9
“I KNEW IT,” MODENE SAID, “YES, I CERTAINLY KNEW IT. SAM HAD TO BE out of the ordinary.”
She was reading my summary of the printout from VILLAINS for the third time. “Oh, it seems to add up,” she said, “but it doesn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I feel safe with Sam.”
I debated for a minute whether to introduce her to the paradoxical potentialities of Alpha and Omega, but then it occurred to me that I might like Fidel Castro if I met him, and there were those who said that Stalin and Hitler had been known to charm a few. Who could keep a true monster from presenting a wholly agreeable Alpha?
“You know,” she said, “Sam is an absolute gentleman.”
“One wouldn’t expect that, would one, after reading this?”
“Well, of course, I had the advantage of not knowing who he was. So I could study him for himself. He is very cautious with women.”
“Do you believe he is afraid of them?”
“Oh, no. No, no. He knows women. He knows them so well that he’s cautious. You ought to see him when he takes me shopping. He knows exactly what I want and how large a present I will allow him to buy me. For instance, it’s now understood between us that I won’t accept any gift that comes to more than five hundred dollars.”
“Why draw the line there?”
“Because the gift is still modest enough so that I owe him nothing. After all, I am giving him nothing.”
“Is that because you are otherwise engaged with your other two dates?”
“Are you condescending to me?”
“No,” I said, “I’m actually furious.”
“Yes,” she said, “there you are, sipping a Pimm’s Cup, looking just as cool as that ridiculous piece of cucumber they put in it, and you are pretending to be furious.”
She was wearing green shoes and a green silk dress as green as her eyes. That was the only visible change from the day before. We were at the same cocktail table in the same near-empty lounge by the same plate-glass window looking out on the pool and pancake beach and it was 6:00 P.M. again. A long brutal summer afternoon in Miami might be descending toward evening outside, but we were ensconced in the timeless comfort of drinking our way into twilight, and four in the morning of last night was far away. I leaned forward and kissed her. I do not know if it was my reward for punctual delivery, or whether she might even have been waiting for twenty-four hours to kiss me again, but I felt in some small peril. It might not be impossible to fall in love with Modene Murphy. The superficial precision with which she spoke was only a garment one could strip from her; beneath, unprotected, must be desire, as warm and sweet, as hot and out of hand as perhaps it was supposed to be. I knew now what she meant by earthy.
“That’s enough,” she said, “that’s enough of that,” and pulled herself back a critical couple of inches. I did not know whether to be more impressed with her or myself. I had never had such an effect on a girl, no, not even Sally. My only question was where to take her—would she possibly allow us to go to her room?
She wouldn’t. She sat there beside me, and told me I had to respect her rule. Did I have a pen, she asked. I did. She drew a small circle on a napkin, then divided it with a vertical diameter. “This is the way I lead my life,” she said. “I have one man in each half of the circle, and that has to be sufficient.”
“Why?”
“Because outside this circle is chaos.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know how I know, but it’s clear to me. Do you think I could actually go around kissing everyone the way I just kissed you?”
“I hope not. May I kiss you again?”
“Not here. People are still looking at us.”
Three middle-aged tourist couples sat at three separate tables considerably removed from one another. It was summer in Miami Beach. Poor Fontainebleau. “If you won’t,” I said, “give up your man in Washington, then why don’t you relinquish the one in Palm Beach?”
“I wish I could tell you who he is. You would understand.”
“How did you meet him?”
She was obviously proud of herself. It was evident she wished to tell me, but she shook her head.
“I don’t believe in your circle,” I said.
“Well, I haven’t lived this way all my life. For two years the only man was Walter.”
“Walter from Washington?”
“Please don’t talk about him that way. He’s been kind to me.”
“But he’s married.”
“It doesn’t matter. He loved me and I don’t love him, so it’s fair. And I didn’t want anyone else. I was a virgin when I met him.” She gave her gutty little laugh again, as if the most honest part of her must come forth from time to time. “Well, of course, I soon started to have another fellow now and again, but the second half of the circle did stay vacant much of the time. That’s when you should have come along.”
“Kiss me once more.”
“Stay away.”
“Next thing, Sinatra walked into your picture.”
“How do you know?”
“Perhaps I feel close to you.”
“You are up to something,” she said. “You may want me but you’re up to something.”
“Tell me about Sinatra,” I said.
“I can’t right now, and I won’t. I will say that he ruined it.”
“Will you ever tell me about that?”
“I don’t think I can. I have determined that one’s life should never extend beyond the full rule of the circle.”
I was thinking: I am falling in love with another woman who likes nothing better than to talk about herself in her own self-created jargon.
“Why don’t you give up Walter,” I said, “and let me enter the circle?”
“He has seniority,” she said.
“Then take a furlough from the guy in Palm Beach. You never see him.”
“How would you feel if he came back,” she said, “and I said good-bye to you?”
“I might try to keep the new status quo.”
Her laugh came forth as if she liked me enormously, but I was, no matter how you looked at it, ridiculous.
“What is the first name of our fellow from Palm Beach?” I asked. “I can’t keep calling him Palm Beach.”
“I’ll tell because it won’t do you any good. It’s Jack.”
“Walter and Jack.”
“Yes.”
“Not Sam and Jack?”
“Definitely not.”
“Nor Frank and Jack?”
“Negative.”
“But you did meet Jack through Sinatra?”
“Oh, my God,” she said, “you’ve guessed right again. You must be terrific in your profession.”
I did not say it aloud: I had so little to choose from, that Sinatra had become the only option.
“Now, you have to go,” she said.
“No, I don’t. I’m free this evening.”
“Well, I have a date once again. With Sam,” she said.
“Break it.”
“I can’t. When I make a date with someone, it’s a contract. Iron-bound and lockjaw. That’s me.” She threw a kiss wordlessly from three good feet away, but in the pursing of her lips and their release, a zephyr of tenderness floated over. “I go out tomorrow at 8:00 A.M.,” she said, “and won’t be back for more than a week.”
“More than a week!”
“I’ll see you,” she said, “when I return from Los Angeles.”
“Unless Jack is with you.”
“He won’t be. I know that much.”
“Why,” I asked, “are you going to L.A.?”
“Because,” she said, “Jack invited me. I arranged to get the time off from work.”
I went back to Zenith again. PRECEPTOR, when queried, came in with a five-page printout on SINATRA, FRANK. Under friends and acquaintances, was a considerable list with but one Jack, Jack Entratter, Sands Hotel, and the note: might be member of The Clan. After this, came an entry: for The Clan, see WINNOW.
I did not have to go on to VILLAINS. There in WINNOW, under The Clan, were: Joey Bishop, Sammy Cahn, Sy Devore, Eddie Fisher, Sen. John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Pat Lawford, Peter Lawford, Dean Martin, Mike Romanoff, Elizabeth Taylor, Jimmy Van Heusen.
I sent an unsigned telegram to Harlot in Georgetown. SINCE OUR FRIENDS TURN OUT TO BE JUAN FIESTA KILLARNEY AND SONNY GARGANTUA ISN’T IT TIME TO DELIVER YOUR GOODS TO THE FIELD?
I did not believe that Jack from Palm Beach could possibly be equal to John Fitzgerald Kennedy, ready in Los Angeles to be nominated for President at the Democratic Convention, and yet Ockham’s Razor was always there to remind me that the simplest explanation ready to explain all the facts was bound to be the correct explanation. I did not have too many facts, but all the ones in hand fit Jack Kennedy. I had no difficulty in sleeping, for I did not try. Harlot called the motel at six in the morning and the proprietor, blind in one eye, did not look much better in the other when I answered the knock on the door that summoned me to the motel office phone.
“Try not sending open telegrams,” was how Harlot began. “Success has left you manic.”
He was not slow to the point. I was to come to Washington immediately.