by Kal Smagh
She was right. Dammit. I’d have to be more creative and do something in the daytime instead of late at night where I had just had my purse snatched the night before. Still, if it was possible that my purse was there in a rubbish bin then perhaps the envelope was still inside it and this whole thing would be ended. Then I could concentrate on opening letters and finding out who wanted me to ask George for his underwear.
I let out a slow, long sigh. "You’re right. For all I know I would get mugged again. Only this time I would have only my virginity to give."
Freda chuckled at me.
Inside I wondered what right did Melanie Bumpus have to make me feel like she was a cheat? That’s probably what her husband was wondering too.
CHAPTER 13: Day 3, AMATEUR SLEUTH
The morning air was cold on my face. Exiting my bus to the sidewalk I thought it over again. Where would I find Melanie Bumpus during the day? It would be either at her home or her work. I didn’t know where either one was. So, I decided to go to the Splinter Bar and ask. I needed a reason for asking, otherwise no one would dare tell me. In the struggling November daylight I came up with the idea of telling her the truth: I worked for Brian. She was interested in him and it might turn a few heads and get cooperation.
At the Splinter Bar the door was ajar, letting cool air into a brown and drab room that reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke. God, the smell was awful, like the inside of an ashtray. I walked in and a lady who was sweeping took notice but didn’t say anything.
I asked her, "Is Melanie Bumpus here?"
"What'd you say? You’re mumbling. Take your hand off of your mouth."
Oh! I put my hand down, embarrassed I was blocking the smell so visibly. I said, "Is Melanie Bumpus here?"
She pointed into the dark bar, "Ask in the office. I just clean up. I don’t know any of that."
"Thank you." She kept pointing and I walked towards a door that said ‘Office’ and tried to keep my hand down from covering my inflamed nostrils. It smelled almost like a seafood market only there were no fish anywhere to be seen. Fish in an ashtray. Wonderful.
Reaching the door, I knocked and a man’s gravelly voice burst, "Come in."
He was a heavily muscled bouncer type, wearing a vest and seated behind a gray metal desk. He said, "If you’re here to collect for delivery I don’t have the money. That’s the owner’s area."
I said, "Not here to collect. I’m looking for Melanie Bumpus. Will she be here soon?"
He stopped what he was doing, and took a long gander at me. "What are you, her little sister?" He looked me up and down, from my legs up to my face, pausing too long at my chest.
"No. I was there when Mr. Prescott was attacked on the street. I wanted to talk with her because my purse was stolen."
"What?" he shrugged, "Don’t know anything about Prescott being attacked. It happened where?"
"Right outside, on the sidewalk right next to the alley."
"I’d know about that. And I don’t know nothing about it."
"If you could help me, I just want to get in contact with Melanie Bumpus. Do you happen to know where she lives?"
"She sleeps at Prescott’s. They’re both at home, I don’t expect ‘em in for a few hours."
I swallowed, "If you could tell me where they live that would be helpful."
A quick dismissive shake no, "You’d do better to come back later. I’m not giving away the boss’s home address. Sorry, girl." I turned to leave and felt his eyes on me.
I went back out into the hideous smelling bar area. The area was medium sized, and could probably fit fifty or more people into it. It did have a small wooden stage along the wall opposite the bar. There was almost nobody in the place, however it was early so that made sense. Who would ever want to eat in a place like this was beyond me.
And then, walking in the door, was Melanie Bumpus and Wayne Prescott. He wore a suit jacket and slacks, she was in a skirt and pink blouse. We made eye contact and he didn’t seem to register who I was through his look of bewilderment...like: ‘why is a girl in my bar?’ Prescott's eyes narrowed, staring at me.
"Who are you? What do you want? Leave or I’ll get the law." Mr. Prescott was certainly matter-of-fact and direct, just as he’d been outside the Cavern. He’d probably kicked out many drunks from this pit.
It took Melanie a moment and then she seemed to recognize me. Melanie turned to Mr. Prescott, "Don’t you remember her, Wayne?"
He shook his head no with one jerk.
"This is the girl who helped you when you were conked the other night."
He looked at me, turning to look at her and she raised her eyebrows at him. Then he said, "Oh, yes. Yes, I think I remember. Such a terrible night."
I asked, "How is your head?"
"My what? Oh, my head. My head feels much better."
Melanie said, "It gave us quite a scare. But we’re only a few quid lighter and on the mend."
She didn’t ask about me. "Not the same here. Lost my money and things. My license. So, I am looking for my purse."
Prescott shot out, "I don’t have it."
Melanie glared at him, and then looked at me and said, "We wouldn’t have it." Then she added for Mr. Prescott, "It was stolen from her. Do you remember that?"
"No, I don’t. I don’t have any memory of that."
"I was hoping I could have a chance to speak to you, Melanie."
She stiffened, suspicious, "What about?"
"My purse had something very important in it. And I was wondering if perhaps you knew any more about it."
"Why would I know anything more about it? A man grabbed it and ran down the block."
"Well, I work for Mr. Brian Epstein..." I swallowed hard before the next words came out, "...and there may be an opportunity for a reward if I can get my purse back."
I felt Prescott’s eyes zero in on me with intensity. "Brian, eh? What’s he got to do with it?"
I gulped, "The lyrics to a song were in an envelope in my purse. That song is very important to the Beatles."
They both looked at me with rapt attention. I’d said magic words. I half expected both of their jaws to fall open, but they were completely expressionless, as if it did not register what I was saying. Or maybe it did. I wasn’t sure. Knowing that Prescott wanted to represent the Beatles, if he had their song, he could always try to extract some reward money if he got it back.
I continued, having their attention, and lying, "So now the Beatles will need to write the lyrics out again and it looks like Mr. Epstein will have to receive that through the mail in London where he is away on business for a few days."
"And you’d rather get the envelope back because you might lose your job?"
"Yes. And I just started."
"What is so special about those lyrics?"
"It’s going to be a hit song. And make the Beatles a lot of money." I coughed, the putrid smells in here were unbearable.
They looked at each other and then turned to me in unison. Prescott said, "I can do some asking around."
"Would you? I would be so grateful. Whoever has those lyrics has a hit song." I went to walk out of the Splinter Club, hand to my mouth. The fumes were positively death to me and I had hoped that my nose would grow fatigued and it would no longer register. No such luck.
I added, "Thank you so much. Any help you can provide would make me so grateful."
"Where are you located?" It was Melanie.
"I am at the Beatles fan club office at NEMS." I walked back out the door and to the wonderful and comparatively clean smell of automobile exhaust on the street.
I had a sinking feeling I’d overshared. I’d put myself in their hands. And instead of making things clearer I’d muddied them up further. I was no closer to helping Brian.
To make matters worse, I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and caught myself before falling head first into a rubbish bin. Why was I so clumsy?
CHAPTER 14: TAMARA MARYLEBONE
"You did what?" F
reda was incredulous. She stopped sorting and stared at me, envelopes in both hands.
"I asked them to help me find my purse. So, they could get the reward."
"There’s no reward."
"They don’t know that."
Shaking her head, "Brian will be upset you spoke with them."
There was a knock at the door. Freda and I looked at each other and then the door opened and in walked the attractive brunette from outside the Cavern Club. The one Prescott had called a "tart".
She was alone and sauntered into the room like a cat. Freda kept working her desk items, not impressed.
"Hello. I was wondering if any of the Beatles were planning on coming by today? You know, to pick up their mail?" She was easily 24 or 25. Older than the boys.
Freda said, hands full, "Don’t know. Unlikely."
"Oh. I saw them here the day before yesterday."
"Did you?"
She looked down, embarrassed. Then seemed to regain her gumption, "You two are the luckiest girls, getting to be near them."
"Are we? Well, I guess we are." Freda spread her arms wide, "And this is our kingdom." Piles of letters and stacks of mail filled the room. "You’re a fan club member, right? Tamara Marylebone, is it?"
She smiled and her teeth were perfectly straight. I envied and feared her at the same time. She made pangs of insufficiency bounce around inside me. What I wouldn’t give to be naturally attractive like her.
Tamara said, "Yes." Blushing.
She looked beautiful when crimson faced while I had a history of turning a shade of tomato.
She asked, "Do you mail letters from here, too?"
Freda started, "Not—"
"—Yes!" I cut in. "We do."
I felt Freda’s stare.
I continued, "Why?"
Her eyes landed on me. "No reason. Just wondering if it, um, functions like a post office. A Beatles post office."
I nodded while catching Freda's glare at me, "Yes, most definitely."
That seemed to be what she wanted to learn. Why?
She stood for a moment, an awkward silence descending on we three. Her eyes wandered to the stacks and then to the piles. "Is it like this every day? This much mail?"
Freda said, "Most definitely," and I felt the edginess in her voice, clearly impatient for Tamara to depart.
I said, helping, "We should get back answering all this. Anything else we can do for you?"
She got the message. "No. I’ll go. You have scads here. My goodness." She lingered a moment longer, then turned and let herself out. After the door closed, we waited a beat, then Freda said, "She’s been watching the office. I don’t like it."
If she saw the Beatles come and go from here then she might have known about the letter Paul had dropped off. How was this related to my purse getting stolen? It was a man who took it. Perhaps there was much more to this. My mind started getting cloudy. Was I looking in the wrong place? Why would she care if we mailed items from here? Unless she’s spoken to Melanie Bumpus. I didn’t think she would talk to Prescott after the way he’d insulted her. What was the connection to Melanie? My mind was swimming. I didn’t mention any of it to Freda, she was already miffed I’d spoken to Melanie at the Splinter Bar. This exchange with Tamara didn't help.
I opened a pouch and then a letter. I said, "This one is asking for a ring that Ringo has worn. Even has a return envelope with postage."
Freda sighed, looking at me. She didn't know what to do with me. I could see it in her eyes.
Then, resetting herself to business matters she reached into a box or sorted mail, lifting an envelope up high, "Perfect. This one contained a ring. It's meant for Ringo to wear. When we see the boys, we can have him try it on and then send it to your writer."
CHAPTER 15: MR. HENRY
The phone rang out like a spastic church bell. Freda grabbed it up, listening for a moment, mouthing to me silently, "Brian." Into the mouthpiece she said, "Yes. At what time? Noon?"
Freda hung up, looking at me slyly, "Guess what? Mr. Henry, the banker, the husband of the philandering Splinter Bar Melanie, is lunching with Brian today."
I couldn't imagine why she would be with Wayne Prescott while still being married to a banker, a person with money. How could I possibly find out why she was having an affair? One way was to be there at that lunch. But I had no reason to be there, especially since I was a mailroom girl, junior level.
I said to Freda, "I want to meet Mr. Henry. When he comes for Brian.’
"Why?"
"Because I want to see Mr. Henry."
"He’s not much to look at. Banker type. Stodgy and thick glasses. Just like the movies."
"I’d like to see for myself."
"Be my guest. He’s boring. No wonder she is cheating on him."
"But with Wayne Prescott? His bar is atrocious. It makes no sense." Then I added, "Coming here?"
She scoffed, "He’s not coming here. They’re meeting at a restaurant."
A plan immediately formed in my mind. I’d find a way to be there. I’d slip in and no one would know I was there. "Which one?"
"Helen! What’s all this got to do with the Beatles? You know...our work."
"That’s what I want to find out."
She laughed and said, "Good luck blending in."
"Why?"
"It's at the Golden Phoenix."
"What’s that?"
"Chinese."
"Oh."
"What? Did you think you’d show up and get a job?
"That is what I’m thinking."
"You’re the looniest girlfriend I’ve ever had."
Sheepishly I said, "I expect so. I'm just going out for lunch. That's fine, right?"
She pursed her lips, hanging her head to the side. Then shook it slowly side to side.
"Don't stay out too long. We have a lot of work to do here. But," her eyes gleamed, "do find out something juicy."
CHAPTER 16: THE GOLDEN PHOENIX
On Hanover Street I gazed at the bright Golden Phoenix sign. Being smart and sticking to my plan I walked to the end of the block and entered from the back alley into the kitchen. An open screen door was my invitation.
It was a hot jungle, steamy and smelling of boiling vegetables, and a lot of Chinese was being spoken. I didn’t know Mandarin from Cantonese.
Who was I kidding?
I didn’t know Swahili or any other language for that matter. Freda was right, there was no way I was going to blend in as one of the kitchen staff. I received a growing number of odd glances as a stranger wandering around, then I heard the lady at the cash register out front. She was speaking English to a guest and then seating them. I came out of the kitchen and went up front to her. She wore a little name tag that said "Ping" on the front of her white blouse. Her straight black hair was shiny.
She said, "One for lunch, no boyfriend?"
I tried to decide if I’d been insulted. It was insulting...to have to figure it out. "No boyfriend. Just me."
"I know."
Insulted and now also offended. I was certainly capable of having a boyfriend. I just didn’t have one. I said, "I’ll wait for a moment."
"Why wait?" She wagged a finger dismissively, "You have no boyfriend coming."
"No. My boss is going to have lunch here with a business associate."
"Ah. Not good to have your boyfriend as boss. And he brings another businessman to be your boyfriend?"
"No. I’m just having lunch myself. But I want to be seated near my boss for his business lunch."
"Right. You have no boyfriend." She smiled. "It’s okay, honey. One day you’ll have a boyfriend."
I had no idea how this had even started. But I knew I needed to hear Brian’s conversation so I didn’t want to offend Ping by telling her how rude she was being, making so many assumptions about my boyfriend-worthiness.
Triple insulted, I sat down in a chair near the check-in stand and picked up a paper menu so that I could cover my face when they arrived.
Just moments later I heard Brian’s refined voice followed by a deeper voice of a man who must’ve been in his forties. Over my raised menu I peeked. Brian was easily taller than the man. The banker definitely looked like what Freda had described: medium height, maybe five foot seven inches, around the size of a small refrigerator, with butterscotch hair and thick brown glasses. He wore a dark gray suit straining at the waist button and if I didn’t know he already was a banker he could easily have passed as an overweight mortician.
I kept the menu up to my face, concealing my identity as Mr. Henry spoke hoarsely to Ping. "Table for two."
"Yes. Follow me."
As she led them, she turned around and looked at me and gave a big obvious wink that made Brian turn briefly toward my direction. Damn it, Ping! Stop blowing my cover!
She seated them in a booth. Then coming back over to me, "I put the men along the wall so that you could sit in the booth next to them."
"Thank you."
"Follow me. Keep the menu up over your face. You don’t have a boyfriend so it’s too bad that no one will see your face."
That was almost a compliment? But I had other things on my mind, namely hearing what the banker had to say to Brian. Face covered, I’m sure looking odd, I sat with my back to Brian’s back and facing away, able to see the street outside through the picture window and it’s backward red and gold lettering.
"...So, what I’m interested in is the group you’re representing. Beatles. Such an unusual name."
Brian said, "Yes they came up with it. Rather stands out, don’t you think?"
"I'll say. And I understand they are selling out a lot of shows."
"Yes, it’s going well. We’re hoping to record again next week."
"Record? Here in Liverpool?"
"We have been with EMI in London.
"Oh, EMI. Good outfit." He sounded impressed. "White lab coat people."
"The boys have a song out that’s getting some radio airplay. Love Me Do it’s called. Heard it?"
"No, I don’t listen to Scousers. But I do sense a business deal that could make us both rich."