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shrubbery along the path. Hooting, cursing, they launched rocks and thrashed at the horse's rumps
with switches.
20 Mine, the black and white mare, rose on her hind legs, whinnied, teetered like a tightrope artist, then
blue-streaked down the path, bouncing my feet out of the stirrups and leaving me scarcely attached.
Her hooves made the gravel stones spit sparks. The sky careened. Trees, a lake with little-boy sailboats,
statues went by lickety-split. Nursemaids rushed to rescue their charges from our awesome approach;
men, bums and others, yelled: "Pull in the reins!" and "Whoa, boy, whoa!" and "Jump!" It was only
later that I remembered these voices; at the time I was simply conscious of Holly, the cowboy-sound
of her racing behind me, never quite catching up, and over and over calling encouragements. Onward:
across the park and out into Fifth Avenue: stampeding against the noonday traffic, taxis, buses that
screechingly swerved. Past the Duke mansion, the Frick Museum, past the Pierre and the Plaza. But
Holly gained ground; moreover, a mounted policeman had joined the chase: flanking my runaway
mare, one on either side, their horses performed a pincer movement that brought her to a steamy halt.
It was then, at last, that I fell off her back. Fell off and picked myself up and stood there, not altogether
certain where I was. A crowd gathered. The policeman huffed and wrote in a book: presently he was
most sympathetic, grinned and said he would arrange for our horses to be returned to their stable.
Holly put us in a taxi. "Darling. How do you feel?" "Fine."
"But you haven't any pulse," she said, feeling my wrist.
"Then I must be dead."
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"No, idiot. This is serious. Look at me."
The trouble was, I couldn't see her; rather, I saw several Holly's, a trio of sweaty faces so white with
concern that I was both touched and embarrassed.
"Honestly. I don't feel anything. Except ashamed."
"Please. Are you sure? Tell me the truth. You might have been killed."
"But 1 wasn't. And thank you. For saving my life. You're wonderful. Unique. I love you."
"Damn fool." She kissed me on the cheek. Then there were four of her, and I fainted dead away.
That evening, photographs of Holly were front-paged by the late edition of the Journal-American and
by the early editions of both the Daily News and the Daily Mirror. The publicity had nothing to do
with runaway horses. It concerned quite another matter, as the headlines revealed: PLAYGIRL
ARRESTED IN NARCOTICS SCANDAL (Journal-American), ARREST DOPE-SMUGGLING
ACTRESS (Daily News), DRUG RING EXPOSED, GLAMOUR GIRL HELD (Daily Mirror).
Of the lot, the News printed the most striking picture: Holly, entering police headquarters, wedged
between two muscular detectives, one male, one female. In this squalid context even her clothes (she
was still wearing her riding costume, windbreaker and blue jeans) suggested a gang-moll hooligan: an
impression dark glasses, disarrayed coiffure and a Picayune cigarette dangling from sullen lips did not
diminish. The caption read: Twenty-year-old Holly Golightly, beautiful movie starlet and cafe society celebrity D.A.
alleges to be key figure in international drug-smuggling racket linked to racketeer Salvatore "Sally" Tomato. Dets.
20 Patrick Connor and Sheilah Fezzonetti (L. and R.) are shown escorting her into 67th St. Precinct. See story on Pg. 3.
The story, featuring a photograph of a man identified as Oliver "Father" O'Shaughnessy (shielding his
face with a fedora), ran three full columns. Here, somewhat condensed, are the pertinent paragraphs:
Members of café society were stunned today by the arrest of gorgeous Holly Golightly, twenty-year-old Hollywood starlet and
highly publicized girl-about-New York. At the same time. 2 P.M., police nabbed Oliver O'Shaughnessy, 52, of the Hotel
Seabord, W. 49th St., as he exited from a Hamburg Heaven on Madison Ave. Both are alleged by District Attorney
Frank L. Donovan to be important figures in an international drug ring dominated by the notorious Mafia-führer
Salvatore "Sally" Tomato, currently in Sing Sing serving a five-year rap for political bribery.... O'Shaughnessy, a
defrocked priest variously known in crime-land circles as "Father" and "The Padre," has a history of arrests dating back
to 1934 , when he served two years for opperating a phony Rhode Island mental institution, The Monastery. Miss
Golightly, who has no previous criminal record, was arrested in her luxurious apartment at a swank East Side address& .
Although the D.A.'s office has issued no formal statement, responsible sources insist the blond and beautiful actress, not
long ago the constant companion of multimillionaire Rutherfurd Trawler, has been acting as "liaison" between the
imprisoned Tomato and his chief-lieutenant, O'Shaughnessy.... Posing as a relative of Tomato's, Miss Golightly is said
to have paid weekly visits to Sing Sing, and on these occasions Tomato supplied her with verbally coded messages which she
then transmitted to O'Shaughnessy. Via this link, Tomato, believed to have been born in Cefalù, Sicily, in 1874, was able
to keep first-hand control of a world-wide narcotics syndicate with outposts in Mexico, Cuba, Sicily, Tangier, Teheran and
www.franklang.ru
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BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY S
BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY S
Dakar. But the D.A's office refused to offer any detail on these allegations or even verify them.... Tipped off, a large number
of reporters were on hand at the E. 67th St. Precinct station when the accused pair arrived for booking. O'Shaughnessy,
a burly red-haired man, refused comment and kicked one cameraman in the groin. But Miss Golightly, a fragile eyeful, even
though attired like a tomboy in slacks and leather jacket, appeared relatively unconcerned. "Don't ask me what the hell
this is about, she told reporters. "Parce que je ne sais pas, mes chères. (Because I do not know, my dears.) Yes  I have
visited Sally Tomato. I used to go to see him every week. What's wrong with that? He believes in God, and so do I." ...
Then, under the subheading ADMITS OWN DRUG ADDICTION: Miss Golightly smiled when a reporter asked
whether or not she herself is a narcotics user. "I've had a little go at marijuana. It's not half so destructive as brandy.
Cheaper, too. Unfortunately, I prefer brandy. No, Mr. Tomato never mentioned drugs to me. It makes me furious, the way
these wretched people keep persecuting him. He's a sensitive, a religious person. A darling old man."
There is one especially gross error in this report: she was not arrested in her "luxurious apartment." It
took place in my own bathroom. I was soaking away my horse-ride pains in a tub of scalding water
laced with Epsom salts; Holly, an attentive nurse, was sitting on the edge of the tub waiting to rub me
with Sloan's liniment and tuck me into bed. There was a knock at the front door. As the door was
unlocked, Holly called Come in. In came Madame Sapphia Spanella, trailed by a pair of civilian-clothed
detectives, one of them a lady with thick yellow braids roped round her head.
"Here she is: the wanted woman!" boomed Madame Spanella, invading the bathroom and leveling a [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]