Park Lane South, Queens (22 page)

“Come on, Stefan! You'll get a ticket!”

“Diplomatic immunity!” he hollered back.

They raced up the F.D.R. Drive, then crossed onto the narrow, tree-lined streets of the Upper East Side. Self-preserving yellow taxis sped out of their way. Stefan swerved dangerously to avoid a Chevrolet that had the impudence to drive at a legal speed. He grinned gloriously (he really was good looking with that white-blond hair and steely eyes), as though he'd made it through yet one more dangerous mission. He swung around the block, then double-parked with a screech beside a row of limousines. Chivalrously, he helped his ladies ascend from their carriage.

Claire was sopping wet. She headed directly for the ladies' room to put herself back together. The place looked like any local Irish bar, but all New Yorkers knew that this was the only place where the likes of themselves would ever eat dinner next to an authentic film star. Or run into one on the way to the ladies' room. It was mercifully empty. Claire tore off her blouse and submerged herself as best she could in the sink. She shouldn't have had all that crummy wine. She sat down on the toilet seat and let her head spin. The wall was papered with starlet's heads cut out from magazines, then lacquered to an amber sheen. Imagine Johnny Benedetto thinking her a suspect! True, there had been that one moment there when she'd thought the same of him. She buttoned her blouse thoughtfully. Why on earth had her mother cut off all her beautiful hair? Now she looked like all the other ladies out in Richmond Hill. Permanently waved. Next would be a lavender rinse. She'd always been rather proud of her mother's obstinate disregard for fashion. Her nunlike skin that had never known more than a cheery lipstick to go with a “good” dress. Her sensible shoes. You could grow up as much as you liked but you still wanted your parents to fit some idiotic consistent image you had of them. You wanted them worthy of your own unworthy love. It didn't seem exactly plausible to Claire, sitting there snug in her sanctuary cubicle, that she had ever been around the world at all. That whole business of the last ten years seemed like a color film she'd absentmindedly watched and not quite gotten the point of. It seemed a lot more as though she were still a kid from Queens who'd come over the bridge for a night on the town and here she was, a little bit tanked, still biting her nails in girlish reminiscence. Perhaps it was the beery atmosphere. One thing was sure, though, she wasn't a kid. She saw that quite plainly on the back of her hand. The knuckles were going scrunchy and no nightly application of hand cream would ever change that. She licked them soothingly.

Why did Johnny have to be a crook? Whatever he was doing at the track was illegal, she knew that. He was ripping off the public. Or at least the mob. Wasn't it the mob that ran the track? She could pretty much figure out how it worked. Some mob lackey waited till most of the bets were in and the odds down, then he dropped a substantial wad on a “dark” horse … against the odds but “set” to win … and this just before the track closed the betting windows. As there were no phones at the track, they were pretty safe in keeping the new development from any off-track betting, thus keeping the odds to themselves and their profit enormous. That would be where Johnny and his partner came in. It was actually quite clever. Did she really care if he was ripping off the mob? Or even if he was ripping off that vague entity: the public? Wasn't Julio Marble doing the same thing? What was it Stefan had said he was getting for just one of those atrocities? Two hundred thousand. Now that was robbery. She wondered what Johnny was doing now? Staking out someone else? And there would be no end to those adventures of his if she were with him. Every time he would walk out the door she'd have to wonder if he'd ever walk back in. She wished she could be more like her mother, who had Zinnie figured for safe in the arms of the Lord, protected by her own guardian angel. Now that was a thought. Claire wondered if she had one. If she had, he would have probably wandered off while she'd been busy researching Hinduism and Buddhism. And now? What was she now, an orthodox agnostic? Or perhaps angels weren't subject to religion. She stood up and unlocked the door. She looked in the mirror. Not too bad, for a heathen. But was she still considered “in the running”? As a matter of fact, she looked pretty damn good. She picked up her blouse and inspected her breasts. There they were, good as gold, good as new. Happy again, she tucked herself in. Not a moment too soon. The door flew open and there was the flawless, lovely face of this year's most recognizable starlet. Pride truly cometh, Claire concluded wryly, before a fall. With a humble heart, she headed back to the table.

Nicole was propped up on Stefan's bony lap, a sight that would have irritated her more had she not recognized that look of hopeful sadism in Stefan's eyes when he knew she saw them like that. The famous Laraine, for whom the place was named, had parked her feline self at the table as well. She was one of those inscrutable, voluminous women whom men like and women do not (or who likes men and doesn't like women—it's always the same). A woman who wore Chanel No. 5 so well that no one knew what in heaven's name she had on. She was lapping up whatever Jupiter Dodd had to say. There were a bunch of others Claire didn't know, everyone successful and cityish, and one artist Claire had read about in the Sunday magazine section, someone named Verona.

Stefan shook Nicole from his person, stood up, and found the two of them some chairs. He wedged them neatly into place and Claire sat down. Nicole seemed to think she was holding court and she just carried on, informing the party of the physical beauty of Saint-Tropez. There was no one in the group who hadn't spent many a moonlit night there themselves, but what the heck, they let her talk. It was always somehow wonderful to remember the south of France through anyone's eyes. And after bumping into the breathtaking starlet, Claire could hardly be angry with Nicole. It wouldn't be too long before she, too, would be over the hill. That was one thing that happened to all of them. It certainly beat the alternative, not making it over the hill. Claire congratulated herself for her mature, generous attitude and looked around. They were all very busy downing their margaritas. She ordered a Sea Breeze. Sensible vodka with cranberry juice and grapefruit.

Dodd wanted to know all about her past. She could hardly resist giving him a short but glowing verbal résumé. Lord knew there was no one in Queens who'd ever heard of anyone she'd ever worked with. She was beginning to feel like her old self and told him so.

“But not really?” Dodd was saying. “You honestly live in Queens? In
Queens
?”

“Yes. Actually. With my parents.”

“No! How refreshing. And how do you manage getting back and fo—”

“Queens isn't so bad,” Stefan interrupted, thumping the table impatiently. Now that Jupiter Dodd wanted her attention, he wanted it, too. “It's quite exciting. Especially now. Isn't it, Claire? With all the murders going on.”

“Murders?” Dodd perked up.

“We've had a couple of child murders,” Claire explained.

“Not those ones on TV!” Nicole clapped her hands.

“Two that we know about,” Stefan said. “There could be more that haven't been discovered.”

That was true, Claire realized, imagining the woods full of children's graves.

“I read about them,” Laraine joined in. “Horrible!”

“Faggot murders,” Stefan said. “Right up in the park. Right where I live.”

“How could they be gay murders?” Claire stared at him. “One of the two was a little girl.”

Stefan raised one eyebrow. “A ploy, my dear. To cast suspicion on somebody else.”

Or bisexual, she thought, remembering Freddy with a lurch.

“Gay?” Nicole went back to her shrimp cocktail. Gay people didn't interest her.

“You should see them,” Stefan spat. “They cruise around Park Lane South exactly across from my house. Right in the woods there. It's disgusting! They leave their rubbers anywhere on the ground where little children can pick them up. They … they …” He was all worked up, but he stopped when he saw how Jupiter Dodd was looking at him. “Those children,” he leaned in and whispered, “had slices of flesh cut right off them.”

Claire felt a chill go right through her. Whoever would do such a thing wouldn't think twice about killing a cop. What if Johnny did figure out who it was? What if the murderer—

“Claire! What's the matter?”

Claire looked down at Stefan. She hadn't even known she'd stood up.

“Oh, they questioned everybody,” Stefan continued. “Even me! And probably Claire, too. Did they put you in a lineup, Claire?” he laughed.

“They talked to me, too, yes.” She sat back down.

“And you should have seen the cops! One of them had on, I kid you not, a blue and white seersucker leisure suit!”

Why, that's Johnny's partner, thought Claire, remembering the horrendous suit. That's Ryan.

“No!” guffawed Jupiter Dodd.

“And the other one! He was a piece of work. Right out of a television series. Brooklyn accent … the entire syndrome. ‘Duh,' he said to me, ‘Where'd ya get dem pick-chas?' Pick-chas? He was looking at the Erté. Pick-chas!”

Everyone laughed out loud.

“Then,” Stefan continued, his eyes gleaming, “—then he started to ask me about my private life. That's when I put a stop to it. I said, ‘Detective, if you have any problems with my sex life you can take it up with my lawyer.…' And do you know what he said to me? He said, ‘Why? Your lawyer got a handle on where you stick it?' Fresh. Now I'd say that's fresh. Flippant. Not to mention crass. Sorry, ladies. He was such a classically ignorant type, though. Priceless!”

Claire wiped her burning face with a napkin. “Stefan, I hate to be boring, but I'm not feeling too well. Would you walk me to a cab? I'd like to go home.”

Stefan didn't hesitate for a moment. He was by her side and shelling cash out onto the table in one movement. “Come,” he crooned, “I'll have you home in twelve minutes.”

“That's what I'm afraid of. Please stay. I don't think I could take another roller coaster ride tonight.”

“I promise I won't go a moment over sixty,” Stefan grasped her shoulders cheerfully from behind and gave a tidy squeeze.

“It's all this talk of murder,” Jupiter clicked his tongue. “She's a sensitive girl,
n'est pas
?”

Laraine concocted an elaborate yawn and Nicole made optimistic eyes at Mr. Verona.

CHAPTER 11

Going over the Queensboro Bridge, Claire turned clear around in her seat to get a good look at the skyline. The sky had turned overcast but the heavens were lit. New York lived and breathed a great mucky glow of its own. She sighed. That's my town from here on in, she realized, pleased. Oh, it would all work out. She felt better now, all snuggled up in the leather upholstery soft as butter. There was something about a posh car. It made you forget all about tomorrow. Rather like late-night television. She looked over at Stefan. He smiled back, concerned. He wasn't so bad, really. Just a hell of a snob. But then so had she been, back in the Munich days. She stroked the nice leather. There was nothing wrong with being a snob. It showed you were discerning. Perhaps Stefan was only so happy-go-lucky on the outside. Maybe he was as wracked by doubts and inconsistencies as she. After all, she hadn't given him much of a chance.

As though reading her change of heart with some devious instinct, he leaned over and placed one hand on the seat beside her knee. He wore a heavy gold ring with a lapis lazuli stone.

“That's an interesting ring,” she admired.

Stefan chuckled. “My great-grandfather's ring.”

“Is that so?” Claire imagined herself, years down the road, wearing such a ring herself. And Stefan, dignified Stefan, one day passing his own heavy ring down to their son. The only trouble was, the son looked remarkably like a miniature Johnny Benedetto. “Honestly,” she said out loud, “sometimes I get so confused. There really is something to be said for the oblivion of drunkenness.”

“Only you're not drunk, are you?” he said, meaning something else. Of course, he wasn't stupid. He hadn't got to where he was by being dim-witted.

“You're the type who's always thinking,” he eyed her fondly. “That brain never stops.”

“Oh, it stops, all right. It just does so at teeming intersections.”

“You know what you need?”

“What?”

“A good dose of security. That's what.”

“I've got all the security I need. I'm living with my parents, after all.”

“I mean real security. Financial. Then you'd be free to pursue your art.”

“I could always get a job, Stefan.”

“Or marry someone with a lot of money.”

Claire switched on the radio. Why was he saying things like this to her? Did he like her that much? Financial security was an attractive commodity. He knew she knew that. Albinoni's adagio for strings came on. One of her dad's favorites. Now her parents didn't have much more than a pot to piss in and yet they had everything. At least, if you looked at it a certain way they did. Her mother always said there was no security in the world. Just look at Mrs. Dixon. Whatever it was, Mary always had a handy point of reference among her friends. That poor woman. She'd looked after her bedridden mother for years until the poor old thing had died. There was no money left after that and she wasn't getting any younger, so when Rudy Dixon came along, nice big house, good job with a fine company … she'd accepted his marriage proposal with relief. Finally someone to look after her. Security. And what had happened? Not two years into the marriage, Rudy had had himself a massive stroke and Mrs. Dixon spent the next thirty years looking after helpless Rudy and cleaning that big house herself. No, there were no sure things, no security in the world. Banks did fail. Stocks and bonds collapsed. You were better off taking your chances with someone you loved.