The Big Brush-off (3 page)

In the corridor I stood outside our suite for at least a minute, trying to figure out how to explain my meeting with Mildred to Laura. Another couple stepped off the elevator and as they hurried past gave me the eye, like I was some kind of jewel thief.

I unlocked the door and went inside. The scent of roses hit me like a slap across the face. At least one more vase of flowers had been delivered since I left. The latest issue of
Variety
magazine sat on the table with dozens of cards and fan mail. Everywhere I looked was a reminder of Laura's success.

The silence confirmed she'd yet to return from her picture's final shoot. I dropped the keys on the coffee table and poured a tall drink in a short glass. I stood on the balcony, listening to sirens, car horns, police whistles, screeching tires, and shouted obscenities. I'd been to lots of cities, but New Yorkers had the most creative curse words.

Nowadays the majority of New Yorkers couldn't pick out neighbors from a lineup. Most didn't have two nickels to rub together. Still, at the end of the day, they managed to go out for drinks, or to a movie or ball game or the theater. Damn, I missed New York.

I went inside, dropped onto the soft couch, and sipped the bourbon. The booze cleared my head, but no quantity of alcohol could erase Mildred's expression of disappointment in me.

I finished the bourbon and gazed around the room. What a sap. I couldn't be happier for Laura's success. She struggled hard to get out of Queens and be a star on Broadway and now in Hollywood.

Still, roses and cards of congratulations were insignificant mementoes compared to what Mary Caldwell had gone through the past ten years. I pictured her on the train back to Hanover, her last hope dashed by selfish concerns for my future.

I rose to pour another drink. When a key sounded in the door, I left the empty glass and planted a welcoming smile on my face.

Laura stepped into the room, along with a giggling, petite, freckle-faced redhead. “Jake, you remember Joan.”

We'd met at several Hollywood parties, but this was the first movie she and my wife had worked on together, Laura's latest screwball comedy, set in New York. I knew Joan well enough to know the name on her birth certificate, Lucille LeSueur.

I rose and offered my hand. “Of course.” Like the characters she played, Joan Crawford was a real looker, strong, independent, and funny.

“Come here, you.” She gave me a hug then gazed around the room. “Laura, you have a lot of friends.”

Joan walked to the table filled with flowers and studied each card as if that was what people did. One, with a dozen red roses, appeared to catch her eye. “From William Powell. Say, didn't you two have a…”

“We only went on two dates, to dinner then to a nightclub.” Laura blushed. “Bill and I have always just been friends.”

Joan's eyes darted toward me. “Oh, that's right. I must have you confused with some other friend of mine.” She checked her watch and headed for the door. She flashed a gaudy diamond on her ring finger. “I have to scoot. Can't keep my fiancé, Franchot, waiting.”

Laura gave her a peck on the cheek and held the door as her friend disappeared down the corridor.

I smiled as Laura closed the door. “How was your final day on location?”

“After the last shoot, everything turned into a party that looked like it would go on for hours. Parties are much more fun when you're with me.” As her lips brushed mine, her expression changed instantly as her brow furrowed. “The meeting didn't go well. I smell whiskey on your breath.”

Laura held my arm. “Jake, darling. What's the matter? Is it Mildred?”

My wife was an actress, but I wasn't. I couldn't act like nothing was wrong. “She didn't like the chapters. Empire Press won't offer me a contract.”

Laura squeezed my hands. “Darling, that broad never can offer a compliment. You told me yourself.”

I paced the room. “She's abrasive and merciless at times, but she's rarely wrong about my writing. Even before I dropped off the pages, I knew they were crap.”

Laura threw her arms around me. “Oh, Jake. I'm so sorry. I read those chapters and liked them.”

I held her close, inhaling the perfume that took away the smell of the roses. “You love me.”

“I do.” She kissed my lips. “There are other publishers. Call Bill Putnam. He owes you.”

I'd call Putnam only as a last resort. “Mildred left the door open. She thinks we should get away so I can focus on the novel.”

“What a wonderful idea. I don't have to be in Hollywood for a couple of weeks. How about a cabin in upstate New York, maybe on a lake someplace? I could cook.”

I chuckled then realized she meant what she said. “Sorry, I didn't realize you were serious.”

Laura was a lot of things—kind, generous, and loving—but cooking wasn't a skill she'd mastered.

A smirk spread across her face. “Okay, I could
learn
to cook while you worked on your novel. I'll call Gino and cancel tonight's plans.”

“Let's not cancel.” With her shooting schedule, Laura hadn't seen our old pal Gino Santoro since he picked us up at Grand Central Station. He'd planned a big party for us to celebrate the completion of Laura's latest movie at his restaurant, Gino's.

“Are you sure?”

Being around our childhood friend with his gift of gab might be the perfect antidote to feeling sorry for myself. “I'm sure.”

Laura shook her head. “We've got to get rid of these flowers.”

“There's something else.”

Laura cocked her head.

“If you'd like to come along, we've been invited to Hanover, Pennsylvania.”

“What's in Hanover?”

I told her about the encounter with Mary Caldwell and Father Ryan.

When I finished, she took my hands. “Oh, Jake, things haven't gone well for you today. Of course we'll go.”

I kissed her. “Did I ever mention what a wonderful wife I married?”

Laura smiled. “You alluded to that last night in bed.”

An hour later she'd changed into evening attire, a stunning strapless red dress. I glanced in a mirror next to the front door and smoothed the lapels of my lucky blue suit. I cinched my tie, avoiding the sensation I was tightening my own noose.

An hour later, Laura and I stepped off the elevator into the crowded lobby. Heads turned as my wife crossed the room in her red strapless dress with matching heels, and beads that swayed when she walked. She looked like a million bucks, if I knew what a million bucks looked like.

When we passed by the chair Mary Caldwell had sat in earlier in the day, I pictured the desperation on the dying woman's face. I wanted to fulfill her heartfelt request but, as selfish as it seemed, I had my own future to consider.

As we waited for a cab, Laura pulled a hankie from her purse and dabbed moist eyes.

I held her hand. “Sweetheart, what's wrong?”

“Darling, the past two years haven't been easy for you, I know. You gave up everything for me and my career. I focused so much on becoming a star, I forgot to tell you how much I appreciate all you've done for me. You mean more to me than acting. You know that, right?”

I held her in my arms as the doorman pretended not to notice. When I stared into her face, I didn't see the beautiful movie star I married. We were kids again walking home from high school, stealing kisses before we went our separate ways. “These past two years have been the best of my life.”

“Darling, I don't need a career. I need you.”

A cab pulled up in front of us. As we rode off, I was determined not to let my encounter with Mary Caldwell, or my meeting with Mildred, ruin a night out with old friends.

Laura took a deep breath and regained her composure. She acted like everything was fine, but I knew better.

The cabbie glanced in the rearview mirror and snapped his fingers several times. “You're that actress. I saw you in
Midnight Wedding
last year. Sure.”

Laura smiled. “Did you enjoy the movie?”

“I loved the food fight and every scene you were in.” He cleared his throat then reached for a logbook and handed it into the backseat. “Would you mind? My wife would be thrilled.”

“My pleasure.” Laura took the book, signed her name, and handed it back.

“I get plenty of celebrities. Last month I dropped Ethel Merman off at a theater, and a few weeks before, F. Scott Fitzgerald. You think he'd be a big tipper, but not so much. Last year Dashiell Hammett gave me a tip with a bill that had a president I'd never seen before. Writers are either loaded or struggling, like actors, you might say.”

He was right about authors.

The driver glanced again in the rearview mirror. “Wait, buddy, you look familiar too.” As he studied my face, Laura handed me her pen to sign his logbook.

He snapped his fingers. “You used to be a high-stakes gambler in Brooklyn, right?”

I winked at Laura and gave her the pen back. “That's me. Want to go double or nothing on the fare? I'll pick a number between one and ten.”

He locked eyes with me. “Naah. Don't think so.”

I pointed to the next light. “Take a right.”

“I thought you was going to Gino's in Queens?”

“A slight detour.” I gave the cabdriver directions to where Laura and I grew up. Neither of us had seen the old neighborhood in more than two years. We drove past our old high school, the park, the house I grew up in, and Laura's old house, a place full of painful memories.

A few blocks from where we grew up, I asked the cabbie to pull over. The cab idled in front of what had been The Yankee Club, Gino's old speakeasy, boarded up shortly after the repeal of Prohibition.

“Nothing ever stays the same.” Laura squeezed my hand. “Let's go see Gino's new place.”

She'd seen enough of our past. We both had.

Even growing up, Gino was a shrewd operator, loaning money to kids and earning it back with interest. His skill improved with age. In the depths of the Great Depression, Gino set aside enough dough from The Yankee Club to open a restaurant, Gino's, down the street from the Grand Theater in Queens.

The cabbie dropped us off in front of a modest-looking restaurant with a blue neon sign,
G
INO'S
. The place had plenty of windows, something speakeasies never had.

I paid the fare, thanked the driver, and helped Laura from the cab. As we passed by one of the trees growing alongside the curb, I heard the tinkling of a bell. I stopped and a black-and-white kitten teetering on a branch stretched above the traffic.

Laura let out a gasp. “Jake, do something.”

I like cats as much as fish like bicycles. This one probably belonged to someone nearby, though the only people in sight were a plump woman in a mink stole chatting with another dame by Gino's front door. “He'll be okay.”

“Jake.”

I glanced again at the kitten. The prospect of seeing a dead kitten when the evening was over was enough for me to take off my suit coat and hand it to Laura.

I walked back to the tree and stepped into the curb lane, holding a hand out to advancing traffic. A delivery truck skidded to a stop, blasting its horn.

I hooked one arm around the lowest branch and pulled myself up enough to touch the kitten, which hissed and backed away. Damn it!

With a quick glance at the impatient trucker, I tried again. I lunged and managed to wrap my fingers around the tiny kitten. I pulled the creature off the branch and dropped onto the street. I stumbled back onto the sidewalk and collided with the tree.

The kitten hissed again and raked its claw along my eyebrow.

Laura took the kitten from me, calmed it with whispered endearments, and handed me a hankie.

The woman in the mink stole glanced into her purse and let out a shriek. She ran to Laura and reached out her arms. “Be careful. Muffin's just a kitty. Did they hurt you, baby?” She kissed the cat, which snuggled between her ample breasts, and walked away without so much as a thank-you.

Laura shook her head and helped me on with my suit coat. “How do you like that?”

“Not so much.” I blotted my brow with the hankie and stuffed it in my pocket.

Inside, a pretty hostess greeted us with a friendly smile. “You must be Jake and Laura. Right this way.”

The murmuring customers sat in comfortable-looking chairs at tables with white tablecloths and red flickering candles. Waiters took orders and poured wine, while waitresses rushed from kitchen to tables, carrying steaming trays of pasta with the familiar aroma of expertly prepared Italian food. The hostess led us toward a bar containing dozens of bottles of wine reflected in a mirrored wall. I recognized the mahogany counter from The Yankee Club. She showed us to a private room with a glass chandelier.

Gino rose with a smile that could've lit up a runway. Marriage to Stella, The Yankee Club's former cigarette girl, and fatherhood hadn't changed him. He was still handsome and charismatic, a smooth dresser as usual, in a blue three-piece suit and gold cufflinks and slicked black hair.

He clapped me on the back and mussed my hair. In an instant, we were kids again, running through the neighborhood, overturning trash cans, and causing mischief, like sneaking into the Grand Theater and catching glimpses of girls with cleavage and fishnet stockings.

Gino kissed Laura's cheek then gave her the once-over. “That's some dress. If I didn't already know, I'd say you should be in the movies.”

Laura laughed.

“You're late, but you're probably still on Hollywood time.” Gino gestured toward his pretty wife with the same platinum hair she wore back in the day. “You remember Stella.”

Laura kissed Gino's wife on the cheek. Stella was expecting another baby, their second…any day now, from her appearance.

Stella smiled. “You twos haven't changed at all. You're both prettier than ever. Ain't they, Gino?”

“Especially this guy.” Gino pinched my cheek then stared at my brow. “What happened to your face? Laura catch you with another dame?”

Laura squeezed my arm. “He rescued a cat outside.”

Gino chuckled. “You be careful, Jake. This ain't like Los Angeles where people carry cats around in handbags. New York streets can be dangerous. We got so many cats 'cause we have too many rats. You know that.”

“It was a kitten.” His crack about New York streets brought back my earlier meeting with Mildred, but I wouldn't let that ruin our evening out. “Congratulations on another kid. I was going to ask what you've been doing lately, but I can see for myself.”

Gino let out a hearty laugh and held a chair out for my wife. “Laura, you gotta see pictures of little Vinnie. Don't worry, it's just a few.”

A few dozen. As a waiter poured wine for everyone, my friend pulled a stack of photos from his suit coat pocket and passed around pictures of his kid. Vinnie had Gino's dark hair and Dick Tracy jaw and even his old man's twinkle in his eyes. Laura winked at me as the proud father droned on about the smartest kid on the playground.

In the old days, Gino talked about dames. Now his family, his kid, and his new restaurant dominated the conversation. He and Stella had both changed from their Yankee Club days.

When he finally stuffed the photos back in his pocket, I took in the surroundings. “I can't believe this used to be a laundromat.”

Gino nodded. “It ain't no Yankee Club, but this place is okay, you know? If I didn't own the joint, I'd still eat here. Let me show you two around.” He gave Stella a peck on the cheek. “Wait here, doll.”

As we stepped into the main dining room, he studied my face. “Something wrong, goombah?”

I glanced at Laura and shook my head. Like I said, I wasn't a very good actor.

“If you say so.” Gino led us through the restaurant, describing each framed picture of Italy or Queens. He shook hands with regulars and first-time customers, just like the old days. Everyone loved Gino.

At the end of the dining room was another room, a parquet floor with a four-piece jazz band about to play. I never expected a dance floor. “Is Gino's an Italian restaurant with drinks and dancing or a bar with Italian food?”

Gino shrugged. “I like to eat, drink, and kick up my heels from time to time. Gino's has something for everyone.” He always had a green thumb—green like money.

Laura's red fingernails trailed over the tablecloth of a vacant table. She complimented him on the atmosphere. “I can't wait to taste the food.”

“The grub's magnifico 'cause Ma's the head chef. She's excited to see you both.”

He led us into the kitchen, where his mother, a white-haired woman barely five foot tall, greeted us with a holler.

She wiped her hands on her apron and wrapped her fleshy arms around Laura and kissed her. “Laura Wilson. You're so beautiful.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Santoro.” Laura smiled. “You haven't aged a day.”

“You can still call me
Ma
.” She kissed me. “Jake Donovan. I hope you appreciate what a lucky man you are. I'm so glad you made an honest woman out of Laura here, like my boy Gino did with his cigarette girl.” She spat out the last two words then smiled and patted Laura's stomach. “No bambinos?”

Laura looked uneasy. “We're too busy for children.”

Gino's mother raised an eyebrow. “Too busy for love?”

Gino laughed. “I doubt that.”

“You two look hungry.” The woman showed us to the door. “Forget the menu. I remember how you both loved my lasagna, and, Gino, don't scrimp on the wine.”

We returned to the private room and rejoined Stella, who was halfway through a bowl of breadsticks. She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin and rested her hands on her ample stomach.

Gino talked about the old days, but Stella kept asking about Laura's career, so we talked about Hollywood until the meal arrived.

Gino smoothed the cloth napkin on his lap. “We never had napkins at The Yankee Club.”

The cold silverware and fancy china were as fine as any other restaurant Laura and I visited. The lasagna tasted as fabulous as I remembered growing up. As the meal ended, a young man bussed the table.

Gino pulled a cigar from his pocket and stared at it like they were old friends. “Stella don't let me smoke these around her or Vinnie, especially now she's expecting again. Imagine such an attitude coming from a former cigarette girl, but I still like the feel and smell of a good stogie, you know?” He leaned back. “We've heard plenty about Laura's career, Jake, so tell me about your next novel. What's the title?
Blackie Rescues a Kitten
?”

I chuckled.

Gino puffed on the unlit cigar. “You know, I actually read your last book, Jake. Can't wait to see what Blackie Doyle's up to. Seriously, when's the next one come out?”

“That's up in the air.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the room.

His wife smacked Gino's arm. “Ain't it obvious? Jake don't want to talk about writing books.”

I silently thanked Stella.

Gino held up both palms. “Okay, so, if it's not your career, something else is bothering you. You ain't been cheating on Laura, have you, 'cause I'll bust your chops.”

“Cheating?” I laughed. “We just got married.”

Laura jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow. “Oh, I get it. You're going to wait an acceptable length of time before you cheat.”

“That's not what I meant.”

Stella shot Gino a quick glare then studied my face. “Gino's right, Jake. You look a little green around the gills. You two ain't splitting up, are you? My hairdresser tells me Hollywood marriages never last. I mean, if Carole Lombard would dump William Powell for Clark Gable, Laura might just give Jake the heave-ho…Wait, I'd dump Gino for Gable.”

Maybe it was better to get things out in the open.

I took Laura's hand then kissed it. I downed a sip of wine and described the meeting with Mildred. I sugarcoated the impact on my future but mentioned my editor's belief that I'd lost touch with my gumshoe roots.