The Lacey Confession (18 page)

Devereaux insisted on paying the bill, but seemed to take forever to put his money down on top of the check. The waiter, patient as a saint, was helpless without it. Finally, Devereaux glanced over Walter's shoulder, out the window toward the sidewalk, looked noticeably relieved and plunked down the cash. It was immediately scooped up and carried off to the cash register at the bar.

“Let's go,” said Devereaux. “I don't need any change.”

Walter got up, turned around to leave and, as he did, the small restaurant got smaller. Between him and the desk at the front door there wasn't enough room for more than one person to walk. For Walter to exit Il Localino, he had to practically brush up against the couple that had just come in and was waiting to be seated. He stopped dead in his tracks, frozen in place. Devereaux waited quietly behind him.

“Walter?” said the woman facing him no more than a yard or two away. “Is that you?” It was Isobel Gitlin. She'd changed. Five years will do that to anyone. The twenty-nine-year-old girl was now a mid-thirties woman. She was heavier than he remembered her. Almost plump now, he thought. The picture of her in a black string bikini running into the surf at Cinnamon Bay, kicking up sand as she dashed across the beach, was as fresh in his mind as if it happened yesterday. Isobel's shoulder-length, dark hair was longer now, flecked with spots of gray on the left side. She held her coat over one arm. Her hips were bigger. In that moment, he lost his breath thinking of her naked in his bed at The Mayflower in New York, the sheets pushed off, leaving the left side of her body bare as she lay sleeping on her stomach. He remembered the feel of her hip and the small of her back, the sweet scent of the pillow . . . and when she turned over, how he kissed her nipples . . .

“Walter?” she said again.

“Hello, Isobel,” he mumbled, hoping he sounded normal.

“Walter. Walter. What a treat. You look w-w-wonderful!” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. Another kiss pushed its way into his mind, a kiss she gave him in front of the Hilton Hotel on Sixth Avenue in New York, years ago. He was struggling.

“Walter, I want you to meet Otto Heinrich, my husband.” Walter held his hand out. A man, standing a little behind Isobel, grabbed it with a big smile. He was a pudgy man, not very tall, shorter than Isobel, about forty maybe forty-five years old. Most of the hair on top of his head was gone.

“Nice to meet you, Walter,” he said. His handshake was strong and firm. It seemed like he was never going to let go. “Isobel has told me so much about you.”

“I have to go now,” said Walter. “I have to go now.” He eased past Isobel and her husband, out into the cool Georgia night. He did not turn around. Devereaux followed him and they walked in silence toward the valet parking pickup. Walter gave his ticket to the young attendant who ran off to get the car.

“You know her?” Devereaux asked. And just then Walter could sense inner panic. He tried, with no success, to push his instincts, to rebound, to be once more sharp as ever. It seemed to him that Devereaux already knew the answer to that question, that he'd known the answer even before Isobel walked into Il Localino.

“Yes. I do. I'm sorry I didn't introduce you.” The words came out almost involuntarily. He didn't mean to say them.

“Not at all. I know who Isobel Gitlin is—she doesn't use the Heinrich name. Otto plays violin for the Atlanta Symphony. They live a couple of blocks from here, on Austin Avenue, within walking distance. Il Localino is her favorite restaurant. I thought you'd like to eat here.”

Walter's car rolled up. The valet jumped out leaving the door open. Walter did his best to stumble in behind the wheel. He wasn't thinking straight. He wasn't sure what he was thinking.

“I'll be in touch, Walter,” Devereaux said. “And don't worry about me. There's a car waiting for me.” Walter saw the black limo with its engine running, double-parked just up the block. Sinking down in his seat, he turned the steering wheel on his own car and drove off in the other direction.

“Oh, yeah. I remember President Roosevelt,” said Ike. “Mr. Roosevelt, we called him. Seemed to me back then—I was just a young boy, you know—seemed like he was some kind of king from a faraway land, didn't have anything to do with us, with our little island. The war grew me up,” he added. “It surely did.”

“I never paid any attention to politicians,” said Billy. “Except a couple mayors and commissioners. They're all thieves. Every damn one of them. License to steal, that's what a politician has. You know—you got a driver's license—I got a bar license—they got a stealing license.” Helen looked at her man, beaming with pride.

“I remember Nixon,” she said. “That man makes Billy look like a saint.”

“Hey! What are you saying?”

“No, Billy,” she said patting his face gently and kissing him on his stubbly chin. “I didn't mean anything about you. I meant you had them all down pat. Nixon proves that, doesn't he? Thieves and bandits.”

“Willie Sutton,” said Walter. “There was a thief for you. He said he robbed banks because—you know why? Because that's where the money is. Cogent analysis.”

“De Nero,” piped up Ike, striking another of his long wooden matches and sticking the exploding flame at the end of a crooked, old cigarette he slipped out of his shirt pocket. He puffed it like a cigar, smoke billowing out about him as he spoke. “Not the man himself—he's just an actor you know—but the guy he played in Goodfellas. That was a true story—yes, it was. Stole millions from the airport in New York. Kennedy airport, I think it was. Never got caught. 'Course they killed each other over it afterwards, but I don't count that. We're only talking about the thieving, not the keeping, right?”

Walter had been sitting in his regular seat since about ten. The lunch crowd came and went. Helen fixed him a salmon sandwich with steamed broccoli—small portions, after all it was only lunch. He'd been thinking about his recent trip to Atlanta—Devereaux, Il Localino, Isobel, and Sadie Fagan. If not for Sadie he wouldn't have gone at all. She had given him something, certainly she had. She talked so much, so openly about Harry. Somewhere in what she said was something important. Walter was mad at himself because he hadn't discovered it yet. His mind was unclear, muddled. Devereaux rankled him. And Isobel—“Damn!” he berated himself, unable to get her out of his thoughts, out of his way. He had no time for her. He needed peace to put the pieces in their proper place. What was it Billy just said? The thieving, not the keeping? What thief doesn't keep his loot?

“Robin Hood,” Walter said, smiling at Ike.

“Robin Hood? What the hell does that mean?”

“Thieves who don't keep it, Ike. Isn't that what Billy meant?”

“No,” said Billy. “Forget about Robin Hood. We're talking big time here. What was he doing? Hanging around a forest ripping off people dumb enough to ride through. Small change.”

“Okay then,” said Walter, I'll take them all.” He lifted his glass bottle in the air. “The Robber Barons, Rockefellers, Bill Gates—all of them.”

“That's a pretty powerful combination,” offered Ike.

“Yeah,” Billy said, on his way to the kitchen door. “The bigger they are, the more mud they've been swimming in.”

“Damn, I like that,” said the old man. “I'll take the mud itself, if you don't mind.”

“Mud?” Billy asked. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“The lubricant,” Ike said. “It's the lubricant for all of them. For everything. You got a way about you, Billy. Thank you. Sort of like a metaphor, if you know what I mean. If they all swim in it, it must be so.”

“Metaphor?” marveled Walter.

“And I got it,” the old man said.

“The lubricant? You know what the lubricant is, don't you?” scoffed Billy. “Judges. That's the lubricant. You got the judges, you got it all, believe me. I'll take the judges.” Once more, as they always did it seemed, Ike and Billy, their choices already settled, looked to Walter. He had this silly smile on his face. “Pennzoil,” was all he said.

“Damn, this is serious business, young man,” chided Ike.

Billy wrote it up—Mud/Judges/Pennzoil.

The restaurant on the veranda at the Caneel Bay resort overlooks the crescent-shaped, white sandy beach that is the private property of the hotel. The restaurant is very big—perhaps fifty feet square—and it's protected from the Caribbean sun by a pyramid hip roof with cedar shake shingles. Cedar shake is a favorite among those who can afford it, in tropical places like St. John where the sun is particularly hot and where there is also an abundance of rainfall. When the cedar gets wet it expands and when it's especially dry, the cedar shingles loosen up. The result is a kind of filter effect. The roof breathes, allowing heat to dissipate. It helps to keep a house cool. In the case of this restaurant, it was little more than a pleasant bonus. Its roof covered an otherwise open area built in exactly the right place to get the most of sea breezes. On the most uncomfortably warm days, the veranda was a nice place to be.

Walter arrived on time. He had a thing about that. Timeliness was next to godliness, they say. For Walter, it was a good distance in front. Being late made him nervous. If he was expected at noon, he thought that was when he ought to be there. A little early was okay. A little late was not. Likewise for those who made appointments to meet him. Years ago he gave up the lame practice of saying things like, “it's all right,” or “that's okay,” when somebody showed up late cavalierly apologizing for their tardiness. Such automatic, clearly bogus sentiments were taken by Walter for what they were—arrogance. He never humiliated anyone by challenging what he felt was their disrespect, but he did forego the allowance and acceptance of that behavior that is so much a part of most people's routine. The girl was also on time for this meeting. She asked for it. It seemed only right that she should already be there when he showed up.

She had called Walter yesterday, introduced herself as Aminette Messadou, and said she needed to talk with him. Talk about Harry Levine.

“Why?” he asked her.

“I think it's best to wait until we meet, face to face, as it were.” She sounded like a young, American girl except for the slight
vee
when she said, “. . . until we meet . . .” Walter allowed there was a chance it was just the phone, a poor quality instrument and not the voice.

“If I told you I had no idea who—what did you say his name was—Harry Levine is?”

“I would say it is best we speak of it when we meet.” There it was, again, the
vee
. Walter agreed to meet Ms. Messadou at Caneel Bay, the next day. He'd wait until then, he determined, to place her accent.

He spotted her immediately. She sat alone at a table near the front, facing the entrance, not the beach. Nobody ate alone here and most of the other diners arranged their chairs so all at the table could view the sea. She did not look comfortable or at ease. In fact, Walter thought she appeared visibly on edge. Her legs were crossed, but her feet were in constant motion, up and down, side to side. She moved silverware around with her hands. When he entered, stopped and stood by the hostess' stand for a moment, she looked up. When she rose, sporting a pasty smile, he began walking her way.

“Walter Sherman,” he said in his friendly, everyday St. John voice.

“Aminette Messadou,” she replied, holding her hand to him. He took it politely, then gave it back. He figured her to be young, but this was younger than he thought. She was quite beautiful, but surely no more than twenty—if that—slim, skinny to some, with long, thin arms, legs to match and a neck that seemed to never quit. Her complexion was dark, Mediterranean, Central Asian perhaps, with no obvious imperfections save a single, small dark brown birthmark on the right side of her neck, near the ear. She wore her exceptionally straight, black hair long. Walter didn't know much about women's haircuts, but he was certain this one cost a fortune. Her smile was, as he noticed right away, forced. He decided to see how nervous she was.

“I don't take well to strangers,” he said. “Especially those who come to my island and have balls big enough to invite me to lunch. Of course, you don't appear to have any balls, big or otherwise.”

“Please,” she motioned, any sign of nerves gone, floated away with the gentle breeze off the water, “sit.” Pretty quick adjustment, he thought.

A waitress approached, a middle-aged black woman, very short and considerably on the hefty side. She smiled at them both and took her notepad and pen out. “Miss?” she said looking at Aminette Messadou. “Have you decided?” The girl ordered a cheeseburger with bacon, onions, mushrooms, lettuce and tomato, French fries and a vodka martini with an olive and a twist. Not the salad and Evian Walter might have expected. Then the waitress turned to Walter and asked, “What would you like, Mr. Sherman?”

“Turkey sandwich, on rye toast please,” he answered. “And Margaret, no mayo.” Margaret smiled again, at both of them, and was off to place her orders in the kitchen.

“You are not drinking anything, Mr. Sherman?”

“She knows what I drink. Now, tell me, who are you and what can I do for you?”

“My great-uncle, four generations removed, was the great man Djemmal-Eddin. His brother was my father's great-grandfather. I am named for Djemmal-Eddin's daughter, Aminette Messadou, who died more than eighty-five years ago, in childbirth, as women will. It is my mission in life to be worthy of her memory. My family has not forgotten her. The man you are hired to find, Harry Levine, has something that belongs to Aminette's husband. He too was a great man, her husband, a powerful man among his own people, widely respected and honored among mine. Now that he is gone we seek to recover what is rightfully ours.”

“And . . . ?”

“When you find Mr. Levine, you shall also find the document. We very much want you to persuade Mr. Levine he should give it to us.”

“How badly do you want this . . . document?”

“You are not familiar with it?”

“The document?”

“Yes.”

“No, I am not. May I ask, what is it that brings you to me in the first place? How do you know me and what makes you think I have any interest in this man you call Harry Levine?” Aminette Messadou was wearing a lime green summer dress made from a smooth and silky polyester. Catching the breeze as if it owned the wind, it barely fluttered about her shoulders, its scooped neck shimmering even without benefit of direct sunlight. The color was just right for her tan skin and black hair. She leaned forward across the table, elbows resting on the glass, and chuckled. Walter could see nearly all of her small breasts. It was a lovely sight, still he could not help himself. He looked carefully for tan lines. There were none. A girl with her skin color, he thought, it was hard to define a suntan. Either she had none or she regularly sunbathed topless. He had no time to figure that one out. Not now.

“We are too cute,” she laughed, her smile now genuine and warm to the eye. “You and I are to be allies, Mr. Sherman. We have nothing to fear from one another. Harry Levine's aunt is among the most famous people on Earth. When she visits you—a man who makes his way through life finding others—it is both not a secret and not a mystery. Not much of one anyway.”

“Did you ever meet Lord Frederick Lacey?” Walter asked. For an instant, nervousness, maybe even fear, reappeared in Aminette Messadou's deep brown, almond eyes. She sat back in her seat as Margaret served them. The last thing the heavy-set black woman did was put a Diet Coke in front of Walter, in a glass bottle.

“No,” Aminette Messadou said. “I never met him. Yet he was one of us, family to us. And we to him.”

“Just why do you need this document? What's in it?”

“That I cannot say. To be true, I do not know. But I was told that when you asked such a question, I was to tell you, you would be better off not knowing.”

“Humm,” said Walter taking a small bite of his sandwich, watching this lovely girl do battle with her huge burger. She took a bite so large she closed her eyes tight. Juice, cheese and a little tomato dripped from the side of her burger bun farthest from her and nearest to him. He could hardly restrain himself. It was all too funny. Had he just been threatened? He chose to be direct. “Your people have sent a child to do the work of a grown-up,” he said. “A delightful child, to be sure, beautiful as an afternoon on St. John—like this one—but still a child.” If he had been threatened, he steadfastly refused to acknowledge it.

“I assure you . . .” she said, trying hard not to talk with her mouth full.

“It appears there's very little you can assure me of.” Walter sipped his drink, took another, bigger bite of his turkey sandwich and relaxed a little. The ball was in her court, if indeed she had a court. Either he was right—they had sent a kid to do an adult's job—or this was her defining moment, the time for her to stop shitting him and say what it was that was on her mind. He had no place else to go, plenty of time. It was a lovely day. The food was on her tab. He'd wait, at least until he finished his sandwich.

“I will tell you,” she finally said. “Because you are known to be a man of discretion, a man of trust.”

“You will tell me the truth?”

“I know no other way. As you have seen, I have been reluctant to say anything, but I have not been false. And I will not be.”

Djemmal-Eddin Messadou was a leader, a Georgian with a strong following also in Dagestan, the land of his ancestors. He was not unknown either in Azerbaijan. Aminette Messadou told Walter that when Georgia, together with Dagestan and Azerbaijan, formed the anti-Bolshevik Transcaucasian Federation, in 1917, and later on, when the Federation collapsed and Georgia declared its independence on May 26, 1918, Djemmal-Eddin was a leader of both movements. It was during those years, Aminette related to Walter, that her namesake met and married the dashing young Englishman, Frederick Lacey. “He was a military man of great reputation. He was in the British Navy. All my life I have heard him spoken of and no one has ever been sure of his place, his rank as you say. So many stories. So many different ranks. There is more mystery than fact about him, of that I'm certain.” She continued on with her story. The freedom of Georgia was short-lived. The British and Americans, like the Turks before them, and many others before the Turks, abandoned their Asian outposts on the edges of mother Russia. One by one, the free republics that had declared their independence from the Czar and the Bolsheviks fell before the might of the Red Army. Lithuania, Moldavia, Don, Ukraine, Azerbaijan, Dagestan, Armenia—all of them. And Georgia too, in February 1921.

Djemmal-Eddin marshaled his forces in retreat, having no choice but to run from the advancing army of Russians. Finally, she told Walter, the nephew of the Lion of Dagestan brought his men through the Klukhori Pass, to the edge of the sea, to the last remaining spot of free Georgia, the old Turkish fortress of Sukhum-Kale. All hope was gone. Bloody defeat was a certainty. Aminette told her story with a depth of feeling Walter found irresistible. He saw eighty years of telling it in her youthful face. This may be the story of a defeated people, but there was a majesty and wonder about it. It was with grace that Aminette presented to him the glory that was Georgia and the memory of her family's proud role there.

Just as the inevitable end approached, Djemmal-Eddin was saved by his son-in-law, Frederick Lacey. Under Lacey's command, a fleet of ships rescued him and many of his men, sailing from the Turkish port only hours in advance of the Russian onslaught. “There were many items, of a personal nature, important to my family, that were carried out of Georgia on those ships, Mr. Sherman. We have waited many years to reclaim them.”

“I don't understand,” said Walter. “Why didn't you—your family, I mean—get them off the ships when you reached safe harbor?”

“Those were difficult times. My people were in exile, stateless, in need of friends. Much of what we had went to secure those friends. Other things were best hidden for safekeeping. It is those things we seek now.”

“Why didn't Lacey give them back years ago? That doesn't make sense.”

“I told you I never met Lord Lacey, and that is true. But I have heard him discussed many times. And always he is described as a special man, a strange man in certain ways, a man devoted to my father's great-grandfather's brother, Djemmal-Eddin. When Lord Lacey lost his wife, in the birth of their daughter, he turned to Djemmal-Eddin for comfort and found it there. When he too died, not long after free Georgia died, Lacey decided not to reveal the hiding place to anyone. I said earlier, he is of our family and we are of his, but Lord Lacey was not a trusting man, never close, in a personal way, to my family after his beloved wife and her father were gone.”