The Sirena Quest

by Michael A. Kahn

  “Well, boys,” Gordie said, slipping into a Texas drawl—“Way-ell, boys, I jes’ may. Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s hear it, Major,” Lou said. “We could use a little inspiration this morning.”

  “Now looky here, boys,” Gordie said in his best Slim Pickens voice, “I ain’t much of a hand at makin’ speeches, but I got a purty fair idea that somethin’ doggone important is goin’ on back there. And I got a fair idea of the kinda personal emotions that some of you fellas may be thinkin’. Heck, I reckon you wouldn’t even be human beans if you didn’t have some purty strong personal feelin’s about combat. I want you all to remember one thing, them folks back home is a-countin’ on you and, by golly, we ain’t about to let ’em down.”

  Gordie paused and hooked his thumbs under his belt.

  “I tell you somethin’ else, boys. If this thing turns out to be half as important as I figure it just might be, I’d say that you’re all in line for some important promotions and personal citations when this thing’s over with. That goes for ever’ last one of you regardless of your race, color or your creed. Now let’s get this thing on the hump, boys—’cause we got some flyin’ to do.”

  Brandi applauded. Gordie bowed, and then he gave Ray the thumbs-up as he backed out of the room.

  Lou turned to Ray and leaned over. “Heal fast, buddy. I expect you out there on Remington Field with us.”

  As he turned to go, Ray grabbed him by the wrist. Lou looked down. Ray held out his hand. Lou clasped it.

  Ray stared up at him. Lou could feel the passion in those eyes.

  In a raspy voice, Ray whispered, “Good luck.”

  Part 4: The Chase

  We are stardust,

  We are golden,

  And we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden.

  —Joni Mitchell

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Billy hung up and turned to Gordie, who was on the bed, head propped against two pillows, watching MTV.

  Gordie looked over at him. “Well?”

  Billy shook his head.

  Gordie groaned. “Terrific. That’s fucking terrific.” He turned to Lou. “Well?”

  Lou was seated on the floor with his back against the wall, telephone directory open on his lap. He looked up and shook his head. “That was the last one.”

  “How many have we called?” Gordie asked.

  Billy counted the phone numbers he’d jotted down on the notepad. “Nineteen.”

  They were in the Barrett Best Western Inn just off Route 39 on the outskirts of Barrett, Massachusetts. For the past two hours they’d been calling area motels and hotels, trying to find where Frank and Reggie—and possibly Sirena—were staying.

  Lou checked his watch. Almost noon. Today was June fourteenth. The kids arrived tomorrow. The reunion officially started the morning after that.

  He flipped back to the beginning of the phone book and skimmed the first few pages. He looked up and shook his head. “This one only covers towns within about a twenty-mile radius of Barrett. There must be another directory for all of western Massachusetts.”

  He stood and moved toward the door. “I’ll see if they have one at the front desk.”

  “Assuming they registered under their real names,” Gordie said, “which is doubtful.” He leaned back on the pillows and shook his head. “There’s got to be a better way to do this.”

  “Actually,” Billy said, “there just might be.”

  Lou stopped at the door and looked back. “Oh?”

  “Last summer someone stole my wallet at the public beach in Evanston,” Billy said. “I had my MasterCard in there. The police never caught the thief but they were able to trace him to Hammond, Indiana.”

  “How?” Gordie asked.

  “He bought some gas in Hammond. He charged it on my card. Apparently, there’s this national credit data system. Every time a clerk runs your card through one of those readers it registers in the data bank.”

  “That’s great if you’re a cop looking for a criminal,” Gordie said. “No credit card company is going to tell one of us what Frank and Reggie are charging.”

  “But they might tell Ray,” Lou said.

  Gordie frowned. “Why Ray?”

  “He owns shopping centers. His organization must have contacts with every credit outfit in America. I bet they run credit checks on people all the time.”

  Lou reached for the phone. “All I need is a name and an address. I bet we can get their home addresses out of our class reunion directory.”

  He punched in the number for Ray’s hospital room. Brandi answered. Lou explained the idea to her.

  As Lou listened to Brandi describe it to Ray, Billy handed Lou the class reunion directory.

  Brandi came back on the phone. “Ray can do it, Louis.” She sounded excited. “He says it may take a few hours to get what you need, but he’ll put his people right on it.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “One more question,” Billy said.

  Gordie rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Bronco.”

  “Just one.”

  “One. And that’s it.”

  “Do I get to make more than the Major League minimum?”

  Gordie turned to Lou. “Can you believe this yutz?”

  Gordie turned back to Billy. “No, Bronco. The money part has to be irrelevant. That’s the whole point.”

  “Okay,” Billy said, “let me make sure I understand. The Devil says I can keep my wife and my son, but I have to give up everything else, including my college education and my savings, right?”

  “Right,” Gordie said. “And in exchange, the Devil will put you on the Major League Baseball team of your choice and give you the necessary skills to start at the position of your choice for five years.”

  “And when the five years are up?”

  Gordie snapped his fingers. “So’s your baseball career. Poof. You have to start all over—school, job, the works.”

  Billy frowned and rubbed his chin.

  “So?” Gordie asked. “Would you do it?”

  Billy twirled a strand of hair around his finger as he pondered the question. Finally, he shook his head. “I guess not.”

  Gordie turned to Lou. “What about you?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  Billy looked at Lou with surprise. “Really?”

  Lou nodded.

  “Who and where?” Gordie asked.

  “Cardinals. Third base.”

  Billy said, “But you’d have to give up your legal career.”

  Lou shrugged. “So?” He glanced over at Gordie. “You?”

  “Come on, man. Of course.”

  “Cubs?” Lou asked.

  “Absolutely. Left field.”

  Gordie turned to Billy. “Bronco, you’re in a very select group.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve been posing that Deal With The Devil for years. Most guys say yes. Doctors, lawyers, writers, whatever—almost all of them say yes. And you know what? The women never understand. Never. Doesn’t matter who they are or where they live, they can’t fucking believe a guy would say yes to that deal.” Gordie leaned back and shrugged. “How do you explain that?”

  Lou smiled. “If I were the Devil, I wouldn’t be talking baseball with Billy.”

  “Oh?” Gordie said.

  Lou looked at Billy and raised his eyebrows. “I’d be talking rodeo.”

  Billy blushed.

  Gordie laughed. “Oh, yeah.”

  Lou said, “I’d offer the same five-year deal, but instead of center field, Billy would get a chance to be a barrel racer or maybe a bull rider.”

  “There you go,” Gordie said. “You on board, Bronco?”

  Billy smiled. “That would be tough to turn down.”

  “I can see it now,”
Gordie said, leaning back and sweeping his arm in the air as if reading the words on a billboard. “The Sandinista Steer Wrestler. Bronco the Bareback Bronc Rider. Oh, yeah. And guess what else, Billy? You’d have so much cowgirl pussy you’d need to mainline Viagra.”

  They laughed.

  They were having a late dinner at Pete’s Leaning Tower of Pizza and Grinder, a Greek-style pizzeria two blocks from the Barrett College campus. The James Gang had consumed mass quantities of Pete’s pepperoni pizzas and meatball grinders during their freshman year. Two to three times a week, usually after the library closed, and at least once each weekend—and almost always at the table by the far window, which is where they were seated tonight. Although prices had tripled since their college days, their favorites were still on the menu, and the Greek-style pizzas still arrived with a light coating of grease that Billy still tried to blot up with a napkin.

  “Hey,” Lou said, “isn’t that Pete?”

  Gordie and Billy turned toward the front door, where a short stocky man in his sixties with a pencil-thin mustache had just entered. He had his hands in the front pockets of his baggy black slacks and was jangling his change, just like the old days.

  Gordie stood and waved. “Yo, Pete!”

  Pete turned toward them, squinting, jangling his change. His face broke into a broad smile.

  “Heya ’dere, boys.”

  As Pete approached their table, Lou realized how many years had passed. Pete’s hair, once thick and coal black, was gray and thin. His face was creased, his skin splotched with age spots.

  They shook hands all around.

  “So how youse boys doin’, eh?”

  “We’re back for our reunion,” Gordie said. “Your pizza still tastes great, Pete.”

  Pete grinned and nodded, jangling his change. “Da bes’, eh? Dat’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.”

  They started asking him questions about the restaurant, but Pete cut it short. “Gotta see my night manager, boys. Got two other restaurants now—Pete’s Greek Islands over in Hadley and Pete’s Gyros and Heroes down in Belchertown. Busy, busy, eh? All da time. Dat’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout. Enjoy my pizza, eh? Good to see youse boys.”

  They watched as he huddled with the manager for a few minutes, nodding as he listened to the younger man explain something, hands still in his front pockets. Then he turned and moved quickly through the restaurant toward the front door, nodding and smiling at a few of the tables of patrons.

  “Guess what?” Gordie said to Lou. “We spent four years eating pizzas and grinders in this joint. We talked to Pete every time we were in here. Every time, right?”

  “Just about,” Lou said.

  Gordie shook his head. “Guy has no fucking idea who we are.”

  “I think he sort of recognized us,” Billy said.

  “No way.” Gordie took a huge bite out of his pizza slice, chewed, and washed it down with a gulp of beer. “Not a fucking clue, Billy. Dat’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout, eh?”

  Lou patted Gordie on the back. “If it makes you feel any better, I think his pizza sucks. It sucked then, and it sucks now.”

  “Pardon me.”

  They turned. Seated alone at the next table was a woman about their age. She wore granny glasses and had curly brown hair flecked with gray. A copy of James Joyce’s Dubliners was on the table next to her meal, which appeared to be an eggplant grinder.

  She was staring at Gordie, an impish smile on her face. “Aren’t you the Galapagos turtle?”

  Gordie looked surprised. After a moment, he nodded. “You could say that. Yeah, that’s me. Or was me. Once upon a time.”

  “I was in the audience that night.”

  Gordie raised his eyebrows. “No kidding?”

  “I’ve never so laughed as hard in my life.”

  Gordie was grinning. “Yeah?”

  She nodded. “It was one of the most—” she paused, searching for the right word “—luminous performances I’ve ever seen.”

  “Luminous?” Gordie blushed. “Thanks. Luminous, eh? No one’s ever called me that. Lummox, maybe. Lunatic, sometimes. But never luminous.” He wiped his hands on his napkin and reach over to shake her hand. “I’m Gordie. Gordie Cohen.”

  She shook his hand. “Sally Jacobs.”

  She wore a navy turtleneck and black jeans. She had a friendly, intelligent face, high cheekbones, bright hazel eyes.

  “I was a freshman at Hampton,” she said. “Our dorm mother drove several of us over to hear the speeches. She told us that the Hutchison competition would be an ‘intellectually elevating experience.’” Sally enunciated the phrase with a snooty accent.

  She leaned back and shook her head. “I was prepared for a totally dull evening. And most of the speeches were just that. Do you remember that pompous little preppie with his sermon on Thomas Jefferson?”

  Gordie nodded. “Ah, yes. That was the great Reggie Pelham.”

  “So pretentious. The others weren’t much better. I thought it would never end. But then you came on.” She paused to study Lou. “You were the other one, right? The scientist?”

  Lou nodded. “The straight man. Gordie wrote the script.” He reached across the table to shake her hand. “Lou Solomon. This is Bill McCormick. We were roommates freshman year.”

  “You guys were wonderful.” She turned to Gordie. “When you came up on stage in that green hospital gown with your head wrapped up in that crazy flashing thing—well, I was laughing so hard I almost peed in my pants. What was that thing?”

  “An ACE bandage,” Gordie said. “With about two dozen nails sticking out.” He gestured toward Billy. “This man gets credit for the props. He put that contraption together.”

  Sally smiled. “Your Galapagos turtle was my favorite, but I loved that dog in heat routine, too. What were those dogs again?”

  “An elderly male toy poodle putting the moves on a Doberman in heat,” Gordie said.

  “Oh, my God. I can still see it.”

  Lou said, “My favorite was Abraham Lincoln choking on a piece of steak fat.”

  Billy said, “Mine was the Volkswagen bug going up the mountain road.”

  “You definitely deserved to win,” she said. “I think there would have been a riot if the judges had given first prize to anyone else.”

  “I don’t think Reggie ever got over that loss,” Lou said.

  Gordie snorted. “I think he’s feeling better now.”

  “So you guys are back for your reunion?” Sally asked.

  “Yep,” Lou said. “You, too?”

  “Not exactly. I plan to go, but I actually live here now. I’m in the English Department at Barrett.”

  “No kidding.” Gordie glanced at her ring finger.

  Lou caught the glance. He looked, too.

  “This is my fifth year,” she said. “I love it.”

  “Where were you before?” Lou asked.

  “I started off at the University of Oklahoma. That’s where I met my husband. Ex-husband. He’s in American history. We both accepted positions at Wisconsin. He’s still in Madison.” She paused. “I like it better here. I love the surroundings, too. I’ve become an outdoor sports nut. I hike and backpack in the warm months, and cross-country ski and snowshoe in the winter.”

  Lou gave her an appraising glance. Sally Jacobs was a far cry from the thong-bikini babes and anorexic models that fueled Gordie’s lust during his Hollywood years. Sally could have stepped out of an Eddie Bauer catalog, a canoe paddle over her shoulder. There was a hearty sturdiness about her, amplified by the splash of freckles on her face. She had the look of a woman who could steer a kayak through the rapids, build a fire in the rain, and pitch a tent in the dark. And then, Lou thought, join you in that tent for some enthusiastic sex.

  He felt a pang as he thought of Andi.

  “New England
is the perfect place for me,” she was saying.

  “That’s really great,” Gordie said.

  Lou caught the effusive tone in Gordie’s voice. He made a conspicuous show of checking his watch and turned to Gordie. “Billy and I better get back to the room.” He stood. “We’ll see whether Ray called.”

  Billy got to his feet.

  Lou looked down at Gordie. “You still have some pizza left. Why not stay here and keep Sally company? I can come back and pick you up in a half-hour.”

  “Oh, don’t bother,” Sally said. “I can drop him off.”

  “You sure?” Lou asked.

  Sally nodded, her eyes shining. “I’m positive.”

  “Thanks.” Lou turned to go but paused to look back at Gordie. He couldn’t resist. “Give me a call if you get tied up.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Gordie sat up in bed and announced, “I’m in love.”

  Lou came out of the bathroom drying his hair with a towel. “When did you get back?”

  “Three.”

  Billy looked up from the New York Times, which he was reading in the easy chair in the corner of their motel room.

  “In the morning?” Billy asked. “Where did you go?”

  “We walked all around the campus. Just walked and talked and walked and talked. She’s awesome. A real intellectual, but down-to-Earth, too. She’s totally great. I’m in love.”

  Billy smiled and returned to his paper. “That’s nice.”

  “I told you something good would come out of that competition,” Lou said.

  “True,” Gordie said. “But you didn’t tell me I’d have to wait twenty years for it.”

  Lou nodded, thinking back to Gordie’s night of glory at the Hutchison competition. Sally Jacobs was right. He had been luminous. They’d kept the performance a total secret until the night of the event. Only Lou had been listed on the event’s program—about two-thirds of the way down the column of competitors, right after Reggie and an earnest, lantern-jawed senior from Shaker Heights named John Calvert:

  Reginald Harris Pelham (Class of ’74): “Thomas Jefferson: America’s Renaissance Man.”