McNally's caper

‘Did she know it before you were married?’

‘Hell, yes. I never tried to hide it. I guess she thought she could change me. What did your boyfriend do?’ he asked suddenly. ‘The one who died?’

I thought for a moment, then decided to follow the script. If it scared him, it was better to know now so I wouldn’t be wasting my time.

‘He was in the rackets.’

Donohue didn’t seem surprised.

‘Uh-huh. What was his game?’

‘Jewelry stores. He worked alone most of the time or picked up local talent for a big job. He did all right — until the last one.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, sighing. Always the last one. How did he get snuffed?’

‘I didn’t say he got snuffed.’

‘I know you didn’t. I guessed.’

‘You guessed right. It was a jeweler with more balls than brains.’ ‘Wasn’t your man carrying a piece?’

‘Of course. The other guy was faster, that’s all. Bang, bang. Like that.’

‘Were you there?’

‘No. I was waiting for him back in the hotel. Bags packed and two airline tickets to New York. Ready to take off. When he didn’t show, I knew it had gone sour. So I came east just like we planned. Only I came alone. Jesus, I’m running off at the mouth. The vodka, I guess. 1 hope I can trust you, Jack.’

‘I haven’t heard a word you’ve said.’

‘Good. Keep it that way.’

‘Freshen your drink?’

‘Why not?’

When I reached for the drink he had poured, he didn’t release the glass. My fingers were around his. He looked into my eyes.

‘Were you in love with him? The guy who got burned?’

‘He was all right,’ I said shrugging. ‘He treated me fine. But love? What’s that?’

‘A four-letter word,’ Jack Donohue said with one of his brilliant grins. ‘You’re my kind of woman: no sentiment, no regrets, hard as nails.’

‘That’s me,’ I said.

‘Let’s fuck,’ he said.

‘Okay,’ I said.

He was as good as I hoped he’d be. It was far from the adolescent tumbling of Dick Fleming and the earnest ministrations of J. Mark Hamilton. Jack Donohue was a sword, as hard and as sharp, with demonic energy. He was a oneway lover, doing exactly what he wanted, what gave him the most pleasure. Which happens to be the kind I like.

Later, much later, we had a final drink in bed, talking nonsense in drowsy voices. He fell asleep before I did. I turned on my side to hold his long, slim, smooth weight in my arms. My forearm slid beneath his neck, my hand under his pillow.

I felt the gun.

THE LORD’S DAY

I awoke Sunday morning in my own bed in Room 703 at the Hotel Harding. Awoke staring at that cracked and peeling ceiling, wondering if it might fall and crush me where I lay, a victim of too much realism.

Up, showered (cold, no hot water available), and into my tart’s uniform again. Reflected that Jack Donohue had been gentleman enough not to crack wise when I divested myself of wig and fore-and-aft falsies before climbing between his sheets. There were plenty of old, and bad, jokes he could have made but didn’t. He seemed satisfied with my performance. I know I was with his.

I ventured out into a rainy, bedraggled Sunday morning on upper Broadway — not one of life’s more exhilarating experiences. I had a small breakfast in a fast-food joint where both customers and the staff seemed to be sharing the same large, economy-size hangover. Then I found a supermarket that was open and bought myself some drinking glasses, canned soda and tonic, a few dishtowels, paper towels, toilet paper.

I could have brought all that stuff over from my East Side apartment, but I was being careful to carry nothing on my person or keep anything in my room that might connect Bea Flanders of the Hotel Harding with Jannie Shean of East 71st Street. My driver’s license and credit cards were hidden under the front seat of the rented Ford. Other than that, there were no papers, letters, clothing labels, or possessions that might betray me. If Blanche wanted to toss my belongings or even Jack Donohue, they’d find nothing.

Back to the hotel with my new purchases. Even though the room clerk at the Harding had warned ‘No cooking,’

Jack Donohue had assured me I could get away with a small hotplate, so I had also bought two cups and saucers, spoons, and a jar of instant coffee. When hardware stores opened on Monday, I’d pick up a hotplate or one of those immersion heaters for making a quick cup of coffee or soup.

Then I went back down to the rented Ford and drove home to civilization. On the way, I stripped off the blond wig, wiped most of the guck from my face, and changed into the pair of comfortable loafers I had squirreled in the car. By the time I arrived on East 71st Street, I was a reasonable facsimile of myself. With my trenchcoat buttoned up to my chin, I was able to sail by the doorman with no trouble at all, and even chatted with a neighbor (female) in the elevator with no embarrassing questions asked as to how modest-bosomed Jannie Shean had suddenly become Wonder Woman.

Upstairs, alone, door locked, I treated myself to a hot, sudsy bath, a big glass of chilled chablis and, later, a decent breakfast: a sardine sandwich with sliced onion, half a pint of strawberries, and a cup of yoghurt.

Then I called my sister and chatted awhile. Or rather, she chatted and I listened, saying ‘Oh?’ and ‘Really?’ and ‘Fantastic!’ at the right moments. Finally, when she ran down, I mentioned casually that I might be going out of town for a few weeks, doing research for a new book with a St Louis background, and if she didn’t hear from me for a while, not to worry.

‘I’ll call you when I get back,’ I told her.

‘Call me when you get back,’ she said.

That’s my sister.

I made a few additional calls of a similar nature to friends, and told all of them the same ‘may be going to St Louis’ story. Their interest was underwhelming. Then, having accounted for my absence, I got down to business.

When I told Dick Fleming that I would be coming back to the East 71st Street apartment occasionally to pick up my mail, pay bills, etc., it was the truth. But it wasn’t the whole truth. I came back to keep my journal, Project X, up to date.

The diary was the raison d’etre, the only justification for enduring the discomfort of the Hotel Hard-On and the danger of conning the likes of Jack Donohue. I referred to him as ‘Black Jack’ in my account. I thought it was an apt description of his physical appearance. And not a bad label for his membrum virile either.

I wrote steadily for almost three hours, then locked the ms. in my top desk drawer. Answered two fan letters, sent Con Edison their monthly ransom, and scrawled a few lines to mother Matty in Spain. Then back into my floozy’s costume again, and I sallied forth to resume the life of Bea Flanders, Master Criminal.

I discovered that getting out of a disguise is a lot faster and easier than getting into it. I had to pull into a parking area in Central Park for about half an hour before I had the wig adjusted and the heavy makeup applied to my satisfaction, a process watched with some amusement by a young couple parked in a nearby car. The hell with them.

I couldn’t have been back in Room 703 for more than three minutes when there was a knock on the door.