Requiem for Moses

Chapter Twenty-Three

“I really think,” Betsy Dorsey said, “that the problem of Detroit is in the neighborhoods. The city administration should work from one neighborhood to the next-one area at a time. Paint and repair each house- or if the house is beyond rehab, tear it down. Fix the sidewalks, repave the streets, plant some trees. It’s the only logical way of doing it as far as I can see.”

Jake Cameron wiggled, trying to get comfortable. He was bored.

Betsy read … a lot. That had been established during the hot and cold hors d’oeuvre course. Through the piece de resistance the fact that she could hold-nay, preferred-an intelligent conversation on just about any topic was evident.

This disturbed Jake. It wasn’t that Jake wasn’t up on current affairs. Actually, he had an opinion on the rehabilitation of Detroit that was antithetical to Betsy’s. It was Jake’s conviction that clearing the city neighborhood by neighborhood was like squeezing a tube of toothpaste. Push them out of one ‘hood and the bums would land in the next. Much earlier, the city had tried something like that in cleaning up Michigan Avenue downtown. That created the slums in Second and Third Streets and Cass Corridor.

Jake was perturbed. Betsy was a woman; it was unseemly that she be intelligent and well read. In his life, he’d had only one intelligent mistress-Margie. And that hadn’t worked out well at all. He was going to do his very best to bed Betsy ere this night was finished. He thought it rather incongruous to expect a couple to move directly from capital gains taxes to pillow talk. And what sort of foreplay is Tudor architecture and interior design, anyway?

“Is this a great restaurant or what?” he nonsequitured.

Betsy looked about, seemingly for the first time. Actually, she had done a quick study of the place the moment they’d entered. “It is, indeed, Mr.- uh, Jake. I had no idea this was here. I mean in the city of Pontiac!”

“Yeah, this Pike Street Restaurant is one of the best in this whole area. Sometimes people don’t even consider it ‘cause it’s in Pontiac. But, just you wait, Betsy: Pontiac is on the way back. This place is gonna be jumpin’ one of these days.”

“I couldn’t argue with you, Jake.”

Somehow her agreeing with him made Jake a bit more sure of himself. He’d have to watch that; after all, she was only a broad.

“In fact,” he said, “I just nailed down some property here. Someday it’s gonna be Virago III.”

“No! What a marvelous idea!”

Her enthusiasm was invigorating. No doubt about it; he almost felt like going out and laying the cornerstone right now. He’d have to get a rein on this stuff.

He had finished his Delmonico steak. She toyed with the remains of her baked salmon.

“You don’t like the fish?”

“It’s fine … great. I just had too many hors d’oeuvres.” She smiled. “You don’t want me getting fat.”

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. But now that she mentioned it, the image of an obese Betsy was enough to take away his appetite. He wondered if fat was in her genetic design. Her mother had been a dancer. Was Mama fat? Was fat inherited? “To be honest, Betsy, I figure fat on a woman is gross. God made women to be beautiful. And fat ain’t beautiful. Just the thought of a fat broad on one of my stages is disgusting.”

She made no response.

“Your mother,” he said finally, “you said she was a dancer.”

“Yes, she was.”

“What was her name? Her stage name?”

“Ginger … Ginger Dorsey. That was her stage name. Also her married name. Her maiden name was LaFleur.”

French. He liked French. There seemed to be something inherently sexy about the French-men and women. “Your dad?”

“They’re divorced. I was about ten when he left. Mother raised me alone. Taught me everything I know … certainly everything I know about dancing.”

“Your mother keep her figure?”

She almost blushed. “Why all this interest in my mother? Were you thinking of offering her a job?”

“Not till this minute. But now that you mention it, it might be worth considering. Mother and daughter, dancing on the same stage! There’s Naomi and Wynonna Judd-but they’re singers. I can’t think of any mother-daughter dancers … certainly not big-time. Do you two live together?”

“No, I live in Troy; she’s in St. Clair Shores.”

“Clear across town.” So much for getting a look at Mama, let alone a chance at her, tonight.

Oh, well, the daughter should be enough for now.

“Is Ginger working?”

“She’s a free-lance model. She gets lots of work. I think you’ll recognize her when you see her.”

“I can hardly wait.”

Their waitress appeared, suggesting dessert, but neither wanted anything else. Jake took care of the check.

It went without saying that Jake would drive Betsy home.

She invited him in. He accepted.

She seemed in no hurry to abandon the vertical position. Why was this beginning to remind Jake of his memorable evening with the underaged Judith? It couldn’t be happening to him again, could it? What were the odds?

She brought coffee. She knew where all this was going to end, but, what was the hurry? Then she noticed that Jake was getting antsy. Best not to drag things out.

By no means was it Betsy’s first time. But it was her first time with a man as experienced as Jake. That made her a little nervous. The moment was awkward.

Jake broke the ice: “Did you want to slip into something more comfortable?”

“Sure. The next time you see me, I’ll have nothing to wear.” As she stepped into the bedroom, she looked back at Jake with an elaborate wink.

While she was gone, he walked around the room as though looking at it for the first time. Nice furnishings, nothing fancy.

He noticed a photo of a woman in a brief swimsuit. A very goodlooking woman. Careful study disclosed not a single visible flaw. It was inscribed, “To Betsy with Love. Mother.”

So this was Ginger. What a coup this would be: Mother and daughter on stage together! How about that: When he found Betsy, he’d found a gold mine.

But where was she? How long does it take a broad to strip?

The image of Moses Green knocked at his consciousness. He didn’t want to let Moe in. But Moe was persistent.

The only reason why he, Jake, had emerged from his blue funk was the news that Moe had changed his mind about forcing Jake out of the Viragos. If it hadn’t been for that bulletin-and the timing-he never would have revived his old custom of laying the winner of these auditions.

Up till this moment, Jake had given no thought to the likelihood that Moe was not going to vanish. Moe was still very much there. Still in control. At any moment-and for any reason-Moe could step back in and try another takeover.

Matter of fact, the bastard might be feeling rotten now, and that could be the reason Moe had come up with this reprieve. He could go back on it any time he wanted. Jake could be in charge of Virago on borrowed time.

Jake dropped to the couch. Betsy reentered the room. True to her departure line, she wore nothing. She struck a pose. Just like her mother: not a single flaw. But Betsy had the advantage of fewer years. Her breasts-even without the support of clothing-more firm and rounded, her legs a little longer and slimmer.

He saw her. His mind registered that she was there. He appreciated her. But he was not thinking of her-or them. Moses Green inhabited his mind.

Jake would have been the last to subscribe to the theory that the most sexual organ in the human body is the brain. But, at this moment, he was the truest example of that theory.

Here was one of the most perfect beauties standing naked before him, offering herself to him. And all he could think of was Moses Green. Jake had no response whatever to Betsy.

Betsy was sure of herself. But she had also been sure of Jake. If he could sit there and do nothing, something must be wrong with her. “Jake, is something wrong?”

No answer.

“Am I doing something wrong?”

“No.”

“You want me to help you undress?”

“No.”

“What is it, Jake. Don’t you like me?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, dammit! You’re as close to perfect as anybody I ever saw.”

Betsy began to feel awkward standing there nude. Just standing there. It was as if she were a model. But in that case Jake would be doing something-painting, photographing … something. But he was doing nothing. He wasn’t even looking at her.

She stepped into the bedroom and returned in a robe. She sat on the couch next to Jake and put her hand on his arm. “These things happen, Jake. Maybe you’re just tired.”

“Oh, for the love of God, don’t brush this off with something you saw on TV! This thing doesn’t just happen. It’s never happened to me before. Not in my whole life.”

“Then it’s something I said or did. Just tell me, Jake, and it’ll never happen again.”

“It’s not you! Can’t you get that through your thick skull?”

The silence called for a remorseful apology.

“I’m sorry, Betsy. I didn’t mean that last crack. I got something on my mind, and I can’t shake it. Honest, it’s got nothing to do with you … nothing to do with us.” He patted her hand. “I’ll work it out. I gotta do that on my own.”

He rose from the couch. He couldn’t think of another thing to say or do to Betsy. He took his topcoat from the back of the chair and left her apartment.

Betsy didn’t know whether to believe his words or his actions. Had something she’d done or said ruined her chances at Virago?

She would not get much sleep this night.

Jake sat in his car. He did not dare turn the key, much less drive just now. He was far too distracted, an accident waiting to happen. He’d have to think this through.

Outside of a few hours today, the last time he had felt good about things was when he’d thought Moe was dead. That euphoria was shattered when Moe returned from the dead.

The conclusion was inevitable. He didn’t want to face it, but-death was the only solution. After all, anybody who killed Moses Green would be doing the world a favor.

But if he were going to do it, he’d have to plan very carefully. The problem scarcely would be solved if he ended up in Jacktown doing life without parole.

He was confident he could come up with a well-thought-out scheme, but time was a factor. If he was going to do it, it was now or never.

Suddenly, he was quite calm. He might even have been able to make it with Betsy if he hadn’t just left her. It would make no sense to return at this point. And there was more pressing business.

Now he was relaxed and able to drive. And while he drove he could plot.

Contemplating a world without Moe Green was enjoyable. As he began to plot, he realized it wasn’t so much a matter of coming up with a single scenario as it was a process of casting aside a series of possibilities in favor of the perfect plan.