Compromising Positions (9 page)

“It won’t,” I assured her, looking straight into her eyes.

“Well, by the time we finished talking, I was absolutely convinced that something was going on, or was about to go on, between Jean and Bruce.”

“Did you ask her?”

“No. I couldn’t. We’re not particularly close.” Remembering how I had behaved with Scotty, I realized that Fay obviously had a great deal more discretion than I. “Anyway,” she continued, “about a month later, we ran into the Burnses at a restaurant, and Dennis asked us if we had heard from Bruce. I said no, and he went on to tell us that he had referred a few patients to Bruce and that they all seemed very pleased. We were standing there, smiling and chatting, when I took a look at Jean; she looked like she wanted to crawl under a table and die. Nothing specific, but she was obviously terribly uncomfortable. And I remember thinking, what a nasty thing for Bruce to do. To cuckold a man who’s gone out of his way to be decent to him. And really, Judith, I wasn’t being unfair. I later heard rumors from two different sources that something was going on between Bruce and Jean.”

“He sounds like a real sweetheart,” I commented.

She took a deep breath. “That’s not all.”

Fay told me that over the years she had heard buzzing about Fleckstein’s involvement with several women. Two or three of them were housewives, although she didn’t mention their names. One was a successful real estate broker in town, another was—and she seemed surprised—an activist in the feminist movement. “He was bound to run into trouble sooner or later,” she added.

“Is there any common denominator?” I asked, thinking about Mary Alice and Scotty. “Is Jean Burns Jewish?”

“Yes,” Fay said. “But not all of them were.” I knew that, but that blew my first theory, Ethnic Revenge or stick it to the
shiksa
. “They were all upper-middle-class women, all married.”

“The husbands?”

“All successful, come to think of it. Doctors, dentists, lawyers, stockbrokers, businessmen.”

“Men too busy to pay attention to their wives?” I theorized.

“Let me think. No, I don’t think so. I mean, I can think of at least two cases where the husbands were really genuinely devoted to their wives. Dennis Burns, for instance. It was as if Bruce only wanted to associate himself with success.”

“And what about Norma?” I asked. “Do you think she knew?”

“Well, I don’t think so. You know, Judith, I’ve seen several men with a pants problem, and I’m convinced their motive isn’t sex. Usually, if you’ll excuse me, they screw other women literally to screw their wives figuratively. But Bruce was different. He was always lovey-dovey with Norma, never flirted with anyone in front of her.” She peered down into her coffee cup. “You know, I don’t usually talk like this. About other people’s private affairs. But there was something so threatening about Bruce.”

“In what way?” I asked, my hushed tones matching hers.

“I know this sounds melodramatic, but I got the feeling he was pure evil, like the snake in Eden. Very smooth and very corrupt. Corrupting, really. Nothing blatant, like Hitler.”

“Churchill called him ‘this wicked man Hitler.’ Remember?”

“Yes. But Bruce was more subtle, like Albert Speer. Wickedness was a choice, not a response.”

“God,” I breathed.

“Well, the opposite really; nothing godlike about the incredible Dr. Fleckstein. You know, I’ve always been fairly religious, a reasonably observant Jew, but for a long time I told myself that I just had to watch out for myself—and my family. That it was wrong to make moral judgments about others. But the longer I live and the more I study history, the more I believe that one has to take a moral stand. And Bruce Fleckstein was a bad man.”

“You’re certain the rumors were true, then?”

She smiled. “You’re a truly just person. Yes, the rumors were true. I know. Because he tried to seduce me.”

Fortunately, I restrained my impulse to blurt out, “You?” Any man getting to know Fay as a person would soon realize what a lovely human being she was, but she was not the type to light a fire in the loins of the average suburban Don Juan. “Tell me,” I said.

Fay’s colorless, ordinary face looked drawn. Her lipstick had disappeared with her lunch, so her mouth blended into the rest of her features, defined only by a few deep lines in the corners. She was terribly uneasy, though I couldn’t tell if it was from her natural reticence or because her memory was still burdened by the weight of emotion. “Well, about a couple of months after they had been to our house, Norma called and invited us to dinner. We went, had a reasonably nice time, and that was that. At least I thought that was that. But the next Monday I had a call from Bruce about four o’clock, a few minutes after I came home from school.” She hesitated. “This is so embarrassing.”

“If you’d rather not,” I began.

“No, it’s okay. Well, he began by saying how much he enjoyed my company, how much he admired me. I had a good mind, I remember he said. And then he said: ‘I find you very attractive.’”

“What did you say?”

“I said thank you and how was his lovely wife Norma? He just pretended he didn’t hear and then asked me out for lunch.” She paused for a minute and then made a noise, a cross between a snort and a nervous giggle. “Anyway, I told him I had forty-five minutes for lunch and thirty minutes of that time were spent grading papers.”

“Did he take the hint?” I asked.

“Yes. He even managed to be very gallant. He said something to the effect that it’s so rare to meet such an intelligent, sensitive woman and it’s too bad we couldn’t get together.”

“Maybe he was being sincere, Fay.”

“Judith, I know what I am. I’m reasonably bright, competent, and interesting. And just between us, I would be overjoyed if a handsome young man came and kneeled down before me and offered himself as my liege man—especially if he didn’t want to admire me from afar. But I’m not pretty. I’m not, according to current usage, sexy. I was a good ten years older than he, and I just knew he was saying to himself, ‘Here’s a plain, dull, menopausal woman who would be pathetically grateful for my attention.’”

I shook my head. “You’re not being fair to yourself, Fay.”

“Maybe not fair, but honest.” She toyed with a locket she was wearing and told me that at her husband’s insistence, they had seen the Flecksteins a few more times. Joe, in his role as a bank officer, felt that Fleckstein had the smell of success—and had hoped some of the aroma would waft his way. Finally, Fay told
him
that she found the Flecksteins very dull and refused to socialize with them again. Joe acquiesced.

“So you never saw them again?”

“No, but Joe saw Bruce on business. That’s why I came to the funeral; Joe had an appointment today and couldn’t break it.”

“You never said anything to him about Fleckstein’s overture?”

“No. What good would it have done? Anyway, Joe finally became disillusioned with Bruce. Bruce’s brother-in-law, Dicky Dunck, you know, asked Bruce to co-sign a loan about eight months ago. Joe says Dicky was good for the money, but had a cash-flow problem or some such thing, but it wouldn’t have meant any risk to Bruce. But he wouldn’t do it. In fact, he told
Joe
to call Dicky and tell him no. It was horribly awkward.”

“What did Dicky need the loan for?” I asked.

“Oh, I think it was for some new equipment. Oh, wait, to meet his payroll. That’s what it was. And Joe said that even if there had been a risk, ten thousand would have been pin money to a man in Bruce’s position. The thing that got to Joe was the callousness.” Fay ran a gnarled hand over her mouth. “I guess I shouldn’t be talking like this about Joe’s business. But it was so cruel, so upsetting.”

We lingered over a second cup of coffee until the waitress came with the check. We both grabbed for it.

“Let me,” Fay insisted. “I invited you to lunch.”

“Come on. Let me be a sport,” I argued back. “That way I can close my eyes and pretend I’m grown up with an expense account.”

We split the check and walked slowly to the door, each of us nodding to various neighbors and acquaintances. “It’s such a small town,” Fay remarked.

She dropped me off at the house and I flopped down on the couch, grateful at the prospect of a half hour of silence. Off came my shoes, and I began playing with a thread on my pantyhose. Within seconds, I had a full-fledged run and a rush of adrenalin. You have deeds to do, obligations to meet, my body called out to me.

Naturally, I obeyed. I stood and marched purposefully into the kitchen—then stood there, confused. Just what was I supposed to do? Bruce? Norma? Fay? Scotty? Ah, Mary Alice. Mary Alice needs a good criminal lawyer. All right, I would call Claymore Katz. Surely Claymore would know what to do. He was, for an Ivy League-educated, upper-middle-class attorney, street-wise; he once told me that a client of his had had an accident. What happened? I asked. “His head got in the way of a bullet.”

But if I called him, Bob would be annoyed. He would demand, coldly, just what was wrong with me. Why was I getting involved? Still, I could tell him the extent of Mary Alice’s involvement, explain she needed a lawyer fast. And what would Bob say? “Fuck her. Her husband can pay for a lawyer. Just stay out of this.”

I stood looking at the telephone. Why not call? Claymore was my friend too. He would swoop down on me at a dinner party and herd me into a corner. “Judith, my joy, my pleasure. Talk to me of life. Of history. If I hear one more word about tax shelters, I’m going to heave. God, what happened to them? How did they become so incredibly boring? How did we escape?”

Rather nervously, I looked up Claymore’s number and dialed. The switchboard operator greeted me with a cheerful, “Burton, Furn, Ziss and Katz. Good afternoon.”

“Mr. Katz’s office,” his secretary said, sounding even more cheerful than the switchboard operator. Should I disguise my voice, give a false name? Bob called Claymore frequently. What would the secretary think if
Mrs.
Singer called? But couldn’t men and women be friends? Could they be? “Mr. Katz’s office,” she said again.

“Mr. Katz, please.”

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Mrs. Singer.”

“Hello.” Claymore’s voice was smooth and clear and deep. Hearing it, you’d imagine you were talking to God, or at least someone over six feet tall, instead of the short, pudgy man with a big nose and walrus mustache to whom it belonged.

“Hi, Clay. Judith Singer.”

“Judith,” he said, his voice full of warmth. “Why didn’t you just say ‘Judith?’ When I heard ‘Mrs. Singer,’ I just assumed it would be some tedious functionary from the A.G.’s office. That’s the Attorney General’s office. How are you, you lovely, bright, human being?”

“Fine, Clay. Look, I have a major favor to ask you.”

“Anything. Could Dante say no to Beatrice?”

“Clay, listen, there’s something I want to talk to you about. Could we have lunch one day next week?”

“Yes. Sure. Is it something important?”

“Kind of. What’s a good day for you?”

“Let me check my calendar. Monday I’ll be downtown all day. Is Tuesday okay? I have a Bar Association committee meeting where everyone sits around clearing their throats to see who has accumulated the most phlegm, but I’d love to get out of that. About one o’clock? I’ll meet you at my office and we’ll go someplace painfully elegant.”

I thought about it. Claymore’s firm did all of Singer Associates’ legal work. “Tuesday’s fine, but could we meet in a restaurant? I don’t want to run into my father-in-law or one of my brothers-in-law if they happen to be around your office.”

Claymore paused for a minute. I could hear
him
swallow. “Sure. I assume you don’t want Bob to know about this either?”

“Right. I’ll explain at lunch.”

“Fine. We can meet at Orsini’s then. At one.”

“Lovely, Clay.” Maybe I’d see Jackie Onassis. Or at least Lee Radziwill. “Look, I really appreciate this.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Judith.”

I replaced the receiver gently and began worrying about what to wear. By electing to serve my sentence in Shorehaven, I had grown out of touch with Manhattan fashions, as well as ideas. I knew my pleated skirt was wrong, but I didn’t know what was right. In desperation, I called Nancy, who told me to wear a plain dress; she’d fix it up with a scarf and a few strategically placed gold chains.

“Thanks,” I said. “By the way, guess where I was today.” She couldn’t, so I filled her in on what I had observed at Baum Brothers.

“That’s terrific, Judith. Going to funerals might catch on. All the ladies could give up tennis and pay condolence calls instead. Just think. You’d need a lot more clothes, and dresses are so much more interesting than tennis shorts. What a boon it would be to the garment industry. And you’d make so many families happy because the deceased was so popular and you could get a real education listening to all those ministers and rabbis. And Judith, have you ever heard a requiem mass? It’s magnificent.”

“Did you do anything about getting magazine credentials?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you ask?” she inquired, using her sugary Melanie Wilkes voice. “Anyway, I made a few calls, and no one gives a hoot about Bruce Fleckstein. They’ve done suburban crime to death, and they’re tired of pornography. Maybe I should have asked if they were interested in gum diseases.”

“So you didn’t get anywhere?” I asked.

“Of course, I got somewhere. I’m doing a piece for
New York
on the fleeing suburbanite, about all the folks who’ve had it up the old whazzoo with car pooling and who are moving back to the city.”

I shifted the receiver to the other ear. Perhaps I just didn’t understand. “But, Nancy, that has nothing to do with the murder.”

“So what?”

“You promised Mary Alice you’d try to help her.”

“Well, I tried and failed. Look, I don’t give a crap about Mary Alice. I’m a writer, damn it. If she wants, she can try to get hold of those pictures and we can do a book. I’ll write the text.”

“So you’re not going to help her?” I demanded, my voice rising in anger. “Goddamn it, can’t you use your
New York
credentials with police? Just say one of the reasons people are leaving the suburbs is the increase in crime and use the Fleckstein murder as an example.”