by M. M. Mayle
“Then shame on you! I’m disappointed in you and so will be David when I tell him.” Laurel reaches for the phone.
“David’s not in the building, I saw him leave.”
“How convenient. Dammit! Do you fully understand the ramifications of the accusation by this . . . this Svengali bastard that’s trying to manipulate you?”
“Nate Isaacs is not so much Svengali as he is Colonel Parker.”
“Same difference! If this obscene story is spread around, David could find himself in front of a disciplinary board, and I could even be disbarred. Except it can never be proven that I bought a client with sexual favors because that will never, ever happen. Okay? Is that clear?”
“Very . . . Sorry . . . Nate Isaacs is convincing, though.”
“And unquestionably paranoid. I can’t ask you to stay away from him if he wants to see you socially, but please, please do not be drawn in by his obvious insecurities. And you’ll do well to remember which side your bread is buttered on if he makes another attempt to convert you.”
“Would it be such a bad thing if Colin Elliot was attracted to you?”
“Give it a rest, Amanda. There’s nothing there and there isn’t going to be.”
“Okay, okay. Then here’s something positive. Look how effortlessly you just debriefed me. That means you’re on your game and probably extracted a whole lotta hot stuff from Colin today. Let me have your notes and I’ll transcribe them before I go home. That can be my penance.”
“No penance called for, and I’ve already taken care of today’s notes. That’s what I was doing while I was holed away upstairs—”
“Then you were hiding. I knew it the second time he called and you couldn’t be accounted for. There is something going on isn’t—”
“You can go home now. We should both go. We both must have something better to do than . . . than beat this dead horse.” Laurel’s indignation sputters to a finish and Amanda has sense enough to withdraw.
On the drive home, Amanda’s suspicions demand reexamination. As fostered by Nate Isaacs, they remain preposterous. Viewed in light of David’s recent actions they may not be quite so preposterous.
But to indict David Sebastian for dangling her as bait, she would need unshakeable proof that he had foreknowledge of Colin Elliot’s desire for an attractive scribe, and even Colin Elliot’s manager appeared ignorant of that desire until it was expressed. For that matter, even the client appeared ignorant of that desire until it was expressed.
On the other hand, David was quick to condemn Nate Isaacs’s current management practices. That scathing appraisal could have been the opening statement of a campaign to unseat Isaacs, couldn’t it? Asking that her participation in the project be considered a personal favor could be yet another reminder that she’ll always be in his debt, that she’ll never be able to say no, couldn’t it? And how about David’s prediction that she would find interests in common with the client? Was that borderline pimping or what? Should she therefore believe David Sebastian is willing to operate outside the laws of professional propriety? Should she behave as though that were the case? Yes, of course, or be willing to risk the sleazy consequences.
At the Holbrook Road exit she obeys an impulse and veers in the direction of Upper Montclair and Abbott’s Food Bazaar, the specialty supermarket there. A prepared meal holds more appeal than anything she’s apt to fix at home, and no one can say she hasn’t earned a night off.
Inside the store, she goes straight to the deli section, wavers between a grilled vegetable Napoleon and risotto primavera, and never does make up her mind because the neighboring seafood counter distracts her. After that, it’s the produce department and a quick reconnoiter of the packaged food aisles. Seventy-eight dollars later she leaves the store with five bags of everything except the prepared meal she came for.
The residential corridors connecting Upper Montclair and Glen Abbey are the quickest way home this time of day. Ten or so minutes later she turns onto her street, Old Quarry Court, and performs the garage-door-opening ritual perfected over the years. By precise coordination of speed, distance, and activation of the remote control, she’s able to glide into the garage without pause. Before coming to a complete stop inside the garage, she reverses the direction of the door, timing it to close just seconds prior to shutting off the engine and releasing the door locks of the vehicle.
Family and close associates who are aware of the ritual have uniformly warned that she stands a good chance of one day creasing a car roof, denting a bumper, or jamming the overhead door mechanism. For answer she can point out that just last week she had to adjust the coordinates to accommodate the higher roofline and shorter wheelbase of a brand-new Range Rover, which so far is unscathed. And so far, so good, with the overhead door mechanism. If there is a weak point in her little security precaution, it’s forgetting to maintain a supply of batteries for the handheld unit.
In the kitchen, she turns on television for background noise and happens on a weather update at the half-hour station break. This meteorologist agrees with the report heard earlier on the car radio, that tomorrow’s weather should indeed be favorable for outdoor activities.
While putting groceries away and inventorying supplies on hand, she toys with the idea of calling the client to confirm tomorrow’s plans. No. She turns her back to the phone desk. That would be too much like his calling her with contact information he’d given out twice before. No. She’s only supposed to call him if the plan to meet at the National Park in Morristown has to be changed. That is the way she left it, isn’t it?
Over a bowl of cereal eaten at the sink, she rehearses tomorrow from the standpoint of today’s failure to get anything substantial out of the client. Maybe the maneuver Nate Isaacs tried on Amanda is in order. Maybe none of this will matter if David turns out to be indictable.
TWENTY-ONE
Early morning, April 3, 1987
Because he’s staring at an illuminated clock, Nate can calculate almost to the minute how long he’s known about Cliff Grant’s grisly demise. Twenty-one hours, rounded up. Twenty-one hours of crippled concentration and interrupted sleep.
Debating whether the means by which the maverick photojournalist was dispatched holds any significance has him fully awake at four-thirty on a Friday morning when he should be dreaming about spending a weekend with one of the regulars.
Saying he convinces himself of the significance, could he convince others without opening a can of worms that may not even be a can of worms?
He turns on a light, throws back the covers, and struggles to a sitting position. Seconds after his feet hit the floor, the bedside phone rings. “What the fuck,” he mumbles and stays on track for the en suite bathroom, then turns back. Anyone with the balls to call him at home at this hour is either drunk or exceedingly sober. He opts for sober in the persona of Bemus reporting another mutiny.
“Yeah, what is it this time?” Nate says into the phone.
“A little somethin’ I think you oughta be clued in on posthaste,” the caller says, thereby identifying himself as Brownie Yates, former Penn classmate and the only person Nate knows who routinely mixes vernacular and erudite terms. He’s also the only person Nate knows who has absolutely no regard for clocks or time zones.
“You there? It’s me—”
“Yeah, I know who it is. Go ahead, let’s hear it.”
“Y’know about Cliff Grant, right?” Brownie says.
“Yes, of course.”
“Turns out Grant kept records of everything he ever did, files on everybody he ever chased after. These records, twenty-two cartons of ’em, were confiscated as part of the investigation into his death. When I had a chance to look ’em over I didn’t see nothin’ about your client or his wife and I thought that was kinda peculiar inasmuch as everybody ’n’ their bastard third cousin knows the Elliots once made up Grant’s main source of revenue. Then I got to thinkin’ maybe Grant tossed those files because Elliot hasn’t been a target in a
coupla years and the wife’s long dead. But that didn’t wash because there was folder after folder full of clippings about other celebs that haven’t been in the limelight for a decade or more.”
“Hold on. How did you manage to get a look at this shit?”
“You know I never share that kinda thing. Beside the point anyway. The crux of the matter is—”
“Of what interest is this to you?”
“I’ll get to that if you’ll shut up a minute. As I was sayin’, there’s nothin’ there about your boy and the best I could tell the investigation’s not making anything of that variant. They’re more focused on there being no personal directory found at the scene. The thinking is that someone in Grant’s line of work would be heavily invested in a network of tipsters and given Grant’s demonstrated penchant for organized recordkeeping, he wouldn’t be apt to store this info on matchbook covers and cocktail napkins.”
“No argument there, but what’s that got to do with anything?” Nate says before realizing the obvious—that if there was in fact a directory, a Rolodex, say, the perpetrator’s name was probably included in it.
Brownie supports that conclusion and explains in the semi-dumbed-down manner of speaking adopted when he became an investigative reporter what his interest is in Grant’s death.
“To repeat, I was pursuin’ the porn and drug angle when this other came up and now it looks like there’s more to it than at first gander,” he says and hangs up.
Nate has to pee before he does anything else. Then he has to resource his own Rolodex in the second-floor study.
He makes travel arrangements direct with the airline, settling for business class on a midday flight out of Kennedy tomorrow, and remains at the desk to contemplate what the rest of the day will bring. A meeting with Colin may be the biggest frog to swallow so why not get it over with first thing?
Nate arrives at Colin’s door at seven-forty-five, fifteen minutes ahead of the time agreed upon when he called here an hour ago.
“Well, I see you didn’t upgrade to the two-bedroom suite I wangled for you,” he says when Colin lets him in.
“No reason to,” Colin replies, “Bemus is just down the corridor.”
“I suppose if he were on site he’d cramp your style.”
“What style? Dream on. The only women in here are from housekeeping, not that you’re owed an explanation. And don’t push your luck regarding the Bemus setup. You both should be grateful you’re still on payroll.”
“Is Bemus joining us?” Nate advances into the suite where the dining table holds service for three.
“David Sebastian’s joining us.”
Before Nate can ask at whose request, the door chime rings.
“That’ll be him now. Must have been right on your heels,” Colin says.
“Mustn’t he, though,” Nate mutters as Colin goes to let the lawyer in.
David enters, effusing professional heartiness. He shakes hands and claps shoulders in the prescribed manner. “My second breakfast at The Plaza this week. I should either move in or buy the place,” the lawyer says.
“Might you?” Nate asks half seriously as they all close in on the table that’s also set with carafes of juice and coffee, a bowl of fresh fruit, and an assortment of breakfast pastries.
“I assume you mean buy—said in jest I assure you. That question might better be asked of you,” David responds.
“I’m not even in the running,” Nate says. “Snapping up landmark buildings doesn’t hold any particular appeal. I don’t need that kind of publicity.”
“Implying that David does?” Colin says, as though having been coached.
“Nothing implied. Nothing at all.”
Although ravenously hungry, Nate passes on everything but a pair of pineapple spears and an unsweetened cup of Earl Grey, then bides his time until the other two are provisioned and ready to sit down. Colin predictably takes the armchair leaving his guests free to commandeer spots on opposing sofas where they feign perfect comfort and ease.
Fortified with two sips of coffee and one bite taken from a cheese Danish, David starts a new thread: “Did I hear that you’re extending your stay in the States until Easter weekend? Is that correct?”
“That’s a done deal. The folks at home aren’t too happy about it, though,” Colin says around a mouthful of blueberry muffin.
“I’m sorry that’s bad news for your family because it could definitely bode well for us,” David says. “You can’t be unaware that negotiations with the label are stalemated, so the extra time could give us the advantage we—”
“I’m not unaware, and that’s the reason I asked you to pop in on such short notice. Nate was already coming by and it only made sense for you both to hear that I’m done negotiating. No part of my extended stay will be wasted on facilitating further negotiations with those fuckwits at Pinnacle. Saul Kingsolver’s had six months to get ready for this day and he’s going about it as though I’m new to the business. What does he think this is, 1974? Who does he think I am, lip-syncher for a cover band? Some thicko that’s ignorant of ridiculously long lead times, antiquated promotional practices, and thieving percentages? We’re done here, we’ve walked away from the table.”
“That’s it . . . that’s final?” Nate says instead of the stream of profanity that wants to spew out of him. David could be choking back similar with the big swig of coffee he suddenly allows himself.
“Yeh,” Colin says, “fucking final it is and I’d like the news released to the proper media outlets before you send the kiss-off fax to Kingsolver.”
“You want him informed by fax?” Nate says.
“Yeh, seems rather appropriate all things considered. Then you can start composing a form letter to be faxed to the others.”
“Kingsolver’s representation?” David says. “I’ll be glad to handle that.”
“Be my guest, but by others I’m speaking of the lineup of wankers expecting to come on board the other day. The ones I won’t be taking on.”
“Jesus, Colin, isn’t that a little extreme? Even for you? Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” Nate flashes David a look and for that moment they could be cohorts.
“Dead certain,” Colin says. “If my mind wasn’t actually made up after that fiasco of a meeting where I was—what was the word she used?”
“Objectified,” Nate says.
“Yeh, that’s it. If my mind wasn’t actually made up after that fiasco of a meeting where I was objectified every which way, it is now—now that I’ve been in touch with Rayce Vaughn. Gotta be obvious to both of you what all I have in common with him these days—newly recovered solo artist on the comeback trail, to state the obvious—so what’s being done for him looks like it could be a good fit for me, starting with the deal struck with his new label.”
“I can get you whatever he has,” David blurts, thereby killing the cohorts moment. “Nate can secure the same, I should say,” he adds after the horse is out of the barn.
“I’ve no doubt you can—he can—when the time’s right. It’ll have to be later, though, after I’ve had more time to weigh alternatives,” Colin says.
“What alternatives? What about basic support structure? What about PR—control of the media? What about accounting, promotion? Shit, just the day-to-day—the goddammed logistics alone” Nate moans when he wants to rant.
“My office can pick up a lot of that slack just as was done during Colin’s down period,” David says.
“Yeh, do that,” Colin says. “That’ll work. Wasn’t that all on a temp basis—monthly it was whilst you were wondering if I’d ever be worth long-term commitment?”
“I might not have put it quite that way, but yes, that’s fair to say,” David answers and takes another long swig of coffee. “Oddly enough—ironically enough—I believe that leaves only your agreement with Nate to be reviewed—redefined if necessary—renegotiated should it comes to that—which leaves me out of the picture.
“Why?” Colin says.
“Conflict of interest,” Nate answers before David can. “He could use privileged information to his advantage in order to win you as a client.”
“Shit, I already am a client. Are you working for me or not?” Colin says to David.
“I’m working for you in my usual capacity with the one exception. The day I entered the field of artist management I placed myself in competition with Nate. Therefore a conflict of interest would exist were I to oversee any sort of contractual arrangement between you and your present manager.”
“Is this something I should have known before now? What about your Laurel Chandler? Any conflicts there?” Colin says.
“Allow me to correct you. She is not my Laurel Chandler, she’s a partner-designee in the firm. In her current capacity as your biographer-designee no actual conflict would exist if she negotiated on your behalf, but I’d strongly advise against it. Use someone from the London office—Emmet Hollingsworth would be my choice—but please avoid engaging Laurel for any task that could compromise the objectivity she brings to the writing project.”
“Good point,” Colin says.
“On the subject of Laurel, how goes the interviewing?” David asks.
“From my position, very nicely,” Colin replies.
“Only from your position? Is she developing misgivings?” David says.
“Should you be concerned if she is?” Nate says.
“Only from the standpoint of wishing both parties to be well served. I did encourage her to take on the project, after all, and I did suggest expanding the original proposal into a full biography. One might almost say that I have a vested interest,” David says.
“One might. Almost,” Nate says.
“To answer your question, David, I can’t answer your question, it’s not my place to speak for her,” Colin says.
“Understood. Then, may I ask what you’ve covered so far?”
“Portions of Fifth Avenue, the Oyster Bar here at the hotel, and a great many galleries of the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” Colin says.