“Everything okay?” Charlie asks me from his desk.
“Yes. I just thought I would make myself a snack.”
“We could order from Eat Here Now.”
“No thanks,” I tell him as I boil some of the chicken broth.
“Don’t you need ingredients for a snack?” Charlie screams.
“All taken care of.” I put the spinach in the broth.
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I chop the cheddar into small pieces and I put the peas in the spinach broth mixture. I have no idea if this will be tasty, but I need the vitamins. I take a chance by adding the cheese and the nutmeg. I pour half of the mixture into a bowl.
Charlie walks into the kitchen.
“Smells good in here.”
He comes over to my shoulder.
“Whaddya got?”
“I thought I could use a vegetable.”
“Is there enough for me?”
I want to lie and tell him no. But the man has been letting me stay in his house.
“Eat at your own risk. I’m not a chef.” I hand him a bowl. I’m mortified. I don’t even know what nutmeg is for.
Charlie eats a few bites but doesn’t say anything.
“This could use one more ingredient.” Charlie leaves the kitchen.
I’m a little offended. After all, I used every ingredient in his house.
“If you are thinking of adding the Rice-A-Roni, it expired nine months ago.”
Charlie can’t hear me. He’s left the kitchen. My friend Cecily told me that when she was growing up, her mother used to take all of the most delicious food items and lock them in her room so the “help” wouldn’t steal them. Meanwhile she left expensive jewelry and other stuff lying around the house. Maybe Charlie will come in with some veal shanks or a wild boar.
But no. Charlie is more normal, thank God. He returns with a wine bottle. And for a second I don’t know the appropriate reaction. My friend Jean always cooks with alcohol. Even if she is making a can of soup, she always tosses in some wine. Last year she made oatmeal raisin cookies and soaked the raisins in rum for twelve hours beforehand. “It gives them a bite,” she tells everybody.
“Maybe we could use a little,” Charlie tells me as he leans toward me and reaches over my head for a second. Suddenly he steps away with two glasses in his hand.
I nod to let Charlie know that I’ll have some wine.
We sit in his living room for a few minutes without saying much. I feel uncomfortable discussing anything other than our respective police investigations.
“You’re pretty resourceful,” Charlie says out of nowhere.
“Huh?”
“This food. Who would have known there could be a meal waiting for me in my kitchen?”
“I take it you’re not a cook.”
“A fine observation.”
“Don’t you snack? I understand the no cooking thing, but there’s not a pretzel to be found.”
“Yeah. My ex-girlfriend lived here with me for a while and she was terrified of bugs and mice. So we weren’t allowed to keep anything in the cabinets.”
Ex-girlfriend? Of course Charlie has an ex-girlfriend. He probably has several ex-girlfriends. Even though I’ve admired him from afar for all of these years, I never pictured him with anybody specific. Now I have this image in my head of Charlie dating this freaky vermin-phobe.
“I guess it’s a waste of valuable real estate.”
“Huh?” I’m not really listening to Charlie as I try to picture him and this girl in the living room: my living room.
“You know, having a kitchen with nothing in it. Some people live in apartments the size of this kitchen, and I’ve abandoned this promising space.”
“Oh,” I say. I’m still thinking of Charlie’s ex-girlfriend and am therefore incapable of discussing his insufficient use of his kitchen.
“I’m going to cook more from now on.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
“Good,” Charlie says.
“Good,” I say.
We experience a pause that lasts as long as Handel’s Messiah, the extended version, before I gather the courage to reintroduce conversation to the table.
“So, here’s how we are going to get to that memorial service…”
Charlie and I are standing over his desk staring at his state-of-the-art phone. I press the speaker phone button and dial Jean’s office phone number. It’s a number I have been dialing for years.
It’s likely that the police are monitoring Jean’s phone calls. I can tell Charlie is nervous.
The phone rings once before she picks it up.
“Jean Middleton.”
I’m comforted by Jean’s voice.
“Hi, Jean. I don’t know if you remember me. My name is Walter Redwin. We went to Harvard Law School together.”
Jean pauses for a second. I know that she’s dying to get in touch with me to tell me that my Charlie called her.
This is where Charlie’s part gets tricky.
“You may know me as Charlie.”
Now, I know you may be wondering how I managed to get Charlie to identify himself by his crush-name.
“Just introduce yourself to her on the phone,” I instructed him casually just minutes ago. “And then tell her that she may know you as Charlie.”
“Why Charlie?”
“Oh, it’s this thing with me and Jean.”
“What kind of thing?”
A thing where I made up a name for you when I decided to become obsessed with you.
“I promise I will tell you the second I get out of trouble.” Curiosity is a great motivator.
So here we are standing over Charlie’s desk as he identifies himself as Charlie to Jean.
Jean pauses even longer this time.
“Oh,” and I can tell by the tone of her “Oh” that she knows. She knows. She knows. Jean knows I’m with Charlie.
“What can I do for you?” I can hear the excitement in her voice.
“I was working until very recently at Pennington and Litt and am currently on a leave of absence, and I was hoping to change jobs. I was looking at the Harvard Law alumni bulletin and I saw…”
“Yes!” Jean just wants him to cut to the chase.
“I was wondering if I could take you out for coffee and pick your brain.”
“Sure. I’ll be there,” Jean says.
“Can we set up a time?” Charlie asks.
“How about tomorrow?”
“Thursday’s better,” Charlie tells her.
“Thursday it is. Ummmm.” Jean pauses. “Walter?”
“Yes?”
“Is everything okay?” Jean’s asking about me, of course. She shouldn’t have done that. If her phone is bugged, they could realize she is asking about me.
“Yes.” Charlie saves it. “I just need a job change. That’s it.”
“I’m sure I can help you,” she says very professionally.
Charlie turns the speaker off and hangs up the phone.
My plan is working.
Jean is waiting for Charlie at the café at Barnes & Noble in Union Square. I know that she’ll drink an enormous espresso and she’ll study the entire pastry selection before telling the cashier, “No thank you; it’s not like I need one.” Charlie got there ahead of time to make sure the place wasn’t being monitored by the police, although I think they would change out of their uniforms for something like this. In fact, I haven’t seen a cop make an arrest in uniform since NYPD Blue. The ladies of the Law & Order franchise dress better than any of my friends. But the place looks clear. Charlie has reported that there are three women with strollers arguing about who has the least baby-friendly husband. There’s also a student-looking guy slumped over a chair in the back. The cashier is a twenty-something African-American woman, eager to serve her customers so that she can get back to her stack of bridal magazines.
I wait on the first floor next to the stairs in the self-help section, pretending to
read books about getting the love I want, and Pilates. I notice the top two sellers: The First is The Way: Part Two by Dr. Michael Ledyard. He’s The freak I keep seeing on the talk shows promising to cure gay people of their homosexuality. A few days ago, he was on television hawking the book while Charlie was reviewing his files at his desk. He told me that if I didn’t change the channel he would have to turn me over to the cops.
And then there is this woman’s book. I keep seeing it on Oprah and The View. It’s called Men Fight, Women Bite. Clarissa Winnick. That’s her name. Her premise is that fighting like a girl is actually extremely effective if women just own it. She says that women have to develop their Trifecta Defensive: the shrill piercing scream, the shocking bite, and the annoying kick. She claims that women have evolved over the millennia with increased Trifecta Defensive potential.
“The female shriek has grown in decibel level over the years, and though we do not have the benefit of early female Homo sapiens recordings, anecdotal information suggests that the woman’s shriek has become a huge advantage in physical combat.”
Too bad they have no female recordings—or as I call it, evidence—to support her theory.
Winnick has no support for the evolution of the female bite and kick, which she claims can disable the most evil attacker. As examples, she has warded off rehearsed attacks by news and talk personalities with her Trifecta Defensive. Matt Lauer and Diane Sawyer both fell to the ground last week: Matt on Tuesday and Diane on Wednesday. Needless to say, neither of them had a gun.
If everything is going as Charlie and I planned, he and Jean are making small talk. Jean is chattering about the merger market and Charlie’s speaking in the abstract about his need for a career move. Charlie asks Jean to write him a list of contacts and presents her with a note from me, of course.
Downstairs in self-help; need it as I am being framed.
Jean can’t wait to see me. I can feel it, and Charlie must do his best to contain her. He asks her if she knows of any literature that could be helpful in his career change. She tells him that first he has to figure out what he wants.
“I suggest you look in the self-help section; I can help if you want,” Jean is probably telling him at this moment.
I see the two of them coming down the stairs as I peruse Who Moved My Cheese?
“I think it’s over here,” Jean says as she comes toward me. I lift my eyes for a second, and then go back to the book.
He hands her the book; she opens it, and reads my note.
J.
I’m alive. Charlie’s helping. In 10 mins, leave Barnes & Noble and go to Mona’s office. Wait outside the building in a taxi. You’ll see Mona. She’s skinny, skinny with an enormous head (think Nancy Reagan, the First Lady years) and will be wearing all black w/ an enormous purple tote. She’ll get into a car service car—it might have a little lobster on the windshield. Your taxi must follow her car. Charlie’ll be in a taxi following you. You’ll hopefully be heading to the memorial service—Never thought that would happen, huh? Try to get info on the deceased. Say that you’re a lawyer who worked for the company. Talk to the most attractive people there; they’re actors and will spill their guts.
Don’t drink any alcohol!!!!
Can you believe this?
A.
P.S. Remember, don’t drink any alcohol!
The “this” in “Can you believe this?” refers to my dire situation and my proximity to Charlie, but of course I had to review the note with Charlie before he passed it along to Jean. What if she needs him to help her with my instructions?
________
There she is. There she is. It’s Jean. “Hey, Jean,” I mouth to myself. I feel better just seeing her. She looks great, by the way, wearing a sleek black leather coat offset by the beautiful aquamarine cashmere scarf that I got her for Christmas last year. It looks great with her superdark curly hair and her blue-green eyes. They look great together. Charlie, for the first time since I’ve been staying with him, is wearing a suit. It’s charcoal gray.
“Is the color too boring?” he asked me this morning.
“No—you are going to a memorial service. The idea is not to look fashionable. You are supposed to be sad.”
“Gray is sad,” he noted.
“You can jazz it up with a red, happy tie,” I told him. “But not too red—maybe a little crimsonish.”
Boy, does he look good. Tall and lanky, with not such good posture. I like that. It could be because I am no Jack LaLanne myself. Also it makes him look like a man with a purpose.
My best friend and my lifelong crush. Together. How weird is this? I’m a little envious of Charlie and Jean. Not because I think they could fall in love or anything. I kind of want to follow Mona Hawkins, too.
So, I do.
I’m confident that Mona will be at the memorial service; she doesn’t miss any public event that relates to showbiz. She assumes that every function is planned for her benefit. And I’m sure this one is no exception. When I worked for her, she always spoke about “Humpy” as if he were new to show business, when in fact he had won two Oscars for Best Director.
I hop in a cab behind Charlie. Our caravan heads up Park Avenue and we make a left onto Twenty-third Street. Then we head west.
How can I pay for the taxi when I don’t even have the money for a MetroCard? I know this is embarrassing, but two nights ago, Charlie announced that he would give me an allowance.
“Let’s just call it a stipend,” he assured me as he gave me twenty-five ten-dollar bills. “You may need it for the work you’re doing for me.”
So here I am in the taxi, heading up Madison Avenue, hoping to learn a little about my case so that I can in turn help Charlie with his. I assume we’re heading to Frank E. Campbell, funeral home to the rich and famous. Obviously, I can’t go in. P.S. 6 is just across the street. Maybe I can lurk there and pretend I’m a parent, like Meryl Streep did in Kramer vs. Kramer.
But the caravan stops a mile sooner—at Sixtieth Street and Madison. I can’t see Mona, but I do see Jean, and then Charlie disembark from their respective vehicles. Why did we stop at Barneys? Maybe Mona needs to buy a lipstick for the occasion, but as I study my surroundings, I see a deluge of limousines.
Of course, the memorial service is at Barneys.
Barneys, as I recall, was the first major retailer to carry Polly Dawson’s lingerie line before she started her own chain. Polly was obsessed with the place. I know that because I followed her here at least a dozen times. I see police barricades surrounding the entire block. There are hordes of cops as well, although I don’t see my team: Kovitz, Seminara, and Bristol. They must be inside.
I worry a little about Charlie and Jean. Charlie isn’t much of an actor, and Jean gets nervous quite easily. A few years ago, Jean decided to throw a surprise birthday party for her then-boyfriend, Lee. She had invited about twenty-five of Lee’s friends, and me of course, to wait at her apartment while she and Lee were supposed to go on a date. They were to meet at Lee’s office in the West Fifties and then go out for a drink at a bar near Jean’s house. Jean was supposed to pretend that she forgot her purse at her apartment and then bring Lee up for a big surprise. Unfortunately, when she told Lee that she forgot her wallet, he offered to pay for the drink. She immediately blurted out that they had to go to her house because twenty-five people were waiting to surprise him.
Charlie and Jean. The Dynamic Duo.
They’re all I have.
I stand across the street, with my scarf over my neck, pretending to wait for a bus in front of the Cole Haan store. I know that watching them puts me in no better position than they are. But, alas, I’m compelled.
People continue to stream into Barneys for forty-five minutes. I knew Mona would get there early; she always gets to these things early. Ironic, considering that she would let her actors and actresses wait at least an hour before she waltzed into a casting session.
There’s a little slice of glass that isn’t covered by
the Barneys window display, and I see the crowd thinning from the first floor. They must be heading up to the lingerie department on six.
I wait two hours exactly. I have memorized every shoe and bag at Cole Haan. I must leave. Soon, I’ll be a suspected shoplifter and the nervous salesgirl will call the police.
I go to get a pretzel from the vendor across the street, and I notice more movement through my little slice of glass. The cops seem to have gone in the store, so I can peer in for at least a while. The entire first floor of Barneys has been transformed into a huge party space. I feel as if I’m spying on a wedding—not a funeral. Hunky men in white ties and tails are handing out what appears to be a stunning array of hors d’oeuvres, as well as champagne cocktails. People are in deep conversation, laughing or networking. There’s a huge spread of food set up where all the jewelry is supposed to be. There, I see Mona, with that skinny little body and colossal head, helping herself to a teeny taste of everything.
Mona loves buffets.
I see Jean. She must have checked her coat. She’s wearing her superexpensive Yves Saint Laurent graphite-hued wide-legged trousers with her signature silk brocade jacket. Oh, I see she bought the ridiculously expensive Wilmer Heiker mary jane pumps, which I know for a fact set her back $640. That’s Jean. Offsetting her haute ensemble is the can of Diet Coke in her hand. Phew. Jean is not so good with alcohol. She gets a little chatty. After two glasses, I’m afraid that she’ll spill my secret. Oh, good. I see Charlie in charcoal. I can’t figure out whom he is talking to, but I think it’s Jenna McNair, the lead actress in Only at Sunrise, beautiful nemesis of Polly, and Suspect Number Two. If you’re wondering whether I’m jealous of Jenna, I think the answer is no. I’m so focused on getting myself out of this that I’m immune.
And then I see him. I wasn’t sure if he’d be here. In any event, I was not one hundred percent confident that I would recognize him. Here he is. Polly’s little boyfriend. He’s a little more dressed up than he was the day I saw him with Polly Linley—now Dawson—now dead. Suspect Number Three is pretty handsome from afar. He smiles and waves at a couple of the other mourners. He looks serious, but he doesn’t look morose.
Following Polly Page 14