He smiled automatically, the professional host’s twitch, but the eyes behind the glasses were trying to place me; as we were shaking hands, his grip moist and unconvincing, they did: “The detective.”
“That’s right. And you’re Sonny Goldstone. I remember you from the 101 Club.” Which had been a Rush Street speakeasy not so long ago, where-like here-he’d been floor manager. Now as then, Goldstone was one of Nicky Dean’s partners-his front man, the ostensible owner of the Colony Club.
“I understand you’ve done some favors for the boys from time to time,” he said in his hoarse, toneless voice.
“That’s right.” That wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you went around denying, especially not to anybody connected.
“Pity about Eddie O’Hare,” he said, impassively.
“Pity,” I said, not reading him at all.
Estelle said, “Sonny, Nate’s an old friend. I haven’t seen him in years, seems like. I’m going to go upstairs with him for a while.”
“The front two suites are in use.”
“All right.”
“Will you be long, Estelle? It’s Saturday night, you know.”
“We’re just going to chat for half an hour or so.”
“The people come here to see you, you know.”
She patted his cheek like he was a naughty child for whom she held a certain reluctant affection. “The people come here to throw away money and their cares. I’m just window dressing. I’m sure you can keep the cash register ringing for a while without me.”
“Have fun,” he said, flatly; it might just as easily been “so long” or “fuck you.”
We threaded back through the casino into the entry area, where we rounded a corner and found a door that said “No Admittance,” which proved its point by being locked. Estelle unlocked it, and we were in a little hallway, off of which were a few doors and a self-service elevator. We took the elevator.
The third floor seemed to be offices and conference rooms and, as promised, a few suites.
Ours wasn’t a lavish suite, just the like of a room in a typical Loop hotel, maybe a touch bigger, in shades of blue, small wet bar, bed and bath. Bed is what she was sitting on, kicking off her shoes, stretching out her million-dollar legs to relax, and show off.
“You want a drink, Nate?”
“When I knew you, you didn’t drink.”
“I still don’t,” she said, tossing her pageboy again. “I don’t smoke either. But when I knew you, you sure did. Drink, I mean. Rum, as I remember. Has that changed?”
“No. I still don’t smoke, though.”
“You sound like a regular all-American boy.”
“You’re an all-American girl, all right. Horatio Alger in a skirt.”
She frowned, just a little. “Why are you angry?”
“Am I?”
She patted the bed next to her. “Sit down.”
I sighed, and did.
“You’re angry because I’m so successful.”
“No! I think your success is swell. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Exactly what I wanted. And you’ve got what you wanted, all those years, don’t you? Your own business. Your own detective agency.”
I shrugged. “We are expanding,” I said, not being able to help myself from bragging it up a little. I told her how I’d added two operatives and doubled my office space and even had a secretary, no more hunt-and-peck on the typewriter.
She smiled, both dimples. “I bet she’s cute as a button, with a great big crush on her boss. Taken advantage of her yet, Nate?”
“Your psychic powers are failing you on that one, Estelle. I’m sorry I was a grouch, before.”
She touched my shoulder. “I understand. It’s just the same old argument, isn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“We don’t need to have that, anymore, do we?”
“No we don’t.”
“We can’t ever be an item again, so we should live and let live, right? No reason not to be pals, huh?”
“None at all.”
Then I kissed her, and she put her tongue in my mouth, and the sequined dress was coming loose in my hands and then my mouth was on her breasts, frantically switching from one to the other, not able to get enough of either, her nipples startlingly erect, each a hard sweet inch, and her soft generous ass was in my two hands and my trousers were falling to the floor with the thud of a fainting man, and then I was in her, to the hilt, hating myself, hating her, loving her.
The old argument-the dispute that had killed us-had of course been back in her waitress days. We quickly fell headlong in love, or anyway I did, and whenever I wasn’t working we were together, and most of the time had been spent in bed. She was only the third woman I’d ever been with, and the first one I’d ever had a real affair with. And I loved her till I thought my fucking heart would break, which, sure enough, it did.
She always asked for money. Not like a whore. Not right after the act. But before I left her, she’d say she was a few dollars short. Her rent was due. Her mother was sick. Her machinist stepfather was out of work. If I could just help out…
And I would.
But I wasn’t alone. One night they changed my shift on me, and I had a night free I hadn’t anticipated. I went to surprise her, to her little apartment on the near North Side and knocked, and she came to the door, cracking it open, and looked out at me with her wide green eyes and her wide white smile and said, “Nate, I’m afraid I have company.”
I stood outside in the goddamn rain half the night before I gave up the vigil. Whoever he was, he was staying till morning, so fuck it.
The next day’s confrontation was in Rickett’s, where she was behind the gleaming white counter, and I almost lost her her job.
“What was his name?”
Softly, she said, “I see other people, Nate. I never said I didn’t. I got a life besides you.”
“You see other men, you mean.”