Name Games

by Michael Craft

  While Pierce extolled the good doctor’s impeccable reputation and civic altruism, I reached into the inside pocket of my blazer, which hung on the back of my chair. Names—it seemed I was awash with names that morning, and their unfamiliarity served to remind me that I was still an outsider in Dumont. Though now performing the duties of a newspaper publisher, I could never shake my roots as a reporter, and I still kept always within reach two essential tools. Extracting the notepad and pen from my jacket, I uncapped the Montblanc and scrawled a few pertinent facts regarding Dr. Tenelli.

  Pierce concluded, “He’s one of the few men I know without an enemy in the world. If he decides that it’s good for Dumont County to crack down on porn—on moral grounds, economic grounds, or any other—you can bet that the public will elect as sheriff the candidate who’s taken a tough stand on smut. On a gray Wednesday morning in November, Dan Kerr could plant his ass behind my desk.”

  He swirled the last of the coffee in his mug, paused, checked his watch. “Speaking of my desk, I’d better get moving—I’m late already.” He rose.

  Rising with him, I quipped, “Shouldn’t you shave first?”

  He scratched his chin, allowing, “I keep a razor down at the department.”

  Neil stood. “Want some coffee ‘to go’?”

  “Nah.” Pierce walked to the door. “Thanks, guys. See you later.”

  “Bye, Doug,” we told him. And he was gone.

  Neil gathered some last few things from the table, carried them to the sink, and loaded the dishwasher. “I need to get going myself. Busy day today.”

  I walked up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. “We have the house to ourselves for once. No kids, no cops—”

  “No sale,” he interrupted, turning to me with a laugh. “There’s just no time. Besides, we’re both washed and dressed for the day.”

  “You’re so practical,” I observed dryly.

  “I thought that’s why you found me attractive.”

  “It’s an asset. But there’s a great deal more.” And I kissed him.

  It was a leisurely kiss, longer than a casual peck, but not long enough to qualify as foreplay. Sometimes I think that these are my happiest moments with him, when we share the simple intimacy of a kiss. I love everything about it, everything about him—the plumpness of his lips, the slick feel of his teeth on my tongue, even the smell of coffee on his breath.

  It doesn’t make sense. There’s nothing rational about it.

  It must be pheromonal.

  By midmorning, the buzz of activity in the Register’s second-floor newsroom had risen to its weekly high. The daily deadline wouldn’t pass till evening, but Fridays were hectic all day, with weekend features and Sunday sections being put to bed in advance. In days gone by, the hubbub would have been overlaid by the tatter of typewriters and the pounding of Teletype machines, but now, of course, words destined for print are processed by the silent whir of electronics. Some things haven’t changed though: phones still jangle, editors still shout from desk to desk, writers still dash to their stories.

  Glee Savage dashed past the glass wall of my outer office, catching my eye as I glanced up from my desk. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, but didn’t carry one of her outlandish carpetbag purses, so I knew she wasn’t leaving the building. A minute or two later she returned—with none other than Bruno Hérisson in tow. A big, beefy man, he panted from the exertion of climbing the stairs from the first-floor lobby.

  “Look who’s here, Mark,” Glee called from the doorway to my office.

  I strode from my desk to greet Bruno in the outer office. The space was meant for a secretary, but unlike the previous publisher, Barret Logan, I simply depended on the receptionist at the main switchboard, so the extra room served as an impromptu conference area. The decorating was tasteful if quotidian, and I wondered once more what these quarters might look like if I were to turn Neil loose with his talents—but he had other priorities just then, as did I. Shifting my attention to Bruno, curious about the purpose of his visit, I invited him and Glee to be seated. Closing the door to the newsroom, I joined them.

  As we settled into the upholstered chairs around a low table, I said, “This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Hérisson,” mangling his last name, which came out like “Harrison” with a misplaced accent. Graciously, he invited both Glee and me to use his first name, a familiarity rarely extended by the French, which suggested that he had already spent considerable time in America. We of course reciprocated.

  “Bruno phoned earlier,” Glee told me, “saying he needed to ‘talk.’ Needless to say, my antenna shot up.” Indeed, she already had a steno pad at the ready, folded open atop a stack of papers and magazines she had carried into the room. Turning to the Frenchman, she clicked her pen. “If you don’t mind, let’s run through some background details first. The name is Hérisson, acute accent on the e, correct?”

  “Accent aigu”—he jotted the mark in the air with his finger. “Correct.”

  “And your permanent residence is in France?”

  “Yes, in Paris.”

  “May I ask your age?”

  He squirmed a bit, knotting the tip of his gold silk scarf around an index finger. He acknowledged, “I have forty-eight years.”

  Glee looked up from her pad, slid her reading glasses down her nose, and stared over them at him. “My God, Bruno, you could pass for thirty-eight. This’ll be our little secret.” She winked at him confidentially—what a pro.

  In response to her flattery, the man positively beamed. “You are too kind.”

  “Not at all.” Without missing a beat, she asked, “Married?”

  Bruno cleared his throat. “Divorced.” Speaking slowly, he added, “My work, said my wife, has consumed all my love. We were together twenty years, but she wanted a new life. I could not refuse her, no? We have no children.” He fell silent.

  “I understand,” Glee told him, not recording these particulars. Changing her line of questioning, she asked, “Would I be correct, Bruno, in telling my readers that you’re the world’s most renowned craftsman of miniature period furniture?”

  “But of course.” His attitude was not smug; he was being flatly objective. Then he raised a finger. “To be accurate, chère Glee, you might refer to me as a renowned ‘artisan.’ That is the term often applied to those of us who craft the miniature furniture of highest quality.”

  “Wonderful. Thank you,” she said, making note of the distinction. “And the reason you’re here for the convention of the Midwest Miniatures Society—is it in order to exhibit your pieces or to sell them?”

  “Both. I shall conduct workshops as well. There are many who are eager to learn my methods, my ‘tricks that click,’ as you say.” He chortled.

  Glee leaned forward in thought, fingers to chin. “I have no idea, Bruno, and I’m curious: What is the price range of your furniture?”

  “Ah”—he tossed his hands in the air—“that depends. It depends upon whether the piece is a simple side chair or an intricate cylinder-top desk, either of which would fit into the palm of your hand.”

  I asked, “What’s a cylinder-top desk?”

  Glee turned and explained to me, “It’s a type of rolltop desk. The sliding hardwood cover is a solid cylinder instead of slatted.”

  Bruno continued, “The price further depends upon who is selling it, whether it is I…or…or Cantrell!” His eyes bugged and he became suddenly animated as he invoked the name of the king of miniatures.

  “For instance,” Glee persisted, “what is the price of one of your marvelous cylinder-top desks in the Louis Quinze style?”

  Bruno fidgeted, converting francs on his fingers. “I would charge some six thousand dollars. His majesty Cantrell, however, would sell it for twelve, perhaps as high as fifteen.”

  “Thousand?” asked Glee, dropping her pen.

  “Dollars?” I blurted.

  “It is the truth,” he told us calmly, sitting back in his chair, resting his ca
se.

  “I had no idea…,” Glee muttered as she retrieved her pen and scratched the numbers on her pad.

  I joked, “You could buy a damned nice full-size desk for much less.”

  “Yes,” he conceded, “but it would not be one of my desks.” Harrumph.

  Glee asked him, “Are these markups—a hundred percent or more—typical of Carrol Cantrell’s profits?”

  “Always.” He sniffed.

  I was tempted to comment, Good for King Carrol—whatever the market will bear. But I kept these thoughts to myself.

  Bruno continued, “Cantrell, who cannot himself construct even the most simple miniature…box, is but a merchant, a ‘middleman.’ His arrogance is matched only by his lack of talent—unless, of course, one considers it a talent to merely sell the work of others. He has profited more from my labors than I myself have. His profits are obscene!”

  I wondered wryly whether obscene profits fell under the purview of Dumont County’s obscenity ordinance. Our hot-dog DA could make headlines by raiding the miniatures convention and hauling a group of shackled artisans into court for trafficking in obscenely priced toy desks. As I struggled to compose a clever caption to accompany the page-one photo developing in my mind’s eye, Bruno verbalized his own concluding thoughts:

  “Cantrell is not the king of miniatures, no! He is in fact the reigning parasite of our precious little world. The time has arrived to expose him”—he smashed his clenched fist once, thunderously upon the table—“to topple him!”

  Glee and I glanced at each other, restraining our reaction to this outburst. With perfect composure, she studied her notes while asking, “In what sense, Bruno, do you wish to ‘topple’ your rival?”

  “In the professional sense, of course.” He smiled, instantly more calm, realizing that he had overplayed his position. “I do intend to vanquish Cantrell—in the marketplace.” His smile turned devious. He rumbled, “And I have a plan.”

  Glee mirrored his smug grin. With lowered voice, she asked, “Care to share your plan?” The twitch of her pen betrayed that she now sniffed a real story. She leaned toward him, curling her red lips into a pretty-please pout.

  He leaned back into his chair, now fully at ease, aware that he had tantalized her. Pausing for effect, he fluffed the knot of his silk scarf. “I would not have come to see you, chère Glee, had it not been my intent to speak openly. I thought you might appreciate—how do you call it?—a scoop.”

  “Why me?” she asked through a purr. The sound of her voice was underlaid by the scratch of her pen. “The trade press will be arriving in Dumont any day. I’m sure the Nutshell Digest would be eager to print your exclusive.”

  “I’m sure.” He smiled. “But I prefer to speak to you.” His tone insinuated an interest in Glee outside the realm of journalism.

  “I’m all ears, Bruno.” Her sensual tone echoed his; if she was faking it, Oscars have been given for shoddier performances. I suddenly felt like a voyeur and was tempted to leave the room. I stayed though—we were sitting in my own office. The rasp of her pen stopped as she waited.

  Bruno cleared his throat. “I am prepared to announce the imminent opening of my own American workshop, showroom, and museum, the Petite Galerie Hérisson, which will eclipse the Hall of Miniatures—King Cantrell’s monopolistic enterprise—in the grandeur of its scale and the scope of its offerings.”

  Glee got busy with her notes. “Where will this be located?” she asked, though we could both guess the answer.

  “Los Angeles, naturally—not a block away from Cantrell. Negotiations on the property are all but finished. Installation will begin when the papers are signed.”

  Glee’s tone was all business now. “You mentioned the ‘scope of offerings’ of your showroom. Can you be more specific?”

  “Galerie Hérisson will be, most certainly, the exclusive purveyor of my own work to the American market—Cantrell will not reap another sou from the sweat of my labors. In the eyes of many, that alone would be enough to secure the superior reputation of my showroom. But there is more, far more. I have already secured agreements from many of the world’s most noted artisans to represent them through my Petite Galerie. Cantrell will lose his most prestigious suppliers.”

  Glee and I looked at each other again, each with arched brows, acknowledging the volatile situation that had landed in Dumont. As Glee seemed at a temporary loss for words, I asked the next logical question: “Does Carrol Cantrell know of your plans yet?”

  Offhandedly Bruno told us, “I intended to discuss my plans with him during our drive from the airport yesterday, but his majesty was more interested in a running critique of my road manners.” He smiled as a thought occurred to him. “Perhaps it may not be necessary for me to broach this—perhaps he will read of it in your journal.”

  “It would really be better if he heard it from you,” Glee suggested. “Telling him directly would be the polite thing to do.”

  “Ah, yes.” He mulled the situation. “Politesse.”

  At that moment, the discussion was interrupted by a rap on the glass wall to the newsroom. Standing at attention outside the closed door was my managing editor, Lucille Haring—there could be no mistaking that bright shock of short-cropped red hair, which stood in such stark contrast to her drab-colored outfit, one of several mannish suits she always wore. I waved her in.

  As she entered, Bruno stood, waiting to be introduced. I stood to take charge of the formalities. I did a respectable job of the Frenchman’s name this time, briefly reviewing his background. Then I said, “Bruno, this is Lucille Haring, the Register’s managing editor.” He seemed unsure of this title, so I explained, “Lucy is my second-in-command,” which he absorbed with a flash of understanding.

  I was the only person alive who called her Lucy to her face, and she didn’t seem to mind. Nonetheless, everyone else addressed her as Lucille or Miss Haring, with the exception of a few older newsroom veterans who simply called her Haring. The reason for these name games, for my staff’s reticence to get chummy with Lucy, was that she was easily the stiffest woman ever to spike a story.

  “Enchanté” said Bruno with a bow of his head. I could tell by his expression that he was trying to size her up, wondering her age, perhaps. She wore no makeup, complicating the puzzle. As her employer, I’d seen her files, and I could recall that she was thirty-something, but to be more specific would be guesswork.

  “My pleasure,” Lucy responded without inflection, extending her hand and pumping his once, briskly. She may have snapped her heels.

  Bruno seemed stunned by her military manner, but I had come to view it as unremarkable. I’d first met the woman some fifteen months earlier, while working on the biggest story of my career at the Chicago Journal. True to her bearing, she did in fact have connections to the Pentagon, and she was assigned by an army crony of the paper’s esteemed publisher to direct a massive computer upgrade at JournalCorp. She turned out to be a key ally of mine in breaking my story that summer, demonstrating impeccable research skills and an innate nose for news. When I moved up to Dumont as publisher of the Register, she surprised me by applying for the editor’s position. After some initial hesitation (I didn’t like raiding the Journal’s staff, and her lack of “people skills” was disquieting at best), circumstances convinced me that she was in fact the right person for the job. I have never once regretted that decision.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she told the group. “Mark, something’s up. Thought you’d want to know.” She stopped, glancing about the room with jerky little bird-twists of her head, as if she wanted to be alone with me.

  Bruno decoded this signal with ease, offering, “I must be on my way, my friends. Besides, I have finished—I have told you of my plans.”

  Glee rose from her chair, flipping her notebook closed, her interview abruptly ended. She asked Bruno, “Can I reach you at your motel if I need a few more quotes for my story?”

  “But of course, chère Glee.” He edged toward the d
oorway, nodding a farewell to each of us. Then he stopped, remembering. “This weekend, however, I shall drive to Milwaukee—with regard to the matter we discussed. But you can reach me on Monday.” And he left the office to retrace his path through the newsroom.

  Crossing to the doorway, Glee called after him, “Travel safe, Bruno. Good luck.” She waved.

  I muttered, “He’ll need all the luck he can get.” Judging from the driving technique I’d witnessed the previous morning when he’d roared up to Grace Lord’s house, I wouldn’t want to share the same road with him.

  Glee commented to Lucy and me, “He’s quite a character.”

  I laughed at the understatement.

  Lucy wondered aloud, “But is he ‘news’?”

  “Absolutely,” said Glee with mock gravity. “He and Carrol Cantrell are the two biggest figures in the small world of miniatures, at least according to the experts at Nutshell Digest.”

  Lucy looked at Glee as if she were joking.

  From the papers that Glee carried with her notes, she pulled a copy of the magazine in question, displaying its cover. The headline under the Nutshell Digest masthead read, DUMONT PREVIEW: MIDWEST MINIATURES SOCIETY TO CONVENE.

  The trace of a grin twisted Lucy’s mouth. She cracked, “It’s aptly named.” The comment was dry, but from Lucy it was the equivalent of a knee-slapper.

  Watching this exchange, I couldn’t help but notice how strikingly different these women were from each other. Glee Savage: fifty-two, still man-hungry, flashy dresser, glib talker, features editor (soft news). Lucille Haring: some twenty years younger, no interest in men (lesbian, in fact, but no active love life to my knowledge), not much of a dresser, not much of a talker, managing editor (hard news, hard as nails). In so many ways, they were polar opposites, and yet, their working relationship was comfortable and cordial, each respecting the other’s talents, each admiring the other’s success in a profession once dominated by men.