"Yes?"
"Why does everyone here call me `buddy'?"
The man took a moment to realize what the question meant. "Ah. It's an almost affectionate term if you don't know someone's name."
Lancelot nodded, then looked him directly in the eyes. "What are you doing right now?"
"At this moment? I'm about to serve lunch."
"Do you need some help?"
He stared at the guy dressed in a tunic. "You mean that?"
Again, Lancelot nodded.
"We're a little shorthanded now." For the first time, the man smiled at Lancelot. "Hell, we're always short handed .This is a volunteer job, but most people quit after a few hours."
His unspoken comment was that he expected Lancelot would not even last that long, but he only paused. "Well, here. Lunch is already made, but we have cleanup and then have to get ready for tonight. Grab a brush, and help us clean the bathrooms. Then the cots need making up, and we need some help with slapping together tonight's dinner."
Lancelot grinned. "Good. I'll be glad to."
The man in the baseball cap scratched his head and strpped aside for Lancelot to enter. "By the way, my name is Bill Kowalski. What's yours?"
"Lancelot," he said at last. "My name is Lancelot."
"Whew!" Bill laughed. "That must have gotten you into some heavy-duty trouble in school . Beaten up in junior high, girlfriends in college, right?"
`Bill, you have no idea," he answered solemnly.
They shook hands, and Lancelot entered the shelter, rolled up his sleeves, and scrubbed the toilets.
It was the most satisfying work he had done in a long time.
This was a first, Julie thought as the tuxedo-clad waiter took the next order. The client was treating the agency to lunch at the Four Seasons. Usually, always, it was the other way around, the agency groveling before the almighty clients.
She sighed, glancing around at the other tables. This was the hour and place of the power lunch, and being taken there was a mighty statement to everyone. Just beyond the oversized flower display, she spotted a best selling author and an A-list editor, huddled over bottles of sparkling water and platters of fruit. In the distant were a network anchor and a Broadway playwright. Tin place virtually smelled of power and wealth.
Before she had left her office, the president of thc company had called from London to congratulate her. Word traveled fast in this industry, although usually bad news was the first to make it overseas. This was definitely a change.
She couldn't recall when a day at work had gone so well. It was as if she was unable to make a single misstep, as if every one of her spontaneous ideas had become pearls of wisdom, veritable treasures.
But there was a sick feeling in her stomach. All she could think about was Lancelot, how he had come into her office and literally saved the day, and in return she had stripped him of the sword and sent him home in a taxi like an unwanted houseguest.
"Would that work, Julie?" Mr. Swenson had been talking to her, but she hadn't heard a syllable.
"Pardon me?"
He laughed. "Ever the genius! Thinking up more slogans?"
"No. I'm sorry, Mr. Swenson. I'm just a little tired today."
"It's allowed, Julie. Especially after this morning. What I was saying is that Shine-All is sponsoring the Müne-All City charity event at the Met."
"Yes, of course. I remember reading about it." It was, indeed, a terrific idea. The notion was to cluster a handful of charities under one umbrella and throw a single major bash. Instead of diffusing the wealth, competing with rival charities for the best guests and sponsors, this would be the one single event to see and be seen at for the entire season.
"What I was wondering was, may we use that sword of yours as a draw?"
"I'm sorry," she said, confused. "Why?""
"Don't know if you remember this from the press releases, but the theme is a medieval pageant. You know, the romance and elegance of days gone by. I hadn't really thought of it until this morning, but maybe we could add a Camelot twist to the event. After all, what's more romantic than Camelot?"
"Well, yes, of course."
"And not to mention, well, let's face it it would be a terrific launch for the campaign. Two birds with one stone and all that. Now, this will be at the Met. So the sword would be protected. I mean, even with my jaded eyes, I could tell that was no bit of costume jewelry there. And didn't you lock it in the agency safe?"
"Yes," she admitted.
"Well, you don't do that for just any old prop, do you?"
"No, Mr. Swenson, you are absolutely right."
"Anyway'-he leaned back as his melon was placed in front of him-"Give it a thought. It would do a lot of good, Julie. For a lot of people who need it."
Her first course arrived, and she thought about what he was saying. He was right. Maybe if Excalibur could not help Arthur at the moment, perhaps something wonderful could come of it. That's what the enchantment was all about, wasn't it? Good triumphing over evil. That was the main thing.
"Mr. Swenson, that's a wonderful idea," she concluded.
"Great! Excellent! Now, may I add something else?"
"Of course."
"Again, I'm no expert, but that sword seemed rather, eh, special. I understand your office is secure, and I know you have great faith in your people. But frankly, I do wonder if Stickley & Brush is secure enough for something like that. I touched the thing, Julie. My God, what a feeling!"
Her eyes widened. He was right Absolutely right.
"I just worry," he said, skewering a raspberry with a fork. "You see, if someone really wanted that sword, it would be hard for you guys at the agency to prevent someone who was determined, if you know what I mean.
One thought crossed her mind. Malvern. He was there, someplace around the city. What if he somehow found out where Excalibur was?
Swenson saw the panic in her eyes. `Not to worry. I'm sure it's all right at the moment, but I just suggest that you send it over to the museum. No place in the world is as secure as the Metropolitan Museum of Art. They can keep it safe until the benefit, even do a little repair work on the thing."
"Sir," she said at last. "That is a great idea."
"So we can use it on the twenty-third?"
"Yes. I think ..:" She stopped.
"You think what?"
`T think the sword would like that" She smiled.
Swenson did not laugh. "You know, Julie, crazy as it sounds, I do believe you're right."
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
The very first thing Julie did after lunch was send Excalibur over to the Met, with instructions that they notify her the moment it arrived safely. And less than a half hour after the messenger left, she got word that the sword was there. It was an incredible sense of relief-the very thought of Malvern getting his hands on it was sickening.
After that, Julie leaned back in her chair and savored the success of the day. In spite of all the triumphs she had enjoyed so far in her career, this was by far the sweetest. And she knew a great deal of her feeling was thanks to Lancelot.
Maybe, just maybe, he could be happy in this time, in this place. With her.
The telephone ringing jolted her from her reveries.
"So, how's my favorite Camelot groupie doing today?"
"Peg! I'm so glad you called."
"Julie," she began. "Oh, Julie, I'll cut straight to the chase. Listen to me-I'm worried about you."
"Hey, don't beat around the bush or anything." She wasn't surprised by Peg's declaration, especially fter what happened at Nathan's party. Julie herself would have been alarmed if the situation had been reversed, and Peg had suddenly appeared with a man who claimed to be a mythical figure more than a thousand years old.
"I'll bet you're concerned because I happen to be dating Sir Lancelot, is that it? If it's anything else, please do let me know."
"Julie, I'm serious."
"This is the one bad thing about having a best fri
end who's a shrink." Peg did not laugh. "Okay, I'll bite. Please clarify. What do you mean, you're worried about me?" She began to pull yellow Post-it notes from a pad and restacked them as she spoke.
"I think there is something very weird about this Lancelot guy. It's one thing to identify strongly with a mythic or historical figure. Remember that guy I dated a few years ago?"
"Sure. The one with the Robert E. Lee fixation?"
"Yep, the very one. As nutty as he was, he limited his activities to bidding farewell to his imaginary troops and an occasional stoic surrender to Grant. And he kept the depth of his fixation a secret from me until that unfortunate weekend."
"Oh, yeah," Julie recalled. "The bed and breakfast in Gettysburg?"
"It doesn't matter. We're not discussing me," Peg sniffed. "Anyway, Robert E. Lee is a benign figure compared to Sir Lancelot."
"How can you say that? Really, I think Lancelot's been given a bad rap."
"That's beside the point. What I'm trying to tell you is that for a mature adult male to identify with Lancelot is a very dangerous thing. Forget history, revisionist or not. How would you feel if he pretended to be Ted Bundy or Adolf Hitler?"
"Oh, come on!"
"Just because Lancelot is from a more remote past doesn't mean the identity he has selected is any less dangerous. To be honest, I think he might be a psycho."
"Peg, please."
"Really." Peg's voice lowered. "Have you ever seen the Majestic Comic version of The Tales of King Arthur?"
"No, I suppose I've missed that one. I'm way behind on my comic reading, but I've got an Archie on my bedside table."
"I think you should see it as soon as possible. I'll borrow it from Nathan and drop if off for you to study. Because, Julie, your friend has."
"My friend reads comic books?"
"He's clearly setting up some sort of bizarre scenario based on his own physical resemblance to the drawings in this book. Furthermore, there is a character who looks exactly like you."
"Peg, you've always told me that I have one of those faces that makes everyone think they went to high school with me. Maybe the character who looks like me is just someone else with a face like that."
"What do you know of this guy?"
"The guy who drew the comic book? Nothing. Haven't even seen the thing."
"You know what I mean." Julie had never heard Peg's voice so serious, so void of humor. "He came from nowhere. You've never mentioned him to me, and suddenly there is this incredible hunk with more than a few screws loose who goes on about being Lancelot and takes this whole game to a disturbing level. So what do you know of him?"
"A lot. I know a lot about him." She began to tear the yellow pad into small pieces. If only she could tell Peg the truth, explain everything. "I know a lot about him."
"You do not. You know nothing about this man. Everything you think you know is part of his twisted imagination. And let's just get to the practical basics. For one, Julie, he's huge. He's a big, strong man. Physically, he could really hurt you, especially if you decided to disagree with his little role-playing gig. This is no joke. I think he's dangerous."
"I really appreciate your concern. But I do know him, better than I can explain."
"You think you know him. He's merely a gifted actor who has convinced you his act is genuine. He's a fake. He has to be, because he sure ain't Sir Lancelot. Julie, please."
"Listen -I really have to go now."
Peg was not deterred. "The Lancelot in the comic book Nathan showed me looks exactly like your friend. I don't mean resembles him, I mean it is him, from the blue tunic to the boots to the way he speaks and his hair and everything. But that's not what worries me."
Julie sighed. "Go on."
"Right. Well, there is a Lady Julia in this version, and she is indeed a dead ringer for you. I think this guy saw you, and he's using you for his own twisted little stunt, to act out his own fantasy."
"Peg, you're way off base on this one." The urge to tell Peg the truth was overwhelming, to tell her everything, from Camelot to Lancelot and Arthur and Malvern. But Peg would be truly alarmed if she thought Julie had lost touch with reality. She'd never believe that while the boys were in the rest room, Julie had managed a side trip to Camelot. As it was, Peg made it clear she already feared Julie had lost a good deal of her marbles.
"Okay, I'll ask you this once. Why the hell was he dressed up as Sir Lancelot? And why didn't he drop the whole thing once we left the restaurant?"
"It was a joke, I guess," Julie tried to explain. "I mean, he probably saw the comic book, and it was all a joke." She attempted to change the topic. "So, when was the comic book published?" Anything to get Peg off track.
"Well, it's pretty old," Peg admitted. "It first appeared in the late nineteen-thirties. It had something to do with the World's Fair. But it's been out of print since then, for almost sixty years. I got Nathan a copy at that bookstore you love so much."
"Cauldrons & Skulls? Such a charming name."
"Yep. Anyway, it's just too creepy."
"Well…" She tried to come up with a logical explanation, and her mind was blank. Over and over, she churned the possibilities to tell Peg, but they all returned to the one fact she could not possibly tell: that she had been to Camelot herself.
"Where is he staying? Not with you, I hope." Peg was employing her crisp, professional tone.
"Yes. As a matter of fact, he is. But listen, he really saved the day with the advertising campaign. I mean, he's a natural…" She stopped, realizing that being a natural in the advertising business was not the most ringing endorsement of a man's honesty.
"Good Lord, do you think that matters? Julie, just be careful. Be smart. I know, well ..:"
"Go on."
"I know you've been searching for a knight to rescue you. And then this crazy guy dressed like Sir Lancelot appears, and you seem to be projecting this whole myth onto him."
Julie smiled. If only she really knew. If only dear Peg had any idea how right she was, for all the wrong reasons.
"I know, Peg. Thanks. And I will be careful."
"Good. Now, call me later, or whenever you want to, okay?
"Sure. Thanks again."
She hung up the phone. It was past six in the evening. She imagined Lancelot in the apartment, but she didn't call simply because she hadn't yet explained to him how to use a telephone. He was already feeling inadequate. The last thing she wanted to do was add to the list of everyday items he was unable to use.
With a smile, she decided to go home. For once, she was not going to an empty apartment but to one with a wonderful man waiting for her.
This was, she decided, one of the best days ever.
The doorman greeted her with his usually friendly yet not quite effusive manner.
"Hello, Miss Gaffney."
"Hi." She smiled, adjusting her shopping bags as she checked her mail.
"Ah, been to the Gap?"
She looked down at the five blue bags filled with clothes for Lancelot. "How could you tell?" It had been so wonderful to buy clothes for Lancelot, to pick out jeans and khakis and T-shirts and socks and shoes. All for Lancelot. She was in such a great mood that even a clinical attempt at conversation was welcome. "Oh, by the way, is my friend upstairs?"
"The one from last night?"
"Yes. Is he already upstairs?"
Of course, she already knew the answer to that. This was just a ploy to let the doorman know everything was all right, not to worry, and to let him pass without question.
"No. Afraid I haven't seen him, Miss Gaffney."
She stopped. "Excuse me?"
"I said I haven't seen your friend."
"Oh. Well, maybe he came in before you went on duty."
"Maybe. But I've been on since noon."
Noon? That was about the time she sent him back in the cab. He must have come back. "Have you taken any breaks or anything?"
"Nope. Things have been pretty slow here, and when I took a short
break, I had Dave cover for me." Dave was the doorman next door.
"I see," she said, confused. "Charles, do you have an extra set of my keys I could borrow? I'll have more made tomorrow."
"No problem." He stepped behind the desk and gave her the keys.
Mechanically, she went to the elevator as Charles pushed her floor. She thought she thanked him but wasn't sure.
Maybe he was upstairs. He could have gotten by the desk somehow. Perhaps Charles had been engrossed in a newspaper, or Dave had stepped back to his own post for just an instant.
Maybe he'd be in the living room, just waiting for her.
But he wasn't. The moment she opened her door, she knew he had not been home. And her place seemed all the more empty because she had expected him to be there.
She put down the bags and began to worry in earnest. He was alone in a place he didn't comprehend, with enough potential disasters awaiting at every turn to alarm even the most tranquil of imaginations. And she knew if push came to shove and he found himself in a dangerous situation, he would loudly proclaim himself to be Lancelot, and a dangerous situation would become far worse.
How had she been so stupid? To have shoved him into a taxi, handed a suspicious driver a handful of bills, and turned her back on him was more than irresponsible. It was downright cruel.
In her mind, she saw him staggering about, lost and frightened but not knowing where to go. Perhaps the cabbie would know where he was, but she hadn't even bothered to get his medallion number or name. Lancelot could be lying someplace, hurt and bleeding.
She didn't even know whom to call. The police? Yep. Good idea. Tell them that a man with absolutely no identification, dressed as a medieval knight, and ignorant of the most basic realities of life in the twentieth century was last seen heading downtown in a cab. His age? Oh, about fifteen hundred years, give or take a century. Nationality? Why, he's from Camelot, so that must make him a Camelotian. Or maybe a Camdotite. Profession? Disgraced Knight of the Round Table.
Peg. She would call Peg. Surely, she'd know whom to call if someone who doesn't quite fit in happens to be missing. Someone who may be unequipped to be alone, perhaps confused or frightened. Certainly, Peg, with her practice, would have access to some service. Gentle people with white coats and pleasant manners.
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