Jimmy Fox - Nick Herald 02 - Lineages and Lies (18 page)

“They’re all bad,” Dion said. “All the time.”

“You’re just jealous of Mr. Nowell’s success in genealogy.”

Maybe Una had something here. She usually did, when it came to his real feelings. Maybe he
was
chasing a phantom built on professional envy.

“You said he was fencing at the school field house?” he asked Dion, hoping to ease away from this talk of murder and conspiracy, which was obviously casting a pall on their time together. “How does he rate that? I can’t even get on the tennis courts anymore.”

“He’s one of us now,” Dion said. “effectively so, at any rate. And quite chummy with our mutual foe, the esteemed department
head, Dr. Frederick Tawpie. Our …
master
.” Dion had to take a big gulp of beer to wash the foul taste of that word away.

“The Usurper,” Nick snarled melodramatically. “If I ever decide anyone is worth the effort genuinely to hate, it’ll be Tawpie.”

Tawpie: the man who had spearheaded the departmental inquiry that had recommended Nick’s dismissal, the person who had profited most from Nick’s troubles.

“Tawpie and Nowell,” Nick said, shaking his head. “And just what exactly are Iago and Macbeth plotting?”

Dion explained: “The Usurper got religion, so to speak: he’s now convinced that one of his own ancestors was on that ship with the provocative name.”

“Are you kidding me?” Nick slapped his forehead. “Tawpie wants to get in the Society of the
Allégorie
?”

“What’s more,” said Una, “the Usurper lent his support to a course Nowell is teaching in Opportunity College. Appears to be popular. It’s drawn a lot of regular Freret students, I understand.”

That explains what Nowell was doing at the school the other night. And Jillian, too. She knew just where to find him, probably to make her pitch for employment at the Society.

Dion grinned, showing the gap between his front teeth. “It didn’t hurt that the genealogical evangelist’s society bestowed a substantial grant on the English department.”

His friend’s dome of frizzy hair made Nick think of something a chimney sweep would use. He couldn’t help smiling at Dion’s outlandish appearance; no wonder his students didn’t seem to mind the rigors of his courses. For Dion, teaching wasn’t worth doing unless you could make it thrilling every day, memorable
every moment. Among other outlandish stunts to make his lessons unforgettable, he had jumped from low windows, dressed up in bizarre costumes, ridden a horse into the classroom, and convened classes outside in raging thunderstorms.

“‘Language Ways in Family History: Lexical Evolution in American Life’,” Una said. “A subtitle can do wonders for a course. I have to admit, it
sounds
good.”

“But does it have a place in our curriculum?” Dion countered. “The answer is, absolutely not!” He pounded the table with his good hand. “Why, we have undergraduates who are ignorant of Latin and Greek, not to mention Hebrew.”

Una rolled her eyes at the absurdity of Dion’s stratospheric scholarly standards. “And English,” she added.

Dion ranted on, playing up his indignation for his favorite audience. “We have talented professors whose sabbaticals are limited to a laughably inadequate two years. And they’re splurging our resources on this, this whim of Tawpie’s!—Nick, your glass is empty!” Dion gave a piercing whistle for the waitress. He ordered two more beers.

Una surprised them by pluckily ordering another daiquiri, glancing at Nick for comment. He merely raised perplexed eyebrows at Dion, who now leaned on the table with his chin in a V of his palms, staring at Nick and Una as if they were Rare manuscripts he was studying.

They talked awhile about the summer courses Una and Dion had put together. Hers would be “a Victorian hair shirt,” according to Dion: the poetry and prose of Matthew Arnold. His would be “typical Restoration superficiality,” according to Una: the English comedy of manners.

Eventually Una checked her watch and slurped the remnants of her drink through the straw. “It’s been fun. I have to leave, guys.” She picked up her purse.

“Wait, Una,” Nick pleaded, not budging to let her out. “It’s still early. I thought you’d like to join me for a lecture on genealogy. The estimable Preston Nowell, at the Plutarch.”

“Well, I—I can’t,” she said, blushing the color of the drink she’d just drained. Then, regaining her composure, she added, “I can’t wait any longer, that is.”

“She has a date, Nick,” said Dion, winking. “New associate professor. He’s a handsome young fellow.”

“Oh,” Nick said, sliding out of the bench. He understood now why she’d seemed on edge. She’d been waiting to deliver this parting shot, hoping for the chance to show Nick that she, too, had a life. A life beyond him.

As he gave Una a brotherly hug goodbye, he knew he wasn’t being fair, generous, noble, or any of the other qualities good friends were supposed to be to each other, but he was jealous and hurt. And it didn’t help that the look she was giving him said,
Now you know how it feels
.

CHAPTER 15

P
reston Nowell’s presentation at the Plutarch Foundation that night was a shortened version of the one he’d given at the hotel seminar a week before. He’d replaced the crass hype of the shopping-network pitchman with the urbanity of a financial planner advising a patrician client.

The crowd here looked somewhat younger to Nick than the one at the Grande Marchioness, and even richer. Tanned, glittering, sweet-scented men and women—the kind who could appear elegantly casual or casually elegant with equal ease. These were the power-people of New Orleans, or at least a representative sampling. Lots of Plutarch benefactors, Nick was sure. He recognized a few corporate heavyweights, some lawyers and judges, a sprinkling of doctors, an artist or two.

Nick schmoozed shamelessly, casting about lots of charm and business cards hoping to land a trophy genealogical project.

His father was fond of saying, with grudging admiration based on his closer contact with the Jewish mercantile tradition of the Herald/Herzwald side: “Show me a good salesman, I’ll show you a good liar.” Nick himself had grown up
with a countervailing ethos encapsulated in
The Graduate
: for a generation of pampered Baby Boomers heading into adulthood as bewildered and finally disillusioned Dustin Hoffmans, there was something innately uncool, deceptive, and expoitative about commerce, about even holding down a job. And the reigning spirit during his education and academic career was unabashedly toxic toward capitalism, anti-business with a vengeance. But now? Phony, Nick could do, as well as anybody, if it put good wine in his glass.

“Mr. Herald—Nick, if I may. So glad you could be here.” Nowell grabbed his hand with cocktail-party enthusiasm. Then, more confidentially he asked, “How did I do?”

“You’ll have a few takers from this group,” Nick said. “I think you really broke through when you compared genealogy to a wealthy estate that should be passed on to their children’s children. These people know the estate-tax schedule by heart. You were speaking their language. You’re quite a salesman.”

If Nowell took offense at the term, he didn’t show it.

“Care for some of these? Another drink, perhaps?” Nowell, in high spirits, apparently, snared some canapés from one passing tray and a glass of wine from another. “I’m ravenous.” He paused for serious munching. “It’s fortunate that we met tonight. There’s something I’ve been meaning to speak with you about. You’re an advisor here at the Plutarch, aren’t you?”

The two men had walked out to the porch, into the humid night. Sweet olive and jasmine broadcast heady perfume nearby, somewhere in the darkness of the grounds. The crowd was leaving. Several couples stopped on their way out to tell Nowell
they’d already decided to start their family-history project. A son or daughter or secretary would be in touch.

Nick heard the solid thump of expensive car doors slamming on the street.

“Allow me to make a proposition,” Nowell said. “How would you like to join the staff of the Society?”

“Well, I—”

“Let me elaborate before you refuse. Woodrow’s passing has left us in something of a bind. And I must tell you I was personally devastated; he was rather a difficult man to like, but I respected him and considered myself his friend.”

Nick nodded, searching Nowell’s face for deception. Either he was very good at deception, or he was being sincere. Was Una right about him, after all?

“At any rate, the position of Honorary Scribe is part ceremony, part public relations, part actual genealogical sleuthing,” Nowell was explaining. “And yes, part salesmanship, though I would not ask you to participate in anything that would make you uncomfortable. You would be able to define your own responsibilities. I’ve seen some of your published work; I believe we have several at the library. I’ve also made some discreet inquiries. Forgive me for infringing upon your privacy, but I find résumés to be rather misleading, by and large.

“I think you would be ideal for the position, Nick. Two more details about the job: your salary would be $100,000 a year, plus liberal expenses. I’m sure you have a place to live, but we had just purchased a St. Charles Avenue condo for Woodrow. The poor fellow was preparing to move to New Orleans from
Salt Lake City. The condo would be at your disposal, should you decide to relocate.”

Angus limped out to join the two men. He was very happy with the turnout and tried to pin Nowell down on another appearance. Then he asked Nowell if he would mind looking at a thorny genealogical question he’d run up against in his own research. They excused themselves to Nick and went inside.

A hundred grand!
Nick knocked back the rest of his wine.
I’m rich! All I have to do is show up and nap in an office… . I’d also be closer to discovering the Society’s secret, if there is one. Closer to finding out what got Bluemantle killed, and who did it.
Satisfied that he’d dressed up his naked greed in a moral tuxedo, he knew what his answer to Nowell would be.

As the lights inside the Plutarch started to go out, Nowell emerged.

The two men walked out to the street. Nowell went on to explain that Nick could continue with his independent genealogical work while maintaining his position with the Plutarch, if he chose.

“Well, have you decided?” Nowell asked. “I forgot to mention that you’ll get to wear a special version of this fabulous ring.”

“That’s it. The ring tipped the scale. When do I start?”

Both men laughed, best chums. Nick recognized the dynamic of the situation: each man had tacitly agreed to overlook the role playing of the other. What was Nowell up to? Nick was pretty sure he’d detected, at some indefinite point in their conversation, the forward-looking cunning of the politician, builder, or ship captain. Behind the seemingly adolescent gawkiness of his
features, there was a man accustomed to thinking big, deciding with clear-eyed remorselessness. Nick really wanted to dislike this guy, but it wasn’t easy.

They had reached the rear of Nowell’s Range Rover. He turned off the alarm with his remote, opened the tailgate, and loaded his two bulging briefcases into the back.

“I’m truly gratified that you’ll be part of our organization,” Nowell said. “A careful scholar like you will take a great deal of weight from my shoulders.”

They stepped onto the street on the driver’s side of the Rover. Nowell turned, his hand extended to shake.

“Goodnight, Nick. Come by Monday or soon thereafter, and we’ll get started.”

Behind Nowell, Nick saw the headlights of a speeding car cross the centerline. The car headed straight for them.

He grabbed Nowell’s hand, pulled him back, and then shoved the bigger man into the wet grass between the street and the sidewalk.

The car swerved into the Rover near the back left taillights, glanced off wildly, and then sped down the street. It had screeched around a corner and out of sight before Nick could get to his feet.

“You all right?” Nick asked, bending over Nowell, who was sitting on the grass.

Nowell took inventory of himself and attempted to stand.

“My knee. The proverbial ‘war injury,’ except that in my case, it’s quite real. Just help me up, will you.”

“Sure. I’ll call the police. You need an ambulance?”

“Heavens no, don’t do that. It would take the police hours to get here. Don’t bother yourself. I’m fine, really. It was just a drunk; he’ll come to a bad end soon, carrying on like that. No real harm done; and the truck is well insured, believe me. I’ll file an accident report tomorrow. It’s my left leg, you see, which should be no problem driving.” He was up now, testing the leg for Nick’s benefit. It hurt like hell, Nick could see.

They stepped into the street again, walking through the broken plastic and glass. Nick looked both ways warily as Nowell opened his door and hopped in with a grimace of pain.

“You’d better go to the emergency room, Preston.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. This is becoming a habit with you, rescuing me,” he said, giving a strained smile.

“Yeah, seems that way.”

Nick watched the Rover head toward St. Charles Avenue. Now he had a new understanding of the term “careful scholar”: it’s what he’d have to be whenever he was within a mile of Preston Nowell.