I bounced downstairs ready to slay dragons or rescue a damsel in distress—and received a five-star surprise. My father had just returned from the office and we met in the hallway. He observed my finery and hoisted an inquiring eyebrow. I explained I was escorting Connie Garcia to a farewell dinner at the Ritz-Carlton before her departure on a Christmas vacation.
“I do not believe your convertible is suitable for such a festive event,” he said, po-faced. “I suggest you borrow the Lexus for the evening.”
I was shocked, shocked, I could count on the thumb of one hand the number of times he had made that offer.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I promise to return it with no scratches or dings.”
“See that you do,” he said gruffly, and handed over the keys.
Driving the big Lexus was like piloting a safe on wheels after breezing about in my sprightly Miata. But I must admit I enjoyed the solidity and comfort. I opened the sunroof and fiddled with the radio until I found an acceptable station. I shunned my father’s tapes and CD’s, knowing they’d be Guy Lombardo or Mantovani.
I couldn’t have ordered a more enchanting evening. The faintly luminescent sky was cloudless and salted with stars. A pale moon was half a key lime pie and a tangy breeze billowed, too cool for a T-shirt, too warm for a sweater, just right for a dinner jacket. Even inland I thought I could hear the susurrus of the sea. What a night! I prayed it might end as felicitously as it had begun.
I pulled up in front of Connie’s building and saw her waiting inside the glassed lobby. She glimpsed the black Lexus but made no move to exit, obviously expecting my fiery roadster.
She was garbed in a drop-dead gown of shimmery satin in periwinkle blue. Her long black hair was up, braided and held in place with a glittering ornamental comb—something a flamenco dancer might wear. And she carried a small tapestried minaudière.
Connie could never be called elegant—at least by me. I think elegance demands cool serenity, physical slenderness if not emaciation, and sometimes a bloodless hauteur. Connie had something better: a fleshy vitality, open passions, a bursting energy I found bewitching if occasionally daunting.
I gave the horn a brief tottle, and when she glanced at the Lexus again, I waved a beckoning arm through the open window. She came from the lobby and I alighted to greet her. She paused a mo to inspect our transportation delightedly.
“Oh, Archy,” she said, “how grand!”
“Only for tonight,” I told her. “A royal coach for a royal princess.” I moved to kiss her cheek but she fended me off.
“Wait! Wait!” she cried, opened her little bag, fumbled within and brought out a sprig of mistletoe, complete with white berries. She held it over her head. “Now!” she commanded.
Laughing, I kissed her lightly once, twice, thrice. “Good planning on your part, luv. Keep the shrub handy; I’m sure we’ll put it to use.”
“I intend to,” she said firmly.
We drove south on Ocean Boulevard, the radio turned low until “Because You Loved Me,” a pop ballad of the day, came on, and then Connie turned up the volume. She lay back on the leather and gazed at the sequined sky through the open sunroof.
We chatted of this and that as we sped southward on the almost deserted corniche. Connie told me of the holiday parties her family had scheduled. When we passed the first sign announcing the distance from our destination I mentioned I had met a blind woman at the Westmores’ fete who lived in Manalapan.
“Her name is Barney Newfield,” I told Connie. “Isn’t that choice? What a wonderful old lady! She was Walter’s professor and mentor, and apparently they’re still quite close. She’s remarkably sharp and spry considering her age and blindness.”
“You shouldn’t say she’s blind,” Connie chided. “You should say ‘visually impaired.’”
“Correct. And you shouldn’t say I smoke too much. You should say I’m nicotinically challenged.”
“And I should say you’re mentally deprived instead of calling you a nut.”
We both giggled, she held the mistletoe over her head, and I took my eyes off the road long enough to kiss her chin.
We were ushered to a primo table in the dining room of the Ritz. And while I will not claim we were the cynosure of all, we did attract attention. I’m sure some of the curious/envious reaction was due to our formal attire but I think it was Connie’s game with the mistletoe that drew most eyes in our direction. No one seemed to object to our osculation. I certainly didn’t.
I shall not describe our dinner in detail other than to mention the wine I selected was a ’92 Haut-Brion. (I hope you approve.) The reason for my reticence is because I have found when writing about succulent, mouthwatering foods I am invariably driven to dash wildly to the refrigerator to see what’s available. So to prevent my waistline from exceeding my IQ I shall merely report it was a most enjoyable occasion made more memorable by a poignant tenderness I am certain we both felt. It was, after all, a farewell and if our separation was to be of only two weeks’ duration it was sufficient to give our pleasure an elegiac tinge.
We exchanged Christmas presents before our postprandial liqueurs were served. I gave Connie the stud earrings. She gave me gold cuff links in the shape of love knots. I was delighted with my gift, and her joy at receiving the diamonds was obvious. I helped her insert the posts into her pierced lobes and when the jewels were in place they looked smashing. Connie knew it and glowed.
Up to that moment the evening had been pleasurable and continued so. But when our green Chartreuse was brought an incident occurred that gave our dinner an added significance. We raised glasses to each other in a silent toast and I experienced a startling epiphany.
I do not claim my sudden and unexpected discovery rivaled Sir Isaac getting bopped on the pate by a falling apple or Archimedes yelping “Eureka!” in a hot tub, but I thought it a thing of wonder and good fortune. And what exactly was my serendipitous revelation? Patience! You shall learn shortly. Hint: It concerned the Fabergé ovoid.
“Why are you laughing?” Connie asked me.
“Because I’m happy,” I answered, and indeed I was.
We drove home with almost no conversation between us but content all the same. I have long felt a true test of lovers’ intimacy is whether or not they can be both silent and pleased while together. I don’t mean a silence of a day, week, month, or lifetime, but brief periods when nonstop chatter is unnecessary and unwanted, and shared quiet has its own charm.
We arrived at Connie’s condominium, parked, and before leaving the car my light-o’-love again haloed her head with the mistletoe sprig, and this time our embrace and kiss were more impassioned. Then we went up to her apartment.
Connie keeps a liter of Absolut in her freezer for my enjoyment, believing the. way to a man’s heart is through his liver. We each had a noggin of the icy vodka while we watched a video titled The Best of Benny Hill which left us exhausted from laughing. We revived by listening to a tape of Ella Fitzgerald singing “All Through the Night”—so beautiful it leaves one haunted with longing.
Taking the song as our cue we disrobed slowly, smiling at each other.
Connie wore her new earrings to bed.
I won’t tell you where she held the mistletoe.
CHAPTER 26
NEED I INFORM YOU I overslept on Friday morning? (In my own bed I hasten to add.) I awoke to find myself surprisingly clearheaded considering all the wassailing of the previous evening. True, I did seem to be moving slowly, as if a misstep or sudden action might have dire consequences. Fragile! That’s the word. I definitely felt fragile. But nothing two cups of black coffee and three Wolferman’s crumpets (with apricot spread) couldn’t remedy. They did.
I finally arrived at the McNally Building shortly before noon and found on my cluttered desk a message from our receptionist stating Mr. Frederick Clemens had phoned and requested I return his call. I did so and was answered by Felix’s toneless, “Clemens Investments. May I help you?”
I identified myself and we exchanged brief holiday greetings. I asked to speak to the panjandrum and was put through immediately. Again salutations were traded and then Clemens explained the reason for his call.
He said, “I wanted very much to speak to you about what we discussed during your recent visit,” and I thought I detected something oleaginous in his voice. “I felt it would be best to report my decision to you as soon as possible.”
He paused, apparently awaiting a response. The best I could come up with was a tepid, “Of course, Fred.”
“However,” he continued, “it is not a subject I care to talk about on the phone. It really is a private matter, and I hoped to see you today and tell you what I have decided and explain the reasons for it. But unfortunately a critical business meeting in Boca Raton requires my personal attention and presence and so I will be unable to meet with you. I apologize. I am hoping you will be willing to have a one-on-one with Felix, my capable assistant and confidant. He has been thoroughly briefed on the situation and will be able to relay everything I planned to say as well as answering any questions you might have. What do you say, Archy? Will you allow Felix to sub for me?”
I had several instant reactions to his request. Primero, the two men were obviously closer partners than I had suspected. Segundo, his tale of “a critical business meeting in Boca Raton” was complete horsefeathers. Tercero, he probably had another activity scheduled, possibly an assignation with Helen Westmore. And cuarto, the substitution of Felix would slightly alter but not cancel the scheme I had devised after my inspiration at the Ritz during my dinner with Connie.
“I have no objection to meeting with Felix,” I told Clemens, “providing you can vouch for his discretion.”
“One hundred percent!” he said heartily. “I guarantee it! And I want to apologize again for my unavoidable absence and thank you for your understanding cooperation. Now I’ll put Felix back on the line and the two of you can arrange where and when you’ll meet.”
I had a brief and satisfactory conversation with Felix. I explained I had a luncheon appointment at the Pelican Club but if he could join me there at—oh, say two-thirty, the place would be relatively quiet, we could sit at the bar and have a drink or two while we talked. He immediately agreed and I gave him the address and told him how to find the Pelican.
“It’s not a fancy joint,” I warned.
“I’m sure I’ve been in worse,” he said politely. He had a sibilance in his speech that reminded me of Humphrey Bogart.
I tore (literally) through a stack of junk mail accumulated during the past week, deep-sixed everything, and hustled down to the garage. I arrived at the Pelican Club about one-thirty and was happy to see midday diners were already departing. I had two chili dogs and a brew at the bar, ate slowly, and by the time I finished my calorific lunch there was only one couple left in the dining area and I was alone at the bar: Perfect.
I made certain Priscilla removed all evidence I had lunched alone. Then I motioned Simon Pettibone closer and slid a fifty-dollar bill across the mahogany.
“Paying your tab, Mr. McNally?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Pettibone. It’s for you.”
He stared at the bill. “I wonder what General Grant would look like without a beard,” he said. “Probably like Mrs. Grant. Well, I thank you very much for your generosity but who do I have to kill?”
“No mayhem,” I said. “Just a little job for me.”
“Legal?”
“Eminently. Let me explain.”
“I think you better,” he said.
I told him exactly what I wanted him to do. It wasn’t difficult but it had to be done easily, nonchalantly, as if it were routine.
“He’s a bad man,” he said—more of a statement than a question.
“I think he’s bad, Mr. Pettibone. This is one way to find out.”
He stared at me a moment. “All right,” he said finally.
I ordered a vodka and tonic in a tall glass. I had taken only a few small sips when Felix Katz came through the door, paused, looked around. He saw me and sauntered toward the bar. I admired the slinky way he moved, with an almost feline grace. He was wearing black suit, white shirt, black tie, and I wondered what he had against colors.
I slid off my barstool and stood just long enough to shake hands. His four-fingered grip felt odd. Then we sat side by side, and Mr. Pettibone came over to us.
“What will you have, Felix?” I asked him.
“Chivas Regal, please,” he said. Then to Pettibone: “Do you have any Pellegrino?”
“No, sir,” the bartender said. “But we have Perrier.”
“That’ll do fine. In a tall glass, thank you.”
Quite mannerly, our boy, but his politesse was as cold and lifeless as his voice. His courtesies sounded like phrases from a foreign language.
“I don’t want to rush you,” he said, “but I’d like to get back to the office as soon as I can. As Fred told you, he’ll be away and I’ll have to hold the fort.”
“I understand,” I said, and waited while Mr. Pettibone carefully placed the highball on the bar. Katz picked up the glass in his right hand with no fumbling and tasted it.
“Satisfactory?” I asked him.
“Just right, thank you.”
“What have you decided about my proposition, Felix?”
I put it that way deliberately, wanting to see if he’d correct me by saying, “Fred decided...” But he accepted my wording.
“We decided to pass,” he said after taking a gulp of his drink. “I don’t need to tell you it was a very tempting offer. But after considering all the angles I’m afraid it’s a no-go.”
“I’m disappointed,” I said, although I had expected their verdict.
He swung around to face me directly. It was the first time I realized, almost with a shock, what a cadaverous face he had. “You’re disappointed?” he repeated. “Not as much as we are. Mrs. Westmore is not the easiest client to handle, and those children of hers are off the wall. But we’ve made a commitment to her. If we dump her now, our reputation tanks. Not only would she pull her account but all her friends who are clients would yank theirs as well. We can’t risk that. We’ve worked too hard to build our rep as an outfit to be trusted.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, bored because he was just parroting the mendacious excuses Clemens had already used. I drained my drink. “Let’s have another,” I suggested.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Just one more,” I urged.
“All right,” he said. “One more. Then I’ve got to split.” He finished his highball.
Mr. Pettibone took our empty glasses and placed them in the stainless-steel sink under the bar. He brought us refills in fresh glasses, and Felix and I began sipping again.
“Look,” I said, “I can understand how you and Fred feel. It makes sense. But what if Mrs. Westmore pulls out of the deal voluntarily, on her own. If that happens do I get first chance at buying the Fabergé egg?”
He looked at me directly again, not blinking.
“Absolutely,” he said. “You have my personal guarantee.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said. “Makes me feel a little better. I’d really like to get in on it.”
“Don’t blame you; it’s a sweetheart deal. If Fred and I had the liquidity we’d swing it ourselves. But right now we’re tied up in other things.”
“How long have you and Fred worked together?” I asked, hoping it sounded like a casual inquiry.
“Years,” he said. “We met in Denver a long time ago. It was at a convention of security dealers and we hit it off right away. We decided to have our own company someday, catering to a limited number of clients looking for unusual and profitable investment opportunities. It took us a while to get rolling. Long hours and lots of black coffee and Tylenol.”
“But you’re successful now?”
“We’re doing okay but not as well as we could. We’ve been discussing opening branches in ot
her cities.”
“I’m impressed,” I said. “Keep growing and one of these days you might be going public.”
“Could be,” he said. He finished his drink in three deep swallows and stood up. “I have to get back to the office. Glad I had a chance to talk to you and I thank you very much for the drinks.”
“I’ll walk you to your car,” I offered.
I thought he might object but he didn’t. We went out to the parking area, where the maroon Bentley was pulled in alongside my convertible. I wondered how Fred Clemens would get to his critical business meeting in Boca—walk?
“Great car,” I said to Felix.
“Thank you,” he said. “I would have preferred something with a little more zing but Fred feels this projects a better image.”
“He’s more conservative than you?” I suggested.
“You might say that,” he agreed, totally deadpan.
We shook hands; he slid into the Bentley, and pulled away. I stood there until I was certain he was well gone. Then I went back inside. Mr. Pettibone had Felix’s two empty highball glasses ready for me, loosely swathed in paper napkins.
“Beautiful,” I said. “Thank you for a professional job.”
“You may find my prints down near the base,” he said. “But the others are his. I lifted the empty glasses by spreading my fingers inside.”
“I think it’s going to work, Mr. Pettibone.”
“Let me know what happens,” he said, then added, “I don’t much like his looks. He’s got the kind of face you see on a post office wall.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “And you’re right.”
“Has he ever done time?”
“I have no idea. Why do you ask?”
“He talks without moving his lips. Didn’t you notice?”
“No,” I confessed, “I didn’t.”
I went to the public phone at the rear of the bar area and called Sgt. Al Rogoff at headquarters.
“I have the fingerprints of Felix Katz,” I reported.
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