December '41, page 18
“You just take longer to warm up. That’s all,” he told her.
“When women are honest, they’re called bitches. When they take charge, they’re called bossy.” She plucked the cherry from her drink and popped it into her mouth.
Kevin folded his menu. “So take charge of ordering. I like to be bossed.”
She laughed, which Kevin took as another good sign.
And the Kelloggs made their appearance. They’d been in the club car. And they’d been drinking. But Kevin didn’t sense any tension between them. If a guy smacked his wife around—or vice versa—a few drinks would usually bring out the worst in them, like the Battling Bogarts. But with the Kelloggs it was laughter and high spirits.
Vivian giggled. “I’m glad you ordered appetizers. I need to soak up the martinis.”
Then her husband announced that he’d treat them all to champagne in honor of their new friendship. He called for Veuve Clicquot, which cost $9.95, a small fortune but a good pairing with caviar. It also went a long way toward loosening everyone up. He didn’t add that the Gestapo was paying.
Soon, they were all toasting “confusion to our enemies,” and ordering dinner. Vivian chose the swordfish steak in a sauce meunière. Harold was having the roast larded tenderloin in Madeira sauce. And Sally picked the most expensive meal on the menu at $2.50: sirloin steak for two, medium rare. To wash it down, Martin chose a Pontet-Canet Pauillac ’34 and put it on his bill.
The nation out there in the dark might still be rousing itself from shock. But here on Cochiti, luxury and laughter prevailed, if only for a little while longer. And Martin Browning wanted to keep it that way.
He’d passed most of the afternoon staring at the landscape and visualizing the events that lay ahead on the South Lawn of the White House. Thanks to Scarlett and Rhett, Vivian had proven to be the best kind of traveling companion, the quiet kind. Sitting with her that afternoon had reminded him of something his mother said when he asked why she and his father could sit so long and say so little. She’d told him that being comfortable with someone and not saying a word was the perfect description of love.
Martin wasn’t looking for love, but he considered wordlessness a true gift. Harold Kellogg, on the other hand, was chatty and charming to the point of ingratiation. When the meals arrived and the waiter sliced the big sirloin tableside for Kevin and Sally, he even applauded. Then he cut into his own tenderloin, glistening with Madeira sauce and melted lard.
And Sally Drake said, “Well, there’s a coincidence.”
Martin stopped cutting. He didn’t believe in coincidence. And certainly not over steak. He looked up.
Sally said, “Your cuff links.”
“My wife gave them to me,” he answered. “Isn’t that right, dear?”
“For your birthday.” Even when half lit, Vivian could ad-lib.
Sally said, “I bought a pair in Burbank, at Mr. Fountain’s, and—”
Vivian looked up from her swordfish. “Hey, I was in that shop the other day.”
That was the worst thing that could come out of her mouth, thought Martin. What would the wife of a traveling salesman from Maryland be doing in a posh Burbank clothes shop? Martin, as Harold, said, “I think you’ve made a mistake, dear.”
“Oh.… Oh, yes. You’re right, dear.”
Martin recovered and said, “Actually, I bought these in Washington.”
Kevin raised an arm to show a cuff. “Good taste, Harry, wherever you shop.”
Harold Kellogg laughed, but inside his skin, Martin Browning had gone cold and analytical. They’d entered a danger zone.
Sally said, “The salesman told me they were custom-designed for Mr. Fountain.”
“Salesmen will tell you anything.” Harold Kellogg went back to eating, but Martin Browning tried to remember. Had he sold her those cuff links? He’d been a hard seller, because cuff links had a nice profit margin, and Mr. Fountain liked the extra effort.
Kevin Cusack was more interested in sirloin and sex. Whatever lay ahead, whatever he’d left behind, he was enjoying himself tonight. And enjoyment started with food and drink. He was also enjoying the conversation of Mrs. Kellogg. When she started asking about the Battling Bogarts, he gave her all the gossip he could think of.
And Martin let them chatter on to distract from the cuff links.
But Sally was aiming her horn-rims at him like gun barrels. In male company, most nearsighted women took off their glasses, because glasses on a woman implied brainpower. Sally kept hers on, as if to say that if men didn’t like her brains, too damn bad. And if men found her confidence intimidating, to hell with them.
Martin Browning preferred to be in control. He said, “If you and your brother were so successful in Hollywood, Miss Drake, why are you leaving?”
“We weren’t that successful. And maybe we’re just going home for a visit.”
“Maybe you’re running away … you and your brother with a different name.” Martin knew that would put her back. “Different fathers, too? Or different mothers?”
Kevin took a sip of wine and said to Sally, “He knows.”
“That you’re my ‘beard’?” said Sally.
Vivian Hopewell caught herself before she said, “You, too, hunh?”
Kevin said, “That’s me. Cusack the beard.”
Sally looked at his cuff links. “I gave those to someone I … I really liked.”
“A nice gift,” said Vivian. She knew it wasn’t her best line, but as a reward, her “husband” poured her more champagne.
And did he also drop a tablet into his wife’s glass? Kevin couldn’t be sure …
… because the guy was very smooth, and he was looking right at Kevin. “So why are you going home, Mr. Cusack? To marry this lovely lady, perhaps?” He grinned. Control the situation. Never give an advantage. He set down the bottle, tugged at his sleeves so the cuff links showed nicely, and went back to his steak.
Kevin sipped his wine and calculated. He had about eighteen hours left. He’d avoid this guy for the rest of the trip. The shiner under his wife’s eye … the Mickey he’d just slipped her … none of it was Kevin’s problem. He had other things on his mind.
Then Vivian changed the subject and sealed the fate of at least one person at the table. She said, “Amazing how fast the time goes when you’re reading a good book.”
“What are you reading?” asked Sally.
“Gone with the Wind. I loved the movie. So I had to read the book.”
“The book is always better,” said Sally.
“I still see Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable when I read about Scarlett and Rhett.”
“And Olivia de Havilland as Melanie,” said Sally. “But Ashley? Do you ever dream of Leslie Howard?”
“Scarlett wouldn’t fall for him,” said Vivian. “I never see him when I’m reading.”
“You know”—Sally gazed across the table—“I think I see him now.”
Martin had just put a piece of steak into his mouth. He stopped chewing.
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Leslie Howard?” asked Sally.
Kevin laughed. “People tell me I look like Tyrone Power and—”
“You look more like him than I look like Leslie Howard.” Martin tried laughing it off. He didn’t give one of his better laughs.
“I don’t see Ashley Wilkes.” Sally took off her glasses and held them up, as if framing his face. “I see Leslie Howard as Henry Higgins in Pygmalion.”
Martin looked at the glasses, then picked up his wine and took a drink.
“And I’ve seen him before,” said Sally. “But where?”
“You see too much.” Martin knew exactly where she’d seen him.
She said, “Are you sure you never sold cuff links in Burbank?” She was taunting him, emboldened perhaps by drink, and she seemed to be enjoying it.
“Very sure.” He laughed, but he could feel Vivian looking at him, too. Was she dimly recollecting the encounter at Mr. Fountain’s on Monday afternoon? He couldn’t have that, either.
Sally said, “Come on. Humor me. Put ’em on.”
But there was no humor in this. Nobody was laughing.
Then Mr. Brylcreem broke the tension, blustering in and parading over to their table. “So, are you gents in or out? I got five in the game. I need at least one more.”
Kevin shook his head.
Martin Browning said, “I’ll play.” Then he began to triangulate, to calculate, to consider: If he decided to do what now appeared necessary, how could he use Kevin’s absence from the card table, and his own presence, to his advantage?
* * *
“WELL, THAT WAS INTERESTING.” Sally dropped onto the sofa in Drawing Room D. “It’s none of that guy’s goddamn business why we’re going east.”
“He thought you were playing him,” said Kevin, “so he played you.”
“Something tells me he doesn’t play nice,” she said. “And I swear, I’ve seen him before. Did you ever go into Mr. Fountain’s?”
“Forget Mr. Fountain. Forget Mr. Kellogg.” Kevin flipped off the light, so that the moonlit landscape came to life outside. Then he turned up the music. “Stardust.” Perfect. He dropped onto the sofa and put his arm around her.
“What are you doing, Kevin?”
“Forgetting that guy.”
The only sounds were the clack of the wheels and the clarinet of Artie Shaw.
Sally’s glasses reflected the moonlight, but she didn’t take them off, which meant she wasn’t looking for a kiss.
Maybe he was moving too quickly. But once he’d begun, he couldn’t retreat. He put a hand on her thigh and whispered, “I like it when you wear a skirt.”
“Most men do. That’s why I usually wear slacks.”
He brought his face along her cheek and whispered, “My FBI friend thinks you wear slacks because you don’t like men.”
“What did you tell him when he said that?”
“I told him he was misinformed.” And he brought his lips to hers.
She pulled away. As he moved in again, she said, “He wasn’t.”
He stopped in midmotion. “Wasn’t what?”
And the confession tumbled out of her, as if she’d held it in for too long, but the booze had loosened her tongue. “I’m sorry, Kevin. I’ve … I’ve tried. But I can’t stand it anymore. I went to Hollywood to meet handsome men. All I saw were starlets and costume-department butches in tailored slacks.”
“What? What are you saying?” He felt himself deflating, in more ways than one. “We dated for months.”
“I enjoyed it. I really did. I hated myself when we split. I was never interested in Jerry Sloane. I really like you. I was hoping this train ride would rekindle something.”
He leaned back. He didn’t like all the past tense … or all the new information.
She said, “I even let that John Huston feel me up. I thought some male celebrity might … might give me the desire I wanted to have.”
“But—”
“I think I know who I am. That’s what I learned in California. And right now, we all have to face truths about ourselves and the world we live in.”
“Truth? If you like girls and not guys, this world may not be very kind to you.”
“Just the slobber from the FBI will give me rabies. Nobody knows, but I have a friend, a special friend. She lives on the canal in Georgetown. Mary Benning is her name. She’s a teacher. She’s the real reason I’m going back.”
“You’re going back for a woman? Jesus.” Kevin didn’t want to hear more. “I need a smoke.” He got up and opened the sliding door to the passage.
She called his name.
And he said, perhaps too angrily, “What?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too. Sorry I ever got on this goddamn train.” He slammed the slider behind him. He didn’t know if he was angry at himself or at her or at fate in general.
And he turned directly into Mr. Brylcreem, who was coming along the passage. He gave Kevin a leer. “Throwin’ in your cards with that dame so soon?”
Kevin pushed past Cook and headed for the observation car.
Cook called after him, “Like I always say, pal, gotta have jacks or better to open, even if all you’re openin’ is your fly.”
* * *
MARTIN BROWNING LEFT VIVIAN asleep in the cabin, dosed with martinis, champagne, and Veronal to knock her out cold for the night. Now the real game began: poker in Acoma, murder in Taos.
He had to do it. The longer Sally Drake thought about those cuff links, the more likely she’d remember the man who sold them. And if she announced it at breakfast, where might it all lead?
First, he went forward to the club car and the sound of rattling poker chips.
Sinclair Cook was running the game and handling the money. Based on the deference the waiters gave him, he must have been a big tipper. He said, “Welcome to the party. Too bad your friend would rather drink in the observation car.”
“I can’t speak for him.” Martin pulled five twenties from his pocket and put them down in front of Sinclair Cook. “But I’m in for a hundred.”
Cook looked at the cash and began to count out a hundred dollars in chips. “Boys, I think we got a card shark … or a mark.”
The other players: two young guys with big hands and suntans who claimed they played in the Chicago White Sox minor-league system, a fidgety lawyer who’d been in California taking depositions on a case to be tried in Chicago, and a businessman from Los Angeles.
Martin Browning took a seat to the right of the lawyer.
Sinclair Cook cut open a new pack of cards, shuffled, and announced, “Seven-card stud, jacks or better to open.”
* * *
KEVIN SAT AT THE back of the observation car, nursed a Scotch, and wondered: How could he have been so wrong? How could he have missed her signals? When Sally dumped him for Jerry Sloane, was she just trying on another pair of shoes that would never fit, no matter how hard she pushed her feet into them?
He knew about girls who liked girls. He was from the town that gave the all-female partnership its name. The “Boston marriage,” they called it. But …
He decided not to give a damn, at least for a while. He’d just sit there and smoke and drink and feel the rhythm of the rails … and feel sorry for himself, too.
* * *
THE SHUFFLING CARDS PLAYED counterpoint to the spinning thoughts in Martin Browning’s head. He knew something had gone wrong between Sally and Kevin. He’d heard the end of an argument when the door to Drawing Room D opened. He’d heard Sally say that she was sorry. He’d heard Kevin say that he was sorry, too, sorry to be on the train … with her? He’d heard the slam of the door and the voice of Sinclair Cook.
After six hands, he’d won five. The others were getting resentful, because he knew how to play the cards and play them, too. But he was playing a larger game.
“Check to you,” said Cook.
Martin tapped the table. Another check. He was standing pat. But he couldn’t stand pat on the mission. He had to protect it at all costs, from any threat. So the next time the play came to him, he threw in his cards. He said he’d give them a chance to win some money from each other while he went to find his replacement.
Sinclair Cook said, “Something else on your mind? I guarantee a fine night ahead.” Then he winked. “Take it from me.”
Martin wanted to kill Cook, too, just for being crude. Maybe later.
He moved quickly through Cochiti, Oraibi, into Taos—foolish names honoring Indian tribes these Americans had done so much to dispossess. They’d treated the Indians worse than the Nazis had treated the Jews, he thought, with much less reason.
In Taos, he noticed the porter stepping out of Drawing Room D. He heard Sally’s voice: “Thank you, Stanley.” As he went past, he glanced in and saw that the bed had been “made down.” And Sally was alone. Excellent.
But he went on to the observation car, just to be sure.
He found Kevin Cusack slumped in a chair, a cigarette in his lips, a tray of butts in front of him, his tie undone, and a cloud of smoke around his head. As Martin approached, Kevin looked up and said, “Cleaned out so soon?”
“Resting. Let them clean each other out. Then I’ll go back for more plunder.”
“I’ll play when a spot opens.”
“Then stay right here. If you go to bed, you’ll miss your chance.”
“Okay.” Kevin folded his arms and legs. “I’ll just take a little nap.”
This couldn’t be working out more perfectly, thought Martin. The observation car was empty, except for Cusack. If he stayed here awhile longer, the deed would be done.
Martin looked at his watch. “I’ll keep playing as long as my hand’s hot. If nothing opens up before the next stop, get off in Kansas City and stretch your legs. Fill your lungs with fresh air, then come in with a clear head and take my seat.”
“How long’s the layover in Kansas City?” asked Kevin.
“Half an hour, I think.” Martin lied about that. But if it worked, all the suspicion would be on Kevin Cusack. “I’d better get back. Do you want another drink?”
Kevin drained his glass, held it up, rattled the ice. Yes. He should have been more suspicious, but two Manhattans, champagne, Pauillac, and three Scotches had left him more than woolly. He was downright drunk.
And Martin Browning knew it. He hurried forward again. Passing between Navajo and Taos. He felt the rush of air as the doors opened and closed. He stopped in the vestibule of Taos and pulled on his calfskin gloves.
* * *
IN THE OBSERVATION CAR, Kevin finished a cigarette and pulled out his pack of Chesterfields. Empty. He had another pack in the room. Maybe he’d go get it. He didn’t want to confront Sally just yet. But he really needed another smoke.
* * *
In Taos, Martin Browning tapped on the door of Drawing Room D. A muffled voice asked who was there.
