Long Knives

by Charles Rosenberg

  After my strange phone call with the dean, in which he all but accused me of stealing Primo’s supposed map, I had considered canceling. Yet it didn’t seem likely that staying home would improve my mood—or my hands, which were still red and in which I could still detect an ever-so-slight tremor if I held them out in front of me. And perhaps Aldous would have some good advice. So I threw on a little black dress I had bought at Nordstrom, looped a string of pearls around my neck and slipped on my patent-leather heels. Then I retrieved my car from the valet and drove to the Geffen.

  Parking is often an issue in Westwood, but since I had a UCLA parking pass, I just pulled into a nearby UCLA lot. Teaching at UCLA doesn’t have a lot of privileges, but it has some.

  When I walked into the stone-walled courtyard of the Geffen, Aldous was standing there waiting, looking handsome. The evening was cool but not cold—in the low 60s, not unheard of for mid-November in Los Angeles—and he was dressed in a nubby brown cardigan worn over an ecru shirt, sharply creased brown khakis and brown tasseled loafers. He looked like an ad out of a Brooks Brothers catalog, which fit, since he’d once told me he bought almost all of his clothes there.

  He sprinted over to me. “Honey, I’ve been trying to call you all day, but you didn’t pick up or return my messages. And you haven’t been in your office. I’ve been by three times to look for you. Are you okay?”

  I admit that I was a bit stunned to hear him say that. I couldn’t recall the last time he had tried to track me down. For any reason.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I turned off my cell and forgot to turn it back on. And no, I’m not okay. I don’t know if you heard, but my student died. I’m a mess.”

  “Of course I heard. It’s all over the school. I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  “You could have dropped by my condo when you couldn’t reach me.”

  As soon as I said it, I realized it had been the wrong thing to say. He was trying hard to care about me and I was being a jerk.

  “Jenna, you’ve told me several times never to do that. Under any circumstances.”

  Which was true. I didn’t like being dropped in on. Maybe some of the lack of intimacy was on my side. I’d never agreed to move in with anybody, despite several heartfelt invitations, and I didn’t even like staying overnight with a guy.

  In the end I didn’t respond to what Aldous had said about dropping in on me but asked, instead, “What are they saying around the school about Primo?”

  “Nothing specific. Just a lot of shock and supposed grief, although I haven’t run into anyone who really knew him well.”

  “Nobody’s saying what killed him?”

  “No. Do you know?”

  “No. I have no idea. I went with him to the hospital in the ambulance, but they wouldn’t say much because I wasn’t a relative. And anyway, at that point they seemed to think he’d be fine.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Some doctor who also tried to pick me up.”

  “Did he succeed?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?”

  “I’m teasing you, Aldous.”

  “You don’t usually tease.”

  “I know, I know. I need to lighten up, don’t you think?”

  Before he could answer, the chime sounded and we went in.

  Aldous had reserved seats in the middle of the third row of the orchestra. One of the things I’ve always liked about him is that he drives an old VW Bug and only flaunts his wealth in small ways. Which got me thinking, as we sat there waiting for the curtain to go up, that if I wanted to, I could become Mrs. Aldous Hartleb, retire and grow prize gladiolus or something. Sure, I’d have to overlook the lack of emotion in our relationship, but maybe all that stuff was overrated. And marrying Aldous would make my father happy. Maybe it would make me happy, too.

  The play was, thank God, a classically staged Hamlet, not a jazzed-up, modern version with Hamlet wearing a pin-striped suit and living amid Danish modern furniture. As the actor began the soliloquy and spoke the famous lines, “To be or not to be,” it hit me that Primo had been alive when the sun rose in the morning and was now dead. He was, and now he was not. And it struck me that Primo wasn’t the only one who had gone through an arc. When I got up that morning, I had been a happy camper on my way to tenure. Now, not much more than twelve hours later, I had become an almost unhinged camper whose hands shook. In fact, when the curtain went up I had shoved my hands under my thighs to hide them from view, just in case that started again.

  During the intermission we ran into a couple of other faculty members from the law school. We all drank champagne and made small talk. No one mentioned Primo, but his ghost was clearly present and walking around. I looked at the hand holding my champagne glass and was relieved to see that there was no tremor at all.

  After the play ended, Aldous and I were standing on the sidewalk in front of the theater, talking about where to go to dinner.

  “I’m thinking the Napa Valley Grille,” he said.

  “I’m thinking someplace less fancy,” I responded. “Maybe a late-night burger place. Preferably someplace far from Westwood, where we won’t run into anyone from the law school. I’m finding seeing people from there and not talking about Primo unnerving, even though I very much don’t want to talk about him.”

  “Well, what about…”

  He never got to finish his thought because just then a slight, dark-haired young guy wearing a black leather jacket burst out of the alley next to us, sprinted up to me and began shouting in my face, “Where’s the map? Where is the damn map!?”

  Aldous put his large hand on the kid’s thin shoulder and pushed him gently backward. “Whoa, my friend. I don’t know who you are, but please get out of the lady’s face.”

  The guy backed off a couple of feet and said, “I’ll tell you who I am. I’m Quinto Giordano, the brother of the man Professor James poisoned. The police can deal with that part. Right now I just want the treasure map back. Tonight.”

  “Poisoned?” I asked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I dropped him off near your office this morning, with the map. I watched him go into the building. A few hours later he was dead, and the treasure map he took with him to your office is missing. Put it together yourself, bitch.”

  Aldous stepped forward and placed himself between me and Quinto. “You’re out of line, sir. If you have information about your brother’s death, take it up with the police or the DA. But stop harassing—and slandering—Professor James. Got that?”

  “Yeah, I got that. But you—” he stabbed his finger at me over Aldous’s shoulder—“are gonna hear from me again. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get that map over to me. Your dean knows where to find me.” He turned and strode off toward Ralphs, the big grocery store that sits next door to the theater.

  “Are you all right, Jenna?” Aldous asked.

  “No.”

  “Have you ever seen that guy before?”

  “No.”

  “He said he was Primo’s brother. Wasn’t Primo Italian?”

  “I thought so.”

  “This guy doesn’t sound Italian.”

  “No, he doesn’t. No accent. Perfect grammar.”

  “Are you sure you’ve never seen him before? He certainly seemed able to pick you out of a crowd.”

  “The first time I ever even heard of him was earlier today, when the dean told me that he was demanding a map the guy thinks I have but that I don’t.”

  As I said it, I realized that I was holding back the gory details from Aldous, almost like they were dammed up behind an emotional wall. If I couldn’t tell him, who could I tell? The wall broke.

  “There’s more, Aldous. The dean practically accused me of stealing the map.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I don’t know. Because it was in my office and now it’s gone? It’s ridiculous, but I know he thinks I took it. And then Drady practically accused me of murderi
ng Primo.”

  “Who’s Drady?”

  “A cop who was involved in Robert Tarza’s prosecution, way back when. Now he’s on the UCLA force and is investigating Primo’s death.”

  By that time Aldous had gathered me into his arms and was just holding me tight. “Jenna, you need to get a grip. We need to sit down, and you need to tell me everything. Maybe I can help.”

  “That would be great. I need someone I can count on.” I was crying gently into his shoulder, and people in the crowd were staring at us. To my surprise, I didn’t care.

  “Jenna, do you still want to go to dinner?”

  “No.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Can I come home with you?”

  “Of course.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Week 1—Tuesday

  I awoke, turned my head and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was 6:30 A.M. and the sun was up, if barely. I turned my head to the other side but saw no Aldous in the bed. Then I heard him moving about in the kitchen and detected the smell of frying bacon.

  I stretched my arms out in front of me. I was wearing red plaid flannel pajama tops with sleeves at least three sizes too long. The cuffs had been folded over multiple times but still managed to cover my hands halfway down my fingers. I lifted up the covers and confirmed that I was also swimming in matching, way-too-big bottoms. I didn’t much remember putting them on.

  Aldous appeared in the bedroom doorway, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. “And how does milady feel this morning?”

  “I’m okay. But was that stuff after the theater last night real? Or did I dream it?”

  “It was real enough. And I think you need to do something about it.”

  “I can’t imagine what. I don’t have the map—if there even is a map. And I have no interest in ever seeing Primo’s brother again—if he really is his brother.”

  “I’d like to try to look into both of those things. I have some resources I can tap.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m rich enough to hire a private investigator.”

  “I don’t think I’m quite ready to do that yet. Or have you do it for me.”

  “You know, Jenna, maybe it’s time you let someone try to take care of you a little instead of always playing the rough, tough trial lawyer.”

  What Aldous was saying, of course, wasn’t that he’d take care of me by tucking me in every night and making me breakfast every morning but by spending money on me. So I ignored the take-care-of-you part and focused on the rest of it.

  “I’m not playing at that, Aldous. I am a rough, tough trial lawyer. It’s bred in the bone.”

  “I suppose. But why don’t you give up being that way for just one day and let me arrange for you to meet with a PI? No commitment and, like I said, I’ll pay for it.”

  “Please don’t do that right now. Maybe later, okay? My focus at the moment is that I have a class to teach at nine, and all I have here is the black dress and pearls I arrived in. And these pajamas.” I waved my arm with its flopping sleeve.

  He smiled. “Maybe your students would like that.”

  “Maybe they would, but I wouldn’t. After we eat the bacon you’ve got cooking—and maybe some eggs and coffee, too?—can you run me back to my car so I can drive home from there and change?”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “In the UCLA lot near the theater.”

  “No problem.”

  “Can I use your toothbrush?”

  “Yep, that, too. Brush your teeth, get dressed and I’ll finish making breakfast.”

  After I brushed my teeth, I shed the pajamas, shimmied my little black dress over my head and glanced around to see if there had been any changes since the last time I’d been there. There hadn’t. Aldous’s bedroom still featured only a platform bed, two nightstands and a single set of blonde dresser drawers with nothing on the top. All of the lights were in the ceiling. Aldous believes in pristine.

  The house itself is set into a hillside way up in Bel Air. It’s what people in LA call a midcentury modern—canted wood-beamed ceilings, neutral-toned wall-to-wall carpeting, sliding doors leading to multiple redwood decks and what seems like acres of glass all around. The bedroom itself has an uncurtained view to the southeast, overlooking the city.

  Aldous had asked me several times to move in with him, but, as was my habit, I had politely declined each time. Of course, my refusal, given how long we’d been going out, was certainly a sign that I had an intimacy problem myself. I was too smart not to recognize that. I had also declined to leave any clothes at Aldous’s, although it would certainly have been convenient that day.

  I ate a quick breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs, plus two cups of strong coffee. Then Aldous and I walked out to the driveway, where his car was parked. I climbed into the passenger seat, and Aldous got in on the driver’s side. I waited for him to turn on the ignition and back out of the driveway, but he just sat there, saying nothing. Finally, I said, “Are you going to drive me to Westwood or are we waiting for something?”

  “I want to talk for a moment, Jenna.”

  “About how messed up I was last night?”

  “Not just that.”

  “What, then?”

  “Do you realize how long it’s been since you stayed overnight here?”

  I realized I didn’t know the exact answer, except that it had been a very long time. “I don’t really know.”

  “It’s been over three months. And before that night three months ago, it had been over two months.”

  “Well, I have my own place, Aldous. And this is kind of far away from the law school.”

  “You know that’s not true, Jenna. And yes, you have your own place, but we used to spend nights here, together. Not often, but at least once a week. And then something happened.”

  “I know.”

  “What happened?”

  CHAPTER 17

  I sighed. I didn’t really want to have the conversation that was about to take place, which seemed to repeat itself like a fugue every few months. But I was stuck.

  “I’m not sure what happened, Aldous. Since we got back from France, we’ve grown farther apart somehow. But maybe this isn’t the right time or place to talk about it. I mean, we’ve tried talking about it at least three or four times, and we just end up going round and round, arguing about which one of us is the most detached person on the planet. So what’s the point?”

  “I’m guessing there will never be a better time or place to try again to talk about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you’re feeling really open and vulnerable because of what happened yesterday with Primo. I’ve never seen you before like you were last night. I’m concerned about you, super worried, really. So maybe we’re both more open to feelings right now, and to talking about them instead of arguing about them.”

  “Do you have a cigarette?”

  He laughed. “You don’t smoke, Jenna.”

  “I used to, as a teenager.”

  “You think that would really help?”

  “Kind of.”

  I thought I had found the perfect out. Aldous loathed cigarette smoke and I doubted he had any around. He probably didn’t even know where to buy them.

  “All right,” he said. “Just hang on a minute.”

  He got out of the car, went into the house and came back a few minutes later with a pack of Marlboros. He climbed back into the car and handed me the cigarettes, along with a pack of matches. “One of my nieces visited a couple of weeks ago and left these.”

  “Thanks.”

  I took the Marlboros from him, tapped out a cigarette, put it in my mouth and lit it. I took a deep drag and started coughing violently. Aldous opened the car door, plucked the cigarette from my hand and dropped it on the concrete driveway. Then he climbed out of the car, stood up, crushed out the cigarette with his foot, got back in and said, “Honey, I think your smoking days are long over.
You’ve lost the skill set. So just tell me what you were going to say without the benefit of a cigarette.”

  There was, I thought to myself, no real reason to hold back. “I was going to say, Aldous, that we’ve grown ever more distant from each other and, to be direct, the problem is that I’m finding you ever more emotionally unavailable—despite your display of caring about me yesterday and today, which I don’t doubt was genuine. And appreciated.”

  He sat for a moment without saying anything. Finally, he said, “Jenna, like you said, we’ve been down this road before, but do you think of yourself as someone who’s emotionally available?”

  “Sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t. I can be cold, I know that. And wrapped up in intellectual things while feelings pass me by. But I laugh a lot. I can cry if I need to. I get angry once in a while. You never do any of those things. And I like to hug people I love. But you hardly ever hug me. You hugged me twice yesterday, and I think the last time before that was sometime last year.”

  “I laugh a lot, Jenna.”

  “That’s true. I’m being unfair.”

  “And I could go to hug classes if you want.”

  I actually burst out laughing. “Now that is funny, Aldous.”

  He started the car and put it in gear. “I suppose it’s not very emotionally connected to drive while we talk, but otherwise you’re going to be late for your class.” We drove for a couple of blocks in silence. Then Aldous said, “Jenna, would it surprise you to learn that I think of you as ever more emotionally unavailable?”

  “Yeah, it would.”

  “Well, I see you as a person who’s always on message, always focused on what you want, always determined to get exactly what you want and not inclined to let emotions get in the way. And you seem more like that every day.”

  “That’s the steely girl on the outside, Aldous, the one who appears to ignore the stresses of everyday life. The one who used to appear in court and now makes appearances in classrooms. And maybe the march to tenure has made me more that way lately. But on the inside I’m not like that.”