Camden's Knife

by John Patrick Kavanagh

  A stock boy arrived, his trolley stacked with a half-dozen cases.

  “Where d’you want ’em, sir?”

  He handed over his car keys and a $20 bill.

  “Black Maserati Quattroporte across the street.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  The generosity was only matched by the resume, enhanced during a spectacular career spanning more than 40 years. Assistant State’s Attorney. Crack financial services lobbyist. Two terms on the County Board of Supervisors and four as City Councilman. Special Trade Representative to Italy. Interim US Ambassador to Italy. High powered partner in two premium law firms before founding Bernardini & Associates. One of the City’s leading charitable gurus, his pro bono services sought by many organizations hoping to exceed their targets.

  More interesting were the positions and possibilities he’d declined over the years. Federal Judgeships, both at the District and Appellate levels. State’s Attorney General. Permanent US Ambassador to Italy. Special Counsel to a pair of Presidents of the United States. Offers of General Counselships from more than a dozen of the country’s largest corporations and uncountable requests to serve on various Boards of Directors.

  “So, figlio mio, what brings you to Great Grapes today?”

  “Bottle of wine. Special occasion. A 33rd birthday party for…a woman I know.”

  “Ah, sì. Molto importante questi giorni, no? Potrei aiutarti con quello.”

  “Then let’s have at it.”

  “But in return, an espresso with me?”

  “My treat.”

  They stepped to the weekly rack, Stonetree mentioning his only requirements that it be a medium red and that he’d like to keep it around $100. Bernardini nodded, then quickly reached for a bottle and set it on the display ledge. The label identified the winery as 2up and beneath the logo were a pair of gold coins.

  “2up? Not familiar with that.”

  “I believe it’s named after an Aussie gambling game.”

  “Another of your many areas of expertise.”

  In the past three years, Uncle Chuck had co-hosted Standoff! tournaments for the benefit of The Red Cross, St. Mary’s Hospital and CYD Relief, each bringing in well-heeled donors for a $10,000 entry fee along with local and national celebrities ponying up $5,000. Limited to 30 tables of four players apiece, demand had grown so fierce that #4, scheduled to coincide with December’s World Standoff! Tournament, would allow for a total of 240 fortunate participants to be drawn in a lottery of all prospective entrants.

  He’d paid the $10K donation at each of the previous tournaments and had finished 12th, 9th and 2nd but this didn’t surprise the crowd, his reputation for strategic analysis preceding him.

  “So are you going to finally win this time around?”

  “I won’t be playing this year.”

  “C’mon! Why?”

  “Prima scegliamo tuo vino. Te lo spiego con l’espresso, va bene?”

  Lifting the 2up, he offered his assessment.

  “Questo è un Shiraz. Il migliore che producono. Un ottimo profumo e qualità. Suggerimento di mirtillo e prugna con un tocco di cioccolato, e quercia ben integrata.”

  Stonetree chuckled, waving a hand in protest.

  “Too many words I don’t recognize. In inglese, per favore.”

  “This is a Shiraz. Pick of the litter from any of their vintages. Bright aroma and flavor. Spicy blueberry and plum with a subtle hint of chocolate and beautifully integrated oak.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  At the cash register Bernice agreed the price should also include a silver gift box and a large red bow. He thanked her and advised he’d return later to pick it up.

  As they walked to the coffee shop a car passed them then backed up, an older man calling, “Hey, Cubbie! How’re you hittin’ em?”

  In many circles he was affectionately known as The Cub; his playfulness, his initials and bottomless well of energy all contributing to this perfect sobriquet. In certain circles, perhaps because of his middle name, he was also known as The Traveler.

  “Ciao, Franco! Gli sto battendo bene. Come stai? Come sta Maria? Ancora non capisco cosa vede in te.”

  “La vedo per pranzo. La chiederó. Buona giornata.”

  “Un’abbraccio a Maria. Ciao.”

  After their small cups were delivered, Stonetree asked again why he wouldn’t be playing in his own tournament.

  “Credo che passeró capodanno a quella città peccaminosa nel deserto.”

  “Las Vegas?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you…but you’ve got your own tournament.”

  Bernardini lifted his lemon peel, examined it then set it back on the saucer.

  “A small side job.” He paused.”A special.”

  He’d officially retired on his 65th birthday to lead a less demanding life, fulfilling the dreams of time in his beloved Appenine Mountains, spending summers in Bologna and Florence then wintering in Tuscan. But having become restless, he now signed on as a consultant attached to unique projects when the subjects and stakes were high enough to pique his wide-ranging interests.

  “Potcheck and Walbee flying you out to advise the Final Four? Maybe assist with setting odds?”

  “Not directly. One of their associates…Claude St. Honore. You’ve heard of him?”

  “Isn’t he the guy from France with the casinos and high end spas?”

  “Lo stesso.”

  “So what’ll you be doing for him?”

  “Just watching various…things.”

  “Like what?”

  He twisted the peel then stirred it into his cup before answering.

  “As you know, all living things from mice to men always act in their own perceived self-interests.”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  “And sometimes those very interests can be extremely damaging to others.”

  Stonetree nodded and took a sip of his espresso.

  “So tell me about your trip. Tell me what you’ve been doing lately.”

  Without hesitation, Stonetree launched into a detailed monologue covering the highlights up to their meeting in Great Grapes. Bernardini listened patiently, not interrupting with a single question, nodding, smiling or frowning occasionally as the story unfolded.

  “And here we are.” He paused.”Anything you want me to elaborate on?”

  The man looked away for a moment then motioned for the waiter to bring another round. Leaning back and folding his hands over his chest, he waited until the cups were delivered before responding.

  “Perchè?”

  “Why…what?”

  “Why did you get involved?”

  Stonetree swallowed hard, cleared his throat then took a sip of the steaming brew.

  “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “Perchè? Sharon?”

  “Partially.” He thought a moment.”Mostly.”

  Bernardini made a noise then pulled his chair closer to the table.

  “This is a very serious matter.”

  “I know, Uncle. I know.”

  “Do you trust them, David? Do you trust their motivations?”

  He thought again.”I can’t think of a reason not to.”

  Another noise.”That’s not what I asked.”

  Now Stonetree moved closer.”Ummm…yes. I do.”

  “This is good.” He glanced to both sides.”But you realize this could lead to…you realize that if something goes wrong, your involvement could have consequences.”

  “I know.”

  “Then I say bravo. This is a brave and courageous thing you’re doing. Your mother, God bless her, would be proud.”

  He felt a lump in his throat.

  “But if you get into trouble, I want to tell you who to call.”

  “I know exactly who I’d call.”

  A slight grin crept onto Chuck’s lips.”Not me.”

  “Not you?”

  “No, non chiamerai Ghostbusters!”

  They bo
th broke into laughter, Stonetree the harder. As he went to lift his cup he glanced at his watch.

  “Oh, shit! I’m sorry Uncle, but I gotta split. Lunch with Sharon. I’m running very late.”

  He downed his espresso in two gulps.

  “When are you going to marry that sweet girl?”

  Stonetree stood then pulled a ten and a twenty from his wallet, setting them on the table.”I’m working on that. But I really have to run.”

  Bernardini rose and hugged him.”Now, the woman the wine is for. You know her well? You like her?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then let me give you an old Appenine wish for the happiest of birthdays.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Dolce è l’alba che illumina gli amanti.”

  “I don’t understand how that…”

  “It’s local dialect.”

  Stonetree nodded then repeated the words.

  “Once again, please. So you don’t forget.”

  He repeated them again.

  “Va bene. Divertiti. E chiama tuo zio ogni tanto, sai.”

  “I promise.”

  He arrived at Classy Cupcakes close to 1:00 and browsed through the display cases for a few minutes while Sharon finished a meeting with her partners. She caught him off guard with a hug from behind and a suggestive hello. As they walked to a nearby cafe she excitedly explained that all the hatchets had been buried and that they were going to approach expansion at a slower pace, waiting until they’d paid off more of their current debts before taking on new ones.

  She stopped at the door of the cafe and kissed him on the cheek, thanking him for the advice she earlier dismissed as condescending. After being seated and ordering a half carafe of house white, she apologized for her recent moodiness. The problems at the store, she said, had gotten to her.

  She wanted to know everything that was going on in his life, again apologizing for her focus. He listed recent events except the previous Friday’s escapade and his plans for the coming evening. He described Camden in detail though, and said it was possible he might act as a go-between for the scientist and SUE. However, he wasn’t at liberty to discuss it at the moment.

  “Oh, David. That’s allowed. You always get to tell those things, no matter how secret, to your doctor, your lawyer and your wife.”

  He looked at her curiously.”My wife?”

  “Or your lover, your girlfriend, whatever substitute you have.”

  “How many am I allowed?”

  “Only one. Just me.” She thought for a moment.”Which brings to mind an interesting point. Two, actually. When are we getting engaged and when are we getting married?”

  His eyes widened, stunned by the matter-of-fact tone in her voice. Months earlier they’d reached the point of booking a reservation at the best French/Tex-mex fusion restaurant in the city to make and accept the proposal. But three days before the appointed time, her sisters had immolated themselves so instead of spending the day looking at rings, they’d attended the double funeral.

  Since then, the topic had never come up. It seemed there was always an unspoken reason for delay. Sharon’s grief, the store, the trip, now the CYD. Which, in an oblique way, was fine with him because delay sometimes uncovered hidden problems, invisible difficulties.

  The cards were on the table. He leaned back in his chair.

  “Well,” he volunteered, a slight hesitation in his voice, “that sort of frames the issue, as the guys down in Legal say. What would you like me to say?”

  She rested her chin on her hand, a slight smile crossing her lips. She looked the best she had since they’d returned from London. Her eyes were clearer and sparkling, and there was an air of steadiness and confidence in her movements.

  She’d regained the few pounds she’d lost and her cheeks were filled with color. My God, he thought. I must be in love. But for years it seemed, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, his ability to commit himself to another always felt out of reach.

  In England, for a few days, he thought he was turning the comer. For an instant, walking through the grounds of the Tower of London, it almost happened. He realized his heart was like a gem in the Jewel House surrounded by thick walls, a vault impenetrable except by a master thief. He’d squeezed Sharon’s hand, hoping she would be the one to pull off the burglary. Somehow, though, the deed was never done, the crime not committed. So he continued on locked in an emotional twilight, waiting for the lights to come up.

  He was close again, that he knew, but as he stared across the table, he couldn’t make the commitment. Not today.

  “I’d like you to say that you still want to marry me,” she said.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She sighed then reached over to take both of his hands in hers.

  “I know we wouldn’t be the first couple it’s happened to and I’m sure we won’t be the last.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She released his hands and placed hers palm down on the table.

  “If you want me to say it I will. I might be a little scared David, but I’m not going to bury my head in the sand.” She looked around the restaurant.”None of this lasts forever. I learned that from my sisters.”

  “I tell you what. I’ll make some reservations and we’ll have that dinner we were supposed to have…last time. How does that sound?”

  “It’s a start.” She smiled.”When?”

  “Saturday?” He couldn’t believe the offer came out of his mouth, in his voice, so easily.

  “It’s a start,” she repeated.”I figured you’d want more time to think about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” she replied, taking his hands again and gripping them tighter, “sometimes you run your life like a business.”

  “But…”

  “Let me finish.” She paused.”And I’ve been guilty of that too. But I decided last night that from now on I’m going to run my life like a life.”

  “And…”

  “I started with Becky and Jim,” she concluded, “and you’re next on the list.”

  “Lucky me,” he said, half in truth, half in jest. More in truth than jest.

  “In a lot of ways you are, David,” she said softly, reaching across and placing her hand against his cheek.”But sometimes luck has a way of running out on us.”

  He grasped her hand. It was warm. He was close.

  “Saturday is fine,” she whispered.

  “Then Saturday it is.”

  They ordered sandwiches and talked for another half hour about the store, her health, London, the Mustang. After paying the bill but before they got up to leave, she pulled a copy of the Journal article out of her purse and asked him to autograph it next to his picture. He did, adding the greeting, To one of my most loyal fans, love and kisses, Saturday or bust! She took his pen and, having crossed out the last word, substituted else!

  After leaving her at the shop, he limed across town and spent an hour browsing through the stores in one of his favorite shopping areas, intent on finding a birthday gift.

  He was reaching a medium to high frustration level when he passed the window of a small knickknack store. He spied a funkily dressed porcelain statuette around ten inches high of a blindfolded lady justice holding her scales in one hand and a Medieval, cross-guarded sword in the other. It was perfect. He had it wrapped, also in a silver box with a red bow. After returning to Great Grapes for the wine and a stop at the Plaza to finish an email to Taylor, he left to meet McReynolds.

  They met at a small bar near Wilson Towers. The place was filled with a typical Wednesday crowd when he arrived, finding his friend seated on a high stool near a window, a huge plant hanging directly over his head.

  “I think you ought to get a hat like that,” Stonetree said as he sat down across from him, pointing to it.”You look great.”

  “I’ve got a hat like this. I’d like to get one in ivy next time, something a little more informal. How’s it going? Still got a job?”
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br />   “Yeah. Like I told you on the phone, Security did their report and that was it. And it really was apple juice. Did you get anything out of the doctor yet? I’m curious, real curious, to know what’s going on in his little chess game.”

  McReynolds stopped a waitress and ordered another Bombay dry for himself and a Chivas on the rocks for his guest.”I finally got him to explain it to me. Had a long chat with him last night after I talked to you. He’s back in Georgia. He’ll be back here tomorrow.”

  “What’s he doing down there? CDC?”

  “Not there. That’s in Atlanta. His place is down in Tiff County, where he goes to think.”

  “Tiff County? Where’s that?”

  “It’s down in the southern part of the state. Maybe a couple of hours west of Savannah.”

  “Where’s Savannah?”

  “In the southern part of the state. Anyway, he takes a shuttle to an airport near his place or sometimes he drives.”

  “How far?”

  “A couple of hundred miles from Atlanta. It’s worth it, though. I was down there visiting when I was doing research for the article.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “It’s a rural area. His place is in between these two little towns, TyTy and Tifton.”

  “That sounds like a magic act.”

  “It does,” McReynolds agreed.”It’s so quiet down there. Lots of those old mobile home trailers that look like small silver blimps. Like if you were in one for an hour in the sun you’d be dead.”

  “Oh, I remember those. Like a big hot dog stand.”

  “Right. And there’re lots of recreational places, lots of pecan stores, places that sell arrowheads, shit like that. Two kinds of women. Real ugly or gorgeous enough to stop time in its tracks. I met this one in a bar, her name was Donna Sue or Cindy Lou or something. I was in love instantly. She’s about 23 and a cross between a country music singer, Miss Teenage America, the woman who taught me in third grade and a hooker. I almost didn’t come back.”