While My Pretty One Sleeps (5 page)

He'd been delighted when Marcy was born. Unexpectedly Linda had followed two years later. They'd been shocked when Jeannie came along as he and Ruth were turning forty-five.

Ruth's slender body had grown stocky. As the rent for the bar doubled and tripled and the old customers moved away, her serene face had taken on a look of perpetual worry. She wanted so much to give things to the girls, things they couldn't afford. Frequently he snapped at her, “Why not give them a happy home instead of a lot of junk?”

These last years with the college expenses had been excruciating. There just wasn't enough money. And that thousand dollars a month to Ethel until she married or died had become a
bone of contention, a bone that Ruth gnawed at incessantly. “Go back into court, for God's sake,” she'd nag him. “Tell the judge you can't afford to educate your children and that parasite is making a fortune. She doesn't
need
your money. She's got more than she can spend.”

The latest outburst, last week, had been the worst. Ruth read in the
Post
that Ethel had just signed a book contract for a half-million-dollar advance. Ethel was quoted as saying the tell-all book would be a “stick of dynamite thrown into the fashion world.”

For Ruth that was the last straw. That and the bounced check. “You go see that, that . . .” Ruth never swore. But the unspoken word might have been shouted. “You tell her that I'm going to go to the columnists and tell
them
she's bleeding you dry. Twelve thousand dollars a year, for over twenty years!” Ruth's voice got shriller with every syllable. “I want to quit working. I'm sixty-two years old. The next thing you know it will be weddings. We'll go to our graves with a choke collar around our necks. You tell her that she'll make news all right! Don't you think her fancy magazines might take exception to one of their feminist editors blackmailing her ex-husband?”

“It's not blackmail. It's alimony.” Seamus had tried to sound reasonable. “But yes, I'll see her.”

Ruth was due back late Sunday afternoon. At noon on Sunday, Seamus stirred himself from his lethargy and began to clean the apartment. They'd given up the once-a-week cleaning woman two years ago. Now they shared the chores, with Ruth's complaints a running part of the process. “Just what I need after being crushed on the Seventh Avenue subway to spend weekends
pushing a vacuum.” Last week she'd suddenly burst into tears. “I'm so damn tired.”

At four o'clock the apartment was in decent shape. It needed painting. The linoleum in the kitchen was worn. The building had gone co-op, but they hadn't been able to afford to buy the place. Twenty years and nothing to show for it but rent receipts.

Seamus laid out cheese and wine on the cocktail table in the living room. The furniture was faded and shabby, but in the soft light of the late afternoon it didn't look bad. In three years more Jeannie would be finished school. Marcy was a senior this year. Linda a junior. Wishing your life away, he thought.

The closer it came time for Ruth to arrive, the more his hands trembled. Would she notice anything different about
him?

She got home at five-fifteen. “The traffic was terrible,” she announced, her voice querulous.

“Did you give them the certified check and explain about the other one?” he asked, trying to ignore the tone in her voice. It was her let's-have-this-out tone.

“I certainly did. And let me tell you, the bursar was shocked when I told him about Ethel Lambston collecting alimony from you all these years. They had Ethel on a panel at college six months ago, blasting off on women getting equal pay.” Ruth accepted the glass of wine he handed her and took a long swallow.

With a shock he realized that somewhere along the way she'd picked up Ethel's habit of licking her lips after she finished an angry sentence. Was it true that you kept marrying the same person? The thought made him want to burst into hysterical laughter.

“Well, let's have it. Did you see her?” Ruth snapped.

A great weariness came over Seamus. The memory of that final scene. “Yes, I saw her.”

“And . . .”

He chose his words carefully. “You were right. She doesn't want it to leak out that she's been collecting alimony from me all these years. She's going to let me off the hook.”

Ruth set down the wineglass, her face transfigured. “I don't believe it. How did you talk her into it?”

Ethel's taunting, derisive laugh at his threatening and begging words. The jolt of primitive anger that had gone through him, the look of terror in her eyes . . . Her final threat . . . Oh God . . .

“Now when Ethel buys her precious Neeve Kearny clothes and eats high on the hog,
you
won't be paying.” Ruth's triumphant laugh pounded against his eardrums as her words sank into his consciousness.

Seamus put down his wineglass. “What made you say that?” he asked his wife quietly.

•   •   •

On Saturday morning the snow was over and the streets were somewhat passable. Neeve brought all Ethel's clothes back to the shop.

Betty rushed to help her. “Don't tell me, she doesn't like
anything
?”

“How would I know?” Neeve asked. “There wasn't hide nor hair of her at her apartment. Honest to God, Betty, when I think of the way we rushed, I could wrap every stitch around her neck.”

It was a busy day. They'd run a small ad in the
Times
showing
the print dresses and the raincoats, and the response was enthusiastic. Neeve's eyes sparkled as she watched her clerks write up formidable sales slips. Once again, she silently blessed Sal for staking her six years ago.

At two o'clock, Eugenia, a black former fashion model who was now Neeve's second-in-command, reminded Neeve that she hadn't stopped for lunch. “I have some yogurt in the fridge,” she offered.

Neeve had just finished helping one of her personal clients select a four-thousand-dollar mother-of-the-bride gown. She smiled quickly. “You know I hate yogurt. Send for a tuna-salad sandwich and a diet Coke, okay?”

Ten minutes later, when the order was delivered to her office, she realized she was starving. “The best tuna salad in New York, Denny,” she told the delivery man.

“If you say so, Miss Kearny.” His pale face creased into an ingratiating smile.

While she hurried through lunch, Neeve dialed Ethel's number. Once again, Ethel did not answer. Throughout the afternoon the receptionist continued to try to reach her. At the end of the day Neeve told Betty, “I'II take this stuff home once more. I sure don't want to waste my Sunday having to come back here because Ethel suddenly decides she's got a plane to catch and needs everything in ten minutes.”

“Knowing her, she'd have the plane make a special trip to the gate if she'd missed it,” Betty snapped.

They both laughed, but then Betty said quietly, “You know those crazy feelings you get sometimes, Neeve. I swear they're catching. Pain in the neck that Ethel is, she never pulled anything
like this before.”

•   •   •

Saturday night, Neeve and Myles went to the Met to hear Pavarotti. “You should be out on a date,” Myles complained as the waiter at the Ginger Man handed them after-theater supper menus.

Neeve glanced at him. “Look, Myles, I go out a lot. You know that. When someone important comes along, I'll know it, just the way you and Mother did. Now why don't you order me some shrimp scampi?”

•   •   •

Myles usually attended early Mass on Sunday. Neeve enjoyed sleeping late and going to the Pontifical Mass at the cathedral. She was surprised to find Myles in the kitchen in his bathrobe when she got up. “Giving up the faith?” she asked.

“No. I thought I'd go with you today.” He tried to sound casual.

“Would that have anything to do with Nicky Sepetti's release from prison?” Neeve sighed. “Don't bother to answer.”

After church they decided on brunch at Café des Artistes, then caught a movie in the neighborhood theater. When they got back to the apartment, Neeve again dialed Ethel Lambston's number, let the phone ring a half-dozen times, shrugged and raced Myles in their weekly contest to finish the
Times
puzzle first.

“A lovely, unraveling day,” Neeve commented as she bent over Myles's chair to kiss the top of his head after the eleven-o'clock news. She caught the look on his face. “Don't say it,”
she warned.

Myles pressed his lips together. He knew she was right. He'd been about to say, “Even if it's clear tomorrow, I wish you wouldn't jog alone.”

•   •   •

The persistent ringing of the phone in Ethel Lambston's apartment did not go unnoticed.

Douglas Brown, Ethel's twenty-eight-year-old nephew, had moved into the apartment on Friday afternoon. He'd hesitated about taking the risk, but knew he could prove he'd been forced that day out of his illegal sublet.

“I just needed a place to stay while I found a new apartment.” That would be his explanation.

He figured it would be better not to answer the phone. The frequent calls irritated him, but he did not want to advertise his presence. Ethel never wanted him to answer her phone. “None of your business who calls me,” she'd told him. Other people might have been told the same thing.

He was sure it had been a wise decision not to answer the doorbell on Friday evening. The note slipped under the door into the foyer was about the clothes Ethel had ordered.

Doug smiled unpleasantly. That must have been the errand Ethel had scheduled for him.

•   •   •

Sunday morning Denny Adler waited impatiently in the sharp, gusty wind. Precisely at eleven o'clock, he saw a black Chevy approaching. With long strides, he hurried from the comparative shelter of Bryant Park onto the street. The car pulled over.
He opened the passenger door and slid in. The car was moving even as he yanked the door closed.

In the years since Attica, Big Charley had gotten a lot grayer and put on more weight. The steering wheel was burrowed between the folds of his stomach. Denny said, “Hi,” not expecting an answer. Big Charley nodded.

The car moved swiftly up the Henry Hudson Parkway and over the George Washington Bridge. Charley turned onto the Palisades Interstate Parkway. Denny noted that while the remaining snow in New York was slushy and soot-filled, the snow on the sides of the parkway was still white. New Jersey, the Garden State, he thought sarcastically.

Past Exit 3 there was a lookout point for people who, as Denny sometimes observed, had nothing better to do than stare at the New York landscape across the Hudson River. Denny was not surprised when Charley pulled into the deserted parking area there. This was where they'd discussed other jobs.

Charley turned off the ignition and reached back over the seat, groaning with the effort of stretching. He pulled up a paper bag containing a couple of cans of beer and dropped it between them. “Your brand.”

Denny felt pleased. “Nice of you to remember, Charley.” He opened the can of Coors.

Charley swallowed deeply from his own can before he replied, “I forget nothing.” He drew an envelope from his inside pocket, “Ten thousand,” he told Denny. “The same when the job is finished.”

Denny accepted the envelope, taking sensual pleasure in its bulk. “Who?”

“You deliver lunch to her coupla times a week. She lives in Schwab House, that big place on Seventy-fourth between West End and Riverside Drive. Usually walks to and from work coupla times a week. Cuts through Central Park. Grab her handbag and waste her. Clean out the wallet and dump the bag so it looks like a junkie cut her. If you can't nail her in the park, the garment center might be it. She goes there every Monday afternoon. Those streets are packed. Everybody in a rush. Trucks double-parked. Brush by her, shove her in front of a truck. Take your time. It gotta look like an accident or a mugging. Follow her around in one of those panhandler outfits of yours.” Big Charley's voice was thick and guttural, as though the rolls of fat around his neck were choking his vocal cords.

For Charley it had been a long speech. He took another deep draught from the beer can.

Denny began to feel uneasy. “
Who
?”

“Neeve Kearny.”

Denny shoved the envelope toward Charley as though it contained a ticking bomb. “The Police Commissioner's daughter? Are you nuts?”

“The ex-Commissioner's daughter.”

Denny could feel the perspiration on his brow. “Kearny was in office for sixteen years. Not a cop in the city who wouldn't risk his life for him. When his wife died they put the heat on everyone who ever stole an apple off a cart. No way.”

There was an almost imperceptible change in Big Charley's expression, but his voice was the same guttural monotone. “Denny, I told you I never forget. Remember all those nights in Attica when you used to brag about the jobs you got away with
and how you did it? All I need to do is make a no-name-given call to the cops and you won't get to deliver another baloney sandwich. Don't make me a crime-stopper, Denny.”

Denny considered and, remembering, cursed his own big mouth. Again he fingered the envelope and thought of Neeve Kearny. He'd been delivering to her shop for nearly a year now. It used to be that the receptionist would tell him to leave the bag with her, but now he went right back to the private office. Even if Kearny was on the phone, she'd wave and smile, a real smile, not that tight-lipped snobby nod that most of his customers gave him. She always told him how great everything tasted.

And she sure was a good-looking babe.

Denny shrugged off the moment of sentiment. It was a job he had to do. Charley wouldn't turn him in to the cops, and they both knew it. His knowledge of the contract had made him too dangerous. To refuse it meant that he'd never make it back to the George Washington Bridge.