Lawrence Sanders - McNally's caper

Later, much later, we had a final drink in bed, talking nonsense in drowsy voices. He fell asleep before I did. I turned on my side to hold his long, slim, smooth weight in my arms. My forearm slid beneath his neck, my hand under his pillow.

I felt the gun.

I awoke Sunday morning in my own bed in Room 703 at the Hotel Harding. Awoke staring at that cracked and peeling ceiling, wondering if it might fall and crush me where I lay, a victim of too much realism.

Up, showered (cold, no hot water available), and into my tart’s uniform again. Reflected that Jack Donohue had been gentleman enough not to crack wise when I divested myself of wig and fore-and-aft falsies before climbing between his sheets. There were plenty of old, and bad, jokes he could have made but didn’t. He seemed satisfied with my performance. I know I was with his.

I ventured out into a rainy, bedraggled Sunday morning on upper Broadway — not one of life’s more exhilarating experiences. I had a small breakfast in a fast-food joint where both customers and the staff seemed to be sharing the same large, economy-size hangover. Then I found a supermarket that was open and bought myself some drinking glasses, canned soda and tonic, a few dishtowels, paper towels, toilet paper.

I could have brought all that stuff over from my East Side apartment, but I was being careful to carry nothing on my person or keep anything in my room that might connect Bea Flanders of the Hotel Harding with Jannie Shean of East 71st Street. My driver’s license and credit cards were hidden under the front seat of the rented Ford. Other than that, there were no papers, letters, clothing labels, or possessions that might betray me. If Blanche wanted to toss my belongings or even Jack Donohue, they’d find nothing.

Back to the hotel with my new purchases. Even though the room clerk at the Harding had warned ‘No cooking,’

Jack Donohue had assured me I could get away with a small hotplate, so I had also bought two cups and saucers, spoons, and a jar of instant coffee. When hardware stores opened on Monday, I’d pick up a hotplate or one of those immersion heaters for making a quick cup of coffee or soup.

Then I went back down to the rented Ford and drove home to civilization. On the way, I stripped off the blond wig, wiped most of the guck from my face, and changed into the pair of comfortable loafers I had squirreled in the car. By the time I arrived on East 71st Street, I was a reasonable facsimile of myself. With my trenchcoat buttoned up to my chin, I was able to sail by the doorman with no trouble at all, and even chatted with a neighbor (female) in the elevator with no embarrassing questions asked as to how modest-bosomed Jannie Shean had suddenly become Wonder Woman.

Upstairs, alone, door locked, I treated myself to a hot, sudsy bath, a big glass of chilled chablis and, later, a decent breakfast: a sardine sandwich with sliced onion, half a pint of strawberries, and a cup of yoghurt.

Then I called my sister and chatted awhile. Or rather, she chatted and I listened, saying ‘Oh?’ and ‘Really?’ and ‘Fantastic!’ at the right moments. Finally, when she ran down, I mentioned casually that I might be going out of town for a few weeks, doing research for a new book with a St Louis background, and if she didn’t hear from me for a while, not to worry.

‘I’ll call you when I get back,’ I told her.

‘Call me when you get back,’ she said.

That’s my sister.

I made a few additional calls of a similar nature to friends, and told all of them the same ‘may be going to St Louis’ story. Their interest was underwhelming. Then, having accounted for my absence, I got down to business.

When I told Dick Fleming that I would be coming back to the East 71st Street apartment occasionally to pick up my mail, pay bills, etc., it was the truth. But it wasn’t the whole truth. I came back to keep my journal, Project X, up to date.

The diary was the raison d’etre, the only justification for enduring the discomfort of the Hotel Hard-On and the danger of conning the likes of Jack Donohue. I referred to him as ‘Black Jack’ in my account. I thought it was an apt description of his physical appearance. And not a bad label for his membrum virile either.

I wrote steadily for almost three hours, then locked the ms. in my top desk drawer. Answered two fan letters, sent Con Edison their monthly ransom, and scrawled a few lines to mother Matty in Spain. Then back into my floozy’s costume again, and I sallied forth to resume the life of Bea Flanders, Master Criminal.

I discovered that getting out of a disguise is a lot faster and easier than getting into it. I had to pull into a parking area in Central Park for about half an hour before I had the wig adjusted and the heavy makeup applied to my satisfaction, a process watched with some amusement by a young couple parked in a nearby car. The hell with them.

I couldn’t have been back in Room 703 for more than three minutes when there was a knock on the door.

‘Bea? Jack.’

I let him in. We were both very cool. No reference to our acrobatics of the night before. No passionate kiss, not even an intimate hug. We were both casual acquaintances. Maybe I was a bit hurt and disappointed. I don’t think I was, but maybe I was.

‘Been out?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Buying a few things I need. Like drinking-glasses. Now I won’t have to bother you.’

‘Uh-huh. Hungry? Want to grab something to eat?’

‘Sure. We’ll go Dutch-okay?’

‘What else?’

We walked through the drizzle, two blocks south to a side-street bar-restaurant called Fangio’s. It advertised ‘Oriental and Puerto Rican Food.’ If that sounds odd to you, you haven’t been in New York lately.

Fangio’s was a basement joint, three steps down from the sidewalk. In the rear was a squarish dining area lined with booths. That’s where we went, to a booth against the far wall where we could see everyone who entered and everything going on.

I wanted a glass of white wine. I ordered a vodka on the rocks instead. Donohue asked for a double bourbon and grabbed the waitress’ wrist before she could get away.

‘Ribs okay for you?’ he asked me.

‘Fine.’

‘Two on the ribs,’ he told the waitress, releasing her. ‘And heavy on the sauce.’

I looked around. The bar was crowded. Most of the customers were watching a football game. It was noisy, smoky, more a drinking than an eating place. The smell of stale beer and old cigars, a few framed photographs of horse races and ballplayers. Realism.

Donohue seemed distracted.

‘Waiting for someone?’ I asked.

‘Sharp gal,’ he said, smiling bleakly. ‘As a matter of fact, I am.’

‘Sure you want me here? I can take off.’

‘No, no,’ he said hurriedly. ‘It won’t take long. A minute or two. You stay right where you are.’

I may have been imagining it, but I didn’t think so. I thought he was using me, that my presence was needed and wanted. I stared at him as he kept his eyes on the front door, inspecting everyone who came in. I didn’t think he was frightened exactly, but he was tensed, coiled. He sure didn’t look like a man expecting good news.

We were on our second round of drinks when Donohue said, ‘There he is.’ He slid out of the booth, then smiled tightly and patted my cheek. ‘This won’t take long, Bea,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right back.’

He moved toward the bar to meet a man who had just entered. If they shook hands, I didn’t see it. The other man was short, squat, and smiling. My God, did he smile! Donohue grinned frequently, but this man smiled constantly. But it was more grimace than smile: a stretching of his mouth, a squinching of his eyes. It looked painful: a contortion of his features. You keep waiting for that frog face to relax, to melt into something easier and more natural. It never did; that smile was frozen.