Lily White by Susan Isaacs Page B

asked for a ginger tea to allay what I knew was incipient nausea. (Sandi and I had a beverage pact. Each time I buzzed her for something to drink, she got a day where she could leave fifteen minutes early. What else could a feminist, knee-jerk-liberal employer do? Naturally, I made the deal knowing that she is an obsessive-compulsive worker; in the six years she’d been with me, she’d left early twice.) “Who gets on the Pay Dirt pile?” I asked.
    “Anyone with a fancy address. Norman does his homework and really knows where the rich neighborhoods are in each city we go to. Anyone who has a business. Like Bobette. Anyone who’s been to Europe or on one of those cross-country tours. That’s why he puts in about loving travel; if they’ve actually done it, it can spell m-o-n-e-y.”
    Mary told me that while there was no variation in the ads, Norman’s responses to the letters he received were tailored to each woman. A little flattery here (“Fifty-one isn’t old!”), a little bridled lust there (“I could not keep my eyes from that exquisite curve where your hand meets your wrist. Excuse me. I don’t mean to be overstepping the bounds. But I hope you’ll forgive it if I say you look like you combine elegance and emotion, which is a
very
interesting combination, I must say”). From her wallet, she drew out copies of the photos he sent to them when he wrote them back. There were two. One in a suit and tie, sitting on the edge of a mahogany desk, his arms crossed across his chest, a Mona Lisa smile on his lips—what a
Business Week
centerfold might look like. The other in corduroys and a plaid shirt, a lock of his hair tumbling over his brow, his sleeves rolled up above his elbow, leaning against a tree in the middle of an autumn forest. Norman would decide from the tone of a woman’s letter which photo to send.
    “And then?” I asked.
    Mary clapped her hands together, gleeful. “Well, a half hour before the first date, I go to the cocktail lounge or restaurant—Norman says, if they sound like they don’t want to drink, meet them for lunch. It’s what’s called an expense of doing business. But some of these fatsos, they can order three courses, so no dinners. One of them once—”
    “You work with Norman?” I asked, amazed that she had any active role in a confidence game. She struck me as someone who could get flustered inserting her card into an automatic teller machine.
    “Sure.”
    “I didn’t realize he had a business partner. You were saying that you show up about a half hour before he gets there. To make sure it isn’t a setup?”
    “Yes!” she said, delighted with my powers of deduction. “Norman says: ‘You’ve got to cover your
a-s-s
in this business.’” Especially with a rap sheet like his, I thought. Where did he find this girl? Yes, I know: woman. But Mary was barely into her twenties. True, she didn’t have it all, but she had a lot. Movie star beautiful—if she’d invest in a chisel and chip away those layers of makeup. A sweetie-pie manner. Well, until she spoke about Norman’s crimes. Then something sexual, a throaty intensity I didn’t want to hear, crept into her tone.
    “On the first date, Norm lets the woman do the talking. I mean, you’d think they’d know they should draw the man out, but he said their talking is the key. They’re desperate to talk, and he’s such a great listener. You know why?”
    She waited, so I asked, “Why?”
    “Because he really
does
listen. Never forgets a thing. Never mixes up one with the other, even if he’s working two at the same time, which he hardly ever does now. He says he used to do it when he was in his twenties but it knocked him out, the traveling back and forth and having to write double love letters and make double good-night-I-love-you and good-morning-I-love-you phone calls.” She paused and cocked her head to the side. “Is this helping you?”
    “It may.” If I’d been a male lawyer, I probably would have