The two masks of vendett.., p.3
The Two Masks of Vendetta, page 3
“Oh, Miles. You’re the only man I know who takes an interest in women’s clothes,” said Grace.
*
Breakfast at Belvedere was served from seven o’clock until nine. It was buffet style with poached eggs, sausage and crisp bacon. Croissants were laid on the table along with homemade strawberry jam and marmalade. Grace was reading the arts column of the New York Times, while Catriona had borrowed the fashion supplement and was busy perusing the latest designs.
Ward appeared at the door. He was carrying a letter addressed to Miles. Catriona could see that there was no stamp on the envelope, so a messenger must have specially dropped it off. Ward whispered something in Miles’s ear. She watched as he opened the letter. She tried to read the inscrutable expression on his face.
Miles folded the message, slipped it into his breast pocket, murmured something to Ward, took a sip of coffee and then wiped his face with a scarlet napkin.
“I thought we’d throw a party to introduce Catherine to society,” he announced loudly.
Grace looked up from her newspaper.
“Party? What kind of party?”
“You know, the kind of party that you have when you get married. We haven’t had a good party in ages.”
“Do you think it’s wise during times like these?”
“Of course. A hundred-million-dollar spit in the ocean! Besides, Grace, you like to throw a swell party. If you see to the guest list, you can invite some of your artist friends and maybe raise some sponsorship for the new wing.”
That seemed to win Grace over. She nodded silently and went back to reading her newspaper. Catriona sipped her tea and wondered what was in the contents of the letter and what had prompted Miles to suddenly suggest the party.
*
Later that morning they were at Bergdorf’s in a private showing room. Models paraded up and down the small catwalk wearing the latest designs from Paris. Catriona had the wide eyes of a child at Christmas as she surveyed all the dresses.
“I think the silver shoes with the black dress,” said Miles to the matronly shop assistant.
“Mr. Kingston, you certainly know what you like,” the woman said.
“But Miles, I don’t need all these clothes. You already gave me a closet full of them,” Catriona reasoned.
“As Mrs. Kingston I want you to be dressed for the part. And if we’re throwing this party, I want you to look sensational. Clothes give away everything about a woman. Her class, her money, her status, and most importantly—her fatal flaws!”
Catriona remained silent. She was learning a whole new language and way of life and Miles was her teacher. In the excitement of the moment, she even forgot about Mario for a few seconds.
They walked out of Bergdorf’s, laden with shopping bags and parcels. It was a sunny fall morning in New York, and most of the leaves had fallen off the trees in Central Park. Ward was waiting for them with the car outside.
As they were putting the bags in the trunk, Miles stopped and looked at a car across Fifth Avenue. He stood there for a few minutes, watching. Catriona had already climbed into the back seat. She turned her head and tried to see where Miles was looking.
A black Lincoln was parked, opposite. Catriona saw that the man in the driver’s seat had his window rolled down and was watching them. He wore a black suit with narrow lapels and dark glasses.
Miles conferred with Ward for a moment and the two of them both got in the car.
“Is something wrong?” asked Catriona.
“No, nothing,” Miles said, settling into his seat. “Drive, Ward.”
She wasn’t convinced, especially when Miles looked behind as the car pulled away from Bergdorf’s. When Catriona turned around, she could see that the black car was following them.
“Who’s that?”
“Mmm, what?” said Miles, feigning ignorance.
“There’s a car following us.”
“What car? Ward, do you see any car following us?”
“No sir,” said Ward. “I don’t see any car.”
Catriona looked again and saw that the black Lincoln car had disappeared. It had turned right somewhere along Park. She glanced sideways at Miles again but his face was a mask.
*
That evening, Miles took Catriona to 21 for dinner. A large party was being thrown for one of his business associates and many of their wives accompanied them. As they arrived at the club, a throng of paparazzi was waiting outside for them.
When Catriona stepped out of the car, she was wearing a strapless black Balenciaga dress they had bought at Bergdorf’s. A soft fox wrap was draped over her shoulders. There was a barrage of flash bulbs. She felt like a movie star.
“How does it feel to be married, Mr. Kingston?” asked one of the photographers.
“How did you land New York’s number one confirmed bachelor?”
“I guess I was lucky,” said Catriona.
“Hey, Miles, give Catherine a kiss for the camera!”
Miles looked at Catriona and then cupped her face in his hands, theatrically bending her backwards and kissing her on the lips passionately. There was a barrage of flashbulbs as the photographers went wild.
When the kiss ended, Miles turned to the photographers.
“Does that satisfy you?” he said, and led Catriona into the club.
Catriona was slightly breathless and a little puzzled. Whenever they were in public, Miles would show overt affection to her. But, once they were in private, he behaved cold and distant. It didn’t matter to Catriona, because they were not really married, it was all a masquerade for the public, and she loved Mario anyway, but she did find his ability to turn his charms on and off very unsettling.
*
Across town, the Stork Club on East 53rd Street was something of a legend among New York café society. Bentleys and Cadillacs pulled up and liveried doormen opened the car doors for their heavyweight guests. The clientele boasted films stars Frank Sinatra and Elizabeth Taylor, FBI director J. Edgar Hoover and notorious gangsters such as Frank Costello.
Mario had been working at the club for almost a year. He played the saxophone in a jazz band named The Roulettes, along with four other band members from New Jersey.
That evening Mario was preoccupied with thoughts of Catriona. At the end of the night, Lewis, the band manager, a short stocky man with an amused face, came over to talk to the guys. He was clutching a newspaper.
“Hey, fellas, got a call to play at the club this Friday night. Some rich guy is throwing a fancy wedding reception for his bride, so we’ll need the whole team together.”
“Who’s getting married?” asked Manny, the sleepy-eyed piano player.
“A Park Avenue type named Kingston. It’s in today’s paper.”
Mario caught a glimpse of a picture in the society column.
“Let me see that!” he said, snatching the paper from Lewis.
“Hey, Mario, what’s eating you?”
There in black and white was a picture of Catriona with Miles taken outside a restaurant. Catriona’s face was lit up in a luminescent smile; she was wearing furs and jewels, and looked rich and happy. Miles had a smug and satisfied look on his face, the kind when men are with very beautiful women, and his hands were on Catriona’s bare shoulders.
Mario with a furious rage crumpled the newspaper tightly in his fist and threw it on the floor. He hated to see Catriona with another guy.
“Hey, Mario, where are you going?” Manny shouted after him as he stormed off the stage. “We have practice remember?”
“I need some air,” shouted Mario over his shoulder. He headed for the staff service entrance and kicked open the door to a back alley.
Once outside he breathed in the cold New York air, leaning his head against the club wall, as he lit a Marlboro cigarette. The sirens of the city could be heard in the background as well as the honking sounds of the traffic. The city was as restless as he was.
“How you doin’, Mario?” said a voice in the darkness.
Mario turned and saw the ugly face of Jack Diamond, the head barman at the club. He was a short, pug-faced guy with thinning hair, a curled lip, and a permanently sarcastic expression etched across his face. He was a loan shark and had recently lent Mario one thousand dollars.
“Hey, Jack, what’s up?” Mario said, smoking his cigarette.
“Do you have the money?”
“Don’t worry, I’m working on it,” said Mario.
“I’m not worried. You’re the one who should be worried,” said Diamond. “You know the rules.”
“Yeah, I know the rules,” said Mario. “But I’ll get it to you.”
“I’m a patient man,” said Diamond. “But you’ve got a week to come up with the money.”
Mario smoked his cigarette, wondering how he would find the cash. He had already sold most of the things he had earned, including the wristwatch that his father had bought him for his twenty-first birthday when he was in Italy.
He thought of the rich guy Catriona had pretended to marry and wondered how much he was worth. A man with big house, fancy car and nice clothes had to be worth something. Mario wondered how he might be able to get some of it.
“It’s all under control, I’ve found a way to get the money.”
3
Over the next few days, Catriona was growing more accustomed to her life at Belvedere. She couldn’t believe how large and luxurious the house was. There were twenty-four rooms, in total, spread over four floors. The master bedrooms were on the second floor and all had an ensuite with sunken marble bathtubs. At the end of the corridor, Miles and Catriona had their adjoining rooms. Grace’s room was in the middle, and Max and Evelyn, Miles’s uncle and aunt, were by the staircase. She hadn’t met them yet, as they were away on a business trip; they were due back very soon.
The servants’ quarters were downstairs, just off the pantry and wine cellar. There were six household staff; Ward, Miles’s chauffeur and valet; Katy, the Irish chambermaid; Vera, the downstairs maid; Jean, the cook; Rosa, her help; and Masefield, the butler. She had made a point on learning their names as soon as she had arrived. They, in turn, were polite to Catriona, but nothing more. She tried to act friendly towards them, but, in return, elicited reserved and uncomfortable stares. Catriona had the uneasy feeling that they thought she had married above her station, and that class and breeding dictated that she was little different from them. As a result, Catriona felt that they treated her with contempt.
At dinner that evening, Grace arrived at the table, flushed with excitement.
“Good news from Italy. The Borghese Museum has agreed to lend Caravaggio’s Madonna and Child to the Kingston Collection for our fall exhibition next month.”
“That’s splendid news,” said Miles.
Grace looked very pleased with herself as she sat down.
“A Dutch artist friend of mine will be supervising the loan. His name is Jeroen van Driesden, from Amsterdam. He’ll be arriving next week.”
“Good, you must invite him to our wedding reception,” Miles said.
“Yes, I will,” Grace replied.
Catriona didn’t want to display her ignorance about art again, so after dinner she spoke to Miles’s privately.
“What was all the fuss about the painting?”
“My dear, it’s a Caravaggio! A famous baroque masterpiece,” Miles exclaimed. “You have heard of him, I hope?”
“Yes, of course, I just wondered about that particular painting.”
“It’s one of his most famous works, worth at least a million dollars and a real coup for our collection. Grace has done very well to get it on loan.”
“Is the Kingston Collection valuable?”
“Yes, very. My Aunt Eleanor started it and Grace has worked hard over the years to give it the prominence that it has today.”
Miles swirled his brandy and then looked at his gold watch.
“Put on your furs, we’re going out,” he said.
“Where are we going?” asked Catriona with surprise. It was getting late and most of the restaurants would be closing.
“The Stork Club,” said Miles. “Have you been there?”
Catriona froze. She knew that Mario was playing at the club tonight. What if he saw them there? He was sure to erupt with fury. She knew how jealous he was, especially if he saw Catriona with another man.
She tried to make excuses.
“I don’t feel like going out tonight, I’m starting to get a headache. Maybe it’s the wine.”
Miles started to laugh.
“You’re being paid six dollars an hour to be my wife. Take a pill. You can get over your headache.”
*
It was a busy Thursday night at the Stork Club. Headwaiters brought magnums of champagne to the tables; cigarette girls, wearing bright red costumes, carried trays of Marlboro and Havana cigars; and wannabe starlets stalked millionaires like lionesses on the main floor.
Ward pulled the car up in front of the club. One of the liveried doormen ran to open the passenger door to let Miles and Catriona out. He wore a tux and she was wearing a shiny silver evening dress and a small, veiled hat. Catriona also wore a pair of sparkly earrings that she had borrowed from Miles’s mother’s jewelry collection.
Inside the front door of the club was a 14-carat gold chain, where guests waited before being shown to their tables. Catriona spied Frank, the tuxedo-clad headwaiter, who escorted the guests into the main room. She had met him a couple of times when she had come to visit Mario. She was hoping that he wouldn’t recognize her as she was wearing heavy makeup and had her hair tied up in a bun. She had deliberately worn a small hat with an evening veil and kept her head averted.
“Good evening, Mr. Kingston,” said Frank.
“Hey, Frank,” said Miles.
Frank looked at Catriona but she kept her head down.
“Busy night?” asked Miles.
“Yes, it’s going to be a good night tonight. Your usual table?” he asked, nodding politely at Catriona. She didn’t think he recognized her.
“That’s right.”
“Would Madame like to check her wrap?” Frank asked.
Catriona nodded without speaking and walked across the small lobby to the checkroom. She handed over her mink to the coat girl and waited for Miles.
To the left was the bar room and above the bar stretched a long mirror with soft flattering light. Past the bar, through the thick glass door, was the main room, also paneled with mirrors.
Instead of taking a table on the main floor, Miles led Catriona to a door at the side of the bar. It led to the Cub Room, otherwise known as the inner sanctum. A tall, good-looking bouncer with brown hair slicked back and a dark suit stood at the entrance.
“Hey, Saint Peter,” said Miles, greeting the bouncer affectionately.
“Mr. Kingston, good to see you again,” said the bouncer, extending his large hand.
“How’s your mother doing?” asked Miles. “Is she recovering from her hip operation?”
“She’s doing well; thanks for asking.”
“Well, give her my regards, won’t you,” said Miles.
“I will, thank you, sir.”
“Just me and the lady tonight,” said Miles.
“Of course, sir, go right in,” said Saint Peter, opening up the doors to the Cub Room.
“Is Sherman here tonight?”
“Yes, sir, he’s inside.”
“Why is he called Saint Peter?” whispered Catriona as they entered the Cub Room past the doorman.
“Because he guards the gates of heaven,” said Miles.
Catriona had heard of the Cub Room, but had never been inside. It was a place where celebrities and politicians could come for a drink or gamble. The actual room itself wasn’t very large, and was furnished with a few discrete tables and chairs. When they walked inside, it was half empty, with a few patrons and bottles of champagne on the table.
“Isn’t that J. Edgar Hoover?” whispered Catriona, gesturing towards a distinguished-looking man sitting on his own in the corner. Hoover was the Director of the FBI and had busted many crime rings in the city.
“Yes,” said Miles. “He likes to come for the peace and quiet. Comforting to know that important decisions about the nation’s security are made within these walls.”
A headwaiter escorted Miles and Catriona to a center table. They were an elegant couple, as they settled into their commanding seats like Romans in the Coliseum. The familiar black Stork Club ashtray was in the middle of the table.
“Hey, Miles,” said an unassuming looking man with sandy hair and a light gray pinstripe suit, coming up to the table to greet them.
It was the Stork Club owner Sherman Billingsley, who hailed from Oklahoma. He was carrying a glass of Coca-Cola, his trademark drink.
“Sherman, good to see you,” said Miles, extending his hand.
Sherman glanced down at Catriona in a friendly, avuncular fashion. Catriona nodded and smiled politely to Sherman, hoping that he wouldn’t recognize her. She had never met the club owner, but she had seen him around the club a few times, often when she had come to listen to Mario play in the band. She had heard stories about him from Mario. Most of the staff liked him, but he could be ruthless and kept a very strict door policy. The Stork Club was said to be anti-Semitic and racist against blacks.
“Err, this is my wife, Catherine,” Miles said, introducing them.
“Your wife? Well, Miles, you’re just full of surprises!” said Sherman in his broad, southern accent.
He signaled to the waiter with a palm up and a hand on Miles’s table. This was just one of his repertoires of hand signals. A hand and finger pointing down meant bring a round of drinks; a hand on his tie meant no check for this table, and interlocked hands with thumbs up signaled that the guests were unimportant and weren’t to be let in again.
Within moments, a bottle of chilled Dom Perignon ’55 arrived in a silver ice bucket.
“Compliments of the house,” said Sherman. “Here’s a toast to the newlyweds.”
“Ah! Sherman, that’s very kind of you,” said Miles, looking pleased.
Catriona expressed her thanks also. Sherman congratulated them again and moved on to greet some new arrivals. The waiter poured them both a glass of vintage champagne.
