Rothstein’s departure for Europe.
She knew that long-standing marital troubles had dictated that
bon voyage
, but she now decided to go ahead and ask if there had been any word on how Mrs. Rothstein was getting on over there. The response, from Judge Gilfoyle, was appropriately circumspect, since it concerned, as Daisy was coming to understand, his boss’s wife.
“She’s cabled that she’s doing quite well,” said the judge. “I’d say better than one might expect. You have to understand that Mrs. Rothstein is a nervous creature—” He paused to come up with a suitable softening. “Delicate. Refined.”
“Oh, I’m sure she is,” said Daisy, with a great deal of breathy sympathy.
“As he likes to say himself,” the judge went on, “Mr. Rothstein usually keeps the lady ‘in a glass case,’ so perhaps this European excursion will prove liberat—”
Eddie Diamond’s lungs erupted with wet, wheezy laughter. A tubercular past, thought Daisy; one found it in many men in his line of work.
“A glass case?” cried Eddie. “She’s lucky he don’t stop up the air holes!”
Noting the distress this remark provoked in the judge, Daisy pretended it had never been uttered. She liked Francis X. Gilfoyle. There was something reassuring about his florid face and advanced age. (The most dreadful revelation inside Max Stanwick’s article was the fact that Rothstein was only two years older than herself.) She liked the whole ensemble that was the judge: the old-fashioned homburg; the three-quarter part in the thinning hair; the dandruff that needed a woman’s cheerful brushing from the lapels. Put him in alineup of her recent escorts—all those sharp-edged characters who came right to the point—and she’d have no trouble picking him out.
“And where
is
Mr. Rothstein tonight?” she finally asked.
“Out in Maspeth,” said Judge Gilfoyle, who Daisy had learned was the third senior justice in Manhattan Criminal Court. “Looking over the progress on a grand housing development he’s got a hand in. It’s called Juniper Park. Two hundred modest homes—”
“That he’s gonna have trouble sellin’ to
coons
!” declared Eddie Diamond, who coughed his way so hard through the next couple of sentences that his two big ears shook. “You should see this ‘development,’ Duchess. They put the hot-water heaters in the front hallway! If ‘The Brain’ is out there, he’s probably tryin’ to keep the whole slum from bein’ condemned before it opens.”
Appalled at this sarcastic use of Mr. Rothstein’s best-known nickname, Daisy looked toward her escort, who appeared positively frightened. Had she misjudged Eddie Diamond the night he drove her home from 912 Fifth? Had there perhaps been a deterioration in his business relationship with “The Brain”?
“Tell me how you know Max,” said Daisy to the judge. “Now
there’s
a brain! I daresay his books are touched with genius.”
“Some friends of Mr. Rothstein had the misfortune to appear before me in court not long ago. Mr. Stanwick asked to interview me about the matter, but of course professional ethics forbade my commenting on it.”
“ ‘Misfortune’?” cried Eddie. “I’d say they was pretty goddamned lucky to appear before
you
! ’Scuse my language, Duchess.”
“Nonetheless,” said Gilfoyle, struggling to continue. “I was very pleased to meet Mr. Stanwick. I count myself a great fan of his novels, particularly
Ticker Rape.
”
It was now the judge’s turn to apologize, for injuring Daisy’s ears with that scandalous title. To make amends, he took out a dollar and snapped his fingers for the girl with the tray of paper gardenias.
Daisy cooed while he pinned one on her. “I should think Mr. Rothstein will be
very
pleased with the piece Max has written. Of course,
my
professional ethics forbid me from showing you an advance copy of it.”
Eddie Diamond gave a thuggish snort over the word “piece.”
“It must be
She knew that long-standing marital troubles had dictated that
bon voyage
, but she now decided to go ahead and ask if there had been any word on how Mrs. Rothstein was getting on over there. The response, from Judge Gilfoyle, was appropriately circumspect, since it concerned, as Daisy was coming to understand, his boss’s wife.
“She’s cabled that she’s doing quite well,” said the judge. “I’d say better than one might expect. You have to understand that Mrs. Rothstein is a nervous creature—” He paused to come up with a suitable softening. “Delicate. Refined.”
“Oh, I’m sure she is,” said Daisy, with a great deal of breathy sympathy.
“As he likes to say himself,” the judge went on, “Mr. Rothstein usually keeps the lady ‘in a glass case,’ so perhaps this European excursion will prove liberat—”
Eddie Diamond’s lungs erupted with wet, wheezy laughter. A tubercular past, thought Daisy; one found it in many men in his line of work.
“A glass case?” cried Eddie. “She’s lucky he don’t stop up the air holes!”
Noting the distress this remark provoked in the judge, Daisy pretended it had never been uttered. She liked Francis X. Gilfoyle. There was something reassuring about his florid face and advanced age. (The most dreadful revelation inside Max Stanwick’s article was the fact that Rothstein was only two years older than herself.) She liked the whole ensemble that was the judge: the old-fashioned homburg; the three-quarter part in the thinning hair; the dandruff that needed a woman’s cheerful brushing from the lapels. Put him in alineup of her recent escorts—all those sharp-edged characters who came right to the point—and she’d have no trouble picking him out.
“And where
is
Mr. Rothstein tonight?” she finally asked.
“Out in Maspeth,” said Judge Gilfoyle, who Daisy had learned was the third senior justice in Manhattan Criminal Court. “Looking over the progress on a grand housing development he’s got a hand in. It’s called Juniper Park. Two hundred modest homes—”
“That he’s gonna have trouble sellin’ to
coons
!” declared Eddie Diamond, who coughed his way so hard through the next couple of sentences that his two big ears shook. “You should see this ‘development,’ Duchess. They put the hot-water heaters in the front hallway! If ‘The Brain’ is out there, he’s probably tryin’ to keep the whole slum from bein’ condemned before it opens.”
Appalled at this sarcastic use of Mr. Rothstein’s best-known nickname, Daisy looked toward her escort, who appeared positively frightened. Had she misjudged Eddie Diamond the night he drove her home from 912 Fifth? Had there perhaps been a deterioration in his business relationship with “The Brain”?
“Tell me how you know Max,” said Daisy to the judge. “Now
there’s
a brain! I daresay his books are touched with genius.”
“Some friends of Mr. Rothstein had the misfortune to appear before me in court not long ago. Mr. Stanwick asked to interview me about the matter, but of course professional ethics forbade my commenting on it.”
“ ‘Misfortune’?” cried Eddie. “I’d say they was pretty goddamned lucky to appear before
you
! ’Scuse my language, Duchess.”
“Nonetheless,” said Gilfoyle, struggling to continue. “I was very pleased to meet Mr. Stanwick. I count myself a great fan of his novels, particularly
Ticker Rape.
”
It was now the judge’s turn to apologize, for injuring Daisy’s ears with that scandalous title. To make amends, he took out a dollar and snapped his fingers for the girl with the tray of paper gardenias.
Daisy cooed while he pinned one on her. “I should think Mr. Rothstein will be
very
pleased with the piece Max has written. Of course,
my
professional ethics forbid me from showing you an advance copy of it.”
Eddie Diamond gave a thuggish snort over the word “piece.”
“It must be
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