Name Dropping

by Jane Heller

  My mother ignored me. Some special baby. “Release him,” she told the employee again. “I’ll vouch for him.”

  Bill and I stood there openmouthed as my mother helped the man to his feet. “Are you all right?” she asked him.

  He nodded, all right but shaken.

  My mother faced me. “I don’t know what kind of craziness you’re talking about, young lady,” she said in her scolding voice, as if I were ten, “but this ‘criminal’ is Christopher Iverson, who has lived in our town his entire life. He was in your class in high school, was president of the audio-visual club, used to give you a ride every now and then. He was only coming over to say hello after so many years. Isn’t that so, Christopher?”

  Christopher said it was so, that he hadn’t meant to upset me. Then he apologized for his scruffy appearance, explaining that he’d been working on the new bathroom he was putting in at his place, realized he’d bought the wrong toilet seat, and didn’t bother to shower before rushing back to the store to exchange it for the right one. He asked if I remembered him now. I said of course I did and how were his folks. He said they were dead. I said I was sorry. And I was sorry. Sorry that they were dead; sorry that I had mistaken him for one of Levin’s goons. I was so sorry that I invited him and his wife and children to join Bill and me and my parents and my uncle Dave for dinner. It was the least I could do, wasn’t it?

  Unfortunately, I had to call Christopher a little later, rescind the invitation, and ask him if he would take a rain check.

  It wasn’t that we didn’t want Christopher and his family to have dinner with us. It was that we were not going to be having dinner, at least not at a reasonable hour. You see, when we pulled into my parents’ driveway, we came upon Uncle Dave’s car—with Uncle Dave in it, lying across his own backseat, his head at an odd angle, his feet out the window. “He must have gotten drunk and passed out,” I suggested as we peered into the vehicle.

  “Nancy,” my mother scolded. Well, it wasn’t as if it hadn’t happened before.

  “He’s unconscious, all right,” said Bill, after opening the car door and examining Uncle Dave more closely, “but he doesn’t smell of alcohol.”

  “Look,” my mother said, pointing to the back of her brother-in-law’s head. “He’s got a big bruise.”

  “He sure does,” said Bill. “A nice purple egg.”

  “He must have fallen at home, poor bastard,” said my father. “He’s alone so much these days.”

  “If he fell at home and knocked himself unconscious, then how did he drive himself over here?” my mother asked.

  “Yeah, and what’s he doing in the backseat of his car?” I wanted to know.

  “The important thing is to get him to a hospital,” said Bill. “I’m guessing it’s a concussion and he’ll come out of it just fine, but let’s not waste any more time. Nancy, why don’t you and I stay with him while your parents go inside and call 911.”

  My parents hurried up the driveway, but when they entered the house, they discovered a second reason to call 911: Somebody had made a mess of the place, overturning furniture, emptying drawers, the works. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened: Levin’s people had followed Bill and me to Pennsylvania, in search of the brooch, and Uncle Dave had arrived on the scene at precisely the wrong moment.

  It was a long night, what with dealing with the police and keeping vigil at the hospital, but we all got through it. Uncle Dave came to shortly after being admitted, and the doctor deemed his concussion “mild.” My parents were extremely relieved that he was okay, which took the sting out of the fact that some of my mother’s jewelry had been stolen—and that Uncle Dave couldn’t remember anything about the men who’d stolen it. As for Bill and me, we kept silent about what we suspected—at his insistence—which made me feel horribly conflicted.

  “This whole thing is mystifying, because there’s hardly any crime in our little town,” said my mother.

  “If you ask me, it was the gypsies,” said my father, who believed that gypsies were responsible for most of the world’s problems.

  “I suppose we’re lucky,” said my mother. “At least none of us was killed.”

  “Very lucky,” my father agreed, then turned to me. “Isn’t that right, Nancy?”

  “Very lucky,” I repeated, thinking it was one thing for me to risk bodily harm while Bill diddled around with his investigation, but it was quite another for me to expect the people I loved to do the same.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The ride back to New York wasn’t pretty. I was furious that my family had been victimized by Levin’s goons—a situation that could easily have been prevented if Bill had just gone to the police weeks before—and I vented my anger in no uncertain terms.

  Bill’s response was that Uncle Dave hadn’t been seriously hurt and my parents hadn’t been hurt at all and their insurance company would reimburse them for the stolen jewelry, so what was I getting all excited about.

  “I’m excited because you and I just stood there, knowing what we knew but not saying a word,” I replied, trying unsuccessfully not to shout at the top of my lungs. “I told you Levin was going to up the ante. Didn’t I say that just the other day? Didn’t I predict that he’d get more and more desperate, because of this boss breathing down his neck?”

  “Try to calm down, Nancy. I’m right next to you.”

  “I’m not calming down. Members of my family could have been killed, Bill. The same way the other Nancy Stern was.”

  “Nancy, I’ve made this point over and over,” he said wearily. “Levin and company aren’t interested in killing anyone. They’re interested in getting the brooch back. If they’d wanted to kill your uncle or your parents, they would have, believe me. You keep harping on your neighbor’s murder, but that was a mistake these guys made. It was an aberration for them, a screwup. We’re talking about jewel thieves here, not people who go on killing rampages.”

  “Well, how the hell do you think I feel about putting my own parents in a position where they could become a ‘screwup,’ as you call it?”

  “I’m sure you feel awful about it. So do I. But there’s a plan in place to solve the case and we’re sticking to it.”

  “Maybe you’re sticking to it, but I’m not so sure about me.”

  “No?”

  “No. How can I stick to a plan that places the people I care about in jeopardy?”

  “I’ve already—”

  “Listen to me, Bill. The bottom line is that your idea of how to handle things is at odds with my desire to protect my loved ones. You think that the only way to solve the case is your way, which is to do everything yourself—without the police—and I think you’re being incredibly stubborn.”

  His expression tightened. “The police have their job to do, and I have mine, as I’ve told you and told you.”

  “Your job is not to compromise people’s safety.”

  “For the hundredth time, I’m not! I’ve had a little more experience at this than you have, Nancy. These cases aren’t dangerous for the most part, but they do take time—months, years even. You have to be patient if you want to nail everybody in an organization like Levin’s, especially if the organization has levels of authority, like his seems to.”

  “Well, my patience is running out.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You figure it out.”

  We didn’t speak for the next hour, except when we stopped for gas and Bill muttered that he was going to the men’s room. If there’s anything more uncomfortable than taking a long car trip with someone you’re not getting along with, please tell me.

  It wasn’t until we got back to Bill’s apartment late Sunday night that he picked up the conversation.

  “I’d like it if you weren’t quite so angry,” he said.

  “I’d like it if you weren’t quite so rigid,” I countered. “It’s time to call the police, Bill, before there’s another event.”

  “I ca
n’t do that, Nancy. Not yet. Just give me another few weeks to crack the case. That’s all I’m asking. This kind of job has to be nursed along, not rushed. I’ve explained that.”

  Nursed along, I thought. Someone’s going to need a nurse if he doesn’t act soon. A nurse, then an undertaker.

  “So will you hang on a little longer?” he prompted as he opened his arms to me, cocked his head at me. “I love you. I need your support. I want us to be a team on this.”

  God, whenever he looked at me with those dark, soulful eyes, I couldn’t refuse him anything.

  I love you too, I said to myself as I gazed at him. I love you more than I thought I could love anyone. Even though you’re pig-headed. Even though you have to be the hero. Even though you’re a much bigger risk taker than Janice. Even though you’re probably deranged, a mass of neuroses.

  I stepped into his outstretched arms, into his embrace. “I just hope you know what you’re doing,” I said as he held me close.

  The weather during the rest of April was downright balmy, with unseasonably warm temperatures and light, soft breezes. Romance weather, that’s what it was—the kind that makes you vulnerable to love.

  I was already in love, as I’ve just described, but Janice was not, and the weather seemed to inspire her to step up her efforts to find a man. As an example, instead of limiting her forays into Barnes & Noble to Sunday afternoons, she added Friday nights to her regular routine.

  “They have singles then too,” she told Bill and me while we were having dinner at her apartment one Wednesday evening.

  We’d had a wonderful time that night, as a matter of fact—a carefree time, just the three of us. No one talked about Levin or the brooch or Bill’s job. No one brought up any unpleasantness. We laughed at bad jokes and drank too much wine and acted silly. The Three Stooges, Janice dubbed us.

  The following Friday night, off she went to Barnes & Noble, ever hopeful. As luck would have it, after stationing herself in the New Fiction section, she met a dentist—a single who was not only presentable but earned a good living. What’s more, this dentist—Stan was his name—was a health nut, just like Janice, and a computer enthusiast, just like Janice, and a person who liked to jump right into relationships, just like Janice. They hit it off so beautifully, according to her, that they dispensed with formalities and went straight back to his place and had sex. Safe sex, she assured me.

  If only her return home later that night had been as safe.

  After making a cup of herbal tea, she undressed, got into bed and read for a while, trying to wind down after her passion-packed evening. When she could no longer keep her eyes open, she turned off the light and went to sleep. About two-thirty she was awakened by the feel of something cold against her right temple. It was the barrel of a gun—and the man in the black ski mask made it clear that he knew how to use it.

  “Scream and you’re dead,” was how he greeted her, speaking of all-time-worst wake-up calls.

  Since he had his hand over her mouth, she couldn’t do much in the way of screaming. Besides, she was too terrified to scream. She just did what she was told, which was to get out of bed, walk into the bathroom, and stay there while he searched her apartment for guess what.

  She curled up in her bathtub, scared shitless, and forced herself not to cry as she heard the guy open every drawer and cabinet in her place, not knowing whether or not he’d shoot her when he didn’t find what he was looking for. That was the biggie, she told me later—the uncertainty of what might happen to her, the possibility that she might die without ever determining if Stan was a one-night stand or Mr. Right.

  No, Levin’s mope didn’t shoot her or even bop her on the head, like he bopped Uncle Dave. But he did slap her around a little, demanding to know if I had given her the brooch for safekeeping the night Bill and I had been over for dinner. Eventually, after saying “What brooch?” often enough that he either believed her or gave up, the guy tied her wrists to the tub’s hot and cold water faucets, stuffed a sock in her mouth, and left, stealing her nice pearl necklace while he was at it.

  It was Stan who found her. They had made plans to have breakfast together that morning. He showed up at her apartment, found the door unlocked, and walked in.

  “When he first saw me, bound to that bathtub, he thought I’d had a double-header with some guy who was into bondage.” She laughed. Laughed! She was amazing, my friend Janice. She told Stan she’d been robbed and he called the police and they questioned her about the events of the evening, and she never breathed a word about Bob Levin or the brooch. She knew that Bill’s strategy was to keep the cops out of it, so she went with the program.

  I, on the other hand, had had it with the program. Janice’s near-death experience was the absolute last straw.

  I confronted Bill once we were back at his apartment, after we’d seen Janice and heard her story. “She could have been killed—because of your singleminded pursuit of a bunch of crooks,” I said hotly.

  “But she wasn’t killed,” he said, raising his voice to defend himself.

  “Fine. She wasn’t killed. She was bound and gagged and threatened at gunpoint. Piece of cake, right?”

  “Of course not. I’d give anything if she hadn’t been attacked.”

  “You’d give anything.” I laughed scornfully. “Anything except turn the case over to the police.”

  “We’ve been all through that, Nancy.”

  “Sorry. Well, since there’s nothing more to hash out, I’m moving back to my place.”

  He looked stung. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about leaving, Bill. I’ve had enough. You say it won’t do any good to call the police. I say it won’t do any good for me to keep asking you to. So go ahead. Hunt down Levin’s organization. Do your job. Take all the time you need. But I’m out of it.”

  He reached for me, touched my arm. “You’re not out of it. You’re the key to it. If you leave, how will I protect you?”

  “Why would I need protecting? You told me Levin’s people aren’t interested in killing anyone, that they’re only interested in getting the brooch back. Well, I don’t have the brooch. You do. So I’ll be hunky dory.”

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  “Then call the police.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  God, this was hard, impossible. I didn’t want to leave Bill, but how could I stay when he wouldn’t bend?

  He tried to kiss my mouth, but I turned away. As his lips brushed my cheek instead, I felt the same old stirring, the same old yearning for him that I always felt. But I couldn’t surrender to it. Not this time.

  “Do you remember when you promised you’d love me no matter what?” he asked in a voice that was so pained it nearly broke my own heart. “It was before you found out about my real job.”

  I nodded.

  “What happened to that promise?”

  “Nothing,” I managed, the tears coming now. “Nothing happened to it. I do love you no matter what.”

  “Then why—”

  “Because we can’t agree on something very important.”

  “And because you don’t trust me.”

  When I didn’t deny this, he walked away, across the room, so as not to have to be near me. “It’s ironic, you know,” he said. “When we began our relationship, I was the one who didn’t trust you.” He coughed, cleared this throat. “You were pretending to be someone else, someone I wouldn’t have loved as opposed to someone I do.”

  I thought of the other Nancy Stern then, thought of how I had coveted every aspect of her life, thought of how she would still have a life if it weren’t for me. She would have had a life, but she wouldn’t have Bill.

  And now neither of us had Bill.

  I waited before rushing off to pack, to think clearly about what I was about to do. I desperately wanted to come up with a compromise, a solution that would address both of our concerns. But I couldn’t, because we weren’t fighting over who should do
the dishes or whether we should move into a bigger apartment or what kind of car we should buy. Those were domestic issues, the sort of problems people tackle on a daily basis, the sort of problems that don’t sink relationships. Bill and I, on the other hand, were far apart on a life-and-death issue, and no matter how I spun it around in my head, I felt he was in the wrong.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to do what I feel is right,” I said and went into the bedroom and threw my clothes into a suitcase. When I brought myself and my belongings back to the living room, Bill was still standing in the corner, exactly where I’d left him.

  “I’m going to worry about you,” he said hoarsely.

  “No need to. I’ll be okay. Busy. We’re winding down the school year. Only a month and a half left, if you can believe it. Janice and I have to get the kids ready for the end-of-school celebration. We’re having a Middle Ages day with costumes and food and music.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be a big success.”

  “Thanks.”

  I turned to go, my hand on the doorknob.

  “Nancy?” came Bill’s voice from across the room.

  “Yes?”

  “Is this temporary? This splitting up or whatever it is we’re doing? I mean, when the case is over, I’m hoping we can pick up and move on.”

  “The trouble is, Bill, we don’t know when the case will be over. You said it could take months, years even, to round everybody up. That’s a long time to put a relationship on hold, isn’t it?”

  “It might be.”

  “Then why don’t we just see how it goes?”

  “See how it goes,” he repeated halfheartedly, as if all the wind had been knocked out of him.

  I stood there staring at him, taking a good look at him, in the event that Levin’s goons might hurt him and I’d never see him again. The notion was excruciating.

  And so I made one last overture. “If you change your mind about the police…” I trailed off.

  “I can’t,” he said. “Not yet, anyway.”