“No.” I started to walk away but stopped in my tracks. “Who's Maguire?”
“Ever hear of Wicked?” She kept her gaze on the computer screen.
“That little production they got going over on Broadway?”
“Mm-hmm, the same.”
“Baum will do.” I unveiled another dangerous dosage of pearly whites.
“Have a good day then.” She didn't seem to notice.
Maybe she only liked men who were into Wicked. I'll never know.
21
ON MY VARIOUS TRIPS to the main branch of the New York City Library I'd never actually checked out the Children's Center before, so stopped at the. A. A. Milne exhibit showcasing the original stuffed animals that inspired his imaginary Pooh creations before continuing on to L. Frank Baum's catalogue number, courtesy of the stern but equally saucy librarian. I spotted The Marvelous Land of Oz, Baum's first official Oz sequel to Wizard, and thumbed across various other hardbound spines for the right book. I couldn't exactly remember which one, I'd read most of them as a child, just as Elise had, and picked up Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz, Baum's fourth entry in the series. I scanned John R. Neill's marvelous pen and ink illustrations, but the person I was looking for wasn't contained in them. I found Ozma of Oz, a childhood favorite of mine, and The Emerald City of Oz, which was considered to display Neill's best work in the series. But neither revealed my character of interest. Perhaps memories were misguided. Or maybe I was crazy. All that was left was a bad case of talking to oneself. There were plenty of those sorts in this city. According to Mahoney there were leprechauns too.
It was selecting Baum's fifth entry in his fourteen-part series, The Road to Oz, when I found him, the homeless man. Except here in the pages of Kansas (and eventually the fairy-land of Oz) he was known as the Shaggy Man, equally nameless. It was him alright. I was almost certain of it. Had I hired Neill as a sketch artist (that is, after I witnessed the homeless man's murder on July the Fourth), then this would be it. From the pages of literature to Elise's special childhood imagination and finally regurgitated into my own life, I present to you the Shaggy Man.
I carried Road over to the Sky Room, with its awe-inspiring elevated ceiling, and scanned through Baum's rainbow-colored pages, mostly breathless as I did so, totally unprepared for the theoretical hypothesis that was now sprawling its legs out before me. I discreetly stared at the balding Indian man across the long rectangular table. I'd seen him here two or three times before, bent under the same green lampshade and wearing the identical shapeless cream colored slacks and sneakers as my visit weeks prior. I turned my stare over towards the two college-aged girls scanning Facebook on a laptop computer, stalking some cute college-aged boy instead of studying from their textbooks, as was likely the original intent. Or maybe it was all a decoy to study up for life’s true exam.
Added up, two college aged girls and one elderly Indian man made three. I could do simple math. They were only three individuals in a city of eight million. Therein lay the problem. Forget my return trip down Fifth Avenue. This newfound faith was overwhelming, and already I felt lonely. Lonely, because I had inadvertently tripped over the sort of nonsensical discovery, if we're talking about the accepted ordinary and mundane of post Santa Clause thinking, that only people who talk to themselves stumble into.
22
I RECOGNIZED THE WOMAN by her voice without ever having to get a look at her.
“Joshua!” That woman said.
Ellie Alexander was some sort of Doctor of Religion or something, which always confused me since she was also a world renowned atheist and one of Christopher Hitchens disciples. It never made any sense. I mean, she taught religious studies at UCLA, my resident college, despite her stance against any definition that adhered to a god. In her recent tell-all book, Babies Are Atheists, the same one that I'd seen sitting on Miranda and Leah's nightstand, she made the argument that babies were born without religion and so to be truly enlightened one must, in the language of Jesus, become born again into some sort of reincarnated atheist baby, which also meant shedding off the medieval clothes of religious guilt. It went to the top of The New York Times bestseller list. Being naked on the cover, except for the broadside of a crucifix narrowly hiding her baby-deliverer, probably helped, and I couldn't help but notice that she was cradling the libraries copy in her arms now.
For a second there I mistook her tone to illustrate excitement at yet another Joshua Chamberlain Photographer Extraordinaire sighting, so grudgingly lifted my head above the pages of Oz, ignored the unpleasant man standing at her side, and said: “The naked atheist, as I sit here and breath. What brings you to my fortress of solitude?”
“Hmmm,” Ellie twisted her lips into a sort of fleshy seesaw. “That's an interesting way of putting it. If you're going to use a great public institution to escape the realities of civilization, you could at least fill your head with helpful knowledge.” She rested a finger on her tiny chin, peppered with freckles, and contemplated my reading material as her lips continued to scrunch up and seesaw. “What's this, reading the Bible?”
“No. Actually it's a fairy tale for children.” I tilted the cover of Road, which depicted Dorothy in the foreground and her three celebrity Oz friends, the scarecrow, tin-man, and lion peering over her right shoulder, so that she could better appreciate my research.
“Same thing,” her reaction was blunt.
“How is it that you teach religion at UCLA again?”
“It's because they were looking for someone who takes a more scientific approach.” She held her nose high for that one. “After all, faith is a process of non-thinking, which is exactly the sort of mistake that will land someone a failing grade in my classroom.”
“Sounds like a winning syllabus. I particularly like the part in your book where you say, Science and religion are locked in a battle to the death that science alone can win.”
“Aww, that's so sweet. You memorized some of it.” Ellie paused to pat the man's arm at her side. “You remember Jack.”
Indeed I did. The fact that he was good friends with Tom Phillips, Representative for the state of California, the very guy who was sleeping with my wife, rung an unwanted bell. Both couples had been double-dating over the summer. Tom could at least pretend to carry an air of dignity for the public eye, something all politicians eventually mastered, whereas Jack was a sleaze bucket through-and-through and rarely pretended to be anything but. I didn't like him. And I didn't understand what Ellie saw in him, aside from her daddy issues.
“Unfortunately,” I acknowledged her companion.
“Oh, Joshua, must we always be uncivil towards one another?”
“Really, no hard feelings, boss.” Jack smiled as handsomely as the devil. He was dressed a bit more appropriately for the East Coast than what I'd observed in past encounters (no more Aloha shirts), a blue colored button-up with rich swirly designs, broad collars opened wide at the neck to expose a moderate collection of chest hair, and tight black slacks, which hugged his hips a little too uncomfortably. His mustache was still present but the circumference of his lips and chin were gathering scruff. A goat-tee was no doubt on the horizon.
“You have a last name, Jack?” I leaned back in my chair.
He answered: “Hoskins, Jack Hoskins,” and extended a hand.
I grudgingly took it and let him perform the ridiculous task of overly-macho squeezing. It was the kind of handshake that spoke of unzipping pants and sizing up our penises. “And what do you actually do for a living, Jack Hoskins, aside from playing bodyguard while your congressman friend moves in on my wife?”
Ellie tightened her eyes into a sort of feminine-championed roll while Jack laughed into his collar. He said: “I'm his political campaign advisor.”
“Jack's a genius.” Ellie patted his chest. “He's never lost yet….never.”
“I wouldn't say never.” Hoskins beamed with a chuckle, his attempt at humility.
“Not to anyone that's mattered, anyways.�
��
“Well, I don't like to brag.”
“Then don't,” I said.
“Isn't this crazy?” Ellie said to her boyfriend again. “Who would have known that we'd bump into Joshua like this?” She turned to me now. “We were walking down the street and Jack here suddenly thought it might be fun to sign my own book in the library like I'm some sort of graffiti artist or something. It's like a scene straight out of Breakfast at Tiffany's. I don't know where he gets these naughty ideas.” To stress her point, she lifted Babies Are Atheists from her arm and showed me the cover.
I said: “Breakfast at Tiffany's rings a bell.”
“And speaking of naughty, you're all over the news, you know,” Jack said. I could tell it was a thought he'd been dying to entertain ever since approaching my table, maybe even before.
“You're yanking my chain, right?”
Jack leaned in. “You're a regular Where's Waldo for the press. Everyone's talking about the missing runaway in a murder case.”
“I wouldn't exactly call myself a runaway.”
“You know, he does do this for a living,” Ellie told her boyfriend. “He practically travels everywhere, all the time. I should show you his work sometime. It's actually very good.”
“Why Elizabeth, is that a compliment?”
Ellie scrunched her face together. “Shut up.”
The balding Indian man sitting at the next table shushed us.
“Oh, I know he's a busy beaver and all, sweetie.” Hoskins turned back to me. “Just between us, have you seen him?”
“Who, Waldo? I never can seem to find him on the last page.”
“No, Alex. Has he, like, shown up or anything?”
“You mean, like have we been in contact with each other over the last couple of days, with a secret handshake between bros and everything?”
Jack's eyes widened. I thought his grin looked both genuine and hungry. “He has, hasn't he?”
I leaned in. “Just between us? You promise not to tell anyone, not even the cops and robbers?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” He visualized his point with an index finger to the heart.
“No.” I sunk back into my chair.
Hoskins wasn't pleased with my answer, but he shook the unpleasantries from his face almost just as quickly as they'd arrived and returned to the devil's handsome smile.
“You sure?”
I nodded my head. “All white people pretty much look the same to me. If only Alex were Asian, then I could totally tell him apart.”
“Oh honey.” Ellie playfully slapped his arm. “I've known Joshua for a long time. Elise believes he had nothing to do with it, and I do too.”
“Hey, creeps like Alex; they always seem to come around again, if you know what I mean. I'm just looking out for you. And you know me. I'm a curious guy.” Hoskins grinned at her and then rotated those devilish looks at me. “Mr. Curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.” I bit down on reading glasses.
Again, Hoskins didn't look pleased, but he quickly scrubbed any hint of unpleasantries away. “Well, if you do hear anything....” The Indian man shushed him again. Hoskins lowered his voice. “If this Alex creep shows up, or you have any trouble, be sure and give the Doctor or me a call. Believe me; I deal with all sorts of sour semen in my line of work. I know we haven't gotten off on the right foot in the past, but I really love Ellie, and since we're all swimming in the same pool, so to speak, I'd love it if we could become pals.”
“Oh, that's so sweet.” Ellie bit her lips as she stared up at him.
“Gee golly, that sounds swell,” I said. “Can we even partner up and hold hands in the deep end of the pool, just in case one of us gets a leg cramp?”
Ellie reached across the table now to slap my arm. “Do stop being such a smart-ass all the time, Joshua. I know Jack and he means what he says. The man keeps his promises. Maybe Tom, Elise, you and we can all have a laugh about this someday.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“Well, boo for you, then. I've got a book to return now.” Ellie cupped five fingers over her mouth as she hinted at the illegally signed copy in her arms, and then mischievously pointed down at her own naked image. “And we should let you be. I've never defaced public property before. Isn't this man so naughty?”
“You remember what I said.” Hoskins lost all insight into discretion as Ellie pulled him by the arm, trumpeting his voice with that sleazy grin of his. “If that slime-ball that the cops are after gives you any trouble, you be sure and give Ellie or I a call.”
“Yes, Joshua.” Ellie continued to tug at him. “Any friend of Elise is a friend of ours.”
“Oh....my.....god......” One of the two teenage girls from the next table over widened her eyes at me and then wheeled them towards her companion. I wasn't sure how much of our conversation they'd overheard, but she finally matched my mug with the missing wedding photographer in the news, and quickly scanned Yahoo on her laptop computer as verification.
Even the balding Indian in creamy slacks and sneakers granted me his full unwanted attention now, despite past efforts to shush Jack and Ellie. I decided to scoot my chair out (it made an echoing screech throughout the entire room, several heads turned,) and exit as discreetly as possible before somebody sounded a media alarm.
23
BACK ON THE STEPS of Fifth Avenue I called Michael on the phone.
“What's up?” He said on the second ring.
“You said you wanted to be updated whenever anything developed.”
“Indeed I did. Time travel any?”
“Well, something may have developed.”
“I'll take Unsolved Mysteries for $1000, Trebek.”
“Are you sitting down for this?”
“I'm on the toilet.”
“I'll wait.”
“I've got the latest issue of POPULAR WOODWORKING. It's the canoe carving edition. For a guy like me this is equivalent to the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. It will be a long wait.”
“Are you sure you're ready for this?”
“Is there any better place to be if I'm scared shitless?”
“Good point,” I said.
And then I caught him up to speed.
“Oh, and I almost forgot,” I finally said at the conclusion of my briefing. “Tom Phillip's tag-along, Jack.....”
“Not that fool again.”
“I was just up in the New York City Library getting a little research done on our mystery homeless friend, and Jack suddenly shows up asking about Alex.”
“I don't like that.”
“Me neither. He says he's Tom's political advisor.”
“Was the naked atheist with him?”
“The doctor was. But she seemed rather oblivious to his intentions.”
“Ellie's just arrogant. He have a last name?”
“Hoskins.”
“I think I'll do a little research of my own on Google.”
“Let me know what you come up with,” I said.
“Will do.”
24
SUSAN WAS A LEADING FASHION BUYER for Frank McCormick, a nation-wide chain of department stores that mirrored the quality and all-around style of Nordstrom. Susan also stemmed from a Jewish ancestry, with dark hair and eyes and skin that veered towards the lighter side of the Mediterranean's olive tone. Meeting her for dinner at The Establishment was a last minute detail to my recent barrage of schedule changes, but she was thrilled with my Friday evening phone call, even bumping another female associate of hers in order to make room for me. I arrived at the restaurant with enough time to down a Sam Adams before she revealed her perfect self at the bar, magnificently dressed as always. Several men stopped whatever it was they were chewing on to stare at her. Of course, so did the women.
“So, what does a fashion buyer actually do for a living, aside from convincing the income tax guy that trips to Paris, London, Madrid and Rome are a business expense?” I said as our hostess showed us to our
table.
“Shopping sprees with Elise, of course.” She grinned. I helped her into her chair. “I refer to that part of my job as cutting edge research.”
“Amazing how your cutting edge research, whenever my wife is involved, corresponds perfectly with my credit card bill.”
“The progress of humanity almost always comes at a cost.”
“And just think, all those women out there victimized by bad fashion choices.”
“The horrors of history, I’m afraid, also come at a cost.” She sipped from her Cosmopolitan, letting the weight of bad fashion throughout human history fully grab a hold of her. “Oh well, let bygones be bygones.”
The waiter was attentive to our arrival, handsomely built, and directed our attention to the house specials. But Susan and I already knew what we wanted. We each ordered the exact same entree, prime rib, medium-rare, with seasoned vegetables and garlic potatoes on the side.
The second he left to put our orders in I said: “Speaking of mistakes, my entire current existence as of late comes to mind.”
“Michael's kept me up to speed. I'm very sorry. Life with you, Joshua, is....” My iPhone rang generically, not a number that I recognized. “It's like living in a movie. I can't keep up with all of your adventures, if that's even the right word. Really, everything that's been reported on in the news,” Susan rotated her chin towards the tables facing her left and then her right shoulder, just to make sure nobody was listening in. “To think that Alex and Gracie water-skied on our boat, July Fourth, and now this. Why would he do such a thing?”
“I'm not entirely certain that he did.”
“But the police sure think so.”
“As does the mafia, but that was a sick and sadistic killing, Susan. I just don't think Alex had the motive.”
“Either way, he sure used you, didn't he?”
“I'm still trying to absorb it all.”
“Tell me,” she leaned in, almost amused (then again, the alcohol had begun to settle into her veins). “Does anybody actually know you're here?”
Goodnight Sometimes Means Goodbye (Wrong Flight Home, #2) Page 17