Books

"I'm gonna grab some lunch."

"Okay."

"You want anything?"

"No thanks."

"Okay, I'll see you in a little while."

"Wait a second."

"What?"

"You got anything planned?"

"No."

"What about the commercial fishing controversy?"

"Nah" I said. "Too provincial."

"I like to have things planned."

"I'll see you in a little while."

"Just so we can run a promo during the midday show."

"I'll find something, bye."

"Be back before three."

"Bye."

Andre was in the booth.  She was interviewing a tall dark gentleman who was playing with a cigarette in his left hand and sipping coffee from a WWL 870 AM mug.  His hands were tired and worn, with those little brown sun spots that develop over the years when you spend a lot of time on the water.  My grandfather had those spots. He was a seaman from Greece, and they remind me of the Mediterranean.

Andre was dressed up today.  She had one of those expensive suits from Petite Sophisticate with her Ebel watch and a silk Kandinsky scarf from Tiffany's.  I think she was going to lunch at Commander's with one of the guys from Snapple after the show.

Outside the booth, my program manager was still sifting through newspaper articles and entertainment business magazines.  We usually have morning conference calls.  I would be at home watching the Today Show and reading the newspaper, and the producer would call me up from the station, and conference in Max, the program manager, and Mike, the engineer.  We would kick around ideas, see what would work and how to handle it, what guests we might try to have, and how to make the topic interesting.  But the last few days, our producer had been in Texas on a camping trip with her boyfriend, and the program manager was searching frantically for a topic.  He liked to have things planned.

Max was a pretty good guy, all in all.  He was short, and heavy, with these dark Italian eyes and this one yellow tooth that was third from the right.  He was always tugging at the curls of his moustache, and parted his hair in the middle of his head like one of those Fred Flintstone bowling partners right out of the fifties that you sometimes see in barber shops or playing pool.  Max was one of those guys that worked his way through college as a disc jockey for weddings and bar mitzvahs and sweet sixteen parties, spinning the records and the cds, and flirting with the girls.  He got a masters in communications from UNO, and worked at WNOE for a while, before coming over here.  His specialty is setting up everybody's home computer system.  I think he spends a lot of time on the Internet, or America On-Line, or whatever, pretending to do research for the program, but really spending most of his time looking for dates.

In any event, I was starving, and went out into the reception area where Tonia, my secretary, was sorting out deliveries next to the little coffee table with four styrofoam cups and an empty box of doughnuts beside the automated Mr. Coffee machine.  I'm going to lunch, I told her, and went across the hall to the Offices of Edmund P. James.

"May I help you?" asked the receptionist.

"Could you tell Edmund I'm here please" I said, and he started to punch the extension number into the phone.  I think his name was Fred or Alvin or something.  He was one of those receptionists that gets very annoyed if you disturb them, while they are trying to do their nails, or play solitaire on the computer, or read their Anne Rice books, and whatever else it is that they do.  This guy was flipping through an old antiques catalogue, and was particularly condescending.  He had these tiny little eyes, with hair that was swept and maybe even moussed back over the side of his face, with red lips and a strange little nose.  He had a high nasal voice, and was tapping his pencil with the Mickey Mouse eraser next to the phone.

The waiting room was small, and rectangular, with shelves of leather-bound books and hand-coloured architectural prints from DeVille's Print & Book Shop, which was just a few blocks away.  Across from the receptionist were a couple of chairs and a little glass table with Harper's Bazaar and New Orleans magazines.

"Mister Wilson is here" the receptionist was saying, while I sat down in one of the chairs and opened up the March issue of Vanity Fair.  I flipped past the Hennessy Martini ads and the Florence Cromer dresses to a gorgeous young mother (who was not really a mother) chasing her naked child on the beach.  There was a red venetian Chopard Casmir ad which smelled like rubbing alcohol, and some photographs of Elizabeth Taylor through the years.  I always thought she looked the best in Suddenly Last Summer, though some say Cleopatra or Cat On A Hot Tin Roof.  There was a grandfather clock on the wall, which was ticking and tocking, and I looked at my watch, where the times were the same.

A few minutes later, Edmund exploded through the doorway.  He was a big, gregarious fellow, kind of Falstaffian, (though only in disposition), who rushed in saying hello Robert and gripping my hand.

"Hey, you wanna go over and grab some lunch?" I asked him.

"Sure, just come back to my office for a second" he said. "I've just got to finish up one small thing."

I followed him through the doorway, and into a white labyrinth of computer-rooms and laboratories, audio-video surveillance equipment, faxes, darkrooms, and copy machines.  Several of his associates nodded to us as we passed by the various doorways, while Edmund was saying "I heard your show the other night about the diminishing coastline, and found it extremely interesting."

I thanked him, and followed him into his office, where the sun was coming down through the windows and onto the green warneckii leaves in the corner of the room.  Edmund's office was draped with oriental sheets of silk that were really floor rugs even though they were hanging on the wall.  He had these tiny ornaments displayed in cases with a collection of clocks and microscopes along with these tiny glass and jade or onyx figurines.

Edmund was wearing one of his seersucker suits, with white Dexter bucks, and an alabaster tie.  He has these big rosy cheeks with blue eyes, and kinda looks like Cannon from the television series, with a thick neck and a bald spot over his brow. After showing me in, he went fumbling around in his desk for a minute or two.  He was looking for something, and there was a lit cigar still burning in his tray.

"So where you wanna go?" he asked me.

"I don't know. I thought maybe we could go to-" "-excuse me, Mister James, a Miss Beverly Winston is here to see you."

"Let Michael take care of it" he said.

"We could go to Domilise's" I suggested. "You ever been there?  They have a great hot smoked sausage and a really good roast beef and swi-" "-excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you again, but she will only talk to you.  She says it's an emergency."

"That's okay" I told him, "I've got plenty of time."

"Show her in then" Edmund said. "Thank you." And then he apologized.  That's okay, I assured him, I've got plenty of time.

When I looked up, Beverly Winston was standing in the doorway.  She had short red hair, dark red, near brown, which was parted on the left and curled gently against her neck, just over the tailored collar of her dress.  Her cheekbones were high, and full, with carefully blended rouge, and delicate tones.  She had these mysterious green eyes, both hopeful and sad, with carefully painted lips and a bit of powder on her nose.

"Hello, Miss Winston" the detective said, "this is my friend Robert Wilson."

"Nice to meet you."

"Mister Wilson is somewhat of a celebrity in the city" Edmund added. "But I'm sure that is not why you have come."

"No" she said. "But it's nice to meet you anyway."

"Nice to meet you too" I said.

"Please, sit down, if that makes you more comfortable" said Edmund, taking a fresh stick of gum from his desk and offering a piece to his guest.  But she didn't want any.

Miss Winston was dressed in a formal white suit, with ill-fitted gloves and a hat that dipped down hiding the edge of her face.  Her nails were freshly painted.  Red Royal, I think, by Chanel.  Her lips were soft and quivering, and she appeared both anxious and shy as she hesitated before sitting in one of the chairs.

She looked around the office and took a cigarette case out of her purse.  She was trying to hold one to her lips, but her fingers were nervous and the cigarette kind of just dangled around clumsily in her hand while Edmund obliged her by presenting instinctively a tarnished lighter from the top of his desk.

"Thank you" she said, lighting the cigarette and taking a quick puff on the filter before blowing the smoke out into the air. "The reason I came to see you, Mister James, is that my cousin said you helped her out a few years ago–she was getting a divorce–and she said that you were good."

Edmund nodded graciously.

"Gabrielle Marsh, was her name, at that time" said Miss Winston. "Now it's back to Gabrielle Sands."

"I remember her well."

"She moved to Santa Fe after the divorce" Miss Winston told him. "She's into Native American pottery...  or something."

"What can I do for you, Miss Winston?"

"I guess I better start at the beginning" she said, and Edmund said I think that might be a good idea. "My father" she began, "wasn't really into the family thing.  He was always running off around the world with a bunch of hair-brained schemes and half-baked adventures.  My mother was a secretary at Lykes Brothers, and she took care of me.  But she died when I was young, and so my grandparents shipped me off to a boarding school, where for the most part I was raised.  In any case, when I was around sixteen, I got a telegram from my father.  He was in South America at the time.  I was excited at first, but then I forgot about it, until I received a really long letter, in which he apologized for leaving me.  He told me that he loved my mother.  And that he was going to be coming home for Christmas.  And that he wanted to see me.  He wanted to make it up to me."

Even though she was nervous at the beginning, her voice had this underlying beauty to it, kinda like a harp or a cello or something, so that her speaking was really more like a song. As she told us more and more of her story, the anxiety receded, and it was kinda like A Clockwork Orange, in the milk bar, when the opera singer chants the chorus of Beethoven's Ninth, like some rare bird of gorgeous form.

"He sent me an airline ticket" she was singing, "and told me to meet him on December 23rd at the Dauphine Orleans.  When I got to the hotel, though, they told me that a Stephen Winston was registered there, but that he wasn't in his room. I waited all day and all night, and then the next day we called the police. They never found him. And as far as I know, no one ever heard from him again."

"And when was this?" Edmund asked, as he opened a notebook. "December twenty-third..."

"Nineteen eighty."

"Was there any luggage in the hotel room?"

"Nothing that seemed to interest the police.  He had some clothes and a bunch of junk from somewhere in South America, Colombia or Brazil.  The only thing he had of any value was a pocket watch, which I kept.  I hocked it a few years ago when I got into a jam.  But then I felt guilty, because it was the only thing of his that I had, so I saved up and got it back."

"Did your father have any close friends here in town, that you know of?"

"Just a guy named Frankel. I think his first name was Henry or Harry, or...  Henry. That's it. Henry Frankel. Anyway, the police contacted him at the time. They had rummaged around in South America together a long time ago, but he hadn't heard from him in years. But anyway, back to my story, a few years after my father disappeared, there was an advertisement in the newspaper, looking for Beverly Winston, the daughter of Stephen. I didn't have an address in town because I was living in Washington, but my grandparents sent me the ad.  They didn't want me to answer it–they thought it might be dangerous for some reason–but I was curious, so I answered the ad in the newspaper, giving my address in D.C.  A few days later, I got this package, and in the package was an emerald necklace. Just in a box."

"Did it have any writing on it?"

"No, just a plain black box. I've got it right here." The woman took a small box from her pocketbook, which Edmund inspected with care. "I brought them to Adler's to have them appraised" she said, "and they're real. One to two carats a piece."

"They're beautiful" he said.

I agreed.

"Anyway, I don't know if any of this is really relevant. But I have a feeling that it is." Beverly stopped for a moment, and concentrated on her cigarette.  Edmund went over to the window, and placed his fingers gently on the sill. "And you were about to tell us?" he said.

"What?"

"Relevant to what, Miss Winston?"

"Oh" she said, "I got a letter two days ago, at my house, in Baltimore." And she took a white envelope from her purse, handing it to Edmund. "It says that I am supposed to meet someone outside Longue Vue Gardens tonight at seven. I am scared to go alone, but I'm too curious not to go. And so, basically, that's why I'm here."

"Be at the entrance of Longue Vue Gardens in two days' time at seven o'clock in the p.m." Edmund read aloud. "You are a woman wronged. But justice will be done. You may bring someone with you if you are skeptical, but please, no police. If you contact the police, I will have to say no, and you will never hear from me again. I hope to see you soon. A special friend." Edmund turned the note over and examined the envelope.  "Can I keep this, just for a day or two?"

"Sure" she said. "Keep it. I don't need it. I know what it says."

"Where are you staying?" I then asked her.

"Um, the Royal..."

"The Royal Orleans?"

"No, the other one."

"The Royal Sonesta."

"Right, the Royal Sonesta."

"That's a nice hotel" I interjected.

"Yes" she said, "it is."

"So, Miss Winston" Edmund asked her, "what are you going to do?"

She laughed, snubbing her cigarette, and saying "that's why I came to see you."

"Well, if it's my decision" said the detective, "I will pick you up at the Royal Sonesta at around quarter to seven. We'll see if we can find out what's going on."

"I can meet you here" she offered. "I'm meeting my grandmother for lunch, and I'm gonna be down here the rest of the afternoon."

"Sure" he said. "That'll be fine."

"Can you come too?" she then asked me.  I was standing in the back of the room, behind her, near the doorway, and she turned around to look at me while she stood.  "Mr. James has everything covered, I'm sure. But it never hurts to have another strong body along."

"Well, I don't really know what I could do" I told her, "but if you want me to, sure.  I have a show at four, but I guess I could make it by a quarter to."

"It was a pleasure to meet you" said Edmund, taking her hand, "and we shall see you this afternoon."

Miss Winston thanked Edmund again for seeing her on such short notice, and then she thanked me too.  I couldn't help but think that she was vaguely familiar. Not that we had actually met before, but that she was recognizable, from some other place and time.  I pictured her in a number of different venues.  There were train stations and law offices and beaches and nightclubs and seventeenth storey penthouse apartment rooms.  She was fixing her hat as she fastened her pocketbook.  For some reason, I told her to be careful, and Beverly Winston was gone.