The seventh commandment

Chapter 35

He sat ripping the baguette apart with jerking fingers, rolling the dough into hard little balls and tossing them aside.

"Turner," Helene said, "what are you doing?"

He looked down at the mess he had made. "Jesus," he said, "I'm losing it."

He was about to say more, but then the waiter served their veal chops and angelhair pasta. The bartender brought over a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio and showed the label to Turner. He nodded, and the bottle was uncorked and poured.

"Now calm down and eat your dinner," Helene said.

Turner tried a bite of veal, then pushed his plate away. "I can't make it," he said. "You go ahead. I'll have the wine and maybe a little pasta."

Helene ate steadily, not looking up. "What's she on?" she asked.

"Ramon gave me some new stuff he's distributing. Smokable methamphetamine. Called ice. He said it would be a great high, and it is. Lasts for hours. But Ramon didn't tell me about the crash. Disaster time."

"Then cut her off," Helene advised.

"I can't. You're hooked with the first puff. The stuff is dynamite. I had her move in so I can keep an eye on her. The woman is dangerous-to herself and to me."

Helene looked up frowning. "Dangerous? You mean suicidal?"

"Suicidal, homicidal, depression, hallucinations, delusions-you name it. She can't even talk clearly."

"You've got a problem, son."

"Thanks for telling me," he said bitterly. "I thought I could keep her quietly stoned. That's a laugh. She smokes the stuff and starts climbing walls. That stupid Ramon!"

Helene ate steadily. "If he's stupid," she said, "how come he's so rich?"

"That's where you're wrong," Turner told her. "The richest men I've known have been the dumbest. It has nothing to do with intelligence. The ability to make money is a knack, like juggling or baking a souffle."

"Uh-huh," Helene said. "Aren't you going to eat your chop?"

"I have no appetite. You want it?"

"About half. Cut it for me."

Obediently, he trimmed the chop on his plate, cut slices of the white meat, and transferred them to her plate.

"Thank you," she said. "So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," he said fretfully, and went back to rolling balls of bread dough. "I tried to cut her off, and she went wild. Absolutely wild. She threatened me. Can you imagine that? She actually threatened me."

"Threatened you how?"

"Said she'd kill me if I didn't bring her more ice. And believe me, she wasn't kidding."

"You're scared?"

"Damned right I'm scared," he said, gulping his wine. "She's totally off the wall."

"Turner, maybe you better go to Clayton or Olivia and suggest she be put away for treatment."

"And have her tell them where she's been getting the stuff? No way! That would queer everything."

Helene finished her wine, took the bottle from the ice bucket, and refilled Turner's glass and her own. "You want to close up shop and take off?" she said quietly.

"I don't know," he said. "I don't know what to do."

His head was down as he pushed the bread pills around the tablecloth. Helene sat back and regarded him closely. He was right; he was losing it. Skin sallow, puffy circles under his eyes, twitchy fingers. And he, who had always been such a dandy, now wore a soiled shirt, tie awkwardly knotted, unpressed jacket. She could almost smell his fear.

"How long can you keep her going?" she asked.

"God knows," he said. "I've got to be there when she crashes. If I let her out of the apartment, she might go home, and then we're dead. Helene, you have no idea what that stuff has done to her. She's lost weight, she can't sleep, I've got to bathe her like an invalid. When she's smoking, her body gets so hot I'm afraid to touch her. But when she's high, she just wants to keep going. It lasts for hours, sometimes a whole day. Then she falls apart and wants to kill herself. Or me-if I don't get her out of her funk. Which means more ice."

"Where is she now?"

"At my apartment. Locked in. I fed her some downers, hoping she'd sleep it off. I better get back. If she's set fire to the whole place, I won't be a bit surprised. Maybe you're right; maybe we better split. I can't see any way out of this mess."

"Let's think about it," Helene said. "You go on home now. I'll finish my wine, maybe have an espresso, and take a cab home."

"Will you pick up the tab?"

She looked at him. "Sure," she said.

He stood up and tried a smile. "Thanks, sweetie," he said. "I can always depend on you. We'll come out of this okay; you'll see."

"Of course we will," she said.

She sipped her wine slowly, then had an espresso and a small apple tart. She paid the bill and overtipped, asking the waiter to go out onto Lexington Avenue and get her a cab. She was back in her apartment within a half-hour.

She looked up the unlisted number of Ramon Schnabl in her address book. But when she phoned, all she got was an answering machine. When it beeped, she gave her name, phone number, and asked Mr. Schnabl to call her at his convenience.

Then she phoned the Starrett apartment. Charles answered, and she asked if Clayton was there. The houseman said that Mr. Starrett was attending a business dinner that evening but was expected home shortly. Helene asked that he call her whatever time he arrived.

She made herself a cup of instant black coffee and took it to the living room desk. She went over her accounts, adding up her cash on hand and what she might expect from an emergency sale of those unset diamonds. She estimated the total, roughly, at about fifty thousand. That was hardly poverty, but it was very small peanuts indeed compared to her dreams.

She was finishing her coffee when the phone rang, and she let it shrill six times before she picked it up.

"H'lo?" she said in a sleepy voice.

"It's Clay, honey. Did I wake you up?"

"That's all right, Clay. I've only been sleeping a few minutes. It was nothing important. I just wanted to tell you how much I love you and how much I miss you."

"Hey," he said, his voice eager, "that's important! Did you really go to sleep so early?"

"There's nothing special on TV, so I thought I'd go to my lonely bed."

"Listen" he said, almost choking, "we can't have you going to a lonely bed. How's about if I pop over for a while? You can always sleep later."

"Well…" she said hesitantly, "if you really want to. I'd love to see you, Clay, but you must be tired."

"I'm never that tired," he said. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

She undressed quickly, brushed her teeth, took a quick shower. By the time he arrived, she was scented and wearing a peach-colored silk negligee.

"Oh sweetheart," she said, embracing him tightly, "I'm so happy to see you. I know how busy you are, but I was hoping you'd come over tonight. I felt so alone. I really need you."

He stayed for almost two hours. As he was dressing, he took out his wallet and gave her five hundred dollars.

"That's just walking-around money," he told her. "After the divorce comes through and we're married, I'll put you on the store payroll at a thousand a week. We'll call you a styling consultant or something like that. It'll be a no-show job, but if anyone asks we can say you check out competitors' displays and new designs."

"A thousand a week," she repeated. "Thank you, darling. You're so good to me."

After he left, she showered again, poured herself a brandy, and changed the sheets and pillowcases on her bed.

She went back to her accounts, and finished the evening by making a meticulous list of her diamonds and their carat weight. Then she went to bed. She lay awake a few minutes, thinking that Turner should have left money for their dinner. That young man was developing short arms and low pockets. Clayton Starrett was different.