Soon weary of channel-surfing and yet still nowhere near ready to go home, I decided to drive down to the river for a nightcap at Noah’s. Sometimes, it seemed to me, his particular brand of crazy was just what my conflicted, over-heated mind needed.
Suddenly my cell rang. I looked at the dash clock. Almost one
AM
. Who—?
It was Nancy Mendors.
“Danny, it’s me. I just heard on the news about Leland Sinclair. They’re saying you saved his life.”
“It was kind of a group effort.”
“Whatever. Not that I’m surprised. It’s exactly the kind of bone-headed thing you’d do.”
“If you say so. I assume there’s a reason for this late-night call?”
“Depends. Where are you?”
“In my car. Heading down to Noah’s.”
“Great. I’ll meet you there.”
***
By the time I arrived at the riverfront bar, Noah Frye and his two new best friends were finishing their last set. I saw right away that, as Noah had reported, the side-men could easily be cousins, or at least somehow related. Both tall, skinny, with tufts of unruly sand-colored hair. Both also displayed the bored, too-cool-for-this-world look of your typical jazz veteran.
I leaned back on my bar stool, Scotch in hand, and reveled in Noah’s soulful touch at the keyboard. Especially on the hauntingly beautiful “Lush Life.”
The trio was paying homage to one of Pittsburgh’s home-grown heroes, Billy Strayhorn, who wrote that song while still in his teens. Noah told me once, not long after he’d started working at the bar, that he wanted to showcase music representing Pittsburgh’s rich contribution to jazz. So he often devoted whole sets—sometimes whole evenings—to one of our famous local artists.
As the few remaining customers and I broke into applause at song’s end, I reflected on how many Pittsburgh-born musicians there were to choose from. People as varied as Billy Eckstein and Erroll Garner. Harold Betters and Ahmad Jamal. Kenny Clarke, Maxine Sullivan, Art Blakey, Ray Brown. Stanley Turrentine and Mary Ann Williams. And on and on…
“How about a refill, Danny?”
Charlene’s booming voice made me swivel in my seat. With Noah at the piano, she was on bartender duty. Made sense, too, since I knew from long experience that the kitchen closed at eleven.
“I’ll just nurse this awhile, Charlene. I’m waiting for Nancy Mendors.”
Charlene smiled sardonically and peered past my shoulder. “Waitin’s over, Doc.”
There was something knowing in her eyes that probably deserved further investigation, but I let it go. With her finely-tuned intuition, it wouldn’t have surprised me if Charlene had long since guessed that there’d once been something between Nancy and me.
I also suspected that she’d never share this notion with Noah. No way Charlene would risk saying anything that might complicate Noah’s clinical relationship with her. At the best of times, Noah Frye walked an exceedingly fine line.
I followed Charlene’s gaze and spotted Nancy standing inside the door, waving in my direction.
“Are we closing up the place?” She came quickly across the floor, booted heels clicking on the hardwood. Small, trim body in what looked like new jeans and a scooped-necked silk blouse. Highlights in her dark hair. Frosted pink lipstick.
And again, as she sidled up to me, the scent of that unfamiliar new perfume.
Only her eyes, despite an over-bright sheen, displayed their usual solemnity. As always, I saw the weariness, the slight though unremitting strain, that lay deep within. The residue of a life’s trials, disappointments.
Nancy gave me a quick kiss. Then, with one knee on the stool next to mine for support, leaned awkwardly across the bar to offer Charlene a hug. The two women met more or less in the middle and embraced warmly.
“Careful, Dr. Mendors,” Charlene said cheerfully. “If Noah catches sight of us, he’s gonna want a threesome.”
Nancy laughed. “In his dreams.”
Charlene straightened up again, waved her hand, and moved down the length of the bar to serve another customer. Meanwhile, Nancy took her seat on the stool next to me. Avidly eyed my drink.
“I hope that’s Scotch.”
Bowing slightly, I handed her my glass. She took a tentative sip. Then a larger one.
She smiled shyly up at me. “You ought to get yourself one, too.”
“Now why didn’t I think of that?”
As I watched her take another swallow, I had the disquieting thought that this wasn’t her first drink of the evening. Nor perhaps her second. Again, uncharacteristic.
I was still thinking about it when Noah ambled over, his shirt dark with honest sweat.
“Great set, Noah,” I said.
He beamed. “So I wasn’t hallucinating? People were really digging it?”
“Absolutely. Unless
I
was hallucinating, too.”
Noah feigned offense. “Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
Then, turning: “Dr. Nancy. Lookin’ fine, I must say.”
“Thanks. How are you doing, Noah?”
“Same old. Breathin’ in, breathin’ out. Not that I’m complainin’. Beats the fuck outta the alternative.”
His opaque eyes betrayed a flicker of sadness, which just as quickly disappeared. Then he too-elaborately clapped his huge hands together.
“Anyway, time to go dig some cash out of the old vault. I gotta pay them other two head-cases or they’ll key Charlene’s car. They done it before.”
“Then why still play with them?” Nancy asked.
“You shittin’ me? You
heard
’em. Petty vandalism’s a small price to pay for such kick-ass chops.”
I was about to ask whether Charlene shared his opinion on the subject when he turned—pretty damned gracefully for a big man—and took off. Soon to vanish behind the swinging doors to the kitchen.
“He’s still upset about Andy’s suicide,” Nancy said.
“Easy to understand why.”
She finished the rest of my drink just as Charlene sauntered back our way. I ordered two more, and she shuffled off. When I was sure she was out of earshot, I turned back to Nancy.
“Maybe you ought to adjust his meds. Just in case.”
“I’ll come by tomorrow and see him. Noah’s too high-strung after a long night playing. Mornings are better. He’s more vulnerable.” A slight smile. “And, to be honest, more compliant.”
“Compliant? Are we talking about the same guy? Then you really
do
have a magic touch.”
Charlene returned with our drinks, then hurriedly disappeared into the back room. Probably to make sure Noah wasn’t feeling too generous toward his band-mates.
Nancy and I touched glasses. Sipped our drinks.
“Funny.” She looked off. “Noah’s not the only one rattled by Andy’s death. Given the usual housing issues at Ten Oaks, we’ve tried assigning his empty room to another patient. But nobody wants it. Even patients who hate their roommates and have been begging for a single. Because of the suicide, everybody thinks Andy’s room is haunted. That it’ll bring bad luck.”
I shrugged. “No surprise there. A lot of people—and not just psychiatric patients—think suicide is catching. Like the flu.”
“I know. Even the cleaning crew is reluctant to go inside. So we’re leaving it the way Andy left it. For now, at least. Until we get our next new patient. Someone who didn’t know Andy. Then we’ll clear it out and put ’em in there.”
Her words had begun to slur. Though if she noticed this, she gave no indication. Instead, she took another sip of whiskey, then swirled the amber liquid in her glass.
“There’s something else,” she said, tilting her head to peer up at me. “Remember those two patients from the clinic who came to Andy’s funeral? The young girl, arguing with that boy?”
“Yes.” I struggled to retrieve their names from the Rolodex in my mind. “Victoria Tolan, right? And Stan Willis. What about them?”
“It’s just odd, because Victoria has always seemed happy with us. But now she’s asked her family to find her another facility. She wants to leave Ten Oaks.”
“Did she say why?”
“No, though according to clinic gossip, it’s because Stan is bothering her. Whatever that means. We’ve spoken to him, but he denies it.”
“So what are you going to do?”
A frown. “You mean, besides stepping down as clinical director?”
“Bullshit. You’re the best thing to happen to Ten Oaks since the doors opened.”
“Liar. But I appreciate it.” She took a long breath, then downed the rest of her drink. “The thing is, we’ve made excellent progress with Victoria Tolan. Or, to be fair,
she
has. I know we’re the right facility for her. But if I can’t keep a patient like Victoria, or don’t know how to get to the bottom of this thing with Stan Willis, then maybe I’m in the wrong job. Maybe I should just go back to being a case manager. Do my rounds. Prescribe their drugs. And go on home.”
She paused suddenly, and blinked. Rapidly. Then, very deliberately, put her empty glass on the bar.
I touched her elbow.
“Speaking of going home,” I said, “how about if I call you a cab? Better yet, I’ll drive you.”
“God, I’m such a lightweight.”
Nancy sat forward in the passenger side of my car, holding her head in her hands. I’d opened both windows, figuring that fresh air—even though, at two
AM
, it still pouted with humidity—was better than the AC.
“Yeah, but in your case that’s
literally
true. So don’t feel bad about it.”
With her head down, face curtained by her tumble of hair, I couldn’t see her reaction. But I could guess.
We were driving across the Pitt campus, under the looming spire of the Cathedral of Learning, on our way to Shadyside. Nancy’s apartment was in an old gabled building that had become, like much else in the city proper, newly fashionable.
“What about my car?” More like a groan than a question. “It’s still parked outside the bar.”
“We can figure that one out tomorrow. Right now, I just want to get you home.”
Her head came up at last, and she turned to look at me with bleary-eyed indignation.
“I’m really all right, Danny. Stop acting like I’ve never had a drink before.”
“I will if you will.”
She paused a moment, then broke into warm laughter. I joined her. I could tell that the easy drive through near-empty city streets, moving through low canyons of concrete and shadow, was making us both feel better.
“Actually,” she said, “the one I’m worried about is you.”
I searched her face in the dim light of the car. She was suddenly serious.
“Me?”
“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay about Warren and me. I mean, about the engagement.”
“First of all, I’m more than okay. I’m really happy for you. Secondly, the truth is, it’s none of my business. As we both know.”
“Really?” Rubbing her brow. “Since when did we become so mature about things? So…I don’t know…sophisticated.”
I laughed. “Hardly that, Nancy. It’s just…after all this time…”
She finished my sentence. “We’re just friends. Right. I get that.”
“Friends,” I repeated, looking directly at her moist, somber eyes. “But also
more
than friends. At least, that’s how it’s always seemed to me.”
“And to me. Of course, you’re right. And I’m glad… well, I’m glad you’re good with it. About Warren and me.”
“I am. Truly.”
She nodded slowly, as though not quite convinced. Then turned away, to look out her open window.
“I
do
want you to meet Warren. You’d like him, Danny. In fact, I was going to try to arrange something for tonight. But he had an emergency surgery, and you were at the Burgoyne, playing hero. Again.”
She seemed aware of the edge in her voice even before I was, and sank lower in her seat. Arms hugging herself.
I said nothing, just drove carefully as I neared the row of apartment buildings off Walnut. The street was dark as a tunnel beneath a dense canopy of trees.
I looked over at her again, but she kept her face in profile. I knew she was upset. I also knew it wasn’t just the alcohol. She’d been jangly, ill at ease, since she came into Noah’s Ark. Overly vivacious, as though to mask—
What?
I wondered. Was it merely her concern about my reaction to her engagement? Maybe she wanted some assurance that it wouldn’t change the tenor of our friendship.
I found her building near the corner and pulled over to the curb. Turned in my seat, facing her.
“C’mon, I’ll walk you up.”
“No need to, Danny. Besides, I want to be by myself. Gives me time to compose the apology I’m going to email you tomorrow.”
“Apology for what?”