Revenant Rising (42 page)
Laurel must have her sensitivity monitor cranked up to ten because she mouths that she’s going for coffee, leaving him to muddle through without a witness.
Once he’s brought to the phone, Simon couldn’t care less that he’s again been shortchanged in the story department. When it’s his turn, Anthony’s still glum from yesterday’s chastening and not given to much talk. Anthony’s grandmother, on the other hand, has a lot to say and she’s still saying it when Laurel returns with two coffees.
“Bleedin’
Jesus
,” he says into the phone upon learning that Pamela Wilburcross, self-proclaimed recreational therapist and all-round London party girl, is not only preparing to come to New York, she’s also planning on attending the bash for Rayce Vaughn as his guest.
The temptation to ring off is strong, to later pretend that the connection went bad rather than try muddle through with Laurel in earshot. Instead, he makes vague responses that don’t fool his mum and probably won’t keep Laurel guessing for very long. In the process he finds there’s still time enough to head Pamela off—for Nate to head her off because it was Nate who provided her in the first place. Let him be the one to say her services are no longer needed. Or wanted.
Without learning how or why his mum came by this rather critical information, he says a proper goodbye and leans out the car window to replace the handset on its mooring. Resettled in his seat he accepts a coffee and responds to Laurel’s worried expression. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says. “Nothing serious. Nothing to it, you’ll see.” He overdoes a bit. “Casual acquaintance got a bit carried away. Took to believin’ tabloids that have her linked to me in ways she’s not.” He says maybe too much.
“I understand how that could happen. If I had the need—and saying I chose to—I might be tempted to take as gospel what I’ve read about you and me.”
Have
the need, he wants to say.
Choose
to.
Be
tempted.
Take
as gospel.
Please
, so we can be done with the agony. To keep from saying any of that aloud he fills his mouth with coffee.
“I didn’t think to ask if you were hungry when I went for the coffee. I’m not, so I guess I decided you’re not either,” Laurel says as they get underway.
“You decided right. No lunch called for after that fabulous breakfast. Can’t imagine I’ll want much in the way of dinner either. Dinner . . . I don’t suppose. . . .” He concentrates on merging with motorway traffic, the best reason not to look over and see her say no.
“Dinner would be lovely, but it’ll have to be early. Okay?”
“Okay,” he says without swerving the car or giving out an actual cheer.
“Unless you’re looking for something special, we can go to a place in my neighborhood where you’re not apt to attract attention. It’s a diner with an extensive menu and everything’s available all hours.”
“I wager they don’t serve beans on toast at any hour.”
“Good lord, is that what it sounds like?”
“It is. Tinned baked beans served over toast. Grew up on it, made do with it whilst I was struggling, and still fancy the dish every now and then.”
“If that’s all you want, I can make it for you and skip the bother of a public place.”
He agrees, and his spirits could not be higher as he reels off the final chapter of band history, a subject that ordinarily would have him feeling down.
“What very few people know is that we were destined to break up even before it was accomplished by reason of my accident. Artistic differences would have been cited as the official cause, and although there are a few grains of truth to that, the bottom line was—the bottom line. As primary tunesmith, lyricist, and sometime producer, I was gettin’ a bigger share of the pie than the others. To a lesser extent, this was also true of Chris Thorne, our resident guitar god. Resentments were fostered by Jesse Wanderly, a bass player’s bass player, and Lane St. John, our ace drummer, and I can’t say I blamed them. Deadly combination of industry practices, promotional misdirection, and apportionment had them feelin’ more and more like session musicians instead of integral parts to one of the greatest rock bands ever to take the stage, and those resentments festered to the point of poisoning us all.”
“Is that for publication?”
“Yeh, I think it’s time everybody knew. Prevents any rumors starting that Verge might get back together. Never happen. We’ve all moved on.”
Her interest evidently cranked up again, she asks thoughtful questions about this phase of his life till they’re well into New Jersey and nearing the turnoff for her neighborhood, where he has to interrupt the flow to confirm directions. When they enter her street, no parked cars are in evidence, suitable to the surroundings or otherwise.
In her kitchen, he’s touched with nervousness he didn’t have this morning. She hands him a cold beer and invites him to sit on one of the tall stools at the eating end of the central island. Her answering machine is blinking—nagging, in his estimation. He offers to step into the next room so she can listen to the messages in private.
“Sit, please. The messages will keep. I’ll get to them later,” she says in a way that makes clear he won’t be part of later.
But did he actually come waltzing in here with expectation of borrowing her toothbrush later? With the hope, yes; with the expectation, no. He swallows that hope along with a long draught of beer.
“Do you think the Cliff Grant and Gibby Lester murders are related?” she asks as she opens a tin of baked beans.
Considering the jumpy state he’s in, the answer should be an automatic yes. “I haven’t given it much thought,” he hedges. “I’m sure Nate has. Or will. He’s the one to ask about that.”
“On the subject of Nate . . . I don’t think I mentioned I’m meeting with him on Tuesday. The arrangements were made when I returned his call yesterday.”
“Can I ask where this momentous event’s gonna occur?” Your office? His?”
“His home. He asked me to join him there for dinner and—”
“And you agreed?”
She pours the beans into a pot, gives them a quick stir with a wooden spoon. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re making it sound as though I’m going on a date or something and even if I were. . . .” She lifts the spoon, waggles it about in a meaningful way.
“Yeh, but. . . .”
She convinces him dinner in a private setting was offered only to facilitate listening to a story that could be difficult to hear in any setting, and he can’t argue about the difficult part.
“You’ll ring me when you’re done, right? Better yet, come by my hotel after—
Bleedin’ Jesus
!” He leaps off the barstool and makes for the door to the side porch where he’s dead certain someone just went by the window. He tips over a chair as he rounds the long farm table and works two locks before he’s out the door and braced to take on anything from a Cliff Grant clone to a regulation burglar. Instead, he’s met with a little old lady who demands to see Laurel straightaway.
“Thelma!” Laurel joins the commotion, “What
are
you doing on my porch giving us such a fright?”
“Giving
you
a fright? Why, you should have seen the fright I just gave the bucko I had to shoo off your roof again. Got him good this time—gave him a smart swat with my broom. Safe to say
he
won’t be back anytime soon.” The old lady makes a couple of thrusts with a bedraggled broom Laurel gently takes from her before guiding her into the kitchen.
The surprise guest is introduced as Thelma Floss, longtime friend and neighbor. Now perched on the stool he vacated, and now helping herself to what’s left of his beer, Thelma turns her glittering eyes on him. “She needn’t have introduced you, you know. I read the papers, I watch the TV. I know you’re her new fella.”
“Don’t be silly,” Laurel snaps. “You know better than that, Thelma. Shame on you, wasting time and money on gossip.”
Undaunted, Thelma repeats her primary message a couple more times, drains off the beer, and heads for the porch, where her broom is parked. Her message could not be more ludicrous if she claimed to have seen a fiddler on Laurel’s roof.
In her wake Laurel concentrates on making toast and minding the pot of beans with the care she’d give to mixing hazardous materials. He’s left to ponder if there may be some truth to the old lady’s insistence that an intruder’s been seen on Laurel’s roof more than once.
“This Mrs. Floss,” he says, resuming his seat, “she’d have to be talking about the more accessible roof areas—the garage roof and the roof over the porch—or she wouldn’t have been able to take a swipe at the alleged intruder.”
“Don’t tell me you believe her? Oh god,
please
tell me you do not believe her.” Laurel places toast on a plate, ladles on a portion of beans, and shoves the result at him.
“I don’t know what to believe, actually, and from the way you’re carrying on, I’ve gotta wonder if you’re havin’ some doubts.”
“I am
not.
I refuse to entertain such foolishness. The woman is off her trolley and that’s all there is to it.”
“Then you won’t mind if I have a look at both roofs when I’m done here.”
“I will mind. I’ll very much mind. Do not do this to me again, Colin.”
“Do what, Laurel? Attempt to look after you when there’s clearly no one else doin’ it?”
“As with the garage door opener, it’s not your responsibility, and it’s none of your business—fuckbag photographers notwithstanding.”
“As with the bloody garage door opener, I’m makin’ it my business and welcoming the responsibility, so are you gonna get me a torch and show me where the ladder’s kept, or will I be scaling a porch pillar in the dark?”
Nothing happens for a tick or two, which doesn’t mean she’s not still considering flinging the remainder of the beans at him. He can scarcely believe how angry she is, and for so little reason, in his opinion.
She yanks open a drawer and he’s half-poised to duck when she offers him a torch and tells him both roofs can be inspected from upstairs windows. He’s evidently expected to do it without her guidance because now she’s pulled up another stool and is busy spreading peanut butter on her share of the toast. She doesn’t look up when he makes a big thing of setting the torch aside, thereby backing down on his threat. When she does look at him again it’s with a bit less ferocity.
“Colin,” she says around a bite of toast, “I’m remiss for not having brought to your attention before now that I undoubtedly have unseen enemies. The nature of my former job all but guarantees that. Put as simply as possible, I was instrumental in sending a great many people to jail, and I’ve yet to encounter one who was happy about it. Some of those people have served their terms or been paroled and any one of them could bear a grudge, carry a vendetta—”
“Stop! Leave off. I don’t wanna hear this.”
“You have to hear it if we’re to continue working together. What I’m describing to you is something officers of the law live with every day and—”
“But you weren’t a cop. You were an assistant district—”
“I was—and still am—an officer of the court, and I don’t want to argue terminology at the moment. To continue—I live with the very remote possibility someone could want to do me harm, and the only way I can live with that possibility is by not allowing it to rule me. I’m not hiding my head in the sand. Nor am I hiding under the bed, and that’s the way is has to be. I cannot go looking for something sinister behind every bush and tree, or suspect every strange car on my street to harbor a revenge-seeker or . . . or a paparazzo, for that matter. I cannot, therefore, buy into the aberrations of a crazy old lady or I’d soon be crazy myself.”
“What strange cars are you talking about?”
“I was speaking in generalities.”
“But you
have
seen strange cars on your street.”
“Well of course, it’s a public street. Anyone can come here.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” He takes his plate to the sink and scrapes the unfinished meal into the disposal. Defeat is written all over him, but she doesn’t appear to be taking any enjoyment in it. And she doesn’t appear all that happy about pressuring him out the door, although that is what she’s doing by letting him know his concerns have the potential to kick-start her fears. As much as he’d like to take responsibility for protecting her, he can’t take responsibility for scaring her half to death, so all that’s left to say is goodnight.
In another life, the standard remedy for feeling this beaten was to fuck the next three women to catch his fancy; in this life, he hasn’t the appetite for it.
The miles back to the city go by in a blur of frustration and disappointment. His patience is see-through thin when the Lincoln Tunnel proves clogged with weekenders returning to the city at a crawl; it’s gone altogether when he reaches The Plaza to find vans and limos parked two-deep at both entrances.
He’s rock star-rude to the car jockey who finally relieves him of the hired Jaguar; he’s New York-surly when he elbows through a throng that has no interest in him to see what all the commotion’s about.
At the main entrance to the hotel, he’s met with commotion personified. There, on the steps, in full plumage, stands Rayce Vaughn. He’s surrounded by an entourage of bootlickers, ball lickers, and general kibitzers, along with full media representation, including more than one TV camera. It’s quite the moment when Rayce spots him, clears a path, steps forward to grasp him by both shoulders as would a head of state about to bestow a high honor.
“Look what we have here, people,” Rayce announces in a booming voice, kisses him on both cheeks, and maneuvers him to face the crowd. “It’s twofers I’ve brought you, then. Two idols for the price of one,” Rayce crows as the lensmen close in.
