by M. M. Mayle
“You can’t do that. Nate said you’re stayin’ at his place,” Bemus argues.
“I fuckin’ can do that and it’s about time the lot of you takes notice I’m not an invalid, I’m not feebleminded, I’m not a child needing round-the-clock minders.”
“He’ll have a shit fit.”
“Let him. He’ll undoubtedly have a shit fit about this side trip to LA and what I did whilst collecting this.” Colin waves the trophy in Bemus’s face. “I rather expect he’ll be shittin’ himself dry before things are done with.”
“About that flashy thing you’ve got there.” Bemus dodges a collision with the Icon. “You plan on carryin’ it through the airport like a beacon, or dialing down your profile a coupla notches by packin’ it away?”
“Good thought, good point, but before I do put it away would it actually kill you to say something? Y’know, like ‘congratulations’ or ‘well done’ or words to that effect?”
“Hey, I’m just havin’ a little fun with you. Congratulations go without sayin’—big pat on the back—and off the record I think you did the exact right thing in there when you kinda rubbed their noses in it.”
“Thank you. I hope you’re not the only one seein’ it that way.”
“You heard the crowd, didn’t you?”
“Yeh, I did.”
“Then why don’t you stay over, hit a coupla A-list parties and bask in it a little?”
“Crossed my mind, but that might be pushin’ things a bit,” Colin says.
They ride on in silence till they reach the hotel, where the giving of last-minute instructions makes him forget about asking Bemus if he happened to see Cliff Grant slithering about anywhere.
NINE
Evening, March 30, 1987
Hoop’s job now is to convince himself the cross-country trip was worthwhile. This might not be so easy to do with the evidence untouched in a five-gallon paint bucket and nothing to show for the hotel visit other than one of Colin Elliot’s personal items and several packets of some queer kind of headache remedy that probably only British people take.
Then again, maybe he shouldn’t be so hard on himself. He did get inside Elliot’s rooms, didn’t he? And before that, wasn’t he quick to put his dark hair and skin to good use once he had reason? That protective coloration turned out to be better than a key to the employees’ entrance and locker room of the Royal Poinciana Hotel once it was figured out that they apparently hired only Mexicans to do the housekeeping and janitor work. Limited success or not, he can’t help likening the hotel experience to something his Plains brothers would call “counting coup,” the physical touching of an enemy to show bravery. That’s the better way to see the near brush with Elliot and the bodyguard. And where the bodyguard’s concerned, he can count his coup stick notched for a second time.
The parking lot of the convenience store where he’s doing this summing up must be near an airport. The sound of planes taking off every few minutes is cutting into his concentrations. Arriving at this particular parking lot was an accident because he gave up reading the map after several tries couldn’t get him anywhere near the place where the awards show was going on.
When he gets out of the truck and the airplane noises are even louder, he reminds himself that however much he dreads another four days on the road, he can be glad circumstances do not allow him to fly. A first-time ride on an airplane is the last thing he needs in the way of nerve-jangling right now.
From a shirt pocket, he removes a sheet of paper torn from the tablet next to Cliff Grant’s phone and unfolds it against the steering wheel. In the whiter-than-white glare of the parking lot lights, the full page of entries shows up just fine. After some study, he singles out the three he’s sure have to do with the rock star.
3/28-29 Elliot Denver? Brown Hotel one BG + Isaacs
Jasey Anderson Butler Aviation
3/30 12:05 PM Colin Ell Royal Poinciana 1 bguard
→ Icons MDarling Pavilion Music Center Be there!
Eddie Gomez Hotel
→ Elliot NYC til 4/07
Gibby Lester West Village Silent Woman confirms
Follow through ASAP
They read the same no matter how many times he reads them; nothing new shows itself, so his decision about where to go next will have a question mark on it till he’s able to figure out if Gibby Lester is a person, a small town, or a female that can’t talk.
He gets out of the truck, starts for the Quik-Mart and has to go back because he forgot to lock the truck doors. Inside the store, the first thing he notices is a clock above the dairy case that reads ten of nine. For ease of calculating, he rounds the number up to nine p.m. and works out how long it will take him to get to New York City if he stays close to the speed limit and keeps sleep to the minimum. Thursday night at the earliest, is the estimate he comes up with and the one he’ll have to stick with because picking up a hitcher to share the driving is out of the question.
He treats himself to a two-liter bottle of Coke and a jar of peanut butter to round out the usual fare of sliced bologna and saltines. He’s halfway back to the Jimmy when he remembers he didn’t pick up his change from the grimy mat next to the cash register. He has a hard time not going back for it, and maybe that’s why he puts the key in upside down the first time he tries to open the truck door. When he sets the purchases on the front seat, he ignores the back compartment like it’s not even there. Right now, the paint bucket represents a big disappointment, and he’s not feeling a lot of interest in the several bags of stuff taken from Grant’s file cabinets and kitchen table.
He starts the truck, shifts into reverse, and suddenly has to puke again the way he did after leaving Grant’s house. This time he makes no attempt to run for the bushes; he simply opens the door and lets fly right there on the pavement, right in plain sight, not that anybody’s looking.
TEN
Early morning, March 31, 1987
Laurel Chandler wakes before the alarm, rolls over to squint at the Post-it notes stuck along the inner edge of the bedside table. They’re in chronological order rather than order of importance. Today, there are only three, unlike the good-old-bad-old days when the table edge would be filled and the overflow affixed to the lamp shade like nautical flags warning of bad weather.
She rubs sleep from her eyes and takes a closer look at the Post-it noting her first appointment of the day.
Brkfst with D
Edw Rm Plaza
3/31/87 8:30 am
Nothing about that requires extra thought or preparation, so she turns on the rarely watched television for background noise while she makes the bed. She half-listens to the Today Show correspondents’ breathless chatter about something that occurred at last night’s Institute Awards ceremony, moves on to the bathroom and starts her shower without wondering what all the fuss was about. Chances are she wouldn’t have recognized the entertainer’s name if she had paused to catch the particulars.
Later, downstairs in the kitchen, she turns on the small TV next to the coffee maker, tunes in to Good Morning America and finds they’re centered on the same topic—an unscheduled musical performance at the Icon event.
She switches to the Weather Channel and starts the coffee. Halfway through the bowl of cereal she’s eating over the sink, she remembers she’ll have to eat something at the breakfast meeting or endure criticism of her eating habits along with the anticipated criticism of her living habits.
Brushing up on her standard argument for refusing to give up the family home begins when she backs her brand-new Range Rover out of the garage. Since her emancipation from the New York City District Attorney’s office and entry into private practice, any meeting with her new chief includes pointed mention of the impracticalities and poor economics of maintaining a large home in suburban New Jersey and practicing law in Manhattan. Today’s meeting won’t be any different.
Once she breaks loose of the lollygaggers on the secondary roads, Route 3 is a comparative racetrack of commut
ers. She enters the curve that gradually reveals the skyline of Manhattan as she always does—with a combination of thrill and trepidation. On some days the panorama takes on dreamy mirage-like qualities; on others it resembles nothing so much as a shelf crowded with highly stylized bowling trophies.
Today, as she begins the long descent to the river, Manhattan is not giving off any illusions, and she’ll have adequate time to cement that impression because traffic is slowed to a crawl. It remains that way well into the Lincoln Tunnel, where she finishes the coffee brought from home and resigns herself to being late, thereby strengthening David’s argument for her abandoning her childhood home for a featureless box in the city.
She parks in the garage behind The Plaza Hotel instead of in her leased space at Rockefeller Center and justifies the indulgence because time is of the essence and she cannot be expected to run very far in the frivolous shoes she’s wearing.
In the hotel lobby she removes her coat, smoothes her hair and adjusts the jacket of her suit before approaching the entrance to the Edwardian Room. She’s glad to shun the in-your-face opulence of the better-known Palm Court in favor of the restrained elegance of this room—a room that whispers rather than shouts elitist ambience.
She could almost say the same of David Sebastian who, as anticipated, has already arrived and is seated at a table near the windows where he’s very much at one with the atmosphere. He hasn’t spotted her yet, so she has a moment to give him a quick appraisal as though she’s never seen him before. This habit was a skill when practiced as a prosecutor; now it’s a little game she likes to think keeps her alert to change.
David of course has not changed since she saw him last week; he has, however, changed a great deal since circumstances brought them together so long ago. Little remains of the earnest young lawyer he was when appointed administrator of the trust left by her grandmother. And, in all fairness, little remains of the solemn young girl she was when cast in a role she was ill-prepared to take.
Now, as he spots her and stands to greet her, he personifies strength clad in refinement and everything that comes with it. At age fifty, his boyish good looks have morphed into something more substantial. On him, graying hair and steel-framed eyeglasses are enhancements; on him, the start of a paunch and a slight rounding of the shoulders are marks of success; on him, impeccable tailoring and meticulous grooming have always bespoke privilege and power. In a soft voice, like the room.
“Good morning, Laurel . . . lovely as always. Plum is definitely your color, it was even when you were a girl.”
Laurel brushes his cheek with hers and takes a seat opposite his. “Thank you for not mentioning I’m late.”
“I was just getting around to that,” David replies with an indulgent smile. “If you lived in Manhattan you could save yourself two hours of commuter grief a day. Probably more.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she says with a sigh. “You’ve been telling me that at regular intervals since the last kid moved out of the house and each time I’ve answered as I am now—I am not yet ready to leave New Jersey,” she enunciates as though addressing a lip-reader. “And furthermore, I’ve just taken delivery of my first-ever new car to make that commuter grief a little more bearable.”
A waiter arrives with coffee, giving her time to marshal extra defenses if needed.
“I’d think you would want to be rid of that place and all the bad memories that go with it.”
“That’s unfair, David. You’re deliberately forgetting there are some very good memories in that house. My mother loved it, she was happy there . . . my father was happy there. All of us children were born into that house . . . There are lilacs and dogwoods on the grounds to mark each of our births and—”
“For a former prosecuting attorney, that’s not a very strong argument. That house is also where your mother died, your grandmother became a despotic dictator before falling to her death, and your father took leave of his senses. Oh, and where you children were basically orphaned and made to live like paupers . . . We shouldn’t overlook that.”
“Those are not the memories I choose to emphasize. You’re looking through the glass too darkly.”
The waiter returns for their breakfast orders, thereby ending the argument. For now.
“Know what? I’m going to order what I really want instead of what I think I should have,” Laurel says.
“Uh-oh, does that mean you’re going to have waffles and pancakes?”
“No, it means I’m going to have fruit and a bowl of oatmeal.”
“That sounds more like what you ordered when the right-hand side of the menu dictated choice.”
“I really do want oatmeal, just like I sometimes prefer a tuna sandwich to a lobster crepe.”
“I still say it’s your inherent frugality speaking.” David tastes his coffee before resuming the old argument. “Seriously, Laurel, the land alone must be worth close to a million. You really must consider selling.”
“I don’t need the money, David. You know that as well as I do.”
“Indeed, you’ve got me there.” He lifts a hand in mock surrender. “Your new station in life being the chief reason I asked for this meeting.” From a shopping bag beside his chair, David produces a glossy box tied with a silver cord and hands it across the table.
“What’s the occasion?”
“Open it, you’ll see.”
She does and revealed inside are samples of pale-grey engraved stationery. The assortment includes deckle-edged correspondence cards with just her initials, lighter- weight business and presentation sheets with full letterheads, and matte business cards with raised borders. It’s a moment before she grasps what the occasion is: On both the letterhead sheets and the business cards, she is listed as a partner in the firm. Her mouth goes round with a combination of surprise and consternation.
“It’s about time, don’t you think?” David displays a proud paternalistic smile. “Now that you’ve attained age thirty and met all the other requirements, the partners and I are prepared to vote you in at our next meeting. You’ve more than earned it, my dear. It’s yours for the taking.” He reaches across, pats her hand, again paternalistic.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say. Aren’t you rushing things a little? I’ve only been with you a few weeks and I haven’t even decided the direction I want to take. I’m deeply gratified by the confidence you’re showing me, but I’m afraid I can’t—”
“You can’t what? Surely you’re not questioning your own qualifications . . . not after all you’ve been through in order to arrive at this—”
“Please don’t misunderstand . . . I’m not rejecting the offer, I’m only asking that the offer be delayed for a while. Perhaps as long as a year. I’m not ready, David, and if the partners were polled, I think they’d agree. I may have earned the right to a partnership by fulfilling my grandmother’s requirements, but I’ve not earned the right in actual performance—in actual practice. And I don’t yet know what I want to practice. The only thing I’m sure of is what I don’t want to do. I’ll never work again as a prosecutor. That I am very sure of.”
“I hear you. Oh, but I hear you. Don’t forget that I had to put in my three years as an ADA. Your grandmother was very much a force to be reckoned with when I was coming up in the firm. She required the prosecutor assignment of all legatees, and she was unquestionably harder on you because to her you were more than a legatee, you were her—”
“Primary means of getting even with her daughter,” Laurel snaps.
“Unarguably so, but to put a better face on it, you’ll have to admit that work as an assistant DA has given you a definite edge, given you strengths you might not have gained any other way.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Marine boot camp might have done the same. And a lot quicker.”
“I have a recommendation. Contract law. You wouldn’t have to bring in any clients at first and you could work closely with me until you reach your comfort zone. Then I see you taking over the
department.”
“That’s your department.”
“It is now.”
“What are you saying? You’re not leaving the firm are you?”
“No, of course not. I’m establishing a new division, as a matter of fact. Artist management. My practice has long been exclusive to members of the entertainment and publishing world, so it’s only natural to expand in that direction. I’m happy to say that I’ve recently taken over as general manager for Rayce Vaughn, the nine-lived Brit legend. His last stretch in rehab seems to have taken and seriously great things are expected of his comeback.”
“Are you sure that’s the sort of client you want to brag about?”
David laughs a short bark of a laugh. “How could I forget your ill-concealed distaste for the music industry? How could I when you never let me? And how could I fail to remind you that those roadies you prosecuted for statutory rape were not representative of the entire music business, for heaven’s sake.” He looks at her over top of his glasses. “Good thing I know you’re only teasing or I’d say time and experience hasn’t taught you a damn thing about bias and unprofessional attitude.” David looks away, reproof implied, intent unmistakable.
“I see,” she says. “Is this your not-so-subtle way of saying you want me to restructure my thinking and give artist management a whirl?”
“As an extension of contract law it has crossed my mind.”
“Slow down, David, there’s a possibility you haven’t considered. Maybe I’m undecided about choosing a specialty because I’m undecided about committing to law as a career.”
“What? You’ve got to be kidding . . . After all you went through to—”
“You already said that.”
“So I did.”
“And I already said I’m not ready to make a commitment. Of any kind. And I could quit, you know. I could if I wished. Nothing in my grandmother’s will states that I’m compelled to join the family firm. That must be the only loophole in the entire fucking document.”