While My Pretty One Sleeps (19 page)

At that point, Neeve laughed reluctantly. “Sal will love what Ethel wrote about the Pacific Reef,” she said, “but I don't know about the rest. He's lied so much, he's convinced himself he was born in Rome and his mother was a papal countess. On the other hand, from what he said the other night, he's expecting something like it. Everyone's hollering about how tough their parents had it these days. He'll probably find out what ship his folks were on when they sailed to Ellis Island and have a replica made of it.”

Having covered the giant fashion looks as she saw them, Ethel proceeded in the article to name the society designers who couldn't tell “a button from a buttonhole” and hired talented young people to plan and execute their lines; to expose the conspiracy among designers to take the easy way out and try to turn fashion upside down every few years, even when it meant dressing aging dowagers like cancan girls; to mock the cowlike followers who plunked down three or four thousand dollars for a suit with barely two yards of gabardine.

Then Ethel turned her guns on Gordon Steuber:

The Triangle Shirtwaist Company fire of 1911 alerted the public to the horrendous working conditions of garment workers. Thanks to
the International Ladies Garment Workers Union, the ILGWU, the fashion industry has become a field where talented people can make decent incomes. But some manufacturers have found a way to increase their profits at the expense of the helpless. The new sweatshops are in the South Bronx and Long Island City. Illegal immigrants, many of them hardly more than children, work for pitiful wages because they don't have green cards and are afraid to protest. The king of these cheating manufacturers is Gordon Steuber. Much, much more about Steuber in a future article, but just remember, folks. Every time you put one of his suits on your back, give a thought to the kid who sewed it. She probably can't afford a decent meal.

The article concluded with a paean of praise for Neeve Kearny of Neeve's Place, who started the investigation of Gordon Steuber and who banned his clothes from her shop.

Neeve skimmed the rest of the text about her, then put down the papers. “She's drawn a bead on every major designer in the field! Maybe she scared herself and decided to get away until the heat dies down. I'm beginning to wonder.”

“Can't Steuber sue her and the magazine?” Eugenia asked.

“Truth is the best defense. They obviously have all the proof they need. What
really
kills me is that despite all this, Ethel bought one of his suits last time she was here—the one we slipped up on returning.”

The phone rang. A moment later the receptionist buzzed on the intercom. “Mr. Campbell for you, Neeve.”

Eugenia's eyes raised. “You should see the look on your face.”
She gathered the remains of the sandwiches with the paper wrappings and the coffee containers and swept them into the wastebasket.

Neeve waited until the door closed before she picked up the phone. She tried to make her voice casual when she said, “Neeve Kearny.” Dismayed, she realized she sounded breathless.

Jack came right to the point. “Neeve, can you have dinner with me tonight?” He didn't wait for her answer. “I was planning to tell you that I have some of Ethel Lambston's notes and maybe we could go over them together, but the real fact is I want to see you.”

Neeve was embarrassed to realize how her heart was pounding. They agreed to meet at the Carlyle at seven o'clock.

The rest of the afternoon became unexpectedly busy. At four, Neeve went out on the showroom floor and began to take customers. They were all new faces. One young girl who couldn't have been more than nineteen bought a fourteen-hundred-dollar evening gown and a nine-hundred-dollar cocktail dress. She was very insistent that Neeve help her choose. “You know,” she confided, “one of my girlfriends works at
Contemporary Woman
and she saw an article that's coming out next week. It says you have more fashion in your little finger than most of the designers on Seventh Avenue and that you never steer people wrong. When I told my mother she sent me over here.”

Two other new customers had the same story. Someone knew someone who had told them about the article. At six-thirty, Neeve gratefully put a “CLOSED” sign on the door. “I'm beginning to think we'd better stop knocking poor Ethel,” she said. “She's probably hyped business more than if I'd taken ads on every
page of
W
.”

•   •   •

After work Doug Brown stopped at the local superette on his way to Ethel's apartment. It was six-thirty when, as he was turning the key in the lock, he heard the persistent ringing of the phone.

At first he decided to ignore it as he had done all week. But when it relentlessly continued to peal, he debated. It was one thing that Ethel didn't like anyone to answer her phone. But after a week, wouldn't it seem logical that she might be trying to reach him?

He placed the grocery bag in the kitchen. The harsh ringing continued. Finally he picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

The voice at the other end was slurred and guttural. “I have to talk to Ethel Lambston.”

“She isn't here. I'm her nephew. Do you want to leave a message?”

“You bet I do. Tell Ethel her ex owes a lot of money to the wrong people and can't pay it while he's paying her. If she don't let Seamus off the hook, they're going to teach her a lesson. Tell her she might have a hard time typing with broken fingers.”

There was a click and the line went dead.

Doug dropped the receiver onto the cradle and sank onto the couch. He could feel the perspiration on his forehead, in his armpits. He folded his hands to keep them from trembling.

What should he do? Was the call a real threat or a trick? He couldn't ignore it. He didn't want to call the police. They might
start asking questions.

Neeve Kearny
.

She was the one who was worried about Ethel. He'd tell her about the call. He'd be the scared, concerned relative asking for advice. That way, no matter whether it was a trick or for real, he'd have covered himself.

•   •   •

Eugenia was locking the cases with the fine costume jewelry when the phone rang in the shop. She picked up the receiver. “It's for you, Neeve. Someone sounds terribly upset.”

Myles! Another heart attack? Neeve rushed to the phone. “Yes.”

But it was Douglas Brown, Ethel Lambston's nephew. There was none of the usual sarcastic insolence in his voice. “Miss Kearny, have you
any
idea where I can try to reach my aunt? I just got back to her place and the phone was ringing. Some guy told me to warn her that Seamus, that's her ex-husband, owes a lot of money and can't pay it while he's paying her. If she doesn't let Seamus off the hook they're going to teach her a lesson.
She might have a hard time typing with broken fingers
, the guy said.”

Douglas Brown sounded almost tearful. “Miss Kearny, we have to warn Ethel.”

When Doug hung up, he knew he had made the right decision. At the advice of the ex–Police Commissioner's daughter, he would now phone the police and report the threat. In the eyes of the cops, he'd be viewed as a friend of the Kearny family.

He was reaching for the phone when it rang again. This time
he picked it up without hesitation.

The police were calling
him
.

•   •   •

Myles Kearny believed in getting out of the way on Friday whenever it was possible. Lupe, their longtime cleaning woman, was there all day, washing and polishing, vacuuming and scrubbing.

When Lupe arrived, the morning mail in her hand, Myles retreated to the den. There was another letter from Washington, urging him to accept the post as head of the Drug Enforcement Agency.

Myles felt the old adrenaline flowing through his veins. Sixty-eight. It wasn't that old. And to get his teeth into a job that needed doing. Neeve. I fed her too much of love at first sight, he told himself. For most people it just doesn't work like that. Without me around all the time, she'll join the real world.

He leaned back in the desk chair, the old, comfortable leather chair that had been in his office the sixteen years he'd been Police Commissioner. It fits my butt, he thought. If I go to Washington, I'll ship it down.

In the foyer he could hear the sound of the vacuum. I don't want to listen to that all day, he thought. On impulse he phoned his old number, the office of the Commissioner, identified himself to Herb Schwartz's secretary, and a moment later was on the phone with Herb.

“Myles, what are you up to?”

“My question first,” Myles responded. “How is Tony Vitale?” He could envision Herb, small stature, small frame, wise and
penetrating eyes, tremendous intellect, incredible ability to see the whole picture. And, best of all, true-blue friend.

“We're still not sure. They left him for dead and, believe me, they had a right to think they knew what they were doing. But the kid's tremendous. Against all odds, the doctors think he'll make it. I'm going to see him later. Want to come?”

They agreed to meet for lunch.

•   •   •

Over turkey sandwiches in a bar near St. Vincent's Hospital, Herb briefed Myles on the upcoming Nicky Sepetti funeral. “We've got it covered. The FBI has it covered. The U.S. Attorney's office has it covered. But I don't know, Myles. My guess is that with or without the celestial summons, Nicky was old news. Seventeen years is too long to be out of circulation. The whole world's changed. In the old days the mob wouldn't have touched drugs. Now they're swimming in them. Nicky's world doesn't exist anymore. If he'd stayed, they'd have had him hit.”

After lunch they went to the ICU at St. Vincent's. Undercover detective Anthony Vitale was swathed in bandages. Intravenous fluid dripped into his veins. Machines registered his blood pressure, his heartbeats. His parents were in the waiting room.

“They let us see him for a few minutes every hour,” his father said. “He's going to make it.” There was quiet confidence in his voice.

“You can't kill a tough cop,” Myles told him as he gripped his hand.

Tony's mother spoke up. “Commissioner.” She was speaking to Myles. He started to indicate Herb, but was stopped by the slight negative movement Herb made. “Commissioner, I think Tony is trying to tell us something.”

“He told us what we needed to hear. That Nicky Sepetti didn't put a contract out on my daughter.”

Rosa Vitale shook her head. “Commissioner, I've been with Tony every hour for the last two days. That's not enough. There's something else he wants us to know.”

There was a round-the-clock guard on Tony. Herb Schwartz beckoned to the young detective who was sitting in the nurses' station of the ICU. “Listen,” he told him.

Myles and Herb went down in the elevator together. “What do you think?” Herb asked.

Myles shrugged. “If there's anything I've learned to trust, it's a mother's instinct.” He thought of that long-ago day when his mother had told him to look up the nice family who had sheltered him during the war. “There's plenty Tony could have learned that night. They must have been going over everything to make Nicky feel up-to-date.” A thought struck him. “Oh, Herb, by the way, Neeve has been pestering me because some writer she knows has dropped out of sight. Tell the guys to keep an eye out for her, will you? About sixty. Five five and a half or six. Dresses well. Dyed silver blonde. Weighs about one-thirty-five. Name is Ethel Lambston. She's probably making someone's life miserable interviewing them for her column, but . . .”

The elevator stopped. They stepped into the lobby, and Schwartz pulled out a pad. “I've met Lambston at Gracie Mansion. She's been giving the Mayor a lot of plugs and he has her
there all the time now. Something of an air-head, isn't she?”

“You've got it.”

They both laughed.

“Why is Neeve worried about her?”

“Because she swears Lambston left home last Thursday or Friday without a winter coat. She buys all her clothes from Neeve.”

“Maybe she was going to Florida or the Caribbean and didn't want to drag one along,” Herb suggested.

“That was one of the many possibilities I pointed out to Neeve, but she claims all the clothes missing from Ethel's closet are for winter wear, and Neeve would know.”

Herb frowned. “Maybe Neeve is onto something. Go over the description again.”

•   •   •

Myles went home to the peace and quiet of the shiningly clean apartment. Neeve's phone call at six-thirty both pleased and disturbed him. “You're going out to dinner. Good. I hope he's interesting.”

Then she told him about her call from Ethel's nephew. “You told him to report the threat to the police. That was the right thing to do. Maybe she did get nervous and take off. I spoke to Herb about her today. I'll let him know about this.”

Myles settled for fruit and crackers and a glass of Perrier for his own dinner. As he ate and tried to concentrate on
Time
magazine, he found himself increasingly concerned that he had so casually brushed off Neeve's instinct that Ethel Lambston was in serious trouble.

He poured a second Perrier and got to the center of his discomfort. The threatening phone call, as reported by the nephew, did
not
have the ring of truth.

•   •   •

Neeve and Jack Campbell sat on a banquette in the dining room of the Carlyle. On impulse, she had changed from the sweater dress she'd worn to work to a soft multicolored print. Jack had ordered drinks, a vodka martini straight up with olives for himself, a glass of champagne for Neeve. “You remind me of the song ‘A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody,'” he said. “Or is it all right to call anyone a pretty girl these days? Would you rather be a handsome person?”