Beauty Queen

narrow. So the windows on both sides of the big living room poured in sun all day long instead of giving a closeup look at the dingy brick wall of the next building. She had bought the apartment after she and Sid got married, with a tax-free money gift from her father, and Sid had said he liked it okay.
    Now the sun slanted in strongly from the east, across the sofa and chairs upholstered in a prim brocade of tiny flowers. An antique American china clock sat ticking on the mantel of the green marble fireplace. By the windows stood Sid's contribution to the room—several huge plants that he had bought at Terrestris—ferns, palms. Jeannie hated potted plants, because they were always dropping dead leaves on the floor. But she had decorated the room, so she had to let Sid have something, at least.
    Her tall antique secretary desk stood against the north wall, beside the sofa. Moving with swift ease, she sat down on the plain Shaker chair, and sorted through her mail. Usually her aide, Gertrude Utley, did it. Gertrude still came up for a few hours a week, usually in the morning. But today
    Jeannie was looking for something specific. The usual—fan letters, bills, letters requesting political support, junk mail addressed to occupant. Her small neat well-manicured hand ripped open the envelopes, jerked out the letters, tossed them impatiently aside when read.
    Just what she'd been looking for: three invitations to speak. For months now, she had refused all such invitations. But now she needed one that would provide the perfect occasion for the speech she wanted to make—the speech that would launch her comeback.
    Then she picked up the little white Trim-Line phone and punched the musical numbered buttons.
    "Mrs. Haley? This is Jeannie Colter, calling about your invitation. Oh, why, thank you. Yes, of course . . ."
    Mrs. Haley's voice bored in her ear, apologizing for the last-minute nature of the invitation. They had invited someone else months ago, and the dignitary had been taken ill.
    "That's quite all right," said Jeannie. "I happen to have the date free, and the Y.W.C.A. has always been very close to my heart."
    When she'd hung up, she sat thrilling in every nerve with a strange excitement.
    Events had been set in motion. All she had to do now was write the speech, and of course discuss it with Tom Winkler, her old campaign manager, and with Reverend Irving too, and her father and her other advisers. The News would cover the opening of the new Y.W.C.A. in Queens, of course, and Jeannie would contact her old PR man to stir up the other media. A week from now, her name would once again be all over the newspapers and the TV news.
    A few minutes later, she was striding out the door again, a little silk plaid scarf tied over her hair, dark glasses in place. Her heels clicked more purposefully than ever on the marble floor, and her car keys jingled in her hand.
    It was a beautiful God-given day, and her children had better be angels, up there in the country.
    Bill Laird was telephoning, too. He was behind the massive captain's desk in his office on Canal Street. His face was set as he dialed the familiar numbers. As he waited for the call to click through, he was so tense that he didn't even doodle on his memo pad.
    "Rolls-Royce, good morning," said a female switchboard operator voice.
    "Marion Rhodes, please," he said.
    Another click, then the so-familiar English voice.
    "Rhodes here," said Marion.
    "Hi, it's me," said Bill. "Are you free for lunch today?"
    "Afraid not." A slight pause. "Is it important?"
    Yes."
    "I can cancel then." Another slight pause. "You sound rather upset."
    "I am. It's Jean."
    "Oh dear. Not drinking again, I hope?"
    "No, nothing like that. I'll tell you at lunch."
    "AH right. The usual?"
    "Twelve-thirty, at the Sumptuary," said Bill.
    Mary Ellen and Liv were walking along Christopher
    Street, arm linked warmly through arm. Since they were in the West Side gay ghetto, no one even so much as glanced at them—people just brushed by.
    Walking arm in arm was a reckless thing to do.
    The two women had just browsed through the streetside vegetable market, Gable's, and had lingered lovingly over the display of melons, artichokes, even sun-ripened tomatoes. Liv was wearing faded jeans, huaraches and a plaid Indian cotton shirt, and carrying a brown paper bag with two pints of strawberries in it. Mary Ellen was wearing brown slacks. Inside the pant leg, strapped to her ankle in its small neat holster,