“And what do you think of Tommy?”
“Why are you asking?”
“We’ve known each other for years. We’re old friends.”
She eyed me shrewdly again. “Is that right?”
“That’s why I find it so hard to believe that he stole the manuscript. He’s not that kind of guy.”
“You telling me someone else took it?”
“Not necessarily. People do change. Even old friends.”
“They sure do. I can barely recognize some of the girls I went to high school with. What do I think of Tommy? Okay, sure. He’s Jackson Heights to the bone. Bad haircut. Bad suit. Married his high school sweetheart. But he’s always been super polite to me. Never tries to hit on me. Strictly cares about his work and his family.” She moved a bit closer to me on the loveseat, reached over and neatened the collar of my navy blue blazer, not that it needed neatening. “And his girlfriend, of course. They all have girlfriends.”
“By they, you mean . . . ?”
“All of those poor slobs who married their high school sweethearts. After twenty years they want a taste of something different. I overheard him talking to her on the phone one day. Tommy’s okay, but he’s got no sizzle. Not like you.” She inched even closer, reached over and neatened my shirt collar now, not that it needed neatening. Her fingers strayed north, stroking my neck delicately as I recalled Tommy’s words of warning: Never drop your guard around Yvette.
I glanced at Grandfather’s Benrus. It was twenty minutes after eleven. “Sylvia ought to be here soon, unless she has trouble getting a cab in this rain. I hope I’m not keeping you from anything.”
“Are you kidding? I’m thrilled to have you all to myself. What’s your deal? You involved with anyone?”
“My ex-wife.”
“Still? I thought you and Merilee split up years ago.”
“We’re working at getting back together. She is, however, in Budapest for the next five weeks.”
Yvette brightened considerably. “In that case, you want a little company some evening? Addy won’t mind. He lets me go my own way.” She tilted her head at me curiously. “Why are you looking at me that way?”
“I’m just a bit confused. I thought you were involved with someone.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Word gets around.”
“Sylvia, am I right? That nasty bitch means Mel Klein, my lawyer. She hates him because he thinks the prenup that Addy’s lawyer, Mark Kaplan, made me sign is a total rip-off. What did I know? I was a naive kid. But I don’t get a penny of the hundreds of millions that Addy’s got socked away when he kicks off. Or any of our vacation retreats. Sylvia gets them all.”
“Where will you live?”
“Here,” she said, gazing around at her sitting room. “I get our penthouse, which is, like, a sick joke. I won’t even be able to make the monthly maintenance payments on it with what he’s leaving me, which is a measly income of two thou a month. Mel figures, worst-case scenario, I can sell this place, buy myself a nice little two-bedroom on West End and invest the proceeds. But he honestly thinks he can get me a better deal. And he’s the only lawyer I’ve ever met who talks to me in a way that makes sense, which most lawyers don’t.”
“You’re not wrong there.”
“Plus he’s working on a contingency basis, which means he’s not charging me. He’s also not trying to get in my panties.”
“So you do wear panties.”
She swatted at me playfully. “He’s just a nebbish with dandruff. We met in Sag Harbor over the summer. His law firm—Klein, Walker and Pignatano—is on the South Shore. Mel handles wills and estates, Phil Walker’s a bankruptcy specialist and Joe Pignatano’s a divorce lawyer.”
“It’s just the three of them?”
“And Jocko Conlon, who takes photos of cheating spouses doing the big naughty in motel rooms.”
“He’s a private investigator?”
“I guess.”
“Have you met him?”
“Yeah, one time when I went to the office. He’s a big fat slob. Really gave me the creeps.”
“Is he bald?”
“Why are you asking me that?”
“Because I think I may know him.”
“No, he has curly red hair that’s turning gray.”
“Oh, then I guess I’m thinking of someone else. Is that the only time you ever met him?”
“Met who?”
“Jocko, who really gave you the creeps.”
“Well, yeah.” She furrowed her brow. “Why do you keep asking me about him?”
“It’s what I do. Ask questions.”
“And, what, people pay you for that?”
“Sylvia is. Quite handsomely, in fact.”
“You must be some kind of con artist. Because that woman is cheap, let me tell ya.” Yvette looked at me curiously. “You have a funny way of asking them. And I don’t mean funny ha-ha. I mean funny like you think maybe I’m not being straight with you.”
“Are you? Being straight with me, I mean.”
“Of course I am, silly. What a thing to say.” She swatted at me playfully again. “I only met him that one time at Mel’s office. And for real, there’s nothing going on between Mel and me. That’s not to say he isn’t hot for me. But he hasn’t got a chance. Not like you.” Yvette swiveled around sideways on the loveseat and plopped her small, pampered bare foot in my lap, wiggling her painted toes. “You can suck on them if you’d like to.”
I gazed at them for a moment before I said, “Not right now, thanks.”
Yvette stuck out her lower lip. “Why not? Don’t you like me?”
“I assure you that’s not the issue,” I said marveling at Merilee’s uncanny territorial instincts. It was as if she’d known that some form of temptation would come along the instant she left town. “I’m old school, that’s all. Once I start something, I like to finish it.”
“Oh, I see . . .” She grinned at me devilishly, tucking her foot back underneath her. “Can I be totally honest?”
“That would be nice.”
“I can’t remember the last time I had such an instant case of the hots for a guy. I mean, I’m even feeling light-headed.”
“That’s not me, actually. That’s Lulu’s breath.”
Yvette got up and padded over to a writing table. “Listen, here’s my private line,” she said, scribbling it on a piece of notepaper. “Call me any time, day or night. I can meet you wherever you want in a half hour. I make house calls. And I promise you won’t be disappointed.” She held the notepaper out to me with a sly grin. “Okay?”
I treated Yvette to my most winning smile. “More than okay,” I said, pocketing it. After all, she might prove to be very useful. Her South Shore lawyer, Mel, employed a PI who just happened to match the ID of the guy who’d threatened Tommy on the sidewalk after the muggers snatched his briefcase. That meant Yvette gave me a potential way to penetrate this scheme, as it were.
I glanced at Grandfather’s Benrus again. It was eleven-thirty. I wanted a half hour alone with the great Addison James. “Sylvia must be running late. Would you mind introducing me to your husband?”
“No prob, hon. Let’s go knock on his door.”
I followed her jiggly tush down the long hall, wondering why she’d hit on me with such an utter absence of subtlety. Admittedly, I’m attractive in a devil-may-care way that’s reminiscent of a vintage Hollywood leading man. Don’t take my word for it. Cosmopolitan said so in its July ’83 issue. But what was the real reason? Had her lawyer, Mel Klein, put her up to it? Or was she pursuing her own agenda? Whatever it was, my eyes were wide open. When you’ve been around the block enough times with the people who are close to rich, famous celebrities you learn two valuable kernels of truth:
One, every single one of them is yearning for a big payday of their own.
Two, every single one of them is a natural-born liar.
The great author’s suite was at the end of the h
all behind a set of oak pocket doors. Behind the doors I could hear a steady rhythmic thumping.
Yvette knocked on one of them.
“Enter!” a booming voice called out.
She slid it open to reveal a huge, high-ceilinged office. Tall windows looked out over the Hudson River. The summer rain was pattering hard against them. The office was not air-conditioned. It was so steamy in there that the windows were fogging up. Addison James was over by them at a giant walnut partners desk wearing a black eye patch, a jockstrap, a pair of black combat boots and absolutely nothing else as he ran in place, his knees high, shoulders thrown back, chin up—the very portrait of manic seventy-eight-year-old determination.
Lulu and I entered, Lulu with her nose to the floor. Yvette remained behind in the doorway.
A kitchen timer was ticking away on the desk. When Addison noticed me there, he held up a hand, warning me not to speak as he continued to run in place.
So I looked around at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases surrounding us that were filled with the domestic and foreign editions of what appeared to be every one of his forty-two bestselling epics. Hundreds of books. Hell, thousands. There was a seating area of two well-worn leather sofas and matching armchairs that were arranged around a coffee table that consisted of a pair of battered U.S. Army olive drab footlockers set end to end. There was a refrigerator next to an open door that led to a bathroom. Through another open doorway I could see a bedroom with a white cast-iron bed.
I looked back at Addison, watching the sweat pour off him onto the parquet floor and puddle there as he ran in place in his heavy combat boots, gasping. Opened on the desk before him was a dog-eared paperback copy of the Royal Canadian Air Force exercise regimen, which had been devised back in the 1950s so that airmen who were stationed in remote, frigid locales could remain fit. Aside from it, a rotary phone and a folded towel, the huge desk was bare. His old Underwood, a fine office machine, was parked on a stand facing the windows.
The kitchen timer rang. Addison came slowly to a stop, breathing heavily, and reached for the towel to mop the sweat from his face and neck.
“I haven’t seen that book since I was in junior high school,” I said to him. “A gym teacher gave each of us a copy.”
“I’ve been keeping to the regimen seven days a week for thirty years,” he panted, wiping his shoulders and chest with the towel. “It’s a total body workout in just eleven minutes. One minute each of push-ups, sit-ups and leg lifts. Two minutes of bending and stretching. Six minutes of running in place.” He slapped his flat stomach proudly. He was remarkably lean and muscled and stood rigidly erect for a man of seventy-eight. Still an honest six feet tall. He was also remarkably hairless. He shaved his head and eyebrows as well as whatever wisps of white hair he had on his chest and shoulders. Truly, he was an amazing physical specimen aside from the deep puckered scars on the outside of his left thigh and calf.
“Almost lost that leg to a grenade when I was working with the French Resistance,” he said, noticing me notice it. “It was a near thing. The docs were lopping off limbs left and right. They did manage to save it. Couldn’t do the same for my peeper, though,” he said, tapping his eye patch. He opened the refrigerator, which was filled with liter bottles of Perrier water, opened one and gulped half of it down, paused a moment and then gulped the remaining half, studying me with his one not-so-good eye. Or so Sylvia had told me. He went in the bathroom and returned wearing a white terry cloth robe. “It took me over a year of punishing recuperation at a VA hospital before I could walk again.”
“This is Stewart Hoag, Addy,” said Yvette, who’d remained in the open pocket doorway. “He has an appointment to see you.”
“I’m well aware of that, Yvette,” he responded testily.
“Can I get you boys anything?”
“Yes, you can get the fuck out!” he roared, hurling the empty Perrier liter bottle across the room at her with great velocity.
She let out a scream as it smashed against the wall next to her, the glass shattering into a million pieces. Then she yanked the door shut hard and I heard her scamper away. Lulu ran under the desk and hid.
Addison James approached me now in the steamy heat of his immense office and stuck out his hand.
I shook it, his moist hand gripping mine tightly. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. James.”
“Will you tell me something, Mr. Hoag?” He had a deep, strong voice. The voice of a fearless hard charger, which was exactly what he’d been during the war when Wild Bill Donovan plucked him out of Yale for the OSS. Rumor had it that he’d stayed on with the CIA after the war doing clandestine work while he was overseas researching his first two novels, which just happened to take place in Moscow and Berlin.
“Most people call me Hoagy.”
He peered at me with his one not-so-good eye. “As in Carmichael?”
“As in the cheesesteak. I can try.”
“You can try what?”
“To tell you something.”
“Why did I marry that stupid little piece of tail? Why didn’t I just keep on fucking her senseless and leave it at that?”
“Maybe you love her.”
“I have never loved anyone,” he stated categorically. “Stop. Backspace. Erase. I loved Sylvia’s mother, Aline, who I lost to breast cancer much too young. Aline was my nurse at the VA hospital in Asheville. I wouldn’t have made it if it hadn’t been for her.”
“So you don’t love Yvette?”
“Who could love that?” he demanded scornfully. “She’s a complete idiot.”
“Seems pretty shrewd to me.”
“In that case I was misinformed about you. You’re obviously a complete idiot, too.”
Addison James pulled no punches. I suppose I wouldn’t either if I’d been the bestselling author in the world for the past forty years.
He peered under his partners desk, noticing Lulu for the first time. “Who let that dog in here?”
“Good question.”
“Is it your dog?”
“Never saw her before. I assumed she was yours.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re a comedian. You may as well know from the outset that I have no use for comedians. Tommy liked to crack wise when he first came to me. A regular newsroom wit. I quickly broke him of the habit.” He fetched another bottle of Perrier from the refrigerator, not bothering to offer me one, twisted off the top and drank from it.
My shirt was beginning to stick to me from the muggy heat of his office. I took off my blazer, laying it over a sofa.
“I hope you don’t mind the warmth,” he said. “I detest air conditioning.”
“Not a problem. My fifth-floor walk-up hasn’t got any. I’m accustomed to it.”
“Did you do them?”
“Do what, Mr. James?”
“The Royal Canadian Air Force exercises.”
“Briefly. I lost interest.”
“At my age I can’t afford to.” He settled into his oak desk chair, which tilted and rolled. “Stamina and muscle tone are vital when you become ancient. So is proper hydration. I drink eight of these bottles per day. Have a seat, why don’t you?”
I sat in the oak chair across the partners desk from him, which neither rolled nor swiveled. Evidently, it was the junior partner’s chair.
We faced each other across the expanse of walnut for a moment before he said, “So how are the last two chapters of Tulsa coming?”
I looked down at Lulu. Lulu was looking up at me. “Excuse me?”
“Last time you were here you said you just had two more to go.”
“I’m not Tommy O’Brien, Mr. James.”
He peered at me with his one not-so-good eye. “No, of course not. Who are you again?”
“Hoagy, as in the cheesesteak, remember?”
“Hoagy . . .” He ran a hand over his bald pink head, his face a total blank. “Afraid I have no idea what you’re doing here.”
“Sylvia asked me to stop by. She should be here mome
ntarily.”
“Whatever for?”
“To talk about Tulsa. Someone took off with the only two copies of it Friday night. You do remember that, don’t you?”
Addison sat there in befuddled silence. Sylvia hadn’t exaggerated. He wasn’t all there anymore. “Why . . . would they want to do that?”
“Don’t know yet. Possibly to hold it for ransom, although there hasn’t been a ransom demand yet as far as I know.”
He shook a long, bony finger at me across the desk. “I guarantee you Tommy has it. Wants me to give him a raise. He’s got two daughters in college and complains constantly about how expensive it is. God, how I hate ordinary people and their ordinary lives.”
“Tommy hasn’t got Tulsa.”
“So you’ve spoken to him?”
“I have.”
“Total hack, but he has his uses. Or he did until now. Where is he?”
“Flying under the radar.”
“As in hiding out?”
“Tommy’s genuinely frightened. He was mugged outside of the copier shop on Broadway. His briefcase containing the only two copies of Tulsa was snatched by a pair of young black street kids. They handed it off to someone who was waiting in a cab. When Tommy started running toward the cab, a guy standing there next to him showed him a gun and said, ‘We know where you live.’”
Addison gazed out the fogged window at the summer rain. “Stewart Hoag . . . I just realized why I know your name. I plowed through your highly overrated debut novel. Total drivel. Just another spoiled, angry boy lashing out at Dada. Are you still?”
“No, I’m over that. He’s in an assisted living facility now.”
“Sylvia will never get me in one of those places. I’ll blow my brains out first. Thinks I’m senile. Wants some fancy-pants doctor to run tests on me—which I assure you will never happen—to determine if I suffer from something called dementia, whatever the hell that is.”
The Man in the White Linen Suit Page 5