The Color of Deception: An Ironic Black and White Tale of Love, Tragedy, and Triumph

by Frank Perdue

  As it turned out he was right on. It was a good thing. If they had been in a holding pattern any longer up there, the aircraft would have had to land in Sacramento.

  By the time the plane taxied to the gate and slowly off-loaded its passengers, Ted’s three hour layover had shrunk to two and a half. Given that the airport was quite a few miles south of the city, sightseeing was automatically ruled out. He wouldn’t have enough time.

  His first order of business was to find a restroom. He didn’t like to use the one on the airplane. In order to get to the aisle from his window seat, the other people in that row had to get up and move out into the walkway. He hated to inconvenience others. Then, often as not, you had to navigate around a stewardess who was serving something or other. When you finally got there, the bathroom was in use, and there were two more people ahead of you. He usually tried to hold it as long as he could.

  Feeling much more comfortable, he began looking for a restaurant. It was a bit early for a drink, even for him. Besides, his consumption had dropped off in recent years, almost in proportion to his gain in self-esteem. It was funny how that worked. In any case, he now considered himself only a social drinker.

  He took a seat at the counter of the nearest sit-down cafe he could find, ordered only coffee, and proceeded to scan the eatery with his eyes, looking for a newspaper. Finding none, he silently scolded himself for not buying a paper before. It would be good to catch up on stateside news, or any news for that matter. He’d had no opportunity or inclination to read while in Vietnam. His time in Hawaii was spent mending his own senses. He didn’t need to complicate things by letting the ills of the world in.

  Now that he was in more familiar surroundings, where things seemed more sane, he felt ready, even anxious, to catch up on what he’d missed. Not that he didn’t still feel betrayed by the events he had been privy to, it was just that the shock was wearing off.

  With an empty coffee cup confronting him, and reinforcements nowhere in sight, Ted left exact change on the counter with his bill, and exited onto the bustling concourse.

  He found newspapers at a gift shop nearby, and bought three. He still had a reasonably long flight ahead. He tucked the papers under his arm, and headed in the direction of the gate for the flight to New York. He was glad he’d decided to check all his luggage. Much of the personal gear he had shipped direct to his home base from Honolulu. That left him with only two suitcases, and they were tagged and handled by the airline.

  After confirming his reservation, Ted found a seat in the gate holding area. He separated the New York Times from the other papers. He was hungry for news from home. He had only lived there for two years. And much of that time he was on the road on assignment. He had never been as happy as he was with the network, Jason Sinclair notwithstanding. He considered his co-workers his family.

  He had felt like an outsider when he was growing up; always striving for acceptance. Even after he had had a little success, he felt that it was contrived. He made himself a good radio reporter. The personality he developed became who he really was. He began to like himself. The inferiority complex became a thing of the past. It only took thirty-five years.

  He was already into the fourth section of his first paper when they announced the boarding of his flight. He was belted into his assigned seat before he realized that he had left his copies of the Wall Street Journal and San Francisco Examiner on the seat next to where he’d been sitting in the terminal. Oh well, he thought, maybe somebody would be well informed.

  His plane, a Boeing 707, was next in line for takeoff when the pilot’s voice boomed out over the cabin loudspeaker. Oh great, Ted thought, he’s going to thank us for flying with his company in advance, just in case something goes wrong.

  “Folks, we’ve got a little roughness in the outside starboard engine, that we want to check out. Sorry for the inconvenience. We’ll deposit you back at the same gate, and let you know when we’ll be boarding again. It shouldn’t be too long. We’ll keep you informed.”

  Of course Ted’s papers were gone. He had no idea how long he would have to wait. He couldn’t leave the holding area for long, and risk not hearing the announcement of the resumption of his flight. He went quickly to the gift shop he had visited before and bought another San Francisco Examiner.

  He was deep into the local news section, when the article caught his eye.

  --------

  Randolph Guilfoyle was too new at the Examiner to have his own office. His cubicle was very small for a chat. So when this guy from Mutual Radio called, and showed interest in his stuff, Randy arranged to meet him at a bar down the street from the paper.

  . It was his last follow-up on the big freeway accident that this guy, what was his name, Wagner, no Warren, that was it, was interested in. His editor had told him to kill it. But Guilfoyle was hesitant. It had been his baby from the beginning, and it had gotten under his skin. But of course he would acquiesce. His editor was God. It was that way when you were twenty-eight, and this was your first major story.

  When the curly-haired guy in the dark overcoat and turtleneck shirt walked in, it was too dark to see his face. But Randy knew it was his guy. He had described himself well. The young reporter waved from his seat down the bar. He studied him as the man showed recognition, and then walked briskly toward him. He was well dressed, and looked successful. His confidence showed in his walk. Randy knew he would be talking to a pro.

  Ted had made up his mind before entering the bar, that he would deal with Guilfoyle in a strictly business-like manner. He would not tell the man why he was really interested. The fellow might laugh at the absurdity of it.

  “Hello, Mister Guilfoyle?” When the man nodded in the affirmative, Ted said, “I’m Ted Warner. Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.” Actually Ted could have gotten what he needed at the Public Library, by researching old issues of the Examiner, but it occurred to him that with his credentials, he might be able to do better meeting with the reporter himself. He was pleased when the man had agreed to see him.

  Randolph Guilfoyle smiled. He liked this man already. He was willing to talk as an equal. “Why don’t we move to a table, so we can stretch out and be comfortable?”

  “That sounds good. I’m still a little stiff from that long plane ride.”

  “That’s right. You said you just flew in from somewhere.”

  “Hawaii. Actually I’ve been in Vietnam on assignment for the last six months,” Ted said it as much for effect as for explanation, “and I missed your series, up until the piece that was in the paper today.”

  They found a table way in the back. It was a little dark, but they would have privacy. There was hardly anyone in the place. The lunch crowd had already been and gone.

  Randy got right to the point. “Why are you so interested in this story?”

  Ted had rehearsed this part. “The freeway system in California is so new that a major accident should have national significance to a radio audience. I was thinking about doing a segment on the people involved. I’m particularly interested in that fellow Jake Gentry.”

  “There was some national interest right after it happened,” Randy sat up, feeling important, “but I think it only lasted for a few days”.

  “What can you tell me about him?” Ted pressed on. He took some paper out of the attache case which he had purchased just for this occasion, reached into his inside coat pocket, and brought out a pen. He placed the paper flat on the table, and held the pen in position to write. He looked straight into Randolph Guilfoyle’s eyes. He hoped his excitement didn’t show.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Ted found a hotel room overlooking Fisherman’s Wharf. Actually, the cab driver who had picked him up after his meeting with Randolph Guilfoyle, suggested it. A friend of his was a bellhop there.

  Once in his room, Ted spread his notes out on the table, and tried to make some sense of it.

  There were no pictures of Jake Gentry, save the one at the accident scene, and
a very bad driver’s license photo. The police had custody of the originals. Randy had shown him a photocopy of the one on the freeway surface. He hadn’t brought the driver’s license. Ted had been disappointed about that. He really had hoped to dispel his feeling that he and Jake looked exactly alike. The name was probably just a coincidence. His overactive imagination had sent him off on this wild goose chase. As soon as he could find a picture of this phantom guy, and see that they didn’t even resemble each other, he could get back to work and on with his life.

  Suddenly he missed New York. He even missed Laura, God help him. He got on the phone, called the airline, and made reservations for Wednesday. That would give him a day to wrap things up in San Francisco. He wanted to see Joanna Thomas at the hospital. It was more for curiosity’s sake than anything else. Guilfoyle had said she was still in a coma. It wasn’t as if she would be able to tell him anything.

  It was quite a story. So ironic that it almost made Ted believe in fate. Randy had kept him there in that bar all afternoon. It seemed, once he started to tell the story, that he was personally involved.

  “You see,” Randy had said “that stretch of freeway wasn’t even in use two months ago. I went to the opening ceremony myself, on my first assignment as a reporter with the Examiner. The accident site was in the last five miles of concrete to be finished. It connected the whole north-south interstate. That area had sat unfinished for nearly two years as the politicians and civilian activists hassled over exactly where to place the roadway. There was about equal sentiment for building it to the north of the airport. It was finally decided when a crucial piece of property became available. The owner of the land had steadfastly refused to sell to the State. Of course they could have the property condemned and seized. That would have taken even more time. But the guy died, and the heirs decided to sell to the State. They would have had to divvy up the place anyway.”

  As the afternoon went on he related the stories of John Hunter, the Highway Patrolman, and ‘Rence Hostetler, and Tomas Acuna, and the Collins, Daryl and Sophie. Tears even came to his eyes when he talked about Sophie and her baby.

  There had been quite a bit of speculation about the four people who had died in the Cadillac. The two who were thrown from the vehicle were grown men. It was impossible for a while to determine the gender or identity of the other two, though it was thought they might be women. From forensics tests, and a wallet retrieved from one of the men who had been thrown clear, along with some detective legwork, it turned out they were all males and members of a crime family from the east. They had been sent to try to recruit some of the dock workers in San Francisco. That last was revealed when one of the longshoremen came forward after reading the story in the paper. He remained anonymous. It seems they’d been on their way to Reno to gamble before heading back to Philadelphia.

  All things considered, the character who really made the story, and sold so many newspapers, was the hero of the piece, Jake Gentry himself.

  “You see,” Randy had said “the guy was on his way to Tahoe to get married..”

  “How do you know that?” Ted interrupted.

  “At first it was just a guess, from the clothes that were found in their car, and the engagement ring she was wearing. It was verified by the girl’s best friend, Anna Heis. Seems they swung by the girlfriend’s place and left a note, just before the accident.”

  “Do you have this Anna Heis’s address and phone number?”

  “It’s at the office. I can call you. What’s your number?”

  Ted didn’t remember until that moment that he didn’t have a place to stay. Seeing the name Jake Gentry in the paper had short-circuited his brain somewhat. All he could think of at the time was finding out what was going on. “I’ll have to contact you.” Ted had answered.

  “Anyway,” Randy continued “They weren’t in it. They were on a frontage road. They had just gotten gas, and for some reason stayed off the freeway. They could have just continued on, and they’d be married now and, as the story goes, living happily ever after. If that had been their choice, a nice little guy named Tomas Acuna would be a lump of charcoal, and a baby girl named Sophie after her mother, would never have had a chance to live. Not to mention the fact that a bad cop named John Hunter would probably still be out there.”

  Just then a thought struck Ted. “How old was Jake Gentry?” The answer should put his suspicions to rest, once and for all.

  “He was thirty-five. I remember he was born in May of nineteen thirty-four. It was on his license.”

  Another coincidence? It wasn’t likely. But it had to be. What other explanation was there.

  “You don’t look so good.” Randy said. “Are you sick? Or is it jet lag?”

  “Maybe a little bit of both. We’ve been at it for a while. Do you mind if we call it quits?” Maybe Guilfoyle was right. Perhaps it was jet lag. A good night’s sleep might help him to sort this all out. “I can call you if I come up with any more questions. Right?”

  When he awoke the next morning, he felt much better. He should have. It was eleven o’clock! He couldn’t believe how long he had been out. He’d gone to bed at nine the night before.

  After showering and dressing, Ted walked out to the street and caught a bus, after being assured by the driver that it would take him to the hospital. He could still afford a cab, but he wanted to sample some of the flavor of the City by the Bay. Besides, it gave him time to sort out some of the things he’d learned the day before.

  He’d been told that Joanna Thomas was out of danger, but still in a coma. It had been touch and go for awhile. She would have died if they hadn’t relieved the pressure on her brain in time. The black man who’d lost his wife, what was his name? Collins? He’d reported that he saw Miss Thomas fall at about the time he heard the screech of brakes back up the freeway. Guilfoyle speculated that she saw Hunter’s patrol car hit her lover. Ted had corrected him. “Wasn’t he her fiance?” There was a distinction there that he couldn’t let slide.

  The bus line only came within two blocks of the hospital, and they were uphill. Ted was slightly winded when he reached the main entrance. He was glad he’d dressed casually.

  San Francisco General Hospital was not far from the area of town called Nob Hill. The Mark Hopkins hotel could be seen from the hospital’s main entrance. It was a pretty setting.

  After checking with the visitor information desk in the lobby, and finding out that Joanna Thomas was on the eighth floor, Ted found the elevator, punched the right button, and soon stepped out into a bustling corridor. Nurses and orderlies and cleaning people were going every which way. It wasn’t until then that he realized he should have asked when visiting hours were. He found a nurses station. He’d been standing at the counter for over a minute when a woman who appeared to be a nurse asked in a cold voice, “Yes?”

  “Could you tell me where Joanna Thomas’ room is?” Ted decided to just be matter of fact about the whole situation. It was too late to turn back.

  The woman, who seemed to be someone right out of a thirties ‘B’ movie, with her starched white uniform and black horn-rimmed glasses looked him over deliberately. “Visiting hours begin at one p.m. young man.” She was not much older than he. The “Young man” was meant to be condescending. “Are you a relative?” she continued.

  Ted thought quickly. He really wanted to see the girl. “I’m a cousin of her fiance. My name is Ted Warner.”

  All of a sudden, Miss frosty-face melted. “Oh, that poor man! He saved those people. He was a hero. He should have had a parade, not a funeral. It is so sad. And Miss Thomas. Now she’s all alone. What will she do? She’s had very few visitors. And she’s such a sweet-looking thing.”

  “May I see her?” Ted interrupted.

  “Of course. You go right in.”

  “So what room is she in?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t I say? Of course I didn’t.” Now she was flustered.

  “She’s in 816. It’s that way.” She pointed to h
er left. Ted thanked her and headed toward Joanna’s room. He had no idea what to expect.

  He took a deep breath before entering the room. She was in the first bed. The curtain was drawn hiding the other bed. He walked up to where she lay. Her long dark hair was tousled over the white pillow in stark contrast. Her arms lie outside the sheet and thin blanket, which was pulled up to just below her chin. Instinctively, Ted took her small right hand in his. He was mesmerized. “You’re lovely.” he whispered. It was not a word he would normally use, but she was breathtaking. Even in her deep sleep, she looked angelic. Perhaps it was the white surroundings, but he didn’t think so. She was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  A nurse entered the room. She nodded at Ted, and proceeded around the drawn curtain. Ted realized he had the girl’s hand in his now sweaty one. He released it gently, and stood up. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” He said it softly. He knew it was true. He would have to see her again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Again Ted called the airline. It was a good thing he didn’t talk to the same reservations clerk. She would think he was completely balmy. He had no idea when to reschedule, so he just cancelled his reservation. There was no need to call New York. He had the time coming, after all.

  He needed to get his thoughts together and decide what to do next. The girl seemed to be the key, but she might never wake up. Suddenly he was sad. The poor kid! Everything was taken from her. He knew he would have to see her again.

  Ted looked at his watch. Four-thirty. Government offices were either closed or getting ready to lock their doors. Whatever he decided, it would have to be accomplished tomorrow. What day was tomorrow, anyway? Wednesday?

  He went into the bathroom and pulled the courtesy coffee box to the front of the counter. There were little pouches of coffee and sugar and powdered creamer. Decaf, for Christ’s sake, he thought. Oh well. Better than nothing.