Lovelady

by Wynne, Marcus

  A woman’s voice, made tinny by the electronics. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Miss Emerald.”

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “Yes.”

  “One moment, please.”

  The door buzzed and I pushed it open and entered a different world. The reception area was beautifully decorated in an Asian motif, with expensive prints and painting set off by track lighting, statues mounted on pedestals, a luxurious carpet subtly patterned with herons, a deep leather couch and two armchairs. The receptionist sat behind a wide desk mounted on a dais. An efficient hands free telephone headset was nestled in her immaculately styled hair. She was Asian, of an indeterminate blend, and she studied me carefully before she spoke.

  “Miss Emerald is on another line. She said to please take a seat and she will join you shortly. May I get you coffee, or a sparkling water?”

  “A cup of coffee would be great.”

  “How do you like it, Mr. Lovelady?”

  She knew my name.

  I smiled, a polite fiction. “Lots of cream, lots of sugar.”

  Her smile was equally polite. “I’ll be happy to make it for you.”

  She left her desk and went down the hallway to the left of the dais. After a short interval she returned with a small tray. A fine china cup filled with steaming aromatic black coffee, a small bottle of half and half, and a sugar pot with a small spoon were carefully ordered on the tray.

  “Please,” she said. Her English was flawless.

  I stirred in cream and sugar till I was happy. “Thank you.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Lovelady.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Miss Emerald recognized you on the video monitor.”

  “Impressive security.”

  “It pays to be safe.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It does.”

  I found her attentiveness appealing, the curl of her leg as she bent to take the tray away, her soft voice and features.

  That was dangerous thinking.

  I sat back and enjoyed the premium coffee done just the way I liked it. One moment at a time. Right now, the coffee was important to me. I’d deal with Miss Emerald next. I’d stay clear and open to what was happening around me, and I’d take care of what needed to be done, one moment at a time.

  Why was I thinking like this?

  I sipped the coffee. Soothing. The rich curl of hot liquid against my tongue. Sweet and hot.

  Then it was as if I rose out of my body. Part of my consciousness hovered near the ceiling in the corner of the room and looked down at me and the receptionist. It was a total bi-location; I was still aware of myself drinking coffee, the taste rich in my mouth, and I was at the same time hovering and watching myself drink coffee. My floating self moved close to the receptionist busy at her desk, so close that I sensed the warmth of her skin, then moved down the hallway to a closed door from which I heard a murmur of voices. My ethereal self pressed against the door and went through with an audible pop. I was inside Miss Emerald’s office. She was hunched over her desk, a phone pressed tightly to her ear. Her face was drawn. There was a fine array of wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. She too wore a mask to the world, and when she thought she was alone, she lit it slip and the harshness of her face shone through. She looked up, as though she was aware of me, and then I was gone, back into the self sitting in the waiting area. I felt a little pop as though something had broken in my chest, and I spilled a little coffee.

  The receptionist watched me with a puzzled look. “Mr. Lovelady? Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I said. My voice sounded strange to me. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure? You looked…”

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  She gave me a long, doubtful look before she returned to shuffling a small stack of papers. I was disoriented, shaken. I get episodes. They’re part of psychosis, even psychosis in remission. It’d been a very long time since I’d had an episode as vivid as this. I ticked it off on the sheet in my head where I tallied my daily mental health.

  Maybe this thing was getting to me.

  I heard a door open down the hall. I set my coffee down on the side table. Miss Emerald walked into the reception area and paused beside the receptionist’s desk. She gave me a cool, long smile. She was dressed exactly as I’d seen her in my vision. Her face was smooth and the lines only faint suggestions around her eyes and mouth.

  “Hello, Frank,” she said.

  I stood. “Miss Emerald. How nice to see you.”

  She held out her hand. I stepped forward and took it. Her hand was cool and smooth, fine boned. I felt an electric tingle, or was that my imagination? We stood there, joined at the hands, for an instant. I watched her face. She felt something, too, and took her hand back first.

  “Let’s go into my office, shall we?” she said.

  She led me down the hallway and into her office. It was exactly as I’d seen it in my vision.

  “You seem surprised, Frank,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not myself today.”

  “Really?” That interested her. “Please sit down.”

  I sat in a plush leather armchair set at an angle before her desk. The leather creaked beneath me as I settled back, and I ran my hands over the smooth arms. The Asian motif of the outer office continued in here, but with a different focus. Korean celadon pots sat on small shelves, and the wall hangings were calligraphy scrolls in Korean.

  “You’re Korean?” I said.

  She folded her hands on the polished expanse of her desk. She looked like an obedient school girl at the start of class. “I’m half-Korean, Frank. My father was a white soldier. Have you been to Korea?”

  “A long time ago. In another life.”

  “You were a soldier.”

  “Yes.”

  “You still seem like a soldier, Frank. You wear your past like a uniform. I think you were quite a good soldier.”

  “Was your father a good soldier?”

  Her smile stopped at her eyes. “I don’t know. I never knew him. I don’t think he would have been, though. Would a good soldier abandon his daughter? Would you, Frank?”

  “I’ve never had to think about that.”

  “I don’t think you would. That’s my impression of you. I met many soldiers in Korea, young Americans. The good soldiers were men of good heart. Or so it seemed. I could be wrong about my father, though. He might have been something like you. I’d like to think so. Maybe he was just like you.”

  She was dispassionate, as though she were discussing an oil change for her car.

  “Hard to say,” I said. “Do you remember him at all?”

  “Fragments. Pieces of image. Or maybe it’s just my imagination. I was very young.”

  “What do you remember?”

  She stared into the distance, right through me.

  “I remember being held,” she said. “Very strong hands. A face close to mine. The smell of cheap after shave.”

  She came back to the now and looked at my face, my hands.

  “You don’t wear after shave, do you, Frank? But you have very strong hands.”

  “It must have been difficult for you and your mother.”

  “My mother? She was a survivor. A very strong woman. A…businesswoman. She did the best she could.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  “Yes. She lives in Korea.”

  “Ah.”

  It wasn’t hard to put the picture together.

  “I’m told my mother and I are very much alike. I take that as a compliment.”

  I nodded and said nothing.

  She opened her hands and laid them flat, palms down, on the top of her desk. “Are you a man of good heart, Frank? I imagine that you stand by your friends. You seem to be going through a great deal of trouble for your friend. Looking for his daughter. That’s an act of great loyalty, an act of a soldier’s heart.”

&n
bsp; She drew a cigarette from an ornately engraved wooden box set precisely on the corner of her desk. “Would you like one?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She lit her cigarette with a gold lighter and inhaled greedily, then blew a smoke ring that floated across the desk towards me. “Does your soldier’s heart drive you, Frank?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Accomplishing your mission. That’s what’s important, to a soldier. But a soldier doesn’t fight alone, does he, Frank? A soldier is part of an army. And you’re all alone.” She blew another smoke ring. “Alone. I think you’ve been alone quite a bit in your life. That’s something I understand. That’s why this little thing matters so much…it’s important to your friend, and so it is important to you. You don’t have many friends, do you, Frank? I think I’d like to be your friend. To have you stand with me.”

  My temper boiled up and demanded expression. I was glad to have something familiar to cling to in my unsettled state, something I could fight down, channel and use.

  “That’s not going to happen. You’re quite insightful, Miss Emerald. Some other time I might enjoy sitting and playing amateur psychologist with you. We could pick holes in each other’s armor. You could tell me what it’s like to be the daughter of a whore, and how you worked so hard to leave that behind. But then, you haven’t, have you? So let’s cut the bullshit and get to the chase. You want me out of your life and your business, whatever that might be. The solution is a simple one and has nothing to do with any deep seated issues you think I might have. Give me the girl and I’m gone. I don’t give a shit about you or Manfred or your business or all the whores on the street. All I want is the girl.”

  The lines around her eyes deepened as my shot went home.

  “So rude, Frank.” She blew smoke at me. “I would have thought you would be less direct and more polite.”

  “I’m a simple man. Give me what I want and I’m gone.”

  “I don’t have what you want.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What can I do about that?”

  “You’re into something you don’t want me nosing around in. Otherwise we wouldn’t be playing this game. I can raise enough stink to shed light on the feast of snakes you’ve got going. Tell me something, Miss Emerald…is the girl really worth all that? All I want is to get her back to her family. I don’t care what you are up to.”

  “You don’t seem to want to understand me, Frank. You want a fight, you want closure. There’s nothing to fight here and nothing to close. You have secrets, too, in your face, in your manner…you’re not what you try to appear to be. But as you said, that doesn’t matter. What matters is the girl. And I don’t have her.”

  “She was seen with you.”

  “I should have said I don’t have her now.”

  “So where is she?”

  “I don’t know.” Miss Emerald tapped out her cigarette in an otherwise immaculate marble ashtray. “She left. Went her own way.” She laughed at my look. “You think this is the dark ages? That we make slaves of these girls? They come to us of their own free will and leave in the same way.”

  “So what is it? Prostitution? Movies? What?”

  She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Oh, Frank. Romantic, stubborn, Frank. You’re like Humphrey Bogart in the movies. I’ve told you. I deal in human resources. People come to me to find work, or to find people to fill positions in their businesses. I explore the possibility of helping young people off the street. I conduct research to support a grant application Manfred and I are preparing to fund a large scale intervention program. All of that is a matter of record. The authorities know all about it. You and your friend Spenser the detective won’t find anything more than that. What does the babbling of a crack addict prostitute have to do with me? Did she see me talking to girls on the street? Yes, of course. Might she have seen with a particular girl? Possibly. It doesn’t matter. I don’t have what you want.”

  “So why are we talking?”

  Her face drew slowly still and impassive. “You interest me, Frank. You have abilities and skills quite unusual for a writer. You handle yourself well on the street. I’m curious why a man like you is working so hard to find a washed up tramp of a girl.”

  “She has people who love her. She’s not a tramp to them.”

  “So you’re doing this for love?” She laughed. Then stopped. “Your romanticism amazes me, Frank Lovelady.”

  I stood up. “What do I have to do to convince you that it’s easier for everybody all around to give me what I want?”

  She leaned back in her chair and gave me an openly sexual appraisal that left me feeling dirty. “You haven’t been listening. I don’t have her. But…”

  “But what?”

  “I will introduce you to some people who may know where she went.”

  “That’ll do.”

  “I thought it might.” She took out a business card and wrote something on the back of it. “Here. This is your invitation to a little soiree.”

  On the back of her card she’d signed her name, then neatly penned Manfred Wollheim’s address below it.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “There’s a party tomorrow night, Frank. At Manfred’s house. Business dress. I’ll introduce you to some people who might know what you want. Please leave your friend Detective Spenser at home. He would make our guests…uncomfortable.”

  I held the card in my palm and weighed it. “Are we going to have trouble, Miss Emerald?”

  Her face lined with distaste. “You’re rude, Frank. I expect more from you. You’re a mannered man when you want to be. You’ve impressed me with your strength and your violence. You don’t need to show me any more.”

  I tucked the card into my pocket. “Thank you for your time, Miss Emerald. I look forward to meeting your friends.”

  “I’m sure they’ll look forward to meeting you. There aren’t many men like you in our little circle. Some new blood will be welcome.”

  “I’m not looking for new friends.”

  “You’re being rude again.”

  “It’s my nature.”

  “You have many layers to your nature, Frank. That’s part of your charm. Your allure. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Wear something in black. I think you look good in black.”

  “I may bring a friend.”

  “The invitation is for one. I’m sorry.”

  “Then one it is.”

  She stood up. Sinew played along the lines of her thin neck. I was struck by how easy it would be to snap her neck.

  “I’ll see you out,” she said.

  She ushered me to the door.

  “Good bye, Mr. Lovelady,” the receptionist said.

  “Till tomorrow, Frank,” Miss Emerald said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Tomorrow.”

  I left them there. The heavy door locked behind me like a vault. I took the elevator down and then walked slowly through the atrium while I thought about what I was going to do. I would make that party. And I wouldn’t bring Spenser. He’d have to hunt on his own.

  I stood outside and held my face up to the sunlight. It made me feel clean.

  iv.

  When I went into Marcos’s hospital room, Ryan and Sarah were sitting side by side in chairs dragged close to his bed.

  “What are you two doing here?” I said.

  From behind me, Elena said, “I brought them here.”

  I turned and looked at her. She stood close to me, a paper cup of steaming coffee in one hand.

  “They were insistent,” she said. “You didn’t let them see Marcos before.”

  She had such strong eyes. “I didn’t think he was up to it.”

  “Hey, I’m good, man,” Marcos said. “They’re letting me out of here today.”

  He looked better. There was good color to his face and he was more animated, less dopey, than before. “What did the doctor say?”

  “I’m clearing out right now. Soon as t
he nurse brings me the paperwork, they wheel me to the front door and I’m all yours.”

  The young Hispanic nurse brought in a small sheaf of papers and said something in Spanish to Marcos. He winked at her and said something she laughed at. He signed the papers and handed them back to her. The nurse looked at us.

  “He’ll need to be careful to take it easy and rest,” the nurse said. “No exercise except for some light walking. And watch for dizzy spells.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Marcos said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  With the nurse pushing his wheelchair, we all took the elevator to the ground floor. I went and got the car and pulled it around to where they waited in front.

  Elena sipped her coffee. “Ryan, Sarah, you can come with me.”

  “We’re going with Frank and Marcos,” Ryan said.

  Elena looked to me for help. “Frank?”

  I nodded in agreement. “You two stay with Elena. You’ll meet some people your own age. You can ask about Luella there.”

  “We’re with you,” Sarah said.

  She and Ryan both looked determined. I shrugged and said to Elena, “They’ll be fine with me. Marcos will look after them.”

  Elena hid her anger well. She ignored me and addressed herself to Ryan and Sarah. “You know where I am. If you need a place to stay, I’m always there. For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be mixed up in this.”

  “Thank you, Elena,” Sarah said. “We appreciate it.”

  She and Ryan scrambled into the back seat. Marcos levered himself into the passenger seat.

  “Thanks for taking care, Elena,” I said.

  “Be careful. I have a bad feeling about this,” she said.

  “We will.”

  I got into the car and pulled away. She stood on the curb and watched us go. Marcos waved at her.

  “That’s a good woman,” Marcos said.