The Man in the White Linen Suit

by David Handler

  “You can go ahead and bad-mouth them all you want. That was a very nice wristwatch you gave him.”

  “He told you?”

  “He didn’t have to.”

  “I like to show people my gratitude. We understood each other. Spoke the same language.”

  “And now he’s dead.”

  Yvette’s soft round face tightened. “Who in the heck would want to shoot him in the head? I mean, it sounded like a gangland hit or something. It’s kinda freaky, don’t you think?”

  “I do. I think it’s extremely freaky. Mel told us that you’d spoken to Tommy O’Brien about him. Tommy phoned his office from my apartment before someone threw him off the roof. The two of them were planning to get together to talk about his contract with Sylvia.”

  “Yeah, Tommy told me he’d lined up a better job somewhere else. More bucks, more credit. Only he’d signed a piece of paper that made him like an indentured servant to Addy. I thought maybe Mel could help him.”

  “Somewhat weird, both of them turning up dead, don’t you think?”

  She studied me with her huge blue eyes again. “Hoagy, I really don’t know what to think except . . .”

  “Except what?”

  “Somebody’s gone loco.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think this is loco?”

  “Oh, it’s plenty loco. But it’s also been carefully planned. None of this has been haphazard or spontaneous, starting with the theft of Tulsa last Friday. That’s what makes it so mystifying.”

  One of the pocket doors slid open and Mark Kaplan came in, elegantly tailored and brimming with upper-crust certitude—everything that Mel Klein hadn’t been.

  He made his way straight for Yvette with a caring, fatherly expression on his face. “Terrible business about Mel Klein.”

  “Ya think?” she said in tight-lipped response.

  “I was sorry to hear about it.”

  “You and me both. Excuse me,” she said, darting back over to the desk to check on Addison.

  “Couldn’t get away from me fast enough,” Kaplan observed wryly. “She actively detests me. I wonder why.”

  “It might have something to do with the prenup that you drew up.”

  “I was simply fulfilling Addison’s wishes. I do what my clients ask. Have you had any luck securing the return of Tulsa?”

  “Plenty. All of it the wrong kind.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said, helping himself to a mug of coffee from the urn. He poured some milk in and stirred it. He wore a worsted wool navy blue suit, a pale blue broadcloth shirt with French cuffs and those same silver horseshoe cuff links. “I’m afraid that this is turning into what my son, Mark Jr., refers to as a ‘total shit storm.’”

  “I’m afraid your son, Mark Jr., is right.”

  Kaplan smiled at me faintly before he excused himself and went over to greet his client.

  I prepared a second plate of pickled herring for Lulu before I went to visit Kathleen and Richie, who were seated on one of the leather sofas with plates of food in their laps, looking out of place in their tank tops, shorts and sneakers. They were dressed for a summer picnic in the park, not an elegant two-story penthouse in a doorman building on Riverside Drive.

  Lulu had growled at Richie again when he and Kathleen got there, Richie reeking of Aqua Velva. Again, I wondered if he’d been the one who’d bugged the phone in my apartment and whether Lulu had smelled the residue of his cologne. Was this her way of trying to tip me off? Or did she simply not like the guy? Having a nonverbal sidekick can be a bit confounding sometimes.

  Kathleen seemed downcast, seated there with her plate of lox and bagels. Richie was busy devouring a pastrami sandwich and sneaking looks at the delectable Yvette across the room. The way he was ogling her led me to believe he’d never set eyes on her before, which may or may not have meant something.

  “Nice to see you folks again,” I said, perching on the arm of the sofa. Lulu came over and sat at my feet, watching Richie balefully.

  “I sure do wish I knew what we were doing here,” Kathleen said.

  “Me, too,” echoed Richie, as he continued to eyeball Yvette. Subtle he was not. “I ain’t complaining, mind you. We don’t get invited to places like this every day. The doorman told me that the Bambino used to live in this very building. Is that for real?”

  “I believe it is,” I said, studying Kathleen. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m hanging in. That’s all I can do, right?”

  “Have your daughters made it to town?”

  “They should be at the apartment when we get home.”

  “What did you folks do today? Something fun, I hope.”

  “Richie took me for a ride on the Staten Island Ferry this morning . . .”

  “Cheap date,” he said, winking at me. “And then we saw a W. C. Fields twin bill at the Film Forum.”

  “Really? Which of his movies did you see?”

  “Um, The Bank Dick and It’s a Gift, right, hon?”

  She nodded her head ever so slightly.

  “I love It’s a Gift,” I said. “Especially that scene when he’s trying to fall asleep on the covered porch and that loudmouthed guy comes around looking for someone named Carl LaFong: ‘Capital L, small a, capital F, small o, small n, small g. LaFong. Carl LaFong.’”

  Richie looked at me blankly before he said, “Yeah, they were funny movies.” Then his gaze swiveled to the pocket doors, where Jocko Conlon had just come in, wearing that same loose-fitting, non-flattering aqua Ban-Lon shirt he’d had on earlier that afternoon. Unless, that is, he had an entire collection of them in the same color with the same armpit sweat stains. “Oh, hey, that’s an old buddy of mine from the job. Would you excuse me for a sec, hon?”

  “Of course,” Kathleen said, her eyes never leaving her plate.

  Richie got up and went to say hello, shaking Jocko’s hand and patting his meaty shoulder. Jocko grinned and murmured something in Richie’s ear. The two of them chuckled. Gave every impression of being comrades-in-arms who hadn’t seen each other in a good long while. Unless, that is, they were giving a performance for our benefit.

  Romaine Very went over and joined them. Both men, I noticed, immediately became much more guarded.

  Kathleen’s eyes were still on her plate. “The reason Richie gave you such a funny look just now,” she said in a hushed voice, “is that he only stayed for The Bank Dick. He didn’t watch one second of It’s a Gift. Said he had something to take care of for a friend and left me there. I stayed and watched it by myself. You’re right, it was a funny movie. And it felt good to laugh.” She raised her eyes to meet mine. “That’s the second time he’s lied to you.”

  “He wasn’t taking a nap on your sofa yesterday afternoon while you were watching Oprah, was he?”

  “No, he wasn’t,” she acknowledged.

  “Did a friend need him then, too?”

  “He didn’t say. Just took off. I’m about ready to go insane, Hoagy, I swear. I just . . . I just wish I knew what the hell’s going on.”

  “So do I, Kathleen,” I said before I moved to the other end of the sofa to join Norma Fives and Bart Shackleford. Norma, who wasn’t eating, was gazing around in childlike awe at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with all of the different editions and translations of Addison’s novels. Bart was devouring a corned beef and Swiss cheese sandwich, washing it down with a Coke and doing the same thing Richie had been doing—ogling Yvette, who was still standing on the other side of the room attending to Addison.

  “I can’t even wrap my mind around that old man’s output,” Norma said to me in amazement. “Forty-two novels, all of them translated into more than thirty languages. He keeps Guilford House afloat all by himself, you know. His earnings keep the lights on and pay everyone’s salaries.”

  “Pretty incredible,” Bart agreed. “To be able to produce that much, I mean.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “I’ve been at it for ten y
ears and I’m still trying to come up with my second book.”

  “Alberta told me your first three chapters are thrilling,” Norma said to me. “That’s not a word she throws around loosely. I meant what I said before, Hoagy. I’d love to see them. And now that Sylvia’s out of the picture I won’t have to outbid her for it, as delightful as that would have been.”

  “Just out of curiosity, Norma, are you ever not working?”

  “No,” Bart answered.

  “I’m truly a fan of your work,” she plowed ahead. The woman was a ninety-five-pound juggernaut. “Honestly, it’s a major loss to American literature that you haven’t been writing.”

  “I’ve been writing,” I said.

  “Ghosting other people’s memoirs doesn’t count. They’re not in your voice. Your voice . . .”

  “What about my voice, Norma?”

  “It needs to be heard. You know that. Listen, if you ever want to bounce ideas off of someone . . .”

  “I’m not much of an idea bouncer.”

  “Or just talk about writing, please call me. And for god’s sake, get that horrified look off of your face. I’m not hitting on you.”

  “I know you’re not. If you were, Lulu would be growling at you right now.”

  Instead, Lulu was just gazing up at Norma quizzically. She’d never encountered anyone quite so single-minded.

  “A lot of authors seek me out when they’re in between books. We drink wine. We lie on the grass in Central Park. We talk about serious things, silly things. Sometimes it helps. I’m just sorry that . . . I wish I were old enough that I could have been here for you ten years ago.”

  “Trust me, you wouldn’t have been able to help me. Not unless you were dealing coke on the side.”

  She looked at me with a hurt expression on her face. “You have so much talent. Pissing it away on celebrity memoirs is a sin.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. And I thank you for your interest in my career. I really do. I’ll make sure Alberta shows you the manuscript when it’s ready.”

  “You promise?”

  “Scout’s honor. By the way, you ought to talk to Lieutenant Very if you get a chance. You two have a lot in common.”

  She looked at me in surprise. “We do?”

  It was time for me to keep working the room. I moved back over to the buffet spread, where Jocko Conlon was building a mammoth pastrami sandwich and heaping his plate with potato salad and coleslaw. Richie had rejoined Kathleen, who was giving him a chilly reception. Very was busy using the phone on Addison’s desk. Addison continued to sit with his back to everyone, sipping Dom Pérignon and staring out the window at the Hudson. Yvette stood there next to him with her soft little hand resting on his shoulder.

  “I was sorry to hear about Mel,” I said to Jocko. “He seemed like a decent guy.”

  Jocko eyed me up and down gruffly. “I didn’t know him real well, tell you the truth. I mostly work divorce cases. But I did track down a contact or two for him, and I always liked the little guy. He seemed decent, like you say. Something tells me he got in over his head with that one,” he said, gesturing with his chin toward Yvette. “She’d drive any man nuts. Seriously, have you taken a good look at that ass?”

  “Hard to miss it.”

  Very hung up the phone and gestured to me. I excused myself and made my way over to him as he moved away from Addison and Yvette at the desk.

  “I was just getting the preliminary report from the Nassau County crime scene people on Mel Klein’s condo,” he told me in a low voice.

  “Did they find anything?”

  “Bubkes.”

  “No sign of forced entry?”

  “See above, re bubkes. A cleaning lady came in every Friday morning, but she said he barely needed her. The little guy kept the place neat as a pin on his own. As far as she could tell, no one ever set foot in there except for Mel and her. He slept alone, as in the bedsheets never got a workout. She did say he got a bunch of new clothes lately. Gave his old ones to her for her husband, who’s also a little guy.”

  “Hold on, are you telling me that green shirt of his was new?”

  “Dude, you obsess over the strangest things.”

  “Stupid question, Lieutenant. Couldn’t you have gotten this information directly from Detective Meade over there?”

  “You’re right, I could have,” he acknowledged.

  “I take that to mean you don’t trust Meade as far as you can throw him.”

  “Right again.”

  Meade was seated on the other leather sofa across the coffee table from Kathleen, Richie, Norma and Bart. Jocko had settled himself next to Meade with his huge plate of food. The two of them were murmuring quietly to each other. Sensenbrenner, the narrow Willoughby detective, was sharing the sofa with them, but they were ignoring him completely. He sat there in patient silence, narrow legs crossed, sipping from a mug of coffee and checking out those battered olive drab Army footlockers that served as Addison’s coffee table.

  Norma Fives got up, moved her scrawny self over toward the buffet spread and began poking around there, thinking about possibly helping herself to something.

  “You should go talk to her,” I said to Very. “You two have a lot in common.”

  “We do?” He frowned at me. “Such as . . . ?”

  “Just go talk to her,” I said, nudging him toward the buffet table.

  “Okay, but stop shoving me, will ya?” Very joined her and said, “You’re not partaking?”

  Norma shook her head. “I don’t eat much. I have a nervous stomach.”

  “I know what you mean. I had an ulcer a few years ago.”

  “She also suffers from insomnia,” I informed Very.

  His eyes widened. “Really? If I can drop off for two hours that’s a good night’s sleep for me.”

  “God, I’d kill for two hours,” she said. “All I do is sit up and read manuscripts until dawn.”

  “How did Tommy feel about that?” I asked her.

  Norma narrowed her gaze at me. “He understood.”

  “You didn’t keep him awake at night flipping through those manuscript pages, hour after hour, with the light on?”

  Norma shook her head. “Nothing kept him awake. He slept like a stone.” She studied me curiously. “Why are you asking about that?”

  “Don’t mind me. I ask all sorts of things.”

  “Actually, I’m not super hungry myself,” Very interjected, glancing at Norma. “I don’t suppose you’d split a lox and bagel with me, would you?”

  Norma pondered his question seriously. “Plain or scallion cream cheese?”

  “Scallion, most def.”

  “What kind of bagel?”

  “There’s no point in eating a bagel unless it’s an onion bagel.”

  “You passed the test, Lieutenant. It’s a deal. I’ll fix it.”

  “I can do it.”

  “No, you’ll slather too much cream cheese on it. Men always do.”

  I left them to it and eased on over to the partners desk to visit with Addison, who was alone. Apparently, Mark Kaplan had no time to give him. The attorney was seated in a leather armchair poring over a file from his briefcase and marking it up with a red pencil. Yvette was helping a maid gather up the dirty dishes.

  The old man was still sipping champagne and gazing out the window, lost in his thoughts. He seemed a million miles away. Possibly he was preparing to jump out of a plane into German-occupied France.

  “Are you ready, Mr. James?” I asked.

  It took him a long moment to come back from wherever he was and turn to look at me. “Ready for what?”

  “To figure this out.”

  “It’s your gambit, young fellow, not mine. I’m just the resident senile old man. Do what you will. I won’t stand in your way.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I stood with my back to the desk and Lulu seated at my feet, faced the assembled guests and in a loud, clear voice said, “Could I have everyone’s attention, please?”<
br />
  Norma returned to the sofa with her half bagel and sat with Bart. Yvette came over and sat at the partners desk across from her husband. She’d prepared herself a bagel with sable and cream cheese and was taking little nibbles from it, delicately licking the cream cheese from her fingers for the benefit of Richie, Jocko and Bart, who absolutely could not take their eyes off her. Very remained standing at the buffet table, the better to watch everyone.

  “Quite a lot has happened to all of us,” I began. “The only two copies in existence of Addison James’s latest manuscript, Tulsa, have been stolen and are currently missing. Addison’s associate, Tommy O’Brien, the writer from whom they were stolen, was thrown from the roof of my brownstone on West 93rd yesterday afternoon after first suffering a nasty blow to the back of his head. Last evening, Addison’s daughter, Sylvia, the manuscript’s editor, was run over by a car in front of her house in Willoughby. Run over so many times that virtually every bone in her body was broken. And this afternoon, Mel Klein, an attorney who’d been retained by Yvette James and had also been contacted by Tommy, who was anxious to get out of his contract with Addison, was found in—”

  “Tommy wanted to quit?” Addison demanded indignantly. “Why that ungrateful, no-talent hack.”

  “If I may continue . . .”

  “Do whatever you want,” he huffed. “I don’t give a crap.”

  “Mel was found shot dead in the parking garage of his condo complex in Babylon. Not only are three people dead, but Guilford House has lost its editor in chief as well as next summer’s biggest moneymaker, since Tulsa has vanished and it would take a highly skilled writer—not me—at least a year to put it back together again from Tommy’s early drafts and notes. Meanwhile, Tommy’s lover, Norma Fives of Deep River . . .”

  “Wait, Tommy was banging that little mouse in horn-rims?” Addison interjected. “What on earth for?”

  “Hush, Addy,” Yvette whispered to him.

  Norma reddened, as did Kathleen. Richie reached over and gripped Kathleen’s hand.

  “Norma was anxious to pry him from his contract with Addison so that Tommy could write her a thriller for considerably more money as well as royalty participation, which Sylvia refused to give him on any of the last three novels that he secretly authored for Addison, who isn’t quite up to the job anymore. Norma felt that Addison and Sylvia were taking advantage of Tommy. She was ready to hand him a whole new career.”