The Eighth Commandment (35 page)

“You’re a sweetheart—did I ever tell you that?”

“No, and it’s high time you did.”

He made a kissing sound over the phone and hung up. A nut. But a nice nut.

W
HAT A PARTY THAT
was! Almost exactly as I imagined sophisticated Manhattan soirées would be when I was sinking dunk shots in our Des Moines driveway. Elegantly dressed women. Handsome men. Champagne. Exotic food. Everyone saying clever things. The whole bit.

So why wasn’t I ecstatic? Because there was something so
forced
about those twittering people. If Vanessa Havistock was playing a role, all her guests were, too. I mean everyone was
on
, flushed, nervy, trying to top each other’s gags and put someone down. “Don’t tell me you’re still eating
kiwi
!”

I know what my father would have said about that bunch: “More dollars than sense.”

My first shock came when I spotted Roberta and Ross Minchen standing close to the bar, smiling glassily and chatting animatedly with anyone who came near. Casting a new video classic, no doubt.

Their presence really surprised me. After that snarly standoff at the Russian Tea Room, I would have sworn Vanessa would never again give Roberta the time of day, let alone invite her and spouse to an expensive party. But there they all were, everyone apparently lovey-dovey and not a weapon in sight.

I looked around for host or hostess. I saw Vanessa talking seriously to—guess who? Carlo of Vecchio’s, that’s who. The Adonis looked splendid in a deep-red velvet dinner jacket, ruffled shirt, gold lamé butterfly bow tie. Too bad he was such an oozy man.

Then I located Luther, all by his lonesome in a corner, working on a drink so big it looked like an ice bucket. I pushed my way through the throng, smiling and nodding at all those sleek strangers. They couldn’t have cared less. Finally I planted myself in front of Luther.

“Good evening!” I said brightly.

He stared, trying to focus. “Evening,” he said. Then: “Oh, it’s Miss Bateman.”

“Bateson.”

“Bateson, yes, sorry. Are you having a good time?”

“I just arrived, but it looks like a lovely party.”

“Does it?” he said, looking around with a bleary stare. “I don’t know any of these people.”

“Sure you do. You know your sister and her husband.”

“Oh,
them.
They don’t count. But all the others … They come here, drink up all my whiskey, eat themselves sick, steal the ashtrays—who
are
they? Vanessa’s so-called friends.”

“Surely you know some of them.”

“Don’t want to,” he said surlily. “Bloodsuckers. Leeches. I keep telling Vanessa, but she won’t listen. She thinks they’re the
in
people. They’re in all right. In my house, in my booze, in my food.” He laughed his high-pitched giggle, then thrust his schooner at me. “Do me a favor?” he asked. “Please? Get me a refill at the bar. I don’t want to talk to the Munchens.”

“Minchens.”

“I call them the Munchens,” he said, with that frantic laugh again.

He was even paler than when I last saw him: a ghost in a rusty tuxedo. But his hands weren’t trembling, so I figured he was well on his way. I took his glass. “What are you drinking?” I asked.

“Gin.”

“With what?”

“More gin. Make sure it’s the ninety-four proof. But you don’t have a drink. Aren’t you drinking?”

“Not yet. But I’ll get something for myself.”

“Try the champagne,” he advised. “Good stuff. Cost a bundle,” he added gloomily.

At the bar, tended by a dwarf in a clown’s costume, I was grabbed by Roberta and Ross with effusive joy. They insisted on kissing me—which I could have done without. We exchanged small talk. Small? It was
tiny
!—and I finally got away from them, carrying my glass of champagne and Luther’s beaker of gin.

One advantage of being tall is that you have a great view of what’s going on in a crowded room. I saw Vanessa moving amongst her guests, patting, hugging, smooching. She was flushed with excitement. Her long black hair was up in a coil, stuck through with two ivory chopsticks. The makeup, I knew, was a professional job. She was wearing the fringed dress from Vecchio’s and looked absolutely smashing.

I was wearing my white poet’s blouse and a skirt of what seemed to be a brocaded upholstery fabric. I had bought it in a thrift shop, and I loved it. It made me feel like an ottoman. My hair was in its usual wind-tunnel state.

I handed Luther his drink. “There you are,” I said. “Double gin on the rocks. Ninety-four proof.”

“Bless you,” he said. “Do you think I should commit suicide?”

That was a stunner. How do you reply to something like that? Treat it as a joke? Take it seriously?

“I don’t think you should,” I said finally. “Why would you want to?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said vaguely. “I’d just like to
do
something.”

He took a deep gulp of his drink. Some of it ran down his chin, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

“I like you,” he said abruptly.

“Thank you,” I said. “I like you, too.”

“You do?” he said, surprised. “That’s odd.”

“What’s odd about it?”

“Nobody likes me.”

“Come on,” I said, uneasy with this crazy conversation. “Your wife, your parents, your sisters, your friends—a lot of people like you.”

He stared at me owlishly. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think they endure me. I think I endure me. Hey!” he said, suddenly brightening. “You’re looking for the coin—right?”

“Right.”

“Find it yet?”

“No,” I said, “not yet. Any idea who has it?”

“Probably Vanessa,” he said with his high-pitched whinny. “She’s got everything.”

I took it as drunken humor. “Your wife is a very beautiful woman,” I told him.

“Sure she is,” he said. “Till midnight. Then she turns into a toad.”

“Well, I think I’ll wait around until midnight. That I’ve got to see.”

“You’ll see,” he said, nodding solemnly. “You’ll see.”

I tried to change the subject. “Your parents aren’t here tonight?”

“They rarely go out at night. They sit at home and stare at each other. Thinking.”

I couldn’t cope with this dialogue; it was becoming too unpleasant. “I think I’ll find your wife,” I told him, “and pay my respects.”

“You respect her?” he said nastily. “That’s a switch.”

I touched his arm, smiled, and moved away. The guy was bonkers.

Vanessa gave me a big hug. She smelled divine.

“
So
glad you could make it, Dunk,” she burbled. “Having a good time?”

“Wonderful.”

“It
is
nice, isn’t it?” she said, looking around. “Don’t forget to eat. The buffet’s in the other room.
Do
try the caviar on smoked salmon. Yummy! And by the way, you’ve already made a conquest.”

Fat chance!

“I have?” I said.

“Carlo was looking for you. You remember Carlo from Vecchio’s? I think the poor boy is quite smitten. He wanted to talk with you, but you were busy with Luther. What
were
the two of you chattering about for so long?”

She didn’t miss much.

“Just laughing up a storm,” I told her. “Your husband has quite a sense of humor.”

“Does he?” she said dubiously. “I’ve never noticed it. Dunk, I’ve got to circulate and act like a hostess. Promise me you’ll be nice to Carlo.”

“Of course.”

She leaned close to whisper in my ear. “I hear he’s hung like a horse.”

Then she laughed and moved away to greet some arriving guests. I slid through the mob into the dining room to inspect the buffet. Talk about your groaning boards! That one was wheezing, presided over by a chef in a high
toque blanche
wielding a long-handled fork and saber.

The pièce de résistance was a steamship roast beef, rare as anything. That platter was surrounded by a million calories in all kinds of side dishes: cold vegetables and fruits, appetizers and nibbles, obscenely rich desserts, and a melting ice sculpture of Leda and the Swan. What the swan was doing to Leda, I don’t wish to say.

The chef, an elderly black man who could carve like a surgeon, prepared a plate for me with little bits of almost everything. Balancing all this, plus cutlery and a stiff linen napkin, and trying to keep my champagne glass upright, I looked around for a place to sit and eat. I was rescued by Carlo, who came up to me, laughing, and relieved me of my burdens. He led me out to the mirrored foyer where there was a small marble-topped table flanked by two lovely and extremely uncomfortable cast-iron chairs.

“You wait,” he ordered, “I’ll be right back.”

And so he was, bearing his own plate of nothing but very,
very
rare roast beef and a few cold hearts of palm. He also had an unopened bottle of champagne clamped under one arm.

“Now then…” he said, seated himself opposite me, and expertly twisted out the champagne cork. He refilled my glass and poured his own. He sat back, crossed his legs, carefully adjusting the crease in his trouser leg. What a dandy!

“I am so happy to see you tonight,” he said, watching me eat. “Happy to have the chance to speak to you.”

“You are?” I said, concentrating on my food. Vanessa had been right; the caviar and smoked salmon was yummy.

“But of course,” he said. “The other day at Vecchio’s I could not talk. Not with the signora present. You understand?”

I nodded, not certain I
did
understand.

“I have always had this thing for tall women,” he said, showing me a mouthful of white teeth that looked like Chiclets. “A secret passion.”

I laughed, and he was offended.

“You doubt me?” he demanded.

“Of course not. It’s just that I’m—embarrassed.”

“That is natural,” he said generously. “But I speak the truth. Dunk—may I call you Dunk?”

“Sure,” I said. “Aren’t you going to eat? The beef is delicious.”

“Later,” he said, “I think you and I could be—you know? Goods friends. Very good friends.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “You can’t have too many friends, can you?”

He was puzzled. “I mean special friends,” he said. It sounded like
speciale.

I had a Swedish meatball on my fork, halfway to my mouth, but I paused, looking at him. I never doubted for a minute that Vanessa had put him up to this
seductio ad absurdum
—but why?

He took a sip of champagne, then stared at me over the rim of the glass with widened eyes. God, he was good! All I could think of was Rudolph Valentino in the tent, sex-crazed eyes glittering.

“We can see more of each other?” he whispered. “Dunk?”

“If you like,” I said. “Why not? But it will be difficult. I’m very busy.”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “You are a detective—no?”

“Amateur,” I said. “I really don’t know a great deal about it.”

He daintily cut up his rare beef into postage stamp slices. He had beautiful hands. The nails manicured, of course. Al Georgio’s were bitten.

“I would like to be a detective,” he said, keeping my champagne glass filled.

“Another secret passion?” I asked.

He looked at me sharply to see if I was ribbing him, but I kept my expression serious and interested.

“Yes,” he said. “Another dream. I would wear an elegantly tailored trench coat—British, of course—and a black Borsalino turned down on one side. Very mysterious. Very menacing.”

We both laughed, and I began to think he wasn’t such a schlemiel after all.

“Tell me,” he said, reaching across the table to spear one of my smoked oysters on his fork, “how does a detective work? You go around, ask questions, try to catch people lying?”

“Yes,” I said, “something like that. You collect as much information as you can.”

“But how do you remember it all?” he persisted. “What people have said, what they have done. Do you keep it all up here?” He tapped his temple with a forefinger.

“Nobody’s memory is that accurate,” I said. “Professional detectives file reports. I keep a notebook, just to make sure I don’t forget anything. I write it all down.”

“Ahh,” he said sadly, “then I cannot be a detective. I am very bad at writing. My poor mother in Tuscany complains bitterly. Why don’t you write? she asks. But I am too concerned with other things.”

“You could find the time,” I told him.

He shrugged. “Some people write, some people live. Dunk, I saw some tiramisu at the buffet. It is made with mascarpone. A dreamy dessert. Have you tried it?”

“No, I haven’t. Good?”

“
Delizioso
,” he said, kissing his fingertips. “Let me get us some.”

“Small portions,” I pleaded. “I’m stuffed.”

“Very, very small portions,” he said, standing up. He patted his flat stomach. “I must keep myself in condition,” he said with a lewd smile.

I had been wrong; he
was
a schlemiel.

The tiramisu was heavenly—but so rich! The dry champagne helped, and so did Carlo—by dropping the hard-on role and becoming very amusing, telling me outrageous stories of some of the customers who came into Vecchio’s, including a transvestite who spent a fortune on sequined cocktail dresses.

“A fantastic body,” Carlo reported. “All silicone, of course. But still, she, he, it, is beautiful. Shall we join the party?”

I stood up—a bit unsteadily, I admit. Carlo grabbed my arm.

“All right?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said. “It’s the tiramisu.”

“But of course,” he said. “It has brandy in it. Did I not mention that?”

Back in the mob scene, Carlo excused himself and drifted away, not to return. Whatever happened to his secret passion? I looked around for Luther Havistock. No sign of him. The Minchens were sticking close to the bar. Vanessa was still circulating, urging people to move to the buffet.

I went looking for a telephone. There seemed to be one in every room, but they were all in use—by guests calling friends in Hong Kong, no doubt. Finally, driven by need, I went into a bathroom, and there was a lovely mauve Princess phone. I called Jack Smack, called him three times, in fact, waiting for the other freeloaders at the party to get off the line. Finally I got through.

“Hey there, Dunk,” he said genially. “Good party?”