Compromising Positions (6 page)

“More?” breathed Nancy. “More what?”

She whispered something I couldn’t hear. “What?” I asked.

“Bound.”

“Bound?” I forced myself to look at her, knowing that if I did, I probably wouldn’t giggle. “You mean, like S and M?”

“We had just been doing it regular. You know. But then he said since our relationship was based on mutual trust, we should feel free to act out our fantasies. So a couple of times he brought rope and tied me up and did things.”

“Like what?” asked Nancy. She didn’t seem at all surprised, merely curious, like a mechanic examining the engine of a new foreign car.

“I can’t. I can’t,” she sobbed, drawing in huge breaths and making loud noises in the back of her throat.

“Mary Alice,” I said softly, “did he hurt you?”

“Not too much,” she whispered, looking past me. “And he was always careful not to make any marks that Keith would see.”

“What about the pictures?” I asked. Her breathing became more normal, but she still couldn’t look at me. Nancy was sitting back comfortably in her chair. I leaned forward toward Mary Alice. “The pictures. Tell us about them.”

“Oh, he said that these were sacred moments that showed our mutual trust and he wanted to preserve them. He got this new Polaroid camera for his birthday and he took a few photographs. He said he’d burn them after he looked at them a few times.”

“Why would he burn them if he wanted to preserve your sacred moments?” Nancy demanded.

She began crying again. “I don’t know, Nancy. Oh, Jesus God, I’m so scared,” she wailed. “What if someone finds them? What if the police find them? What if someone shows Keith?”

She was terribly frightened, like a tiny fieldmouse that had somehow found itself in the midst of the annual American Pest Control Convention. I felt sick for her. “Did you ever ask him what he did with them?”

“No.”

“Okay. Calm down. We’ll think of something.” But what? I wondered. A complete confession? Suicide? A quiet little arson job on Fleckstein’s office and home?

“I can’t think of anything,” Nancy announced.

We sat silently for a moment. I looked at Nancy, but she avoided my glance. She played with her long hair, rolling it into a chignon and then letting it fall back to her shoulders. Mary Alice didn’t want me to look at her either. We usually shape our confidences to fit our audience’s taste. This time, though, it couldn’t be done and they were embarrassed—Nancy because Mary Alice had made it so painfully personal, not a tale to be smiled at from a distance, and Mary Alice because she had once again made herself vulnerable by letting the outside world peep into her fantasy life.

“Mary Alice,” I said. They both turned and looked at me. “Are you positive he never said anything about the pictures?”

“No. Nothing. Not really.”

“What do you mean, ‘not really’?” Nancy barked.

“I mean, I once asked him if he still had the pictures he took.”

“And what did he say?” Nancy demanded, her voice low and tough, like a small-town southern sheriff.

“Nothing. Just what did I think he was doing with them, using them for blackmail, and that I shouldn’t be so neurotic.”

Again we were quiet, but this time more from impotence than discomfort. If the police found the pictures and showed them to anyone involved in the Fleckstein case, there would be two results; one, word would flash through Shorehaven about Mary Alice’s hobby and, two, she would instantly be deemed a suspect. If the police could seriously consider Marilyn Tuccio, they would leap with joy at the prospect of Mary Alice. In either case, Keith would kill her and use her body as a cornerstone for his next shopping center.

“I’ll tell you why I asked you both here today,” said Mary Alice in a voice that startled us. It had great force and clarity, with none of her usual simpering, ingratiating tones. “First, Judith, I know you have a friend who’s a criminal lawyer. Right?”

“Yes, Claymore Katz. He was Bob’s college roommate.”

“Well, I’d like you to ask him what I should do. I mean, just describe the situation. You don’t have to mention any names.”

“Look, Mary Alice, I’ll be glad to try, but Claymore doesn’t seem the type to go for hypothetical situations. Why don’t you call him so you can give him all the details?”

“No, Judith, please. I don’t want to get involved. Please do it for me. Please.”

In a moment, I thought, she’d grab my hand and cover it with kisses and say “Pretty please.” So I nodded and said: “Sure. No problem.” She bestowed one last smile on me and turned to Nancy. “Now, Nancy, you’re a writer. You investigate things. Right?”

“Wrong, Mary Alice. I do articles on personalities, a little pop sociology. I can barely find my own Tampax without a road map. So don’t think I can investigate...”

“But you used to work for
Time
,” Mary Alice insisted.

“Sure. But I was a researcher. I looked things up in books. I made phone calls. I smiled a lot. But an investigative reporter is something else and...”

“Nancy, I’ve thought this whole thing out. All you have to do is pretend you’re a reporter and call up the police and try to find out what they have. That’s all.”

“Impossible,” Nancy said. She glanced at me, looking for support. I looked away, back at Mary Alice. “Absolutely impossible.”

“What do you mean, ‘impossible’?” Mary Alice demanded.

“The police aren’t going to give out that kind of information. Even if they were going to give something away, they’d give it to some reporter they know. Lord, I don’t even have any credentials. What should I do, call and say, ‘Hi, I’m Nancy Miller and did you happen to find any pictures of a nude blond in Dr. Fleckstein’s files? They’d probably be under M for Mahoney. And would you mind giving all the pictures to me because I think they’d make a peachy bonfire?’”

“Wait a second,” I said. “Look, you free-lance, Nancy.”

“So what?” she challenged.

“Well, couldn’t you call one of the magazines you work for and ask them if they’d like a story on this case? That way, you could get credentials.”

“That’s a great idea, Judith,” Mary Alice enthused. “Isn’t that a good idea, Nancy?”

Nancy glared at both of us and put her head down and peered at her lap. “Quiet. Let me think. All right now,” she breathed, “
Newsday
will have their own reporters on it. Maybe
New York
would take a piece on the ninnies who abandoned the city because they were afraid of crime but got it up the ass in the suburbs. Or maybe the Sunday
Times Magazine
would take a police procedural, but they’re the biggest skinflints in town.”

Mary Alice smiled at her eagerly. “I’ll pay you the difference between whatever they pay and your usual fee.”

“God, Nancy,” I chimed in, “it’s not just another article. You’re doing a favor for a friend.”

“Blow it out your twat,” she responded. “Oh, all right. I’ll try. But don’t expect anything.”

We left a few minutes later, with Mary Alice still murmuring thank yous. She seemed relieved, although I couldn’t be sure why. What could a criminal lawyer do for her? Tell her that in the future she should keep her fantasies to herself? Hold her hand? And what could Nancy dig up? That M. Bruce did, indeed, have a swell photo album? That Mary Alice was a suspect? That she was just one of Fleckstein’s bevy of beauties?

Maybe she seemed relieved, I mused to Nancy in the car, because someone else was helping to shoulder the burden.

“Maybe,” she responded, “but it’s so pathetic. I mean, she’s built up this whole fantasy that you and I are going to pull off a couple of miracles and save her virtue.” Nancy braked the car at a stop sign and looked at me. “How could she be such a fool? Did you hear that line of crap he gave her? About her having substance. And she believed it! My Lord, that broad is proof positive of the decline of the West.”

“Do you think,” I asked slowly, “that she believed him because he zeroed right in on what she wanted to hear? I mean, deep down she really thinks she’s a fascinating, adorable human being.”

“All I know is if some guy who barely knew me called me up and told me how much substance I had, I’d hang up the phone before he could finish the sentence.”

“But you have substance,” I said to her.

“I know that. But how could a guy—who’s spent a grand total of fifteen minutes with me, fourteen of them staring at my crotch—how could he possibly know that?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, trying to adjust the seat belt so it wouldn’t cut off my circulation. “Do you think maybe he did get rid of the pictures?”

“Do you think so?”

“No,” I conceded, and paused. “You know what really gets me?”

“The seething lust?”

“No. Seriously. The fact that she wanted you for your talents. The only reason she wanted me was because I know a good criminal lawyer.”

“Touchy, touchy.”

“No, I’m being honest.”

“Judith, if she didn’t have faith in your diplomatic ability, would she have confided in you? Listen, I know plants with higher IQs than Mary Alice’s, so why do you care about her opinion anyway? Let’s get this thing over. We have better things to do.”

“Like what?” I demanded.

We drove back to my house for lunch. Peanut butter and jelly on white for Joey and friend, who arrived from nursery school famished. Tuna and tomato on rye for me. A slice of Swiss cheese and a bottle of Chablis for Nancy. Ever since we met, Nancy has been a very selective wino. While everyone else at school was guzzling Purple Passions, a cloying concoction of grape juice and domestic vodka, Nancy would pour glass after glass from her own bottle of wine. Always French, always dry. She would never share it. And throughout the years, I had never seen it affect her. Her personality was consistently caustic, her intellect sharp, her figure slim, tight, and perfect—even though she drank at least a bottle a day. But I never felt comfortable about her drinking. I worried about her liver, about her need to anesthetize herself, about the effect it would have on her children when she became pregnant.

And yet nothing seemed to happen. She wrote her articles, had healthy babies, played a superior game of chess, and slept with every third man she met, provided he had a high school education or less. Her three children found her delightful. Her husband, Larry, an architect, adored her and smilingly assumed their faithfulness was mutual.

I built a fire in the living room and we sat on the floor, going over our meeting with Mary Alice. Because I seemed so interested, Nancy patiently helped me review nearly every word. “Well,” she said at last, “that’s it. What did it say in the paper?”

“My God! The paper!” Without putting on my coat, I raced out to the driveway and picked up the
Newsday
, slightly sodden from the damp air. And there it was, front page. “Slain Dentist Linked to Pornography Ring.” And two pictures. One, a body, covered with a white sheet, being lifted into an ambulance by two men who looked slightly annoyed, as though their coffee break had been interrupted. And the other, a smiling head shot, Bruce at the beach, handsome, sleek, his curly brown hair styled into a perfect helmet around his fine head.

“Anything new?” asked Nancy when I ran back into the room.

“Look!”

“I’ll read it when you’re finished.”

“I’ll read it out loud.” I cleared my throat.

“Dr. M. Bruce Fleckstein, a periodontist (gum specialist) who was found slain in his plush Shorehaven office two days ago, was about to be indicted for federal income tax evasion. According to law enforcement sources, Dr. Fleckstein was involved in a pornographic film distributorship that had long been the object of federal investigators’ scrutiny.

“Dr. Fleckstein was reputed to be the silent partner in an operation that had been grossing over a quarter of a million dollars a month, much of it in cash. His alleged partners included Ira Spiegel of Great Neck, an accountant, and Carmine (‘Cookie Browneyes’) Lombardi, a reputed member of the organized crime family of Peter Gambollo. Mr. Lombardi, who resides in Lido Beach, once served six months of an eighteen-month sentence for extortion.

“According to
Newsday
’s sources, Dr. Fleckstein had not been cooperating with the investigation, and thus his death is not believed to be a typical Mafia hit. However, since the murder does not seem to be the result of random violence or robbery (Fleckstein’s wallet, containing over three hundred dollars, was discovered on his body), investigators are pursuing the theory that the slaying was somehow linked with the pending indictment.

“According to Lt. Nelson Sharpe, the officer in charge of the case, an autopsy will be performed on Dr. Fleckstein to determine the precise cause of death. A small wound was found in the base of the skull.

“The Long Island Dental Society has offered a reward of $5,000 for information leading to the arrest of the murderer. Dr. Fleckstein’s family has offered an additional $5,000.

“Dr. Fleckstein’s widow, the former Norma Dunck, refused to answer reporters’ questions about...”

“That’s right. I forgot,” Nancy interjected.

“Forgot what?” I asked sharply.

“Fleckstein’s wife is Dicky Dunck’s sister.”

“Who in God’s name is Dicky Dunck?”

“You’ve seen him. He belongs to Larry’s club. They took in a token Jew and a token black, remember? Well, he’s the token Jew. He’s completely bald and wears a goatee.”

“Him?” Dicky Dunck wasn’t easy to miss, especially at Larry’s club, where all the men looked like they were competing in the National Blondness Sweepstakes. Dunck was an ordinary looking man who had shaved what remained of his hair and grown a wispy brown goatee; he looked silly rather than sophisticated.

“He’s awful,” said Nancy. “An unmitigated creep. But everybody tries to be nice to him to prove how liberal they are. Lord, they make me want to puke, the whole damned lot of them.”

“But what about Dicky Dunck,” I persisted. “Was he involved with Fleckstein?”

“Oh, no. In fact, they were on the outs. Something about Dicky’s father’s will.”

“What about it?”

“Nothing fascinating, so don’t get your hopes up. I think his father left the bulk of his estate to Norma—Fleckstein’s wife—and Dicky was contesting the will. Just a normal, ugly family fight over money. Nothing unusual.”