The Ghost of Greenwich Village Read online

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where do you go when you’re not here? When you’re not with me. Do you have … friends?” He said nothing. “Hello?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Don’t be coy about this, please. I’ve had a bad couple of days. Throw me a bone.”

  “I didn’t say I would not tell you. I said I cannot.”

  “But I mean, are there others there, wherever it is? Other writers maybe? Like John Clellon Holmes? I saw his plaque the other day. Or what about Lucien Carr? He died within the last couple of years.”

  “Good God, child, no. And if I did, I might run screaming. Lucien killed a man, you know. In Riverside Park. Kerouac helped him dispose of the knife. Jack went to jail and his father wouldn’t post bail. So this gal Edie Parker’s father said he’d post it if Jack married his daughter. They were married in the clink! Annulled months later. Utter hooligans.”

  Eve thought they sounded rather exciting. She’d like to see Mark wave a knife at Giles. “Tell me more.”

  After repeated coaxing, Donald relayed a story about a long, strange night with Kerouac and the rest. It had started with a card game during which the stakes kept escalating. When most everyone was out of money, someone dug up some antique swords and the dares became physical. Drunken thrusting and parrying ensued, concurrent with boisterous arguing about how important fear was for good writing.

  “And who got nicked in the arm?” he asked. “I did. And all I did was come in with the scotch and sandwiches.”

  Without realizing it, Donald had just admitted to being, well, the person sent out for scotch and sandwiches. It explained a lot and made Eve wish she could give him a hug.

  “Ginsberg called the Beats ‘the Libertine Circle.’ That’s one way to put it,” he said when he was done.

  Eve found that, without thinking, she’d been taking down the stories as Donald related them. She scanned them and an idea dawned on her.

  Would he do it?

  Or was he too jealous of those better known?

  “Did you just wonder if I was jealous? Heavens, no. They were wildly talented, yes. But so was I, obviously. I am jealous of the time they had. That’s what I wish for.”

  “You didn’t get enough,” agreed Eve. “It’s not fair.” But privately she thought, and always had, that there was something else that made him sad. Pain that was rooted in his life, not his death. “So you don’t see anybody else, wherever it is you go?”

  “No.”

  “What is it like, then?”

  “It’s not like anything; I don’t ‘go’ anywhere. I don’t understand it and usually have no control over it. This existence is as much of a mystery to me as the last.”

  Eve wandered back into the bedroom and lay down. She had never been particularly religious, save for those bedtime prayers as a child, but she had always imagined that some secrets were revealed in the hereafter. Highball jumped up beside her, laying her chin on Eve’s stomach.

  “Isn’t there some kind of … I don’t know. Explanation?”

  “Hah! My dear, anyone who thinks we get all the answers in the afterlife is in for a rude awakening.”

  Eve turned out the light and closed her eyes even though it was early. She wanted to ask more questions but already felt herself slipping toward sleep.

  “Take it from me, little one,” said Donald, just before she dropped off. “Don’t put off anything, banking on eternal peace in the great beyond. You focus on the present.”

  • • •

  “I’m just making tea. Take a load off,” said Gwendolyn. She pulled her embroidered pale yellow shawl with its foot-long fringe around her as she disappeared into the alcove.

  Eve hopped up onto one of the tall stools behind the counter and dropped her bag on the floor.

  “What’s new in here?” she asked, looking around the store. It was an exuberant space and a bit of a funhouse, with platforms creating various levels, hidden crannies stuffed with memorabilia, and scarves draped out of baskets hanging from the ceiling. The temperature had finally dropped, and the old radiators were reluctantly stirring, going back and forth from ice cold to hissing with heat.

  “That red silk with the notched bodice, I just got in.” Gwendolyn gestured toward a mannequin in the corner as she handed Eve a mug. “Victoria Royal, from Hong Kong. The stories she could tell. And we got a few accessories the other day, too. An old lady on Morton Street died and her niece brought a bunch of her stuff in. But a lot of it is fur and that can be tricky. I’m not sure I can sell a mink choker.”

  “So why did you take it?”

  “I can’t help myself. I try to be more judicious, but I can’t stand turning anybody away. Telling them their things aren’t good enough is like telling them they’re not good enough, and that’s above my pay grade.”

  Eve had begun to pop into Full Circle around midmorning every week or two before heading up to work. She and Gwendolyn would unpack whatever had come in and chat about books and boys. Eve was still upset over Alex and was wondering why a bona fide New York boyfriend was so hard to come by. Gwendolyn had suffered two hideous breakups in the last year and was avoiding men altogether.

  “I’ve been thinking about this since the last time we talked,” said Gwendolyn, using her label gun to stab price tags onto purses. “And maybe it’s because it’s been a while since I’ve been in a, quote-unquote, successful relationship, but I don’t see why you’d bother with an Alex anyway when you have a Matthias Klieg in your life. Sophisticated, soulful, wealthy beyond belief. If he can get it up at all, I’d say you were in business.”

  “Gwen! Please,” coughed Eve, feeling the hot tea, all orange and clove, rise into her nasal passages. “I could never think of him that way. It’s completely wrong. Sacrilegious.”

  “Okay, okay,” Gwendolyn said with an impish grin.

  “Honestly.” Eve dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “As if I’d take relationship advice from you anyway, with that track record of yours.”

  “Hey. Give me a break. I’m an only child. I have an excuse for being clueless about men. But you’d think someone who grew up with two brothers would understand them a little better.”

  “Three.”

  “Even more so.”

  “Maybe I would if they ever included me,” said Eve. “But they never did. I wish I’d been an only child. I’d have traded lives with you in a second.” She walked over to the red dress for a closer inspection.

  “Are you nuts?” Gwendolyn put down the label gun. “I was so lonely.”

  “So was I.”

  “Because your brothers didn’t talk to you.”

  “Right.”

  “So what happened when you talked to them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean when you knocked on the door and barged into their room. Did they just sit there, stone-faced, and make no response?”

  “I was not exactly a barger.”

  Gwendolyn sighed and rotated her shoulders back. “Look, I don’t know you that well, but it sounds like that’s at least as much your fault as your brothers’, isn’t it? Not everything happens to you. One does make choices, you know. I mean, older siblings ignore younger ones; it’s what they do. And it’s the job of the younger ones to refuse to be ignored.”

  “This hem has come undone, right here,” said Eve, fingering the back of the red dress.

  “Hey. Did you hear what I just said?” asked Gwendolyn.

  “Yes.” She’d heard.

  Gwendolyn sighed and opened a drawer under the counter that held dozens of needles and hundreds of spools of thread.

  “You get uncomfortable whenever the focus is on you. Do you realize that?” She picked out a ripe red and threaded the needle as she joined Eve at the mannequin.

  “I can do that,” said Eve, taking the needle.

  “You can?”

  “I have to touch up my mom’s stuff all the time. And I used to sew buttons on my dad’s shirts and men
d his sweaters. I kind of like it, actually.” Eve bent to the task, making swift, even little loops. In two minutes, the dress was good as new. She bit off the thread with her teeth in a practiced motion.

  “You’re good.” Gwendolyn bumped her hip against Eve’s.

  “Thanks,” said Eve. She bumped back.

  “I’m sorry for shooting my mouth off. I forget not everyone can take it.”

  Eve wound the dangling thread around the spool and handed it over. “I can take it,” she said.

  • • •

  On Saturday, Eve called Gin, and when he answered it was clear he was happy to hear from her. Eve made a big pile of her shoes in the living room and, while they spoke, gave them their weekly polish from a set of pots and brushes she kept in a sturdy wooden box. Soon they were chatting in easy, relaxed fashion about her brothers, the new exhibit at the Cleveland Museum of Art, and, amazingly, a little about Penelope.

  Eve brought the subject up, rather tentatively, sticking to simple remembrances of her mother’s sometimes eccentric behavior. Gin chimed in with the story about the time Penelope heard gunfire in the kitchen. She had run to the neighbors and used their phone to summon the police, who arrived to find six exploded eggs she’d been hard-boiling. She’d forgotten about them while outside on the lawn building a Victorian-style birdhouse from a kit she’d ordered from England. One of the officers, laughing, stayed to help her affix the roof.

  “Boiling eggs. She did try to be a wife,” Gin said with a chuckle.

  “She did.”

  Eve wouldn’t say six hundred and fifty miles had made them closer, exactly, but perhaps less far apart.

  • • •

  Eve was usually the first to arrive at work, except for Mark, but today not even Mark was there yet. She flicked on the light in her office and found a memo on her desk. It was titled “New guest vetting procedures.” She could guess what this was about. For weeks there had been rumors that the network brass was unhappy with some of the show’s less-than-attractive interview subjects. And a week ago, according to one of the associate producers, several viewers had actually called to complain about a female guest in a camisole out of which peeked a sprinkling of black underarm hair, insisting the sight made eating breakfast impossible. Eve scanned the missive with mounting irritation.

  Writers:

  As of today, bookers will step up efforts to identify potentially “distracting” guests who may interfere with the unfettered flow of information to our audience. This will include searching newspapers, periodicals, and the Internet for visual representation of potential interviews.

  Where pictures are unavailable, writers will now make their own efforts to determine what impression a guest will potentially make. This may occur through polite questioning or a request for a faxed photo to determine whether he/she exhibits the following:

  Weight issues. Those with a BMI of 26 or over (eyeball it), no longer acceptable (unless segment deals with obesity and guest is serving as an example and has signed a release).

  Facial hair. Well-trimmed mustache or beard acceptable; goatees, sideburns, or nose hair—alert Franka Lemon.

  Eyewear. If guest wears glasses, please check that they are nonreflective. Make him/her aware that contacts are preferred, blue or green highly desirable.

  Visible piercings and tattoos. Out of the question, unless for recording artist in Billboard Top 10.

  Accent. British, highly acceptable, esp. London & Sussex; other Northern European, use your judgment; pronounced Southern European, Caribbean, or Asian—alert Franka.

  Giles

  Eve sighed and stuck the memo to her corkboard along with the dozens of others. Then she realized the light on her phone was blinking. She entered her voicemail password thinking it might be Vadis, who was due back from the tour any day.

  “Eve, it’s Mark. Small crisis here.” He was speaking quickly. “My mom’s in the hospital. Seems to be some kind of heart thing. It looks like she’s going to be fine but my dad’s away on business and I want to wait with her until he gets here. I’ve left the assignments on my desk—wouldn’t you know there’s major breaking news today—and I need you to get the list and tell everyone what they’re doing today, okay? Archie will be in later to edit. I’ll call you to check in. Thanks so much.”

  Saying a silent prayer for Mark’s mother, Eve went into his office. The list, which he’d printed out and left on his keyboard, was entirely predictable. Archie was doing the latest on the Middle East peace negotiations and a toy recall for Bliss. Russell was to interview the author of A Psychoanalytical Approach to Quantum Physics. It had taken him two weeks to get through the book and the interview with the author promised to take up most of the afternoon. On Quirine’s plate: a consortium of heirloom vegetable growers about to march on Washington to save small farms for Bliss and the annual Forbes list of “America’s Most Powerful CEOs Forty and Under” for Hap. Steve had a segment about a football player who’d been killed in a home invasion for Hap and the latest sports steroid scandal for Bliss. Eve was to tackle the best pillows for your hair type and then interview the cast of the new sci-fi movie Starship Kibbutz, both for Hap. The tape of the movie, or “screener,” was next to the assignment list on Mark’s desk.

  Just as Eve realized that Cassandra had no assignment, she spied a handwritten scrawl at the bottom of the page.

  Cassandra—Stiletto latest, incl. police chief & criminal psychologist (Bliss)

  Eve stared at the paper. Obviously, this was the “breaking news” Mark had been referring to. The Stiletto, in heels and, this time, a mini skirt, had struck again, overnight in the East Village. So much for Smell never acknowledging New York. It seemed half the stories were related to the city in some way.

  The Stiletto had now attacked seven times, each assault more violent than the last. The first couple of times, he’d only brandished his knife. Then, back in April, he’d slashed his fourth victim on the arm (which Bliss was reporting when she was cut down by Eve’s rancid bouillabaisse). Over the summer, he’d slashed two women in the torso, and last night, he’d pierced his victim’s neck. She was alive, thankfully. Nevertheless, it was the story of the day. And Cassandra was going to do it. For Bliss.

  Eve opened the folder of Stiletto research. Inside were Nexis printouts of recent articles on similar crime waves and dossiers on NYPD Chief Sebastian Pell and Columbia Presbyterian criminal psychologist Dr. Shin Tang. Pell was to give the details of the latest attack, while Tang was booked for the bulk of the segment, to try to shed light on what kind of person the Stiletto might be. Stuck to Tang’s bio was a Post-it, on which a booker had written: No prior TV appearances, no pic avail.

  Eve closed the folder and ran her palm over it. She wanted this segment. She deserved it. On the other side of the closed office door, she could hear the writers arriving. They made their way down the hall, chatting about what they’d done with their mornings and about the day ahead. Any minute now they’d poke their heads in, looking for Mark and their assignments. She strained to hear if Cassandra was among them, but it appeared she was running late. Again.

  Eve would give her ten minutes.

  • • •

  Archie raised an eyebrow. “You’re doing the Stiletto? Well, good for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Let me know if you need any help.”

  “I will. But the first pre is in five minutes, so I guess I better get to it.”

  Her heart beating fast, Eve headed back to her office and plunked down at her desk. She kicked off her pumps, which had begun to pinch, and unbuttoned her tweed peplum jacket. What she was doing wasn’t technically ethical. But this was her chance to finally show Mark—and everyone else—what she could do. If she executed this segment well, Mark would have to admit she was ready for hard news and ready for Bliss, and everything would change. He might, though he was the boss, even allow his old feelings for her to stir.

  Anyway, she’d asked him for months for a real story. T
his was apparently the only way to get one.

  Plus, Donald said she had to stop being a doormat and demand what she wanted. If he were here right now, he’d no doubt applaud her. Gwendolyn would, too. The thought gave her the final push she needed.

  She skimmed the Stiletto articles as quickly as she could and dialed the police chief. The phone was answered by a deputy, who informed her that Chief Pell was on the line with another morning show and two camera crews were waiting outside his office to tape interviews.

  “I’ll hold,” she said through gritted teeth.

  Seventeen minutes later, Pell finally picked up. He sounded harried and annoyed and Eve’s usual powers to charm a guest out of extra information fizzled. The chief stuck to a clear script, answering each of her questions in a brisk, rote monotone that told her he’d just given the exact same information to ABC, NBC, and CBS. He cut their talk short when the New York Times reporter showed up.

  Cassandra came in, eyes bloodshot and carrying the world’s largest Coke, which she sucked at greedily, not unlike someone who was dehydrated after a night of drinking. “Archie says you’re handing out the assignments today. I’ve had a shitty morning. What am I doing?”

  Eve held out the Starship Kibbutz screener, which Cassandra grabbed before weaving off down the hall.

  Any guilt Eve might have felt over what she was doing evaporated. Cassandra clearly wouldn’t appreciate the honor of doing a big segment for Bliss. She looked like she was going to spend half the evening in the ladies’ room, head hovering over the toilet.

  Eve turned her attention to the next order of business: the stack of scripts and transcripts of Bliss Jones’s most recent segments. Eve had ordered them from research, planning to compare the transcripts of what Bliss said on the air with the writers’ segments as they’d been written. She was going to crack the case and figure out just what Bliss Jones wanted.

  Twenty minutes later, Eve’s brain felt like a packed bleacher at a football game. She had a mental picture of Donald’s and Hap’s rear ends grumpily scooting over to make room for Bliss’s. She felt as though her skull would burst, but it was worth it; she thought she’d figured out something important. In nearly every segment, Bliss pushed beyond whatever the writer had done. She’d rework the intro so that it promised more—often too much—and during the interview, she’d press past the writers’ suggested questions into new territory. Sometimes it was fascinating territory, other times boring. Often it was neutral. So why did she do it? Maybe she couldn’t stand to feel like a “throat,” as anchors were sometimes called derogatorily. Maybe she just wanted to beat the other morning shows. Either way, one thing seemed clear: Bliss didn’t just want to report news; she wanted to make news.