Carriage Trade (9 page)

“Of course.”

“And I should warn you, Connie, that Moses Minskoff—whose name you mentioned this afternoon—has already resurfaced. He claims to be in possession of some IOU's of Si's, some promissory notes, representing loans he made to Si over the years. Of course until I've had a chance to examine these documents I've no way of knowing whether they'd stand up in a court of law. But I thought I should warn you that this Minskoff character has already started making sword-rattling noises.”

She shivers. “How did Si ever get mixed up with a man like Moe Minskoff?”

He sighs. “Well, there were times in your husband's business when he needed ready cash, and needed it in a hurry. Minskoff was there to provide it.”

She taps her lacquered fingertips on the tabletop. “He used my husband, and the store, to launder his filthy money—which came from God knows what crooked source!”

“Well,” he says with a small smile, “when a man needs ready cash and someone else is on hand to supply it, he doesn't always question the source of the cash too closely.”

“I suppose not. But still—Moe Minskoff. Of all the people in the world—”

“That's why I want to handle the Minskoff situation very carefully, Connie. I don't want anything about this to get into the press. I don't want anything to come out that would damage the store's reputation. Meanwhile, I think a more important question is, who's going to run the store now that Si is gone?”

“Well, I can't run it, and couldn't even if I wanted to, which I don't. Miranda's always said she'd like to run the store some day, but she hasn't had any real experience. Retailing is a—a
jungle
. Si often said so. And Miranda knows nothing about that jungle. Of course, that's Si's fault, too, in a way. He never wanted her to get any real retailing experience. He never even wanted her to work for the store.”

“So I suppose it'll be Bonham.”

She sips her tea thoughtfully. “I don't know,” she says. “The
Times
story didn't mention it, but something happened between Si and Tommy a few months ago. I've no idea what it was. Si never discussed the business with me. But I got the distinct impression that Si had stopped trusting Tommy. I honestly think that if Si hadn't died when he did, he would have—I mean, I believe Si was thinking of getting rid of Tommy.”

“Ah,” he says. “That explains something I wondered about.”

“You mean that in Si's revised will Tommy Bonham wasn't to be left the emerald ring.”

“Now, you know I can't tell you that.”

“You don't need to. You just did. And I think I know to whom, in the unfinished will, that ring was going to be left.”

“Don't ask me that, Connie.”

“I don't need to. I already know,” she says.

“And so,” he says, shifting the subject again, “I suppose the store will have to be sold.”

She nods. “Yes, though it seems a shame, considering how hard Si worked to make Tarkington's what it's become. He built the business for Blazer, you know. It was all for that boy, but then Blazer—let him down.”

“There've been several offers already. Some quite lucrative.”

“Yes, I guess I'd say sell it. Sell it to the highest bidder. Because, frankly, there was something troubling Si those last few months before he died. Part of it was Tommy, but part of it was something else. I don't think business was as good as he pretended it was. He used to say, ‘My kind of woman isn't affected by a recession. My kind of woman isn't even aware of an economic downturn.' But I think some of them were. I think a lot of them were. I think that was what was weighing on his mind. I think the store had begun losing money, perhaps was even hemorrhaging money. At times, these past six or eight months, I'd look at Si and see a very frightened look in his eyes, Jake—a terrified look.”

“Of course, if the store were sold, it would become a very different sort of store.”

“But perhaps that's inevitable. After all, that kind of store may not have any place in this city anymore—maybe not anywhere in the world. Think about it: all those famous little Tarkington's touches. Chanel Number Five in the ladies' room. Chaise longues in case a customer felt faint or wanted to get off her feet for a few minutes. Monogrammed hand towels. Maids running about serving tea or drinks or little watercress sandwiches—whatever the client asked for. Endless alterations to suit the client's whim, and never a charge for any of it. That sort of thing may have worked in the eighties, and even in the seventies. But this is the nineties, and people are tightening their belts, pulling in their horns. Tarkington's has become an anachronism. Specialty stores like ours are becoming a thing of the past.
The Times
was right—Si was the last of the dinosaurs. His breed's extinct, and so's his breed of store. I'm sorry, Jake. I didn't mean to launch into a long lecture on the state of the retailing business, a subject I assure you I know absolutely nothing about.”

“I think you know more than you're willing to admit,” he says.

They sit in silence for a moment or two, and she sips her tea. “This tea simply
will not cool,”
she says, setting down her cup.

“You know,” he says, “when Blazer made his little—outburst back there at the office, he said something about wanting to kill his father but somebody else beat him to it.”

She shakes her head. “I have no idea what he meant by that.”

“You don't think there was any chance of foul play, do you?”

“I don't even want to think about it. What difference does it make? He's dead. Foul play or not, he's not coming back to life. Harry Arnstein said death was from a coronary, and that's good enough for me.”

“But still—”

“The thing you have to remember about me, Jake, is that I loved the little son-of-a-bitch. In spite of the way he treated me, I still loved him. He may have treated me badly, but he treated other women badly, too. I wasn't singled out. Being unfaithful to me was part of his nature. I don't think it was possible for him to be faithful to any woman, much less a wife. And I miss him. Last night, I spent the night in town. I let myself into the apartment alone and realized he wouldn't be there. It's not that he was often there. In fact, most of the time he wasn't there. But I realized he was never going to be there again. I realized I'd never hear him say again that he was going out to walk Blackamoor, his big old Labrador. Even when there were times that he—and Blackamoor—were going to wind up in some girlfriend's apartment, I knew I was going to miss hearing him say that. I was going to miss him telling me his transparent little lies. Isn't it funny? I was even going to miss the bad things he did. Suddenly I felt terribly alone. I went from window to window, throughout that big, empty apartment, looking out into the street, thinking I'd see him walking Blackamoor, or see him stepping into a phone booth to call one of his girlfriends, even though I knew he was gone for good and was never coming back. And you know something? Even though I knew he was gone forever, and was never coming back, I was still jealous of him. Because I loved him. If anyone ever does decide to write his biography, I hope they'll put that in.”

“As a matter of fact, I've already been approached on that subject,” he says.

“Oh, I don't think so, Jake. I don't think we want anybody writing his biography, do we? No.”

“The young man has good credentials. He's primarily a financial writer, and he understands retailing. He got some sort of an award for a piece he did in
Fortune
on Saks being taken over by the Arab consortium. His name is Peter Turner.”

“No, I think not,” she says. “Si didn't want anything written about him in his lifetime, and I think we should continue to honor those wishes. I hope you told him no.”

“I told him I'd talk to him after I talked to you.”

“And there are some things in Si's past that we wouldn't want—”

“I know what you mean, Connie. But just remember this one fact about journalists. If a journalist wants to write a story badly enough, he'll go ahead and write it anyway, whether you cooperate or not. And if you cooperate, you have a certain amount of leverage. You have a certain amount of control over the material, over what goes into the story, if you see what I mean.”

She looks thoughtful. “Yes, you have a point.”

“So you might consider cooperating with this Peter Turner—in order to have that degree of control.”

She smiles faintly. “You're a very wise man, Jake,” she says. “I've always thought so. How long have you and I known each other?”

“Twenty-seven years. I was best man in your wedding. Remember?”

“Of course. The day he died was my fiftieth birthday. Did you know that? Jake—am I getting old?”

“Oh, no,” he says. “Not you.”

“Whatever else could be said about my husband, you have to admit that Si Tarkington had balls.” She sips her tea. “This tea is finally cool enough to drink,” she says.

5

At the Beth-El Home for the Jewish Aged in Palm Beach Shores, Florida, it is time for Rose Tarcher's weekly bridge game. Rose Tarcher is ninety-six and, she likes to boast, she still has all her faculties, though her hearing has begun to fail her in recent years. “Which way is north?” she asks. “Which? Is this north?” Rose is superstitious, and likes to be seated on the north side of the bridge table.

No one really likes to play bridge with Rose Tarcher because she is notorious for being a bid hog. On the other hand, in the unwritten hierarchy of the Beth-El Home, Rose is what is known as “one of the higher-ups.” Being one of the higher-ups means that Rose has money—some money, at least, though of course no one knows how much. In her room, number 17, she has substituted her own chintz curtains and bedspread for the ones provided by the home. She also has her own colored sheets, which she likes changed twice a week, though most residents get only one change a week, on Mondays. In her room she has a large-screen TV, with cable. She has her own Touch Tone phone, with an extra line and a hold button, and a sterling silver mezuzah on her door.

Then there is her mink. It is a rather special mink, designed, she says, just for her. It can be worn at knee length. But then there is an eighteen-inch-deep panel of matched pelts that can be zipped onto the skirt of the coat, creating a floor-length garment. The coat has a high stand-up collar, and it also has a zip-on hood. Rose's mink may have seen better days, but it still has its Tarkington's label and Rose's monogram stitched into the lining, and on chilly evenings she often appears at the dinner table wrapped from head to toe in her mink.

In the draw for partners, Rose has drawn Ben Rosenthal, one of the few gentlemen living at Beth-El, and this draw is fine with him because, if Rose likes to hog the bids, Ben enjoys being dummy. The other players are Esther Pinkus and Lily Sachs. The bidding proceeds.

Rose opens. “Two clubs.”

“Two spades,” says Esther.

“Pass,” says Ben.

“Four spades,” says Lily.

“Two clubs,” says Rose.

“Now, Rose, you know you can't do that,” Esther says. “My partner said four spades.”

“What?”

“My partner said four spades,” Esther says, louder. “You can't go back to two clubs!”

“I didn't hear anybody say four spades,” Rose says. “It's two clubs.”

“Rose, you spoil everybody's fun when you play like this!”

“Let's see what you've got for me, partner,” Rose says, and Ben lays down his hand. “Very pretty, partner,” she says as Esther leads. Her opposing partners look glum. Rose often plays like this, using poor hearing as an excuse for not noticing intervening bids, and it is very irritating to the others. But another unwritten rule of the home is that arguments and quarrels among the residents are to be avoided at all costs, and any long-standing feuds would surely raise the hackles of Shirley Weinstein, the home's peppy redheaded Director of Activities.

Rose takes the first trick. Ben Rosenthal, as dummy, rises a little stiffly and slowly circles the table, examining the other hands. Then he moves toward the television set where, at low volume, a developer is extolling the wonders of time-share living at Delray Beach. At eighty-four, Ben is one of the youngsters at Beth-El, and several of the ladies consider him their special beau. On top of the set is a copy of today's
New York Times
, and Ben picks this up and idly glances at the headlines. “I see Silas Tarkington died,” he says to no one in particular.

“What?” Rose asks.

“Silas Tarkington,” he says.

“What about him?”

“He died.”

Rose's cards tumble into her lap, and she fumbles to gather them up again. The color has drained from her face.

“Rose, are you all right?” Lily asks anxiously. Just the other day, old Mrs. Samuels suddenly turned pale like that and went to her Maker right at the dining room table.

“He didn't tell me,” Rose whispers.

“How could he tell you?” Esther snaps. “He's dead.”

“Didn't tell me he was sick.”

“He wasn't sick. He drowned,” Ben says.

“How could that be? He was a beautiful swimmer.”

“What's he to you, anyway?” Esther asks.

“Only my son,” she says. “Only my only son. You'd think someone would tell his only mother when her only son dies. Oh, Solly—” She reaches for the hanky in the bosom of her dress and dabs at her eyes.

“Silas Tarkington's your
son
?” Esther says. “How could that be? Your name's Tarcher.”

“It was Solomon Tarcher before. Before he wanted to get fancy and changed it.”

Esther snatches the newspaper from Ben and quickly scans the the obituary. “If you're his mother, how come you're not mentioned in his write-up?” she says. “They list all the survivors. They don't mention any mother. I don't believe you, Rose. How come he never came to see you?” She is clearly still cross at losing a bid for game in a major suit.