Jimmy Fox - Nick Herald 02 - Lineages and Lies (29 page)

He surveyed the pleasantly dilapidated place: flaking plaster walls, tile floor, dark-wood beams, spartan tables and chairs, martial busts of Napoleon, laconic waiters in white shirts and black bow ties and black tux pants. Beethoven’s
Eroica
weaved in and out of the crowd noise.

In a back corner, at a small round table by one of the French windows on the Saint Louis Street wall, he spotted Nick, sitting with an attractive blonde young woman. An extremely attractive young woman.

Tawpie downed his water, uttered an affected sigh of satisfaction to impress those near him who didn’t know it was only water, put his glass on the bar, and entered a current that seemed to be flowing toward Nick.

“Ah, Wallace Stevens, I see,” Tawpie said, looking down at the worn paperback on Nick’s table. “Old habits die hard, eh, Nick?”

“Thinking and feeling, you mean, Frederick? I still do those things, even off the faculty.”

Tawpie’s chubby torso inflated momentarily with a deep breath, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he massaged his fat chin, apparently seeking a new, less confrontational, way to begin.

“Nick, let’s be grownup, put the past behind us,” he said. “I’ve been searching for you all day, with the intention of making you an offer. Two offers, as a matter of fact. Do you and the young lady mind if I sit down? I’m absolutely paralyzed with fatigue.” Tawpie found a crippled chair nearby, under the pay phone.

“Why not pull up a chair, Frederick?” Nick said snidely, “since you already have. This is Jillian. Jillian, meet Professor Frederick Tawpie, head of the English department at Freret.”

Jillian turned to Nick. Her lips formed the words, “the Usurper.” Nick nodded.

Tawpie was unaware of this silent exchange. Gingerly he tested the chair before putting his substantial bulk upon it. The chair wobbled wildly.

It was clear to Nick that Tawpie—this devious backstabber who’d had a hand in his dismissal and who’d hijacked the English department from his friend, Una Kern, who really deserved to direct it—wasn’t here to renew the old bitterness between them. He wanted something, maybe even needed something, and Nick looked forward to the pleasure of turning him down.

“What an ordeal! Oh, this is much better,” Tawpie said, a bit uncertainly, noticing now that two of the chair legs were suspect. He placed his portfolio on the table and adjusted his glasses, which had been jostled somewhere along his odyssey. “Well, I’ve never been here, but an establishment that plays such wonderful music certainly deserves my patronage.”

“I’m sure the management will be relieved to hear that,” Nick said.

Tawpie had a tendency to cast himself as a gift to lesser mortals.

“Nick, I know we’ve had our—well, our slight disagreements in the past. But I assure you I have never held any permanent ill-will toward you; nor have I ever sought to make capital of your bad luck.”

Nick decided he wouldn’t yet call him an egotistical liar. He wanted to hear the rest. Just for fun. “Decent of you, Frederick. Go on.”

“I’m sure you’re aware that Preston Nowell’s death has put us in something of a bind. We—the English department, that is—we had enlisted Mr. Nowell to teach a genealogy course at Opportunity College. Well, to get right to the point, the course is proving so popular it is oversubscribed for the fall semester, and here we are—”

“With your pants down?” Nick said. He sipped his beer as Tawpie continued.

“That vernacular description is as good as any, I suppose. An embarrassing situation, to be sure. It was my intention merely to cancel the silly thing, but some rather influential alumni had already enrolled, and, well, you know that these matters can become quite political.” Tawpie chuckled condescendingly, and his double chin jiggled.

“Oh, yes, Frederick, I completely understand.”

“Then I had a brainstorm!” Tawpie searched the air above his head and raised his hands in a saint’s attitude of awe, acting out his moment of inspiration.

Nick glanced at Jillian and tried to keep from laughing at Tawpie’s legendary self-importance.

“Why not call on our old friend and colleague Nick Herald?” Tawpie continued, again oblivious to the silent ridicule. “renowned genealogical authority in his own right? Something of a popular hero, too, for exposing the dirty dealings at the Society of the
Allégorie
. Who better to replace the perpetrator of the fraud—whom I never fully trusted, incidentally? I’ve passed the idea by the dean, and she’s quite enthusiastic about it, in fact.” He cleared his throat, looked down at his fidgeting hands. “You will, of course, officially not be part of the faculty.”

“Oh, of course,” Nick said, with feigned graciousness.

“It’s perhaps a little too soon for that. But who knows what the future holds?” said Tawpie, shrugging amiably, a mere humble department head kneeling before the inscrutable Mover of Things. “I am authorized to say that we’ll be quite flexible when it comes to your fee. So, what do you say?”

“No.”

“‘No’?” Tawpie parroted in his astonishment. Nick could see the man’s notorious temper redden his face.

“Now calm down, Frederick. I’m not trying to be difficult. Prior commitments, that’s all. Seriously, I
would
consider your offer, otherwise.”

“‘Prior commitments’?” Tawpie said, seemingly unable to conceive of a world beyond Freret University.

Jillian said, “He’s going to England for the Society of the
Allégorie
.” Her voice revealed how proud she was of him. “And he’ll be editing Dr. Bluemantle’s memoirs.”

Bluemantle’s nearly complete manuscript, it turned out, contained nothing off-color, but much of interest from the
professional experiences of a master of the discipline. A few pages of notes in his friend’s beautiful longhand were helping Nick flesh out a valedictory final chapter: Woody’s last case, the
Allégorie
fraud.

Tawpie sat back, causing his chair to lurch dangerously. “Well—well, congratulations are in order, then. I haven’t had a sabbatical for years… . England,” he said, wistfully. “This professional genealogy is rather a good job, it seems. I look forward to reading Dr. Bluemantle’s memoirs. I suppose I should start reading the Society’s newsletter, too. I’m a new member, you know? And that brings me to my second offer. A project of a more personal nature.”

“Yes?”

“I, too, had an ancestor on that ship, the
Allégorie
, or the
True Faith
, as you now call it. However, I cannot accept the notion that this fellow was a common criminal. No, no. That’s simply unimaginable! Surely my ancestor was a political prisoner, a Scotsman who had valiantly fought the English and had chosen life in the New World instead of execution. This much Mr. Nowell had suggested before his untimely demise. You see, I purchased a Level III Ancestral Search from the Society, and there was much work yet to do.”

“Level III?” said Nick. “Then you’re out about twenty-five hundred bucks, Frederick.”

“He charged me
four thousand
!” Tawpie erupted. “The scoundrel!”

“Don’t worry. The Society’s no longer in the profit business. I’ll get you most of your money back.”

“Now, that
is
generous of you!” Tawpie said, a new opinion of Nick forming in his eyes.

“Tawpie, Tawpie … I’ve heard that name before,” said Jillian, as she sipped her white wine.

“Are you familiar with the history of the Society, Jillian?” asked Frederick.

“I should say so! My father was a Captain-Director, and I’m a certified descendant. Plus, I worked at the Society… . Oh, now I remember. Tawpie—wasn’t he the one who shot a hole in the captain’s dinghy? You know, those poor crewmembers set adrift were never seen again.”

“Really?” Frederick said, the pallor of dashed pride giving way to blushing shame. “By no means do I doubt your word, young lady, but there seems to be some confusion here. I’m inclined to question any of Mr. Nowell’s findings, or any claims put forward as evidence by the previous regime at the Society; perhaps I am not even related to this”—Tawpie closed his eyes and swallowed hard, as if he’d just sucked down a bad oyster—“this transported-convict person. All the more reason for my offer, Nick. I want you to do a thorough genealogical analysis of my family tree to determine the truth.” Tawpie grabbed Nick’s forearm on the table. “My family’s reputation is at stake,” he whined, on the verge of tears.

Nick extricated himself from Tawpie’s grip. He shook his head in doubt. “Frederick, I’ve got a lot on my calendar these days. What with picking up the pieces at the Society—”

“Nick’s been appointed interim Captain-Director by the Society’s trustees,” Jillian reported.

“I was just handy, that’s all,” Nick said humbly.

Joscelyn and D’Hiver had taken poison, like the good descendants of spies that they were. Local and federal cops were combing Society records to unmask the hired assassins who had done the Captain-Directors’ dirty work in recent years; the bomb-maker had already been nabbed and charged in Mr. Montenay’s murder. Five employees at the library had been dismissed following indictments for fraud; Florita still heated up the lobby. The Society thought it was time for someone from the outside to come in, calm things down, clean things up.

“I had not heard that,” Tawpie said, more in control of his emotions now. “But I have been following the story in the press. I
am
impressed, Nick. You are the ideal person for my purposes, then. Please, take the job. At your convenience, of course.”

“The Society may not charge anymore, but I do. It’ll be expensive, Frederick.”

“Cost is no object. Spare no expense. I must know!” said Tawpie, slapping the portfolio with his hand, making the glasses on the table jump. “Forgive me, but this has been weighing on my mind.”

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Nick said.

“Oh, thank you, Nick, thank you!” Tawpie said effusively. “Allow me to show you what Mr. Nowell had discovered before he died, and some family sources of information that may be of use.”

Eager to begin explaining the intricate branching of his family tree, Tawpie removed a thick stack of papers from the portfolio.

“Just leave it with me,” Nick said, sliding the papers across the table. “I’ll be in touch. See you, Frederick.”

Dismissed, Tawpie bade an awkward farewell and fought his way to the front door through the crush of hopefuls searching for somewhere to sit.

Jillian released long-suppressed laughter. “What a nerd!” she said, wiping tears of mirth away. “That wasn’t the truth I told him. Really, I have no idea who his ancestor was, and I don’t care. I just wanted to hassle him; I know how much you dislike him.”

“You got
that
right. But, hey, who knows? Frederick used to laugh at genealogy; now he’s addicted. That’s healthy: studying your family history is one step away from studying your inner self. Maybe he’ll learn something that’ll make him a better person.”

“I doubt it,” Jillian said.

“So do I, but people can surprise you. When are you leaving?”

“Soon. A friend’s driving me to the airport.” She took his hands in hers. “Hawty said you’d probably be at Napoleon House. ‘Your branch office,’ she calls it. I just wanted to spend a few minutes with you. I don’t think I’ll ever come back here. Hurts too much.”

“For me, New Orleans lets me forget my pain, and I’m not just referring to the favorite local pastimes, either,” Nick said, looking at his empty beer mug. “It’s more than merely preoccupation with debauchery and booze. It’s a philosophy of life, a belief that every sorrow, sin, and joy deserves a ceremony, that yesterdays are never lost. Take this building, for instance. Legend
has it that Napoleon was supposed to come here in 1814, but he died on St. Helena before he could escape. New Orleans is a magnet for history’s exiles. Their make-believe empires live on, if only at the bottom of an absinthe bottle.”

“A fun town for a genealogist, maybe,” Jillian said, “but not good for me at the moment.”

“Yeah, I understand. So tell me, what’s Atlanta like? Never been there.”

“Actually, my sister-in-law lives in a quaint little town outside Atlanta; but I say Atlanta because everybody always asks, ‘Where’s that?’ when I mention the town’s name. I can heal there, Nick. It’s quiet, safe—at least a lot safer than New Orleans. I love her kids so much; they remind me of my brother and me growing up. And her antique shop is so cute. Did I ever tell you I’m really, really interested—”

“Let me guess: you’re really, really interested in antiques, huh?”

“I said that about genealogy, too, didn’t I? Funny. That wasn’t strictly true when I said it, but in a way it is now, even though I wish I’d never heard of that awful ship. As a child, I used to wonder if the universe would be different if I’d said something in a different way, or stepped back through a door, or didn’t crunch an ant. I guess it does matter, everything we do. Try to change one little thing in the past, lie about a few events, and look what happens: people are killing each other right and left. From now on, it’s the tomorrows that count for me. You can have all those yesterdays. And I
really, really
mean
that
. Antiques may be part of the past, but they can’t hurt me if I don’t look any deeper than the varnish.”

“Unless you fall out of one,” Nick said, jiggling the chair Tawpie had occupied.

They both laughed. “I’ll be careful where I sit.” She finished her wine and put out her cigarette in the full ashtray. “I feel better about the future, now that I know evil doesn’t always win. Who knows, maybe I’ll even have kids of my own one day. And stop smoking.”

She looked at Nick for a long moment, waiting for his response. He couldn’t give her the one he sensed she wanted.

“All I ask is that you get the town right on the birth certificate,” he said, finally. “We genealogists are awfully particular about that kind of thing.”

“I’ll just do that.” She patted his tattered volume of Stevens, its title an evocative phrase from one of the poet’s greatest works. “Give me a ring if you ever find …
The Palm at the End of the Mind
.”

She reached for his face across the small table. They leaned together. She kissed him lightly, sweetly on the lips.