You Might As Well Die (11 page)

Dorothy couldn’t help but want to burst her bubble. “So, why would your husband want to kill himself?”

Midge turned white. “You know why. You read the note.”

“So you read it, too?”

“Of course. I helped him write it.”

“You
helped him
write his own suicide note?” Dorothy nearly shouted.

Midge cringed. “Well, yes.”

Dorothy softened. She needed answers, and yelling was no way to get them. “Exactly how did you help him write it?”

“Being a painter, he was never very good with words. He held the pen, of course, but I helped him compose his thoughts and put them on paper.”

“You ghostwrote his suicide note?”

“No.” Midge was dismayed, in over her head. “I just helped him articulate what he was thinking.”

Dorothy felt outraged. “And what the hell was he thinking?”

Midge closed her eyes and put her hands to her forehead. “I’m feeling flushed all of a sudden. Will you excuse me? I think I had better go lie down. I don’t feel well at all.”

“You and me both. I’m sick to my stomach,” Dorothy said, and she meant it. She scooped up Woody and made her way to the door. “Hope we both feel better soon.”

 

“A skyscraper is a fine thing. A fine American thing,” Clay declared. “Some people say they’re an eyesore. They blot out the sky and make the streets shadowy.”

“Nonsense,” Benchley answered.

“Nonsense is right. A skyscraper is a monument to the forward movement of modern civilization. Onward and upward, thrusting up to the sky. Skyscrapers are nothing less than the embodiment of men’s dreams. We literally reach for the stars when we build a skyscraper.”

Benchley decided to hit closer to home. “You talk like a man in love.”

“Is it that obvious?” Clay blushed, which Benchley found nauseating.

“It’s not just a love of skyscrapers, is it?” Benchley asked. “You have a sweetheart.”

“You got me dead to rights, mister—what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” Benchley said briskly. “Tell me, who’s the lucky girl?”

Clay gazed up at the sky again. “Ah, she’s an angel. I’ve had my eye on her for years, waiting for another chance with her. She’s well worth the wait. More beautiful now than when we met as kids.”

“As kids? Have you known her that long?”

“As teenagers, I mean. You know how teenagers fall in love? They fall completely. Heart, mind, body and soul. But as you get older, they say you lose that passion, right? Like, those kinds of feelings get watered down?”

“‘Youth is hot and bold. Age is weak and cold,’ ” Benchley said, quoting Shakespeare.

Rudy the shoe-shine man gave Benchley a peeved look. Rudy had finished their shoe shines some time ago, yet Clay made no move to leave.

“Not for me, buddy. I’m still hot and bold,” Clay said. “I fell for her and I fell hard, and I’ve never gotten over her. I still feel like I did when I was young, and I always will. I built a skyscraper in my heart, and she lives in it.”

Benchley coughed to stifle a groan. Yes, that was quite enough of Bert Clay. He stood up and said by way of conclusion, “You’re not just an artist. You’re a poet. It was my pleasure to meet you.”

“Aw, enough about me,” Clay said with a wave of his hand. “I’m boring you, I can see that. Don’t go just yet. Tell me about yourself.”

“I’m a messenger boy. Come to think of it, I’d better get back to work. Reams of telegrams to deliver.” He hurriedly shook Clay’s hand, stepped down from the shoe-shine stand and slipped Rudy two bucks, which was more than enough to cover the cost. “Wonderful speaking to you, Mr. Clay. Let’s do it again.”

“Sure. When?”

“I’ll send you a telegram,” Benchley said with a wave. Then he hopped on the bike and sped away, disappearing into the busy stream of people on the crowded sidewalk.

D
orothy Parker had been at the office of
Vanity Fair
for just a few minutes before Benchley arrived—sweaty, rumpled and tired. She had been filling in Mr. Sherwood about their day’s many events: their morning at the garbage dump on Rikers Island, their harrowing visit with the lawyer Snath, their strange conversation with the nude model and spiritual medium Viola, and Dorothy’s unsettling chat with Midge MacGuffin.

She wondered aloud, “Why would Midge be so indifferent to her husband’s death?”

“Perhaps because she’s got another poker in the fire?” Benchley said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherwood asked.

Benchley explained about his conversation at the shoe-shine stand with Bert Clay.

“Clay has a skyscraper-sized infatuation for Midge,” Benchley concluded. “If you have an hour or two—or seven—he’ll be happy to tell you all about it.”

Dorothy frowned. “I don’t doubt there is some kind of hanky-panky going on between those two. But as for Midge herself, I think she’s got some bats in the belfry.”

“How so?” Benchley said, and drank deeply from a glass of water.

“She ghostwrote Ernie’s suicide note, for Pete’s sake. She’s got a screw loose somewhere.”

“I never thought so,” Sherwood said, lighting a cigarette and leaning back in his wooden chair. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think there’s much hardware up in her attic to come loose.” He tapped his temple.

“That’s what Mr. Benchley said about Viola.” Dorothy looked from Sherwood to Benchley. “What is it with you boys? Do you think a pretty face automatically means there’s no brain behind it?”

“You’re the exception that proves the rule, Mrs. Parker,” Benchley said gallantly. She smothered a smile.

Sherwood raised an eyebrow. “In regard to Midge, do you disagree?”

“I guess not,” she sighed, remembering the woman’s vacant stare. “You’re right. Midge did strike me as something of a simpleton.”

Benchley asked, “What did she say about Clay?”

“Nothing, really. I left before I could ask her.” Dorothy explained how she got fed up with Midge’s implacability. “Mr. Sherwood, I can understand how you said she looks as beautiful as a statue. She’s made of stone, too.”

“What do you mean?” Sherwood asked.

“She looks at the world like a statue would, watching it all pass by without it affecting her in the least,” Dorothy said, in a world-weary mood. “Rains may come and winds may blow, but unless the weather affects her personally, she doesn’t seem to care a whit. She seemed to care very little about Ernie, at any rate.”

“Well, speaking of caring a whit, who would care to wet their whit-stle?” Sherwood asked. He stood up, took his suit jacket off the back of his chair and slid it on. “This has been a long day for you two. I think we could all use a good stiff drink. How about we improve this discussion by continuing it at Tony’s?”

Dorothy groaned. She reminded Sherwood of their debt to Tony Soma.

“All right,” Sherwood said, undaunted. “This is Manhattan during Prohibition. There’s a speakeasy on every corner. How about Jack and Charlie’s? Or Club Durant? Or even the Roxy Grill?”

“I suppose so,” Dorothy said without enthusiasm. “Certainly, you’re right. But it’s not just the drink. Tony’s is our regular place.”

Benchley sighed. “That’s true.”

“Then what?” Sherwood asked.

Dorothy brightened. “Allow me to be optimistic—”

“That’s unlike you,” Benchley said with a gentle twinkle in his eye.

She cast him a superior look and continued. “Allow me to be optimistic and suggest we give Tony’s another try. Perhaps Mrs. Soma and that little devil Tony Jr. are away at their Tuesday afternoon coven, and Tony will take pity on us for just one drink.”

Benchley shrugged. “It’s worth a go.”

 

But Mrs. Soma herself met them at the door of the speakeasy. She clucked her tongue. “Well, look who it is! Do you have our money?”

Dorothy hesitated. “Actually—”

Mrs. Soma screamed over her shoulder. “Tony Jr.!”

Benchley chuckled. “No need to summon the little dickens. What we were about to say—”

Dorothy interrupted. “What we were about to say is that we have your money.”

“We do?” Benchley said.

“You do?” Sherwood asked.

Mrs. Soma folded her arms across her chest. “What is this? Do you have it or don’t you?”

“We do,” Dorothy said confidently. “I mean, we don’t actually have it on us. Would you like to meet us at the bank around the corner and we’ll withdraw it for you?”

Tony Jr. came running, grinning his wolfish smile. Mrs. Soma wrapped a thick arm around the boy’s narrow shoulders. “Meet you at the bank?” she asked. “Why didn’t you withdraw it before you came here?”

Dorothy leaned in and spoke low. “It’s quite a sum, and we’re not comfortable carrying such an amount of cash. You, on the other hand, have nothing to fear with your own little personal bodyguard.” They both looked down at Tony Jr. “What’s more, you have your car to bring the money home. You’re not obliged to go on foot, as we are.”

“It’s a trick, Ma!” the boy blurted out. “Don’t fall for it.”

“Shut up, you.” She cuffed him on the head. “Do you run this business?”

“But, Ma—!”

“No back talk. Get out and start the car.” She pushed him along.

The boy skipped down the steps, casting a malicious glance up at Dorothy, Benchley and Sherwood.

Now Mrs. Soma leaned in close, holding a stubby finger up to Dorothy’s face. “It’s one thing to try to pull a trick on me, but if you make me look like a fool in front of my little Tony Jr.’s eyes, God help you.”

“God help me?” Dorothy said philosophically. “He already did once today. I don’t want to press my luck.”

Mrs. Soma ignored this. She was already at the bottom of the steps, about to get into her car. “I’ll see you at the bank.”

Benchley rubbed his chin as the car pulled away. “I’m about to have a twinge of remorse. Should we go through with this?”

“Certainly. I’m about to have a twinge and tonic,” Dorothy said. “Come on. Let’s go in.”

But at that moment, the bootlegger Mickey Finn and his moll, Lucy Goosey, the former striptease dancer, emerged through the door of the speakeasy.

“Mrs. Parker! Mr. Benchley! Fancy meeting you here.” Finn smiled, and his teeth were just as yellow and rotten as when Dorothy and Benchley had last encountered the gangster.

“Not fancy at all,” Dorothy said sourly. “Lousy meeting you here, actually. What brings you out of your hideout?”

Finn cackled. He was a redheaded devil—devilishly handsome and devilishly dangerous, Dorothy thought.

“Not a social visit. Purely business,” he said in his faint Irish brogue. “I’m sure you recall very well that I supply Mr. Soma with his finest liquor, smuggled down from Canada. I have to constantly check on my interests, don’t you know.”

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Dorothy said, turning to go inside. “My only interest in your interests is in imbibing them.”

Finn smiled as he stepped aside to let her in. “A word of warning, Mrs. Parker. You won’t want to quench your thirst here very long. My darling Lucy spotted Izzy and Moe leaving as we entered.”

“Izzy and Moe?” Dorothy asked. The names sounded familiar. Had she read about them in the newspaper? Were they gangsters—or worse, Prohibition agents?

Mickey Finn confirmed her suspicions. “Aye, they’re government agents who enforce the Volstead Act. They always come in disguise. Today they were dressed as a priest and a rabbi. How do you like that? A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar—”

“A priest and rabbi walk into a bar,” Dorothy said. “And ten minutes later, it turns into a raid.”

Benchley asked Lucy, “How can you be sure it was Izzy and Moe?”

“Cop shoes,” Lucy said. “Even a penniless priest wouldn’t wear those cheap black shoes that cops always wear.”

Mickey Finn cackled again, patting Lucy on the behind. “She’s a smart lass, ain’t she? Well, enjoy your relaxing little drink. Just make sure it’s little.”

Finn turned and guided Lucy down the steps.

“Wait,” Dorothy said. “Did you warn Tony?”

“I daresay I didn’t.” Finn paused at the bottom of the steps. “When there’s a raid, the owner dumps all the liquor. Then, of course, he has to buy more. Why would I pick my own pocket? See you around.” He steered Lucy toward his waiting white limousine, parked across the street.

Benchley turned to Dorothy and Sherwood. “I guess that’s that. We don’t want to be here if the place is about to be raided. The party’s over before it even got started.”

“No, that’s just it,” Dorothy said. “This is our ticket. Come on.”

I
nside the dark speakeasy, they spotted Tony at the bar. He saw them, too.

“No, no, no!” Tony hurried toward them, wagging a long piano player’s finger. “If my wife sees you here, we all catch hell.”

Dorothy held up a hand. “You’ll thank us when you hear what we have to tell you. You’re about to be raided. Mickey’s girl saw them here a few minutes ago.”

Tony frowned. “You’re certain?”

“If Mickey Finn wouldn’t know, who would?” she asked. “Did you have a rabbi and a priest in here a short while ago? They were Prohibition agents.”

Tony’s face darkened; then he swung into action. “Carlos, get rid of that liquor!” he yelled to the man behind the narrow bar. “Put on the coffee and tea. But first, give these three each a drink on the house. Make it quick.”

Carlos nodded, moving quickly and without question.

Tony turned and addressed the room. The speakeasy wasn’t as crowded as it would be on a Saturday night, but there were enough people to make the place seem lively.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please drink up,” Tony said, his arms raised in either supplication or surrender. “We have it on good authority we’re about to be raided.”

Several people groaned, fatigued by this nuisance. Only a few bothered to get up and leave.