the Free and renewed his studies at the Art Students League on 57th Street, just as he had told me. Then he launched his career, quickly attracting attention with his incident-filled street scenes and depictions of voluptuous nudes in demotic settings.
There had been an early and brief marriage to a fellow student named Beatrice Armand, with whom he had had a son, Ambrose, who died in childhood. Cynthia the ball breaker didn’t enter the picture until 1936 when Stew was in his forties. Somewhere along the way they produced a daughter. They were divorced in Reno in 1944, but remarried in 1951 and seemingly lived together until her death ten years later. Photographs showed her to have been, in her prime, a statuesque blonde who, had it not been for the accidents of birth, might have made the grade as a showgirl.
Inside one book was a newspaper clipping with a photograph of Langham wearing a tux, his arm around the waist of a buxom bimbo named Lotte. Behind them, grinning, was a man identified as attorney Louis Mendelssohn. The clipping was attached to a page containing a paragraph that read, in part, “In 1963 Langham was called to testify before a grand jury investigating the gangland-style slaying of his friend Louis Mendelssohn, a well-to-do attorney and a prominent collector of the artist’s work.”
That was worth knowing, but I didn’t find much else that added anything useful to the Langham profile.
I had intended to go to my office, but as the train rattled into the 14th Street station, exhaustion hit. I gave into it and headed home to get some shut-eye. Once inside the apartment, my mind started racing again. Too much stimulus. Sandy’s pink overnight case was still there, the gingham dress from our “date” was draped over the back of a chair, and her stuff was still in the bathroom. I picked the cotton panties she had worn the previous evening off the floor, remembering the way she had placed my hand on her crotch. Then I recalled the semen-stained panties I had found near the cadaver in the sublet and almost threw up. My head was spinning, but I poured myself a large Scotch and downed it, with another one for a chaser. Finally I kicked off my shoes and pants and climbed into bed. The sheets and the pillow smelled of girl—no other word for it—and the scent aroused me instantly, but before I had a chance to do anything about it I was swamped with sleep.
I was woken by the phone. It was Sandy. I wanted to yell at her, but couldn’t.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“What the fuck happened to you?” I demanded, rather politely.
“Never mind that,” she said. “Are you okay?”
“Of course I’m okay. I was scared shitless something had happened to you. Why did you run out on me?”
“I had to get out of there. I saw you disappear into that place and I just bolted.”
I glanced at my watch and realized that I’d slept for more than two hours.
“Where are you now?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Are you at Langham’s?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re not at the Alibi, are you?”
“I’m not going to the Alibi. I’ve talked to them. I need some time to think.”
Her tone told me that she did not know about the man hanging in her apartment.
“We need to talk,” I said, trying to come up with the best way to break the news.
“Later,” she said. “I just wanted to check in on you.”
Then she hung up on me.
I was still groggy, and I had a headache. It was not helped by the noise from the street. People were shouting and laughing and singing. I looked out of the window and saw grown men not of the West Village persuasion hugging each other. It took a few seconds for me to twig what was going on. I turned on the TV to be sure.
The Miracle Mets had won the World Series.
Wearing my Yankees cap, I was about to leave the house when an unmarked police car pulled up outside. I knew it was a police car because it had that carefully cultivated anonymous look, and
There had been an early and brief marriage to a fellow student named Beatrice Armand, with whom he had had a son, Ambrose, who died in childhood. Cynthia the ball breaker didn’t enter the picture until 1936 when Stew was in his forties. Somewhere along the way they produced a daughter. They were divorced in Reno in 1944, but remarried in 1951 and seemingly lived together until her death ten years later. Photographs showed her to have been, in her prime, a statuesque blonde who, had it not been for the accidents of birth, might have made the grade as a showgirl.
Inside one book was a newspaper clipping with a photograph of Langham wearing a tux, his arm around the waist of a buxom bimbo named Lotte. Behind them, grinning, was a man identified as attorney Louis Mendelssohn. The clipping was attached to a page containing a paragraph that read, in part, “In 1963 Langham was called to testify before a grand jury investigating the gangland-style slaying of his friend Louis Mendelssohn, a well-to-do attorney and a prominent collector of the artist’s work.”
That was worth knowing, but I didn’t find much else that added anything useful to the Langham profile.
I had intended to go to my office, but as the train rattled into the 14th Street station, exhaustion hit. I gave into it and headed home to get some shut-eye. Once inside the apartment, my mind started racing again. Too much stimulus. Sandy’s pink overnight case was still there, the gingham dress from our “date” was draped over the back of a chair, and her stuff was still in the bathroom. I picked the cotton panties she had worn the previous evening off the floor, remembering the way she had placed my hand on her crotch. Then I recalled the semen-stained panties I had found near the cadaver in the sublet and almost threw up. My head was spinning, but I poured myself a large Scotch and downed it, with another one for a chaser. Finally I kicked off my shoes and pants and climbed into bed. The sheets and the pillow smelled of girl—no other word for it—and the scent aroused me instantly, but before I had a chance to do anything about it I was swamped with sleep.
I was woken by the phone. It was Sandy. I wanted to yell at her, but couldn’t.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“What the fuck happened to you?” I demanded, rather politely.
“Never mind that,” she said. “Are you okay?”
“Of course I’m okay. I was scared shitless something had happened to you. Why did you run out on me?”
“I had to get out of there. I saw you disappear into that place and I just bolted.”
I glanced at my watch and realized that I’d slept for more than two hours.
“Where are you now?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Are you at Langham’s?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re not at the Alibi, are you?”
“I’m not going to the Alibi. I’ve talked to them. I need some time to think.”
Her tone told me that she did not know about the man hanging in her apartment.
“We need to talk,” I said, trying to come up with the best way to break the news.
“Later,” she said. “I just wanted to check in on you.”
Then she hung up on me.
I was still groggy, and I had a headache. It was not helped by the noise from the street. People were shouting and laughing and singing. I looked out of the window and saw grown men not of the West Village persuasion hugging each other. It took a few seconds for me to twig what was going on. I turned on the TV to be sure.
The Miracle Mets had won the World Series.
Wearing my Yankees cap, I was about to leave the house when an unmarked police car pulled up outside. I knew it was a police car because it had that carefully cultivated anonymous look, and
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