I was honking too, so while Prim sorted out what to wear to a Minneapolis diner, I grabbed a towelling dressing-gown from the wardrobe and had a quick shower myself. Twenty minutes later we were ready to go, looking like a couple of cowboys in blue jeans.
Gluek’s turned out to be the sort of American bar I really love. The place wasn’t full, so the reservation had been unnecessary, but it was lively and there was a jazz band playing on a stage at the far end of the long room, close enough to our booth for us to appreciate it and far enough away for us to be able to hear each other. The draught beer selection was amazing, and the menu was solid, inviting down-home stuff. We learned that old man Gluek had been a Bavarian brewer who came to the Midwest a hundred and fifty years ago and set up in business there. They still make his original Pilsner, so we started with a couple of tall glasses of the stuff, ice-cold. I hadn’t realised I was thirsty until then.
I wasn’t worried about Prim’s drinking any more. She’d sworn off the hard stuff, and I was used to seeing her with a beer in her hand, so it didn’t bother me.
The way I deal with jet-lag is by pretending that it doesn’t exist. My watch said nine twenty and so I tried to force my body to agree with it, by ordering Reuben Balls ... no, I don’t know who Reuben is . . . as a starter, followed by Minnesota walleye pike, oven-broiled with white wine butter and almonds and served with French fries and a selection of steamed vegetables. Prim, being smaller, decided to be more conservative. She started with Syd’s Artichoke Dip, followed by a Silver Ranch Bison Burger, with Provolone cheese, marinated mushrooms and buffalo sauce.
Once I had packed that lot away ... Prim had to quit on the last of the marinated mushrooms . . . and had a fresh Gluek Pilsner in my hand, I had moved into a slightly surreal world, in which my normal existence seemed to have been suspended, and I was just another guy in just another city on a night out with someone I liked, no questions asked, no lies told. I don’t know if anyone in there recognised me, but if they did, they had the manners not to intrude. The band was good too; a third beer and I was truly mellow. I got so in synch with local time that when next I looked at my watch it was half an hour after midnight, and the place was beginning to empty.
I grinned at Prim. ‘Time to retire, honey-pie?’ I said, in a light southern accent that I’d learned for a movie a couple of years back.
‘Are you pissed?’ she asked.
‘Not as far as I know. Just call me chilled out.’
She smiled back at me. ‘Me too.’
The air was hot and heavy as we crossed Sixth and walked the short distance back to the hotel. The manager had gone, and the night staff were in place. We took the lift up to the twentieth floor and, after a certain amount of fiddling with the key card, managed to open our door. I went to turn on the light then stopped. That high up, you tend not to draw the curtains; Minneapolis isn’t that memorable a place, but the view of its downtown skyscrapers, illuminated, their glass walls reflecting each one on to the next, was quite spectacular.
‘We’ve come a long way,’ I said, for no reason in particular.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Prim, as she kicked off her shoes.
‘Since we met. Go back to the beginning, what?, eight years ago; ask any bookie to give odds that at this precise moment we’d be standing here, looking at this view, in these circumstances, and he’d have given seven figures to one against.’
‘But you know what? I’d have taken the bet.’ She smiled up at me. ‘The one thing I knew for certain when we met, Oz, was that we were never going to be ordinary. If I’d known the background about you and Jan, I’d probably have crossed the street to get away from you, but I didn’t and the die was cast.’
‘Do you wish you had?’
‘Crossed the street?’ She gave me a strange smile. ‘No, not for a second. Okay, it didn’t work out between us, but we had what we had and we can still stand here as friends, you looking out for me when I need you. I feel very fortunate to be in that position, and I’m grateful to whatever guiding light brought it about.’
‘You’re not going to offer to show me how grateful, are you?’ I don’t know what made me ask that.
‘No more than you’re going to ask me. If you wanted me to shag you, I would, even if it meant a hell of a lot less to you than it did to me. But you don’t, and that’s just as well, for somehow Tom changed everything. We’re sexual history, Oz, and I can live with that.’ She began to unbutton her shirt. ‘Now I’m going to bed. If you want to close your eyes or turn your back, that’s up to you.’
I picked up a couple of bottles of water from the mini-bar. When I turned to hand her one, she was stepping out of her jeans. If that was the acid test, I passed it. I wasn’t bothered; I’m an actor so I get to see plenty of beautiful women in their underwear or less, but the only one who makes me twitch is my wife.
I handed her the Evian. ‘Thanks,’ she said, then peeled off the rest and got into bed.
I did the same, but first, I went to my bag, took out the photo of Susie and the kids that I carry with me everywhere I go, and placed it so that when I woke up next morning, it was the first thing I would see.
Chapter 16
The second thing that I saw when I woke was Primavera, sitting up in her bed with her back against a pillow, reading the Michael Jecks. It was called The Mad Monk of Gidleigh. I thought to myself that the man went in for colourful titles, and wondered how much trouble he had getting them past the marketing department.
‘What time is it?’ I mumbled.
‘Twenty past eight. I’ve been awake for a couple of hours, listening to you snore.’
‘I’ve told you before, I don’t snore.’
‘Do you ever ask Susie about that?’
‘She tells lies as well.’
‘Aye, sure.’ She saved her page with one of the markers Jeff had given us, and put down the book. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked.
‘First? You’re going to stop being naked, then I will.’ Under the duvet I was like a rock, but then I often am when I waken. ‘Then we’ll have some breakfast; then we’ll go and find your boyfriend’s mother, and put the thumbscrews on her till she tells us where her fucking son is.’
‘As easy as that, eh?’ she said, but a little gloomily.
‘Let’s hope so, till we know otherwise.’
‘Will we go straight to the address that man gave you?’
‘I thought we should check out HHH Asset first, in case she’s still working there. It’s not far from here, according to the map.’
‘Mmm,’ she conceded. ‘Good idea.’ She jumped out of bed; as she headed for the bathroom, I couldn’t help noticing that she’d kept up a healthy tan, and also that whatever had happened to the top deck, her bum was still pretty firm. I turned, looked over my shoulder at Susie’s smiling photo and mouthed a quick ‘Sorry.’
I shook my head, as if to clear the cobwebs, but also to shake some sense into myself and to make myself bring this quest back under my control. I picked up the bedside phone, pushed the button for an outside line and dialled Susie’s mobile number, using that rather than the landline, since I couldn’t be sure where she’d be in the middle of the afternoon.
‘Hi,’ she answered, bright and breezy, ‘you up and about yet?’
‘Just about. Everything okay?’
‘Why shouldn’t it be? How was the flight?’
‘No problem.’
‘And the hotel?’
‘Posh. Very high tech, big telly on the wall and all that stuff; there’s another one in the bathroom, so you don’t have to miss any of The West Wing while you’re sat on the crapper. I tell you, Janet would love it. I’ve even managed to sleep off most of the jet-lag.’
‘It’s good that you were able to. I’ve been having visions of them buggering up the booking and putting you in the same room.’
I laughed, then swung myself out of bed and walked through to the sitting area, getting as far away from the bathroom as possible, in case the p
hone was sensitive enough to pick up the sound of the shower.
‘Have you made any progress yet,’ Susie asked, ‘or haven’t you had time?’
I told her about our accidental meeting with Jeff, and of his confirmation that Wallinger’s mother was still alive and in town. ‘We’re going to run her to ground this morning.’
‘How will you play it?’
‘I’ve still got to work that one out,’ I admitted. ‘I’ll call you later, and tell you how it went.’
‘Do that. What’s Minneapolis like?’
‘Lots of glass. I’ll take some photos, once I’ve had breakfast.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘Okay. Hey!’
‘What?’
‘I love you.’
‘Don’t you forget it either!’
I should have felt better for the call, but I didn’t, only more uncomfortable. At some point I’d tell Susie what had happened, but not over the phone, that was for sure.
By the time both Prim and I were groomed to face the day it was gone nine o’clock. We had a buffet breakfast downstairs, then she blagged a street map from the reception desk, to try to work out where we were going. ‘Marquette Avenue,’ I reminded her, as she peered at the guide.
‘We’re in luck,’ she said. ‘It’s only two blocks away.’ We didn’t know how the numbers ran, but when we asked the duty manager, he told us that we were looking for a building on the corner of Marquette and Eighth Street.
The hotel led more or less directly on to the Skyway system. Charles the chauffeur had told us about it, explaining that it links most of the office blocks and malls in downtown Minneapolis by a network of walkways one floor above street level, so that people can get around in comfort all year round, in the heat of the summer and the cold of the winter.
With a couple of weeks in Las Vegas coming up, I wasn’t bothered about the heat, but Prim, ever the explorer, insisted that we take it. On the map it looked simple, but it wasn’t as easy as all that; we took a couple of wrong turns and found ourselves first in the Wells Fargo Museum, and then in the local version of Saks Fifth Avenue, before finally we reached our destination. There was a big sign over the entrance, which read, ‘The IDS Building’. ‘Look at that!’ I said. ‘In Britain they can barely remember his name; here they’ve named an office block after him.’
We studied the business directory and found HHH Asset, listed alphabetically. As we looked at the board, Prim asked the same question Susie had. ‘How are we going to play this?’
I’d been considering that all the way there, which was maybe why we got lost so often. ‘I think you should stay out of sight,’ I told her, ‘at first at any rate. We don’t want to spook this woman. Paul might well have warned her that you’re likely to show up looking for him, so if you go crashing in there, she might just clam up. Let me go up on my own, and see how I get on.’
‘What will you say to her?’
‘I’ll come up with something, don’t worry.’
She was reluctant to miss the moment, but she saw the sense in what I was saying, so I parked her in a Starbucks ... How did people survive without them and McDonald’s? ... and took the elevator.
HHH Asset seemed to occupy all of one floor; I walked through the glass double doors and into the reception area, where a very well-dressed Chinese girl welcomed me with a dazzling smile. A badge on her jacket said that her name was Mai Lee, and I guessed that she was trained to treat everybody who came through the door as a potential investor.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, in a voice that would have brightened anyone’s day, ‘and how can HHH be of service?’
‘I’m looking for a lady I was told works here.’ I have this thing that when I talk to Americans I sort of pick up their inflection. ‘Her name is Martha Wallinger.’
‘That would be me.’
I turned. An older woman, working at a big desk against a window, had risen and was approaching me. She was stocky, almost square built, heavily made-up and with jet-black hair that looked to be lacquered stiff. If her son looked like me, he must have taken after his father, for she didn’t look a bit like my mother.
She didn’t look hostile, though; in fact, she looked anything but.
‘Mrs Wallinger,’ I began, ‘I’m . . .’
‘I know who you are,’ she drawled. ‘You’re an actor: I saw you in a movie last week. It was called Red Leather, wasn’t it? If you give me a minute I’ll recall your name.’
That was me put in my place, but I extended the hand of friendship nonetheless. ‘Oz Blackstone,’ I announced.
‘Of course, how silly of me not to know straight away. What brings you to Minneapolis, Mr Blackstone?’
‘Call me Oz, please. In five words: Mrs Blackstone, Mall of America.’
She laughed. That seems to answer everything in the twin cities. Mai Lee smiled too, even more sunnily than before. She really was very pretty; I glanced at her left hand. No jewellery: an unattached movie star might have had a chance there.
‘And what,’ Mrs Wallinger went on, ‘brings you to see me?’
‘A promise,’ I told her, and then switched back into lying mode. ‘I made it to your son Paul, two or three years back, when I met him in Los Angeles. We were working on different projects on the same sound-stage, and someone said that we looked a little alike, so we got talking. I told him a little about me, and he told me about himself, and how he’d got started in the business, through the University of Minnesota and everything. I told him that I’d never been there, and he said that if I ever went, I had to be sure to look up his mom. In my world, a promise is a promise, so here I am.’
She beamed, nearly as wide as Mai. ‘How very gallant.’ And then she paused. ‘The problem is, Oz, that we have a rule at HHH that employees do not have personal visits in working hours, and since I’m the office manager, I can’t be seen to break it.’
Oh, bugger, I thought. That’s cut me off short.
‘However,’ she continued, ‘I only work half the day on Wednesdays.’ She smirked. ‘I’m older than I look, you see. So I’ll be free from lunchtime.’
If she was angling for an invitation that wasn’t quite what I’d planned either. I wanted some time alone, no witnesses. ‘Damn it,’ I exclaimed. ‘I’d love to take you to lunch, but I have to meet Mrs Blackstone.’ I couldn’t make myself say, ‘my wife’.
Once again, Mrs W bailed me out. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘why don’t you just call on me? If you have the time, that is. It’s not every day that a friend of my rascal son looks me up. In fact, it’s not any day. Now my other son, his friends pop in to see me all the time.’
She grabbed a pen and a pad from the reception desk. I watched her scribble down the same address that Jeff in the bookstore had given me, and took it from her. ‘That’s where I live. It’s not far from here, down in the Warehouse District.’
‘Okay, that would be fine. Would three o’clock be okay?’
‘Three o’clock would be perfect: and you must bring Mrs Blackstone. I insist.’
The two women smiled me out of the door and into the elevator. When I went back to the Starbucks where I’d left Prim, she wasn’t there, but that didn’t worry me. In all the time I’ve known her, she’s been incapable of sitting on her arse for more than fifteen minutes at a stretch. That’s something else that made her holing herself up in that flat of hers all the more out of character.
I allowed myself my one and only coffee of the day and waited for her. In ten minutes she was back, carrying a Saks bag. She showed me what was inside: a pair of pyjamas, men’s, XL. ‘A present for you,’ she announced, ‘to preserve your modesty.’
‘What did you get for yourself?’
‘It’s only the bottom half that’s the present. The top’s for me.’
‘Seems fair.’
‘How did you get on?’ she asked impatiently, as if the distraction had upset her.
I told her about our three o’clock appointment.
‘Do you think she knows anything?’
‘Prim, I haven’t a clue. I told her that I promised Paul in LA that I’d look her up, and she bought it. She didn’t say, “Didn’t your ex-wife have my son’s kid?” or anything else that might have tipped her hand.’
‘So will I go with you this afternoon?’
‘She’s expecting you. If Paul’s showed her a photograph of you, she’ll twig right away; that’ll tell us plenty.’
I ditched what was left of my coffee . . . frothy gunge, mostly. . . we took our joint nightwear back to the hotel, then spent the rest of the morning looking round the very compact city centre, mostly using the Skyway, but coming down to ground level occasionally and out into the relatively modest heat, to look at landmarks like the modest statue of Hubert Humphrey . . . before he was a senator, and then Vice President, he was Mayor of Minneapolis, and if his statue is life-size he wasn’t very big . . . the Federal Building, and the remarkable Marquette Plaza, all glass front and angled so that when you stand in front and look at it, all you see is a reflection of the sky, a bit scary when a jumbo out of MSP International flies across it.
By the time we’d done that, grabbed a couple of sandwiches, two root beers, then a coffee for Prim in a diner called Ike’s, it was time to head for the Warehouse District.
The map showed us that Mrs Wallinger lived only a few blocks from the Merchant’s, but her address was outside the zone of the Skyway, so we took a cab. The experience couldn’t have been further from London, in every respect. The driver seemed to be on another plane of existence, and I had to guide him street by street until he found the block we were after.
Residentially, downtown Minneapolis is condominium land, but the Warehouse District is different. It is, as its name suggests, a collection of former storehouses most of them now converted into loft apartments. Martha Wallinger’s looked as if it had been done a few years ago, but the refurbished building still looked very smart, as if it was well managed. If I’m ever sentenced to live in Minnesota, I’ll want something like it.
It had a concierge, but each apartment had a buzzer out in the street. I pressed the one for F4/3 and waited . . . for about two seconds: she must have been right by the intercom. She was standing by the elevator too, when it opened on to the fourth floor.
Alarm Call Page 13
