“Tell me more about Harry, if you will.”
Walter’s cell phone rang in the middle of Sadie’s monologue. She was telling him about Harry as a youngster and how he loved living in Roswell. “He always wanted to be home,” she said. “Right here.” The ringer was on vibrate and Walter felt it buzzing against his chest in his shirt pocket. “Excuse me,” he said to Sadie. “I’ll take this outside.”
“No need for that,” she said. “I’ll be in the other room. Holler when you want me.” With that pronouncement, she took her teacup, the Atlanta newspaper, and walked off. Walter flipped open the cover of his phone, pushed the call button and said, “Hello.”
“Hello, Walter-may I call you Walter?-You and I need to talk.”
“Who is this?” Walter asked, then quickly added, in his usual, neighborly tone, “You can call me whatever you like.”
“Good.”
“And you are?”
“My name is Louis Devereaux. I’ve admired your work for many years. It’s a treat just to talk to you. I guess you might say I’m a fan.”
“What is it I can do for you, Mr. Devereaux?”
“I think we can help each other, Walter. We need to talk about Harry Levine. I’d love to join you later today, perhaps even for dinner. I can be there, in Atlanta, this afternoon. Do you know Il Localino in Inman Park? A small restaurant. It’s on Highland in a very quiet street. Meet me there at seven. We’ll have an early dinner and it’ll give us plenty of time to chat. How does that sound?” Walter had no idea who Louis Devereaux was. But he knew Walter’s cell phone number, was familiar with his work, knew he was in Atlanta and used Harry Levine’s name. Impressive stuff, he thought.
“See you at seven, Louis,” he said, then snapped his phone shut and put it back in his shirt pocket.
Harry’s aunt was outside, sitting at a wrought-iron, glass-top table on a concrete slab in the backyard. Walter brought his cold drink with him, sat down next to her and for an hour or more listened to Sadie Fagan talk about her nephew.
The gentrification of North Highland, in Inman Park, on Atlanta’s east side, began in the 1990s. The old apartment buildings, four and five stories tall, the ones with the Depression-era, pre-WWII facades, were renovated, turned into condos and sold to lawyers, IT professionals, advertising executives and salespeople. Most of the new apartments, mainly condos, were too small for big families. That kept the neighborhood relatively free of children. The city built jogging paths and lined local streets with bicycle lanes. Housing prices doubled, then doubled again. So did property taxes. Still, they came. The old residents, working-class people who bought their clothing and kitchen appliances at the same store-Sears-were forced out. Developers descended like locusts. Bars, coffeehouses and restaurants followed close behind. The yuppies and buppies of Atlanta, the ones who wore two-hundred-dollar tank tops from Hugo Boss and drank their coffee from espresso machines imported from Milan, flocked to the neighborhood. The men proudly displayed their Rolexes and always carried business cards no matter how they were dressed. The women wore underwear from Victoria’s Secret so that if they got hit by a car, they’d look good. At The Emory Clinic, an outreach of Emory University’s hospital and medical school, Inman Park was often called Herpesville. An MBA offered no protection from an STD.
Il Localino was one of four restaurants on the same, tree-lined block of North Highland. They shared a common valet parking lot. Walter pulled his car up to the entrance. The attendant, a young, clean-cut, college kid, asked him which restaurant he was going to. He told him and watched as the young man jotted it down on the portion of the ticket he kept to place on the dashboard. He supposed it was to help them sort out and locate the folks who got so drunk or so lucky they never made it back to their cars. Louis Devereaux was waiting for him, already seated at the corner table by the front window. As he entered the restaurant, a smiling Devereaux rose to signal him. Walter realized he’d been made on the short walk from the parking lot to the front door. He never once looked around to see if anyone was looking at him. Stupid, he thought. Just plain dumb.
Louis Devereaux was a man in his fifties, average height, trim and fit, with a full head of dark brown hair. He had sharp features, a bony forehead, small nose, thin lips and a pointed chin. Except for the gleam in his eyes, he was the kind of man who could easily fade into the background. His smile was internal. Walter had seen looks like that before, smiles meant only for the smiler, smiles to complement fiery eyes. Devereaux’s grin was definitely on loan from the Devil.
He was from Washington. Walter was sure of that. Everyone in Washington wore the same dark-blue, three-button, natural shoulder suit with a shirt and tie designed to make them inconspicuous. These were not cheap clothes, not by any means, but they did defeat the very purpose of dressing in the first place, especially in this neighborhood. Walter was reminded of something a Dutchman said once, in Vientiane in 1971. One evening in a hotel bar, as they watched the Frenchmen come and go in the capital city of Laos, Aat van de Steen said to Walter, “A man who dresses not to be seen, is a man who will not show you who he is.” A lesson learned in Laos, still true in Il Localino.
“Hello,” said Walter, reaching across the table to shake hands.
“A pleasure to meet you, Walter,” Devereaux responded. They shook hands and took their seats. “Do you like this place?”
“Very nice,” Walter said without looking around at all. A skinny, old Italian man, accompanied by a young girl who might have been his niece or more likely his granddaughter, approached immediately. He brought with him a bottle of wine.
“Gentlemen,” he said presenting the wine bottle to them as if it were a great treasure. “Allow me to select this fine Chianti for you. Colle Bereto Chianti Classico, 1995. This is a wonderful wine, believe me. Make you warm in winter. Keep you cool in summer and make the women love you. If you don’t like it, you tell me so, it’s on me.” He handed the bottle to the young girl who tore off the seal and began screwing an opener into the top of the cork. While she did this, the Italian began with the specials for that night. With each one he went into great detail about the ingredients and the method of preparation, and ended each item with an opinion on the merits of the dish. He looked at Walter and, with a warm smile, said, “For you, the grouper piccata in a white wine sauce, with lemon and fried capers. On the side, some linguini, al dente, in a light clam sauce. No?”
“Sure,” said Walter, returning the waiter’s friendly smile.
“Would you like to begin with a salad with roasted pine nuts and the world-famous Localino vinaigrette?”
“World famous?”
“In my world, to be sure.”
“I’ll skip the salad, thank you,” said Walter.
“And for you, sir…,” the waiter continued, turning to Devereaux.
“The filet mignon will do just fine,” Devereaux said. “Angel hair pasta with that.”
“Of course, sir,” said the waiter. “Sliced medallions of filet mignon in Italian Romagna brandy, with mushrooms and peppercorns. Will that be all?” Devereaux nodded and the old man motioned for the young girl to pour the wine-first a taste for Walter’s approval, then a full glass for each of them. “Welcome to Il Localino. Anything I can do to make your meal more enjoyable, you call me, no?”
“Thank you,” said Walter. “We’re looking forward to a wonderful dinner.”