The Sirena Quest (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven

“One more question,” Billy said.

Gordie rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Bronco.”

“Just one.”

“One. And that's it.”

“Do I get to make more than the Major League minimum?”

Gordie turned to Lou. “Can you believe this yutz?”

Gordie turned back to Billy. “No, Bronco. The money part has to be irrelevant. That's the whole point.”

“Okay,” Billy said, “let me make sure I understand. The Devil says I can keep my wife and my son, but I have to give up everything else, including my college education
and
my savings, right?”

“Right,” Gordie said. “And in exchange, the Devil will put you on the Major League Baseball team of your choice and give you the necessary skills to start at the position of your choice for five years.”

“And when the five years are up?”

Gordie snapped his fingers. “So's your baseball career. Poof. You have to start all over—school, job, the works.”

Billy frowned and rubbed his chin.

“So?” Gordie asked. “Would you do it?”

Billy twirled a strand of hair around his finger as he pondered the question. Finally, he shook his head. “I guess not.”

Gordie turned to Lou. “What about you?”

“In a heartbeat.”

Billy looked at Lou with surprise. “Really?”

Lou nodded.

“Who and where?” Gordie asked.

“Cardinals. Third base.”

Billy said, “But you'd have to give up your legal career.”

Lou shrugged. “So?” He glanced over at Gordie. “You?”

“Come on, man. Of course.”

“Cubs?” Lou asked.

“Absolutely. Left field.”

Gordie turned to Billy. “Bronco, you're in a very select group.”

“How so?”

“I've been posing that Deal With The Devil for years. Most guys say yes. Doctors, lawyers, writers, whatever—almost all of them say yes. And you know what? The women
never
understand. Never. Doesn't matter who they are or where they live, they can't fucking believe a guy would say yes to that deal.” Gordie leaned back and shrugged. “How do you explain that?”

Lou smiled. “If I were the Devil, I wouldn't be talking baseball with Billy.”

“Oh?” Gordie said.

Lou looked at Billy and raised his eyebrows. “I'd be talking rodeo.”

Billy blushed.

Gordie laughed. “Oh, yeah.”

Lou said, “I'd offer the same five-year deal, but instead of center field, Billy would get a chance to be a barrel racer or maybe a bull rider.”

“There you go,” Gordie said. “You on board, Bronco?”

Billy smiled. “That would be tough to turn down.”

“I can see it now,” Gordie said, leaning back and sweeping his arm in the air as if reading the words on a billboard. “The Sandinista Steer Wrestler. Bronco the Bareback Bronc Rider. Oh, yeah. And guess what else, Billy? You'd have so much cowgirl pussy you'd need to mainline Viagra.”

They laughed.

They were having a late dinner at Pete's Leaning Tower of Pizza and Grinder, a Greek-style pizzeria two blocks from the Barrett College campus. The James Gang had consumed mass quantities of Pete's pepperoni pizzas and meatball grinders during their freshman year. Two to three times a week, usually after the library closed, and at least once each weekend—and almost always at the table by the far window, which is where they were seated tonight. Although prices had tripled since their college days, their favorites were still on the menu, and the Greek-style pizzas still arrived with a light coating of grease that Billy still tried to blot up with a napkin.

“Hey,” Lou said, “isn't that Pete?”

Gordie and Billy turned toward the front door, where a short stocky man in his sixties with a pencil-thin mustache had just entered. He had his hands in the front pockets of his baggy black slacks and was jangling his change, just like the old days.

Gordie stood and waved. “Yo, Pete!”

Pete turned toward them, squinting, jangling his change. His face broke into a broad smile.

“Heya 'dere, boys.”

As Pete approached their table, Lou realized how many years had passed. Pete's hair, once thick and coal black, was gray and thin. His face was creased, his skin splotched with age spots.

They shook hands all around.

“So how youse boys doin', eh?”

“We're back for our reunion,” Gordie said. “Your pizza still tastes great, Pete.”

Pete grinned and nodded, jangling his change. “Da bes', eh? Dat's what I'm talkin' 'bout.”

They started asking him questions about the restaurant, but Pete cut it short. “Gotta see my night manager, boys. Got two other restaurants now—Pete's Greek Islands over in Hadley and Pete's Gyros and Heroes down in Belchertown. Busy, busy, eh? All da time. Dat's what I'm talkin' 'bout. Enjoy my pizza, eh? Good to see youse boys.”

They watched as he huddled with the manager for a few minutes, nodding as he listened to the younger man explain something, hands still in his front pockets. Then he turned and moved quickly through the restaurant toward the front door, nodding and smiling at a few of the tables of patrons.

“Guess what?” Gordie said to Lou. “We spent four years eating pizzas and grinders in this joint. We talked to Pete every time we were in here. Every time, right?”

“Just about,” Lou said.

Gordie shook his head. “Guy has no fucking idea who we are.”

“I think he sort of recognized us,” Billy said.

“No way.” Gordie took a huge bite out of his pizza slice, chewed, and washed it down with a gulp of beer. “Not a fucking clue, Billy. Dat's what I'm talkin' 'bout, eh?”

Lou patted Gordie on the back. “If it makes you feel any better, I think his pizza sucks. It sucked then, and it sucks now.”

“Pardon me.”

They turned. Seated alone at the next table was a woman about their age. She wore granny glasses and had curly brown hair flecked with gray. A copy of James Joyce's
Dubliners
was on the table next to her meal, which appeared to be an eggplant grinder.

She was staring at Gordie, an impish smile on her face. “Aren't you the Galapagos turtle?”

Gordie looked surprised. After a moment, he nodded. “You could say that. Yeah, that's me. Or was me. Once upon a time.”

“I was in the audience that night.”

Gordie raised his eyebrows. “No kidding?”

“I've never so laughed as hard in my life.”

Gordie was grinning. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “It was one of the most—” she paused, searching for the right word “—luminous performances I've ever seen.”

“Luminous?” Gordie blushed. “Thanks. Luminous, eh? No one's ever called me that. Lummox, maybe. Lunatic, sometimes. But never luminous.” He wiped his hands on his napkin and reach over to shake her hand. “I'm Gordie. Gordie Cohen.”

She shook his hand. “Sally Jacobs.”

She wore a navy turtleneck and black jeans. She had a friendly, intelligent face, high cheekbones, bright hazel eyes.

“I was a freshman at Hampton,” she said. “Our dorm mother drove several of us over to hear the speeches. She told us that the Hutchison competition would be an ‘intellectually elevating experience.'” Sally enunciated the phrase with a snooty accent.

She leaned back and shook her head. “I was prepared for a totally dull evening. And most of the speeches were just that. Do you remember that pompous little preppie with his sermon on Thomas Jefferson?”

Gordie nodded. “Ah, yes. That was the great Reggie Pelham.”

“So pretentious. The others weren't much better. I thought it would never end. But then you came on.” She paused to study Lou. “You were the other one, right? The scientist?”

Lou nodded. “The straight man. Gordie wrote the script.” He reached across the table to shake her hand. “Lou Solomon. This is Bill McCormick. We were roommates freshman year.”

“You guys were wonderful.” She turned to Gordie. “When you came up on stage in that green hospital gown with your head wrapped up in that crazy flashing thing—well, I was laughing so hard I almost peed in my pants. What
was
that thing?”

“An ACE bandage,” Gordie said. “With about two dozen nails sticking out.” He gestured toward Billy. “This man gets credit for the props. He put that contraption together.”

Sally smiled. “Your Galapagos turtle was my favorite, but I loved that dog in heat routine, too. What were those dogs again?”

“An elderly male toy poodle putting the moves on a Doberman in heat,” Gordie said.

“Oh, my God. I can still see it.”

Lou said, “My favorite was Abraham Lincoln choking on a piece of steak fat.”

Billy said, “Mine was the Volkswagen bug going up the mountain road.”

“You definitely deserved to win,” she said. “I think there would have been a riot if the judges had given first prize to anyone else.”

“I don't think Reggie ever got over that loss,” Lou said.

Gordie snorted. “I think he's feeling better now.”

“So you guys are back for your reunion?” Sally asked.

“Yep,” Lou said. “You, too?”

“Not exactly. I plan to go, but I actually live here now. I'm in the English Department at Barrett.”

“No kidding.” Gordie glanced at her ring finger.

Lou caught the glance. He looked, too.

“This is my fifth year,” she said. “I love it.”

“Where were you before?” Lou asked.

“I started off at the University of Oklahoma. That's where I met my husband. Ex-husband. He's in American history. We both accepted positions at Wisconsin. He's still in Madison.” She paused. “I like it better here. I love the surroundings, too. I've become an outdoor sports nut. I hike and backpack in the warm months, and cross-country ski and snowshoe in the winter.”

Lou gave her an appraising glance. Sally Jacobs was a far cry from the thong-bikini babes and anorexic models that fueled Gordie's lust during his Hollywood years. Sally could have stepped out of an Eddie Bauer catalog, a canoe paddle over her shoulder. There was a hearty sturdiness about her, amplified by the splash of freckles on her face. She had the look of a woman who could steer a kayak through the rapids, build a fire in the rain, and pitch a tent in the dark. And then, Lou thought, join you in that tent for some enthusiastic sex.

He felt a pang as he thought of Andi.

“New England is the perfect place for me,” she was saying.

“That's really great,” Gordie said.

Lou caught the effusive tone in Gordie's voice. He made a conspicuous show of checking his watch and turned to Gordie. “Billy and I better get back to the room.” He stood. “We'll see whether Ray called.”

Billy got to his feet.

Lou looked down at Gordie. “You still have some pizza left. Why not stay here and keep Sally company? I can come back and pick you up in a half-hour.”

“Oh, don't bother,” Sally said. “I can drop him off.”

“You sure?” Lou asked.

Sally nodded, her eyes shining. “I'm positive.”

“Thanks.” Lou turned to go but paused to look back at Gordie. He couldn't resist. “Give me a call if you get tied up.”

Chapter Thirty-eight

Gordie sat up in bed and announced, “I'm in love.”

Lou came out of the bathroom drying his hair with a towel. “When did you get back?”

“Three.”

Billy looked up from the
New York Times
, which he was reading in the easy chair in the corner of their motel room.

“In the morning?” Billy asked. “Where did you go?”

“We walked all around the campus. Just walked and talked and walked and talked. She's awesome. A real intellectual, but down-to-Earth, too. She's totally great. I'm in love.”

Billy smiled and returned to his paper. “That's nice.”

“I told you something good would come out of that competition,” Lou said.

“True,” Gordie said. “But you didn't tell me I'd have to wait twenty years for it.”

Lou nodded, thinking back to Gordie's night of glory at the Hutchison competition. Sally Jacobs was right. He had been luminous. They'd kept the performance a total secret until the night of the event. Only Lou had been listed on the event's program—about two-thirds of the way down the column of competitors, right after Reggie and an earnest, lantern-jawed senior from Shaker Heights named John Calvert:

Reginald Harris Pelham (Class of '74): “Thomas Jefferson: America's Renaissance Man.”

John B. Calvert, Jr. (Class of '71): “The Assassination of John F. Kennedy: Time to Reopen the Investigation?”

Louis A. Solomon (Class of '74): “Electronic Stimulation of the Brain: A Preview of Things to Come.”

There'd been a curious buzz when Lou stepped to the podium wearing not the standard suit and tie but a scientist's white smock. The buzz turned to puzzled laughter when, after some brief introductory remarks, he explained to the audience that to better illustrate the possibilities of this exciting new frontier of science, he'd commissioned a team of neurosurgeons to implant electrodes into the various regions of the brain of a volunteer, who would now join him on the stage for a live demonstration.

He'd signaled toward the back of the room, where a solemn Bronco Billy, also in a white smock, stood next to Gordie. They started down the aisle toward the front amidst puzzled whispers from the audience.

Billy held in his left hand his portable tape deck, which he'd disguised to resemble a control panel. His right hand grasped the upper arm of Gordie, who was dressed in blue hospital scrubs. Gordie's face was blank, his eyes dull. A cable ran from the top of the tape deck to the back of Gordie's neck, where it disappeared under the ACE bandages wrapped around his head. A dozen or so nails poked out from the bandages, and each one had a tiny blinking light attached to it.

Billy escorted Gordie to the front and helped him onto the stage. Then he handed Lou the tape deck, helped Gordie take a seat next to the podium facing the audience, and backed offstage as Gordie gazed vacantly at the audience.

They began the demonstration with stimulation of a part of the medulla oblongata, dating back, Lou explained, to our reptilian ancestors. He tossed a leaf of lettuce on the floor in front of Gordie, turned a knob on the control panel, and then dramatically pressed a button. Gordie flinched and then dropped forward onto his hands and knees, instantly transforming himself into a Galapagos turtle. He slowly munched on the lettuce as the audience erupted into laughter.

Gordie kept them howling and applauding throughout a fifteen-minute tour de force of bizarre and dazzling impersonations. At the end of the performance, the audience gave them a ten-minute standing ovation. At the end of the competition, the judges gave them first prize.

“Turns out you were wrong, too,” Lou said to Gordie.

Gordie frowned at him from the bed. “About what?”

“Don't you remember what you said at the end of that night?”

“No.”

“You disappeared from the victory party. I found you sitting on the steps of Thompson Chapel. Sitting alone in the dark and all depressed.”

Gordie smiled sheepishly. “Oh, yeah.”

“Remember what you said?”

“No.”

“I told you that you were a celebrity and that everyone at the college was talking about you. I asked why you were sitting alone and moping. You said that you'd realized that being famous for one night at a little college in New England meant absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of things. ‘How can you say that?' I asked you. Your answer was, and I quote, ‘Twenty years from now, no one on this goddamned planet is going to remember who won the goddamned Hutchison Prize our year or what they did to win it.'”

Lou paused and smiled. “Looks like you were wrong, pal. At least one special woman on this goddamned planet remembered.”

Gordie grinned. “Glad I was wrong.” Then his expression grew serious. “Sally thinks I should go back to writing screenplays.”

Lou looked up from buttoning his shirt. “Maybe you should.”

“And leave advertising? I don't know. The bread's good.”

“Not if you're not happy.”

Gordie leaned back in bed, his fingers laced behind his head. “I'm definitely in love.”

The phone rang.

Billy answered it. “Oh, hi. Sure. Nothing much. Yeah, he's right here.” He held the phone toward Lou. “It's Ray.”

Lou took the phone. “Well?” he asked.

***

“Hawthorn, Hawthorn, Hawthorn,” Gordie mumbled.

The three of them were huddled above the map of Massachusetts opened on the motel room dresser.

“Here it is.” Billy pointed to a spot about thirty miles northwest of Barrett.

“
That's
where they're staying?” Gordie asked.

“According to Ray,” Lou said, “Reggie's American Express had a charge there two days ago.”

“Are they still there?” Billy asked.

Gordie reached for the phone. “Only one way to find out.”

He dialed directory assistance and got the number for the Hawthorn Inn in Hawthorn, Massachusetts. He frowned as he waited for the connection to go through.

“Reggie Pelham, please,” he said into the phone.

He looked up with a grin and covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

“She's ringing his room,” he whispered.

The hotel operator came back on the line and said something to him.

“Uh, no thanks,” he said into the phone. “I'll just try back later.”

Gordie hung up the phone and pumped his fist. “We got those miserable pricks! Got 'em right in the old crosshairs!” He was beaming. “Let's go nail them.”

“Not yet,” Lou said.

“Why not?”

“We need some more information.”

“Like what?”

“For starters, their room number—or numbers.”

“Good point,” Gordie said, reaching for the phone.

“Whoa,” Lou said to him. “Not so fast. They're not going to give you someone's room number over the phone. And if you call back now, they'll get suspicious. Even worse, they may mention something to Frank or Reggie. We don't want those guys any more on guard than they already are. Let's just slow down. We need to plan the next move carefully.”

Twenty minutes later, Lou dialed the number.

“Good afternoon,” a cheerful female voice said. “Hawthorn Inn.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Lou said. “This is Mike Richards at Airborne Express, Detroit office. We're checking on a package delivered to one of your guests earlier this week.”

“Is there a problem, Mr. Richards?”

“No reason to think so, ma'am. I'm in Quality Control. This is just a random confirmation check. Strictly routine. Keep the troops on their toes, if you get my drift.”

He paused and glanced over at Billy and Gordie. Billy raised his eyebrows nervously. Gordie gave him the OK sign.

“With respect to this delivery,” Lou continued, “our Springfield office shows a small package drop-off at your establishment on the evening of June thirteenth. That package was addressed to a Mr. Francis Burke. Did you have a Francis Burke registered at your establishment on June thirteenth?”

“Let me see.” A pause. “Yes, we did.”

“You're sure, ma'am?”

“Oh, yes. According to the book, I registered him myself. On June twelve.”

“And were you the one who would have received our package on the evening of the thirteenth.”

“No, that would have been Harold. He works evenings.”

“I see. Does your establishment have a standard procedure for handling packages?”

“We certainly do. If it's small enough, we place it in the room slot at the front desk. If it's too large to fit in the slot, we place a note in the slot and hold the package in the vault.”

“Okay,” Lou said. “And which slot would that have been for Mr. Burke, ma'am?”

“Um, that would be 209.”

“209, eh? And why that number?”

“Because that is his room number.”

“I see. So the person on night duty at the front desk would have placed it in Mr. Burke's mail slot. Now is there anyone else who could pick up his mail?”

“Certainly not. Unless, of course, someone else is registered in that room with him.”

“I see. And would that have been the case for Mr. Burke on that night?”

“I don't believe—oh, yes. There is another gentlemen in there. A Mr. Pelham. There are two beds in there. Doubles.”

“Thank you, ma'am. I'm going to mark this delivery down as confirmed. Just for my records, your name is?”

“Virginia Brandon. Mrs. Virginia Brandon.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brandon. You've been very helpful. On behalf of Airborne Express, we hope you have nice day.”

“You, too, sir. Thank you.”

Lou hung up and turned toward the other two.

“Not bad,” Gordie said.

Lou said, “We'll go there tonight after six.”

“Why not now?”

“That woman registered them. She's more likely to know what they look like than the guy on night duty. We'll wait until she gets off, which is just fine. We need some time to think this one out.”

Gordie frowned. “I'm still not clear on the details here.”

Lou shrugged. “Me neither.”