“Black coffee would be good,” he said. “I’ve got a job to do tonight, and I have to stay sharp.”
“What? You’re working tonight?” The deceitful part of me was relieved, but the mushy part was crushed with disappointment. “I thought we’d have some time together.”
“So did I, Paige, but it’s not going to work out that way. A wealthy Broadway producer-a known homosexual-was stabbed to death in a dressing room at the Majestic theater this afternoon, and we don’t have any witnesses or even a single good lead. So, since I was coming down to the Village anyway, I told the lieutenant I’d hit the bird circuit, ask a few questions, see what I can find out.”
“The bird circuit?”
“The round of homosexual bars, where all the queers-even rich Broadway producers-hang out.”
I smiled. “You’d better be extra careful then. With your looks, you’ll get more propositions than expositions.”
Dan laughed and shook his head. “I don’t have to worry about that. If any of the birdies get too friendly, I’ll just flash my badge. They’ll straighten up and fly right.”
“How can you be so sure?” I said, stepping over to the stove to make the coffee. “I think you’d better take me with you as a bodyguard.”
“Thanks for the offer,” he said, chuckling, pulling an empty chair out from the kitchen table and sitting down, “but I’ll go it alone this time. You’d stick out like a sore thumb in a sea of pinkies-and sore thumbs can be the kiss of death in most homicide investigations.” He took a pack of Luckies and a book of matches out of his shirt pocket and lit up.
I turned to face him squarely, sulking, with my arms bent at the elbows and my hands propped on my hips. “Sore thumb? Kiss of death? Have you got any other nice names you’d like to call me?” I was just teasing, of course-trying to prolong the silly quality of our conversation. If he made any serious inquiries about my day, I didn’t know what I’d say.
“How do you feel about Fifi?” Dan replied, lounging back in his chair, stretching his muscular legs out in front of him, taking a deep drag on his cigarette and looking at me in such a way that I felt weak in the knees again. “For some strange reason, I’ve just been struck with a powerful urge to call you Fifi.” His pitch black eyes were crackling with wit and humor.
I was so attracted to Dan at that moment I wanted to pounce on his lap and lick his face. His wonderful, sturdy, noble, scraggly face. I almost did it, too! (It seemed like a perfect way to limit the conversation and be honest at the same time.) But, when it came right down to it, I didn’t have the nerve. I was afraid Dan would think me too forward. I mean, a real lady-or even an ersatz one like me-just doesn’t do that sort of thing.
“Fine,” I said, taking our coffees over to the table and sitting down next to Dan. “You call me Fifi and I’ll call you Francis. With a name like that, you’ll make a big splash on the bird circuit.”
We grinned at each other for several seconds. (We would do that often, Dan and I-just sit there eye-to-eye, smiling like a couple of half-wits. I believed it was because we were both still shocked and elated that we’d found each other, but-since we had never discussed it, had never even attempted to put our true feelings into words-I can only speak for myself on that subject. I mean, I thought all that staring and smiling meant Dan really liked me-but, as mothers of googly-eyed, grinning newborns are quick to suggest, it could have just been gas.)
When Doris Day came on the radio and started singing, “Once I had a secret love…” Dan and I both turned a bit bashful. The words of the hit song hit a little too close to home (for me, anyway). We stopped gazing into each other’s eyes and started drinking our coffee.
“What was the guy’s name?” I asked, jumping to take the lead in our dialogue.
“What guy?” Dan said.
“The Broadway producer-the man who was killed today. ”
“Lloyd Bradbury,” he said, “ever hear of him?”
The name struck a distant bell. “Yes, I think so. I’ve probably seen his name in Dorothy Kilgallen’s column-“The Voice of Broadway,” in The Journal American. Maybe in Winchell’s column, too. What shows has he produced?”
Dan gave me a suspicious look over the rim of his coffee cup. “Why do you want to know?”
“No reason,” I said, hoping my sly and shifty expression would imply otherwise. “I’m just curious, that’s all.” (When you’ve got something really important to hide, it is, in my experience, a good ploy to pretend you’re hiding something else.)
“Forget about it, Paige!” Dan sputtered, sitting straighter in his chair and exhaling a jet stream of Lucky fumes. “You’re getting nothing more out of me. If you want to write a story about this murder, you’ll have to get your information from the morning paper.”
Though Dan willingly (sometimes eagerly) told me about the new homicide cases he was working on, he was always very careful to relate just the barest of facts, to give me the same thimbleful of information he knew would soon be released to the press. And whenever I showed too much curiosity about one of his cases, he closed up like a clam. He did it partly for my protection, as I explained before, and partly for his own. Dan was dedicated to his job, and he liked to play by the rules, and as a sworn detective of the NYPD homicide squad, he wasn’t allowed to reveal any consequential details about any ongoing murder investigations to the public-and especially not to a budding crime journalist (and snoopy Agatha Christie wannabe) like me.
“Well, you don’t have to get so snippy about it,” I said, suddenly feeling rebuffed (in spite of the fact that I’d intentionally brought the whole thing on myself). “I was just trying to show some interest in your work.” I was doing my haughtiest Maureen O’Hara now, which meant I probably looked-and sounded-a lot more like Howdy Doody. I’m not too good at haughty.
Dan gave me a stern and piercing stare, then tilted his head back and drained his coffee cup. “Contrary to what you may have read in Ladies’ Home Journal,” he said, banging his empty cup down on the table, “I don’t need you to be interested in my work.” He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, and rose to his feet. “What I need is for you to stop being so phony-stop pretending that you’re just being polite and sociable when what you’re really doing is pumping me for information in case you decide to write a story. It’s obnoxious and insulting,” he said, grabbing his overcoat off the chair and violently shoving first one arm, then the other, into their sleeves. “Just shows me what a patsy you must think I am.” He put on his hat and anchored it at an angry angle. Then he started for the door.
“Wait!” I screeched, jumping out of my chair and dashing over to block his exit. “What are you doing? Are you mad at me? I didn’t mean to upset you! Please don’t leave this way!” I was behaving like a hysterical child, but I couldn’t help myself. All my acting (okay, lying) skills had been sucked right down the drain, and the only thing left was the real me. The frantic, raving, pitiful, pleading me. It’s a wonder I didn’t throw myself to the floor and wrap my arms in a hammerlock hold around his legs.
“I’m going to work now,” Dan said, brushing past me to open the door. “We’ll discuss this at another time.”
The tight knot of panic in my chest loosened to a ragged tangle. At least there’d be another time. “I’m really sorry, Dan,” I said. “I never meant to-”
“Later, Paige,” he said. Then he lunged through the door and scrambled down the stairs.