Best Friends (20 page)

He decided to listen to the messages, maybe learning that he would make a buck. The very first was promising.

“Mr. Courtright, Max Leander. I've changed my mind. I
will
make an offer on the Elite, if it's still in your possession. As with a woman, one might overlook unreliability for a beautiful body…which is probably why I'm spending my old age alone except for my cars! In any event, kindly supply me with your asking price. E-mail would be just fine.” The old tenor left his numbers and addresses.

The next voice evoked now familiar feelings of guilt. “Roy? Michelle, Michelle Llewellyn,
if you still remember me.
Uh, you were going to call? I mean, I don't want to be pushy, but I got to know where I stand. That's fair, okay? I mean, do you really want to see more of me? Or were you just being polite? Also, I've
got that dress
. I need to take it back if I don't have any use for it. Just be honest. I'm a big girl.”

The third voice from the machine was that of his best friend. “Where the hell are you? Your cell phone seems to be switched off, and if you're home you're not picking up. I'm calling there on the off chance that you might still be around. I'm worried sick. Kris is missing. A cleaning woman told me nobody's at the bank. It's…eight twenty-five now. She was supposed to be home especially early tonight. That's fifteen minutes from here. For that matter, where are
you
? You were supposed to come to dinner…. If she doesn't show up by eight-thirty I'm calling the police.”

That was more than an hour ago, yet no cops had come to the showroom, which could mean either that Sam had never called them or that he had not named Roy as someone to look for as well—or that the lovers had been so occupied on the backseat of the Rolls-Royce as not to hear an officer's knock at the door.

Now what should be done? Kristin had left without telling him how she would handle the matter with her husband. Obviously Roy must stay altogether out of touch with Sam until he knew what to say. Nor could he reach Kristin till at least the following morning, at the bank.

According to the lighted red number on the machine, four calls had come in since Mrs. Forsythe had last answered the phone. To evade his major problem for at least another instant, Roy played back the fourth message.

Again he heard, though in another voice, “Where the hell
are
you?” This was his twin sister. “I've
really
got to talk to you, Roy, as soon as you can. This is crucial. Don't let me sit here forlorn.” The poetic word must mean Robin was seriously upset, as opposed to her natural peevishness. “Call me whenever. I'm here alone. I won't be sleeping. I'm leaving this message on all your phones.”

According to the robot timekeeper on his answering machine, she had made the call at 8:57. It was now almost ten. He went to his own desk and dialed Robin's number.

“Here's the situation,” Robin began without returning his hello. “Ross forgot to use his business credit card and instead used the joint Visa Gold he's got with me. When I opened the bill I saw nine hundred and change for something called Leisure Island. I got their number and called them. It's an
escort service
, Roy. In other words, my husband last month paid almost a thousand dollars to whores. Why? Because they'll give him head when I won't? You're the authority on this subject, so tell me why.”

Roy winced. Must she be so coarse? “Thanks, Robin. I needed that. As it happens, I'm no authority on escort services. I've never used them. But what occurs to me immediately is that Ross entertains business clients sometimes, doesn't he? How do you know the escorts are not for his guests, customers, clients? A couple years ago a collector came from Iowa to look at a Ferrari Dino I had at the time. He asked me if I had a call girl's number. I didn't but said I'd ask around. He told me not to bother. Oh, he still bought the car.”

“Screw you,” Robin cried. “Don't try to con me out of my righteous indignation. I'm heartsick. I'll nail that motherfucker to the wall, even though he's the father of my children.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Call Leisure Island and hire an escort. See what they charge. How many blowjobs for a thousand bucks? One? A hundred? A thousand?”

“Come on, Robin. I'm not going to do that.”

“Then don't ever speak to me again.” She hung up.

The conversation proved not as negative as it might have been. Robin would surely find a way to preserve her marriage, for it was her proudest accomplishment, and Roy had been furnished with a credible excuse as to why he could not be reached all evening by Sam.

Kristin would be home by now, but she never answered a call to the house except when Sam had been hospitalized. Even the bathroom was equipped with its own telephone.

“Sorry I never got back about dinner,” Roy said quickly when his friend answered. “I was stuck with Robin.” He was confident the very name would have its effect on Sam, and he was right.

“Oh.”

“She's got a personal problem. I don't think it's devastating by any means, not a fatal illness or anything, but she's upset, and I'm her brother.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“I don't know how much good I did, but you know Robin”—this was malicious—“as long as she can do the talking she feels better. Jesus. She didn't even give me anything to eat.”

“Kris finally got home—I guess you don't know I thought she was missing.” If Roy had been with Robin and not at any of the numbers at which Sam had called him, he could not have known. So he said nothing now. Sam went on. “I panic easily nowadays. She was just doing some food shopping.”

“Well, hell, with what you've gone through…”

“Anyway, she's made pasta primavera—I'm supposed to avoid most red meat. We're just ready to sit down. You're welcome to join us.”

“Thanks, but Robin wore me out,” said Roy. “I'm going to bed after a hard day.” The ending phrase too was malicious but not consciously so; it emerged on its own. Normally he would have signed off with an acknowledgment of Kristin's presence, something as antiseptic as “Give her my regards.” But he now made only a simple goodbye.

He lowered his forehead against his clenched fists on the desktop but was allowed to keep it there only a moment before hearing the sharp raps at the front door.

Recognizing Officer Velikovsky while en route, he waved and smiled and opened the door. “Yeah, it's me again, working late.”

“Can I step inside for a minute?”

“Come back to the office and I'll make espresso.” Roy ushered him in from the sidewalk.

“I can't be out of the car that long,” said the officer, looking around the showroom. “Are we alone now, Mr. Courtright?”

“Sure.”

“This won't go any further, you can count on me.” Velikovsky continued to glance about with his prominent nose. He raised his eyebrows and spoke almost in an undertone. “A call came in from your friend Mr. Grandy. He reported his wife was missing. Now, we don't consider anybody missing till they been gone for twenty-four hours unless it's a child of course or there's some evidence of foul play. So the dispatcher tried to calm him down but he got real abusive. Now, the dispatcher is a black woman and she's got a chip on her shoulder anyway, and I guess they got in a shouting match. The upshot was she wanted me to go out there and summons him for racist remarks. I get along with her all right and can probably talk her out of that, we're both Catholics and I worked with her husband for a while, he's now a state trooper—anyway, I figured the biggest part of the whole problem would be solved if Mrs. Grandy turned up soon.” He took a breath and looked about again. “He never mentioned you by name, but I thought by chance you might be able to shed some light on the matter, on account of the description he gave of his wife was pretty close to the person my wife told me you was having lunch with yesterday at The Corral.”

Roy maintained his polite smile.

“So I stopped outside, hour, hour-and-a-half ago, and it was all dark in here, but when my eyes got used to the dark, I thought I could just barely make out a person's head moving in the back of one of the cars. Maybe I just imagined it, but I thought I ought to mention it to you. I couldn't even swear it was a person, let alone recognize them, but I thought I should let you know. It might help. So far as anybody else is concerned, I didn't see anything. Have a good night, Mr. Courtright.”

“You caught me,” said Roy. “I sometimes sneak into the backseat of the Rolls-Royce and catch a nap. Oh, I just spoke to Mr. Grandy. His wife came home okay, some time ago. He's embarrassed he got so worried, but he's been sick lately, in the hospital. Bad heart. Tell the dispatcher he apologizes.”

“I remember that,” said the officer. “You was out at his house, a week back. I hope he'll be in good health.”

I
oughtn't talk to you at all,” Michelle said in her slightly flutier tone of indignation. “I know—I called
you.
But still…”

Roy had telephoned the Llewellyn number at nine-thirty a.m., expecting to leave a message with her mother, to the effect that he would be out of town for a few days. It was a potentially foolish lie, easily exposed by accident, but as good as he could do with a mind as uneasy as his after a restless night.

“I told you my friend's in bad shape.”

“That's very well—I don't mean that he's sick, I mean you could just of called me sometime. If you don't want to see me, just say so, that's all I mean.”

Roy was incapable of telling any female person that he had no interest in her, for it would not have been true. That he was now in love with Kristin had no bearing on his friendship with Michelle, which existed on another level of being.

“I do want to see you,” said he, and as if that were not already too much involvement for a man in his position, he heard himself add, “I miss you.”

“That should be easy to handle. We live in the same town. Well, your business is here. I don't know where you live.”

“Parts unknown,” he said, using the jokey generic address with which professional wrestlers were sometimes introduced, back when as teenagers he and Sam used to watch the simulated mayhem of Gorilla Monsoon, Captain Lou Albano, and Chief Jay Strongbow. “What,” he asked Michelle, “are you doing out of class at this hour?”

Instead of answering his question, she said, “I'm home alone. My mom and dad are at work. I'm supposed to do the laundry, but I'm still in bed. What are you doing?”

“I'm at work, too. I've got a business to run.”

She asked, “Are there actually a lot of people around here who buy fabulous cars early in the morning?”

“Hardly any.”

“You're your own boss, Roy. You've got that girl there to look after the place. You can do anything you want.”

“Mrs. Forsythe is about fifty,” Roy said. “She'd be flattered.”

“She has a very young voice. If she's really that old, I guess you're not involved with her. I thought that was why you were avoiding me. Look, we could do something today if you want. I can see out the window it's perfect weather.”

He listened to himself in disbelief. “It's nice enough for a picnic, don't you think? I guess Mount Seneca Park is still open. I'll grab some food and a bottle of champagne and pick you up in—how much time do you need?”

“Just enough to shower and brush my teeth. I can't believe you're actually doing this.”

Neither can I,
he said to himself. But maybe he could get some breathing room thereby. His spirit stayed in turmoil when he was alone. Spending a carefree hour or two with this amiable college girl might soothe his soul and distract him from the matter of the Grandys.

He left a note for Mrs. Forsythe, using her given name for the first time since being asked to do so.

The third sentence was for her amusement. Margaret was not without a sense of irony—as in fact Kristin seemed to be.

 

Michelle screwed up her small nose. “That's cheese, right?” She pointed at the chunk of Pont l'Evêque.

Roy tried to anticipate her objection to it. “It's not so smelly.”

She picked it up and sniffed. “That's what
you
say.” She put it back on the blue-and-white checked tablecloth and returned her fingers to her nose. “Now my hand stinks!”

“You like the pâté, though?”

“What I really like is the champagne.” She thrust the empty flute toward the silver bucket from which the neck of the bottle protruded.

He poured her a refill. “Ham? More bread?”

“That's actually pro-zoot, isn't it?”

“What?”

“That's what this Italian guy I know says his dad always calls it.”

“Oh,
prosciutto.
This is actually Westphalian ham. But it looks like prosciutto.”

“Uh-huh.”

They were sitting on cushions at the grounded tablecloth laden with an array of cold foodstuffs, a selection made by Roy from a local “gourmet” shop's offerings and, as he was not familiar with Michelle's tastes, as diverse as could be asked: salads, spreads, smoked fish, five different kinds of olives, three of roast meats, and more.

But thus far, on her second refill of Clicquot, she had only nibbled on a fragment of baguette, spread with duck pâté an eighth-inch thick.

“I hope you're going to eat enough to stay sober,” Roy told her. “I don't want to take a young woman home drunk.”

She mock-scowled at him. “Whose home? Yours? Oh, say yes, please. I'm dying to see where a person like you lives.”

Roy had been delighted to locate this little blufftop hideaway again. He had not visited it in fifteen years. The level, smooth patch of glacial rock, always dry, offered a forward view of the lake but was screened on the other sides by thick vegetation. You had to know about it to find it. Apparently few people had done so in all those years, for there was no litter, vintage or current, and no graffiti on the rock, scrawled or carved.

“If you look real hard,” he said, pointing south-by-southeast, “past that cell-phone tower, you might be able to see the roof of your house.”

She squinted but soon shook her head. “That's miles.”

“I should have brought binoculars. But you can see across the lake, right beyond where that canoe is, there's—”

“Kayak,” said Michelle. “But they're more fun on the river, where you've got a current.”

“You're a kayaker?”

“Sure am.”

She was dressed as she had been on the only other occasion he had seen her, in jeans and a loose gray sweatshirt. Her face was bright with the internal illumination of youth. She wore no makeup whatever, except perhaps a little, perhaps not, at the eyes, which were a compromise between oval and almond. Her cheeks were rosy.

“You have lovely Asian eyes.”

“My one grandma was Japanese.” She was pleased to make the identification. “The big boobs come from the European side, mostly Italian, though ‘Llewellyn' is Welsh.”

The glossy black hair was no doubt also of Far Eastern origin. Michelle was attractive by any international standard. Hers was obviously an unfettered spirit.

“I'll bet the college guys like you.”

She started a smile that never developed. “They're all full of themselves, or maybe I'm just in the wrong zone.”

It occurred to Roy that her depths might not be as carefree as her surface, but then he remembered from his own youth, as well as the years since, that nobody's ever are. He wondered whether there was a corollary merriment at the heart of the conspicuously melancholy.

“Well,” said he, “you've got a lot of time to come to terms with things. What are you majoring in?”

She showed him a broad-browed look of histrionic candor. “Can you handle this? I dropped out, end of last term. I mean, I just didn't go back.”

“Any special reason?”

“Yeah, I'm a fuckup.”

“What does that mean?”

She writhed on the seat of her pants and crossed her legs the other way. “This stone is hard on the butt.”

“I should have brought thicker pillows,” said Roy. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem.” She patted the back of the hand he had splayed on the rock for support as he reached for the open container of olives.

“You were saying?”

“Oh, yeah. Tell you the truth, Roy, I didn't know what I was doing in college, so why keep going there like a robot?” She swallowed what was left in her glass and was extending it to him for a refill when a yellow jacket buzzed her on its way to a landing amid the cold meats. Michelle shrieked and dropped the flute, which hit the rock on the edge of its flanged base and bounced high. “Well, look at that, willya? ‘How is that possible?' You know that commercial for Qwest, ‘Ride the Light'? Whatever that means.”

“It's plastic,” said Roy. “Could I interest you in a kalamata?” He offered her one, expecting by now that she would refuse it, but she seized the olive, popped it into her mouth, and performed a hidden depitting technique with only her teeth and tongue. His new expectation was that she would spit the stone over the edge of the rock, into the valley below, something he might well have done himself even at his current age, but again he was wrong. She used one of the paper napkins from the supply he had provided, carefully compressing it into a ball and keeping it in her palm.

“Want another?”

“Not me.”

He retrieved the plastic vessel and filled it with contents not quite as sparkling as earlier. He still had not finished his own first fluteful. He did not want to feel the effects of alcohol while Michelle was in his charge, especially if she was drinking so much.

“Don't you think you should eat something more?”

She leered at him. “Are you afraid you might lose control and take advantage of me if I get wasted?”

“What I'm afraid of is what
you
might do.”

She took this as a joke, which it was not quite, and enjoyed it immensely, chortling with a display of small, perfect teeth. “As well you might, my man. ‘Warning: Do not use this medication when operating heavy machinery.'” She had waited till now to hurl the balled paper napkin, with its gnawed olive pit, over the precipice, ten feet away.

“Here,” said Roy, cracking a piece off the baguette. “Eat some bread, anyway.”

“I can't tolerate solid food till noon on weekdays.”

“It's one-twenty.”

Michelle groaned. “Oh, all right.” She accepted the chunk of bread with her left hand while raising the champagne in the right and emptying the contents down her throat in one foaming flood, which amazingly enough did not spill over. She swallowed heroically, then lowered the glass and brought the bread slowly toward her mouth. “Excuse me,” she said softly and slumped forward, head against her chest.

Roy spoke to her and shook her shoulder, but she was out. He put a finger under her small nostrils and felt that warm breath continued to emerge. He was relieved not to have to feel for her heart and have her suddenly wake up. She had the potential to be trouble.

After he had picked her up and carried her to the Jeep, he established even more reason to estimate her troublemaking potential as high. A wallet had worked most of its way out of the back pocket of her jeans. Before reseating it firmly against a firm buttock, Roy had opened it and found what he was looking for. Her driver's license indicated that Michelle Llewellyn would not be twenty until eleven months had passed.

She awakened when he had put the wallet back, twisted to face him and asked, grinning, “Are you stealing my money or just feeling my ass?”

He was not amused. “I've had enough of your bullshit, Michelle. You're not of legal drinking age.”

“Look, I'm eating!” She had all this while continued to clutch the chunk of bread and now jammed it into her mouth and chewed vigorously.

Roy went back to the picnic site, roughly gathered up the food, and dumped it into the big basket from which it had been taken. He shook out onto the rock the foaming remainder of the champagne, which looked like less than half a glass, and added the empty bottle to the basket. He collected the cushions.

He drove her home with utter silence on his part, but a good deal of chatter on hers. She was not as drunk as she had first pretended but more so than she now wanted to admit, especially when he pulled up at the curb in front of her house, a comfortable-looking two-story dwelling-place on a street of many, erected rather too close together because the lots seemed undersized.

“Can't you come in?” she asked blearily. “Nobody's home.
I'm
not going to call the cops.”

“The neighbors will. Can't you be serious, Michelle? You act like you're twelve, not nineteen. You're a pretty girl, and you have a lot of charm. If I were your age, you wouldn't be able to get rid of me. But right now, I want you to leave the car and walk, without staggering, to your door. Think you can manage that? I mean it.”

“Oh, shit, yes.” She took a deep breath and straightened her back. “I had a very nice time. Thank you. But you
still
haven't made good on your promise to let me drive a Rolls-Royce. When will I see you again?”

He pointed a stark finger at her house. “
Goodbye,
Michelle.”

Her bouncy stride looked like that of an altogether sober young person.