Revenant Rising Page 16

  “Oh, so you haven’t really started yet,” David says with an approving smile. “Still getting to know each other. Splendid, I’m very glad to hear that. I assured Laurel you undoubtedly had interests in common. An ‘I told you so’ may be in the offing.”

  “Maybe not. It’s my understanding that Colin requested the interview sessions take place out of doors whenever possible and in settings where walking could be incorporated. I don’t believe the establishment of interests in common was ever declared as a goal,” Nate says.

  “Thank you, I stand corrected,” David says without switching focus from Colin whose jeans and Western boots he’s now eyeing. “Where are you headed today?”

  “A park she’s recommended in New Jersey.”

  “That would have to be Jockey Hollow.”

  “Yeh, that’s the one.”

  “It’s a longtime favorite of hers and she particularly loves it in spring. So will you. You’ll think you’re at home when you see the old-growth trees and the dogwood in the understory.”

  “Dogwood won’t bloom for another month,” Nate says.

  “True, but the forsythia, which is in bloom, will make the drive through Morris County worthwhile,” David says and gets to his feet. “Listen, as much as I’d love to talk botany for the rest of the day, I do have to be on my way. Before I leave, though, I’d like to go on record as being foursquare behind your decisions, Colin. And I can even get behind the harsh methodology you intend to employ in giving these people their walking papers. I’ve come to think of it as Icon Organizer syndrome, this trend that’s taken hold since that misguided bunch handled you with rubber gloves instead of the kid gloves you deserve.”

  “I don’t know about the kid gloves part, but that’s a great line, expect me to use it.” Colin gets to his feet, claps David on the back and moves with him toward the door.

  Nate remains seated, impervious to the bonhomie and rubber-glove bullshit, mired in misgivings dominated by David’s disavowal of Laurel Chandler as a direct extension of himself.

  “And you too, Nate,” David calls from the doorway with a jaunty salute that brings Nate to his feet and grudging attention.

  “I was just telling Colin that by extending his stay he’ll be able to attend the gala I’m hosting for Rayce Vaughn next Thursday at Tavern on the Green. Looking forward to seeing you there as well. You did receive your invitation?”

  “I’ll have to check.”

  “Be sure you do. I wouldn’t miss it if I were you—everyone will be there.”

  “Right,” Nate says. No chance he’ll reject the invitation now—now that he sees it as a front-row seat for David’s managerial ambitions with Rayce Vaughn as chief recruiter and a full audience of industry reps lobbying for favorable positions.

  Once David’s out the door, Nate returns to the breakfast spread and loads up on pastry and coffee. “I’ll give him this,” he says, “he’s smart enough to keep her outside the main operation.”

  “Who? What operation?” Colin says, in the act of shoveling too much fruit onto too small a plate.

  “Never mind. Nothing. Thinking about Kingsolver and the manner in which you want him kicked to the curb.”

  They resume their seats, where Nate picks up the thread: “I hope you know if you insult the pompous prick with a faxed rejection you’ll be taking on a considerable enemy.”

  “When’s he hesitated to insult me? We don’t have to revisit the situation, just fucking get on with it.”

  “Fine. I’ll start with the radio stations. Let him hear it on the air before I send the fax.”

  “And when will you get round to sending the fax?”

  “Monday at the earliest. I’ve got plans for the weekend and probably won’t think about Pinnacle and Saul Kingsolver the whole time.”

  “Brilliant! Now tell me, what’s next week look like for you?”

  “I’ll be in town, and since there’s no one to lock horns with on your behalf, I’ll be catching up on some of my own interests. Why?”

  “I want you to meet with Laurel Chandler before too much more time goes by.”

  “What for?” Nate’s eyes go down to slits when they shouldn’t have.

  “Not for the reason you appear to be thinking. Nothing personal, and if I ever find out you’re independently running a background check on her, it’ll be you receiving the fax after hearing on the radio that you’ve been sacked.”

  “Then what the fuck for?”

  “For the purpose of filling her in about the accident. The before, the during, and the after. I’ll never be able to do it.”

  “Because you prefer not to.”

  “Because all I know of it is what you’ve told me. So doesn’t it make better sense for her to hear it straight from the source?”

  “Can’t very well argue with that, can I? Okay, I’ll do it. Tell her to give me a day or two’s notice so I can allot enough time. And while you’re at it, you might want to alert Chris Thorne to describe the recovery period for the same reason—because he knows more about it than you do.”

  “I’ve thought of that, but there’s no easy way to get him together with Laurel other than by transatlantic phone.”

  “She’s unwilling to change venues, I take it.”

  “Out of the question, she said.”

  “Speaking of—you bringing the boys over for part of your stay? I’m assuming it was Anthony who raised the most hell about your being away longer than expected.”

  “Yeh, Anthony it was, but he’ll just have to ride it out because he’s not doing that well at school. And Simon can’t fly because he has one of his ear infections. Situation’s not apt to change.”

  “You could always go home sooner now that the principal contract talks are in the toilet.”

  “Those talks were never the reason I agreed to lengthen my stay, as I just explained to David and shouldn’t have to explain again to you. I’m remaining in New York till Easter weekend for the sole purpose of relating to Laurel Chandler the parts of my life story I’m able to. If anything else happens to get accomplished during that period, it’ll be incidental.”

  “If you say so.” Nate stands and prepares to go. “Have a productive day over there in the blooming forsythia forests of Jersey. I’ll check in with you later.”

  They part amicably for the first time in days. Weeks, even. Buoyed by this rare occurrence, Nate strikes out for Bemus’s room at the far end of the corridor.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Morning, April 3, 1987

  A half hour after the confab with Nate and David, Colin moves through the hotel lobby with Bemus to the park-side door and the hired car waiting at the curb. Today it’s a black Jaguar XJ6, more to his liking than the Cadillac for being familiar. He sweeps aside the morning papers left on the front passenger seat, climbs in, buckles in, and settles back for the ride to Jockey Hollow and whatever that may bring.

  “I left that stuff on the seat for a reason,” Bemus says as he accelerates into traffic. “As predicted, they’ve got Laurel Chandler pegged as your new love interest and they’re callin’ her a mouthpiece in a nasty way.”

  “Shit! Which ones?” Colin makes a grab for the newspapers that are now beneath his feet.

  “All of ’em, with one reporting where you’re stayin’ and that your stay’s been extended. Things are definitely heatin’ up, so I’ve got Tom Jensen on standby for the next time you wanna run loose here in the city.”

  “Suggesting I’ll stand out less with a bleedin’ entourage, are you then?”

  “Suggesting I’m doin’ the best I can if I have to abide by your rules.” Bemus noses the car into slow-moving southbound traffic. “The lady was spooked yesterday when she saw the potential for a mob scene in the museum—you can’t deny that—and I’m gettin’ the message it could matter a lot how the lady feels about hangin’ out with you.”

  Undistracted by Bemus’s projection, Colin shuffles through the foot-printed tabloids until a picture leaps off a page. />
  “Sonofabitch!” The picture shows him with Laurel Chandler in front of a Fifth Avenue store. They’re both in profile, both are smiling, and both would appear to be very much into each other, a condition heavily implied by the caption. “Can you believe this shit?” he says.

  “’Fraid so and there’s more.” Bemus negotiates a quick turn onto a westbound cross street. “One of the bastards caught us at her building yesterday when you insisted on seeing her to the door after the museum caper. I never saw a thing, so they gotta be using super long lenses.”

  Colin grimaces, smoothes open another daily and finds the picture Bemus just described along with a lengthy caption.

  The sensational Laurel Chandler, former Manhattan prosecutor and Glen Abbey, NJ heiress presently associated with the prestigious midtown law firm of Clark, Sebastian & Assoc., could be just what the doctor ordered for magnetic Brit rock star, Colin Elliot, formerly of Verge fame and now coming off a long convalescence. The new mouth piece appears to be very good medicine indeed.

  Colin groans, wads the paper into a ball and tosses it over his shoulder as the ambiguous wording of the last sentence sinks in. Same old shit—innuendo, journalistic smirking—they know exactly how to walk the fine line. “What’s the other one say?” he grumbles. “Will I wanna open a vein if I read it?”

  “The last one’s not quite so bad. It’s in the Post and fairly straightforward.” Bemus makes the turn south onto Ninth Avenue where it’s relatively smooth sailing.

  Colin finds the Page Six item beneath a stock photo of himself.

  Redoubtable British pop star, Colin Elliot, in town for contract talks with his record label, took time off for a spot of culture at the Met Museum yesterday. His attentive companion was Laurel Chandler, who once made her own headlines as the NYC prosecutor of a landmark case leading to the conviction and eventual imprisonment of seven roadies found guilty of procuring underage sex partners for their musician employers. The gorgeous if somewhat incongruous couple was recently seen window-shopping on Fifth Avenue and enjoying an aphrodisiac of raw Blue Points at the Oyster Bar of Elliot’s hotel. Rumors began circulating late yesterday that Elliot may be severing ties with Pinnacle, his record label of longstanding. Nate Isaacs, Elliot’s venerable manager, could not be reached for comment.

  Colin wads this one up as well and flips it into the backseat. “That’s as mixed a message as I ever care to read,” he says. “Nate’ll be happy, though. He won’t mind bein’ called ‘venerable’ or be bothered that his day job didn’t rate mention.”

  “Did you have any clue about who Laurel Chandler was when you picked her for the writing job?”

  “Did I know she was the crusading prosecutor that sent ripples through the industry by cleaning up the roadie-underage groupies scene? Hell no.”

  “If you’d known would you still have picked her?”

  “Hell yeh.”

  “Then I’m right, this isn’t strictly about gettin’ your story told. You had her picked when you spotted her in the hotel lobby that day—before you ever even thought about taking on a biographer.”

  “Yeh, you’ve got me there and I get a chill thinking how I joked with you about procuring her for me . . . Jesus.”

  “You must’ve got a major chill when you came face-to-face with her at your lawyer’s office.”

  “I did and it was all I could do not to break into a chorus of ‘Some Enchanted Evening’.”

  “You’ll have to hum a few bars, don’t think I know that one.”

  “It’s an older version of ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’ and if you repeat one word of what I’m telling you to anyone, I’ll have your tired arse as well as your job.”

  “Sir, yes sir!” Bemus delivers a jocular nod to his military past and the usual threat.

  At the approach to the Lincoln Tunnel, Colin takes a second look at the telephoto shot of himself and Laurel at the entrance to her midtown building. “Eerie, this one with the long lens. As though Cliff Grant’s come back from the dead.”

  “Then you did hear what happened to him. I was wondering—Nate was wondering.”

  “Yeh, I manage to find out a few things without your help. Or Nate’s. Rayce filled me in during our chat last night and now I can’t help thinking there’s some sort of Hydra effect goin’ on . . . as though Cliff Grant’s head’s been cut off and three more sprung up in its place,” Colin says.

  “Do I know Hydra?”

  “Greek mythology. Don’t mind me, I’m grasping at straws. Feeble excuses, they are. There’ll always be enough paparazzi and tabloid distortionists to go round. I’m a bit out of practice, that’s all.”

  “So am I or I woulda done better yesterday. Who knew there’d be tipsters in a freakin’ museum, for chrissake.”

  “Get over it. I have. I’ll wager she has. And this place we’re headed to today is guaranteed paparazzi-free. You heard what she said when she wrote out the directions for you yesterday. Isolated, it is, appealing mainly to nature freaks and history buffs and it’s early in the season for them to be out in numbers,” Colin says as they clear the tunnel.

  “Yeah, right.” Bemus gives him a look. “Like historical parks and paparazzi are mutually exclusive. Didn’t you learn anything yesterday?”

  “Rather than debate that question, why don’t you fill me in on what Nate came to see you about this morning. And don’t try telling me he didn’t. I was watching when he hared down the corridor to your room after he left mine.”

  “I’m not hiding anything. I would’ve told you already if there was anything to tell. It was only a general heads-up lettin’ me know the livery service switched cars—this one’s ours for the duration—and that he’ll be outta touch during the weekend, but he’ll be callin’ in.”

  “That’s all? He didn’t happen to mention what he wanted with me this morning? He never did get round to saying.”

  “What makes you think he’d confide in me?”

  “Oh, now let me see . . . Do you suppose it could be all that recent shit that went on behind my back? Think that could be it?”

  “Nothin’s goin’ on behind your back that I know of and if he withheld whatever business he had with you this morning, I’m gonna say it was because David Sebastian was the surprise guest.”

  “He mentioned that?”

  “Only in passing, but I could tell it pissed him off.”

  “Fantastic. Fucking fantastic. I’ll have to invite David more often.”

  They slow to take a toll card for the New Jersey Turnpike.

  Underway again, Bemus produces the directions Laurel wrote on a page from her little notebook. “Here,” he hands it to Colin, “call out my next exit. We’re not supposed to be on the pike very long.”

  Caught up in examining the precise way she forms her letters and numbers, he almost causes them to miss the exit. From there on he concentrates on symbols instead of symbolism. With help of the landmarks and signposts she specified, they reach the park entrance fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.

  “Didn’t I tell you traffic would be light and we didn’t have to leave so early?” Bemus grouses.

  “I’d rather wait than be late,” Colin says as they enter the Jockey Hollow unit of Morristown National Historical Park with his head swiveling every which way till he sights the designated meeting place. Then he’s grinning like a gypsy with a gold tooth when he spots the grey Range Rover at the far corner of the otherwise empty car park.

  The gleam goes out of his grin when they draw closer and see that Laurel Chandler is using the time bought by her own early arrival to catch up on the news. She’s planted in front of the Rover with tabloids spread out on the bonnet for her obvious disapproval. They come to a stop close by. Colin does not immediately leap out of the Jaguar as was his first inclination. She alerts to their presence, turns to confront them wearing a grave expression that says she has seen it all. His inclination now is to tell Bemus to keep the motor running.

  “I’m sorry,�
�� she says when he gets out of the car. “I made a mistake,” she goes on when he steps forward to offer a proper greeting.

  He retreats a step or two, braces to hear her resign the commission on the spot, and see her accelerate out of the car park and out of his life in a spray of gravel. Instead, she paces a short distance away, then back again.

  “By the very act of being, I am perceivable,” she says, reprising the pacing. “As are you . . . and you.” She takes dramatic pause on the return to point a finger at him, then at Bemus who has now braved his way into the action.

  “I was naïve to think I could somehow control public perceptions, especially the ones conditioned by this kind of crap.” She holds up one of the tabloids and pokes it hard enough to make a hole. “People will believe what they want to believe, what is convenient and entertaining to believe, and no number of bodyguards and no amount of high-minded intentions will change that.” The pacing’s now down to just three steps in either direction with her delivery cranked up to passionate. “The best defense—the only defense—is to be true to oneself, guard that truth within and without oneself, persist in demonstrating that truth regardless of how it’s. . . .” She falls silent, leaves off pacing and regards them with eyes gone wide and unblinking. “Oh . . . my . . . god, what am I doing?”

  “Making some rather valid observations, I’d say,” Colin answers.

  “I only meant to say I was sorry for being so mistaken and I . . . I got carried away.”

  “That’s your interpretation, not mine,” Colin says. “I very much like what you said about perceptions—that by the mere act of existing we inevitably expose ourselves to the perceptions of others—the sort of perceptions not always based on truth, if I understand you correctly.”

  “You do,” she says,” but the concept is hardly profound.”

  “Useful to keep in mind, though,” Colin says.

  “We were talkin’ about truth on the way here,” Bemus says. “If anything said about you in those rags is untrue, Colin’ll be glad to bring action.”

  “I’m afraid the rags are too smart for that, Bemus.” She starts gathering up the newspapers. “There’s no sure way to prove that printing mouthpiece as two words instead of one was not a typo, and it’s pure conjecture to suggest that I’m unable to condemn one element of the music business without denouncing the entire industry as a whole. My inheritance is a matter of public record, as is my place of residence. My place of business is no secret either, so really, what’s the damage here other than being the subject of some sleazoid titillation? Only a day or two ago I heard myself wrongly described as babe flesh, so I guess I can stand to be wrongly portrayed as consort to a rock star.” She sounds only half as convincing as when she was going on about perceivability, and that could be because she’s addressing Bemus instead of him. Or, more likely, because his worries are growing like weeds.