“We already have reservations at Twenty-One.”
Sandy was taken aback. “How did you manage that?”
“Oh, I have a friend here. I told him it was a celebration dinner.”
“How did you know we would have something to celebrate?”
Dena laughed. “I didn’t. Either way, I always wanted to go to Twenty-One for dinner.”
“You’re in New York for twenty-four hours and you already have a friend?”
“Well, actually it’s a new friend I met yesterday on the airplane. He said if I ever needed a favor to call, so I did.”
When Sandy hung up he was still amazed. Here he had lived in Manhattan all his life, and on her first night in town Dena was taking him places he’d never been before. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder how a nice person like her would fare in New York. She might do just fine. He hoped so. But he also knew that New York was a tough town, full of ruthless types waiting to rip you to shreds if they could. Success here could be brutal. He glanced over at the headline on the front page of the local news rag his secretary had put on his desk earlier. These days being nice or even distinguished was no protection anymore. One slip and your reputation is ruined forever. Look what had just happened to Arthur Rosemond. Poor guy.
A Nice Person
New York City
1968
Arthur Rosemond was born in Norway and at seventeen had become one of the leaders of the underground movement during WWII. Arrested in 1942, he was sent to a German war camp but managed to escape two years later. After the war, he came to America and received a master’s in political science from Georgetown University and by age thirty-nine, he had written three books, served four years as special adviser to the secretary of state, and was only forty-two years old when appointed to his post at the United Nations, where he had been the spearhead in major peace negotiations for the past eleven years, traveling widely. Two years before he had shared the Nobel peace prize for his efforts.
In his personal life, Rosemond was considered somewhat unusual, because although happily married, he had as many women friends as he did men. He genuinely liked the company of women and he found their particular insights and observations about people helpful. One such friend was Pamela Lathrope. They had been good friends while she had been married and remained so after her divorce. Rosemond believed she had one of the keenest minds he had ever come across and he always asked for her advice whenever a particularly difficult negotiation was going on. They would often have dinner together to discuss it, sometimes with his wife or friends or sometimes just the two of them. Tonight was just such an occasion. He was having a hard time with the new man from France. He needed his support on several upcoming issues and was getting nowhere. He had enjoyed a wonderful working and social relationship with the previous French ambassador but this new man was a bird of a different feather.
Arthur needed to get together with him in the right social situation without dozens of people around so he could get a handle on what this guy was about, and he had called Pamela to help him out. Pamela was famous for her dinner parties and most people did not turn down an invitation. Like most, the French diplomat did not say no. It was to be just Arthur and his wife, Beverly; the ambassador and his wife; and Pamela. Arthur was anxious for Pamela to spend a little time observing up close. She was always able to see a person clearly and size him up much more precisely than he ever could. Three hours before the party, Arthur’s wife called Pamela on the phone.
“Pam, it’s me, Beverly. Listen, would you take a gun and shoot me if I didn’t come tonight?”
“Of course not.”
“I hate to call this late, but I am just walking on my knees, I am so tired. I’ve been out in the yard working with the gardeners since seven o’clock this morning. Wouldn’t you know that this would be the day they would show up with all the new plantings; anyway, I’m filthy dirty, and by the time I take a bath, dress, and come all the way in, I’ll be late anyway. So … do you think Arthur will be very upset?”
“No, of course not. Don’t worry, I’ll tell Arthur; you just get in a hot tub and relax.”
“You are an angel from heaven. I’ll make this up to you, I swear I will.”
Pamela, in fact, did not mind. She knew that Beverly, who was sixteen years younger than Arthur, adored him, but hated all the endless socializing. She would much rather stay home with her children and read a good book. Pamela couldn’t much blame her for not wanting to come tonight. From what Arthur had said, the French ambassador and his wife were not what you would call Paris’s fun couple, and he had been correct.
Nevertheless the dinner went well, and while Pamela was busy being a gracious hostess, she was also making mental notes about the small man with the stocky wife. After the evening was over, she closed the door and went into the living room, where Arthur was waiting.
“Well …” she said, “I see what you mean.”
“I told you, I can’t get a straight answer one way or the other. I never can pin him down.”
Pamela lit a cigarette. “Well, first of all, you are never going to get any serious answer from him. He’s not the man making the decisions.”
Arthur nodded. “That’s exactly what I thought, I just needed to get your read on it.”
“Absolutely, that man never had an original thought in his life.”
Arthur smiled, and suddenly winced in pain.
Pamela looked at him. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know, must be indigestion.” He started trying to loosen his tie and seemed to be short of breath.
Pamela saw that he had broken out into a sweat.
“What’s the—are you ill?”
“I … feel sick to my stomach.”
Then another sharp pain hit him and he fell over toward the floor.
Pamela jumped up and tried to catch him but was not able to. She ran to the kitchen and buzzed downstairs to the doorman and screamed for help. Running back to the living room, she found him unconscious. She picked up the phone, called 911, went back to him, and took his tie off.
By the time the doorman came running in, she was frantic. She could not feel a pulse.
Trust Me
New York City
1968
Sidney Capello was born nervous. Tonight he paced up and down in his fleabag hotel room at Forty-eighth and Third, worried even more than usual. Something was off. Sidney had made a name for himself in certain circles as a freelance reporter who specialized in obtaining private information about public people. He had paid informants stashed in many nooks, crannies, and dark corners who covered New York like a giant spiderweb. There were not many moves that the rich or famous could make without Sidney finding out about them one way or another. But lately Sidney’s people had been letting him down. His stable of snitches had been strangely silent. The gossip and rumor mill that sometimes spewed out profitable dirt twenty-four hours a day had suddenly ground down to a halt. Either people had been behaving themselves lately, or else they were beginning to be very careful. Or sneaky. Tonight Sidney hated all of them. They prevented him from making a living, with all the money they had. Greedy little ingrates each and every one. Although he himself was on an under-the-table retainer from one of the New York dailies, and two top gossip columnists, nothing made him more irritable than having to pay out money for nothing. It was making Sidney sweat. He had not had a big, fat, red-hot scandal in over two months, not even a really juicy tidbit. He was restless and couldn’t sleep. He was just itching for a little something, anything he could grab by the throat and choke a story out of. At about twelve-fifty when the call came, he was ready.