Harris was getting animated, and his voice was rising. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I needed to act interested and hope-pray-he would state his intentions in regard to the reservations center.
“Is it really that bad?” I asked, surprised at his vehemence.
“Yes! In England these days, the worst thing you can be is a proper Englishman. Believe me, I know of what I speak, Jack. I wish I could say it’s a cauldron, and it’s going to blow up soon, that we’re going to rise up and take our country back. But the sad thing is, I don’t think we’ve got the balls anymore. I think we’ll just sit there tut-tutting while the government assumes all control.”
The waitress with the breasts brought our veal. It was tender, all right. In fact, it was fantastic-huge palm-sized pieces of meat breaded with crispy crust that was still sizzling and the whole thing covered with ham and cheese. I should not have been so hungry, but I was. I noticed a bit of a slur in his words. This was going to be one of those nights.
“You’ve probably heard I’m considering moving my headquarters,” Harris said through a mouthful of veal. “I need to find a place where I can breathe again.”
Finally.
“I have.”
“I’m strongly considering Colorado,” he said, watching me carefully for my reaction.
“That would be fantastic,” I said, putting down my fork to shake his hand. “We’d love to have you.”
He shook his head as if to say, Of course you would.
“It’s a great place,” I said. “The sun shines over three hundred days a year. We’ve got the mountains and the skiing, as well as a great airport and a mayor who really encourages international business…”
He interrupted. “I know all that. You don’t need to sell it to me. I’m very familiar with the state and the powers that be. I’ve been in touch with several of them, although not yet officially.”
The beer arrived, and he took a long draught before continuing. He didn’t wipe the foam away from his upper lip, which I found distracting.
“It’s a great place to raise a family,” I offered. “The schools are pretty good, and there is lots of recreation. Here,” I said. “Let me show you…” and reached back for my wallet for my photo of Angelina.
The look on his face was anticipatory. Most people will feign interest, but Harris was sincere. He smiled broadly at the photo of our daughter. “A new one, eh?” he said. “Recent?”
“A couple of weeks ago,” I said. “She’s almost walking now.”
“She is still an angel, just like her name,” Harris said, handing the photo back. I was confused.
“You probably get so many photos shoved at you that it’s easy to lose track of which kid is which,” I said.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“I don’t remember showing you a picture of her before,” I said.
“Of course you did,” he said.
I shook my head. “I just can’t remember it, I guess.”
“Have another beer,” he said, and laughed roughly. He seemed to be studying me all of a sudden.
When did I show him a photo before? I wanted to know. But I remembered, This isn’t about you.
As discreetly as I could, I settled back into the booth and reached for my beer. Unaccountably, I seethed with a sudden rage. I had no idea where it came from, or why it was so intense. All Harris had done was contradict me, show that he had a better memory than I did. But big shot or not, it would have been very easy that moment to smash my fist into his face, to wipe the foam off his lip with my knuckles. I could feel an explosion just beneath the surface, anger that wildly outmatched the transgression itself. Maybe the past week was catching up to me, I thought, coming to a head. All this miserable waiting while my family was vulnerable thousands of miles away. I was ready to unload everything on a British tour operator who brought thousands of tourists and millions of dollars into my city and who might soon be moving his business there.
“Looks like you could use another one of those,” he said, nodding toward my beer glass.
“That’s okay,” I said, tight-lipped.
“Meaning you’d like another one,” he said, his face animated again. “Me too. Fritz!”
He paused. “Are you all right? You look pale.”
“I’m okay. Just tired.”
“Buck up, man. This is the world of international tourism. You’ve got to hit the ground running.”
I agreed. I was grateful he was drunk enough-or self-absorbed enough, or both-to not pick up on my anger a moment before.
“You know”-he laughed-“you Americans seem to think your government is taking away your civil liberties, but you don’t know what you’re talking about. There aren’t bureaucrats looking over your shoulder as you live your life, telling you how to speak and think and whom to associate with-taking your freedom away. My friends in Colorado say that compared to what I’m used to, I’ll be bulletproof! That’s the term they use, bulletproof. I love that.”
“Really? Who says that?” I asked.
“Oh no,” he said coyly, “I won’t reveal my sources.”
Suddenly, he was silent. He studied his empty and greasy plate. I didn’t realize until that moment how drunk he was, and how he’d apparently ventured into territory he now wished he hadn’t.
The restaurant was emptying out, which was good. I didn’t want Harris-or me-to engage with anyone in any way, especially in the belligerent mood he was in. I called for the bill, always a frustratingly long experience. Fritz delivered it (finally) in person, and Harris raved about how good the food was, and I agreed.
Fritz leaned down conspiratorially, said to Harris, “Do you need to check your e-mail again?”
Harris laughed, squeezed Fritz on his arm, said, “I’ve seen enough for to night.”
Which I thought an odd choice of words at the time.
MY HEAD WAS SPINNING when I sat down on my bed. I had four messages. I fumbled through the codes and prompts, cursing the phone, the hotel, the German language, and Malcolm Harris for the condition I was in.
The first message was from Melissa.
“Oh Jack, I’m sorry I missed you. I’m so sorry. You won’t believe who I met today-Kellie Moreland! Call me right away!”
The second and third messages were the same.
By the fourth, she was angry.
“Jack, are you even there? Are you checking your messages? I know it’s two in the morning, so don’t even call.” She paused, then: “My God, I need to talk to you right away. I met Kellie Moreland today-Brian arranged it. And guess what? Are you sitting down? She doesn’t know anything about Angelina!”
In the Air / Denver / Wyoming
TWELVE
JET LAG WORKS BOTH ways.
On the flight home, in the cocoon of the 737-400 with the lights dimmed, I couldn’t sleep. I was preoccupied that Melissa-with help from Brian-had “run into” Kellie Moreland at a society fund-raiser at a local library and posed the question about Angelina only to be met with a blank stare.
“Angelina who?” Kellie had asked.
Which meant a lot of things. Either Kellie was stupid- Melissa swore she wasn’t-or Judge Moreland was making a play with his son on their own for reasons that were unknown to us. When Melissa asked Kellie about Garrett, she said Kellie shrank back as if slapped, as if the mere mention of her stepson’s name filled her with horror. As Melissa followed her, trying to engage her, Kellie walked away faster through the crowd until she was running. Melissa ran, too, until Kellie called for security, and my wife was stopped by two men who asked what her problem was.
“What my problem was,” Melissa said, over and over that night on the telephone. “How could I explain what my problem was?”