Funny Boys (28 page)

The governor studied Mickey and Mutzie for a long time. Then his look grew vague, as if he were looking inward.

“We mustn’t make any mistakes on this one,” he said. “I need to think this out.”

“Of course,” Mickey agreed. Think what out? he wondered.

“But I want you both close. I’ll arrange for hotel rooms at the Strand, which is a block from here.” He leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Morgan will arrange things.”

Arrange what? Mickey asked himself.

S
TANDING BY THE WINDOW OF THEIR STATE-SPONSORED
hotel room, Mutzie could see the state capital façade shimmering in the moonlit night. For the first time since she had left Gorlick’s she felt hopeful and safe.

The events of the last few weeks flashed into her mind in scenes strung together like in the movies. She was sitting in the dark, traveling on a roller coaster of emotions as each episode replayed itself in her thoughts.

Indeed, some of these episodes were so painful to recall that she told herself that they must have occurred to another person, just as her Jean Harlow makeover had made her feel like that other person. The truth of it was that no person could every escape from their real selves, however they changed their physical appearance.

If Mickey had not intervened in her life, she would have become one of Gloria’s girls, bartered like a commodity, to be used and reused until, finally, used up, humiliated and enslaved, she would be tossed away like a piece of garbage.

She wore nothing but panties, and although the night was warm, she felt a chill and a layer of goosebumps broke out on her
flesh. On her way back to the bed, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She shook her head in disgust. How she hated her Jean Harlow hair. Never again. She would let it grow in, become the old Mutzie again.

In bed, she forced herself to concentrate on the good episodes, those that did not bring her pain. In those episodes Mickey was the star, courageous, clever, resourceful. What was it in her that inspired him to become her savior? Was she worth such devotion? She doubted it. Nor could she deny to herself any longer that there was more to his actions than simple revenge for what they had done to his father. Not that that wasn’t important. But his sacrifice had gone far beyond that. He had deliberately put himself in danger. Life-and-death danger. Why?

Of course she suspected the real reason. Yes, she had barricaded her heart, had tried to eliminate any hint of romantic sensibility. Feelings like that had only brought her grief and despair. And yet, alone in this moonlit room on a summer’s night, it was impossible to dissimulate from herself. Despite all her efforts to eliminate such notions, she knew his reasons. Worse, she knew that she had allowed herself to feed these notions by her consent, just as Pep had done to her, except that Pep had done unspeakable acts.

Still, wasn’t this acquiescence on her part an unspeakable act? Wasn’t she taking advantage of Mickey’s feelings for her? Love, as she had learned through bitter personal experience, makes one foolhardy, clouds one’s judgment, rationalizes stupidity, makes one a slave to emotion. She threw herself on the bed and curled under a blanket but still could not stop herself from shivering.

Despite the guilt-bashing she was giving herself, she felt
nothing but admiration for the way in which Mickey had conducted himself with the governor. It was an awesome performance on Mickey’s part. After all, the governor was a very important man. She lived in agony that she might be called upon to tell her part of the story and she was certain that she would make a botch of it. Not Mickey. He told his story as if it had been carefully rehearsed beforehand.

Had she told him that, she wondered? They had been exhausted when they checked into the hotel. The governor had, exercising his own sense of delicacy, reserved adjoining rooms. She assumed that his generosity included room service and they ordered hamburgers and cokes for dinner.

She continued to toss in her bed for awhile, then drifted into a kind of sleep in which her mind insisted that it was awake. Images of people materialized in the room, larger than life-size. She heard voices, scraps of conversations, Pep speaking.

“I told ya, I told ya,” he screamed at her. “Ya do Albert. I bust ya ass …” She saw his face grow in front of her eyes, like an expanding balloon, his mouth opening to a giant tongue that came forward toward her, the flesh torn, blood spouting from its wounds, pouring warm and slimy over her body.

Then, from the ceiling of the room, she saw a shovel descend, coming at her, then Gagie’s pleading screams, and Pep’s tongue whipping her, crashing against her body.

“Mutzie. Mutzie.”

It was Mickey’s voice, muffled, as if it were far away. Then it was coming closer and she was striking out, flailing at him with her arms.

“It’s me, Mickey. Mickey.”

His voice was insistent. Her eyes opened and she saw his face, close to hers, not in focus. “Oh my God,” she sighed, when
reality returned. He was holding her. Her body felt cold, her flesh clammy.

“You’re freezing,” Mickey said. He had lifted her into his arms and was warming her flesh with his.

“A dream,” she sighed, relieved at its discovery.

“Some dream,” Mickey whispered. She felt his breath in her ear. “It’s okay now.”

“Jesus, Mickey.” She clung to him, her head resting against his bare shoulder. His hand caressed her hair.

“It will turn out fine, Mutzie.” Mickey whispered. “Heck, I did.”

“They’ll find a way to …” she began, ignoring the joke. The dream had undermined her courage, made her vulnerable again.

“You heard the governor,” Mickey whispered. “He said he would find a way to stop them. And he’s the governor. He has the power.”

She continued to cling to him. He was on his knees on the bed, his arms cradling her. “I don’t want to die,” she said. Her fear seemed beyond curing.

“Me,” Mickey whispered. “I don’t believe in death. That’s why I want to be cremated.”

She let the vague humor pass, feeling the comfort of his strong arms as he held her. “You can’t imagine. …” she began, but was stopped by a sob that bubbled out of her chest. She wanted to explain how much she owed him, how wonderful he had been to her, how little she deserved his sacrifice.

“Don’t,” he said, as if he understood what was going on in her mind. Then, suddenly, as he held her in this long silent embrace, she sensed something more than simple gratitude and affection. It was confusing in an odd way, since she had honestly
felt that that side of her had died. She became aware of her nakedness, her breasts pressing against his chest.

And of something else. He was wearing undershorts, but his reaction was obvious.

“I’m only human,” he said.

“So am I,” she whispered.

He eased her down so that she lay on the pillow, although he continued to hold her in his embrace. Then he moved his body so that his face touched hers and he kissed her deeply on the lips.

“You’re so. …” she began when their lips had parted. “So clean.”

“Clean?”

“And I feel so … so soiled.”

Yet she felt a kind of resurrection in his arms, as if the grime of her recent life was being washed away by his kisses. He caressed her nipples with his tongue and she felt her growing arousal, but when he reached for the elastic of her panties, she reached out and stayed his hand.

“If you won’t, I’ll understand,” he whispered.

“Understand what?” she asked, suddenly defensive, oddly disturbed. She answered for him. “Gratitude. You think this is for gratitude.”

“I was hoping for genuine desire,” he whispered.

She wanted to show him that part of her, but found herself holding back, not cleansed enough. Not yet.

“You don’t think I’m a … hooer?” she asked. At that moment an image flashed in her mind. Her with Pep. Her with Albert Anastasia. Her stomach lurched.

“I love you,” he said.

“You mustn’t say that,” she replied, pressing a finger against his lips.

“I’ll say the truth when I mean it, Mutzie. I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you. And I think I will love you forever.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she protested. Then relenting. “Even knowing what … what I’ve done?”

“It won’t work, Mutzie. I love you. I can’t help myself. I love you.”

He kissed her lips again, and she responded with fervor. It was hard to assess her own feelings. Certainly she felt desire. All the physical signs were present.

Again he found the elastic of her panties and she raised her body to help him take them off. She wondered if there was something she should say. But no, she decided, she would wait. Was this about love?

“I’ll be careful,” he promised.

She knew he would.

T
HEY BOTH SLEPT PEACEFULLY UNTIL THE SUN STREAMED
in through the windows. The telephone rang in his room and he jumped out of bed and ran to answer it.

“One moment, please, for the governor,” a crisp female voice said. In a moment, he heard the soothing voice of Governor Lehman.

“I hope you both slept well,” he said pleasantly, grandfatherly.

“Oh, yes,” Mickey said. “Like tops.” Spinning all night, he thought happily.

He sensed a longer silence than might be expected, then heard the clearing of the governor’s throat. The hesitation was worrisome.

“Morgan will be coming in the door shortly,” the governor said.

“Morgan?”

“The young gentleman you met yesterday,” the governor explained pleasantly. “He will explain everything.”

Explain everything? Mickey asked the question of himself, frightened suddenly at the obvious answer. Now Morgan knows. Who else knows?

“It was, of course, wonderful meeting you, Mickey, and please give my regards to your girlfriend. Yours is the kind of idealism and good citizenship that will clean up this state from the evil predators …” His voice droned on, but Mickey wasn’t listening. His words seemed so institutional, as if he were addressing an Independence Day picnic.

“You are both an inspiration,” the governor concluded.

“But, Governor …” Mickey managed to stammer. He was conscious suddenly of Mutzie standing in the doorway wrapped in a sheet, watching him.

“And good luck to you,” the governor concluded. He heard the phone click. He continued to hold it in his hands as he glanced at Mutzie. Their eyes met.

“‘Good luck,’ he said.”

“Is that bad?” Mutzie asked.

Before he could answer, a sharp knock sounded at the door. Mutzie was startled and the sheet nearly slipped out of her hands.

Mickey went to the door.

“Who is it?”

“Morgan,” the voice behind the door replied.

“Him?” Mutzie whispered, looking at him curiously.

“The governor said he was coming,” Mickey explained, not wishing to alarm her.

Mutzie cocked her head and frowned.

“I’m not sure I liked that man.”

“Ditto,” Mickey said.

She shrugged and with an expression of disgust retreated back to her room, closing the adjoining door.

“Be right there,” Mickey called, hastily putting on his pants and shirt. He opened the door a crack to validate that it was
Morgan. It was. The man smiled. It wasn’t warm, more pro forma than sincere. “May I come in?” he said politely.

Mickey nodded, waiting until he passed by him into the room, then looking into the corridor, which was deserted.

“I wasn’t followed,” Morgan said, trying to mask his sarcasm.

“It would seem not,” Mickey said.

“May I sit down?” Morgan asked, surveying the room with finicky distaste. There was a single upholstered chair in the room. Morgan took it, leaving Mickey standing.

“And your friend as well.”

“Mutzie,” Mickey called.

“In a minute.” she replied from the other room.

“After all,” Morgan said. “What I have to say concerns both of you.”

“Reminds me what I told the governor: Like the Irishman said to the chiropodist.”

Morgan looked puzzled.

“Me fate is in your hands.”

“Yes. That is amusing,” Morgan said.

Mickey studied the man and shook his head.

“Now I know why cannibals get depressed.”