the show was overtly religious; they were always very careful about not specifying which particular God did all this curing-it could be either a Christian or a Jewish God. She also liked to have women ex-convicts on the show- especially the ones who had had kids while in prison-and then have an expert on at the same time to teach them money management and how to stay within a budget instead of stealing things.
Candy planned the menus for the kitchen segment, making sure that each and every meal was both wholesome and economical, although she did splurge a little bit on her annual “Romantic Dinner for Two When the Kids Are Spending the Night at Grandma’s” segment. Mostly she specialized in “stretcher meals”-making that Sunday roast last through Tuesday, or the chili that you could eat as just chili, or chili over spaghetti, or chili on a baked potato-not, as Jack had once joked on the air, meals that you ate before you got carried out on a stretcher.
Candy gave makeup tips (she noticed that women ex-convicts either wore too much makeup, which was unattractive to men, or no makeup at all, which was also unattractive to men, although she suspected that some of these women weren’t interested in attracting men at all), and weight-loss tips (a can of Budweiser and a chocolate doughnut do not a breakfast make), and even tips on how to keep the passion alive in your marriage (a filmy negligee behind a locked door doesn’t necessarily make you a prostitute).
While Candy knew that some people-perhaps thousands of people-made fun of her, she also knew that her work did some good for thousands of others. There were people out there who had sought help because a show had set an example for them, there were families who had made it through the week on her tuna casserole, and there were marriages that were better off just for the fact of having sent the kids to Grandma’s for the night.
“You have to find her, Chuck,” Candy said. “Find Polly Paget and persuade her to come forward and tell the truth.”
Chuck Whiting met her eyes and saw the pain in them. Chuck Whiting, former FBI agent, dedicated Mormon, devoted husband and father of nine, was a true believer. He believed in God, country, family, and Jack and Candy- especially Candy. Looking at Candy’s blue eyes, at her firm jaw and silky skin, at the golden hair that shone like a temple, at the shimmering purity that was Candice Landis, Chuck Whiting-had he not been a true believer in God, country, and family-would have thought he was in love.
“I’ll find her, Mrs. Landis,” he said. He felt a lump in his throat.
“Well, you kids have a good time playing detective,” Jack said. “I got a meeting to go to.”
He nodded to Whiting, gave Candy a peck on the cheek, and walked out.
Charles Whiting could barely breathe. His chest was tight and he was afraid he was blushing, because Candy Landis was looking at him in a very personal way. Charles Whiting wasn’t comfortable with emotional intimacy and would have been the first person to tell you so.
“Yes, Mrs. Landis?”
“He had sex with her, didn’t he, Chuck?”
Charles felt dizzy. He took a deep breath and answered, “Yes ma’am. The evidence would seem to indicate that he might have.”
Charles watched helplessly as Mrs. Landis lowered her eyes, looked down at the desk, and nodded. He felt even worse when she looked back up, her eyes moist.
“And do you know where she is?” she asked.
“We’re close to ascertaining her location, ma’am.”
Candy nodded again, then went back to perusing her data.
Somehow, she thought, I have failed, failed to keep the passion alive. And Jackson found his way to Polly Paget.
“Get me Polly Paget,” Ron Scarpelli said.
Scarpelli thought this kind of simple, impossible command gave him an authoritative voice. He’d learned that at a seminar on personal power: Speak in an authoritative voice.
Walter Withers hadn’t attended the seminar but recognized the brisk 80’s tone. Here I am, he thought, sitting on a pornographer’s black leather sofa with my knees up to my chin, sipping on his chichi designer water, trying not to stare at the legs of the six-foot-tall woman in a black dress who’s his “personal assistant,” and he’s attempting to employ personal power techniques. It’s superfluous, Mr. Scarpelli. It’s your penthouse office, your view of Central Park, your magazine, and your nickel. You don’t need to speak in an authoritative voice.
Withers didn’t say that, though. He was fifty-six years old, five-okay, twenty pounds overweight, and owed Sammy Black ten thousand big ones plus the vig, which was growing every day. But for the first time in a long time the ball had stopped at Walter’s number and he wasn’t about to walk away from the table.
So he said, “Everyone in the country wants Polly Paget, Mr. Scarpelli.”
“But I’m not everybody,” Ron Scarpelli assured him. He looked to the personal assistant for confirmation. She formed her dark red lips into a dazzling smile.
And why not? Withers thought. He wondered how much she pulled down a year as a personal assistant.
“I don’t touch her,” Ron Scarpelli said, misreading Withers’s thoughts. “She’s married. Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Yes, she is.”
She looked like money. From the gloss of her black hair pulled tightly back to the perfect pale skin, the health-club figure, the clothes.
“Recognize her?” Scarpelli asked.
“Certainly,” Withers said, flipping through his mental index cards for the name. “She’s Ms. Haber, your personal assistant. She escorted me in, offered me water…”
Walter thought wistfully of the days when one would be offered a civilized martini at any decent office in midtown.
Scarpelli beamed. “August 1980.”
I can’t seem to recall last Thursday and he’s playing memory games from two years ago.
Withers held his palms up.
“Miss August 1980,” Scarpelli urged. “The centerfold!”
She’s smiling at me, Withers thought, as if she isn’t the least bit embarrassed that her boss just asked me to summon up the image of her on her back displaying herself.
Withers didn’t want to tell them that he had seen Top Drawer magazine maybe twice and it had just depressed him. It had been twenty years since he had gone to bed with a woman who looked anything like Ms. Haber and he knew he wasn’t going to have that pleasure if he lived another twenty, which was unlikely. So looking at the pictures was like being broke and hungry and standing outside the Carnegie Deli with one’s nose pressed to the window.
“Certainly,” Withers said. He vaguely recalled some punch line about “not recognizing you with your clothes on” but didn’t chance it.
“I want Polly Paget in my magazine,” Scarpelli said, getting back to business.
“Well, that’s what I thought.”
“Nude.”
As if he invented sex, Withers thought. Walter himself followed the school of thought that women were more alluring with their clothes on, given the right clothes. Half the erotic pleasure of romance, if memory served, was in the gradual baring of secrets, the delicate interplay of fabric and flesh, the-
“Full frontal, if possible,” Ms. Haber chimed in.
“Why don’t I locate the entire Ms. Paget?” Withers asked, “and let you take it from there?”
“That’s funny, Walt. I like that,” Scarpelli said, not laughing. Then he asked, “But what makes you think you can find her? Why should I hire you when I can buy the best private investigators in the world? Which-no offense-by the look of you, you ain’t.”
This is true, Withers thought. Needlessly offensive, but true. My suit is shiny and my eyes aren’t, I have those little broken blood vessels in my nose, and my tie is old. But it’s a tie, not a gold chain, you jumped-up little porno prince, and I bought it at Saks.
“I’m a genuine private investigator, Mr. Scarpelli,” Withers answered. “I have a license, a gun, vast experience, as well as a certain je ne sais quoi. Now, certainly you can engage one of the big agencies. They have a lot of personnel and most of them look better than I do. But none of them know where Polly Paget is.
“And you do,” Scarpelli said.
