“Your mother is not having a good day so far. We’ve had to sedate her. We have a nurse at her bedside now. I don’t really know what to say, Mr. Ellison. Sometimes patients take a sudden turn. Perhaps tomorrow she’ll have a better day.”
Then the fat doctor was my sister Lisa. She leaned back in the chair and lit that imaginary cigarette and said my name. I allowed my awareness of my hallucination to serve as evidence that I was not in fact insane, but I had to note that coming on the heels of my brother’s linguistic show I was a bit concerned.
“There’s nothing to do, Monk,” Lisa said. “Go home. Make a home. Relax in the knowledge that Mother is not suffering. In fact, to her each moment is new. Think of it like that. You know the joke: What’s the best thing about Alzheimer’s? You get to meet new people.” Lisa laughed. “So, run along. And don’t let Bill get you down. He’s trying to find his way. He can’t help it if he’s not likeable. At least, I never much liked him.”
“How do you know Mother’s not suffering?” I asked.
The fat man, whose desk plate read Dr. H. Bledsoe, said, “Pardon me?”
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I was talking to someone else.”
“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Ellison?”
“Yes, just fine. Here I brought some of the music my mother loves.” I put the bag on his desk and stood to leave. “Do you think familiar things like the music will help?”
“I doubt it. It’s possible.”
Bill was not at the house when I returned. On the dining room table I found a note, which read:
Upstairs in the study you will find a note which explains everything.
I went up to the study and found an envelope on the desk. Inside was a note, which read: FUCK YOU!Bill
Ain’t you Rine the runner?
Wiley Morgenstein flew into D.C. to meet Stagg Leigh. Stagg was a little nervous about the lunch and so he spent extra time preparing. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror and practiced frowning, carving a furrow into his forehead, above the bridge of his nose. He shaved off his mustache and made his apologies to its original owner. He tried on a hat, but couldn’t bring himself to leave it on for more than a few seconds at a time.
“Who are you trying to fool?” he asked the mirror.
Should he wear knob-toed shoes? Sneakers? County jail flip-flops? He decided on brown weejuns, khakis and a white shirt with blue stripes and a button down collar. The clothes were available.
He was to meet Morgenstein in the restaurant on the roof of the Hotel Washington. Stagg put on his dark glasses and went there late.
The balcony of the restaurant overlooked the east lawn of the White House, but Morgenstein had taken a table inside, a booth in fact, in a dimly lighted corner of the main room. Stagg was shown to the producer’s table. There was a young woman seated with him and they both rose when Stagg arrived. They shook hands.
“Pleased to meet you, Stagg,” Morgenstein said. “This is my girl Friday, Cynthia.”
“Oh, I can’t tell you what a privilege this is. To meet an author of your notable station.” She giggled a high-pitched giggle.
“Well, sit down, have a seat, have a seat.”
Stagg sat and tried to see the man in the dim light from behind his shades. Morgenstein was heavier than he had imagined, dressed casually in a tee-shirt beneath a blazer. And Cynthia was no more his assistant than Stagg was a real person. The young woman was nearly wearing a strained piece of fabric around what were, no doubt, enhanced breasts.
“Sorry about the table inside here and all, but, hell, I’m fat and I need air conditioning.” Morgenstein laughed.
Stagg did not.
“You’re not all that fat, Wiley,” Cynthia said.
Morgenstein ignored her comment. “Your editor was shocked that I was getting a meeting with you. Thanks for coming. Would you like something to drink?” He was already summoning the waiter. “Hey, I love that damn novel. I laughed my ass out. Oh, it’s sad too, don’t get me wrong. And real as hell. We can just lift the dialogue right out of the book.” The waiter arrived. “What’ll you have?” Morgenstein asked Stagg.
“A Gibson,” Stagg said.
Morgenstein struggled through a frown and continued. “You know I would have paid for the damn novel even if you refused to meet with me. I just decided to see what would happen. Three mil talks, don’t it?”
“Yes, indeed,” Stagg said.
Morgenstein offered a puzzled look to his young friend. “You know, you’re not at all like I pictured you.”
“No? How did you picture me?”
“I don’t know, tougher or something. You know, more street. More …”
“Black?”
“Yeah, that’s it. I’m glad you said it. I’ve seen the people you write about, the real people, the earthy, gutsy people. They can’t teach you to write about that in no college.” He turned his face to Cynthia. “Can they, sugar.”
Stagg nodded a cool nod.
“Hey, look at the menu and see what you want,” Morgenstein said. “This is all right, isn’t it. I had a hell of time picking a place. I was reading the book again on the plane and I thought about meeting at Popeye’s.” Morgenstein laughed. Cynthia wrapped her fingers around his arm and laughed, too. “See anything you like?”
“I think so.”
The waiter came back with the Gibson and waited for their orders.
“Me and the lady will have big steaks, medium and whatever else you bring with that. But no butter on the potatoes. Ranch dressing on the salads. Stagg?”
“I’ll start with the carrot and ginger soup. That’s served cold, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t see it on the menu, but I’d like just a plate of fettucini and a little olive oil and Parmesan.”
“Not a problem, sir.” The waiter looked to Morgenstein. “Wine?”
Morgenstein looked to Stagg.
“Anything you like,” Stagg said.
“Bring us a red wine,” Morgenstein said. As the waiter collected the menus and left, the fat man turned to his date with a troubled expression. To Stagg, “You know, you really ain’t at all what I expected.”
“We went over that. Why did you want to meet?” The tough act was working. Stagg saw a slight recoil of fear in Morgenstein.
“No reason in particular.”
They sat quietly for a while. Cynthia whispered something to Morgenstein, then giggled again. She played with a lock of her blonde hair and looked at him, her head tilted.
“So, you’ve done some time,” Morgenstein said. “I almost went to the joint, but my Uncle Mort got me off. It was a bum rap anyways, some kinda interstate commerce shit. What’d you do?”
Here Stagg was faced with a dilemma. So far, his only lie had been to answer to his name. Even owning up to having written the damn novel was honest enough. “They say I killed a man with the leather awl of a Swiss army knife.” The qualifier they say was a stroke and Stagg smiled to himself, a move that served to underscore the quality of his crime.
Morgenstein stiffened briefly, then seemed relieved. “Here I was about to think you weren’t the real thing.” He laughed with Cynthia, who was now eyeing Stagg quite differently. She seemed to crawl behind the fat man, but at the same time smiled coyly at Stagg, her gaze focused on, no doubt, her reflection in his dark lenses.
“I’m the real thing,” Stagg repeated. “Cynthia knows I’m the real thing. Don’t you, Cindy.”
Cynthia squirmed.
“Yeah,” Morgenstein laughed nervously.
The salads and Stagg’s soup came. Stagg took two tastes of the soup and pushed the bowl aside.