“I think I just saw somebody,” Julie said. “Behind the band.”
“Could be,” D said, shrugging sheepishly.
“Dennis,” Bella said. “Introduce me to somebody.”
“You want me to?’ he asked her.
“Yes.”
Diddio turned to me. “Go ahead,” I told him. “I’ll get us a table.”
“Number nine,” D said, adding with childlike pride, “I’m a nominee.”
Two pretty guys from some band called Precious Nina sat with us, giggling, playing with their teased-up hair, talking only to each other and staring down Julie’s dress as we ate our theme meal, which was adorned with green salad awash in bottled Italian dressing.
We were given little bottles of Jack Daniel’s on the side.
“In honor of Keith,” Diddio explained.
Apparently, Keith Richards is one of the good guys. He put himself at a table near the stage and graciously greeted everyone who came by. He was beloved by the crowd. He got up three times to visit the john and each time he received a crisp round of applause. Maybe it was the chains on his boots that he wore under a tux that looked like it had been made for Zorro.
I told Julie I’d now been in the company of two Rolling Stones. “How many are there?” I asked her.
As she returned her plastic fork to her paper plate, she said, “Dead or alive?”
“There are dead Rolling Stones?” I asked. “Why wasn’t I informed?”
“T,” Diddio said, nudging me with his elbow. “I got someone you might want to meet.”
“Me?” He hadn’t spoken aloud in 15 minutes, instead spending the evening nodding at passing colleagues and whispering gossip to Bella, who drank it up with a perpetual smile.
“Sure.” As he stood, his paper napkin fluttered to the floor. The pretty boys from Precious Nina tittered.
I looked at Bella, at Julie, at the two pleasant young women who filled out our table—they were from a P.R. firm that handled “women with an edge, Liz Phair types. Ani DiFranco before men.”
“I’ll be right back,” I said, as Julie leaned toward Bella to resume their conversation.
As we went away from the now-quiet bandstand, I tapped Diddio on his bony shoulder. He stopped on the runner between the foyers and turned to me, his black hair flying into his face.
“D, what are you doing?”
“Doing?” He looked up at me. “Introducing—You mean, like, in general, like? I’m getting ready to hang my head. Or get my prize. What?”
“I mean with Julie,” I said over the dinner din. “It’s obvious you’re smitten with her.”
“Smitten? Man, I am smote.”
“Are you going to talk to her?”
“Not yet, no.”
I liked this about Diddio: no false claims, no fumbling excuses. A stand-up guy standing up for his misbehavior. “What are you waiting for?”
“’Til I get some leverage, man,” he replied. “I win that award and I am the bomb, right?”
“Maybe she’s not looking for a bomb, D. Maybe you ought to be a nice guy who talks to her.”
He frowned quizzically. “You think?”
Julie had spent most of the evening listening to Bella’s stories and sneaking glances at me, as I wondered where Bascomb was, how Sixto was explaining his fraudulent Danny Villa biography and who finally found Hassan. There was a lot I needed to tell her.
“Who do you want me to meet, D?”
He turned and started off again, pointing at a table not far from the back of the hall.
“That guy,” Diddio said.
He pointed at a large man with floppy brown hair and a big brown beard. The man, who would’ve resembled a bear even if he hadn’t been wearing a brown suit and a beige, open-necked shirt that revealed the top of a hairy chest, had a reporter’s notebook in front of him. A vaguely familiar celebrity seemed eager to give her opinion as the man scribbled. She’d made herself up for photographers and her skin seemed a dull orange under her off-blond ringlets.
“Wait here,” Diddio instructed.
I watched as he interrupted the interview and whispered to Bear, who nodded and excused himself to the celebrity as he closed his notepad. When the man stood, Diddio seemed to shrink, and as they came toward me I had the impression I was watching a big, burly ventriloquist taking his long-haired, tuxedoed dummy for a walk.
But Diddio was no dummy.
“Terry Orr, this is Tom Coombs. Of The New York Times.”
As we shook hands, he said, “So you’re Terry Orr.”
“R. Thomas Coombs,” I replied.
He tucked his notepad into the side pocket of his jacket.
We were the same height, but he had maybe 50 pounds on me.
“You’re sizing me, Terry,” he said. “Is that private-eye policy?”
“That’s it,” I replied. “I’m deciding whether to kill you now or see if the Sulzbergers will buy you back.”
He laughed. “The union, maybe. You can’t be that upset about the column, Terry. I seem to recall that you got off easy.”
Diddio said, “Tom, I want you to tell Terry I wasn’t a source for the piece.”
Coombs looked at me. “He wasn’t.”
“Thank you,” Diddio said, bowing slightly. “I’ve got to go now. It’s almost time.”
As Diddio went off, I said to Coombs, “This must be a gold mine for you.”
He nodded. “What’s the old saying? ‘Writing about music is like dancing to architecture.’ Something like that. But these guys are so earnest. Someone like your friend, he thinks the world revolves around this music. Everybody’s life would be better if they could just hear the next song. Or understand the last one.”
“So you’ll cut them some slack,” I said.
“Are you kidding?”
“I thought not.”
“You’re here for Diddio?” he asked.
“What else?”
We were both looking across the hall. Busboys were taking away paper plates, plastic cups and cutlery. They’d decided to cut out the middle of the operation by dumping the stuff directly into big black garbage bags. On the stage, instruments were being shifted around, chairs moved, microphones rearranged.
“What are you working on?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“Last time you didn’t talk to me I got a column out of it,” he said.
“You shouldn’t have mentioned my daughter and the money,” I told him sharply. “She didn’t need that. She’s a good kid and it’s going to stay that way.”
“You’ve worked my side of things, Terry,” he replied. “You know how it goes. Besides,” he added, “your daughter is what makes you interesting.”
“What led you to think I want to be interesting?”
He nodded agreeably. “We have no choice, sometimes.”
“No, I guess not.”
“Is that her over there? Next to the woman in purple?”
I said yes.
“She’s growing up. And the woman?”
“She’s already grown up,” I cracked.
“I’ll say,” he chuckled. “Do I know her?”
If he visited Sharon Knight at the office, he might. “I don’t know. Do you?”
He looked at me. “No, I don’t think I do.”
Workers in gray uniforms were shifting the podium toward the center of the unadorned platform. A couple of potted plants might’ve helped.
“You got something for me?” Coombs asked.
I looked at the Bear. He wrote a widely read column for the city’s most respected media outlet. What he wrote wore the mantle of credibility; that is, people believed what he reported, even if it was sprinkled with his opinions.
Coombs was the kind of guy I’d been searching for when I’d run through the microfiche at the Public Library: an influential columnist.
Onstage, one of the men in gray affixed a logo to the podium—the stylized photo of Bangs.
I turned to Co
ombs, then pointed to the soft black curtain that separated us from the great hall.
He followed me.
I dug the cell phone out of my pocket.
We were on the other side now, and the vast concourse was quiet. A few young people with campers’ backpacks were sitting near the information booth, chatting affably, as couples in neat casual dress and copies of Playbill rolled up in their hands searched the overhead boards for the next train home. The bar at Michael Jordan’s was packed, and the crowd spilled onto the stairs at the west end of the hall. From somewhere, the peal of laughter, the squeal and wheeze of a train easing into the station, a cart on wobbling rollers, all echoing high and wide.
“Ever hear of Sonia Salgado?” I asked the Times columnist.
He shook his head.
“Run a NexisLexis on her,” I said, “whatever.”
“A summary might be useful,” Coombs said as he drew next to me.
I leaned against the shelf in front of an empty ticket window. “When you hear about Danny Villa’s arrest and the suicide at the Avellaneda, she’ll pull it together for you.”
When I started tapping in my own number to recall the message Addison had left me, Coombs asked, “Is this going to be her?”
“Not unless they have cellular in heaven.”
I handed him the phone.
“Keep me out of it,” I told him.
SEVENTEEN
They finally pulled Diddio and Bella off the Vanderbilt Hall ceiling and now it was time for everyone to celebrate, commiserate, dance. They were taking photos over by the podium where the awards had been presented, where Cock Michaels gave a waifish woman I’d never heard of the Doc Pomus Award for a song I’d never heard. To pose for their photos, the winners among the critics were grouped in a row of uneven clip-on bow ties, shiny rented tuxedos and awkward grins. Between snaps, they giggled and jostled to stand next to Keith, who either had saintly patience or had nipped at more than a few mini-bar Jacks.
The photographers—including the woman who’d won the regally named Best Picture Award—finished their assignments, and I watched from a distance as Diddio introduced Bella to his peers. No shrinking violet she, my daughter zoomed in on the Rolling Stone. Diddio snapped them together with our Fuji disposable.
The boys from Precious Nina had stumbled off and the two PR women had traded us for a couple of writers from Entertainment Weekly. The Latin band was playing something familiar that I couldn’t place and then it suddenly shifted to a quiet number. I looked at Julie.
“Shall we?” she asked.
“Why not?”
I took her hand.
And when we reached the dance floor and I took her right hand in mine and brought my right arm around and touched her warm skin, I knew it was all wrong. Within one measure of the slow romantic song, I knew this wasn’t my Marina in my arms. The hand I held wasn’t hers, nor was the dark hair that brushed the side of my face. The scent belonged to someone else. And by the second measure, I was acutely aware, once again, that I would never hold my wife, mei carissima, ever ever again.
I looked over Julie’s bare shoulder to Bella, who was chatting up one of Diddio’s friends, a man her height with long blond locks.
“She’s wonderful, Terry,” Julie whispered. “You should be very proud.”
I waited until the catch in my throat went away. “I am.”
Julie looked up at me, then nestled her head against my chest. And we swayed to the pretty music and I tried to think of nothing and when we turned I saw Bella. She was looking at me and she waved and then she brought her fingers to the sides of her lips and tucked upward: Smile, Dad, she instructed.
I smiled at my daughter.
She nodded. She approved.
The saxophone player gave way to the trumpeter, who played low, as if moaning, and I knew that soon he would rear back and let out a cry.
It came to me clearly. Say it now: Julie, I can’t do this. I’ve heard you, I understand. But I can’t do it. Try Diddio, if you’d like. He’s a better bet for you. He’s got a heart of gold, like you do.
You’re a good woman, worthy of passion, of honesty.
I felt her thigh against mine and I heard the rustle of silk as we turned.
Suddenly, she let out a low chuckle.
I pulled back to look at her.
“I’m thinking about the way Gabriella screamed,” Julie said with a laugh.
The award for Best Feature had come in the middle of the program, tucked between Best Review (Concert) and Best Profile (Band). As some model read the names and subjects, Diddio had closed his eyes and I’d noticed that Bella was squirming in her seat. If I’d looked under the table, I would’ve seen her tugging at the rubber bands around her ankles.
“And the winner is Dennis D—”
“YAAHHHH!!!”
The startled model stopped and the room erupted in laughter.
Bella didn’t care. She leapt from her folding chair and threw her arms around Diddio’s neck.
Robust applause, the loudest of the night, followed the laughter, and it continued until Diddio finally wriggled out from my daughter’s grip. As he went toward the podium, Bella came over and leaned against me. She was crying.
“I’m so happy for him,” she said as I ran my thumb under her eyes. “Nothing good ever happens to him. He’s so, so …” She took the handkerchief Julie offered. “I love him, Dad. And he won! He won!” She patted her hands together in a little girl’s applause. Then, composing herself, she ran her fingers along her hair, a thoroughly feminine gesture the model at the podium might’ve used.
Diddio took the envelope and scratched his head, played with his long hair, shuffled from side to side. He pointed with the envelope toward our table.
“My friend,” he said sheepishly. “Gabby, wave. It’s all right.”
When Bella signaled modestly with Julie’s handkerchief, the critics and their guests laughed, applauded.
“And her Dad,” Diddio added. “My hero. Terry, really, man.”
Now Julie tugged lightly at the back of my hair. “Hero,” she repeated.
“I think he was, I don’t know, overcome by the moment,” I told her.
“Terry,” Julie began demurely, “it’s not really my style … I guess I’m shy about some things …”
She wore a nervous, enigmatic expression of hope, anticipation, and she suddenly seemed younger than she had when I first saw her in her enticing purple gown.
“But, you know,” she said, “sometimes it’s not easy to—” She laughed. “I don’t know why I’m so jittery.”
Bella was looking into Diddio’s envelope now and she frowned quizzically. The envelope, I’d wager, was empty. A prop.
Julie drew up. She was going to say it.
“Well, what I wanted to tell you—”
I cut her off. “Julie, what about D?” I looked into her brown eyes. “You haven’t told me what you think of him.”
She slowed down. “Dennis?”
I skidded to avoid stepping on her. “I mean, he’s a good guy, right?”
She let go of my hand and, as I withdrew my arm from her waist, she lifted her hand from my shoulder.
“Julie?”
She looked up at me. “I’m sure he’s a good guy,” she replied, hesitantly.
The other couples on the dance floor drifted around us.
She stepped back. “I don’t—What are you saying, Terry?”
“I mean, I can’t … I don’t want to stand in the way of anything promising.”
“Oh, really?”
“I mean, the two of you, maybe … I don’t know. Good people, kind. You know.”
The flute continued its flight, and I glanced at the bandstand as the drummer signaled the other musicians. A flourish on the cymbals and the band ended its song.
Over the modest applause, I said, “Should we join him over by the Rolling Stone?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she replied sharply.
&nb
sp; “All right. Why don’t—”
“In fact, Terry …”
“What?”
“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll call it a night.” She looked away. “I’m not myself.” She brought a finger to her temple. “A headache.”
“Julie—” She was inching away. “Wait. Please.”
“No, I really don’t think so.”
She turned and hurried toward the table to retrieve her wrap.
As I came up behind her, she said, “Will you apologize to Gabriella and Dennis for me?”
Her cheeks were flushed. “Julie, listen, let me explain. I—”
“Please, Terry.”
“OK. Of course. Sure.” I moved the chair that was between us. “Let me get a cab for you, Jule.”
“I can get my own cab, Terry.”
She went quickly up the slight incline toward 42nd Street.
“I don’t believe you. I mean, what were you thinking?”
She’d leaned over, pressed a button and sent up the partition that separated us from Big Darryl. On the seat next to her was a box that held Diddio’s prize: a portable, anti-shock DAT player/recorder with a built-in microphone.
“She suddenly, out of nowhere, gets a headache just when you start to tell her she should be interested in Dennis.”
“Bella, I know she didn’t have a headache,” I said as I looked through tinted glass to the white foam on the East River, to smokestacks and, in the distance, bolts and bridges.
“Dad, Julie has no interest, none, zero, in Dennis,” she continued, accenting her words by pounding her leg with the side of her fist.
“And this you know how?” I shifted my foot onto the hump in the black carpeting.
“Dad, Julie is interested in you. In you. Y-O-U.”
“I—”
“Go ahead. Frown. Make faces.” Bella pointed to the top of my head. “That brain is not just in there so your head’s not empty.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bella.”
“The dress, Dad, the hair, the makeup,” she continued. “No one’s going to do that for a blind date.”
“Listen, Bella, I’m not completely—”
“And I was watching you when you were dancing. When you were dancing, she looked very happy. Very happy.”
“Bella, how about you stop wagging your finger at me?”
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