The Seventh Commandment (18 page)

"She told me. Clay, what's the problem between you and Eleanor?"

The younger man took a gulp of his fresh drink. "A lot of problems, Father. I guess the big one is sex-or the lack thereof. Does that shock you?"

"Hardly," Callaway said. "I guessed that might be it. Eleanor is not an unattractive woman, but compared to Helene…" His voice trailed off.

"Exactly," Clayton said. "I want a little joy in my life."

"That's understandable. But what if you ask Eleanor for a divorce and then Helene turns you down? Your mother said you told her you haven't even hinted to Helene about the way you feel."

Starrett turned his glass around and around, looking down at it. "That wasn't precisely true. I have told Helene about the way I feel about her and what I plan to do."

"And what was her reaction?"

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I hope I can depend on your discretion."

"I assure you this conversation has all the confidentiality of a confessional booth."

"Some booth," Clayton said, looking around at the crowded, noisy bar. "Well, if you must know, Helene will marry me the moment the divorce is a done deal."

"She told you that?"

"Not in so many words, but I'm positive that's the way she feels. Even if the divorce takes a year, Helene is willing to wait. After all, it means status and financial security for her."

"It does indeed," Callaway said. "I think I'll have another drink if you don't mind. Perhaps a straight vodka on ice this time."

"Of course," Clayton said, and summoned the bartender. "Father, I appreciate your efforts-I know you mean well-but there's no way you can change my mind."

"I didn't expect to."

"How did mother sound when she told you about it. Is she still upset?"

"She is, and somewhat confused. She wants you to be happy, and she hopes to have grandchildren someday, but the very idea of a divorce in the family disturbs her. And, of course, she's aware of the distress Eleanor will suffer."

"So mother really hasn't made up her mind?"

"Not really. As a matter of fact, she said she would be willing to accept whatever recommendation I make."

Clayton's laugh was tinny. "In other words," he said, "my fate is in your hands."

"Yes," the Father said, and took a swallow of his vodka, "you might say that. My main aim in this affair is not to cause your mother any unnecessary pain. She is a splendid woman and has made very generous contributions to the Church of the Holy Oneness."

As he said this, Callaway turned to look directly into Clayton's eyes. "Very generous contributions," he repeated.

The two men, their stare locked, were silent a moment.

"I see," Clayton said finally. "You know, Father, I feel somewhat remiss in not having offered any financial support to your church in the years I've known you."

"It's never too late," the older man said cheerfully. "The Church of the Holy Oneness is constantly in need of funds. For instance, we hope to enlarge the church kitchen so that we may provide food to more of the unfortunate homeless. But at the moment that seems just a dream. I have obtained estimates and find it would cost at least ten thousand dollars to build the kind of facility we need."

Clayton had a fit of coughing, and the Father had to pound him on the back until he calmed enough.

"Of course," Callaway continued blandly, "I realize ten thousand is a large donation for any one individual to make. But perhaps a large New York corporation might be willing to contribute to the welfare of the city's poor and hungry."

"Yes," Clayton said, much relieved, "that makes sense. Would you be willing to accept a ten-thousand-dollar contribution from Starrett Fine Jewelry, Incorporated?"

"Gladly, my son, gladly," Callaway said. "And bless you for your generosity. The donation, of course, would be tax-deductible. And when may I expect the check?"

"I'll have it cut and mailed tomorrow. You should have it by the end of the week. And when do you plan to give mother your recommendation on my divorce?"

Father Callaway smiled benignly. "By the end of the week," he said.

Eleanor and Clayton Starrett sat at a round table for eight, and directly across from Clayton was Bob Farber's new wife. She was a petite young woman wearing a strapless gown of silver lame, but all he could see above the starched tablecloth were the bare top of her bosom, bare shoulders and arms, bare neck, and head topped with a plaited crown of blond hair. It was easy to imagine her sitting there absolutely naked, amiably chatting with her husband, laughing, her sharp white teeth nibbling a shrimp.

He tried not to stare but, uncontrollable, his gaze wandered back. She seemed to him soft, warm, succulent. And beside him sat his hard, cold, bony wife.

He dreamed of the day when he might be seen in public with his new wife, Helene. He would wear her proudly: a badge of honor. Her youth, beauty, and sexuality would prove his manhood and virility. What a conquest Helene would be. What a trophy!

His wife kicked his shin sharply under the table. "You're allowed to blink occasionally, you know," she said in a low, venomous voice, smiling for all the other diners to see. "You keep staring like that and your eyeballs will fall into your soup."

"What are you talking about?" he said, injured.

Eleanor paid him no more attention, for which he was thankful. He sneaked continual peeks at Mrs. Farber and let his fantasies run amok. The candlelfght gave her flesh a rosy glow, and he dreamed of Helene, a fireplace, a bearskin rug.

The remainder of the party was endured only by drinking too much wine. At least, he told himself, he had sense enough not to dance. Eleanor was a miserable dancer, stiff and unrhythmic, and Clayton didn't dare ask Mrs. Farber lest he might suddenly become frenzied, wrestle her to the floor, and then… He shook his head. He could, he reflected gloomily, get twenty years for what he was thinking. Just for thinking about it.

He put his wineglass aside and rushed out onto the terrace. He stood there, breathing deeply of the cold night air, until his brain cleared and his ardor cooled. Then he was able to think rationally, more or less, and felt frustrated that so much time-perhaps a year!-must elapse before his dreams might be realized.

Eleanor was silent on the ride home, and so was he. They remained silent when they were alone in their suite, and finally this embittered silence convinced him that now was the moment. If he was going to do it, then do it. So, as she was removing her jewelry, he said, almost casually, "Eleanor, I want a divorce."

Her reaction was totally unexpected. He had thought she might faint, scream, weep, or at least express disbelief. Instead, she nodded, continued to take off her jewels, and said coolly, "It's Helene Pierce, isn't it?"

"What?" he said, aghast. "What are you talking about?"

She stopped what she was doing and turned to face him. "You're really brainless, Clay-you know that? I knew it before we were married, and nothing you've done since has changed my mind."

"I swear to you," he said hotly, "Helene and I have never-"

"Oh, cut the bullshit," she interrupted in a tone of great disgust. "You've been banging her since the day you met. Do you take me for a complete idiot? I've seen the way you look at her. The same way you looked at Bob Farber's new wife tonight. Is that what gave you the idea, Clay?"

"I'm telling you there's nothing between Helene and me."

"Laughing at her feeble jokes," Eleanor went on relentlessly. "Agreeing with all her stupid opinions. Rushing to help her on with her coat. Any excuse to touch her. There's no fool like an old fool, Clay."

"I'm not old," he shouted at her. "And you're dead wrong about all those things. I was just trying to be a good host."

"Oh sure," his wife jeered. "That's why you made certain you sat next to her every time she came to dinner. Playing a little kneesy, Clay? Listen, don't ever get the idea that the wife is the last to know. The wife is the first to know. When her rotten husband starts being extra pleasant and accommodating. When he starts buying clothes too young for him and gets facials. That's you, Clay. You're really a moron if you think I haven't known what's been going on. Sure, you can have a divorce, sonny boy, but it's going to cost you an arm and a leg, now and forever."

"Believe me," he said wrathfully, "whatever it costs, it'll be worth it to dump a sour, dried-up hag like you."

Still she would not weep. "Oh, Helene will marry you," she said, showing her teeth in a mirthless grin. "That greedy bitch has a bottom-line mentality. I give it a year, and then she'll walk. That's another alimony check every month, Clay. Then you'll find a new conversation piece- and I do mean piece- and do it again, and keep on doing it until you grow up, which will be never. You're a victim of your glands, Clay."

"Just have your attorney contact Arthur Rushkin in the morning," he said stiffly.

"With pleasure," his wife said. "Before I get through with you, you'll be lucky to have fillings in your teeth. Did you tell your mother about this?"

"Yes."

"Poor Olivia," she said. "She's the one I feel sorry for. She's had more than her share of troubles lately. But she's a tough lady; she'll survive. I'm sure she already knew her only son was short-changed in the brains department. Now I'm going to bed, Clay, and I think it would be best if you slept somewhere else."

He was outraged. "Where am I going to go at this time of night?" he demanded.

"You can go to hell," Eleanor spat at him. "You miserable shit!"

Turner Pierce paced about Helene's apartment, head lowered, hands clasped behind him.

"My God, you're antsy," Helene said. "Calm down; it's only Sid."

"I have bad vibes about this," he said. "I reminded him we had agreed on no private meetings unless there was an emergency. He said this was an emergency, but he sounded so damned smug. I don't like the way he sounded."

"He's such a scamp," Helene said.

"A scamp?" Turner repeated. "Darling, the man is an out-and-out crook-and a slimy crook at that."

"It takes one to know one," she said, and he turned to make certain she was smiling. She was.

He sat down on the couch, took a swallow of his Stolich-naya. "At least we don't promise suckers everlasting life in the holy oneness. Now that's slimy."

"Yes," she said, still smiling, "we do have our standards, don't we. Did I ever tell you Sid has the hots for me?"

"That was obvious in KC. Did he ever make a move on you?"

"Once," she said, not smiling now. "I told him what I'd do to him if he tried anything. He backed off."

Turner glanced at his watch. "If he's not here in ten minutes, I'm splitting. I have a date with Felicia tonight."

"Where are you going?"

"Who said we're going anywhere?" he said.

"Have you figured a way to stall her?"

"I have, but you don't want to know it, do you?"

"Not really."

"What about Clayton?"

"I can handle him," she said. "He's pussy-whipped. All we want is another year-right?"

He nodded. "That should do it."

The phone rang and Helene picked it up. "Yes? That's correct. Send him up, please. Thank you." She hung up. "That was the concierge. Sid's on his way up."

"I'm not looking forward to this," Turner said.

The first thing Father Brian Callaway did when he entered the apartment, even before he removed his hat and coat, was to rip off his clerical collar. "That damn thing is going to cut my throat one of these days," he said.

"We should be so lucky," Helene said, and Sidney Loftus laughed.

"What a kidder you are," he said. "What're you guys drinking?"

"Stoli rocks," Turner said.

"Sounds good to me," Loftus said, rubbing his palms together. "With a splash of water, please."

Helene rose, sighing, and went into the kitchen. Sid sat down heavily on an armchair. The two men looked at each other with wary smiles.

"How's the church doing?" Turner asked.

Loftus flipped a palm back and forth. "Not hellacious but adequate," he said. "The take is good but I've got to live in that shithouse on Twentieth Street, kip in the back room, and ladle out slop to a bunch of crumbums."

"Why don't you move?"

The other man shook his head. "No can do. It's the reverse of a flash front, y'see. Living in that dump proves my spirituality. I couldn't live in a Park Avenue duplex and plead poverty, now could I?"

"Image-building," Turner said.

"You've got it," Sid said, nodding. "Very important in our game, as you well know. Thank you, my dear," he said, taking the glass from Helene. He raised it. "Here's to crime," he toasted. But he was the only one who drank.

"Sid," Turner said, "I've got a meeting to get to. What's this big emergency you mentioned?"

Loftus crossed his knees. He adjusted the crease in his trousers. He leaned back. He took a pigskin case from an inner pocket. He extracted a long cigarillo carefully. He lighted up slowly.

"An impressive performance," Turner said. "Keep it up and I'm going to waltz out of here. Now what's on your mind?"

"Business, business," Sidney said, shaking his head. "With you it's always business. You never take time to smell the flowers. Very well, I'll be brief. You know, of course, that Clayton Starrett is divorcing Eleanor."

"Who told you that?" Helene demanded.

He looked at her, amused. "Olivia," he said. "She tells Father Brian Callaway everything."

"My God," Turner said, "you're not porking the woman, are you?"

"Oh, dear me, no," Loftus said. "I am her confidant, her father confessor. She dotes on me."

"You've got a sweet little scam going there," Turner said.