by Ed Gorman
"Are you ever able to fill in the missing time?"
He shrugged. "Sometimes. And sometimes not. Pretty helpful, aren't I?"
For all her consternation, she felt some peace sitting in Ted's presence. It was strange, not even her own parents could comfort her the way he did. This had been true since she was a small girl. There was always Uncle Ted.
Now, he took both her hands in his and leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek. "I went through what you're going through now."
"You did?"
"Yes. I've never mentioned it. It-makes me uncomfortable." He paused. "I had a breakdown when I was about your age. I guess that was when I realized that I was never going to be anything more than a commercial artist. I'd done Paris and London and Rome, I'd won a few small awards, I'd even gotten written up in a few important magazines. But I realized that it was the force of my personality. A very bitchy woman critic wrote a line about me that really crushed me. 'If only his art were as seductive as he is.' I resented it because I knew it was the truth. Anyway, around that same time I went into this terrible depression. I left Paris and came back to Chicago, and my folks decided after a few months to send me to a shrink. I rarely left my room; I had no friends except for your mother. And I started having these very violent outbursts for no good reason at all. The shrink put me in a mental hospital." He laughed. But it was an angry laugh. "I even rode the lightning."
"You did?" Riding the lightning was what mental patients called electroshock treatments.
"Oh. yes. Sixteen times in three months." He withdrew his hands from hers. She sensed that he was withdrawing spiritually as well. The memories were sapping him. "I read once that Hemingway had sixty electroshock treatments the year before he died. I can't imagine that."
"God, I'm sorry, Ted."
He shrugged. "I couldn't face myself. That was the whole thing. All my life my teachers had told me what an artistic genius I was. And I believed them, of course. I wanted to believe that they knew what they were talking about. But then I got out in the real world. Paris and London-all I ran into was contempt. All I could do was keep collecting women. Rich, beautiful women. They were the only things I could put up against my disappointment." He looked at her with those shockingly blue eyes and that handsomely tortured face. "But you know what? Eventually, you don't give a damn. You make your peace; you settle. I'm happy now-at least as happy as I'll ever be-and I don't worry about not being a great artist anymore." He took her into his arms and held her. She slid her arms around him and held him, too. Home. That was how she always felt in his arms. It wasn't a romantic feeling-it was a childlike feeling, a protected feeling. He had been through so much in his life, but he had survived and now he was strong. She remembered a Leonard Cohen line from one of her poetry classes: "The simple life of heroes/the twisted life of saints." In his own way-and because of his suffering-he was a saint. Even if he did not have the skills of a great artist, he had the soul of one. He understood things-and felt things-that very few people ever did.
He let go of her then and smiled: "A friend of mine's opening a new pub over near the Talbott Hotel. What say we help him inaugurate it?"
She was caught up in his mood. "Now how could I refuse an offer like that?"
She needed to put her problems aside. He was always at his best in pubs. It was like watching a brilliant performance artist, with him getting half the people in the place to participate in his games and whimsies. She felt happy. She couldn't believe how quickly he'd changed her mood.
Five minutes later, they were in his elevator, heading for the street.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Coffey spent the rest of the afternoon writing. He was working on a scene where the hero heard a noise in the basement. It was near midnight. The hero lived alone. Heroes, being heroes, are supposed to be just as stupid as heroines. A noise in the basement? Think I'll go check it out. That's how a hero thinks. But not this hero. This hero crept outside and had a peek in the various basement windows, trying to determine if the wraithlike form had once again materialized in the basement. This was a lot better way to check things out than actually going down those dark steps and shining his flashlight around.
He was just peeking in a window, and just becoming aware of some kind of presence in the basement when…
… the phone rang.
"I just have a quick question for you," said his new friend Detective Margie Ryan.
"I'll answer if I can."
"Does the name Linda Fleming mean anything to you?"
"Linda Fleming?" he said, running it through the computer of his mind. "No, I don't think so. Any reason it should?"
"Just curious is all."
"I take it this has something to do with the murder at the motel the other night."
"You weren't real cooperative with me three hours ago," she said, "So I don't see why I should be cooperative with you. 'Bye, Mr. Coffey."
After he hung up, he glanced at the alarm clock he kept on his desk. He had to move Tess to read it. Tess guarded the clock face. She didn't want anybody to wear out the numerals by staring at them too often.
It was dinnertime.
He raised his eyes and looked out the window of the small bedroom he'd converted into an office. It was a brooding but handsome autumn dusk sky, clouds streaked with gold, clouds streaked with amber, clouds streaked with mauve, and a glowing brilliant silver quarter moon behind the city haze. That was one thing you had to give pollution. Ironically, it could be aesthetically pleasing to look upon.
He leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms, yawned. He had been able to totally escape into his writing, had given virtually no thought to mystery women or murdered men in motels. Most of the time, he had that ability. Writing was like being in a trance for him. But now it was back to reality, as if the magical spell had been broken.
Once again, he started thinking about mystery women and murdered men in motels.
He knew who she was, now. But how was he going to contact her?
Tasha climbed up on his lap. He sat there, staring at the darkening sky, petting Tasha and trying to convince himself that what he had in mind would work.
He'd go see her.
He'd drive right up to her mansion and ask to see her. That was the best way, the only way. Direct.
And she'd see him. She'd be too curious not to see him.
"You think I should go see her, Tash?" he asked his good and true and elegant friend Tasha the cat.
She looked up at him with eyes ancient as Egypt. She looked as if she understood exactly what he was talking about. And then she spoiled the effect somewhat by yawning. If she did understand, she found the subject awfully boring. He kissed her on the top of her head, set her gently on the desk, and then went into the bathroom to clean up.
A man wanted to look his best when he visited a mansion.
***
Coffey was approaching the Stafford estate, when he saw the dark Ford van. The lights were out. And it was parked on the shoulder of the asphalt road that ran past the estate. He wished there was time right now to check it out. He wondered again what the small box on the roof was. He definitely had to check out the van. But there wasn't time to worry about it now.
Coffey pulled his cab up in front of the iron security gates in front of the Stafford mansion. The mansion itself sat far back on the vast lawn, a huge Tudor that seemed to have light pouring from every window. The moonlight on the lawn cast everything into deep and graceful shadows. He thought of the parties Jay Gatsby gave in The Great Gatsby; one of his favorite novels, the parties that extended all the way across the silver midnight lawn to the edge of the ocean itself. But any romance he entertained about the Stafford estate soon vanished when he looked at the security fence surrounding the estate proper. A security camera pointed down from directly above the left side of the gates. A concrete wall, at the top of which would be glass and spikes in case you were foolish enough to consider climbing said wall. And should you somehow make
it over the wall-despite the odds-then you would be immediately confronted by the dogs. Dobermans. no doubt (Coffey could hear them barking now). Merciless and angry Dobermans. Coffey left his headlights on, climbed out of the cab, and walked up to the small two-way communication box mounted inside the gate. All you needed to do was reach through and push the SPEAK button.
A male voice answered quickly. "May I help you?"
"I'd like to speak to Jenny Stafford, please."
"Are you a friend of hers, sir?"
"Yes." It was the simplest answer. An explanation, an elaboration, would be foolish and pointless.
"May I have your name, sir?"
"Michael Coffey."
"I'll be right back, sir. I need to find Jenny or her father."
"Thank you."
On the other side of the wall, the dogs sensed Coffey's presence. And were getting ready for him. Even from here he could hear the growling. They were waiting for him.
While he waited, a couple of cars flew past, headlights painting him yellow momentarily. He looked down the road at the van. He sensed eyes watching him.
The voice came back on. "Sir?"
"Yes."
"Jenny said that she isn't familiar with you."
"Tell her it's about the other night."
"I'm afraid she's getting ready to go out, sir. The family would appreciate it if you would leave the premises."
"All I need is a few minutes."
"You wouldn't be happy if we were forced to call the police. And neither would we. Good night, sir."
There was a clicking sound in the communication box.
And they would call the cops, too, Coffey thought. About that, he had no doubt.
Then he realized what the voice had just told him. That Jenny was getting ready to go out. If she was alone, it would be easy to follow her and then sit down and talk to her.
He had just started to back his car up, when he saw headlights lancing toward him. A car was moving quickly to the other side of the gate. Jenny.
At the prospect of seeing her again, he felt his heart begin to pound against his chest. He'd been in love a few times in his life. But never like his.
Then the gates were opening and a silver Jaguar pulled out on to the road.
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
If the man driving the Jag knew he was being followed, he didn't let on. He drove at a respectable speed and didn't try to initiate any sudden turns.
The dark countryside of hills and tall fir trees and farmland posted NO HUNTING soon gave way to the suburbs. Coffey missed the open land as soon as he was out of it. He loved seeing the moonlight paint cornfields and piney hills with its silver tones. Then came church spires, a Pizza Hut, a McDonald's, a Wendy's, a shopping mall. Suburbia. Everything neat and orderly. The train depot where commuters came and went. The small brick medical clinic where the earnest young doctor was eager to examine you and test his new skills. The football field ablaze on what had once been expensive pastureland, a Thursday night game pitting one suburban high school against another, the marching bands booming away in the stands. Coffey could almost smell the coffee-did it ever smell better than at a football game on a chilly night?-and taste the popcorn and feel the special thrill of glimpsing the girl you secretly had a crush on.
Then the Jag found the freeway entrance and shot far ahead of Coffey. Coffey sped up to keep pace. For some reason, the Dan Ryan was crowded tonight.
It was easy to slip into memory here, wife and daughter in the car as they were returning from a long weekend trip, the heater creating a soft, sleepy cocoon; the radio playing soft music low; the three of them luxuriously tired and ready for the warm, clean sheets of their own beds. The world had seemed so right, so knowable back then. Nothing could go wrong in such a realm. Nothing…
Coffey had to do a little frantic driving to catch the Jag again, changing lanes abruptly, zipping in and out of car packs. He got a few horns honked at him, and a teenage girl gave him a double-whammy-her horn and her middle finger.
But he caught up with them, finally, keeping a two-car distance between himself and the sleek Jag. He tried to see if they were having a conversation or if Jenny was simply sitting there, staring out the window. But it was impossible to know from this distance. All he could think of was warning her, of getting her away from the blond man, whoever he was.
The Jag driver still seemed to have no idea that Coffey was following him. No idea at all.
***
The La Royale Restaurant was one of those places where the parking valets always put the Mercedes Benzes and BMWs in the back. They didn't want to give the place a bad name. The Rolls Royces went up front, where people driving by on the street could see them. Tonight, there were five. The valet had put them in a straight, gleaming line. The hoods and roofs reflected the purple tint of the sodium vapor security lights.
The Jag pulled up to the valet. He gave them a claim check for the car and then took it to the back of the small parking lot. The blond man and Jenny went inside. Coffey watched all this from down the street. He didn't like anything he was seeing. He particularly didn't like the way the blond man put a familiar and possessive arm around Jenny's shoulders as they walked to the formidable front door of the restaurant. Who the hell was this guy, anyway?
Coffey still had no idea what he was going to do. He'd just have to see what he found inside and play it from there.
The valet didn't need his lips to sneer. He could do it with his eyes. He looked monumentally superior when Coffey came up to the front door dressed in his blue suede jacket, white shirt, jeans, white socks, and penny loafers.
"The sock hop's down the street, mate." the valet said. He looked like a male model who might actually be able to take care of himself with his fists. He wore a mock-toreador outfit, snug red jacket, snug black pants.
"That isn't where I'm going, 'mate,' " Coffey said. "I'm going inside."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah"
Coffey started to open the door, but the valet put a strong hand on his arm.
"You're not going in there dressed like that, mate," the valet said.
Coffey removed the valet's hand from his arm and then startled the young man by shoving him backward, shoving him hard enough to knock him up against a parked car.
Inside, the decor was solemn and reverent as a church. One did not come here merely to indulge the gross animal need for chow. One came here for-as the menu said-"the most unique dining experience in Chicago."
Coffey was reading the menu because there wasn't anything else to do. He sat in the bar, which was elevated a good five feet above the restaurant stretching out before it. You could see the restaurant through a long piece of plate glass. The bar was as dark as the restaurant, all leather and deep, dark pile carpeting and flickering candlelights. The catacombs had probably been better lit than this place.
Jenny and the blond man were sitting in the center of the restaurant. The wine waiter was taking their orders. In French, no doubt.
Every minute or so, Coffey looked up from the menu to check on Jenny. Still there. How was he going to warn her when the blond man was sitting there?
"The wild game in truffle broth comes with a pecan-dipped veal chop," the bartender said, nodding to the menu Coffey was holding. He was a stout man in a red brocaded vest, a white shirt and a string tie that was more Western than La Royale. Two of his front teeth were gold.
Coffey smiled. "You sound like a commercial."
"I'm not kidding. They always give the help a meal every night. It's usually whatever the special is. I had the wild game tonight, and it's sensational."
Coffey slid the menu back to him. Apparently, they left the menus on the bar so you could figure out what you wanted to eat while you were waiting to be seated. "I'd take another Diet Pepsi."
"Sure you can handle it?"
Coffey laughed. "Maybe if I pace myself, I'll be all right."
The bartender stared at Coffe
y for a time and then said, "We don't want any trouble."
"Trouble?"
The bartender leaned over, his elbows on the bar. "What's she doing, stepping out on you?"
"Who?" Coffey said, surprised.
"Look, friend, you obviously didn't come here to eat. Not dressed like that, you didn't. And you keep staring through the glass there at somebody in the restaurant. Last guy that did that, he sits here for an hour, hour-and-a-half really knocking back the martinis. I finally had to cut him off. Sonofabitch could barely walk. I'm getting ready to call him a cab and get him the hell out of here, but all of a sudden we get really busy, so I can't get to it right away. In the meantime, the guy sneaks off. He goes over to the restaurant part, walks straight over to this table where his wife is sitting with her boyfriend. He turns the table over, and then he starts working on the boyfriend. Mousy little guy, cheap suit, thick glasses. The boyfriend isn't any giant either, but he's a hell of a lot bigger than the husband. But the husband just starts stomping the guy. Nothing like a woman to make you crazy. Takes four busboys, me, and the maitre d' to pull the little guy off the boyfriend."
"And you think I'm going to do that?"
"I think it's at least a possibility, friend. You seem mighty interested in that one table down there."
"He's my cousin."
"Sure, he is."
"He's my cousin by marriage. My blood cousin asked me to check him out. Make sure he was being faithful. I guess I got the answer I didn't want."
The bartender looked at him skeptically. "So what re you going to do about it?"
"Nothing. I mean, nothing like start trouble. I'll just call Amy and tell her what I found out."
"She's going to be pissed, that's for sure." Then the bartender nodded to the table where Jenny and the blond man sat. "I got to give her husband one thing."
"What?"