Revenant Rising

by M. M. Mayle

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  Closed inside the conference room with fifteen and more phone messages spread out on the table in front of her, Laurel debates which, if any, calls she’s inclined to return. Several are the equivalent of junk mail and can be set aside. Mrs. Floss gets an automatic pass, as does Ryan Walker for whom absence has not made the heart grow fonder. David’s not going to make the cut either, although he does deserve a progress report. Her brothers and sister can wait because chances are she’ll see them tomorrow. That leaves just Nate Isaacs to deal with or suffer the consequences.

  She dials the number he left and prepares to hear an intermediary tell her to hold for Mr. Isaacs. Instead the great man picks up.

  “Laurel Chandler returning your call.”

  “Good morning, Ms. Chandler. Because he’s not at his hotel, I assume Colin’s with you.”

  “He is in the building, but he’s busy at the moment. May I give him a message?”

  Nate Isaacs pauses so long she begins to think the connection has broken. “He’s unable to come to the phone, is that it?” he finally says. “You are calling from work, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am at my place of business. I’m calling from a conference room while Mr. Elliot uses my private office to determine topical priorities for his biography-in-progress. I prefer not to disturb him unless there is real need.”

  “I might have known.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing. Never mind. When you decide that he may be disturbed, please tell him Anthony’s caper was leaked to the papers. I have that on good authority. He also should be told that Saul Kingsolver’s putting up a fight and David Sebastian’s on it. Be sure to tell him reliable word has it that Sarjit Singh at the Rajah label is showing interest. And let him know Gibby Lester was found dead in his West Village shop yesterday, a presumed homicide. Oh, and there are a couple of recent purchases he needs to verify.”

  “Does any of this require his immediate attention?”

  “As in right this very minute? I suppose not. I would, however, like to hear from him the minute he’s free.”

  “I’ll let him know, and the minute he’s free I’m sure he’ll be in touch.”

  “Make it soon, okay?” I’m going to be hard to catch until Tuesday morning at the earliest. Which reminds—are you free to meet with me for dinner on Tuesday?”

  “Dinner is not necessary.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A spoonful of caviar will certainly help the medicine go down, won’t it? Shall we say seven if that works for you? I’ll confirm by noon on Tuesday.”

  “Very well. We’ll exchange confirmations by noon on Tuesday. Until then, good day.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Laurel scoops up all the messages and returns to Amanda’s territory, where she feeds them into the shredder one by one.

  “Uh-oh,” Amanda says, “I’m guessing something didn’t go well and I’ll nominate Nate—”

  “Went fine. No problem.” Laurel sails on into her own office, where she discovers Colin has drawn shooting stars and cascading hearts around her Intermezzo inscription and started what only can be another adventure of Jeremiah Barely-There in the space below.

  “Oh, let me see.” She sits on the arm of the sofa and reads over his shoulder.

  Look whose come to Goosemud Road

  By way of the Alhambra

  We find Vasco and Viola da Gamba (short 3 syllables, cadence)

  He’s the almost explorer and all-round amusing fellow;

  She’s the instrument of his desire and known as Mellow Cello.

  They’ve been to Argentina where they learned to dance the samba

  They’ve passed through Vera Cruz where they learned to sing LA Bamba

  Bellow hello (elaborate)

  Shout Caramba (reorder)

  Ravello (where)

  She finishes with her lips moving and an accusatory expression on her face when she looks him in the eye.

  “I know, I know, it’s not what I was supposed to be doing, and even if it was, it’s only a sketch. The cadence is all off—too many syllables or not enough—and the references could be too—”

  “This is the book you have to do, Colin. A collection of Jeremiah stories for kids of all ages. I absolutely love this . . . this work in progress.” She reclaims the legal pad and her pen and returns to her desk. “Who wouldn’t love an instrument of desire known as Mellow Cello, even if the full meaning might not be apparent to everyone.”

  “That your way of sayin’ the Intermezzo project’s in the toilet?”

  “It’s my way of saying you should consider sharing this other talent you have and perhaps put the Intermezzo project aside for today.

  “You’re callin’ today off just because I wrote some nonsense shit for my boy instead of what you asked for?” He half rises from the sofa.

  “No, I’m calling today off because I really need to get out of here.”

  “And away from me.” He gets to his feet, scowling.

  “No! Let me finish.” She gets to her feet. “I’m declaring this a free day, that’s all.”

  “I don’t want to be free. I’ll cooperate, I promise.”

  “Not today. Today I want to ride the Staten Island Ferry. Or go to Coney Island. The Statue of Liberty’s a possibility, so is the Circle Line cruise around Manhattan.”

  “Am I coming with you?’

  “I hope so.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Afternoon, April 4, 1987

  Two hours later, it no longer matters if Laurel’s impulse was only madcap or borderline insane. Spontaneity was lost the minute Bemus and his apparent clone, Tom Jensen, were called upon to manage the logistics of a so-called getaway. Now, seated within their protective custody on the upper deck of a tourist boat embarked on a circumnavigation of Manhattan, she tries not to feel chastened, even though no one has suggested her wishes were unreasonable.

  The three-hour cruise is uncrowded for good reason. Heavy overcast advertises worse to come, and a slight breeze is building to a bullying bluster as they parallel the West Side Highway and slip past a long series of piers. From water level, building density at midtown appears fortress-like for being cast in unrelieved gray without the distraction of glare or reflection. This effect is even more pronounced as the Circle Liner moves past the World Trade Center towers and those shelf-like extensions into the Hudson that support what she likes to think of as supplicants to the towers. But today the supplicants more closely resemble bulwarks.

  An amplified tour guide—part historian, part stand-up comic—pays homage to these citadels of commerce and leaves nothing unsaid about Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. She deafens herself to this narrative and has to be nudged twice when Colin asks where she worked when she was an ADA. She tells him to use the Brooklyn Bridge as a line of demarcation when they come to it and to look inland from there for a general idea of where she used to work. “Where I simultaneously fulfilled my promise and wasted my youth,” she concludes.

  “I hope you don’t actually mean that.”

  “Well, maybe not that strongly,” she says, but when they pass under the bridge she focuses on the Brooklyn shore.

  Soon after, somewhere between the Manhattan and Williamsburg bridges, Bemus volunteers to hit the concession stand for something to drink. She asks for a beer, so does Colin. Then they dig into corned beef sandwiches brought from the Stage Deli at her request. The sandwiches would each feed two people; they each eat enough for two people, including whole kosher dill pickles.

  “Damn good thing I’m sleeping alone tonight,” Colin says, suppressing a belch and releasing a whiff of garlic-breath no less pungent than hers.

  Piped-in narrative by the tour guide keeps conversation to a minimum. This suits Laurel’s mood and evidently works for Colin as well because he’s made no attempt to develop any particular comment into a prolonged exchange.

  The boat draws even with the Belleview Hospital complex be
fore she focuses on Manhattan again, this time viewing it as a labyrinth in which it’s all too easy to disappear—to become unrecognizable to oneself, as went Colin’s earlier observation.

  She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, thinking to expand on that observation and is amused to see that he’s nodded off. Chin on chest, hands loosely folded on lap, he’s deeply submerged in the long duster-like coat Bemus brought along when summoned for the outing.

  With at least half of Manhattan Island yet to be circled, Laurel scrunches down inside her own coat to contemplate what brought her here today. She can’t blame a nostalgic urge like the one taking her to Jockey Hollow yesterday because she’s never before been on a Circle Line cruise. Although she’s seen these vistas before, she’s never seen them from this angle and from this perspective—as an outsider.

  No single word or phrase describes her feelings until they’re passing Roosevelt Island and snatches of a song fill her consciousness. The song is synonymous with Frank Sinatra and synonymous with having survived the crucible that is New York.

  She hums a few notes under her breath and adjusts her outlook.

  Upon rejoining the Hudson River, passage beneath the George Washington Bridge invites an estimate of how many times she’s crossed it and that would be the same as estimating how many times she was hiding fear, exhaustion, and worry when she crossed it. She does not look up. She stops surveying the heights adjacent the bridge well before she might see Grant’s Tomb up there and envision the nearby Columbia University campus. The New Jersey shore doesn’t hold any appeal either, but she patiently watches it go by until she guesses them to be nearing the West Side piers and the end of the voyage.

  Mindful of who might be looking or listening, she’s cautious in her attempt to wake Colin. At first she repeats his name, just loud enough for him to hear, and gives him a discreet nudge with her elbow. When that doesn’t work, she squeezes his hand and that results in him latching on to her hand like he’s never going to let go. She wrenches loose from his grip and gives his shoulder a rough shake that does the job. His eyes blink open in a long moment of surprised confusion.

  “Oh shit . . . oh, don’t tell me I’ve been asleep,” he groans.

  “No big thing. You didn’t miss anything and you must have needed the sleep.”

  “Yeh, but are you ever gonna forgive me? First chance I get and . . . shit . . . I can hear this being thrown up to me for the next twenty years.”

  “Twenty years? What are you talking about? Don’t be silly! Besides, there’s nothing to forgive. This was a free day, remember?”

  “Yeh, I remember but—”

  “Not another word, okay?”

  He’s still berating himself when Bemus interrupts to give instructions for leaving the boat. “We’re going off first, so I want us at the gate before the boat docks,” the bodyguard says.

  Laurel could argue this logic until the other bodyguard explains that a sizable number of passengers appear to have ID’d Colin and will mob him given the chance—a delayed departure being that chance. As it is, their little party creates quite a stir while moving from the upper deck to the disembarkation point on the main deck. Once there, Laurel adds to the ripple of excitement by stripping off her coat and tossing it over the side, where it balloons and takes brief flight before settling onto the murky waters of the Hudson River.

  “What the hell?” Colin falters in surprise. “Did I just see you throw your coat away? Did you mean to do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dare I ask why?”

  “I don’t need it anymore.”

  “Of course not, not on a perfect spring day like this.” He glances upward at a lowering sky that will release rain any minute.

  She anticipates his next move and takes two steps backward as he opens his voluminous coat to her. From almost any angle his gesture resembles that of a flasher, and there’s no way she can keep from laughing. Nor can the staring bystanders Bemus and his cohort are keeping at bay. Colin is last to see what’s funny and is a good sport about it—such a good sport that he could be playing to the crowd when he removes the coat and ceremoniously capes it around her to scattered applause. Before she can object to this, the boat docks, the gate is thrown open, and Tom Jensen sprints ahead to bring the car around.

  She and Colin are instructed to precede Bemus in a variation on the escape from the Temple of Dendur. They hurry along the pier toward the closest pickup point, and this begins to look like another clean getaway.

  Shut safely inside the car, an argument begins the moment Bemus asks her destination and her answer is not the one the client wants to hear. This could be a replay of last night’s heated exchange about the garage door opener, with each of them pressed into opposite corners of a backseat not wide enough to accommodate much in the way of adversarial maneuvering.

  “I hate that you’re going home alone!” Colin says for the third or fourth time.

  “And I hate that you hate it!” She especially hates that the controversy is being conducted in the presence of Bemus and the other bodyguard.

  “But you have to admit my suggestion’s workable. We’ll take you home now and come back for you tomorrow when—”

  “Not tomorrow. Our agreement stipulates no Sundays.”

  “But . . . not even to make up for me sleepin’ through today’s—”

  “There’s nothing to make up. I’m the one who blew off today’s session.”

  “Yeh, maybe you are, but I’m dead certain that was because I didn’t get on with the job when you asked me to this morning. Please let me—”

  “Please stop it. Tomorrow I have to go see my father. It’s been too long since my last visit, I can’t put it off any longer.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, I don’t think so. After I see him I’m going to New Haven, where I have other family business to take care of.”

  “I’ve no problem going to Connecticut. I know, let me take you there—spare you the driving—and on the way we can talk about whatever it is you want to talk about.”

  “Even if you did, there’d be nothing for you to do while I’m busy with my brothers and sister. And no one should have to see the inside of a nursing home without good reason.”

  “I know New Haven quite well, actually. Had my very first American gig there at Newt’s Place. Whilst you’re busy, I could pop in and see if anyone there still remembers me. As for nursing homes, I’ve been inside a few, they hold no special terror.”

  “You may not want to go anywhere with me after you hear what I did. Earlier, while you were alone in my office and I was sifting through all those phone messages, I returned a call from your manager. He wanted to speak to you and I said you couldn’t be disturbed. Once he was convinced I meant it, he left several messages for you. I took them—I memorized them—and waited until now to give them to you because he said none required your immediate attention.”

  “Go ahead, let’s have ’em, then,” Colin says.

  “Very well . . . Anthony’s fax escapade was leaked to the press . . . Saul Kingsolver is not going down easy, but David’s on it . . . Sarjit Singh of the Rajah label is said to be interested . . . then there was something about a couple of purchases you need to verify. Oh, and he said to let you know someone called Gibby Lester was found dead, a probable homicide.”

  His grimaced reaction suits news of a sudden death, news of unwanted publicity, annoyance with her delay in bringing any of these issues to his attention. But it’s the request for verification of purchases that has him going.

  “Nate didn’t say where these purchases were made, did he? Or when? Did he say when?”

  “No. This was mentioned almost as an afterthought with no specifics other than recent. Recent purchases, he said.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m very sure.”

  “And Gibby Lester, you say . . . Jesus, that’s two in a week.”

  “Two what?”

  “Forme
r parasites. A few days ago I heard that a photojournalist that used to make a living off stalking me was murdered in L.A., and now the Lester bloke.”

  “Was he also a paparazzo?”

  “No, he was in another line of business, and like the fuckbag in L.A., we never could make anything stick to him for very long. Chances are, though, that my name’s stuck to him and if his death gets much media mention I’ll get honorable mention, same as when the California death was reported.”

  “Is this all something I should know about? As regards your biography, of course.”

  “Yeh, I’m afraid you’ll have to be told. Only reasonable for you to know. I could tell you myself, actually . . . I could tell you about it tomorrow, couldn’t I? That is if you weren’t so hell-bent on denying me the pleasure of taking you on your rounds.”

  This is no Mrs. Floss she’s looking at; he’s not that transparent, and he’s certainly not confused. But he is getting the same message across that she received from the old lady—that by accepting his favor she would be doing him one.

  They ride on in silence for the last few blocks to Rockefeller Center and her parking garage, where she doesn’t bother resisting when Colin insists on waiting with her while a valet goes for her car.

  “This is it for today, then?” he says when the car arrives and she gives him back his coat.

  “I’ll call you later with the directions to my house and the time I’d like to get underway tomorrow.” She pretends she hasn’t just made a huge concession as she gets into the Range Rover and buckles the seatbelt. He squeezes her shoulder, activates the door locks, and shuts her in without so much as a word; his triumphant grin says it all.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Evening, April 4, 1987

  The unresolved issues gouging Nate for most of the transcontinental flight are shelved the moment of touchdown in L.A. Further thought about derailing Saul Kingsolver, heading off David Sebastian, and interpreting news of a West Village drug dealer’s violent death will have to wait until his return to New York. Reinforcing what’s known about Cliff Grant’s execution better be the only thing on his mind for the next three days or this trip will be an even bigger fiasco than last Wednesday’s attempt to repackage Colin Elliot.