Seduction of the Innocent (7 page)

“Jesus,” he said resignedly, “lately I get more death threats than Joe DiMaggio!”

Maggie asked, “Why does Joe DiMaggio get death threats?”

“He married Marilyn Monroe!” He sat forward again and gestured with open hands, something pleading in his tone, and I hoped this wasn’t how he planned to testify. “Look, Maggie, Jack...I didn’t come up here to get your permission or even explain why I feel I have to do this thing. But I
do
need your
help.”

Maggie and I exchanged glances. Price was bringing the
Craze
comic strip to us, and despite all the criticism Entertaining Funnies had received, we knew this particular property was a potential goldmine.

So she said, “How can we help?”

His grin was more school kid than chemistry teacher. “I’d like Jack here to accompany me to the courtroom, and play bodyguard.”

I frowned at him. “I’m pretty sure there’ll be cops around at that courthouse.”

He shook his head, the grin gone. “No, I need somebody to babysit me but good. From my office to the street, from the street to that courthouse, and back out again. There’s violence in the air. There are reporters that need keeping back. Jack, will you do that?”

I glanced at Maggie, who gave me a barely perceptible nod.

“Sure,” I said. “You just let me know what time and I’ll meet you over at your office.”

He grinned in relief and leaned over and offered me a hand to shake, which I did, as he said, “Thanks, Jack. Thanks, man.”

Price seemed about to rise when Maggie asked a question: “Did you see the broadcast from the Strip Joint Sunday night?”

“You bet I did. I try not to miss any appearance by Frederick or his puppet, that clown Lehman. Talk about hypocrites! That Lehman’s a pornographer!”

“People in glass houses,” I said, “shouldn’t throw horse apples. Your pop and the major co-published plenty of sleaze in their day.”

Price patted the air. “Okay, okay. No argument.” He smiled at Maggie. “Look, I really appreciate the way you stuck up for us comic book guys. Not a popular position.”

Maggie nodded a curt thanks, then said, “I wanted to ask you about this boy, Will Allison. I was afraid things might come to blows between him and Harry and that Lehman character the other night. I have a feeling only his natural shyness, once on camera, prevented a really unpleasant scene.”

Price was nodding. “Will’s an impulsive kid. Something of a hothead, frankly. But what a talent. He could be the next Hal Foster.”

“I’ve seen his work,” Maggie said, her tone appreciative. “I’d like to keep an eye on him for the future. But if he’s not
stable
....”

Price waved that off. “He’s just young and kind of... fragile. Handsome kid but out of step. I’ve tried to help him out. I’m even paying for sessions with my shrink.”

“What?” I said. “With Dr. Frederick?”

“Yeah, right! Naw, with a great little gal down in the Village, Sylvia Winters. She’s tops and you’d like her, Jack. Cross between Kim Novak and Grace Kelly.”

That sounded promising. Maybe I could whip up a neurosis.

Price rose, thanked us both, told me he’d call with details about tomorrow, shook our hands, and went out.

I was getting up, too, thinking this session was over, when Maggie said, “I want you to look this Dr. Winters up. She’s probably in the book.”

“Probably. Why?”

“I’m a little worried about Bob.”

“You mean, he looks like he hasn’t slept for days, yet is feeling no pain? Like popping pills, maybe?”

“He’s high-strung all right. See what Dr. Winters’ opinion is about him testifying.”

“She’s a doctor. There are privacy issues.”

“She’s a woman. And you’re a charming devil.”

Was that sarcasm? I couldn’t always tell with her.

“And while you’re at it,” she was saying, “see if she’ll provide any insights about Will Allison. I’d like to know if he’s got problems that would preclude us hiring him on to do some work.”

“You have something in mind for him?”

She nodded. “Thinking about developing a science-fiction strip. You know, the Allison boy draws like a young Ray Alexander.”

Alexander created
Crash Landon,
the top sci-fi strip, or it had been till he quit to draw a private eye feature called
Nick Steele.
Some said I’d been Alexander’s inspiration for the latter.

Maybe that would impress this Winters dame. You know, when I was charming her.

I rose. “This is just a plan to get me next to a psychiatrist, isn’t it?”

“With your ego,” she said pleasantly, “a little head shrinking couldn’t hurt. Now run along.”

As long as I can remember, Greenwich Village—that fabled artsy section belting the city below 14th Street—has been home to cafes, coffee houses and hideaways, and even the occasional actual nightclub. Seemed all it took to open up a Village spot was a vacant storefront or cellar, a few thrift-shop tables, some empty bottles to stick candles in, some filled bottles of wine, an espresso machine, and a beat-up piano (preferably in tune).

Considered by some the hippest cabaret in all New York City, the Village Gateway on Thompson took up a hotel basement just off Bleecker Street. Soon a crowd would be lined up to get in—this was jazz night (folk music and poetry readings alternated on the others) and Charlie Mingus would be going on around ten. But I was even earlier than the tourists—I strolled into the big low-ceilinged room just after five.

Though the Gateway wasn’t the intimate hole-in-the-wall of a genuine GV retreat (that’s Greenwich Village, for the squares among you), the atmosphere was just right—scuffed round wooden tables, walls with murals and sketches drawn right on, like the comic-strip doodles at the Strip Joint, but with less artistry, in my book. Right now the cavernous space held only a handful of patrons, mostly angry, edgy young poets of both sexes—you’d be angry and edgy, too, if you’d been drinking espresso all day.

Dr. Sylvia Winters was a cut above the other females in the Gateway, with their long black hair and no makeup and lip-drooped cigarettes. Still, she fit right in, in the black, bulky yet oddly form-fitting sweater with tight black pants. She had a short platinum-blonde hairdo with a sharp comma of curl framing her face on one side, and that beautiful mixture of Kim Novak and Grace Kelly that Bob Price promised was lightly touched with mascara, face powder and lipstick so dark red it was damn near black. Her eyes were a dark, penetrating blue, long-lashed under bold black arching eyebrows.

Standing next to where she sat by a framed sketch of a nude woman, I asked, “Dr. Winters?”

Though of course I knew
....

Her smile was lovely, emphasizing apple cheeks that were a wholesome surprise in that sophisticated mug of hers.

“Mr. Starr,” she purred, extending her hand, which I took and shook, a warm slender thing with long-nailed tapering fingers, “from now on, I’m going to call you ‘Jack’ and you’re going to call me ‘Sylvia.’”

“Fine.” I grinned and sat. “I may even get around to calling you ‘Syl,’ if you let me.”

Her smile turned amused and made her chin crinkle. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. What can I do for you, Jack?”

“Well, I already got ahead of myself, didn’t I? The first thing I should have done was thank you for meeting me.”

“I was intrigued. But as I told you on the phone, I’m very limited as to what I can say about my patients.”

“Patient privacy,” I said with a nod. “Sure, I get that.”

“I don’t want to mislead you.” She leaned in, as if about to share a secret. “I
am
a doctor, but not a medical one.”

“Ah. Psychologist, not psychiatrist.”

“Exactly.” She leaned back. “Would you like something to drink?”

She was having coffee, not espresso, and like Maggie she took it heavily laced with cream.

“Yeah, please,” I said, and she waved the waitress over.

I liked that. Sylvia Winters had a natural yet feminine strength, expressed in something as small but telling as being the one of us to call for service. Smart, beautiful, stacked, and if that sounds like I’m a rogue, let me remind you that I put “smart” first on that list.

The slender, not unattractive waitress in a black blouse and black skirt and black stockings (was she going for vampire or nun?) came over. When I asked for a Coca-Cola, she looked at me for a long time, the way a bartender in a western looks at a dude who orders sarsaparilla.

So I sneered at her and said, “In a dirty glass.”

That made her laugh. You make one of these sullen girls laugh, you must have something. And Sylvia was smiling, too.

“You live here in the Village,” I said.

“And work.”

“I’m sure you have no shortage of patients.”

One side of her mouth smiled; her lips were neither full nor thin, just well-defined, as if by an artist more adept than any showcasing their work on the walls of the Gateway.

“No shortage of patients,” she admitted. “But they sometimes have a shortage of funds.”

“How long have you been at it?”

“This is my third year, since graduating.”

That made sense. I made her as maybe twenty-five, twenty-six.

“I’m not poverty-stricken, understand,” she said. “I have a number of patients in entertainment and the arts. There are some talented and successful actors, artists and musicians who live in the Village. They like to soak up the atmosphere.”

“I dig it down here, too. Notice I used the word ‘dig.’ Just to impress you with how hep I am. Or is that hip?”

She chuckled. “I admit I like the bohemian way of life around here. Little movie theaters with foreign films, Italian restaurants every second or third step, bars filled with writers and artists, every night a party, but an intellectually stimulating one.”

“Has its attractions.”

She shrugged, sipped her coffee. Her nails were painted the same red-black as her mouth. “There are a lot of pretenders, sure, and kids who are spending a few years learning if they can or can’t make it in the arts.”

“Or till their parents get tired of subsidizing them.”

“Or till then. But who am I to judge? My living here
is
partly economic.”

My Coke came, set in front of me with a clunk. No glass. Warm.

I thanked the waitress, who had gotten over finding me amusing, and she moved to a table across the room.

I said to Sylvia, “She’s just jealous of you. So...economical to live in the Village, is it?”

“It’s
cheap
to live in the Village.” Again she leaned in to share a secret. “Would you believe? I have a big, beautiful, one-bedroom apartment on 11th Street and Seventh Avenue. One hundred a month.”

Dr. Frederick’s suite in the Waldorf Towers went for maybe ten times that, or more.

“Can’t beat that kinda overhead,” I said. “And you work out of there, too, right?”

“Yes. So. Jack. Have we sufficiently broken the ice? I’m already rather taken with you, and from your expression, I can see that you are already in love with me. By the time I’m through with my coffee, I expect a proposal of marriage.”

I took a swig of Coke and grinned at her. “I
was
going to pop the question, till I heard you didn’t have that lucrative a set-up. I mean, the psychiatrist or even psychologist
I
marry will have to have a really thriving practice. Keeping me in creature comforts is a commitment.”

Her smile was again one-sided, devilish. “You kid on the square, don’t you, Jack?”

I pretended to frown. “On the other hand, maybe I don’t want to marry a shrink. But just to be clear?”

“Yes?”

“I am willing to fool around with one.”

She almost did a spit take with her coffee, laughing. The waitress, sitting bored across the room from us, frowned, either really jealous or maybe just not wanting to be interrupted as she read the latest issue of
Craze,
which Bob Price would have loved.

“Now, for the record, I’m willing to buy you food,” I said. “I hear the grub here is pretty good. It’s a little early, but we’re beating the crowd. What say?”

“Okay, okay,” she said, holding up her hands in surrender, “consider the ice well and truly broken. As far as you buying me supper, we’ll see. What is it I can do for you?”

“Well,” I said, businesslike now, “as I mentioned on the phone, I want to discuss our mutual friend, Bob Price.”

I’d told her that the Starr Syndicate was contemplating getting into business with Bob by way of a
Craze
comic strip.

“You’re aware,” I said, getting into an area we had
not
discussed in our brief phone conversation, “that Bob has volunteered to testify tomorrow in that Senate hearing.”

“On juvenile delinquency and comic books, yes. He’s quite adamant about that.”

“I’m afraid he’s going to get himself in trouble.”

Her expression was placid, her eyes almost sleepy, but that was deceiving: the sharp intelligence in those eyes was examining me like a surgeon with a blade.

She said, “I understand he’s written, or anyway is writing, an opening statement that he’s quite proud of.”

“I have no doubt it will be a masterpiece. But once he’s given his golden spiel, he’ll have to answer questions, and he won’t be prepared for that. I promise you.”

“He’s a very intelligent man.”

“And an excitable boy. I saw him shortly before I phoned you this afternoon, Sylvia. He’s hopped up and strung out, as we hip Village types put it. My guess is he’s popping Dexies like they were Lifesavers. And they’re not. Life savers.”

She nodded, but said nothing. Patient/doctor thing again.

I leaned forward, took advantage of the nice rapport we’d established. “Look. I’m not asking for you to reveal anything about Bob. Frankly, I think I already understand him perfectly. His father made him feel worthless, and now he’s beating his dead dad at his own game, the funny-book business. Then this Doc Frederick comes along, playing disapproving Daddy again, not just where Bob’s concerned but everybody in America, which Bob is resentful as hell about. Pissed-off is the psychological term, in case you skipped class that day.”

Her chin lifted, and her eyes were no longer hooded. “That wasn’t bad. Maybe you should take night school and join my profession.”