The Eighth Commandment (23 page)

What they hadn’t mentioned, and which perhaps I imagined, was a look of sweet innocence. A little girl in a woman’s body. She was wearing a sashed wrapper in a hellish Oriental print, and there was no doubt, from the occasional flash I got of calf, thigh, and arm, that her body was almost completely hairless.
She
didn’t have to shave her legs.

She led me into a one-bedroom apartment that dazzled, and I remembered my father’s comment when we had visited a similar place in Des Moines. “Looks like a Persian
hoorhouse
,” he had said.

Such a profusion of velvets, soft pillows, swagged drapes, mirrors, porcelain animals, ornate screens, serigraphs of female nudes on the walls, Art Deco female nudes on the tables, a plushy carpet (stained), and a leather rhinoceros bearing a hammered brass tray on its back. What, no incense?

We sat on a couch as saggy as a hammock, and she looked about vaguely. Wondering, no doubt, where she was. Who I was. What day it was.

“Thank you for seeing me, Miss LeBaron,” I said. “It was very kind of you.”

“Dolly,” she said. “Everyone calls me Dolly. What do they call you?”

“Dunk,” I admitted.

“Dunk,” she repeated, and apparently it never occurred to her to question the derivation of that nickname. “Okay, Dunk.”

“How did the pictures go?” I asked her. “You in the red bikini.”

“Oh!” she said. “That was fun. This photographer said I had a marvelous body. He called me a vest-pocket Venus. Wasn’t that nice?”

“Very,” I said.

“He wanted to take some nudes to send to
Playboy
—test shots, you know—but my agent wanted to talk money first. Everything is money, isn’t it?”

“It surely is,” I agreed.

Even sitting on that droopy couch I towered over her and had to look down to meet her eyes. She was so small, soft, and vulnerable. I don’t know why, but I thought of her as a victim. She seemed so defenseless.

“About Orson Vanwinkle…” I reminded her. “That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

“Wasn’t it awful?” she said, wide-eyed. “Just awful.”

“It was, Dolly. How long had you known him?”

“Oh…” she said uncertainly, “maybe five years. Maybe more.”

“Was he good to you?”

“He sure was,” she said. “But he really was a crazy guy.”

“Crazy?”

“We had such crazy times together.”

“I can believe it.”

“I mean we were doing coke and
everything
.”

“Dolly, did you tell all this to the police?”

She tried to recall. “I may have,” she said finally. “I really don’t remember. There were so many of them.”

“How did you and Orson meet?”

“It was at a party. I think. Or maybe at a bar.”

“What were you doing before you met him?”

“I wanted to be a disc jockey,” she said. “A girl disc jockey. I thought that would be cute—don’t you think so?”

“I certainly do.”

“I love music. All kinds. Would you like to hear something? I have this marvy collection of tapes.”

“Thank you,” I said, “but not right now. Then you met Orson Vanwinkle. And…”

“He sort of took care of me.”

“Was he generous?”

“Oh, yes! Horsy bought me this apartment. And let me furnish it. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It’s lovely,” I assured her.

“Yes,” she said, looking about, “lovely. What do you think is going to happen to it now? I mean, it was in his name and all. He was paying the maintenance. Do you think he left it to me in his will?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, who cares?” she said with a bubble of laughter. “Now I’m beginning to make some money on my own. Maybe I can keep the apartment. Or meet someone…”

It was all so sad I wanted to weep.

“Dolly,” I said, “do you have any idea of who might have wanted to kill him?”

“Oh, no,” she said instantly. “He was such a sweet man. Crazy, but sweet.”

“Did you love him, Dolly?”

“Well…” she said, her eyes drifting away, “we had this situation.” I heard a slight lisp again.

“Did he ever talk to you about the theft of a coin from his uncle’s apartment?”

She frowned, trying to concentrate, and I found myself frowning in empathy.

“No,” she said finally, “I don’t remember anything like that.”

“But he always had plenty of money?”

“Plenty,” she said, laughing gaily. “Last winter he bought me a ranch mink. And we were going away together.”

“Going away? On a vacation? A cruise?”

“No. Forever. We were going to live on a French river.”

“A French river? You don’t mean the Riviera, do you?”

“Yes, that’s right, the French Riviera. We were going there to live. He told me all about it. It’s gorgeous, and you don’t have to wear a bra on the beach.”

“When were you going?”

“Real soon. Like in a month or so.”

“That’s a big move to make, Dolly.”

“Well, Horsy said he was coming into an inheritance from a rich relative. I wish I had one, don’t you? A rich relative?”

“I surely do. When did Orson first suggest that the two of you move to the French Riviera?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, drifting again. “Maybe a few weeks ago. Listen, are you sure you don’t want to hear some music? Horsy bought me a videocassette player. I’ve really got some groovy tapes.”

“Maybe some other time, Dolly,” I said, rising. “Thank you so much for letting me barge in.”

She rose too, then unfastened her sash and spread the wrapper wide. She looked down at her naked body with what I can only describe as a puzzled look.

“You really think
Playboy
would be interested?” she asked.

I stared for a moment. “I really think they would,” I told her.

“Maybe I should diet,” she said.

“No,” I said hastily, “don’t do that.”

She walked me to the door. What a pair we made! Female Mutt and Jeff.

“Come back soon,” she caroled, giving me a sappy smile.

The moment I got home, I went to one of my illustrated coin books—for reasons I’ll never understand. I stared at the photo of the Demaretion. To most people it would simply be a flat, round piece of metal, a medium of exchange. Enoch Wottle had taught me what it really meant, what avid collectors saw in it.

You thought of how old it was, how it had been minted, and the uses to which it had been put: dowry, bribery, ransom, tribute, rent, wages, investment, and on and on. Then you dreamed of all the people, now dead and gone, who had handled it.

If only that single dekadrachm could have talked! What a tale of human bravery, frailty, conquest, and defeat. Why, that one coin could have meant success or failure, joy or despair. The same might hold true for a U.S. dime. Take one out of your pocket right now, and let your fancies explode. Who owned it before you? What were their lives like? Was that lousy dime important to them? It might have meant the difference between life and death; it was possible.

And now here was the Demaretion, a piece of metal almost 2500 years old, affecting the lives of a disparate set of characters from would-be Bunny Dolly LeBaron to austere Archibald Havistock. There was magic in money, magic to move people, affect their lives and turn them in ways they had never planned.

I closed the coin book and sat staring at the ceiling. That talk with Dolly had really shaken me. First of all, her soft vulnerability, ignorant innocence, and unthinking trust were enough to make me rethink my own life—what I wanted and where I was going.

And also, what she had said gave me the glimmer of an idea so outrageous, so unbelievable, that I tried to put it out of my mind. But it wouldn’t go, and I consulted my spiral notebook to prove it or refute it. I couldn’t do either, so I finally solved all my problems: I took a nap.

I awoke, groggy, at about six o’clock, and switched on my air conditioner. It was an old, wheezy window unit, but it worked, thank God, and while it was reducing my apartment from sauna to livable, I went in to shower. Halfway through, the phone rang—doesn’t it always?—and I dashed out. It was Jack Smack.

“Hi, Dunk,” he said cheerfully. “What’cha doing?”

“Dripping,” I said. “You got me out of the shower.”

“Sorry about that,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “How do you feel about chili?”

“Love it,” I said, remembering that tasteless mushburger at lunch.

“Good. There’s a new Tex-Mex place on West Twenty-third. How’s about meeting me there in, oh, about an hour? We’ll do the whole bit: chili and rice with enchiladas, chopped onions and cheese, jalapeños, and a lot of cold Mexican beer. How does that grab you?”

“Ulcer time,” I said, “but it sounds marvelous.”

He gave me the address, and I went back to finish my shower. I wondered how much I should tell him, and Al Georgio, about what I had learned that day from Hobart Juliana and Dolly LeBaron. I was beginning to consider holding out on them—only because I was certain they were holding out on me. If it was going to be a three-way competition, I wasn’t about to give anything away. If they wanted to trade, fine. But they’d get nothing for nothing.

The Tex-Mex joint turned out to be crowded, hot, smoky, and aromatic. We had to wait at the bar for almost a half-hour, but when we were finally seated, it was worth it; the food was really super. Hot, but not too hot. I mean steam didn’t come out your ears, but the back of your scalp began to sweat.

We dug into our platters (liberally sprinkled with red-pepper flakes), and Jack Smack wasted no time…

“So tell me,” he said, “how are you doing on the Demaretion?”

“Okay,” I said cautiously. “Nothing earth-shaking. I talked to Dolly LeBaron today.”

“Did you?” he said. “Learn anything?”

“Not much. Is she my competition?” I don’t know why I asked that. It just came out, and I was ashamed.

He looked at me, amused. “No, Dunk, she’s not your competition. No one is. Dolly is an airhead.”

Unexpectedly, I came to her defense. “She’s a sweet, dumb, innocent girl who has been exploited by men.”

“Hey,” he said, “don’t go feminist on me. Dolly happens to be an amateur hooker. She could be selling gloves at Macy’s if she wanted to. But she goes through life depending on handouts from men. Maybe she’ll marry one of them. I hope so. I hate to think of what’ll happen to her when her bits and pieces begin to sag.”

He was right and I knew it, but I didn’t want to hear it.

“I still say she’s a victim,” I said.

“Dunk, we’re all victims,” he said patiently. “Did she tell you anything?”

“Only that Vanwinkle had been very generous. He bought that condo apartment for her.”

“That I knew,” he said. “Where
was
the guy getting his bucks? His parents are dead. He inherited bubkes. But five years ago he started throwing money around like a drunken sailor. I’m still trying to figure out how he could have copped the Demaretion.”

“He couldn’t,” I said.

Jack sighed. “It’s a puzzlement,” he admitted. “Did Dolly say anything else?”

I figured it was trade-off time. “Nothing important. What’s happening on your end? Get any more letters from the New York crook?”

“Not a word. We put a man on that Beirut connection you told me about, but it’s too soon to expect any results. Did you hear anything from Al Georgio about that East Sixty-fifth Street brownstone?”

He was pumping me, and I resented it.

“No,” I said, “not a word.” Then I decided to throw him a curve ball that could only confuse him further. Why should I be the only one all bollixed up? “By the way,” I said casually, “did you know that Orson Vanwinkle was gay? Occasionally.”

He stared at me. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. I heard it from a very reliable source.”

“Jesus,” he said, and drank off half a glass of beer. “That’s another noodle in the soup. I swear to God I’ve never had a mishmash like this before. Dunk, have you got any ideas at all? No matter how nutty.”

“None whatsoever,” I said, lying, but looking at him steadily. “It’s as much a jumble to me as it is to you.”

“Yeah,” he said disgustedly. “What the British call a balls-up. Let’s have some sherbet or ice cream to cool our gullets.”

We came out of the restaurant into a night that still held the day’s shimmering heat.

“I’m parked around the corner,” Jack said, leading the way.

He didn’t walk; he danced along the street. Not actually, of course, but that’s the impression he gave. Light-footed and light-hearted. Whenever I was with him, I had the feeling that he might just float up and away—he was that insubstantial.

When we arrived at his black Jag, he walked around it, inspecting wheels, glass, finish.

“Nothing missing,” he reported happily. “No broken windows. No dents. No scratches. My lucky night.”

It wasn’t mine. I guess I had visions of going back to his loft and having a giggle on those crazy futons on the floor. But it was not to be. He drove me directly to my apartment, thanked me for an enjoyable evening, and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek.

A perfect gentleman. The bastard!

T
HE NEXT MORNING, AWAKE
but still lying in bed, listening to my air conditioner cough and sputter, I thought of the previous evening with Jack. My feelings about him were really ambivalent, no doubt about it.

He was a gorgeous man, physically, and on the futons he was a tiger. Charming, good sense of humor, intelligent, mercurial enough to be interesting, and he owned a Jaguar and knew how to make Beef Wellington: What more could a growing girl want?

Except that the guy was a lightweight, a real tap dancer. If he had any capacity for emotional commitment to anyone or anything, he had never revealed it to me. I don’t mean that I prefer solemn men, but I do like a soupçon of seriousness now and then. Jack the Smack seemed to float through life, bobbing on the current. Everything was a joke, and laughter was the medicine that cured all.

Still, he was good company and gave my life a lift: I couldn’t deny that. So when the bedside phone rang, I half-hoped it was him, calling to apologize for not taking advantage of my good nature the night before. But it was Al Georgio.

“Morning, Dunk,” he said. “Didn’t wake you up this time, did I?”