The Chelsea Girls(83)

The one that had been sent special delivery had no return address. She sliced it open, wary, as if a goblin might jump out, but when she saw the scrawl at the bottom, she gasped.

Charlie.

He apologized for not reaching out sooner, but wrote that it was safer for him to remain at a distance. He’d sent the letter to Mr. Bard inside a larger envelope, with instructions for him to pass it directly to Hazel.

The note was terse, lacking any warmth. He said he’d be in town over Christmas and asked if they could meet December 26 at noon, at the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue. He’d be waiting by the information desk in the Reading Room.

She imagined walking into the Reading Room, sun pouring in through the arched windows, and finding Charlie standing there. Maybe he’d smile and reach out his arms to her. God, how she missed him.

She shook off the image. Charlie had abandoned her right when she needed him most. He was probably upstate, doing his father’s bidding, or had joined the FBI after all and wanted to continue on with his spy hunt.

She put his letter to the side and opened the last one in the stack.

It was from Floyd, dated two days ago. He said he was in a terrible state and needed to see her, that he was staying at the Taft hotel in midtown.

The hotel operator put her through, but there was no answer in Floyd’s room. Hazel left a message, saying she was on her way, and rushed out into the night.

The Taft hotel rose out of the sidewalks of Seventh Avenue like a prison, brown and imposing. Hazel went straight up to the room number Floyd had given her and knocked on the door.

No answer.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, she heard footsteps on the other side of the door.

“Hazel, my darling!”

Floyd welcomed her inside as if he were throwing a garden party, all smiles and cheek kisses. He looked paler than she remembered, but maybe it was just from the dimness. Only one lamp over by the window was lit, the bulb too weak to reach the corners of the small room. Floyd gestured for Hazel to take a seat in the lone chair as he poured her a drink from the bar.

“Is the open window all right? I can close it if you like.”

The cool breeze offset the smoky, stagnant air inside. She didn’t remember ever seeing Floyd with a cigarette before, but the overflowing ashtray on the nightstand pointed to a serious habit. “No, it’s perfectly fine. Refreshing.” She took a sip of her drink, pure vodka. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

“No matter. You’re here now.”

How he’d changed from that sweet boy in Naples, sketching caricatures of the men, handing the paper over with a shy smile that spread to a blush as the soldier burst into pleased laughter. Hazel wondered how he’d draw himself, now. His ears still stuck out like a schoolboy’s but his forehead was lined, his eyes puffy and red. He’d filled out since the war, his shoulders and arms thickening with muscles, but now seemed to be reversing course, his limbs and even his fingers longer and thinner than she remembered.

“What’s happened? We’ve been so worried about you.”

He perched on the bed with his drink. “I didn’t name names, just so we’re clear about that.”

Rumors had flown since Floyd had disappeared, that he’d turned on his friends, that he wasn’t who he appeared to be. Hazel had swatted down every one and defended him, and would continue to do so until she knew the truth. It was such a relief to see him, after all this time.

“I know you and Charlie were close.” He took a big sip of his drink, spilling a little and wiping it with his sleeve, like a kid. “I don’t blame you one bit for what came out in the papers, he is a delightful man. Not like his father.”

A flash of heat went through her. “We’re not together anymore.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” They sat silently for a minute, before Floyd let out a sharp laugh. “Did you know they apparently have box scores for us now? They’re released every month and passed around to all the ad agencies.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a guide to who’s in and who’s out. For example, it’ll say, ‘José Ferrer: Avoid his latest movie.’ I was told that mine said, ‘Floyd Jenkins: Done for good.’”

So many decent people, like Floyd, were being bulldozed. “I know it seems awful now, but you must hang in there. You’re so talented and a delight to work with. You’ll have a bang-up career again, I’m sure.”

“They’re still bringing me in for interviews,” said Floyd.

She brightened. This was a good sign, that the producers were still seeing him. Maybe all was not lost. “That’s great, who?”

“No. Not anyone in show business. The FBI.”

The fight drained out of her.

“I keep telling them it was a silly comment in front of friends. ‘Oh, right, all of us are commies.’ It was sarcasm, I tell them. But they don’t care.” It was obvious Floyd replayed the conversation in his mind, over and over, reliving the moment when he’d unknowingly sealed his fate. “All because of an orange dress. Sorry, tangerine.”

Like Maxine, Brandy was working nonstop these days.

Hazel was still unsure of why he’d called her here. “Maybe I can help with your situation. Do you have a lawyer?” She opened her purse, searched for a business card, and laid it on the side table. “Mr. Stone was quite helpful to me. Here’s his number.”