The Chelsea Girls(84)

He offered up a half smile. “Right, thank you for that. I’ll ring him.”

Floyd had no money to afford a lawyer like Stone, Hazel realized. She offered to loan him some, but he wouldn’t accept it.

Another uncomfortable silence.

Floyd’s gift as an artist was his sensitivity. But that same gift made the real world much harder for him than it was for Hazel. The terrible sanctions against him had wrecked him.

“Don’t lose hope,” she said. “You can do other things, you’re a brilliant artist. Let’s see what else we can find you. A job in an art gallery, perhaps. Or wait, what about teaching?”

“No one will hire me after next week. They’ve made that much clear.”

“Next week? Who’ve made it clear? What do you mean?”

“I’m not who you think I am. The deadline has finally arrived, and since I refused to cooperate, they’re going to tell the world who I am.”

By now she was utterly confused. “Who are you?”

“They called me back, week after week, hoping I’d cave in. I suppose they’ve finally realized who they’re up against. That I won’t turn on my friends.” He let out an anguished sob. “You see, they know that I love men. They have photos, proof.” He waved one hand in the air. “And with that, the curtain falls.”

A chill ran through Hazel. That would be the end of Floyd’s career, no matter what he chose to do. While Hazel couldn’t care less who Floyd loved, as long as he was happy, no one in the industry would hire someone who’d been exposed as a homosexual. He’d be shunned, even worse than Hazel was. That the FBI would stoop to this level infuriated Hazel.

“That’s not acceptable,” she said. “We will not be railroaded. I’ve got your back, Floyd, and don’t you forget it.” Floyd wavered a tiny bit from side to side. Hazel glanced at the vodka bottle, which was two-thirds empty. Tonight was probably not the best time to figure out his plan B. “Look, you get a good night’s sleep and I’ll come by tomorrow and take you out for breakfast. In the light of day, it won’t seem so bad. We’ll find you a decent job, I promise.”

His eyelids drooped and stayed closed. She rose and gently extricated the glass from his hand, placing it on the bar next to hers. “For now, lie down and get some rest.”

“Thanks, Hazel.” He was awake again, his blue eyes shining. “Thank you for coming to the rescue.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been away for so long. I know how lonely it can be when you feel like you’ve been abandoned.”

“We’ve all been abandoned. I hear Maxine’s star is ascending rapidly, just as ours is falling.” He began to cry. “They say she talked. She told them whatever they wanted to hear. How could she have done that?”

She didn’t want to discuss Maxine. “We have each other.” Hazel leaned over Floyd and gave him an awkward hug. “Enough being maudlin. One day I’ll write a zany comedy about this year and you’ll do the costumes and everyone will love us once again.”

“We’ll do that, Hazel.”

When she left, she closed the room door behind her, quietly, in case Floyd had already fallen asleep.

Not for the first time, she wished she had Maxine—the old Maxine—by her side. She would have cajoled Floyd out of his funk, got him back on his feet. With her film earnings, she also would’ve been able to help out financially. But neither Hazel nor Floyd would ever touch a penny, knowing that her riches came right out of their own pockets. She got to work precisely because she’d thrown them and others like them to the wolves.

The elevator opened but Hazel hesitated. The elderly couple inside glared at her.

“Sorry, I forgot something,” she called out as the doors slid shut.

She hurried back down the hall. It didn’t feel right, leaving Floyd so fast; he shouldn’t be alone.

She pushed open the door, quietly, and saw the curtains flapping in the breeze. She walked in intending to close the window so he wouldn’t wake up in the morning with a cold, but stopped short.

The bed was empty, the door to the bathroom shut. She stood next to the door, listening for sounds of water running, of movement. Nothing.

“Floyd?” She knocked gently. “I came back. I wanted to make sure you’re really all right.”

Nothing.

She opened the door a crack, embarrassed to be doing so. Then farther. The bathroom was empty.

She glanced around the small room as her throat closed with panic. The closet door was ajar, he couldn’t be hiding in there. The bedclothes were rumpled. As she leaned over to check under the bed, because that’s the only other place he could possibly be, someone outside screamed.

Hazel straightened. The window was fully open. She hadn’t noticed it when she first came in the room, that it wasn’t just cracked like before. It was wide open. Wide enough for someone to put one leg over, then the other.

She rushed to it, horrified and certain she was wrong. Floyd had decided to go down to the bar. He’d taken the stairs and that’s why she couldn’t find him. That’s why he wasn’t here.

More screams.

She made herself look down, where his crumpled form lay ten stories below. He’d landed on his side, and lay there like he’d just fallen asleep, hands tucked under his cheek, the only sign of violence the red blood pooling around him.