“Right,” I said. “But, Ollie, I’m not supposed to have seen you for twenty years—and I was five then, or supposed to be. So how would I recognize you? Or, for that matter, you recognize me?”
“No sweat, Ed. We write each other once a year, at Christmas. And several times, including last Christmas, we traded snapshots with our Christmas letters. Remember?”
“Of course,” I said. “But didn’t your wife see the one I sent you?”
“She may have glanced at it casually. But after seven months she wouldn’t remember it. Besides, you and the real Ed Cartwright are about the same physical type, anyway—dark hair, good looking. You’ll pass. But don’t miss meeting us before we reach the counter or somebody there might tell us the plane’s not in yet, if it’s not. Well, I better not talk any longer.”
I swore a little to myself as I left the Morrison lobby and went to the cab rank. I’d counted on the time Ollie and I would have had together to have him finish my briefing. This way I’d have to let him do most of the talking, at least tonight. Well, he seemed smart enough to handle it. I didn’t even know my parents’ names, whether either of them was alive, whether I had any other living relatives besides Ollie. I didn’t even know whether I was married or not—although I felt reasonably sure Ollie would have mentioned it if I was.
Yes, he’d have to do most of the talking—although I’d better figure out what kind of business I’d come to Chicago to do; I’d be supposed to know that, and Ollie wouldn’t know anything about it. Well, I’d figure that out on the cab ride.
Barring accidents, I’d get there well ahead of Ollie, and I didn’t want accidents, so I didn’t offer the cabby any bribe for speed when I told him to take me to the airport. He’d keep the meter ticking all right, since he made his money by the mile and not by the minute.
I had my cover story ready by the time we got there. It wasn’t detailed, but I didn’t anticipate being pressed for details, and if I was, I knew more about printing equipment than Eve Bookman would know. I was a good ten minutes ahead of plane time. I found myself a seat near the Pacific Airlines counter and facing in the direction from which the Bookmans would come. Fifteen minutes later—on time, as planes go—the public-address system announced the arrival of my flight from Seattle, and fifteen minutes after that—time for me to have left the plane and even to have collected the suitcase that was by my feet—I saw them coming. That is, I saw Ollie coming, and with him was a beautiful, soignée blonde who could only be Eve Bookman, nee Eve Eden. Quite a dish. She was, with high heels, just about two inches short of Ollie’s height, which made her just about as tall as I, unless she took off her shoes for me. Which, from what Ollie had told me about her, was about the last thing I expected her to do, especially here in the airport.
I got up and walked toward them and—remembering identification was only from snapshot—didn’t put too much confidence in my voice when I asked, “Ollie?” and I put out my hand but only tentatively.
Ollie grabbed my hand in his big one and started pumping it. “Ed! Gawdamn if I can believe it, after all these years. When I last saw you, not counting pictures, you looked— Hell, let’s get to that later. Meet Eve. Eve, meet Ed.”
Eve Bookman gave me a smile but not a hand. “Glad to meet you at last, Edward. Oliver’s talked quite a bit about you.” I hoped she was just being polite in making the latter statement.
I gave her a smile back. “Hope he didn’t say anything bad about me. But maybe he did; I was probably a pretty obstreperous brat when he saw me last. I would have been—let’s see—”
“Five,” said Ollie. “Well, what are we waiting for? Ed, you want we should go right home? Or should we drop in somewhere on the way and hoist a few? You weren’t much of a drinker when I knew you last but maybe by now—”
Eve interrupted him. “Let’s go home, Oliver. You’ll want a nightcap there in any case, and you know you’re not supposed to have more than one or two a day. Did he tell you, Edward, about his heart trouble in any of his letters?”
Ollie saved me again. “No, but it’s not important. All right, though. We’ll head home and I’ll have my daily one or two, or maybe, since this is an occasion, three. Ed, is that your suitcase back by where you were sitting?”
I said it was and went back and got it, then went with them to the parking area and to a beautiful cream-colored Buick convertible with the top down. Ollie opened the door for Eve and then held it open after she got in. “Go on, Ed. We can all sit in the front seat.” He grinned. “Eve’s got an MG and loves to drive it, but we couldn’t bring it tonight. With those damn bucket seats, you can’t ride three in the whole car.” I got in and he went around and got in the driver’s side. I was wishing that I could drive it—I’d never piloted a recent Buick—but I couldn’t think of any reasonable excuse for offering.
Half an hour later, I wished that I’d not only offered but had insisted. Ollie Bookman was a poor driver. Not a fast driver or a dangerous one, just sloppy. The way he grated gears made my teeth grate with them and his starts and stops were much too jerky. Besides, he was a lane-straddler and had no sense of timing on making stop lights.
But he was a good talker. He talked almost incessantly, and to good purpose, briefing me, mostly by apparently talking to Eve. “Don’t remember if I told you, Eve, how come Ed and I have different last names, but the same father—not the same mother. See, I was Dad’s son by his first marriage and Ed by his second—Ed was born Ed Bookman. But Dad died right after Ed was born and Ed’s mother, my stepmother, married Wilkes Cartwright a couple years later. Ed was young enough that they changed his name to match his stepfather’s, but I was already grown up, through high school anyway, so I didn’t change mine. I was on my own by then. Well, both Ed’s mother and his stepfather are dead now; he and I are the only survivors. Well…” And I listened and filed away facts. Sometimes he’d cut me in by asking me questions, but the questions always cued in their own answers or were ones that wouldn’t be giveaways whichever way I answered them, like, “Ed, the house you were born in, out north of town—is it still standing, or haven’t you been out that way recently?”
I was fairly well keyed in on family history by the time we got home.
HOME WASN’T as I’d pictured it, a house. It was an apartment, but a big one—ten rooms, I learned later—on Coleman Boulevard just north of Howard. It was fourth floor, but there were elevators. Now that I thought of it, I realized that Ollie, because of his angina, wouldn’t be able to live in a house where he had to climb stairs. But later I learned they’d been living there ever since they’d married, so he hadn’t had to move there on account of that angle.
It was a fine apartment, nicely furnished and with a living room big enough to contain a swimming pool. “Come on, Ed,” Ollie said cheerfully. “I’ll show you your room and let you get rid of your suitcase, freshen up if you want to—although I imagine we’ll all be turning in soon. You must be tired after that long trip. Eve, could we talk you into making a round of Martinis meanwhile?”
“Yes, Oliver.” The perfect wife, she walked toward the small but well-stocked bar in a corner of the room.
I followed Ollie to the guest room that was to be mine. “Might as well unpack your suitcase while we talk,” he said, after he closed the door behind us. “Hang your stuff up or put it in the dresser there. Well, so far, so good. Not a suspicion, and you’re doing fine.”