Nice Girls Finish Last (33 page)

Yeah, and I'd gone out to the kidney guy's place and demanded to see my producer Tamayo, because I was convinced he'd made his whole story up in order to abduct young female journalists. Got completely hysterical, practically tore his place apart. This was, I hasten to add, perfectly justifiable, since it came not long after I'd been kidnapped, and not long after I took over the Special Reports unit and became responsible for other human beings.

The next day Tamayo gave me an apology card inside which she had written: “Did you know that doctors in France once prescribed something called Dr. Raspail's vaginal camphor cream for female hysteria?”

No, I didn't know. And where can I get some?

“Remember the time I got kidnapped?” I countered, dialing the Help for Kids number. I got another answering machine with what sounded like a computerized voice. After explaining the missing-intern situation, I left my number.

The manager came back and hurriedly explained, “Today, a FedEx arrived containing a square white envelope and a receipt for a large donation to Hale House. The square envelope was to be given to the customer who came up to the bar and answered a skill-testing question. The young woman with the curly brown hair …”

“Kathy.”

“She got the answer right, so I gave her the envelope.”

“What was the question?” I asked.

“Where is it? … Who won the Arne Olsen Scholarship in 1978?” he said.

“I won that scholarship,” I explained to Tamayo.

“And Kathy knew that?”

“I may have mentioned it once or twice.” Plus, I had the certificate on my office wall and it was in my ANN bio.

“She, Kathy, was surprised to hear it was a murder mystery, but she laughed when I told her,” the manager said.

“So it's some publicity thing, to get media people to follow clues to something,” I said. In the competition to get media attention in New York City, PR people often sent enticing things designed to grab attention, and they often addressed you in their letters as if you were old friends. They had evidently tailor-made this gimmick to flatter me, I told Tamayo, and probably there were other media people at other places picking up clues after answering skill-testing questions about their own modest accomplishments.

“What time was she here?”

“That was, oh, two, three hours ago. I hadn't been here long, a half-hour maybe, and I start work at five. Can't be more specific than that. It's been crazy tonight.”

“Did she talk to anyone else? A man?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Did she leave with someone?”

“No, I definitely saw her leave alone.”

“Did she say anything else?” I said.

“She asked where Chez Biftek was. I looked it up in the book for her.”

When he went to look up the address for us, Tamayo said, “I know nothing bad is going to happen to Kathy, because my horoscope promised a fabulous night. Sally has been right on the money about everything this week. You know, I could use this in my UFO movie I'm writing—a young woman is hiding in a married man's closet when suddenly she gets beamed up to a space ship.…” Then she said nothing. She had fugued, going to whatever planet she came from, and I fugued too, looking out the window at the spot where the Abbey Victoria used to be.

Nineteen seventy-nine. Seemed like such a long time ago. I missed the old Abbey, a grand old middle-class hotel in midtown Manhattan, along with the Taft, the Wellington, and a handful of others. The revolving doors at the entrance led to a dozen marble steps and up into a large marble lobby with chandeliers and bellmen in red uniforms and bellboy caps. The clerk behind the desk wore a bow tie. The Broadway-tour ticket agent chomped on a cigar in a dark, cluttered cubbyhole of an office with fading posters of Lunt and Fontanne and Helen Hayes on the walls. All the fixtures, from the old-fashioned switchboard to the brass-and-glass letter chutes between the elevators on every floor, were from another era. If it weren't for the guests, in their decidedly 1970s clothes (there was a big disco convention in town), I would have thought I'd just stepped into another decade.

The hotel was struggling to survive and it was, I now realized, kind of down in the mouth, a bit seedy and frayed at the edges—our window looked out into a sooty brick windshaft—though it seemed very big-city and glamorous to me back then. It must have been a bear to maintain that huge hotel, especially for the largely aged staff. I remembered the old, shrunken bellman who took me and my friend Julie up to our room. Imagine Conan O'Brien if you freeze-dried him. He wheezed dramatically, stopping every ten feet or so to sit atop our bags and catch his breath. When we offered to carry our own bags, he refused to allow it. We felt so guilty we tipped him $10 each, a lot of money to us.

After I moved to New York, I used to get a kick out of going down there and standing in the lobby, reliving my first exciting days in New York City. Then they tore it down to put up a big square box of an office building.

I said to Tamayo, “You know, this is the first New York bar I went into during my first trip to New York.”

“This place?”

“Yeah. I came here with my friend Julie and we met two rich guys who were just
so
nice to us. Well, one of them was, George. He
dazzled
us with New York. God, and we just abused him and his friend Billy, told them a bunch of whoppers.”

Funny, that used to be a pleasant memory, but now I felt lousy and guilty about lying to those guys.

“What did you tell them?”

“That my friend Julie and I were half-sisters and ironworks heiresses. We talked about the horsey boarding school we'd attended, country-club balls, and—oh, man—I think we may even have told a few amusing stories about our loyal and lovable old servants.”

“Ironworks?”

“I come from iron country.”

The manager came back with the address of Chez Biftek. Tamayo wanted me to call. But you get more information face to face, and it was another short walk over to 47th Street and Eighth Avenue.

The name was different, so I didn't realize until we got there, but I'd been to Chez Biftek before too, or, rather, another restaurant just off Restaurant Row in the same narrow little townhouse with a red awning and red shuttered windows.

“Cosmic that you were at both these places,” Tamayo said.

“Not cosmic, just an amazing coincidence,” I replied, though I got a weird chill when I went down the stairs and opened the wooden door. It was a pretty amazing coincidence, because I'd been here right after being at Paddy Fitzgerald's the first time.

When it was Table Bas, I'd been terribly impressed by the cosmopolitan flavor of it, a real French restaurant in New York. But, boy, had it changed. Now it was one of those places that paid the tour companies to herd tourists in beneath Paris travel posters and made the poor tourists eat rubbery snails and tough cuts of meat smothered in sauce, prepared by Guatemalans and brought to them by Polish or Russian waiters with fake French accents.

In keeping with the spirit of the night, the maître d' and all the waiters were dressed like harlequins. The maître d' called someone, and then directed us through the kitchen to the back office. There was no answer when we knocked on the manager's door, but the door was half open, so I pushed it and stepped into the room. As soon as I did, a man in harlequin costume with bloody eyes fell forward onto me, revealing the knife handle sticking out of his back.

I screamed. Tamayo screamed.

Then the dead harlequin with the knife in his back screamed.

We all screamed.

“Haaaappy Halloweeeeen,” the man said, laughing.

For a moment there, I was so stunned that I couldn't feel my heart beating. I had to check my pulse to make sure I hadn't had a coronary. It wouldn't have been the first time I'd walked into an office and found a dead person, an experience I wasn't keen on reliving.

“You scared the … What was that about?”

The man was laughing his ass off as he peeled off the bloody eyeballs. Tamayo thought it was pretty funny too.

“Part of the mystery,” he said. “It has worked … both times tonight. Ha-ha-ha.”

When he managed to regain his composure, he gave us the same charity-murder-mystery story. Kathy had come in and picked up an envelope after answering a skill-testing question about the year the ANN Special Reports unit won an ACE award for our series on vigilantism.

“Okay, so then you gave her the envelope and she opened it.”

“… and pulled out a photograph and a folded paper square with a note inside.” He didn't see what it was, but she asked him if he could look up the address of Joy II for her.

“That was around five-forty-five-ish, thereabouts,” he said.

“Did she talk to any strange men, leave with anyone?”

“I don't think so.”

“Mind if I talk to the rest of the staff?”

“Go ahead.”

“Thanks,” I said. “No, don't get up. We'll see ourselves out.”

“Happy Halloween,” he said again, still laughing.

While I quizzed the staff about Kathy, Tamayo was recognized by a couple from Indiana who had seen her on television. This improved her already blithe mood considerably.

I felt a little less blithe. Chez Biftek made me uncomfortable, and not only because of Kathy, the undead harlequin, and the poor tourists forced to eat expensive bad French food prepared by illegal aliens. I felt hugely embarrassed by the memory of Table Bas. The rich guy George, I remembered aloud to Tamayo as we departed, insisted on coming here, and he ordered in French, which impressed the hell out of us. “Robin speaks French,” my friend Julie had said, adding that I'd learned it while we modeled in Paris the summer before. This was another joke/lie, like the one that I was an ironworks heiress. Beyond “
Où est la discothèque?,” “Aimez-vous les sports?,” “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi çe soir?
,” and a few other phrases I'd memorized phonetically before a four-day school trip to Montreal, I spoke NO French back then.

Encouraged, George spilled off a waterfall of French, and his friend Billy asked me what George was saying. I was so afraid I was going to be exposed, but George jumped in and said, “I told her she is a very pretty and very smart young woman, and she could do well in New York.” And he winked at me.

Oh God, I realized now, he must have known I was faking the French. I was so naïve, I thought I'd gotten away with it. Now I was experiencing retroactive embarrassment. But even if they didn't buy the French part, I thought, maybe they bought the rest of it. People believe what they want to believe. Just ask the woman in Tulsa who had sex with a video-store owner because he told her he was an extraterrestrial who'd adopted human form. According to the video-store owner, she wasn't the only woman who'd fallen for it, but she was the only one who admitted it. Even scarier: the woman voted regularly.

“So now what?” Tamayo said.

“On to the next stop.”

“I hope we can go downtown to the parade after that,” Tamayo said wistfully.

She started singing the Petula Clark song “Downtown” at the top of her lungs to me, hamming it up to the nth, while I shook my head in a mildly amused, mildly embarrassed grownup way. Out of a dingy-looking apartment building wedged between a deli and a closed-up gay porn place on Eighth Avenue came a gaggle of fine-looking drag queens, dressed to the nines—bouffant hair, false eyelashes, and shimmering dresses in bright colors that looked like they were made with the pelts of mythical creatures. One of them, a black queen, was doing Marilyn too.

“Sing it, girl,” he said to Tamayo, and he chimed in. Tamayo and the black Marilyn danced ahead of the rest of us, mirroring each other's movements like on “The Patty Duke Show.”

I wished I could be that carefree, but I couldn't quiet my anxiety about Kathy. That dead harlequin must have scared the shit out of her too.

Kathy didn't sound worried on the phone, Tamayo wasn't worried, there had to be a logical explanation, all this I was willing to accept. I know I have a tendency to push the panic button at times, so I was trying really hard to keep my finger off the button as we approached Joy II and I saw its giant neon naked-woman sign.

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Acknowledgments

J
ust when I'm out of money and ready to sign up as a paid human trial subject for medical experiments to finance my writing career, someone shows up to help. Just when I'm convinced the world is a sucky place, that life's a bitch and so am I, the fax machine rings and a hilarious true story culled from a wire service comes rolling through from some good soul.

I would be a really big asshole if I didn't mention these people. At the risk of sounding like Cloris Leachman, the author wishes to thank those who generously shared their hearts, homes, refrigerators, expense accounts, time, insights, newsroom legends, wire stories, inspirational stories, money, and party invitations:

Mom, Dad, Bill Dorman (Spasiba), Jennifer Hayter, Emerson Macintosh, and my whole damn family for being the funniest people I've ever met; my agent, Russell Galen, and my editor, Caroline White, for all their hard work and for many other things, including reassurances at critical crazy points that all their other writers are crazier than me; Debbie Yautz; Laura, Juris, and Melanie at Soho Press for making me become a better writer; General Publishing, Helen Metella, Mark Nixon at Book Company Southgate, Snoop Sisters, Sleuth, Wayne Kral, Bonnie Claeson, and Prodigy MBC.

Thanks also, in no particular order, to: Bill of IMC, Katherine Neville, Nancy Pickard, Janine Turner; Andrea Peyser, who did the S&M field work with me; Grant Perry, “a previous special reporter now in our London bureau”; Chris P. for the Romanian-necrophilia wire story, Harris Salat and Lisa Napoli for keeping me up-to-date on TV technology and lingo, amazing and anarchic Tamayo Otsuki, Steve Herman and Ito for hosting my book party at the Morg; Diana and Jake, Jesse, Bruce Gillette, David and Mary Helen, Nance, Lisa Schiffren, Paul Mougey, Siv Svendsen, Peter and John Holm, Baard and the rest of the Norwegians, Steven and Kathrine, Lynn Willis, Marianne Hallett, Eva Valenta, Elaine, Dana, Susan, Scott, Squadron, Cheryl, Nicki, Mark, Joanna L., Maggi O'Connell, the Chelsea, and the very understanding men and women in the credit collections department at American Express.