The Second Letter

by Robert Lane

“Any more Latin?”

  Boyd took that like a proud parent at a PTO meeting. “He did the school’s four-year program in two and they had him taking college-level Latin his junior year.”

  “French?”

  It was Boyd again, “Go on, PC, talk to him in German too.”

  For a moment we stared at each other and did not speak. Off to my left, Reggie, a broad black man in dreadlocks, was arranging paintings under the small tent. We gave each other a nod. One of his works hung in my study.

  “What was the prank?”

  Boyd said, “So cool, man. We programmed the county’s 911 line so when people called they got a recording, a pleasant lady with an English accent saying, ‘Thank you for calling and congratulations, you’ve been selected to take a brief survey. Please stay on the line after your call.’ Then we played Adamo for Strings for a few seconds.”

  “Adagio,” PC said, looking at me and with something new and resigned in his voice like he knew what was coming. I wondered if someone had once stuck him in formaldehyde. “Samuel Barber’s 1936 second movement from his String Quartet, Opus Eleven.”

  “Yeah, that too,” Boyd said.

  I suppressed a smile over the 911 prank, although I hoped no harm came from it. I held PC’s eyes and decided to see how deep he could go.

  “Funeral song,” I said. “Played at Einstein’s.”

  “Princess Grace’s as well.”

  “And JFK?”

  “Loved it. Jackie O had the National Symphony Orchestra play it in an empty hall the Monday after the Outfit nailed him.”

  “Platoon?”

  “Made the movie. Dichotomy just shreds you. Are we done here, ’cause I’m not taking any more fuckin’ tests.”

  I imagined he was good for the full fifteen. “You count cards?” I asked. “Play online poker and it all comes easy to you, doesn’t it?”

  “Whatever, man. We get by.”

  “I got to go.” I stood up and pulled four hundred out of my wallet. “You guys did great. Read the New Testament, it really is great hippie stuff, right out of the sixties.” I started to walk away.

  “You imagine that, man?” PC called after me. I stopped and turned.

  “What?”

  “That sound in an empty hall. All that music and no one to hear it.”

  I held his eyes for a few seconds. “No. No, I got nothing to lay down next to that.”

  I headed to my truck. The heat radiated up again from the asphalt through the worn soles of my boat shoes. I stepped over a puddle of water left from last night’s deluge, called Kathleen, and headed off to get a haircut.

  Probably should shave as well—hadn’t done that for a few days.

  CHAPTER 9

  “How do I look?”

  They are potentially the most dangerous words to ever float from a woman’s lips. And the sooner that any man, regardless of the garment he wears or the continent he walks, realizes there is only an affirmative reply, and that reply needs to be delivered with the utmost of sincerity, the happier his life will be. Fortunately in my case, I had nothing to worry about.

  I was sitting in the shade of her veranda watching the charter sunset sailboats chase the sinking sun when her voice again turned me around.

  She wore a floor-length ivory dress that dropped under her right shoulder and came up high over her left shoulder. No visible scar tonight. Her hair was pulled back tight and she wore long, straight earrings that sparkled in the reflected rays of the sun. She turned once for me, revealing the low-cut back.

  I said, “The tides will pause when you enter a room.”

  “My, a romantic fool.”

  “Always a fool for you.”

  “It’s a wise man who knows himself to be a fool,” she said.

  “That’s Bill again, isn’t it? Where do you get those from?” While we were in the Keys she pulled a dozen quotations out of the air from Cervantes to Flaubert, Shakespeare to Proust. I had to work to keep up with her.

  “I did a little more postgraduate work than I initially told you.”

  “How little much?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You look very nice in a tux—not sure it’s something I ever expected to see. Are you going to be able to transition from a beach bum to a debonair business man?”

  “Like Prince Hal, I will transform myself as night turns to day.”

  “I was so hoping we could get into King Henry tonight. And they taught that in the army?”

  “Might have picked that up on my own.”

  “A little night reading?”

  “Goes well with night music.”

  “Do you remember everything that you read?”

  “Hardly.”

  She skipped a beat and then, “Do you remember virtually everything you read?”

  “It’s meaningless.”

  “Meaningless is a little harsh, but I get your point. Nice bow tie, by the way. The light purple is sharp. Did an ex pick it out?”

  “No.”

  “You did that?”

  “You can’t imagine.”

  I walked up to her and we stood eye to eye. She had never been taller. “And you must have some serious heels under that gown.”

  “You can’t imagine.”

  “What a waste,” I said, “all those quotations in our heads but no imagination.”

  Kathleen said, “Let’s go meet Sophia and Raydel Escobar.”

  Sophia Escobar stood in the center of the vast foyer and around her everything revolved.

  She wore a red dress and had her black hair stacked high on her head. A single yellow flower was pinned to her hair above her left ear. Her bronze cheekbones and cutting figure made her look like a model for a magazine shoot on South American aristocracy. But her laugh revealed her. It circled the room and made her stark colors and intimidating figure go soft. It was warm and rich with no social pretense and matched the sparkle in her eyes and the way she reached out to touch people when she talked with them.

  The foyer gave way to a great room the size of Delaware. It contained an eight-piece band emulating the sounds of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, forty years after they had their run. We approached Sophia, and like an experienced host, she sensed us coming and broke her conversation to meet her newly arrived guests.

  I introduced Kathleen and myself. We shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. I had instructed Kathleen to deflect questions about us. It wouldn’t be difficult, as most people are eager to hear their own voices. They circle a conversation not with the intent of listening, but with the sole purpose of calculating their next comment and entry point. I complimented Sophia on the band.

  “Oh, that’s Raydel’s doing. He’s musically stuck in that decade. His father’s music.”

  “I like his taste,” Kathleen said. “And your home is just beautiful, did you decorate it yourself?”

  “I did, thank you.”

  “The antique sconces are particularly attractive and placed just right, it appears, to be seen from every possible angle,” I said.

  Mary Evelyn’s research contained a side bar on the two years it took to construct the house. Sophia had relocated the sconces three times, and each move demanded new wiring and drywall. There was some question as to whether Shramos, the builder, was fleeing Sophia or the IRS when he slipped out of the country,

  “Do you think so?” She looked at me intently as if seeking approval. “I did put a lot of time into them. Do me a favor, Mr. Travis?” She touched me lightly on my left shoulder. “Mention that to Raydel, will you?”

  “I most certainly will, and it’s Jake.”

  “I like your purple tie, Jake.”

  “I like your yellow flower, Sophia.”

  “It’s a tradition in my family. My mother always wore a yellow flower.”

  “My father always wore purple.”

  “Interesting,” Sophia Escobar said with a playful smile. “You might want to fall pretty far from that tree.”

  “That’s my intent.�
�

  “Is your mother still living?” Kathleen asked. I thought the question rather blunt.

  “No, I’m afraid she is not,” Sophia said, appraising her.

  “I can’t imagine her being more proud of you than right now,” Kathleen said.

  “That is so kind of you.”

  I was about to take Kathleen’s arm when Sophia inquired where she lived. Kathleen replied that she had a residence on the island but was relocating into a condo downtown after renovations. The two of them vanished into a serious conversation about remodeling and decorating. I slipped away as if I was never there and circulated around the great room. I wanted to find Escobar and Congressman Kittredge. Politics weren’t of particular interest to me, but I had read a dossier on Kittredge to know where he, and I, stood. After all, I supposedly laid out two grand to mingle with him.

  When we had arrived at the Escobars’ home, a legion of Chippendale valets swarmed us and relieved us of Kathleen’s Lexus. We thought the Lexus would create a better impression than my truck. I had briefed her on why I was positioning myself to meet Escobar and that I wanted Escobar to be a little uncomfortable, maybe even show his hand. There was dirt in his life—there’s dirt in every life—and I wanted to find it. I wasn’t counting on luck, but you always wanted to give it a chance. Sort of like peace. Then when the war breaks out, your conscience is clear, or so you’ll try to convince yourself as you wipe the blood off your hands. I had impressed upon Kathleen to secure a tour of the house. I wanted to see where the safe room was in the hall leading to the study. I had no reason to believe the letter would be within its double Kevlar-lined walls, but assumed that Escobar was a simple man and would place the letter in the room he designed for maximum security.

  A trumpet solo from the song “Rise” rose from the band, and I noticed a large portion of the party had leaked out to the veranda. I migrated outdoors and spotted Escobar and Kittredge holding court by a large outdoor kitchen. Other men were stuck to them like magnets on a refrigerator.

  A heavyset young lady in a black uniform and a jungle of blonde hair stood alone behind a teak bar. I couldn’t decide if she had spent hours making the mess out of her hair or if that’s how she woke up. I asked for Maker’s Mark with a splash of Coke on the rocks. It seemed to go with the music. She asked for my name. I said I was spoken for. She said she could share. I told her to dilute my drink but never her feelings. She handed me my drink but didn’t let go.

  “See, you can share,” she said with a smile. I couldn’t decide if she was attractive, but she believed she was and that made her so. I like people like that. You can only do so much with your looks, but you have total control over your confidence. I pivoted and refocused on my target.

  Four men ringed Escobar and Kittredge, whom I recognized from Mary Evelyn’s e-mail. Kittredge wore a Realtor’s smile and looked like the type of guy who got his hair cut every Wednesday. Ten a.m. sharp. I have less in common with such men than I do with Elmer Fudd. While the congressman was in his forties, most of his ass-sniffing admirers were considerably older. I wasn’t sure how to infiltrate Escobar’s group, so I did what I do best.

  “Congressman Kittredge, a pleasure to meet you.” I barged in with my extended hand leading the charge and dislodged the conversation like a bowling ball smacking pins. “I am thrilled to be able to support your good work.”

  My improper but enthusiastic entry carried the moment as the circle parted and the voices drifted down. The congressman turned to meet his energetic, if somewhat rude and socially awkward, admirer.

  “Why, thank you—”

  “Travis. Jake Travis,” I said while I vigorously pumped his hand. Escobar was to my left and I caught the corner of his stare. “I especially appreciate your efforts to curb runaway education and health care costs. Your commitment to turn around our troubled country is greatly appreciated, Congressman.”

  “Thank you, Mr.—”

  I didn’t let him in. I was the new dog in the circle and I wanted to set the pace. “Furthermore, I’m thrilled to see you standing against the World Fair Business Bill. I have particular interest in that piece of legislature. If American companies are to compete in this global economy, we must be able to seek the lowest labor cost. That has always been the case and must continue to be. We have no right to impose working conditions on others countries.”

  “Well, Mr. Travis—”

  “Please, just Jake.”

  “I appreciate your support, Jake. As you know, we try to influence those governments, but firmly believe in laissez-faire when it comes to them handling their own business practices. I’m actually catching a government plane later this evening and have a meeting at nine tomorrow on the bill.” Kittredge looked at me earnestly, as if he were just recovering from my brash entrance. “Tell me, Jake, what line of work are you into?”

  The rest of the circle had little choice but to forfeit their previous line of conversation and relegate themselves to ancillary observers. Escobar was fidgeting with his drink, and my back was partially turned to him. I wanted him to maneuver in order to be part of Kittredge’s and my tête-à-tête.

  “I’m into imports, Congressman,” I said.

  “If it’s Jake, then it’s Michael.”

  “I wanted to attend a dinner for you last year in Palm Beach, Michael, but was out of the country. I’m sure you raised quite a bit more that evening.” Mary Evelyn’s information indicated that Walter Mendis’s fund-raiser for Kittredge ran five grand a plate.

  My faux pas caused a few dogs to shift their weight while others took refuge in whatever drink they carried, no doubt embarrassed for me. Kittredge, however, leaned in a little as he got the scent of a heavy roller.

  Escobar shouldered between us. “This is just an informal get-together,” he said, “a chance to meet the congressman. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Raydel Escobar.” I turned slightly and extended my hand.

  Escobar was a large-boned man, not muscular or overweight. He had a medium complexion, Spanish Cuban rather than African descent, and an enviable thick wave of coal black hair. His white tuxedo sported faint gray stripes, with every few stripes a tone darker. His tie and pocket square were black. He carried himself as a man who expected subservience, and his image was aided by his voice—a pleasant bass timbre with soft edges. Some voices don’t belong to a particular body, but Escobar’s voice perfectly matched the man.

  He also reminded me a little of Yogi Bear, except he wasn’t a bear, his name wasn’t Yogi, and he was real. But outside of that and a few other minor items—I don’t believe, for instance, that Yogi wore shoes—he was a dead ringer for Hanna-Barbera’s picnic basket snatcher.

  “Mr. Escobar. My pleasure, and what a gracious host you are. You have a beautiful home, and I was fortunate enough to meet your even more beautiful wife on the way in.” I squeezed his beefy hand hard and pumped it as if I expected to hit a gusher. His grasp was firm, but his fingers were fat and soft.

  “The lovely Sophia,” Kittredge said as Escobar and I locked eyes. “Raydel was regaling tales…uh…before you joined us, about his two-year venture in building this masterpiece. Sophia has quite the eye for detail.”

  “Yes, I can see that. The antique sconces are a nice touch, so perfectly placed, don’t you think?” I gave him his hand back.

  Escobar took a slow sip of his murky drink. “What exactly do you import, Mr. Travis?”

  “It’s Jake. Pretty much anything I have manufactured for a dime, ship for fifty cents, and sell for ten dollars.” That got a hearty men’s chuckle from the other dogs in the circle.

  “Well,” Kittredge laughed, “that’s a tried-and-true business model. What are these items?”

  “Whatever hot item that little girls need to have. The next big thing,” I said.

  “And how do you know that,” Escobar pressed, “the next big thing, Mr. Travis? Do you have a crystal ball that others do not?”

  “Hardly. What I really do, nine times out of ten,
is fall flat on my ass. I manufacture something for a dollar, ship it for fifty cents, and write it all off.”

  “And one out of ten?” Kittredge asked.

  “One out of ten, one out of twenty, the second number is irrelevant. What matters is when the iPhone case with an extra battery pack, stuffed monkey with a French name, or in the case of last year, when Asia Annie dolls exploded and every eight- to twelve-year-old girl in the hemisphere needed one more than the air they breathe, that I have the manufacturing, distribution, and cost structure to get in the game. It doesn’t matter that it’s not my creation, there’s a barge load of money in the ancillary items.”

  I was on a roll and digging my part. “But if those labor costs go up, then you can’t sustain the losses while you tread water waiting for the winner. Low cost, Congressman. This country was built on finding low cost. If someone in Cambodia is willing to work for a dollar a day, for as many hours a day as they are physically able, and for as many days as they can, who are we to oppose those choices? Why should we impose our tired, unionized, watered-down version of capitalism upon an emerging country?” The surrounding men resembled bouncing dashboard bobbleheads, as if no finer point had ever been made at an English hunting club.

  “Well said, Jake. Tell me, are you on my preferred mailing list?”

  “Not until this evening, Michael. Not until this evening.”

  I pivoted slightly toward Escobar. “What is your game, Mr. Escobar? A man with such an impressive estate must surely owe substantial annual dues to the Internal Revenue Service.”

  Escobar eyed me for a moment, and I heard the male singer from the band crooning “This Guy’s in Love With You.” He let it out lazy and slow like hand-churned peach ice cream on a Faulkner Sunday afternoon. I was beginning to think that when the evening concluded, the vehicles retrieved by the Chippen-dales would be from the late ’60s to early ’70s—as if the whole night was in a time warp.

  “Like you, Mr. Travis, I import and export.”

  “Mr. Escobar, I never said I exported. Outside of software, entertainment, and dirty money, this country doesn’t export much of anything anymore. Do you export or import?”