Night Secrets (34 page)

At the corner of Forty-ninth Street and Sixth Avenue, he turned to the left and headed uptown, moving along the avenue until he reached Fifty-sixth Street. Then he turned right, walking more and more quickly, until he saw the silvery awning of Broadway Lights.

The hostess smiled sweetly as she turned toward him, men instantly looked at him in alarm. “Are you all right, sir?”

“What?”

She pointed toward the left side of his face. “You're bleeding slightly.”

Frank touched the side of his head, felt the broken skin and slender trickle of blood. “Oh, no, that's all right,” he said. “It was just an accident on the way over.”

The hostess didn't seem to believe him, but launched into her usual routine anyway. “Will you be having dinner, then?” she asked.

Frank couldn't imagine it, and for a moment didn't answer. His hand lifted to his throat, and he felt the trickle of blood mat now dried there.

“Will you be having dinner?” the woman repeated.

Frank nodded.

“Just yourself this evening?”

“No, I'm waiting for somebody else,” Frank told her.

The woman nodded politely. “And is the reservation in your friend's name?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Frank said. “Powers.”

She recognized the name immediately. “Oh yes, Dr. Powers,” she said brightly. “Would you like to wait for him at his table, or at the bar?”

Frank shrugged. “Table's okay.”

“Fine,” the woman said. “Just follow me, please.”

She led him over to a small table at the back of the room. “The restrooms are right over there, if you want to clean up.”

Frank smiled. “Thanks.”

In the restroom, Frank blotted up the blood, though the cut still looked alarming, and brushed off his clothes. Fortunately, the tussle on the rooftop hadn't done them too much harm.

He returned to the table, glanced at a small ashtray on the table, took out a cigarette and lit it. Then he sat back and let his eyes take in the restaurant's ornate interior. It was large, but cluttered with Broadway memorabilia, old musical instruments, framed original manuscripts of show music from various periods, drawings of famous actors and actresses, and a scattering of costumes, posters, even some famous actor's makeup kit in a glass case by the door. It was the sort of place he'd always heard about, but never seen, the kind that Karen mocked as lowbrow, and he'd simply avoided because the whole atmosphere struck him as contrived, a dream that would never grow legs strong enough to carry it into something real.

But it fit Powers well enough, and when Frank glimpsed him striding toward him from the front section of the restaurant, he was amazed at how much a part of it he seemed. He walked jauntily down the aisle, his white coat now replaced by a bright-red blazer, his head neatly covered with an appropriately graying toupee.

“Well, nice to see you again, Mr. Clemons,” he said smartly when he reached Frank's table. “I hope the accommodations are acceptable.” He sat down, pulled the napkin into his lap, then looked back up at Frank. “Oh, my goodness,” he said suddenly. “What happened to you?”

“Me?” Frank asked.

“That gash on the side of your head,” Powers said. “It looks quite nasty.”

Reflexively, Rank reached up and touched the wound again. “Oh, yes,” he said. He rushed for an explanation. “I had a little fall.”

Powers leaned toward him, his hand coming near his face. “Want me to have a look?”

Frank pulled back instantly. “No, it's okay,” he said. Then he glanced about quickly and tried to change the subject. “Nice place.”

“The food's not bad, really,” Powers said as he leaned back into his seat. “The only thing you have to worry about is the travel trade.”

Frank looked at him quizzically.

“The tourists,” Powers explained. “The gawkers from the Great Plains.” He laughed happily. “Anyway, it's nice to see you again.”

“You, too,” Frank said, trying to keep the edginess from his voice.

The waiter stepped over immediately. “Good evening, Dr. Powers,” he said.

“Hello, Jerry,” Powers said.' ‘What's the special tonight?”

“We have three.”

Powers smiled. “Well, go ahead, then, I have nothing but time, right, Mr. Clemons?”

Frank nodded, then waited as the waiter went through the evening specials.

“I'll have broiled scallops,” Powers told him when he'd finished. “And a glass of white wine. The house will do.” He looked at Frank. “Decided yet?”

“The rib eye,” Frank said. “And a scotch.”

The waiter wrote it down, nodded, then vanished behind the kitchen's double doors.

Powers leaned back in his chair and let out a long, slow breath. “Busy day,” he said. “At some point I should probably think about a brief vacation.”

“Do you have office hours every day?” Frank asked casually, like one businessman talking to another.

“Every single one,” Powers replied. “Five days a week, just like everyone else, Monday through Friday, nine to five. And some Saturdays—like today.” He smiled gently. “Not that I'm complaining, of course. I live a good life.” He looked at Frank pointedly. “Despite the nearly confiscatory tax bill I have to swallow once a year.” He frowned. “You might say that once a year I buy the government a new missile silo.”

Frank offered him a smile that was small and tentative, but still the best one he could muster. “Do you see all your patients in your office?”

Powers nodded. “Of course, where else would I see them? I don't have a château in the south of France.”

“Some people have private patients,” Frank said matter-of-factly. “Especially with …”

“A Fifth Avenue practice?” Powers asked. “Is that what you mean?”

“That's right.”

“Well, I'm not that sort of snob,” Powers said. “My patients are all doing quite well, of course.” He grinned. “Financially, at least.”

Frank let his smile stretch out a bit.

“But, frankly,” Powers added, “I don't believe in treating a select few of my patients more luxuriously than others.” He shrugged. “Besides, a home is for living, entertaining, enjoying the fruits of one's labor.” He laughed. “I mean, really, how would you integrate an examining table or an EKG machine into your overall decor?”

Frank could feel his edginess growing, along with the throbbing in his head. He knew that he could not contain it any longer. The thin, languishing smile dropped dead. “Virginia Driscoll,” he said flatly.

Powers's eyes hardened. “What?” He leaned back slightly. “What are you talking about?”

“A woman,” Frank said stiffly. “One of your patients.”

Powers's lower lip drooped to the right. He studied Frank's face silently.

“You see her at your house,” Frank told him.

“My house?”

“On Mondays,” Frank added. He leaned toward him and let his voice put the squeeze on, even though he wasn't sure what it might squeeze out. “I'm a private investigator,” he said. He took out his identification and handed it to Powers.

Powers looked at it a moment, as if checking its authenticity, then returned it to Frank. “And so all this tax consultant thing,” he said, “it was just some sort of charade, is that it?” He looked like he couldn't decide whether to be indignant or amused.

“What can you tell me about Virginia Driscoll, Dr. Powers?” Frank asked.

Powers looked at him coolly. “Well, I don't really have to tell you anything, do I? I mean, it's not as if you have a subpoena in your hand, or a warrant for my arrest, or anything official at all.”

Frank said nothing.

Powers studied him a moment. He'd evidently decided to be amused. “I must say, Mr. Clemons.. .By the way, is that your real name?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I must say, you're quite an actor.”

“What can you tell me about Virginia Driscoll?”

Powers laughed. “Excuse the expression, Mr. Clemons, but why don't you go fuck yourself.” He started to get up, but Frank grabbed his tie and yanked him down, his chin nearly touching the table. “I've had a bad day,” he said. “I'm losing control.”

Powers swallowed hard. “For God's sake,” he said. “I'm a regular in this place.”

Frank gave the tie a quick pull and Powers's chin bounced off the top of the table. “Virginia Driscoll,” he said.

“All right, for God's sake,” Powers said. “Just let go, will you.”

Frank released the tie and Powers straightened himself quickly.

“I don't know very much,” he said, then added menacingly, “I suppose you know that you just lost your license as a private investigator in New York State.”

Frank leaned toward him threateningly. “A man a lot more powerful than you is interested in Virginia Driscoll,” he said. “So I don't give a fuck about you.”

Powers looked alarmed. “Who hired you?” he asked with a sudden shakiness.

“Just answer my questions,” Frank said coldly. “I followed Virginia Driscoll to your place in the Village on Monday morning. You sent the blood sample out only a few minutes later.”

Something registered behind Powers's eyes, but Frank wasn't sure what it was.

“You were at my house?” Powers asked.

“Yes.”

Powers eyed Frank closely, a cat watching a mouse. “What do you know already?” he asked seriously.

“That she's a patient,” Frank said. “But a special one. One who doesn't come to your office.”

Powers suddenly attempted a smile, his tone curiously cooperative. “Normally, I wouldn't talk to you about a patient. You must know that.”

Frank said nothing.

“But since you've been engaged by … whoever it is,” Powers said, “presumably Mr. Driscoll. Anyway, since he's gone to that much trouble, I'll give you a few details which might ease his mind.” He laughed. “After all, no matter how wealthy Mr. Driscoll is, he shouldn't be spending his money frivolously, now should he?”

Frank said nothing.

“All right,” Powers began, “I can tell you this much.”

Frank took out his notebook just as the drinks arrived.

Powers took a long sip of his, then returned the glass to the table. “Lovely,” he said to the waiter. “Thank you.”

Once again the waiter vanished.

Powers looked at Frank. “Here's the situation, Mr. Clemons, and once I've told you, I hope that you can bring whatever assignment you have to a happy conclusion. If you do, I'll forget all about this little encounter we had, and you can continue to work in your chosen field.”

Frank kept his pen poised on the open notebook page.

“Mrs. Driscoll is a very discreet woman,” Powers said matter-of-factly. “Because of that, she didn't want to come to my office.” He smiled. “I assume you've already gathered that?”

“Yes.”

Powers drew in a deep breath. “And I also suppose you know that Mr. Driscoll—at least according to his wife—is a good deal older than she is.”

Frank watched him expressionlessly.

“Well, it seems that Mr. Driscoll has no heirs,” Powers went on casually. “No children at all. And being a man who has accumulated a great deal in life—this again, according to Mrs. Driscoll—he's become concerned about passing it on. I'm sure you can understand that.”

Frank said nothing.

“So, biology being destiny, Mr. Driscoll wants a child,” Powers continued. “And Mrs. Driscoll, dutiful wife—in case you have any doubts—that she certainly is, she has been trying to provide him with one.” He shrugged. “But so far, they have not been blessed.”

Frank nodded expressionlessly. “So, why did she come to you?”

“She was interested in determining if she were infertile,” Powers said. “To put it bluntly, she wanted to know where the blame was. If it were Mr. Driscoll, then you might say that she was in the clear, as far as heirs were concerned.”

“In the clear?”

“That's right,” Powers said. “That is to say, she couldn't be blamed.” He smiled slyly. “It's a cruel world, Mr. Clemons, and Mrs. Driscoll is not interested in giving her husband a reason to discard her. If she were infertile, he would have a reason.”

Frank pretended to write it all down in his notebook. “So she came to you for a fertility test?”

“That's right,” Powers said.

“And that's all she wanted?”

“Yes.”

“So that was the only test you ordered?”

“Of course,” Powers said, a little self-righteously. “I'm not the kind of doctor who orders unnecessary procedures. Mrs. Driscoll wanted a fertility test, and that's all I ordered for her.”

Frank pretended to pursue it. “What were the results?”

“You mean, was she infertile?”

“Yes.”

Powers drew back. “Now, Mr. Clemons,” he said scoldingly, “that would breach confidentiality, and you know it.” He smiled. “But I understand your position. You've been hired to find something out, and you need to come back with some results, right?”

Frank nodded, wondering why Powers seemed to be in such good spirits, why he was being so helpful, why he was lying about the nature of the test. He wanted to bounce his chin off the table again, but held himself back and listened.

“Well, although I wouldn't want to violate the confidential nature of my relationship with Mrs. Driscoll,” Powers said, “I suppose I could tell you that if Mr. Driscoll is sound himself, then I would advise him to continue his no doubt pleasurable activities as regards his wife.”

Frank faked a smile. “He'll be relieved to know that,” he said. He took a sip from his drink, his eyes still watching Powers evenly. “You only saw Mrs. Driscoll once then?”

“Yes.”

“How did she happen to come to you?”