The Leaving Of Liverpool (28 page)

‘John’s five now; he started school last year.’ According to Tamara, he was the cleverest in the class. John going to school had provided another reason for Levon’s continual presence at home. There were childish concerts to attend and childish games to watch, even if John was too young to play. ‘It’s to support the school,’ Tamara claimed after they’d watched an incredibly tedious football match. At Hallowe’en there’d been a party; and at Christmas a Nativity play in which John had been one of the three kings. There was something called Little League.

Levon knew that Ollie wasn’t interested in John, just being polite. ‘I came about Judge Seabury’s investigation into City Hall,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a client who works there. Last night he called to tell me one of the witnesses had been murdered. I’m not sure where you stand in this, Ollie, but I just thought I’d let you know.’

‘Why should I want to know about that, Lev?’ Ollie asked levelly.

‘I understand you’ve been called as a witness yourself.’

‘Yeah, I have,’ Ollie admitted with a nonchalant shrug.

Levon could tell the nonchalance was put on. Only a fool would be unperturbed by the news. For more than a year, the United States Attorney General, Charles Tuttle, had been looking into the affairs of City Hall. He had discovered an alarming level of corruption in the Mayor’s administration. It was no secret that Mayor Jimmy Walker and Ollie Blinker were the best of friends - Levon had met Mayor Walker in this very apartment several times in the past. Ollie had made his fortune out of building: flooring, cement, foundations, something like that. He even had something to do with the Empire State Building currently going up on 34th Street. But Ollie sailed very close to the margins. If the Mayor went down, he was very likely to go with him.

Just then, Ollie slapped his knee with a fat hand, making Levon jump. ‘Thanks for telling me. There’s quite a few people who’d like to see me go down with the sinking ship, but not you. Thanks again, Lev. You’re a good friend.’

‘You warned me about the Stock Market crash,’ Levon mumbled. ‘I’m just returning the favour.’

Ollie grinned. ‘You’re still a good friend. Would you like a drink? I’ve got some Irish malt that goes down the throat like liquid gold. Tell you what,’ he said generously, ‘I’ll give you a bottle to take with you.’

Levon nodded his thanks. If he had to spend the rest of the day at home, it would be preferable to do so in a mildly alcoholic daze. Ollie went to a run-down cabinet with leaded windows and removed a bottle and two glasses. There was a row of photos on top, of Ollie and Lizzie’s wedding - the groom looked positively skinny - the children, Herbie and Mabel, in various stages of development, and a charming grey-haired couple staring lovingly at each other.

‘Are they your folks?’ he asked. He knew nothing about the man’s past.

‘I like to think they might be.’ Ollie chuckled. ‘Lizzie found the photo in a book she borrowed from the library, so I kept it. It was only supposed to be a joke, but they’ve been here for years.’ He picked up the photo and studied it. ‘Good-looking pair, aren’t they?’ he said with a smile. ‘I expect they’re someone’s folks, but not mine. Me, I was found abandoned in a waiting room on Penn Station. I never knew my ma and pa. I don’t know what sort of blood runs through my veins. I’d been circumcized, so I might be a Jew. The dame who found me brought me up. Her name was Edna Blinker. She was OK, but she looked nothing like this.’ He flicked the photo with his finger. ‘She died when I was fourteen and I was left on my own. I used to find it scary, not knowing a single thing about myself, but after I met Lizzie and had kids of my own, it didn’t seem to matter all that much.’

‘In the long run, I don’t suppose it does,’ Levon commented, ‘but I think I’d find it scary, too.’ Somewhere in the apartment, Herbie said something and Anne responded with a laugh. It was an attractive laugh, full-throated and completely natural.

Perhaps Ollie had heard. ‘What does Anne know about her background, Lev?’ he enquired.

‘Nothing and everything.’ It was Levon’s turn to shrug. ‘It’s all there in her head, buried deep down, but something happened that made her forget.’ He recalled the drawings she’d used to do. ‘
I’m not as stupid as you think
,’ she’d said just after she’d had John. ‘One of these days I reckon it will all come flooding back; when she’s older, maybe, and more resilient.’

Ollie handed him an inch of whiskey in a tumbler. He went to the door and yelled for ice, then returned to his seat behind the desk. ‘That stuff Tamara told Lizzie years ago, about Anne being the daughter of an Irish friend who went bankrupt, well, I don’t believe a word of it, Lev.’ He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. ‘Not that it matters. I don’t give a damn what the truth is.’

A bad-tempered Christina came in with a bowl of ice cubes, complaining she was far too busy to be fetching and carrying while she was in the middle of making dinner. ‘You want anything else, Master Blinker, you fetch it yourself.’

‘What would you say,’ Ollie said slowly after the door had slammed shut, ‘to Anne and Herbie getting married?’

Levon jumped. ‘How long have you had that idea?’

‘About two and a half minutes. They really like each other.’

‘Aren’t people supposed to love each other when they get married? And shouldn’t the idea come from Herbie?’

Ollie drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Perhaps he needs a bit of encouragement.’

The idea was taking some getting used to. Levon continued to think of Anne as a child, though she must be about nineteen or twenty by now. ‘Another thing, Ollie,’ he said, ‘I’m not Anne’s guardian. It’s not up to me who she marries.’

‘No, but she listens to you. You’re the person she talks about more than anyone. If Herbie proposed, first thing she’d do is ring and ask what you thought.’ He reached for the whiskey. ‘What’s the drink like, Lev? Does it go down smoothly or not?’

‘Very smoothly, Ollie.’ He could feel it caressing his throat.

‘Does Anne have papers - birth certificate, passport, stuff like that?’

‘No, nothing.’

Ollie winked. ‘I won’t ask how she got into the good old US of A.’

Levon didn’t wink back. ‘It wouldn’t be any good asking; I don’t know. She’s not legally adopted. We just came across each other accidentally.’

‘I’ll have some papers made up for her, use what little influence I’ve still got with City Hall before the Mayor quits his job. It’s bound to come in useful one day, like if she decides to become an American citizen.’

Levon thought it was time he made a move. He got to his feet. ‘You look after yourself, Ollie. Don’t forget the murdered witness.’ The conversation had taken a surprising turn, from corruption in City Hall to Anne and Herbie getting married. About the latter, Levon didn’t know what to think.

 

Zeke arrived for the party that night in a dark-blue velvet evening jacket and blue bowtie. With his beautiful brown eyes, pink cushiony lips, and breaktaking smile, he looked so handsome it almost took Anne’s breath away. His ma, he explained, had borrowed the jacket from a piano player who was laid up with an unidentifiable chest complaint.

‘Got some bad news,’ he added darkly. ‘Pops said there’s no way a nigger can be seen dancing with a white woman - actually
touching
her with his evil nigger hands. I’m afraid our performance tonight is off.’

Anne was bitterly disappointed. ‘But I was looking forward to the three of us dancing together!’

‘So was I!’ said Herbie. ‘Do you have to do as your pop says, Zeke?’

‘He was deadly serious and made me promise on my mom’s life I wouldn’t dance with Anne.’ He looked sober for once. ‘He said the trouble with me is I have too big an opinion of myself and don’t know my place. There’s some folks who’d like to take me down a peg or two. In the South, a nigger could be lynched just for touching a white woman.’

‘Jeez!’ Herbie gasped.

‘That’s disgraceful,’ Anne said hotly. ‘And stop saying “nigger”. Your father doesn’t like it and neither do I.’

Zeke moodily stuffed his hands in the pocket of the velvet jacket. ‘Pops said the place to live is Paris, France, where no one cares whether you’re black or white. I might go there one day.’

‘We’ll all go,’ Anne declared. ‘We’ll all go to Paris if that’s the only way we can dance together and be friends.’

 

Two days later, Herbie slipped on the icy pavement outside the theatre and sprained his ankle. His understudy, Nelson, who normally danced in the chorus, partnered Anne that night. There’d been hardly any time to rehearse and Nelson put in an adequate performance under the circumstances. But he tried too hard and it showed. His face was fixed in a tense smile that vanished the minute the dance was over.

Next morning, Anne and Nelson met early in the theatre so they could practise. To Anne’s surprise, Conrad Abel was already there, along with a seething Nelson, and a starved-looking young man who seemed familiar.

‘Anne, this is Flip Ungar,’ the producer said. ‘He’s filling in until Herbie’s ankle is better. I got him along to watch the show last night so he knows what to do.’

‘I remember you.’ Anne smiled. ‘You auditioned the same time as we did. While we were waiting, you had to leave the room to be sick. I hope you don’t feel sick now.’

‘It was the waiting that did it.’ He had dark, smoky eyes, hollow cheeks, and a wide, thin mouth that twitched slightly in an answering smile. His body moved with the lazy grace of a cat.

Nelson flounced away close to tears when Conrad Abel said impatiently, ‘Come on, let’s get started.’

They were born to dance together, the producer realized after a mere few minutes. When she danced with Herbie, it was Anne who led, Anne who had the personality that inspired her partner to greater things, but with Flip Ungar, neither led: they inspired each other. There was a sexual chemistry between them. Herbie was the boy next door; Flip was the predator looking to get his partner to bed.

Conrad Abel rubbed his hands together gleefully. He’d always deeply resented giving the part to Herbie Blinker, even though it had been his own weakness had led him to do it. This would be one in the eye for Herbie’s old man.

 

Lizzie brought the paper into the den for Ollie to see. It was the
East Coast Herald
and mainly dealt with matters in New York. ‘Read this,’ she said, pointing to a small item on the arts page:

‘Shit!’ Ollie laid the paper down. He’d already got the picture and there was no need to read any more.

‘Let’s hope Herbie’s ankle gets better soon,’ Lizzie said dryly, ‘or he’ll be out of a job.’

‘Over my dead body,’ Ollie growled.

Lizzie left. Ollie put his head in his hands and thought about their son. It had been a relief when, at an early age, Herbie had said he wanted to go into show business, preferably as a dancer. He was unlikely to set the world alight with his brain. Not even the most experienced tutors his father engaged could make him as interested in conventional lessons as he was in clothes, movies, and the theatre. There was no point in sending him to college. With Ollie’s wealth, he could have funded the most up-to-date gymnasium or the best-stocked library in the country and got Herbie in that way, but his son wouldn’t have emerged one whit cleverer than when he went in.

Ollie wasn’t the sort of parent who believed in making things tough for their kids. If Herbie wanted to be a dancer, then a dancer he would be, and Ollie would do everything in his power to smooth his path.

At sixteen, Herbie went straight from high school to Peggy Perlmann’s academy in Hester Street. Peggy had been honest right from the start. ‘He’s exceptionally good-looking, has loads of personality and plenty of talent,’ she’d told Ollie. ‘I’m sure he’ll make it into the chorus of the top shows. He might even be picked for a solo spot if he’s lucky.’

From that, Ollie took it that there was little chance of Herbie becoming a star. He just didn’t have it in him: the extra shine, the final bit of polish that separated the mundane from the uniquely talented. He felt disappointed, both on his own and Herbie’s behalf. A dancer sounded much better than a chorus boy.

Anne started at Peggy’s during Herbie’s second year.
She
had the extra shine, the final bit of polish in spades. And she was capable of lifting Herbie to her own dizzying level. Seeing them dance together had made Ollie wonder if they could be launched as a couple: Herbie Blinker and Anne Murray - Blinker and Murray.

When Tamara had approached Lizzie about Anne moving in with them, it had seemed like the answer to a prayer. He liked Anne, she was a sweet kid, and once she was living under his roof it seemed quite legitimate - responsible, even - to look after her career. He had engaged an agent, Joe Squires, and impressed upon him that Herbie and Anne were a team. They came together like coffee and cream. Neither could be booked without the other.

Now all Ollie had to do was make sure it stayed that way, except Herbie had sprained his ankle, and he couldn’t very well demand that Anne be withdrawn from
Roses are Red
until the ankle got better. It worried him that one of these days, someone like that creepy producer, Conrad Abel, would advise her she could do much better with another partner.

 

The sound of applause was still ringing in his ears as Conrad Abel made his way along the dusty passage to his office beneath the stage. He felt exceedingly pleased with himself.
Roses are Red
was a trite show, but his daring in engaging the astonishingly gifted Zeke Penn had lifted the production out of the ordinary. Now the pairing of Anne Murray with Flip Ungar was attracting attention. After the piece in the
East Coast Herald
, the demand for tickets had increased and quite a few reviewers were coming back for a second look.