11 Harrowhouse (16 page)

Then Chesser walked out of the sight room and down and, without a word, past Miller, who closed the main door to number 11 sharply behind Chesser, definitely and finally excluding him.

Chesser went to Holborn and got a taxi, told the driver to take him to the Ritz. He badly needed to see Maren then, needed her. He had just committed occupational suicide.

But it was only ten thirty and he knew Maren wouldn't be at the Ritz yet. He unknotted his tie and pulled it off with an emphatic snap. He shoved it into his jacket pocket and then also removed his jacket. He undid his shirtcuffs and rolled them up three layers. He was trying to fight the tight feeling, to get loose.

Incredible, he thought, what The System had done. Meecham had expected him to accept a packet worth even less than the last. Anyway, now there wouldn't be any more packets, not ever.

Maybe it was only a temporary side effect, he thought, but damn if he didn't feel good. Really good, matter of fact! However, as the taxi went west with the thick traffic, and along the street he saw people hurrying about their business, Chesser's mood descended. He hunched down and tried not to think at all, which was impossible, of course, so he tried to think only of the good things. Telling Meecham to shove it had been a pleasure. He wondered if he'd have said it to Meecham's face. He convinced himself he would have. Anyway, he was sure Meecham had heard it.

From that, Chesser got a sharp image of his dead father. He decided that he'd just done something his father probably had wanted to do many times—would have done if he hadn't been so inhibited by responsibilities. Chesser needed to believe that.

“I'll get out here,” he told the driver. It was Shaftsbury Avenue, a block past Charing Cross Road. Nowhere significant for Chesser. He just wanted out of the taxi he now seemed to be sharing with his late father.

He gave the driver a pound tip because right then his inner voice was saying
I don't give a shit
. He turned and walked along with his jacket hung by a fingertip over his shoulder, his business case in his other hand. He had the sensation that he was completely different from all the others on the street, who were too busy to notice.

He knew exactly where he was. He turned up Dean Street and decided he'd pretend he was just another American tourist. Wasn't he, after all, only that—a perpetual transient? As though playing the part, he looked into every store window along the way. He read a small sign which said:

RUBBERWEAR MADE TO ORDER

One Flight Up

That made him feel, by contrast, considerably more normal.

He was in the heart of Soho now, and that district's preoccupation with all shades and forms of sexuality was so prevalent that even the air there seemed pressured with it.

What the hell am I doing here? Chesser asked himself, and quickly gave the excuse that he was only wasting time. It didn't occur to him that he'd purposely sought out the area, was inflicting himself with this lower level of commerce. Much more basic than dealing in precious stones: the selling of holes, the buying of holes.

He went into a penny-gambling arcade, where there were numerous electric games of chance. He wandered and watched for a while and thought it surprising that so many people were there at this time of day. He noticed their expressions, which remained the same, whether they won or not.

He went to the change booth and got a pound's worth of pennies. Two hundred and forty English pennies. He moved about, from game to game, spending a few minutes and pennies at each. Finally, he stood at the edge of a large table that had a flat rectangle of shiny brass isolated in its center. The idea of the game was to land a penny on any electric dot. Simple enough. The payoff was five to one. Chesser threw a few and came very close once. He paused to watch a man who was throwing from the opposite side. A man with very dirty hands, wearing an extremely stale suit.

Evidently the man considered pitching pennies a serious pursuit. Indeed, perhaps that was his calling, for he was quite good at it. He had a unique way of tossing—a graceful arm motion that culminated with a snap of the wrist. At least one out of every three pennies he threw landed on a dot, rewarding him with a nice little profit. Maybe if he threw pennies all day he came out enough ahead for a room and a pint and a pie.

Chesser tried to imitate the man's throwing technique, thinking perhaps that might be the trick of it. But he did it badly and it made no difference. His pennies seemed to avoid the dots magnetically, and he soon became discouraged. Impetuously, he threw the pennies he had left, a heaping fistful, all at once. Most rolled into the catching gutter. Others bunched up ineffectively. Only one or two landed on dots.

He left the place; wanted to be out of Soho. His watch told him it was almost eleven thirty, only another half hour until Maren. He'd go to the Ritz and wait.

He headed down Brewer Street, still in the Soho district. Now he was so eager to get to the Ritz that he disregarded everything. Unfortunately. Because at one point, if he'd happened to look across the way, he would have seen Meecham, might have recognized him, although Meecham was facing away, reading a public advertising board outside a pornography shop. Meecham's interest was concentrated on the hand-printed, four-by-five cards that were tacked up there. His imagination was trying to decide which of two was more promising:

Beautiful strict governess wants pupils who desire advanced courses in discipline. Leather uniforms supplied.
WEL-2894

or

Young girl, really masterful, with a commanding vocabulary, wants a temporary male domestic for housework. Binding contract required.
CHE-9438

Chesser might have gone unnoticed in Soho, but he was the object of numerous disapproving stares at the Ritz. He took a seat in the lobby lounge, where he had an unobstructed view of the Piccadilly entrance, through which he expected Maren. However, no sooner had his Cerruti-trousered bottom come in contact with the damask-covered cushion of one of the Ritz's chairs than a member of the hotel staff informed him that he was not properly attired. Gentlemen, Chesser was told with the emphasis on gentlemen, were required to wear tie and jacket.

Chesser smiled rather apologetically and began rolling down and buttoning his shirt cuffs. It was then suggested that he retire to the gentlemen's room, where he could privately make the necssary repairs. Chesser just didn't take the suggestion. He did his cuffs and tied his tie and put on his jacket right there, feeling many eyes on him. He turned to the full-mirrored wall behind him to make sure the knot of his tie was in correct position. There was no reason now why he should not be granted the privilege of purchasing a Scotch neat, with a side of Perrier. But it was not brought with the usual alacrity, no doubt as a sort of punishment.

He meant to sip the Scotch. Instead, he took a gulp that burned all the way down. Three swallows of the Perrier were quickly taken as an antidote. He looked at his watch, which said straight up noon. He looked to the entrance. No Maren. She'd be there momentarily, he thought. So he tried to keep his attention aimed in that direction, wanting to see her, needing to, that much.

For five minutes that seemed an hour he didn't take his eyes from the entrance, even as he brought his glass to his mouth. He emptied the glass and ordered another with a mere signal. Then, for the first time, he allowed the voices of those at nearby tables to get through to him. He caught fragments of a conversation between two elderly ladies on his left who were shaped like two well-dressed, supersize chicken croquettes. Their topic was those of their set who had recently passed away. On his right three younger married women were chewing over morsels of extramarital gossip.

When he was one small gulp from the finish of his third Scotch, Chesser's watch said twelve thirty-seven.…

“You'd better eat.”

“I'm not as hungry as I was.”

“You have to eat.”

“I have to drink,” said Chesser and tossed down the last in that glass. He flicked a finger at an attending statue-waiter
.

“Why did you do it?”

“For the same reason
…”

“What kind of answer is that?”

“Let me finish. I was going to say … for the same reason you never did. That's why. To save face. You know, pride and all that shit.”

“Don't swear.”

“Don't don't swear me.”

“You're always saying you don't give a shit. Which indicates you do.”

“Okay, I give a shit.”

“You shouldn't have done it. You could have controlled yourself for five or ten minutes. That wasn't much to ask. After all, I—”

“Yeah, I know. You were controlled for twenty years.”

“I convinced The System you'd be good. I recommended you.”

“Why?”

“That was the most I could leave you. Don't you want to be something?”

“I'm something.”

“Look at the friends you went to school with. Look where they are now.”

“Serving life sentences.”

“You could have been a lawyer but you quit.”

“I would have made a stinking lawyer.”

“You had a real chance with The System, to build something for yourself.”

“I gave it ten years.”

“You got too big for your pants.”

“I sold a big one. Bigger than you ever sold.”

“And somebody took it out of your pocket as easy as stealing a marble. You're so smart.”

“You're right about that. But you were wrong to give so much to them. Instead of us it was always The System.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I don't know.”

“Maybe you think you can live off your luck and looks forever
…”

Allowing his dead father to have the final word, Chesser came out of it with a glance at his watch.

It was twelve fifty-nine.

He looked up and there, smiling her best, was Maren backdropped by a Ritz crystal chandelier. She sat, gave a hello kiss, and didn't apologize for being an hour late.

“We had a phenomenal session,” she declared. “We couldn't get through to Jean Marc. I don't know where in hell he was. But Mildred got someone else.”

“Who?”

“Some woman named Babette, who took too many sleeping pills. She was in the original Follies.”

“Ziegfeld?”

“Bergère
. I got some good advice.”

“About what not to wear.”

“Really, I learned a lot from her.”

“About the other side?”

“No, this side. Did you eat?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Mildred fed me something.”

“And you swallowed it.”

“You've been boozing, haven't you? I can smell.”

“Just a couple.”

“You have to eat.”

He wanted her to ask about his morning. He thought she'd be glad to hear he'd quit The System. She always seemed so indifferent to diamonds. The only jewelry she ever wore was antique, unusual, with small semiprecious stones. For her first birthday with him he'd given her a nice five-carat diamond, Tiffany set, and although she'd been excited and appreciative, she'd never worn it. “I had quite a morning,” he said.

“You don't really want to eat here, do you? I didn't think you did, so I had them hold the car out front. Come on.” She was already up.

Chesser figured five pounds would more than cover the bill. He left that much on the table, took a moment to slide an ice cube from his Perrier glass into his mouth and was sucking on it as he followed her. He thought she'd go out ahead of him to claim the driver's seat, but just as she reached the doorway she stopped, waited, turned and took his arm, lovingly. “We'll get you some pastries or something along the way,” she promised. “I didn't have any dessert either.”

CHAPTER 12

B
ETWEEN THE
fish, which was a Mediterranean lou, and the fowl, which was local partridge, Massey told Chesser, “I received the report from my investigators.”

He said it in such an offhand manner that Chesser's hope took it to be good news. “What did they say?”

“I've no idea. I thought we'd look at it fresh together.”

They were in Massey's main diningroom and, although the dinner was formally set and served, they were all casually dressed. “The best should be enjoyed at leisure,” was the way Massey put it. For the several nights that Maren and Chesser had been at Massey's country mansion, this was the first time they'd eaten in this room. It was usual for Massey to order meals served wherever his mood dictated—on the terraces, at poolside, under a tree, in a gazebo.

After a choice of French cheeses, African fruit, or crème caramel, Massey led the way to a large anteroom. Coffee in demitasse and excellent brandy followed. Bolivars were offered, and although Chesser seldom smoked a cigar, he accepted one of these fine, plump, aromatic ones.

“I'll have one too,” said Maren seriously.

Another was brought. Massey observed closely as Maren expertly prepared the cigar: smelled it, clipped it, and rotated it between her lips. Chesser, who had eaten too much and tasted too little of it, thought Maren purposely exaggerated her mouth for Massey's benefit. While Chesser was thus distracted, it was Lady Bolding who delivered a flame to the end of Maren's Bolivar.

They were seated in individual deep chairs, Lady Bolding next to Maren next to Chesser next to Massey.

Massey gestured.

A panel at the end of the room slid apart to reveal a blank white surface. The light dimmed. A film began, silent.

It was a street scene, apparently somewhere in London. Cars and people. The focus was on a man in a dark suit. A brief, partially turned-away view of the man entering the underground. A nearby sign registered the location: Seven Sisters.