“Right, but the authorities turn out to be involved. At least some of the authorities.”
“And in the end, you ended up in a shootout with the mayor and the sheriff, right?”
“I did,” Pilate said. “The sheriff and I versus the mayor and his son. It was a horrible thing.”
“You were a hero, though,” he glanced at his notes. He removed his glasses, hanging his arm over the arm of the chair, the glasses dangling from his fingers. “You saved the sheriff?”
“Well, yes, it was really more a situation of self-preservation. I saved the sheriff’s life and he saved mine.”
“And he’s in prison for his role in this, right?”
“Right.”
“You were both shot in that gun battle. You’ll forgive me for pointing it out, but you have the scars to prove it.”
“Yes, your makeup people couldn’t hide that,” Pilate said, smiling. “It’s not that bad. I’m told they’ll fade over time.”
“It seems as if everyone in town had a role to play in this,” he said.
“Well, yes. Including my wife, Kate.”
“Who you met during all this. She helped you figure all this out.”
“Right, and the Dean of Cross…”
“One of the villains in all this made headlines recently, didn’t he? Jack Lindstrom, the college president, right?”
“Right,” Pilate said.
“In a dramatic twist, he broke bail and killed himself, correct?”
“Right,” Pilate said. “For whatever reason, he took his own life.”
“In an odd coincidence, he killed himself in Florida, not far from where you were writing this book, right?” he looked at his notes, then back at Pilate.
“Well, yes. I was in Key West and he was in Naples…”
“Interesting,” he said, his eyes narrowed.
Pilate felt his guts tightening.
“Well, there is so much more to this story,” he said.
“That’s why you have to read the book,” Pilate said, certain he was sweating like Richard Nixon.
“As you said,” he said, the smirk again. “Murder 101: The Cross College Conspiracy is available now in stores. John Pilate, a fascinating story by a heroic college professor. Thanks for coming by.”
“My pleasure,” Pilate wanted to correct him - he was an instructor, not a professor, but relief that the interview was over stopped him from correcting the beloved morning show host.
The host turned to the camera and Pilate noticed the lights shone through the man’s thinning hair to his shiny scalp. “Coming up, ‘To wax or not to wax;’ the conundrum for men with hirsute backs. And performing live in studio we have the man from down under himself, Colin Hay. But first, this is Today on NBC.”
A man gave a hand signal and the host stood up. He offered his hand. “Thanks John, pretty cool stuff. I look forward to reading the book.”
Pilate shook his hand. “Thank you.”
He smiled and walked over to the news desk part of the set.
The mic tech came back over and freed Pilate from his electronic tether.
“How was it?”
“Just fine,” the tech said.
A PA escorted Pilate back over to Monique, who made silent clapping gestures. “Great job!”
“Great? We hardly talked about the book at all!”
“Excuse me, mate,” Hay said, walking past, guitar in hand.
“We just got national news exposure. Your book will definitely chart now,” she said. “Next interview!”
“With who?”
“NPR,” she said. “That one’s fifteen minutes. Sound better?”
“Can’t we watch?” he pointed at Hay as he plugged in his guitar.
“Phil Collins? Sorry. No time,” she said, handing him his cell phone.
“That man is not Phil Collins!”
“You can tell me who he is in the cab.”
Pilate turned back to Hay, sighed and followed Monique. He tripped on a thick, ropey cord on the floor and nearly did a face plant onto the backstage floor. Instead, he fell into Monique’s back, his hands on her backside.
“Sorry,” he said.
“No problem,” she said.
“She works out,” Simon said.
Or it could be the fact that she’s in her twenties. Why am I thinking about this kid’s ass?
“Beats thinking about your pregnant wife throwing all your clothes on the front lawn,” Simon whispered.
“Coming up next,” the host said behind them, “Fresh from his Man @ Work Tour, Grammy winner Colin Hay. But first, this is Today on NBC…”
To Pilate’s gratification, the NPR interview was more in-depth, but not too in-depth. Pilate discussed what led him to delve into the evidence of the conspiracy. He explained that most of it was boredom.
“Boredom can kill you,” the host said.
“I know that’s right,” Pilate answered.
Afterward, Monique suggested a mid-morning breakfast.
“Sounds good,” Pilate said. “I’m starving.”
“There’s a Bouchon Bakery nearby,” she suggested.
“Whatever you say,” he said.
They settled in with more coffee and a hunk of quiche.
“This isn’t bad,” Pilate said. “I guess real men do eat quiche.”
Monique raised a quizzical eyebrow, then looked at her Blackberry.
“Never mind, I keep forgetting that I come from the dinosaur times,” Pilate said, sipping his coffee. “You need to be surgically removed from that thing?”
“You doing okay?” she asked, putting the phone aside.
“Fine.”
“You seem tense,” she said.
“How do you know I’m tense? You just met me yesterday.”
“Well, I just think you seem a little beyond nervous. More like agitated,” she said. “Look, reporters are going to throw a lot of weird stuff at you…”
“No, I know,” he said, softly, looking at her over his mug.
She wore her black-framed glasses. Her pixie hair made her look unaccountably more mature than her years, yet somehow impossibly young to Pilate.
“It’s just that I made some mistakes in Key West, and that guy knew it.”
“What? The fling?” She said, picking up her coffee mug with both hands. Her manicured nails had the French tip thing going on.
He nodded.
“Well, it’s none of my business, but it’s my experience that men are generally as faithful as their options,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“So, you’ve been cheated on?”
“I am obvious, aren’t I?”
“Yes. But I was cheated on, too. By my wife. No, not Kate. Not my current wife. My ex-wife.”
“So why did you fool around on Kate?”
“Well, first of all, I wasn’t married to her. Second, though I had deep feelings for Kate, I had been through the wringer and I just needed…something. I just wanted to test the limits of…I don’t know.”
“Oh please, cut the shit, man,” she rolled her eyes. “You wanted to get laid.”
He looked at her, surprised.
“You wouldn’t be the first guy your age to take advantage of that kind of opportunity,” she said.
“My age? Jeez, Monique, how ancient do you think I am?”
“I know exactly how old you are. You’re almost 40,” she said. “My last boyfriend was 42.”
“And he fooled around on you?” he said. “Crazy.”
“Why? Because I’m young? Hot? Whatever. He fooled around on me with his ex-wife. She’s 45.”
“Oh,” he said.
She scooped up her Blackberry. “It just shows you that men, and I think women as well, to a certain extent, are always interested in that which is the other.”
“That sounds like something out of a novel - ‘that which is the other.’“
“Restlessness is the symptom of a comfortable relationship,” she said. “I learned never to g
et too comfortable.”
“What? That sounds like you believe trust is a bad thing.”
“No, trust is important in a committed relationship,” she said, pushing her glasses up higher on the bridge her nose. “I’m talking about getting too comfortable. Taking one another for granted.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
She sighed. “Maybe. Who cares? He’s a prick. He’s gone.”
“Well, that’s not what happened to me and Kate. We were barely a couple when I went to Key West, let alone committed to anything official.”
“Yeah, that just means you did a lousy thing,” she said. “You were an opportunist.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And you’ve told her?”
“Sort of,” he said, looking at the table. “Not everything. But as much as she wants to know.”
“Then she plans to get over it. Or dump you. Strike that. You told her, or tried too, you aren’t proud of it, and you have a baby coming. She needs to forgive and forget. Okay, she won’t forget, but she needs to forgive.”
“I hope she will,” Pilate said.
“She will,” Monique said. “You appear to be almost worth it. But don’t get any ideas, John Pilate. I wouldn’t fuck you for love or money,” she blinked her eyes faux-precociously.
“I understand,” he said. “You don’t mess with married men.”
“Yes. But even if you were single. You’re just not my type.”
“Wow, John, a woman immune to your considerable—” Simon interjected.
“Okay, I get it,” he said. Her unsolicited rejection stung.
“Good. Just so we’re clear,” she said.
“Fine. Why don’t I feel better now?”
Dinner at Sardi’s with Monique, Pilate’s agent Angie and his publisher, Mr. Frechette, was a dreary, numbing affair.
Frechette was as effete and pompous as Pilate expected. He wore a pencil thin mustache and bore more than a passing resemblance to the filmmaker John Waters, to the point that Pilate suspected he cultivated the look intentionally. Frechette monopolized most of the available conversation space over several rounds of a cocktail called a “Sidecar” and blathered on about a little restaurant nearby - “sadly closed” - that had the “best corn pudding.”
“A pity they had to close, but that’s the restaurant business,” Frechette sniffed. “Anyway. Mr. Pilate. John. How do you like Sardi’s? Aren’t the caricatures delightful?”
“The one on the walls or the one at this table?” Simon sniped.
Pilate eyed the caricatures by men named Gard, Mackey, Bevan and Baratz. The pictures were the artists’ take on the famous and infamous that littered the walls. “Truly,” he said, sipping his martini.
“There are more than a thousand so far,” Frechette said, finishing another Sidecar. “I read in an interview - I think it was in Playbill - or was it Interview? Anyway, means nothing. Where was I? Oh, yes. Sardi’s lore is that the day James Cagney died, his caricature was stolen right off the wall. Imagine the dirty rat who would do that!” he laughed preciously at his own joke. “Since then, when new drawings are done the originals go into a vault, and two copies are made. One goes to the subject of the caricature, the other on the wall.”
“Interesting,” Pilate said, through his teeth.
“No, it isn’t,” Simon said. “But you’re not helping things much.”
“Well, perhaps someday if you write a play your image will hang here,” Frechette said, halfway into his highball glass.
“And perhaps someone will even care enough to steal it,” Monique said, winking.
“That would be something,” Pilate said. “More likely they’ll draw a mustache on it.”
“Or worse,” Simon said.
Angie, sensing a moment of potential silence, filled it. “Mr. Frechette, wasn’t John terrific on 60 Minutes and the Today Show?”
Frechette sipped his drink, his eyes moving slowly left to right. “Well, by all accounts he was. So sorry I had to miss it,” he said. “But we are very pleased with your work, John, and with Monique’s performance behind the scenes.”
Monique’s face brightened, her eyes glittered behind her glasses.
“Well, I’m glad you’re pleased,” Pilate said. “It’s been fun.”
“Oh and it’s just beginning, correct?” he looked at Monique.
She nodded. “Yes, John is leaving tomorrow for Boston, then he’ll do a few appearances up and down the seaboard until Friday. Then he heads to Florida for the weekend. He’ll be signing books and giving readings in Fort Myers and Key West.”
“Excellent,” Frechette said. “Isn’t that where you wrote the book?”
Pilate thought about the weekend. He had almost forgotten that he would be back in Florida and that Taters was going to meet him in Fort Myers. He felt a rush of giddy optimism.
“Key West, actually,” he said.
Frechette smiled expansively. “Oh yes, I have had some wonderful times on that droll little island, I can tell you!”
Pilate smiled and nodded. “I look forward to spending more time there in the future.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure, your sales may make it possible for you to winter there,” Angie said. “All indications point to the bestseller list. John, for all the hell you went through, it looks like life is finally giving you what you deserve.”
Pilate smiled a small smile, picked up his drink and held it out in a toast. “To what we deserve,” he said, clinking glasses.
Monique again winked at Pilate.
A few hours later, Monique and Pilate entered the lobby at the New York Towers. He felt tired but not sleepy, tipsy but not pleasantly so. They took a seat and she handed him a file folder. “Okay, here’s your itinerary for the rest of this week.”
He scanned it. “So I’m on my own now?”
She nodded. “Yep, you’re free as a bird now. Fly away starling, fly, fly, fly.”
“Now that is definitely before your time,” he said.
“Love that movie,” she said.
“Thanks for everything.”
“Just doing my job,” she said. “Look, I have a friend of a friend who might be able to help figure out what Mr. Lamb of the Post is up to. I’ll call you if I figure anything out,” she said.
“Or if they print something,” he said, holding his finger up. “I have no intention of checking for that rag on newsstands.”
“Of course,” she said. “But I think he’s just fishing. He no doubt saw you on TV and heard you on the radio and knows nobody else has this angle, so he’s working it right now. He’s not afraid of being scooped yet, I think.”
“Lovely,” he said.
“Unless of course, his ‘source’ in Florida gets impatient and calls some other reporter,” Simon said.
She rose to her feet. “Okay, take care, John.”
He stood and extended his hand. “Thank you, Monique.”
She looked at him for a second, then gave him a cursory hug. “I think you needed that,” she said as she stepped back.
“Thanks,” he noted that she smelled good. Fresh. Young.
“But I still wouldn’t do you, so don’t get any ideas.”
“I think you protest too much,” he said.
“And you’re a narcissist,” she said, turning on her heel and walking away, clamping her phone to her ear.
“She’s got that right,” Simon said.
He smiled and waved as she strode out of the lobby.
“And now, a drink!” Simon said.
Pilate ambled over to the hotel bar and ordered.
Halfway through a most excellent Mystery Martini, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, hoping to see his home number on the screen. Instead, it read “Unknown Number.”
“Hello?’
“You were very good on the television,” it was the muffled voice again.
“Thank you,” Pilate said. “I won’t bother asking who you are. I’ll
just ask what the fuck you want.”
“Just a moment of your time. For now.”
“I’m all ears.” Pilate looked around the crowded hotel bar. He didn’t see anyone suspicious - as though he would be able to tell.
“I see from the itinerary on your publisher’s website that you will be in Florida this weekend.”
“Go on,” Pilate said.
“Well, maybe we should meet and get this over with, what do you say?”
“Get what over with?” Pilate said. He was tired, a little drunk and now, pissed off.
“Oh I think you know,” the voice said.
“No, I don’t think I do.”
“Yes you do. Maybe I will finally kill you.”
CHAPTER TEN
Pilate called Petersen of the state police back in Omaha and told him about the threatening call. The state cop was grim.
“I’m calling FBI on this,” he said. “They need to know.”
“No kidding,” Pilate said. “Now should I worry?”
“Maybe a little,” Petersen said, apparently shuffling some papers on his desk.
“Who the hell is it?” Pilate said, patting his pockets absently for a cigarette. Oh yeah. I had to pick the time a psycho threatens to kill me to quit smoking. “Well, what should I do?”
“Go about your business,” he said. “You can’t live in fear. You just have to go about your life and be observant of your surroundings.”
“Hey, there’s some good advice,” Pilate said.
“Look, John, I know this is no fun, but you have to understand that the media attention you’ve garnered is going to bring this. Every nutcase in the world is out there looking for that certain someone to terrorize. They usually find their targets on TV. They think God told them through HBO or Rush Limbaugh to stalk somebody or whatever. Mark David Chapman, Squeaky Fromme…”
“Charming. I get it. However, I’m no Gerald Ford and nowhere near in the same galaxy as John Lennon. Look, will you call the sheriff in Cross?”
“Welliver? Yeah. I’ll call him and make sure they keep an eye on your wife and kid. But I wouldn’t worry. He’s not after them; if he’s really after anybody at all he’s after you, though I still think this is just a game some idiot is playing,” he cleared his throat. “What about the media? Maybe I should leak it that you’re getting threats…maybe your publisher will cough up some security?”
Pilate's Ghost Page 10