Maxie Mainwaring, Lesbian Dilettante Page 20

  “Aren’t we vicious, in the eyes of society?” Lon argued back “This scene”—she gestured at the rumpled bed and their nudity—“isn’t going to win any prizes from the DAP!”

  “Well, but the mob is hardly the champion of variant vices!” Maxie pointed out. “Shaking down poor old Mrs. Flicka!”

  Lon sat up. “I don’t like that either. But why does she have to be so stubborn? Insulting, too—calling the boys who tried to explain the new street tax ‘barbarous Finns.’ Then that whole business of a sergeant only costing fifteen bucks a week in 1946.”

  Maxie struggled to keep her expression impassive. So the new mob was Finnish! She now knew something that even the Bureau didn’t.

  “Anyway, I plan to move on soon.” Lon pulled on her T-shirt. “That’s why I’ve stayed on at the Seneca. I’m piling up a nest egg, and come fall, I’m setting sail for new horizons!”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Buy a boat.” She looked at Maxie shyly. “I’ve always had a yen to do deep-sea diving, like that French fellow. Sail around collecting specimens from the bottom of the ocean!” She sighed. “That’s my idea of heaven.”

  When Lon left to visit the bathroom down the hall, Maxie threw back the covers. She had no time to ponder Lon’s plans—this unexpected yearning for the distant deep sea. She was more concerned with Lon’s current career path.

  She switched on the light. Next to the bed were a pack of cigarettes and Lon’s gold lighter, lying on top of an untidy pile of books. Maxie looked at the titles: The Silent World, Boy Beneath the Sea, The Open Sea: Its Natural History. Lon was evidently serious about her secret ambition.

  Maxie moved to the bureau. She plucked the postcard from the mirror frame. Greetings from the Hebrides, was printed across an aerial view of some green islands. On the other side was a cryptic message in hasty handwriting: We’re two for four. Not time to celebrate yet. Wish you and the gang were here. Chick.

  A code? What gang did this Chick mean? Maxie put the card back and busied herself with the bureau drawers, sliding them out and in, looking through tidy piles of snowy white T-shirts, rolls of socks in all shades, pressed pants, and dress shirts fresh from the laundry. Lon had told the truth: Everything was top quality, luxurious even. On an impulse, Maxie went over to the sink and picked up the soap. Expensive castille, of course.

  In the handkerchief drawer, Maxie found a cigar box hidden under the crisp white linen and fancy silk pocket squares. She thought it would contain money, but when she lifted the lid, she found makeup. She stared at the tube of lipstick, the face powder, and mascara. There was jewelry too—a few earrings, bracelets, a ring. She picked up the gold band and peered at the faint engraving. To SY from LW Pray Love, Remember. This couldn’t be Lon’s. Why was it here? Her puzzlement grew.

  Between the bureau and the wall, Lon had wedged the canvas bag she’d carried the other day. Maxie pulled it out and unzipped it. Empty. She put it back and opened the armoire. Coats, jackets, and pressed pants, in a rainbow of colors. Maxie shoved the clothes along the pole like a bargain-hunting shopper. Between a pair of gray flannels and a dark red rayon shirt, there was a flash of pink. She pushed the clothes farther apart, revealing a pink dress in dotted swiss with a matching bolero jacket, obviously expensive. They’d been hung from a hanger on a hook at the back of the armoire.

  The doorknob rattled, and Maxie shut the armoire and leaped back into the bed. There was no time to turn off the light. She snatched up The Silent World and pretended to be absorbed in it. Her heart was pounding.

  The only explanation possible was that the pink suit belonged to Lon’s special someone. A change of clothes for a faceless female, who visited Lon often enough to leave an extra outfit. The only thing Maxie didn’t know for sure was whether this “someone” Lon thought she might still love was also the “they” who had introduced Lon to the mob; and whether the rumored Queenpin made up the third member of this unholy trinity, three shadowy figures in one person.

  “You seem perturbed,” said Lon, sliding into the bed. “Penny for your thoughts.”

  “I was thinking about true love, and true callings,” fibbed Maxie.

  “I thought you were regretting being in bed with a vicious mobster,” Lon mocked her. “Looking for an excuse to leave.”

  Maxie put the book down and turned on her side. “Are you vicious?” She twirled a lock of Lon’s hair into a point. She could picture the beautiful blond butch in underwater garb, kind of like Kirk Douglas in Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. She felt a pang of jealousy. Lon had a clear career goal, while Maxie was still all at sea.

  “Pretty vicious,” Lon said seriously.

  “Prove it,” said Maxie, reaching for the other girl.

  Chapter 28

  A Busy Day

  It was nice to be with a girl who slept in, Maxie thought the next morning. Pam was always popping up, even on Saturdays, as if early hours were a virtue. Lon looked so peaceful, with the late morning sun casting a golden glow on that smooth face, so innocent in sleep.

  Thanks for a lovely evening, the ex-deb wrote on a piece of paper torn from her old reporter’s notebook. I had a wonderful time. She hestiated a moment over the signature, her pen hovering, then decided to keep it casual. See you around, Maxie.

  That was another benefit of a late sleeper, she thought, as she quietly closed the door behind her. No awkward conversations—no questions about where she was going and what she was doing and would they get together again?

  On an impulse, she walked to the end of the corridor and peered out the window to the street below. She could see the dinette—the reverse of the view she’d had the night before last, when she’d been watching the Seneca, instead of enjoying Lon’s company inside it.

  The dinette reminded her it was past breakfast, almost lunch in fact. But just as she reached the little restaurant, she stopped short. The man she’d met at Sociological Survey Editions was sitting in the window, polishing his plate with a piece of toast.

  Maxie backed away, hoping he hadn’t seen her. That was no publisher—that was Kathy’s partner, almost certainly staking out Lon.

  If he’d spotted Maxie, it would only confirm Kathy’s worst suspicions, Maxie thought as she hurried off. The G-woman would never believe that the ex-deb’s night at the Seneca Hotel had been a pickup, pure and simple!

  She has nothing on me, Maxie reminded herself as she breakfasted in Little Bohemia. Just the old business about Great-granddad and the glögg. Maxie frowned over her second cup of coffee. Of course, it was an odd coincidence, the new mob being Finnish, just like the Mainwarings. But that’s all it was—a coincidence.

  Like the coincidence of seeing her mother in the same pawnshop frequented by mob girl Lon. Or the coincidence of that crooked cop meeting death by drowning just down the Loon Lake shoreline from the Mainwaring Lodge.

  Maxie put all three coincidences out of her mind. She had a busy day ahead, and the first order of business was to capitalize on Mamie’s advice from last night. For that she needed a photographer. She dialed Stella at the photo supply store where the aspiring author worked mornings.

  “Can you get your camera and meet me downtown?” she queried. “I’ve got a little scheme that could bring us both some cash, if you’re game.”

  Stella was willing, and a couple hours later the two girls entered the Knickerbocker Hotel. Each was dressed in her daytime best, and carried a large bouquet of flowers.

  “Are you sure he’s here?” Stella muttered nervously as they headed for the elevator.

  “Positive.” Maxie was as cool as a cucumber. “Seven,” she told the elevator operator, as she and Stella stepped in.

  She knew from the preparations at Polish for the popular crooner’s arrival that Larry Lathrop always stayed at the Knickerbocker under an assumed name when he visited Bay City, in order to evade his hysterical hordes of teenaged fans. Maxie had called that morning and confirmed that “George Wade,” Larry’s prefer
red alias, had not yet checked out of suite 712.

  The ex–magazine assistant wondered if Pamela was right, and she was lacking in the ethics department. Few girls with Maxie’s upbringing would take to prowling hotel corridors and negotiating with sleazy gossip rags with Maxie’s eagerness. But she had no time for soul-searching now. She knocked on the door to suite 712.

  “Don’t forget to lift up your bouquet,” Stella whispered. A deep voice grumbled, “Who is it?”

  “Delivery for Mr. Wade.” Maxie tried to imitate the maid they’d encountered while they waited for the hotel hallway to be empty.

  “Leave it outside the door,” instructed Larry.

  “I need you to sign, sir.” Maxie stood aside and lifted the bouquet when she heard the door being unlocked. It opened a crack. When Larry saw only Stella with her flowers, he opened the door wider. “Where do I sign?” he said shortly.

  Maxie’s bouquet emitted flashes of light and loud pops, while Stella’s bunch of flowers clicked continuously. “What the hell—” Larry raised his fist, then thought better of it and beat a retreat into his room, locking the door behind him. The two girls ran down the hall to the stairwell. They climbed to the eighth floor, where Maxie discarded the flowers and spent flashbulbs on a room service cart. Stella tucked the camera into a large handbag.

  “Remember, if anyone asks, we’re part of the Beautification Planning Committee,” the ex-deb instructed Stella.

  “Is there such a thing?” asked the nervous photographer.

  “Of course,” said Maxie. “It’s meeting in the Rose Room.”

  But no one stopped them as they strolled through the lobby and made for the street. There they paused, laughing with pent-up excitement.

  “How long until I have something to show the editors at Idol Gossip?” Maxie demanded.

  “The end of the afternoon,” promised Stella. “Want to be my darkroom assistant?”

  “I’m always game for a new job,” Maxie quipped.

  In the little closet that served as The Step Stool’s darkroom, Maxie stood shoulder to shoulder with Stella in the pitch black, feeling the photographer’s arm move as she loaded the developing tank with the film. The novice paparazzo followed Stella’s instructions—handing her chemicals and the thermometer, setting the timer. Stella had Maxie turn the film while she mixed the hypo. Then Maxie watched as Stella ran cold water through the top of the tank for a final rinse.

  “In a few minutes we’ll be able to see if we got anything,” the camera bug told her eager apprentice after she poured in the hypo. “How much did Mamie say Idol Gossip would pay?” She whistled when Maxie named the figure.

  “How do you feel about a sixty-forty split?” the ex-deb proposed. “Your camera, my contacts—an extra ten percent for me on account of I’m the one who broke Larry’s nose?”

  “Fair enough,” agreed Stella. She opened the tank and emptied the hypo. After rinsing the film, she unrolled the reel and peered at the tiny frames. “Looks like we’ve got it! See?”

  Maxie studied the dark smudges. “I don’t see anything.”

  “It takes practice. See Larry raising his fist in this one? You’ll see once I make the contact sheet. But the film has to dry first.”

  “This isn’t the career for me,” Maxie complained as Stella hung the film in a little cupboard. “Waiting around was never my forte.”

  Stella leaned back against the counter next to the enlarger. “What are you going to do?”

  Maxie was writing down the cost of the film and flowers in her budget book, trying to decide how to classify them. Finally she wrote Independent Enterprise in the “for” column where she usually put “food,” “rent,” or “sundries.” She put the budget book back in her purse.

  “I’ve got another date with Miss Watkins next week.” It felt like Maxie was practically going steady with the career counselor, she’d been seeing so much of her this summer. “If nothing comes through, I can live on the income from the picture sale—Mumsy said she’d give me an allowance again, but I’d rather be independent. Oh!” Another idea occurred to her. “I got Mamie’s contact at Mount Olympus Books—if I sell If Love Is the Answer to them, how would you feel about me taking an agent’s percentage?” A dream drifted through the unemployed girl’s mind, of swinging from deal to deal like a monkey in the jungle, and putting off forever the realities of a regular workday.

  “Not really!” Stella’s jaw dropped. “You mean—you found time to talk to Miss McArdle after everything else that’s happened? I wasn’t even sure you’d want to after—well, after you lost your girlfriend as well as your job.”

  So the grapevine between the Arms and The Step Stool was operational. Maxie wondered how long it would take for the buzz about her tussle with Tanya and subsequent exit with Lon to migrate from the Knock Knock back to the Arms.

  No rumor had reached Stella, evidently. “I can’t help feeling sort of responsible,” she confessed. “I realized later my book must have suggested some possibilities that had probably never occurred to you before. Of course it’s complete fiction,” she added quickly. “Even if I was sometimes inspired by actual events.”

  “Don’t blame your book,” Maxie told her kindly. “It was a catalyst maybe, but not the cause.”

  Stella looked at her closely. “You don’t seem too broken up about the breakup.”

  “I feel like a horse let loose from the barn,” Maxie confessed.

  “And here I was, ready to offer you a shoulder to cry on!”

  Maxie laughed. “What with all that’s been happening I’ve been too distracted to think about losing my steady!”

  “Well, if you ever need more distraction . . .” Stella laid her hand on Maxie’s, and looked at the girl through her lashes. “Truth to tell,” she murmured, “I never thought you and Pamela were terribly well suited.”

  Her meaning was unmistakable. “That’s a friendly offer,” Maxie flirted back automatically. She remembered the unanswered C-cup question, and felt tempted to recreate one of the racy scenes from Stella’s novel. If only she wasn’t worn out from her night with Lon! But would she have skipped last night with Lon for this afternoon with Stella? It was a riddle without a solution.

  Pace yourself, Maxine, she commanded her libidinous side. Was this what Miss Watkins meant, when she warned about impulse control?

  “I’ve always liked you, Maxie,” Stella told her frankly. “From the day you came into the Step Stool offices and left us the lemon drops.”

  “I’m surprised they didn’t sour you on me,” Maxie murmured. She remembered how Sally, the heroine of If Love Is the Answer, had made up her mind at the end of the novel that “there was no sense in being shy when you saw a girl who set off sparks in your stomach.”

  Stella laughed. “I don’t like things that are too sweet.” She glanced at the clock. “How shall we pass the time, while we wait for the film to dry?”

  Certainly a little heavy petting wouldn’t hurt, Maxie decided judiciously. She’d always been partial to the talented features editor. Now, as they necked in the dim darkroom, her attitude of vague goodwill sharpened into a definite appreciation for Stella’s many fine qualities.

  At the end of the afternoon, as promised, Maxie was hurrying to the offices of Idol Gossip with the contact prints in her purse. The photos had turned out perfectly—Maxie especially liked the one of Larry raising his fist, unshaven and wild-eyed, his mouth twisted in anger below the startling white of his bandaged nose. He looked more like a dissolute prizefighter than the dream angel of the popular song. She wondered if the editor of Idol Gossip would go for that one.

  He preferred the one of Larry still in shock, with his mouth hanging open. “Half to seal the deal, half on delivery of the negative,” he said as he wrote out the check. “A pleasure doing business with you, young lady.”

  “How much if I throw in an article?” Maxie was struck by a sudden inspiration. “Something like, ‘My Date with Larry Left Me a Sadder and Wiser Gir
l’?”

  “We pay more for pictures,” the editor said, “but I can give you twenty-five dollars. Keep it under seven hundred and fifty words and bring it with the negative.” And Maxie was on the elevator back to the lobby before the ink on the check was dry.

  Entering the amount under “income,” Maxie looked at her budget book with satisfaction. She’d made as much since last night as she had her whole time as an Recreational Aide!

  At the Arms, Maxie went looking for company. In the lounge there was a party of pinochle players and Kathy, brooding in a corner over her textbooks. Why the charade? Maxie couldn’t help wondering. Wouldn’t the crime fighter’s time be better spent catching crooks rather than polishing her performance as a psych student?

  Kathy had her own question. “Run into Lon, lately?” she asked sarcastically.

  So Maxie had been spotted that morning. “Maybe,” said the ex-deb, sitting down opposite the undercover girl. “Are you interested professionally—or for personal reasons?” She enjoyed the flush that flooded the G-woman’s face.

  “It’s always professional with me,” said the tense girl tightly. “I’m interested in capturing criminals and advancing my career—period.”

  “Such dedication.” Maxie sighed in mock envy. “You remind me of Pamela. You’ll be head of the branch office or whatever you call it, just as sure as Pamela’s going to be running Grunemans one day.”

  Kathy ignored Maxie’s teasing. “Listen,” she said earnestly. “You know the difference between right and wrong, however much you pretend not to care. Give me the dope on Lon and square yourself with Uncle Sam!”

  “You mean—be an informer?”

  “We call them two-oh-nines,” said Kathy. She took out a manila folder. “I have a form right here.”

  “Telling tales on my friends isn’t my cup of tea,” Maxie said, discovering that she did have a few ethics after all. “But I’ll give you a tip for free—two, in fact. The new mob is Finnish and the big boss is female!”