The Color Yellow
(A Tommy Duncan story)When wealthy, entitled Tommy Duncan sets his sights on icy art historian Esme Winston, he’s willing to stop at nothing to claim her—despite her quirks, her independence, and her loyal Yorkie, Henry. Their affair is a collision of obsession and manipulation, unraveling in a glamorous New York-Hamptons backdrop. But as Tommy pushes boundaries, and his trusted yet morally conflicted chauffeur, Spin, carries out sinister deeds in secret, the fragile balance of control tilts.
From the first moment Tommy Duncan laid eyes on icy, beautiful Esme Winston, he wanted her. He didn’t care about the differences in their lives, or the obstacles between them: he wanted her for his very own. So he began, in his rich boy way, to stalk her. This meant he asked his driver, Spin (short for Spinelli), a muscular man in a black chauffeur’s uniform, to get the goods on her.
Spin reported back that he could find nothing of interest about the young lady. She was kind of brainy, with a graduate degree in art history and a part time job as a cataloguer at the Museum of Modern Art.
“You couldn’t find anything more dicy than that? What are her vulnerabilities?” asked Tommy, who wasn’t exactly handsome but had a winning smile and a big, boxy head of wavy blond hair.
“I don’t know, sir. She seems pretty solid to me.”
“She has money, right? Isn’t she a Winston?”
“Well,” said the chauffeur, “that’s debatable. Her father descends from the Winston family – some crazy old uncle. But they’re not on speaking terms. Her mother’s the one with money.”
Tommy already knew that Caroline Parker, Esme’s mother, had made a fortune as the founder of Dewys, a major cosmetics company. (“If you want a perfect complexion, put Dewys on your skin!”) He wanted real dirt, something vicious he could use against Esme if she disappointed him.
But she didn't disappoint him – at least, not in the beginning.
Esme, for her part, was a cool and at times imperious girl who spoke with a slight speech impediment (she’d say “twee” instead of “tree”). Tommy found the impediment both charming and hopeful, a sign that somewhere inside her Esme had a vulnerability. Since he didn’t know her personally, he asked a friend to introduce them. This was at BlueRay, a popular New York club where people danced so wildly that within minutes their bodies were totally drenched.
Everyone knew Tommy, a wealthy businessman in his forties who’d already been married (twice, unsuccessfully) and was a fixture on the New York scene.
But Esme seemed to know very little about him. “Pleathed to meet you,” she said uncertainly as he took her hand in his. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”
“But you know about me, right?”
“Well … vaguely. I don’t go out to clubs much. I’m just here with some friends.”
Turned out that Esme, socially aloof and too busy for frivolities, had been dragged to BlueRay by two of her girlfriends who insisted she needed to experience a wild orgy of crazy dancing at least once in her twenties.
But Esme, a dedicated runner, was really just there for the exercise. She was race fit: tall, long-legged and slender with pale blond hair pulled back in a tight knot at the nape of her neck. She was also quite near-sighted; without her glasses, the room was a blur.
“So, would you like to dance?” asked Tommy, holding out his hand.
“Not really. Actually I’d like to leave.” She dug into her tiny purse for her glasses and said “Oh crap” when she discovered they weren’t there.
“What's the matter?” said Tommy.
“Can’t find my glasses (glasseth), which means I can’t see for shit and now I feel a headache coming on.”
Uh oh, thought Tommy. This one’s neurotic.
But neurotic could be good, something to use to his advantage.
“Look,” he said, “my chauffeur’s just outside. I can give you a lift home.”
Esme blinked uncertainly at him. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble. I was just at the point of leaving myself.”
In the car he asked her if she’d like to go for a nightcap. Esme thought about this. A glass of champagne would be nice, but not tonight when she wasn’t seeing properly.
“Tomorrow night,” she said.
“Okay, tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock.”
Esme figured the guy was harmless. He was a man about town, so everything to know about him was right out there in public, no particular surprises. Besides, a little to her own surprise, she realized she was attracted to him, unusual for Esme who liked men closer to her own age. Maybe it was his size, his large body that radiated warmth and energy. She leaned into him and felt unexpected pleasure, a tingle that went straight to her groin.The next evening he was there at the dot of nine, limo waiting outside her building. “Oh, we won’t need that,” Esme said, having already made up her mind to go to a chi chi little bar two blocks away. In fact, she’d already made reservations – a move that she could see from Tommy’s raised eyebrows didn’t entirely please him. She was wearing what looked like ballet slippers and she walked very fast, several feet ahead before they’d gone half a block.
“Hey, wait up for me!” yelled Tommy, who was used to being driven wherever he went, even if it was a short distance. Already there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead that he had to wipe away with his hand, not liking to be seen using a handkerchief in public (too sissy).
At the bar, they had an outside table. Esme sat down gracefully, pulling the lower part of her dress closely around her long pretty legs.
“Got your specs tonight?” Tommy asked with a grin that seemed friendly rather than poking fun.
“Yes, thanks for asking,” said Esme. She removed a large pair of tortoiseshell glasses from her handbag and placed them on the table. Tommy could see there was something else in the handbag, something that moved around and was small and furry.
“What’s that?” he asked, looking as startled as if he’d seen a mouse.
“Oh, just my little Yorkie,” Esme said. “I take him everywhere with me, kind of like a talisman. His name is Henry.”
“He doesn’t bite, does he?” asked Tommy who’d never owned a pet in his life.
“Of course not. Maybe a gentle little nip now and then if someone bothers him or he wants to protect me. You’re not scared of him, are you?”
Was there mockery in her voice? Tommy didn’t think so, but the lisp – “thcared,” “thum-one” – made it hard to tell. Also made him want to jump her bones because her voice, despite the impediment, was low for a woman and kind of sexy.
Esme finished her glass of champagne quickly. “Want another one?” Tommy asked.
“No,” said Esme. “I’ve got plenty to drink at my house.”
Tommy assumed that meant she was asking him up to her apartment – which she was, taking him firmly by the hand and leading him down the street in her ballet flats.
Esme lived in the penthouse apartment of a building on East Fifty-fifth Street, a large, airy space with blond-planked wooden floors and modern-looking furniture. Her bed was wide and luxurious, many pillows and, oddly, a very life-like baby doll nestled into one of the cushions. Esme pushed the doll to the side and lay down, dress riding up to her thighs. She gestured for Tommy to join her, which he did after removing his shoes and trousers. Very quickly her hands went into his underwear, and while Tommy had been with more women than he could count, he felt happier and more excited than he could remember. As far as the sex went, she was like an alley cat, scratching, biting, digging her nails into his surplus of flabby pink skin. When she came, she screamed so loudly that Tommy was sure the whole building could hear.
“Wow-wee!” he exclaimed.
Esme cooed and snuggled in his arms, body still spasming in jerks and shivers. Tommy held onto her tightly, wondering if he had it in him to do this a second time. When he looked up, he saw her little Yorkie, Henry, watching from the end of the bed.
This freaked him out more than he wanted to admit to himself or Esme. “Umm…”
But before he could say anything more, she straddled him, giggling, and said, “Are you wondering about the doll? Her name is Suzi and I’ve had her since I was a child.”
“Oh,” he murmured, not quite able to regain his voice. “I thought it had something to do with wanting a baby, because I could give you that, too.”
“I’m not interested in babies right now,” Esme said tartly. “Besides, you already have enough children.”
This was true. Tommy had a set of twins with one mother, and a little boy with another. What he really wanted was to put a permanent mark on Esme, to own her. “You’re something else,” he said. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
Esme popped on her glasses and stared at him. “I’m pretty normal,” she said. “A hardworking person who likes to keep things simple.
She said “thimple” instead of “simple” and the word in her mouth was so endearing that Tommy reached out and cupped her cheek, drawing her close to him again. But, much to his dismay, he couldn’t get it up a second time. His penis remained disappointingly at half-mast. What to say to her? “I don’t usually have this problem,” he murmured into her ear. “Maybe it’s your dog.”
“Huh?” said Esme.
“I mean he’s just sitting there, staring at us.”
“So what?” said Esme. “He’s a dog. That’s what they do.”
“Well, you could put him in another room.”
Esme hopped out of bed and went to the closet for a dressing gown. “Henry always sleeps with me. You’re going to have to get used to it.”
The next time they were together, Tommy insisted they stay at his own apartment in a large building across from the Plaza Hotel. Esme got up to leave as soon as the sex was over. “Hey! Where are you going?” exclaimed Tommy.
“I have to go home to Henry.”
“What? Are you kidding?”
Esme gave him a baleful look. “I would never leave him alone,” she said.
Tommy wanted to point out that Henry was just a dog, but knew better. If it were any other girl, he’d have jettisoned her, but by now he was inexplicably hooked on Esme, had to see her or be with her every night he could. When she told him she was going out to her house in the Hamptons for a few weeks, he was crestfallen. “You could join me,” she said and he immediately agreed, although he really didn’t like being in the countryside even if it were a chic spot like the Hamptons. His chauffeur drove him out there, and the first thing they saw was Henry sitting on the doorstep, snarling and yipping. “Jesus, I hate that dog,” said Tommy.
“Seems pretty harmless to me,” said Spinelli.
“Well, he’s not. He’s a monster.”
Esme’s house was not on the beach (“Too much thand”), but on a beautiful stretch of land a few miles inward. Big trees, grassy lawns, a winding conch-pebbled driveway. The house itself was gray-shingled with white-framed windows and looked as if it had been transported straight from New England. Beside it sat a dark, mossy pond covered in lily pads.
“I wouldn’t want to swim in that,” Tommy said to Esme when he saw her a few minutes later.
“You won’t have to,” laughed Esme. “There's a gorgeous pool in back.”
But Tommy wasn’t a swimmer and didn’t like to be seen in bathing trunks – body too stout and pink. Instead he wore white linen trousers and a white short-sleeved tee shirt. In these clothes he lounged on the wrap-around porch, reading the newspaper and making phone calls. A maid in a frilly white cap brought him cheese-flavored popcorn and Coca Cola. That night he slept in Esme’s farm-style bedroom, lots of handsome chintz draperies and peasant furniture she’d bought in Austria. As he undressed and maneuvered himself into her tall, four poster bed, the dog, who sat on a broad, rustic cushion, began barking and growling.
“I can’t make love to you with that dog here,” snapped Tommy.
“What? Don’t be silly. Henry’s my closest companion. Just ignore him.”
But how could one ignore a farting, snoring dog right next to one’s head? Tommy pushed the dog to the floor after Esme fell asleep the first night. From then on, the dog bared its teeth at him and attempted to nip at his ankles. “Look, it’s either the dog or me,” Tommy whined to Esme.
“On my, you’re such (thuch) a wimp,” Esme retorted.
That response was more than Tommy could bear. He didn’t immediately say anything to Esme, but his wide pink face lost color, turning a cool, glossy white that looked like the underside of a fish.
The next morning he had a few words with his chauffeur, Spin, who was staying in a casita behind the main house. “I want you to get rid of that dog,” he said.
“You mean …?” Spin let the words trail.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” said Tommy. “And I want to see proof that he’s gone, not just a photo, but part of his tail or something.”
Spin was a kind-hearted man whom Tommy had met years earlier when the chauffeur was involved in a hit and run. “You just keep quiet,” Tommy had said, “and I’ll make this problem go away.” Tommy had been in the car behind him, driving his little red Ferrari well over speed limit as he was racing through an isolated part of Westchester. He had witnessed the whole event, a man on a bicycle that darted into the road and the heavy black Town Car that had plowed into him. Together they had pushed the man’s body into a ditch and doused his mouth in whisky from Spin’s flask. “I’d like you to work for me,” Tommy had said afterwards. “But you have to quit drinking and go to AA. Otherwise this,” he paused for a moment, “sad event will come back and bite you in the ass.”
Spin complied, getting off the booze cold turkey and remaining sober ever since. He was an anonymous-looking man who’d grown up near Coney Island in Brooklyn, and, as nice as he seemed, had a side to him that was quick and brutal. He kept this side in check, always appearing polite and correct in his spotless uniform and driver’s cap. Tommy knew his whole savage history (a nimble flick of the knife that had once made a man disappear) and they had a good understanding between them. When Tommy asked Spin to do something, he’d obey without a single comment.
The unknown factor, however, was that Spin had a fondness for dogs over people. The idea of destroying the little Yorkie was anathema to him. But he had to do it to keep his job, and so, late that night, he crept into Esme’s room. He knew the woman, always restless and jumpy, took sleeping pills. Beside her, Tommy lay inert, in a stupor from a little trick of counting down from thirty and hypnotizing himself to sleep. Spin had already made friends with the dog, handing him goodies (which Esme strictly forbade) whenever the dog barked and bared his teeth at him. Now, when the Yorkie saw Spin, he’d roll on his back and wag his tail.
“Come here,” Spin whispered, making a tsk tsk sound with his mouth. The dog, who’d been relegated to the floor, happily got up and followed Spin from the room. As soon as they were on the landing, Spin leaned down and gently gathered Henry into his arms, stroking him comfortingly. His plan was to drown the dog in the pond, but when the moment came tears welled in his eyes, and he found he couldn’t do it. He stood there, not knowing what the hell to do next. Tommy had asked him for proof of the dog’s death, and instead Spin bent over and vomited in the grass beside the pond.
When he felt a little better, he returned to the casita with Henry. He rinsed his mouth with Listerine and sat down on the bed. The dog scurried onto his lap and stared at him, small raison eyes gleaming with adoration. “Okay buddy, we’re gonna have to be brave,” Spin whispered. He drew a pocket knife from the pants of his uniform and with a swift movement severed the top half of Henry’s ear, dousing the remaining part in Listerine to stave off infection. Then he wrapped the whimpering dog in a towel and carried him out to the Town Car. He had a cousin who lived in Hampton Bays and that’s where he took the dog, saying he’d be back in a few days to collect him.
The next morning there was shrieking from Esme’s house. “Where’s Henry? I can’t find Henry! Oh my god, oh my god, what’s happened to him?”
“There, there,” soothed Tommy. “I’m sure he’s here somewhere.”
Half an hour earlier, Spin had delivered part of the Yorkie’s ear in a baggie while Tommy was sitting alone on the porch drinking coffee. “I’ll reward you for this,” Tommy had said, and that was the thing: Tommy was generous with his employees, making sure they had nice houses and apartments and that their wives had plenty of money to feed their children well and buy them decent clothing.
Esme searched everywhere for the dog and swore she wouldn’t leave her property until Henry was found. Of course, that didn’t happen. But by now, Esme associated everything that had occurred at the time with the horror of Henry’s disappearance, including her affair with Tommy. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she told Tommy. “I need solitude right now.”
This infuriated Tommy. But he told himself he was sick of Esme with her lisp and her nearsightedness and her imperiousness; it was time to move on. Spin drove him back to the city and they didn’t discuss the dog or what had happened to him.
“You know what?” Tommy told the chauffeur when they were on the Long Island Expressway. “I’m thinking of going into politics. I’ve got the clout to become president one day and I’d be great at it, don’t you think?”
Spin didn’t want to say what he thought, but of course he replied, “Yes, sir,” knowing that Tommy was lazy and spiteful and would make the worst president in history. He kept his hands calmly on the wheel. After he delivered Tommy to his Fifth Avenue apartment, he’d turn around and go back to the Hamptons where he’d pick up Henry. The little dog would be happy living with Spin’s wife and children in their comfortable house in Queens, wandering around the fenced-in garden that Spin and his wife had lovingly cultivated for years.
Tomorrow he’d be back at work, where he knew Tommy would be blathering about an eventual presidency and the opponents Spin would have to deal with who stood in his way. That was fine.
Spin was an excellent chauffeur who always did what was expected of him, even as he conducted small acts of rebellion no one would ever know about. The fact was, he knew about his own duplicitousness, and the secret pleasure his treacherous behavior gave him was all that mattered. He’d kill someone if Tommy asked him to, but he’d also use every opportunity to ruin Tommy’s chances once the murder was committed and he was back in his garden, enjoying the dusk and the smell of flowers and the sight of his children running through the grass with their new dog.
If Tommy ever did become president, he’d … Well, he wasn’t sure what he’d do, but whatever it was, it wouldn’t be pretty and he chuckled to himself as he pictured Tommy missing half an ear and the expensive plastic surgery he’d have to undergo to replace it. As for the shorn off part of the ear, Spin would bury that in his garden and perhaps plant some flowers over it to mark the spot. Zinnias would do as long as they were a bright damning yellow to jibe with Tommy’s cowardly soul.
Yes, Zinnias would be perfect, the yellow color a sign of revolt as ubiquitous as the Star of David his Jewish friends had told him people wore under their clothing when times were bad.
