Lawrence Sanders - The seventh commandment

"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.

Mrs. Eleanor Starrett was unexpectedly gracious on the phone.

"I'm so glad you called, cherie," she said. "I've never been busier in my life, but I can always find time for you."

Dora thought that a bit much, but asked when and where they might meet. Well, Eleanor had an appointment for a massage at Georgio's Salon on East 56th Street at 11:30, and if Dora could meet her there, they'd have time for a nice chitchat.

Dora found her in a curtained back room, lying naked on a padded table and being worked on by a gigantic flaxen-haired masseuse.

"Pull up a chair, darling," Eleanor caroled. "We can talk while Hilda reduces me to a mass of quivering jelly. You really should do something with your hair."

"I know," Dora said.

"Such a gorgeous shade, but it is a mess. I'll ask Georgio to handle you personally. The man is tres chic and does absolutely marvelous things with his magic scissors."

"Maybe some other time," Dora said. "Mrs. Starrett, I want to-"

"Oh, do call me Eleanor. I don't know why, but I feel I've known you for years and years. Dora-isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Well, Dora, when- Oh my God, Hilda, you're breaking my leg! Well, Dora, I'm sure you've heard I'm getting a divorce from Clayton, and that rat has to turn over a list of all his assets, so of course it's very important for me to know when he's getting that million from his father's insurance."

Now Dora could understand her gushy friendliness. "I really can't give you a definite date, Eleanor, but I'm sure it won't be much longer."

"I hope not. I want to hit that schmuck where he lives- and that means his bank account."

"I was sorry to hear about the divorce," Dora said.

"Don't be sorry, sweetie; be glad, because I certainly am. I should have dumped that moron years ago. He is so dumb. A dumb rat. Of course Helene Pierce isn't his first playmate. He's been cheating on me since the day we were married. And the idiot thought I didn't know!"

"Why did you put up with it?" Dora asked curiously.

Eleanor raised her head to look at her. "Everyone cheats, luv. It's hardly a capital crime, is it? If it were, there wouldn't be enough electric chairs in the world. There's nothing so terrible about cheating-I've had a few flings myself-but one should try to be discreet, don't you think? And ending a marriage just for the sake of a roll in the hay is definitely de trop. I mean, it just isn't done. Except by rat finks like Clayton Starrett. Well, I wish him happiness with his Barbie Doll. She'll take him for whatever he has left after I get through with him. Poor Clay will end up washing windshields at stoplights." She cackled with glee.

"Eleanor, one of the things I wanted to talk to you about was Felicia. I met her yesterday, and she seemed-uh, she seemed ill."

"Ill?" the other woman said with a harsh laugh. "Stoned out of her gourd, you mean. Felicia is a basket case. She really should be under professional care somewhere, but Olivia doesn't know what's going on."

"What is going on?"

"Oh, she's doing coke, no doubt about it. I think Turner Pierce turned her on, but if it wasn't him, it would be someone else. Felicia is lost. She's going to get into serious trouble one of these days."

"Why would Turner Pierce want to supply her with drugs?"

"What a child you are! Felicia is hardly poverty-stricken, is she, and Turner has expensive tastes. As I well know. One of those flings I mentioned, I had with Turner. But I soon gave him the broom. A very, very grabby young man. Just like his sister."

"I thought you liked the Pierces. At our first meeting you were very complimentary."

"That was when I was a member of the family," Eleanor said bitterly. "Now I can tell the truth, and they can all rot in hell!"

When she left the salon, Dora stood on the sidewalk a few moments, gulping deep breaths. She needed that sense of a world washed clean, everything spotless and shining.

It wasn't Eleanor's vindictiveness toward Clayton that dismayed her; the scorned wife was entitled to that. Nor were the revelations of Felicia's addiction a shock; Dora had guessed that doomed woman was beyond her help- and probably any other Samaritan's.

But what really depressed Dora were Eleanor's blithe comments about cheating. Was she right? Did everyone do it? Was adultery no more serious than a mild flirtation at a cocktail party, and no more reason for marital discord than the toothpaste tube squeezed in the wrong place?

She walked west on 56th Street wondering if she was hopelessly naive, an innocent with no real perception of how the world turned and how people behaved. "What a child you are!" Eleanor had said, and perhaps, Dora acknowledged, she was a child, with all her notions of right and wrong the result of her teaching, and not wisdom distilled from experience.