“—no reason—”
“—all right, I’ll call her. Flanagan you say?” I start to dial information for the Frick.
He’s got his hand on mine, stopping the dialing. “She won’t be there, I just remembered.”
I waited.
“She was going on vacation. That’s right. She won’t be back for a while. She told me that. While we were having coffee. I just remembered now.”
I still waited, staring at him.
“I want you to say you believe me.”
“Oh Laddie, ’course I do,” and I hit the sincerity with all I had and he bought it Then I did a quick subject change. Creasey or Erle Stanley would have probably kept hacking away, but who can deal with those kinda consequences, not me. I mean, what if it was all a lie? Or worse, what if it was all true, and he’s losing control bad, tears for the world to see. Or worse, what if it’s kind of true. And there is a Miss Flanagan. Or was, maybe, till yesterday …
Doublespace.
The Wisdom According to Fats Entry for: 12 October, 1975
Found at: 7 Gracie Terrace
Penthouse One
20 October, 1975
The Contents of This
Entire Journal Will
Be Listed As:
POLICE EXHIBIT D
4
“In that book, y’know, you kill me.”
Corky looked at the fat girl, smiled. He took her arm when the light changed, guided her across 66th Street.
“Did you read it?”
“Looking for Mr. Goodbar?” Corky shook his head. It was almost midnight and they hadn’t even gotten to her place yet.
“But you know about it?”
“Sort of by default; any girl in a singles place brings it up sooner or later. I guess by mentioning it they figure they’ll ward off evil spirits.”
“Are you an evil spirit?”
“I wish I was that colorful,” Corky said.
She didn’t smile or anything.
Corky stopped on the sidewalk. “Hey, you’re very frightened.”
“Um-hmm.” Then: “Should I be?”
“I’m very gentle,” Corky said, very gently. Then: “All my victims say that.”
She still would not smile.
“Now you please listen, okay? It’s late, and you’ve probably got to get up early for work tomorrow, and there’s no law says we’ve got to do anything at all, either with or to each other. Let me walk you to your door and we’ll call it quits. Or I can leave you here if you’d like.”
“Are you always so considerate or is it an act?”
“I don’t know. It’s an act.” He thought about that. “No, it isn’t.”
She started walking. “Come on,” she said. “I trust you. Why do you think that is?”
Corky shrugged. “People do.”
“Always?”
“Pretty much.”
“To their regret?”
“You’re still frightened.”
“I’m down to edgy.”
“Have you ever been picked up before?”
“That’s what’s so crazy, this is my forty-sixth time.”
Corky broke out laughing.
“Why is that funny?”
“I don’t know; the accuracy surprised me.”
She gestured to the canopy just ahead. “I’m in there.”
Corky escorted her to the door. There was an old man asleep inside, clad in what was once a uniform. “Up to you,” he said.
She studied his face. “You don’t even remember my name, do you?’ ”
“You said your name was Diana, but you probably lied.”
She sort of smiled, did nod. “On the money. Really I’m Fern.” Now she looked at him. “I’ll bet you’re not really Charles, though, are you?”
“It takes a lot out of you when you lie, so I try to avoid it whenever possible. Charles Withers, that’s me. Most everybody calls me Corky.”
“I can’t make you out.”
“You’re not supposed to, Diana slash Fern. My God, I’ve spent a whole lifetime getting my disguise on straight, you think I want just anybody seeing through it without at least a little effort?”
“I’m not just anybody.”
“I can tell that, Fern my beloved; it’s really quite apparent, Diana my sweet—you take longer making up your mind than just anybody. But we are now in the crunch. Do we go up or do we part? Because we have prattled enough in this October night and frankly, although I don’t know you well enough to be poetic, my ass is freezing standing here.”
She gestured inside. “Oh, we go up. We always go up. Almost always anyway. I just like dragging things out if I can.”
“Well feel proud, you’ve done royally.”
“Corky? You were never an ‘almost.’ ”
“Gratefully received,” Corky said.
“You talk nice and I like your face,” Fern said. She glanced up at him. “Besides,” and for a moment, she paused.
Corky waited.
“You look familiar …”
“You’re still dragging things out,” Corky called from the bed.
Inside the bathroom, the sink went off, the door half opened. “What?” Fern from behind the door.
“You are awaited,” Corky told her.
“Give me one sec more; I’ve got a cleanliness thing, you don’t mind?”
“Just so you wear the spike heels and the rubber suit, I’ll forgive anything.”
She laughed, closed the door. Again, water from the sink.
Corky lay on his side, studying the door, wondering if he should have picked up the one with the body instead. Fern had a pretty face in spite of her flesh, but the other one, the one two stools down, had been splendidly stacked. Corky had wavered, wondering which he should try for, and from the way the built one had watched him, he felt there was a decent chance she would prove accommodating. But something about the aggression in her, some shoulder set perhaps or maybe just the way she gripped her glass, made him decide no. The one with the body looked like a libber—“you can screw me, buddy, but lemme tell you, you’re gonna suffer”—and he was in no mood for grappling.
The sound of the sink continued. Nothing to do but wait. Corky waited, eyes now closed.
… Peggy Ann Snow
Peggy Ann Snow
Please let me follow
Wherever you go …
Corky blinked. The little poem always had a way of surprising him, arriving almost unbidden from somewhere inside. No matter what girl he slept with or how many, at some point Peg would appear, just to let him know she was still around.
“Duh-dumm.” Fern stood in the doorway, pretty face shining, a large towel held in front of her large body.
“Worth the wait,” Corky said.
She nodded toward the bed lamp on his side. “I’m the shy type.”
“You haven’t got a corner on the market, I’m still wearing my underwear.” He flicked the room into darkness. She crossed to the bed with the speed of familiarity and then she was beside him. He reached for her, pulled her close.
She touched him. “You aren’t either wearing anything,” Fern said, surprised, for a moment, childlike.
“Trying to make you happy.”
“Make me happy.”
Corky was gentle with women. He had started late, and when he first began socializing, that gentleness was probably born of plain blind panic, but it seemed to work well, and it came naturally to him, so he never felt the need to change. Now, slowly, he began touching Fern’s body, the tips of his fingers tracing mindless patterns on her skin.
“Fern,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Try and remember one thing.”
“Tell me.”
“This isn’t a dentist’s appointment.”
“Am I that tense?”
“I would say so.”
“It takes me a while to get in the swing of things.”
“I’ll be right here waiting.”
“Listen?”
“Sure.”
“I’m sorry, usually I relax faster.”
“Time is not one of our major problems,” Corky said, gently and soft, and then he kissed her, kissed her again, ran the tip of his tongue along her neck. She reached for him, held him too tight, feigned passion. He waited for her to unclasp and when she did he began the soft touching again, his fingertips moving constantly now, circling her breasts, moving around without quite approaching, and she held him again, this time the passion less feigned, and they kissed, she relaxed a bit more, and now his fingers grazed her soft breasts, touching the flesh, not the nipple, keeping a fine rhythm going until her nipple began to distend and harden and
… Peggy Ann Snow
Peggy Ann Snow
Please let me follow—
“Corky?”
“Shh.”
“No. Really. Listen, I hate people who ask ‘what are you thinking’ but what are you thinking?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I did something wrong, didn’t I?—that’s why you hesitated?—what did I do?”
“A girl I had a crush on, that’s all.”
“When?”
“I haven’t seen her in fifteen years.”
“So why’d you think of her now?”
‘For sustenance’ he couldn’t say. ‘Because I always do’ wasn’t much better. “I guess you must remind me of her,” Corky said.
“I like that,” Fern said.
Corky kissed her breasts.
“That too,” from Fern, softer this time.
The pace picked up then. She was relaxing easily and he felt in control. Besides, there was something occasionally pleasant about being with an overweight woman—especially when they were still young enough to have flesh tone. No matter where Corky placed his skilled hands, there was nothing to jar him, nothing sharp to injure. It was a round world he was visiting, and getting there was probably a quarter of the fun. Their bodies were in synch now, and when she was moist he was ready, so he moved in, being careful to keep his weight off her as he rolled on top, because she was, if the signals she was sending were to be believed, enjoying herself thoroughly and he had no wish to add any discomfort; balanced on his elbows and knees, Corky moved in happy silence, a silence that went on for he hadn’t really any exact idea, but it ended when Fern said “The Carson show!” quite loudly.
“Yes?”
“No wonder you looked familiar—my God, I saw you on The Johnny Carson Show, you were a guest after Don Rickles, that’s right, isn’t it?”
Corky stopped what he was doing. “Right.”
“I’m fucking somebody famous, that’s just so wonderful.”
“I’m not famous.”
“Oh but you will be, I know it—you were sensational, better than Rickles—I swear to God I’m not just saying that because you’re here.”
Corky said nothing. Could-not-say-anything.
“Just wait till I tell them at Brearley—I teach at Brearley, that’s a school …” Her voice lost the excitement. “No one would believe me. ‘Famous Man Fucks Fat Girl.’ I wouldn’t believe it either.” She was quiet a moment. “To hell with ’em, I won’t tell anyone.” She moved out, groped around for the bed lamp, turned it on. “But I’ll know, won’t I?”
Corky made a nod.
She reached up, touched his face. “You know what, Mr. Withers? You are my memory now …”
Corky waited till she turned the light off. Then he put his lips to her throat. Her throat was lovely …
5
Fats was sprawled in an armchair, the latest Variety nearby. Corky came out of the bedroom. He had been lying down in his slacks and button-down, and now the pants were wrinkled, the shirt torn. Nobody said anything for a moment. Corky walked slowly to the window and opened the blinds. The October sun wasn’t all that strong, but even so, it made him cry out with sudden pain. Quickly he closed the blinds again, yanked them tight shut.
“Schmucko,” Fats said then. “You and me have got to have a powwow.”
“No we don’t,” Corky told him. He glanced at his watch. “Christ, how long was I in there?”
“I don’t know; two hours, more maybe, what difference does it make??”
“Curious is all.”
“What you mean is, are they getting worse?”
“You blame me for wondering?”
“You’re the only one that can answer that.” Long pause. “Are they?”
Another. Longer. Then: “I think.”
“That’s two migraines right?—the first migraines of your life, let’s not forget, and you stand there and say we don’t have to talk?”
“Nothing to talk about. I’m fine now.”
“Sure you are: your hands are twitching, your eyes are all sunk in, your face is the color of cream-of-fucking-wheat—we all look like that when we’re fine.”
Corky turned away. “Go easy on the sarcasm, huh?”
“Aw Christ, Laddie, I’m worried, that’s all.”
“I know.”
“Butt me?”
Corky got out cigarettes for each of them, lit them both.
“Anything happen last night?” Fats asked.
“You mean anything so unusual it would cause a goddam migraine? Don’t you think that’s reaching?”
“Spiel.”
“I picked up a girl, bought her a couple drinks, went home with her.”
“And?”
“You want me to get graphic? You want a rundown on the texture of her thighs?”
“Let me be the smart ass, okay? Now you’re with this girl and it went fine?”
“It did for me. I think she was kind of sorry to see me go. She even asked would I sign her Latin textbook.”
“Textbook—was this a school kid you were boffing?”
“No, no, a teacher, at Brearley; very fancy place.”
“Sounds it—at least one of their teachers is a hooker with a signature fetish—that’s just the kind of fine outstanding individual I want getting my kids ready to face life.’ ”
“It’s perfectly logical—she caught the Carson show and liked it and anyway, you don’t have any kids.”
“If I did, I wouldn’t send them to this Brearley—my God, I wonder what the gym teacher’s into?”
Corky started laughing.
“It wasn’t that funny,” Fats said.
“I thought it was.”
“No. I’m onto something and you’re trying to throw me off the track—did she know who you were right off?”
Corky hesitated.
“Before or after—when did she recognize you?”
“During.”
“Oh, Laddie. That’s got to be it.”
“You telling me that’s significant, Doctor?”
“You telling me it isn’t …? What happened after she recognized you?”
“She just turned on the lights and looked at me.”
“And after that?”
“When it was dark again you mean? I guess I kissed her throat.”
“And then?”
Corky shook his head. “That would be telling …”
6
The Postman was kind of a legend. For many reasons, most notably two. (1) He was the only agent now operating who had been given his nickname by Jolson. This was back in the 20’s, a summer Sunday and the singer needed a large amount of cash; hard to find now, harder then. But Ben Greene—the Postman’s given appellation—had scrounged up the proper amount, handed it to the pleased performer at a large luncheon party. Jolson had put his arm around the then kid, and said out loud, “This one is gonna be heard from—he’s like the Postman, he always comes through.” For the ensuing half century, the Postman he had been.
(2) He was the only agent ever operating who had moved through all the branches of show business with never a remotely bad year carrying all that while the single stigmata that had ruined so many careers: he wasn’t Jewish. “How is such a thing possible??
?? he would thunder. “How such a miracle? Was it because I was more brilliant? Yes, but that wasn’t all. Because I was more industrious? Yes, but others labored and fell by the wayside. The secret was simply this:”—and here he would pause, drop his voice to as close as it would come to a whisper—“I triumphed because, with a name like Ben Greene, how could I possibly be gentile?” Then he would wait for his laugh, timing it perfectly, always.
Probably he should have been an actor—he was, in fact, a compulsive and not unskilled amateur magician —and he cultivated his theatricality whenever possible. “You are looking at a fella who is criminally flamboyant,” he liked to say. “Christ, I invented conspicuous consumption.” It might have been true—he was terribly rich. “For many reasons,” he liked to say; “most notably three: I had big earning years when there weren’t a lot of taxes, but that’s not as important as investing sensibly, which I also did, but that’s not as important as marrying an heiress, which I also did.” And then a pause. “God bless and rest her soul.”
He became, on his wife’s death, the chief stockholder in one of the three largest hairbrush companies in the world, which only proved, he liked to say, that God had a sense of humor, since the Postman had been bald before even Jolson came into his life. Frail and small, bald and weak-eyed, with the energy of the truly driven. “If they could harness me, Con Ed could light the world.”
He was long past retirement age, but the Morris people let him keep his office and work when he wanted. “They’re kind to me,” he liked to say. “For many reasons, most notably one; if they’re not, they know goddam well I’ll buy the company and fire the fuckers.”
He adored money. He knew, to the half dollar, how he had done that day on the market. Whenever possible he liked getting hourly reports and was constantly computing on tablecloths, coming out with statements like “I lost eleven thousand dollars during coffee.” Gain or loss, it never bothered him.
Because the purpose of money was to spend. “I am unabashedly oldveau riche,” he liked to say; “nobody my age is allowed to be nouveau anything.” Only the best would satisfy, and if he couldn’t get the best, he got the most expensive. Which was why he drove a white Corniche convertible, and smoked only Monte Cruz Individuales, and drank only Lafite until he found that Petrus was selling for higher, so he switched brand allegiance overnight. And why, since it had made its comeback, he lunched, daily, at least this year, at the corner table farthest from the door of The Four Seasons …