.
“I’ll call you when I get back,” I told her.
“Call me when you get back,” she said.
That’s my sister.
I made a few additional calls of a similar nature to friends, and told all of them the same “may be going to St. Louis” story. Their interest was underwhelming. Then, having accounted for my absence, I got down to business.
When I told Dick Fleming that I would be coming back to the East 71st Street apartment occasionally to pick up my mail, pay bills, etc., it was the truth. But it wasn’t the whole truth. I came back to keep my journal, Project X, up to date.
That diary was the raison d’être, the only justification for enduring the discomfort of the Hotel Hard-On and the danger of conning the likes of Jack Donohue. I referred to him as “Black Jack” in my account. I thought it was an apt description of his physical appearance. And not a bad label for his membrum virile either.
I wrote steadily for almost three hours, then locked the ms. in my top desk drawer. Answered two fan letters, sent Con Edison their monthly ransom, and scrawled a few lines to mother Matty in Spain. Then back into my floozy’s costume again, and I sallied forth to resume the life of Bea Flanders, Master Criminal.
I discovered that getting out of a disguise is a lot faster and easier than getting into it. I had to pull into a parking area in Central Park for about half an hour before I had the wig adjusted and the heavy makeup applied to my satisfaction, a process watched with some amusement by a young couple parked in a nearby car. The hell with them.
I couldn’t have been back in Room 703 for more than three minutes when there was a knock on the door.
“Bea? Jack.”
I let him in. We were both very cool. No reference to our acrobatics of the night before. No passionate kiss, not even an intimate hug. We were both casual acquaintances. Maybe I was a bit hurt and disappointed. I don’t think I was, but maybe I was.
“Been out?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Buying a few things I need. Like drinking glasses. Now I won’t have to bother you.”
“Uh-huh. Hungry? Want to grab something to eat?”
“Sure. We’ll go Dutch‑okay?”
“What else?”
We walked through the drizzle, two blocks south to a side-street bar-restaurant called Fangio’s. It advertised “Oriental and Puerto Rican Food.” If that sounds odd to you, you haven’t been in New York lately.
Fangio’s was a basement joint, three steps down from the sidewalk. In the rear was a squarish dining area lined with booths. That’s where we went, to a booth against the far wall where we could see everyone who entered and everything going on.
I wanted a glass of white wine. I ordered a vodka on the rocks instead. Donohue asked for a double bourbon and grabbed the waitress’ wrist before she could get away.
“Ribs okay for you?” he asked me.
“Fine.”
“Two on the ribs,” he told the waitress, releasing her. “And heavy on the sauce.”
I looked around. The bar was crowded. Most of the customers were watching a football game. It was noisy, smoky, more a drinking than an eating place. The smell of stale beer and old cigars, a few framed photographs of horse races and ballplayers. Realism.
Donohue seemed distracted.
“Waiting for someone?” I asked him.
“Sharp gal,” he said, smiling bleakly. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Sure you want me here? I can take off.”
“No, no,” he said hurriedly. “It won’t take long. A minute or two. You stay right where you are.”
I may have been imagining it, but I didn’t think so. I thought he was using me, that my presence was needed and wanted. I stared at him as he kept his eyes on the front door, inspecting everyone who came in. I didn’t think he was frightened exactly, but he was tensed, coiled. He sure didn’t look like a man expecting good news.
We were on our second round of drinks when Donohue said, “There he is.” He slid out of the booth, then smiled tightly and patted my cheek. “This won’t take long, Bea,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
He moved toward the bar to meet a man who had just entered. If they shook hands, I didn’t see it. The other man was short, squat, and smiling. My God, did he smile! Donohue grinned frequently, but this man smiled constantly. But it was more grimace than smile: a stretching of his mouth, a squinching of his eyes. It looked painful: a contortion of his features. You kept waiting for that frog face to relax, to melt into something easier and more natural. It never did; that smile was frozen.
They spoke for a few moments, both standing away from the bar, heads close together. Once the smiling man struck Donohue’s shoulder with his knuckles, a little harder than just a friendly tap. Then Donohue jerked his thumb toward me, and the short, squat man stepped clear to glance in my direction. I saw he was wearing a sweater under his suit jacket, no raincoat or topcoat. He had on a black leather cap, rakish as a beret. I thought he tipped the cap to me, but he may have been merely adjusting it.
Donohue put a hand on the other’s shoulder, patted him a few times. Then he turned, came back to our booth. He arrived just as the waitress brought our ribs.
“Pleasant fellow, your friend,” I said casually. “Always smiling.”
“Yeah,” Donohue said. “That’s what they call him—Smiley.”
“A close friend?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does he do?”
He didn’t look at me. He finished a rib, put the naked, gleaming bone carefully aside, wiped his fingers delicately on a paper napkin.
“Smiley?” he said. “Smiley is a villain.”
I was about to quote Shakespeare on the same subject and clicked my mouth shut just in time. To cover my fluster I made a long guess.
“You owe him?” I asked.
He nodded. Stolid expression. “Almost five big ones.”
“What will happen to you if you don’t pay?”
“At best? Two busted kneecaps.”
“And at worst?”
“They’ll squash me,” he said with a flimsy grin. “Don’t happen to be carrying that kind of loot, do you?”
I shook my head.
He grinned, this time with genuine mirth.
“Just a joke,” he said. “Not to worry. I’ll work it out.”
“Can’t you just take off?”
“Not really. They’d find me. Eventually. As somebody said, ‘You can run, but you can’t hide.’”
“Is it worth all that to them? Five thousand? To go to that much trouble?”
“It’s not the gelt,” he explained patiently, “it’s the principle of the thing. They let a small fish like me welch, the word gets around. Next time it might be a big fish. They can’t afford that. So they run a tight ship. You said you had an idea for a campaign?”
The sudden question stopped me. I put the half-gnawed rib back on my plate. Jack Donohue was staring at me with stony eyes. I began to understand his pride. He wouldn’t show his hope. It would be weakness.
“I have something going, yes,” I told him. “It looks good.”
“How much?” he said hoarsely.
“Plenty,” I said. “Your five thousand is chicken feed. This means big money. Big.”
“So? Tell me.”
I shook my head. “Can’t,” I said, “without getting the okay from my friend.”
“Your friend? The Tooth Fairy? Why him?”
“I owe him.”
It was language he could understand.
“All right. Let’s meet and talk about it. Set it up.”
“Finish your ribs. Have another drink. On me.”
“Sure,” he said, flashing his teeth. “Why not?”
“I’m sleeping alone tonight,” I said, staring into his eyes.
He shrugged. “You’re the boss, Bea.”
I actually believed it.