The Chelsea Girl Murders (29 page)

Jack told me this himself, because that's the kind of guy he is, and because I am one of his “pets,” along with Norma, the cafeteria lady, and Dr. Larry, a philosophy Ph.D. Jack met on a plane and later hired as his “official ethicist.”

“We've got another job for you,” he said. “It's a good job. We want you to set up a programming office overseas to develop new programming and repackage existing programming. The office would be set up within an existing news bureau for the All News Network, to keep overhead down and enable resources sharing.…”

“Where overseas?”

“You have a choice, Robin. London and Berlin are both big bureaus with good international broadcasting contacts, but my wife, Shonny, is convinced Paris would be the best choice. Shonny says the French raised all those girly things—perfume, fashion, cosmetics—to an art, but it's also a place with a tradition of women intellectuals. It's the city of love. Great all-round Chick City. You speak French?”

“I'll learn,” I said.

I know a job in Paris is nothing to sneer at, but all the same, it was hard to go back to work, demoted, and face Jerry and Solange. When I got back from lunch, Jerry Spurdle was waiting for me in his office, sitting in his Italian leather executive chair with his back to the door, talking on the phone. He pretended he didn't see me, though my reflection was clearly visible in the glass wall behind him.

“Yeah, I'm the head fox in this henhouse,” he said on the phone. “They brought me and my nine inches of alpha manhood in to dilute the estrogen quotient and provide some real leadership for these moody girls, to make sure they don't fill up the schedule with man-bashing and wife-beater movies.”

The line light on his phone was not lit up. He was taking to nobody. This was for my benefit.

Suddenly, he feigned discovery of my presence, and said, “Gotta go.”

“So what do you want, Jerry?” I said. “I gotta message to see you ASAP.”

“Hey, Robin. I meant to tell you earlier, you're carrying those extra pounds well.”

“Thanks.”

“I so admire how as you age, you become more and more defiant of those western beauty ideals. You've become a handsome woman, in your way.”

It was funny. The more blatantly offensive he became, the less offended and more amused I was. The less offended I was, the more offended and offensive he became. Kick me when I'm down, Jerry. Why not?

“Was there something else, Jerry?”

“Yeah. Too bad about your demotion. You should have listened to me,” he said. “I know advertisers and I know programming that sells. Now look what's happened.”

Not a word about the ordeal I'd been through. I know he was expecting me to just absolutely lose it, and tell him what a putrid pile of sallow skin he really was.

“Well, it's a blessing in disguise,” I said, because saying that instead really pissed him off, and because, yeah, it was a blessing in disguise.

It's a demotion, sure, which normally would be kind of humiliating, and would inspire much mirth among my enemies. But it's a demotion that will take me to Paris for six months, which is, not coincidentally, when my contract is up, and when my old apartment building will be rebuilt. It's a demotion that prevents something worse—having to work around Jerry and Solange in the ulcer-inducing Holy Woman Empire. I won't have to travel as much or as far either.

As W. C. Fields said, “Don't cry over spilt milk, it might have been poisoned,” which is another way of saying something bad can prevent something worse.

And how cosmic can you get? I have a thing for a guy in Paris, and I'm being sent to Paris. This would be enough to restore a girl's faith in the universe, provided she didn't find out later that her friend Louis Levin had called up Shonny Cobbs after learning about the shakeup, that her friend Louis had made the case for Paris, and that Shonny then put a few sweet words in her husband's ear about it.

So, here I am, six weeks later, packing my cat and my few remaining belongings to go to Paris. Who knows what will be found there? Romance? Maybe, though Pierre now suspects I'm completely insane. Even though he knows a bit about Maggie's reputation, he thinks I should have trusted him, and that it is a bad sign that I didn't. Evidently, he doesn't know how insidious and convincing Maggie's revenge can be.

Whatever awaits, I know it's going to be great. I don't speak the language, so how much trouble can my big mouth get me into there? I checked the stats on homicide in Paris, and they're very low. They average fewer homicides in all of France than we do in New York City. The odds of having a pleasant, untroubled time during my stay in Paris are very good indeed.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my long-suffering editor, Claire Wachtel. In addition to taming my prose and soothing my jangled nerves, she keeps the sticklers for time at bay with her big pitchfork, which she sharpens daily on the backbone of a long-dead
Kirkus Reviews
critic.

Danny Baror, my foreign rights agent and a former Israeli tank commander, leads our underdog battle for World Domination, bringing much foreign booty into our queenly coffers, and we think we owe him many blue drinks, but for now, thanks a million.

I've taken liberties with the characters and layout of the Chelsea Hotel in order to protect the privacy and security of the real residents and, er, serve my story and own nefarious purposes. I thank the Chelsea for indulging me in this, and for so many other things, including a great deal of help with research, much of which didn't make it into this book. To Stanley Bard, who walks the razor's edge between business concerns and his love of artists—I could not have done it without you. Thanks to Michelle, and special thanks to David Bard, who gave me a great deal of his time to show me all the ins and outs of the hotel and share some of the better legends of the place. Jerry Weinstein, you IS the Last Manly Man, man. Bonnie Kendall, xoxo. Other Chelsea staff were also helpful and kind: Amy, Jerome, Kevon, Vincent, Pete, Damon, Timur, Steve. My neighbors and friends: Scott Griffin, Tim Moran, Jan Reddy, David and Caroline Remfry, John Wells, Arnold Weinstein, Richard Bernstein, Herbert Gentry, Jan Reddy, Paul Ramiro and Annalee Simpson, Blair and Jennifer, Tony, the Transcendent Turk, Lena, Hiroya, DeeDee, Tony on six—many thanks.

Though the Chelsea makes an appearance in a lot of songs and literature, there is only one comprehensive history of the hotel that I know of,
At the Chelsea
, by Florence Turner, a wonderful book about the hotel in the 1960s. I relied heavily on this book for historical information. I also obtained information from the Chelsea Hotel web site:
http://www.chelseahotel.com
.

A
ND THANKS TO
:

Sandi Bill, for sharing the philosophy that a bad thing could prevent something worse, which I attributed in this book to Phil. Phil himself was inspired by a guy named Bill who worked for a relief group, IMC, in a refugee camp in Peshawar, Pakistan. I lost his last name. Great guy. Too silly to die.

Noel Behn.

Pat Tracy

Caroline White—no longer my editor, forever an ace dame.

Jennifer Gould.

Diana “My creed is wonder” Greene.

The much-tuckerized Maggie Mason, who lends her name to a character within. Unlike the Maggie Mason in this book, the real Mary Margaret Mason hardly ever steals other women's men—when she can help it.

Nancy Lane.

Lisa and Matthew Quier.

Tamayo Otsuki.

The lovely lady Sammy, her husband, Mohammed; Robby; Hanny; Rene Fitz; and all the other fine-looking gentlemen at the Aristocrat Deli, for many kindnesses and credit above and beyond.

The Reverend Rhoda Sweet Boots.

Nadja Dee.

Cathy Criscuolo, who sent me the Mr. Chicken update.

Joelle Tati, Tania Capron, David Torrence at No Alibis in Belfast, Ion Mills and Pam Smith at No Exit in London, Filthy McNasty's, Lawrence and Lynn, Nevin Hayter, EvaJessie, Ian Simmons, Katrina Onstad, and my accountant, Martin Watkins.

About the Author

Sparkle Hayter has been a journalist for CNN and other news organizations, a stringer in Afghanistan, a producer in Bollywood, a stand-up comic in New York, a caretaker for an elderly parent in Canada, and a novelist of seven books. And some other things that are kind of a blur now. Her articles have been published in numerous newspapers and magazines, including the
New York Times
, the
Nation
, and
New Woman
. She currently lives in Canada with her rescued Nepali street dog, Alice, and is working on a new book.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2000 by Sparkle Hayter

Cover design by Jesse Hayes

ISBN: 978-1-4976-7835-4

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com

THE ROBIN HUDSON MYSTERIES

FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA