by Andrew Hunt
“May I help you?” asked a maître d’ as I entered the front doors. He clearly adhered to a black-tie dress code that was far more upscale than anything I had hanging in my closet. I could only manage my Sunday best: a tweed jacket, frayed around the edges, a white shirt and bright red tie, a pair of dark trousers, and shiny brown patent leather shoes. I looked like a frumpy college professor.
High above, chandeliers blazed brightly from all parts of the ceiling. An orchestra played dance music that flooded every inch of the place.
“Sir, may I help you?”
“Huh? Oh yes. You may, as a matter of fact. Help me, I mean. I’m here at the request of, uh…” For a split second, I blanked out on his name. I licked my lips nervously as I searched for it in my faulty filing cabinet of memories. “Underhill! Yes. Mr. Underhill has requested—Clive Underhill has requested my presence here. So he is, uh, you know, expecting me, and whatnot.”
“You are?”
I pressed my hand into my chest. “Me?”
He studied me through sleepy eyes. “Yes. You.”
“I’m Art Oveson. Arthur Oveson. Like King Arthur.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m just telling you my front name.”
“Art!”
I spun in the direction of Roscoe. I’d never seen him dressed in a tux before. With his shaven head and a face battered by one too many fistfights, he reminded me of a retired boxing champion, smiling his gap-toothed smile and moving across the lobby in giant steps. This time, instead of a skeleton-shattering bear hug, we exchanged warm handshakes.
“You know this fellow?” asked the maître d’ in a tone of contempt.
“He’s with me. He’s my chum.” Roscoe eyed me. “Right this way, Art.”
I tailed him. We skirted the shiny dance floor. There must have been two hundred people out there tripping the light fantastic. Elegance sparkled in all corners of the place. Beelining through here, one would hardly guess that there was a Depression on outside. We passed a series of tables covered in green linen, many empty of diners yet covered with partially completed meals or appetizers and ice-filled wine buckets with bottle necks poking out the top.
We arrived at a long booth packed with men, and at the center of the action sat none other than Clive Underhill, debonair and smartly dressed as ever, with his brown hair deliberately tousled to give him the appearance of an Oxford lad. He looked none the worse for wear, as if the fiery crash I pulled him out of that morning had never happened. He smiled up at me with twinkling eyes, and when he spoke, he raised his voice high above the din.
“Art, my dear fellow! You’ve come to join us! Please, find a seat somewhere amongst these ne’er-do-wells!”
That remark triggered an outburst of laughter. The men inched together tighter in the crescent-shaped booth, freeing a spot on the end for me to sit. I took a seat beside Underhill’s kid brother. Roscoe smiled down at me in an assuring way, as if to say, “You’re on your own, pal,” and then he walked away. I surveyed the scene around me. A table full of Englishmen huddled around plates of lobster and filet mignon and chicken cordon bleu, with buckets full of bubbly and half-full cocktail glasses galore. Underhill commenced with introductions.
“This is my brother, Nigel. I believe you two have met.”
Nigel, the younger version of Clive, sneered at me without saying a word.
“Good to know you, Nigel.”
“And I believe you know Albert Shaw, my manager.…”
Shaw smiled and dipped his head.
Underhill gestured to a square-jawed platinum-blond gent and introduced him as “my dear friend Peter Insley.
“He’s recently returned from Spain,” Underhill continued. “I’m sure he has some fascinating stories to tell about the gruesome bloodbath unfolding there.”
Insley reached across the table and shook hands with me. “Mr. Oveson, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Art,” I said. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Insley eased back into his seat, and my eyes moved to the next person, a lanky redhead with sleepy eyes and very little chin to speak of. Underhill nodded in his direction. “That is Julian Pangborn, my mechanic.”
Pangborn pouted when I offered him my hand, as if leaning forward to shake it posed too much of a challenge. At last, he relented. I found his squeeze light and clammy.
I could only make out certain words as he mumbled, “Thor’s lashins iv neet left, an’ Ahm neet near mortal ’nough.”
I smiled, not daring to ask him to repeat it.
“If it weren’t for Arthur, I wouldn’t be sitting here tonight,” said Underhill.
“So we have him to blame,” said Nigel. The men around the table laughed, but Nigel never graduated beyond an arrogant smirk. My eyes locked on his, and vice versa, and I knew then I disliked him, despite my best efforts to embrace the “I never met a man I didn’t like” philosophy of Will Rogers.
Underhill flagged the waiter, who zoomed over to our table. “Would you be kind enough to get Arthur a … How rude of me! What will you have, Arthur?”
“Got lemonade?” I asked.
The waiter replied with a soft yes.
“Surely you intend to sample something harder than that before the night is through,” said Shaw. “Martini? Beer? Glass of wine?”
“Lemonade,” I repeated. The waiter nodded and vanished as fast as appeared.
“You Mo’mon, Oveson?” asked Pangborn.
I nodded. “Lifelong.”
He mumbled something again—at least I saw his lips moving and heard faint spoken words—but the music drowned him out.
“What?” I asked. “Can you speak up?”
“So whatsat mean?” he said louder. “No licka? No coffee? No fags?”
“I don’t partake in any of those things,” I said.
“Behold the live wire,” said Nigel. “Quick, hide the cognac! Art is here!”
More laughter, but, once again, Nigel only smirked.
“And what of your ancestors, Arthur?” asked Shaw. “Were they among the pioneers that settled this area?”
“Yes sir,” I said. “Some came here with the 1847 trek. First Mormons to set foot in this valley.”
“How fascinating,” said Peter. “You know, Nigel here is quite the family history buff. He’s already visited the Genealogical Society here. Isn’t that so, Nigel?”
“Oh?” I asked, twisting in the booth toward Nigel. “I’m impressed. You don’t strike me as the genealogy type.”
“Maybe I’m bored, killing time, trying to figure out why the devil anybody in his right mind would set up shop around here,” said Nigel. “It’s a God-forsaken wasteland, the most desolate place I’ve ever seen. But I’ll give you this much: at least you screwy Mormons know how to run a world-class genealogical research facility.”
“Nigel, please,” said Shaw. “You’re being improper.”
“Am I?” asked Nigel, “I was only being honest. It’s not as though any of you…”
“I love genealogy,” I said. “I find it soothing to map out my family tree. The leaders of my Church encourage it. They think it brings us closer to our ancestors. That’s why they opened the library, and why they send experts around the world to bring back research documents.”
Nigel opened his mouth to speak, but Clive cut him off. “So, Art, I understand you’re a police detective.”
I replied with a nod and a soft “yes” as my lemonade arrived.
“No wonder you reacted so decisively today—and so heroically, I might add.”
I sipped lemonade, ice clinked, and the tartness made me pucker and shudder slightly. “It truly was nothing, honest.”
“You’re modest—a rare quality in this day and age. Are you married?”
I peeked at my silver wedding band. “Yes.”
“She couldn’t make it tonight?” asked Shaw.
“She has a sour stomach, I’m afraid.” I looked at Underhill. “I hope you’re not i
njured too badly. From earlier today, I mean.”
He tugged at his ear, to indicate that he could not hear me above the orchestra.
“I said I hope you weren’t hurt too badly today!”
The song came to an end and applause crackled. The bandleader struck up something slow, an ethereal tune fronted by a smooth-voiced male singer. Underhill stopped clapping and turned his gaze on me. “My ankle is bandaged, thanks to a cut that required stitches. But I plan on returning to the flats next weekend to unveil my latest creation. It’ll take a lot more than this to make me sit that one out.”
“Come, come, you mustn’t keep us on tenterhooks,” said Insley, lowering an empty martini glass after polishing off its contents. “Tell him what it is that you’ll be showing off to the world next Saturday!”
Underhill shook his head. “If I do, I’ll be—what’s the expression—spilling the beans too soon. Let me simply say that I’ve been working on a revolutionary new vehicle that will shatter all previous records. And we shall leave it at that. How are you doing over there with that lemonade?”
I held the half-full glass high so he could see it. “I’m quite all right, for now.”
“Well, then, why not order dinner? Might I suggest the lamb chops and Saratoga chips? It comes with a side of fried green beans and cauliflower in cream sauce. It is divine, some of the finest cooking I’ve tasted on either side of the big pond, I must say.”
“Sure,” I said. “That sounds swell.”
He caught the waiter’s attention again and ordered for me. The waiter did not write it down. Instead, he darted off in the direction of enormous swinging doors to the kitchen. “What about you?” I asked Clive. “Are you married?”
An uneasy silence, accompanied by darting eyes, followed my question.
“Engaged,” said Nigel. “To Dorothy Bliss, from Kensington.”
“We’re to be married next May,” said Underhill.
Insley laughed as he filled his champagne glass, now that his martini was gone.
“Did I say something amusing, old boy?” asked Underhill, cracking a smile.
“No matter how hard I try, I can’t see you walking down the aisle,” said Insley. “It defies my imagination.”
I looked at Insley and asked, “Why did you go to Spain? It’s a dangerous place.”
Insley raised his martini glass at the waiter, who nodded and hurried off to the bar.
“Why does anybody go to Spain these days?” Insley asked, lowering his glass. “I’m a writer.”
“And a damn good one,” said Clive. “Tell him about your novel.”
“Novel?” I asked.
“Some other time,” Insley said, fighting off a blush. “You were asking about Spain. I went there as a journalist, sent by a radical London newspaper. When the fighting intensified last summer, I took up arms on the side of the Loyalists resisting Franco. I must say I developed a whole new respect for the American volunteers in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. Tough as nails, especially the fellows I met from Brooklyn. In fact, I rather quickly deduced that if you want to live to see the end of the war, the best place to stand is beside the man from Brooklyn.”
“Once more, you chose the wrong side,” said Nigel.
Insley smirked at Nigel, as if this were a routine between them. “Did I?”
Nigel nodded. “Why do you suppose fascists are winning everywhere? Hitler has given the German people hope and prosperity. That’s something you and your band of armed, freelove bohemians can’t fathom. Nobody wants your sickly sweet utopia. They want someone who’s going to deliver in the here and now. They want a Hitler.”
“Hitler won’t last,” said Insley. “Good men around the world will rise up and oust him.”
“And what of you?” Nigel asked me. “What are your politics?”
“My politics?” I asked.
“How about it, Arthur?” asked Insley. “Are you a man of the left, like me, or the right, like Nigel?”
“I guess I’m in the middle,” I said. “I try to keep my nose out of politics.”
“Spoken like a true philistine,” said Nigel.
“Sounds refreshing,” chimed in Clive, his voice overlapping with Nigel’s. “I suggest we take a page out of your book and steadfastly avoid the topic of current affairs for the remainder of our dinner.”
“What an odd comment,” said Nigel, “coming from a man who once supported Mosley’s British Union.”
I had no idea what any of this meant, but I felt a tension in the air.
Clive glowered at his brother. “I said no current affairs at the table. I meant it.”
“I’ve had enough of this rot,” said Nigel, picking his linen napkin out of his lap and throwing it on his plate. He looked at me. “You may be the only honest man at this table. Now, if you’ll please excuse me…”
I squirmed into position to stand up, to give Nigel room to scoot out.
“Where are you going?” asked Underhill.
Roscoe came over to the table to check on things. Nigel rose out of the booth, clenched his fist, and leered at Roscoe, as if ready to start a fight with a man who was twice his size and could easily wallop him into the ground. He moved menacingly toward Nigel, but I inserted myself between them, to prevent an altercation that likely would’ve ended with Nigel’s neck getting broken. The brief stalemate concluded with Nigel scowling at everybody at the table and then storming off. Roscoe and I exchanged glances, and I eased back into the booth, where the others resumed their conversations and drinking as though nothing unusual had happened.
My dinner arrived, and I listened to Underhill offer a long explanation about why the Bonneville Salt Flats were the best place on earth for setting land speed records. The man could talk, and he apparently surrounded himself with good listeners—men who laughed at his jokes and asked him questions that made him go on even longer. He explained high-powered engines, described what a “superlative” (his word, not mine) mechanic Pangborn was, and let me know exactly how the right set of tires could make all the difference in the world. An hour and a half passed of him talking and the rest of us men at the table sitting in silence, taking in everything he said. At one point, German motorist Rudy Heinrich—stately, angular, athletic, with a tan head shaved on the sides and back—stopped by our table. His swastika pin reminded me of a vicious little bug crawling up his lapel. He leaned over the table and shook hands with Underhill.
“Hello Clive.”
“Guten tag, Herr Heinrich. Fancy seeing you here tonight.”
Underhill launched into introductions, and when he reached me (“… and this is Art Oveson, Salt Lake City Police Department…”), Heinrich shook my hand.
“Kripo?” Heinrich asked, smiling and arching his eyebrows.
I released his hand and shot him a quizzical look. “Kripo?”
“Kriminalpolizei?” Heinrich asked.
“I’m a police detective,” I said.
“I hope you do not give out speeding tickets,” said Heinrich.
The comment provoked raucous laughter at the table.
“No, that would be the traffic bureau,” I said, after the laughter died down.
Heinrich said, “What were you doing out at the flats today, kripo?”
“I was helping my cousin,” I said. “He’s a land speed driver.”
“Oh? What’s his name?” asked Underhill.
“Hank—er, uh, Henry—Jensen.”
“Hold on,” said Underhill, coming to life now. “You mean to say Hank Jensen is your cousin?”
“Yes.”
“Bluh’ee legend,” called out Pangborn.
“Thank you,” I said.
“He started it all, you know,” said Underhill. “If it weren’t for Hank Jensen…”
“Bonneville would not be the world’s chosen spot for land speed racing,” said Heinrich, finishing Underhill’s sentence. “Your cousin is a visionary and a pioneer, Herr Oveson. But I’m afraid his records cannot withstand the curre
nt crop of drivers. Before this summer is over, there will be a vehicle capable of reaching speeds in excess of four hundred miles per hour on the speedway. Next summer, that number will climb to five hundred, and by the next decade, the Führer will introduce an automobile capable of surpassing six hundred.”
“Ah yes, we’re all aware of your top-secret P9, Heinrich,” said Underhill. “An impressive machine, no doubt. But it is, I’m afraid, no match for what I plan to reveal to the world next week.”
“We’ll see,” said Heinrich, in a taunting way. He checked his wristwatch. “Well, I do not wish to overstay my welcome. Good evening, gentlemen.”
Heinrich looked at me and bowed slightly. “Herr Oveson.”
Underhill watched Heinrich leave, and then he turned his attention to me. I smiled as I puzzled over what must’ve been on that Englishman’s brain of his. I found him a hard man to read. He clearly wished to be thought of as a man of wit, style, and intelligence. However, it occurred to me, as the night wore on, that what churned beneath the surface was complex. I sensed dark secrets lurking deeper down. I did not wish to be privy to those. I’d had enough of the Coconut Grove. This was not my world.
Five
“It’s not enough!” he hollered at the top of his lungs. “You hear me!”
“Yeah, I hear you,” I said. “There’s no need to shout. We’re inside a car.”
A little past one in the morning found me driving north on Main Street, sharing the road with a handful of late-night jalopies. Clive Underhill eased his head inside the window and his upper body twirled slightly, as if he were about to fall forward into the dashboard. I extended my right arm and gave him a gentle shove back against the seat. My wife, Clara, always warned me that chivalry would be my downfall. She had a tendency to overstate her case, but chivalry has introduced much inconvenience into my life, such as tonight, for instance. Here I was, in the wee morning hours, on my way to drop off an inebriated Clive Underhill and his bodyguard-for-rent, Roscoe Lund, at the hotel where he was staying, when I really should have been home hours ago.
