Romance

7

BERT FLING DANCED LIKE A WHITE MAN.

Oh dear Lord, he was the worst dancer she had ever danced with in her life, even though it had been his idea to go dancing this Wednesday night. She’d said, Sure why not? A man asks you to go dancing, you figure he’s got to be a good dancer, no? A lousy dancer doesn’t ask you to go dancing, he asks you to go bowling. But, oh my, was he terrible!

She’d dressed up all slinky and smooth in the same smoky blue color he’d admired, a different dress but the same shade of blue that matched her eye shadow — if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. The dress was very short and very tight, the only such outrageous dress she owned, what she used to call a fuck me dress when she was still in medical school and trying to attract the attention of any single eligible black man in D.C.; five to one the ratio was said to be in that town, women to men, that is; five to one, honey, count ’em. Outrageous or not, the man had said the color was good for her, so why not accommodate him again? Besides, the only other smoky blue outfit she owned was the suit she’d worn on their first date, so this was it, take it or — Ooops, sorry. No, my fault.

She looked good in certain shades of green, too, come to think of it, maybe she should have dressed all verdant and vernal tonight. But it wasn’t easy being green, you could so easily slip into looking like an uptown ho. Anyway, how did this get to be all about color? But that’s what this was all about, wasn’t it? About whether there was anything more to this besides his being white and her being black and maybe being attracted to each other only because he was white and she was black. It certainly wasn’t about him being Fred Astaire.

The band was pretty good, considering half the musicians in it were white, including the bass player, who she always figured was the very heart and soul of any band. Six pieces up there on the bandstand in this small place down in the Quarter, a bit too smoky for a surgeon’s comfort, but he seemed as much disturbed by the air quality as she was. Maybe the smoke was affecting his dancing. Something had to be affecting his dancing, because in all truth she had never known a man or boy who was quite as stiff and awkward as he was. Was he counting inside his head? Was that it? She was afraid to speak for fear she would throw off the count, welcome to Transylvania. She was wearing high-heeled blue shoes fashioned almost entirely of straps. A single wafer-thin sole and then straps, straps, straps. Showed off her legs to good advantage, she felt, come step into my parlor, let me bite you on zee neck.

She thought it was very cute that he was such an awful dancer, but she wished he wouldn’t step quite so often on her feet in their strappy shoes. “Ooops, sorry,” he would say each time, and she would say, “No, my fault,” and then she began wondering if he really thought it was her fault, if somehow he believed that she was the lousy dancer.Well, no, surely, he had to know how clumsy he was. But then why had he asked her to go dancing?

At the table again — smoke drifting their way, the band playing a soft slippery tune that slithered on the air, low and rife with funky tenor sax riffs — she put it in a kinder, gentler way. Didn’t say How come you chose to take me dancing of all things, you endearing oaf? Said instead, “How’d you happen to pick this place?”

“I thought it might be fun,” he said, and gestured around vaguely to include the entire room, which — she now noticed — was populated with an uncommonly high mix of salt-and-pepper couples. Had he known this when he chose the spot?

“Where’d you learn to dance?” she asked.

“Oh, a bunch of guys used to… this was when I was a kid, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I grew up in Riverhead. When the neighborhood was still good.”

Meaning what? she wondered. That it was now black? And therefore no good?

“This guy Frank had a big basement in his house, a finished basement, and we used to go down there and dance.”

“Boys and girls, you mean?”

“I wish. No, it was just the guys. Frank was a very good dancer, he was teaching the rest of us to dance. We took turns leading and following. It was good training.”

Yes, I can see the results, she thought.

“Where in Riverhead?” she asked.

“Cannon Road. Used to be black, Irish and Italian when I was growing up. Never any trouble there. Even when there was rioting in Diamondback, we all got along fine in Riverhead. No more. That’s all changed.”

She nodded.

“I can remember my father telling me… this was at the time of the big riots, I was just a little boy… I remember him saying, ‘If you spread any of this filth, you won’t be able to sit for a week, Bert. I’ll fix you so you’ll be lucky if you can even walk.’ “

Is that why you’re with a black woman tonight? she wondered.

“What happened Saturday was nothing compared to the trouble back then,” he said. “I’ll never forget it.”

“Do you still live in Riverhead?” she asked.

“No, no. I have a small apartment right here in Isola. Near the Calm’s Point Bridge.”

“When did you leave?”

“Riverhead? Right after the war. When I got back from the war.”

She did not ask him which war. In America, there’d been a war for any man coming of age at any given time. Most of these men were trying to forget whichever war had occupied their time and consumed their youth. She had never once met a man who wanted to talk about his wartime experiences. Which said a lot for recruiting posters.

“You’re a good dancer,” he said.

Us folks who has rhythm, she thought.

“I’ll bet you could teach me more than Frank did.”

“Maybe I could,” she said.

“Next time we go out there,” he said, nodding toward the small dance floor.

“Okay.”

The waiter brought a fresh round of drinks. There was a two-drink minimum in the place. Plus a cover charge. She realized this was costing him more than he could easily afford on his detective’s salary. Everywhere around them, mixed couples drank, and talked, and danced, and held hands, and occasionally kissed. She wondered again how he’d happened to choose it.

“How’d you know about this place?”

“I asked Artie.”

“Who’s Artie?”

“Artie Brown. One of the guys on the squad. He’s black.”

“Brown is black, huh?”

“He thinks that’s how his great-great-grandmother got the name, in fact.”

“How do you mean?”

“She was a slave. He thinks her master gave her the name Brown because of her color. It’s just a theory, he doesn’t know for sure.”

“When did you ask him?”

“I never did. He just happened to mention it one time.”

“I meant about this place.”

“Oh. Yesterday. I told him I was dating a black girl, and I asked him if he knew anyplace where we’d feel comfortable. While we were getting to know each other.”

“What’d he say?”

“He recommended this place.”

“And do you feel comfortable here?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Do you?”

“I don’t know. It seems to be trying too hard, maybe.”

“Maybe so.”

“How’d he feel about your dating me?”

“Artie? How should he feel?”

“The black-white thing, I mean.”

“It didn’t come up.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“The black-white thing?”

“Yes.”

“I’m hoping it works for us.”

She looked at him.

“I’m hoping we can one day go wherever we want to go, and just be us, without having to worry about looking like everyone around us.”

“Is Brown your partner?”

“Sometimes. We work it a little different at the Eight-Seven than in some other precincts. We team up with different people all the time. Makes it more interesting. Also, it gives us an opportunity to exchange information about the bad guys and what they’re doing.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’ll tell you the truth, Shaar,” he said, shortening her name, rhyming it with the first syllable in Paris, “I thought you might feel uncomfortable in a place where there were only white people.”

“How about a place where there are only black people?”

“Like in Diamondback, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I think I might feel uncomfortable in a place like that,” he said.

“So you asked Brown to recommend a place where we would both feel comfortable.”

“Yes. But I didn’t know everything would be divided right down the middle. Three white guys in the band, three black guys. One white bartender, one black. A black girl for every white guy, a black guy for every white girl.”

“Like painting by the numbers,” she said.

“Yeah. Would you like to get out of here?”

“Where would you suggest?” she asked.

“Top of the Hill,” he said.

The Hill Building was in midtown Isola on Jefferson Avenue. They had taken a taxi uptown, and now — at ten o’clock on a wide-awake, big-city, middle-of-the-week night — they walked into the lobby and stood behind a red velvet rope, where a man in a green uniform and a green hat kept parceling eight or ten people at a time into an express elevator that ran to the fifty-eighth floor of the building. They had no reservations. Kling was worried. Big-shot detective, How about Top of the Hill? How about when we get there a haughty headwaiter takes one look and sends us on our way, Sorry, buster, no room at the inn.

Well, how could that possibly happen? Handsome blond detective in a dark blue suit, beautiful black woman in a complementary blue dress, anyone should be delighted to have us in their midst, add a touch of elegance to the joint. Come in, come in, sir, come in, miss, would you care for a table by the window where you can look out over the entire city? Lovely night, isn’t it, sir? Otherwise, just flash the tin and slip him a few bucks… did people do that in fancy places like Top of the Hill?

He kept planning strategy all the way up to the fifty-eighth floor, where they transferred to another elevator going up to the sixty-fifth floor and the roof of the building. The elevator doors opened onto a plush reception area at one end of which were the glass entrance doors to the restaurant and lounge, beyond which a twinkling nest of lights beckoned romantically. He knew at once that he’d made the right spontaneous choice. But…

Oh, God, there he was, a stout penguin, all white and black, standing at a podium just inside the entrance doors. Kling would rather have faced a bank robber with a nine in each fist. Boldly, he led Sharyn to the doors, opened one for her, and allowed her to precede him into a view of the city that was utterly dazzling, lights stretching from here to the farthest tip of the island and beyond, bridges that seemed to span continents, stars racing to the planets and beyond, to solar systems yet unimagined. He almost caught his breath. There was the sound of music coming from somewhere deep in the room, soft and danceable. There were lighted votive candles in crystal holders in the center of round tables with polished black tops. There were waitresses in white blouses and long black skirts slit up the leg to the thigh, everyone and everything in black and white, when you were in love, the whole universe was black and…

“Sir?”

The penguin. He, too, in black and white, that hadn’t changed. Chest puffed out, staring down the length of his nose.

“Sir?”

A bit more imperiously this time. A king penguin, Kling figured.

“Detective Bert Kling,” he said, “Eighty-seventh Squad.”

There was a moment, but only a moment.

And then, beaming, the penguin said, “Yes, sir, how do you do, sir, a pleasure to have you with us. My name is Rudolph, will there be just the two of you, Mr. Kling?”

“Just the two of us, yes, thank you,” Kling said, bewildered.

“Will that be for supper, sir, or just cocktails?”

“Sharyn?”

“Just cocktails, please.”

“Just cocktails, please,” Kling said.

“Just cocktails, yes, Detective Kling, this way, please, I have a lovely table by the window.”

It was not until Rudolph was seating them that Kling realized what this was all about.

“That was speedy work you and your mates did on that actress who got stabbed,” Rudolph said.

“Oh,” Kling said. “Thank you.”

“Speedy work indeed. Enjoy the view. Enjoy the music, I’ll send your waitress at once. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“Thank you, Rudolph.”

“My pleasure, Detective Kling. Miss,” he said, and bowed to Sharyn, and then moved swiftly from the table.

“Well!” she said.

“Imagine what’ll happen if Fat Ollie stops by,” Kling said, shaking his head.

“Fat who?”

“Ollie. Who shared the collar. You’ll have to meet him sometime. No, on second thought…”

“I forgot to congratulate you,” she said.

“Our friend Rudolph must’ve seen us on television,” Kling said. “There were cameras waiting when we took Milton out to the van.”

“I saw it,” she said.

“Was I okay?”

“You looked very cute,” she said.

“But did I sound okay? Steve wouldn’t say a word…”

“Steve?”

“Carella. We worked the assault together. He doesn’t think Milton did the homicide.”

“Was Fat Ollie…?”

“The one standing on my right. The one hogging the camera.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Then you saw him.”

“How could I miss him?”

“The power of television, huh?” he said, still amazed, shaking his head. “Boy.”

A waitress materialized.

“Sir?” she said, smiling.

Her manner told him she watched television, too.

“Sharyn?” he asked.

“Beefeater martini, pair of olives,” she said, “straight up and very cold.”

“Johnnie Black, on the rocks,” Kling said, “a splash.”

“Water?”

“Soda.”

“Would you care to see menus?”

“Sharyn? Anything?”

“Maybe something to nibble on,” she said.

“I’ll bring the menu,” the waitress said, and clicked off on her black high heels, long legs showing in the slit skirt.

Sharyn turned immediately to the window, where the lights of the city lay spread below like a nest of sparkling red and white and green and yellow jewels. “This is glorious,” she said.

“Listen,” he said.

She looked toward the bandstand, where a quartet sounding very much like George Shearing’s had just begun a new tune. She listened for only a moment, recognizing the song at once.

” ‘Kiss,’ ” she said.

“Let’s dance,” he said.

“Love to,” she said.

They moved onto the polished dance floor. She slid into his arms. He held her close.

Kiss…

It all begins with a kiss…

“I’m a lousy dancer,” he said.

“You’re very good,” she lied.

“You’ll have to teach me.”

But kisses wither

And die

Unless

“This is much better, isn’t it?”

“Much.”

The first caress

Is true.

Kiss…

“See? We’re doing it already.”

“What are we doing already?” she asked.

She was thinking What we’re doing is dancing too close already. We’re going to get arrested already. Good thing you’re a celebrity hero cop — at Top of the Hill, anyway.

“We’re going wherever we want to go,” he said, “and we’re just being us, without having to worry about looking like everyone around us.”

“We could never look like everyone around us,” she said.

“That’s because you’re so beautiful,” he said.

“No, it’s because you’re so handsome,” she said.

“And such a good dancer,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I meant me,” he said.

“Of course, exactly what I meant,” she said.

So hold me tight and whisper

Words of

Love

Against my eyes.

And kiss me sweet and promise

Me your

Kisses won’t he lies.

“We are, you know,” she said.

“Are what?”

“Going to get arrested.”

“That’s okay, I’m a cop.”

“So am I.”

“I find it hard to think of you as a cop”

“I find it hard, too,” she said, and moved in very tight against him.

He caught his breath.

She caught hers, too.

Kiss…

And show me, tell me of

Bliss…

“I love this song,” she said.

“I love it, too.”

Because I know I

Will die

Unless

“Sharyn?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

This first

Caress

Is true.

The rehearsal had ended at ten-thirty and now the play’s producer, director and playwright sat in the darkened theater, whispering low, considering their chances. There was no doubt in any of their minds that the murder of Michelle Cassidy would immeasurably help the show’s prospects. They were all beginning to think they had a hit on their hands.

“Plus,” Kendall said, “Josie’s a hundred times better than Michelle ever was.”

“Or ever would have been,” Morgenstern said.

They were giving Corbin the needle, of course. He had been the only holdout in casting Josie Beaks over Michelle. As playwright, he’d had the final say. Now Michelle’s understudy had inherited the role by default, and the play was better for it. Even Corbin had to admit it.

“I admit it,” he said. “She’s better. She makes the play come alive. I admit it. Now drop it.”

“The point is,” Kendall said, “how do we capitalize on what’s happened?”

“I got a call from Wally this afternoon,” Morgenstern said. He liked to think he was either Flo Ziegfeld or David Merrick. He had worn a black homburg and a black topcoat to the theater this evening. The topcoat was draped over the seat beside him, but he was still wearing the hat. Wally Stein was the play’s press agent, as opposed to its advertising representative. “He told me Time’s still doing the cover story.”

“Great,” Corbin said.

“Be better if we could get Josie in the story someplace,” Kendall said.

“She’s already in it,” Morgenstern said.

“When did this happen?”

“They interviewed her this morning. Murdered star’s replacement, how does she feel about it, all that shit.”

“When are they running it?”

“Next week’s issue, they’ve delayed it. Big picture of Michelle on the cover.”

“Do we have any pictures of her getting stabbed?” Corbin asked.

“In the play, do you mean?” Morgenstern said.

Kendall looked at him.

No, in her fuckin apartment, he thought, but did not say because this was the play’s producer here.

“Yes,” he said, “Wally has publicity photos, and we’ve also got display photos for outside the theater.”

“Of her getting stabbed?” Corbin insisted.

“Yes, I’m sure we do.”

“We ought to get them over to Time.”

“I’m sure Wally’s already thought of that,” Morgenstern said. “But we’ve got to be careful about this, you know. We don’t want to look like vultures. In fact…”

“You’re right, we’ve got to express the proper grief,” Kendall said.

“Which is why I was thinking…”

“Wally should start feeding the media some material on the play’s content,” Corbin said. “I don’t want people coming to see it just because Michelle happened to get killed.”

“Well,” Morgenstern said, “whatever they come see it is fine with me, so long as they come see it. The thing is not to make it appear that’s what we’re looking for. Which is why I thought I might announce that we’re closing the play. ”

“Closing it!”

“Out of respect for the dead, all that shit.”

“Closing it!”

“We’re sitting on a multimillion-dollar hit here!”

“Besides, this is a good play here,” Corbin said.

“Especially now with Josie in it.”

“I’ve already admitted I made a mistake…”

“All right, all right.”

“… so stop about Josie already.”

“Anyway, the mistake’s been corrected,” Morgenstern said. “And I would never dream of actually closing it.”

The men fell silent.

Their separate breathing was the only sound in the darkened theater.

“You know…” Morgenstern said.

“Mmm?”

“They’ll be coming to us again, you know.”

“The media?”

“No. The police.”

“Mmm.”

“The one with the Chinese eyes, especially.”

“The one with the Italian name.”

“Furillo.”

“Furella.”

“Carella.”

“Whatever.”

“He’ll want to know.”

“Know what?”

“How much we’re getting out of this thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s already asked me. He’ll ask again, now that Michelle’s dead.”

“That’s what they look for.”

“Motive, do you mean?”

“Love or money. Those are the two motives.”

“But they’ve already arrested her agent.”

“I’ll bet you any amount of money he didn’t do it.”

“He’s crazy enough to have done it.”

“But he didn’t.”

“Anyway, all agents are crazy.”

“But he didn’t kill Michelle, I’ll bet my share of the gross on it.”

“That’s what he’ll keep harping on. Gross. Net. Profits. Royalties. Carella.”

“I don’t think so. He’s already made his arrest.”

“Did you see that fat one?”

“On television, do you mean?”

“Yeah. The fat one.”

“He sure as hell thinks Johnny did it.”

“But not Carella. You didn’t see Carella on camera, did you? I didn’t see Carella on camera.”

“Because he doesn’t believe it.”

“Which is why he’ll be back, believe me.”

“Why?”

“To ask about our financial arrangements again.”

“Well, my lousy six percent isn’t worth killing for.”

“Neither is my two.”

They both looked at Morgenstern.

“Hey, come on, fellas,” he said.

Looking at him over the rim of her glass, she asked him why he’d trimmed Sharyn to Shaar earlier tonight. He was still trembling inside from having held her so close. He found it difficult to remember having called her Shaar.

“When did I call you Shaar?” he asked.

Not putting his hands on the table because he was sure they were shaking.

“When you were saying you thought I might feel uncomfortable in a place where there were only white people.”

“Do you feel uncomfortable now?”

“No.”

“Well, do you feel comfortable?“

“Yes.”

“Even though everyone around us is white?”

“I’m not seeing anyone around us.”

“Do you think if we went to a place in Diamondback, I wouldn’t see anyone around us, either?”

“I think if we went to Diamondback, you’d be made for a cop in ten seconds flat. They’d probably shoot you the minute you walked through the door.”

“That’s racist.”

“But realistic.”

“How about you? Would they shoot you?”

“I doubt it.”

“How come? You’re a cop.”

“Do I look like a cop?”

“You look like a sexy, beautiful woman.”

“I feel like a sexy, beautiful woman.”

“So I called you Shaar, huh?”

“Yes. You said, ’I’ll tell you the truth, Shaar.’”

“I guess maybe I did.”

“Why?”

“I guess I was feeling very close to you.”

“My mother’s the only one in the world who ever called me Shaar.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“It’s just peculiar. That you should pick my mother’s pet name for me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was a special…”

“No, I kind of like your using it.”

“Then I’ll…”

“But not all the time.”

“Okay, only…”

“Only when you’re feeling very close to me.”

“I’m beginning to feel close to you all the time.”

“Then we’d better be careful,” she said.

“Why?” he said, and suddenly put his big trembling hands on the table and covered her hands with them.

“Oh dear,” she said.

The waitress was back.

“Another round?” she asked, smiling at Kling.

“Sharyn?”

“Yes, okay,” she said.

“I’m glad you caught that guy,” the waitress said, and swiveled off.

“She thinks you’re cute, too,” Sharyn said.

“Who?”

“The waitress.”

“What waitress?” he said.

Alone with her in bed that night, he tried to tell her what was troubling him about the Cassidy murder. She listened intently, lying back against the pillows, head turned toward him, eyes wide, trying to visualize these people he was talking about.

“You see, Johnny Milton just had no reason to kill her,” he said. “Stabbing her accomplished everything he wanted to happen. His client is suddenly a star, she’s in a play where she gets stabbed, he’s got all the media dogs barking at her heels, so why kill her? No reason for it at all. Stabbing her already served the purpose. Stabbing her put both her and the play on the map. So why kill the golden goose? No way. I can’t see it. Where’s the motive?

“Love or money, that’s it, it’s either one or the other. He stabs her, he can expect to lose money, so scratch that. Love? Is there another guy or girl in the picture, who knows? Maybe there is a man out there who was somehow involved with her, or a woman, for that matter. One thing you learn about homicides is never to take anything for granted, nothing is ever what it seems to be. So maybe it’s love, okay, that’s a possibility. I don’t think we’ve got a crazy loose out there, this doesn’t look like a crazy to me. So it’s either love or money, the same old standbys, you can count on them every time, love or… excuse me, honey, but are you falling asleep?”

She nodded vaguely.

Smiling, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek and then found her mouth and kissed her lips and then looked into her eyes and said, “Goodnight, Teddy, I love you.”

And she signed with her right hand I love you, too, and turned out the light, and then snuggled up close to him in the dark.