Kiss Your Elbow (20 page)

T
HE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR
hours were just a blur of faces punctuated by exploding flashbulbs. Doctors' faces, policemen, detectives, city officials, Frobisher, Jo-Jo the rubber, Peters, Libby, Lieutenant Heffran…and they had even rounded up the basket man, the two soldiers and my Samaritan couple. I must have had my picture taken a hundred times, but a hell of a lot of good it did me now with my head all bandaged up like the Invisible Man's.

Oh yes, now I was the little hero. But what did I have to show for it? No job. My best suit covered with blood they'd probably never be able to get out—and a scar on my temple. How bad that was I wouldn't know till I could take off the bandage.

Well, Sunday's
Times
had better have a nice long help-wanted column. I might as well start getting my name down on lists. I hoped I hadn't completely forgotten how to work a bulldozer.

And as if that wasn't enough, Maggie up and announces she's flying to Mexico immediately.

Fine thing! That was gratitude for you. If it hadn't
been for me she wouldn't be alive today. But no…off she's going into the wild blue yonder.

I was going to tell her what I thought of her walking out on me when I needed her most and I would have, too, only I realized that when you came right down to it, if it hadn't been for me she wouldn't even have that bump on the back of her head, much less almost have been shot. Knowing that didn't make me feel any better, either.

But the final straw was when she even had the nerve to ask me over to help her pack.

I was sitting on the bed in her bedroom morosely watching her stuff things into grips. From time to time she would make me get up and sit on a grip that took all my hundred and eighty pounds to force shut.

“For Heaven's sake, Timmy, stop looking so disapproving and get us a drink. You promised me a belt from the office bottle, remember.” I got the drinks and gave her hers and sat down on the bed again with mine.

“You are aware, I suppose,” I said as nastily as I could, “that they have a limit on the amount of luggage a passenger is permitted to carry.”

“Yes, dear. Quite aware. And do stop sulking. I know perfectly well you're furious because that bandage isn't photogenic, and you didn't get booked for a week of vaudeville.”

“There's no need to be offensive.”

“Well, is it my fault nobody gave you your little chance in front of a crackling fire to tidy up all the loose ends?” I didn't even deign to reply. “That is what's eating you, isn't it?”

“Partly,” I admitted.

“Well, go on then.”

“Of course, if you're not interested…”

“Oh, darling, I'm ecstatically interested, but I've got to finish packing. The plane leaves in an hour. Can't I listen while I pack? Do I have to sit openmouthed at your feet? Personally I think we were both dopes not to have figured out Bobby was a woman all along. I mean, there was the Pyramus and Thisbe reference in Kendall's letter…Thisbe was a man dressed as a woman. And you told me Libby said Vince Wagner had wanted Margo for Rosalind in
As You Like It
the moment she walked into rehearsal of that Equity library play thing…impersonation again and then lying about it to us in “21,” and saying it was for Nora in
A Doll's House.
You were pretty stupid not to have caught on right away.”

“Now wait a minute. Who's telling this story? You or me?” This wasn't at all the way I had planned it.

“But it's all so obvious. Nellie knew Bobby was Frobisher's son way back in
Front Page Stuff
when Bobby was a dancer in it and Frobisher was the stage manager. Frobisher wanted to keep an eye on him and sort of protect him from himself, and he even made Bobby take another name just for appearances. But in spite of everything Bobby started getting into scrapes, and instead of letting him eventually end up in prison, Frobisher thought he'd feel more at home in Hollywood where he could find a congenial little clique. All in all he had a fine time with his father paying him to keep
out of his life and getting jobs dancing in movies to keep him amused.”

“What a pity he didn't stay in Hollywood. He'd probably be a Goldwyn Girl by now. Where did you find out all this?”

“Oh, Bill told me,” said Maggie.

“And who, may I ask, is Bill?”

“Bill Heffran. You know, Lieutenant Heffran.”

“Oh, so now it's Bill, is it?”

“Well, darling, I had to talk to someone while you were so busy hogging the cameras.” She had found another pair of shoes in the bottom of her closet, which necessitated opening a grip and trying to close it again. Even both of us jumping on it wasn't enough so she said to hell with it and threw them under the bed.

“What else did dear Bill tell you while you were getting so chummy?”

“Well, let's see, Bobby came back to New York when the war started to keep out of the draft because he dressed more or less like a man out there. Here, he always passed as a woman.”

“Except, of course, when he was killing people.”

“Oh, that's what Bill calls a ‘double bluff' because Bobby was at heart a transvestite, whatever that means. I forgot to ask Bill….”

“I can see how you would be busy with other things.”

“Don't be petty. Anyhow, Bobby had been helling around town always as a woman and appearing as a man was a disguise because it wasn't what he was most of
the time, which was what he wasn't…Oh nuts, you know what I mean.”

“Too bad the army didn't catch up with him then…with his pants on.”

“You know, Frobisher's the one I can't help feeling a little sorry for. Imagine being so disgusted and ashamed of your own son that you told everyone he had been killed in the war rather than admit he was your son.”

“Did Bill also tell you how much of all this Frobisher knew?”

“Oh, Bobby kept his father posted on everything, even boasted about it. He had him over a barrel because Frobisher had also been paying Nellie blackmail. But to give the devil his due, I do think he would have confessed or made Bobby confess if the police hadn't so obligingly announced that Nellie died of heart failure. Of course, Bill knew all along that it wasn't an accident.”

“Oh he did, did he?”

“Yes, they could tell at the autopsy the way the spindle went in or something. They let it get in the papers that it was an accident to lull the murderer into a false sense of security, he says. He says that if you'd told him all the truth at the very beginning you could have saved yourself a lot of unpleasantness.”

“That's damn sweet of Bill, I must say. I suppose he'll get promoted now?”

“As a matter of fact I think he already has been.”

“Bully for him, the big slob. Did he tell you how Bobby knew I had the Youth and Beauty Book in the first place?”

“Oh, yes, Frobisher told Bobby. He guessed from the way you shot your mouth off in Sardi's. And he figured that if he and Bobby could get that and destroy it, what with the murder being called an accident, they'd be safe. That's the only reason he cast us in the show. To keep an eye on us and find out how much we knew. Really, when I think of how you forced that understudy business on Bobby when he only came around to the theater to see how you were making out after he and Jo-Jo bungled killing you the night before. No wonder Frobisher wouldn't speak to him. Really, you were an ass.”

“That understudy was Libby's idea, not mine. But ass or not, young lady, you're still alive.” I didn't mean to say that. It was unfair, but I was getting mad.

“Oh, Timmy.” She dropped the clothes she was holding and ran over to the bed and threw her arms around me. “Don't think I'm not terribly grateful and you were ever so brave. Honestly you were. But you'll have to admit you were a damn fool all the same.”

I had to admit that.

“Well, I guess I certainly tidied up all the loose ends all right, all right,” she said. “And don't be unhappy. Bill said that for an actor you had an awful lot of nerve, but please next time you find a corpse just pick up the phone and dial 0. It will save a lot of trouble all the way around.”

“I guess he's right. But tell him for me there's not going to be a next time. You meet such unpleasant people.
One Bobby is enough. How do people manage to mess themselves up like that? How wrong can you get?”

“I guess he just couldn't quite kiss his elbow.”

“Now that's a bright remark. What's it mean?”

“What? You never heard that saying when you were a kid?”

“Certainly not. What utter nonsense. Kiss whose elbow?”

“Such a dull childhood you must have had. Why your own elbow of course. When I was a little girl I wanted terribly to be a boy and they used to tease me by telling me if I kissed my elbow I'd turn into one. Or if you were a boy you'd turn into a girl. I tried and tried to kiss it but I could never quite reach it. I guess Bobby tried and tried, too, but he could never quite reach it, either.” I started, like a dope to try it. Maggie grabbed my arm. “No, Timmy, that's the whole point—it's physically impossible. But don't even try, I like you the way you are.”

“So I gathered, mousing around with Lieutenant Heffran, stealing all my thunder about loose ends and now buckety-buckety off to Mexico.” I stood up. Everything was flat, empty. I was tired. Tired of kidding myself. “You'd better hurry if you're going to catch that plane.”

“Oh my God, yes. Help me get these things in a taxi, will you?”

What else could I do? It took three trips to get all the grips to the elevator and three more to get them out on
the sidewalk. I flagged a cab and helped the driver spread them around. Maggie got in the back.

“Well, have a good time,” I said sourly. “Send me a postcard when you hit Acapulco.” The driver shifted gears and I started to close the door.

“Wait a minute, Driver,” said Maggie. “Hop in, Tim.”

“What for?” I didn't think I could face watching her plane take off.

“Oh,” she said, “didn't I tell you?”

“Didn't you tell me what?”

“You're coming to Mexico with me.”

“I'm
what?”

“You're coming to Mexico with me.”

“You're nuts. Go ahead, Driver.” He shifted gears again.

“Wait a minute, Driver,” called Maggie. “Don't be difficult, Tim. It's all arranged. I've got the tickets and the reservations and everything. We can have a whirl. Hop in.”

“You must be out of your mind. I can't do it, Maggie. Go on, Driver.”

The driver clashed the gears again.

“Wait a minute, driver,” said Maggie.

“Now look, lady,” said the driver. “Fun's fun, but nobody wants to get hysterical. Are you going or aren't you?”

“Your flag's down, isn't it?” said Maggie, regarding him hotly.

“Yes, lady, but…”

“And your little meter is working, isn't it?”

“Yes, lady, but…”

“Then relax.” The driver sighed and picked up a tabloid from the seat and unfolded it over his face and leaned back and went to sleep. “Now, then, Timmy, if you're worried about clothes and things, we can buy anything you need. It's your reward for saving my life.”

“It isn't that, Maggie. It's…I don't know but I just can't.”

“Give me one good reason.”

“There's hundreds, but, Maggie, why do you have to go?”

“Give me one good reason why I should stay.” There wasn't one, now that Operation Hollywood was a complete bust. If I'd gotten that start—and I almost had…almost…opening night—I was going to give her one good reason for staying…a long, long time…But now…

“I guess there isn't any. Goodbye, Maggie.” I wanted to kiss her goodbye more than anything else in the world, but I knew if I did I wouldn't ever leave her. And I knew that I had to now.

“You're sure you won't change your mind?”

“I'm sorry, Maggie, but I can't.”

“I think I knew all along that you wouldn't.”

“Maggie…” I hesitated.

“Yes, Tim?” she said eagerly.

“Maggie, do you like bulldozers?”

“Why, of course, I'm mad about them. What are they?”

“Never mind,” I said. I realized it was hopeless.

“Oh, dear. Did I say the wrong thing? I'm sure I
could grow to love them if I only knew what they were.” I tried to smile. “I did say the wrong thing, didn't I?”

“No. I'm afraid you said the right thing.” I slammed the door. “Goodbye, my darling.” I leaned in the open front window to wake up the driver. I pulled the tabloid off his face and he woke up and sleepily started to shift gears again, but something on the front page caught my eye. “Hey, wait a minute.”