Long Lost, Page 9

  "Do you want to come back inside?" I asked.

  "Give me a minute."

  I'm not necessarily an expert on body language but every muscle in her being seemed coiled and locked in a protective stance. I waited near the French windows. Her bedroom was sunflower yellow 'n' blue. I looked at the four-poster bed, and maybe it was wrong, but I wanted to pick her up and carry her to that beautiful bed and make love to her for hours.

  Okay, no "maybe." It was wrong. But.

  When I say stuff like this out loud, Win calls me a little girl.

  I stared now at her bare shoulder and I remembered a day after we had come from that island, after she came to New Jersey and helped me and she smiled, really smiled, for the first time since I had known her, and I thought that I might be falling for her. Usually I go into relationships like, well, a girl, thinking long-term. This time it sneaked up on me and she smiled and we made love differently that night, a little more tenderly, and when we were done I kissed that bare shoulder and then she cried, also for the first time. Smiled and cried for the first time with me.

  A few days later, she was gone.

  Terese turned and looked at me, and it was as though she could tell what I was thinking. We finally moved into the sitting room with barrel-vaulted ceilings and crisp wooden floors. The fireplace crackled. Win, Terese, and I took our places in the plush surroundings and coldly discussed our next steps.

  Terese dived right in. "We need to figure out how to exhume the body in my daughter's grave--if there is a body."

  She said it just like that. No tears, no hesitation.

  "We should a hire a lawyer," I said.

  "A solicitor," Win said, correcting me. "We're in London. We don't use the term 'lawyer,' Myron. We say solicitor."

  I just looked at him, refraining from asking, How about the term "anal douche bag"? Do we use that in London?

  "I will have my people look into it first thing in the morning."

  Lock-Horne Investments had a London branch on Curzon Street.

  "We should also start looking into the accident," I said. "See if we can get ahold of the police file, talk to the investigating officers, that kind of thing."

  Everyone agreed. The conversation continued like this, as if we were in a boardroom launching a new product instead of wondering if Terese's daughter who had "died" in a car crash might still be alive. Crazy to even think it. Win started making calls. We found out that Karen Tower, Rick Collins's wife, still lived in the same house in London. Terese and I would go by in the morning and talk to her.

  After a while, Terese took two Valiums, headed into her room, and closed the door. Win opened a cabinet. I was exhausted, what with the jet lag and the day I'd had. It was hard to think that I had landed in Paris that very morning. But I didn't want to leave the room. I love sitting with Win like this. He had a snifter of cognac in his hand. I usually favored a chocolate drink called Yoo-hoo, but tonight I stuck with Evian. We ordered up some room service munchies.

  I loved the normalcy.

  Mee popped her head into the room and looked at Win. He mouthed a no in her direction. Her pretty face vanished.

  Win said, "It's not yet Mee time."

  I shook my head.

  "What specifically is your problem with Mee?"

  "Mee as in the stewardess, right?"

  "Flight attendant," he said--again with the terminology. "Like with solicitor."

  "She looks young."

  "She's almost twenty." Win gave a small laugh. "I so love when you don't approve."

  "I'm not in the judging business," I said.

  "Good, because I'm trying to make a point here."

  "About?"

  "About you and Ms. Collins on the plane. You, my dear friend, see sex as an act that requires an emotional component. I don't. For you, the act itself, no matter how physically mind-blowing, is not enough. But I view it from another perspective."

  "One that usually involves several camera angles," I said.

  "Good one. But let me continue. For me, the act of two people 'making love'--to use your terminology, because I'm happy with 'boink' or 'boff' or 'screw'--for me, that sacred act is wonderful. More than that, it is everything. In fact, I believe the act is at its best--at its purest, if you will--when it is all, the end-all and be-all, when there is no emotional baggage to sully it. Do you see?"

  "Uh-huh," I said.

  "It's a choice. That's all. You see it one way, I see it another. One is not superior to the other."

  I looked at him. "Is that your point?"

  "On the plane, I was watching you talk to Terese."

  "So you said."

  "So you wanted to hold her, didn't you? After you dropped the bombshell. You wanted to reach out and comfort her. That emotional component we just discussed."

  "I'm not following."

  "When you two were alone on that island, the sex was amazing and purely physical. You barely knew each other. Yet those days on the island soothed and comforted and tore into you and cured you. Now here, when the emotional has entered the picture, when you want to blend those feelings with something as physically benign as an embrace, you can't do it." Win tilted his head and smiled. "Why?"

  He had a point. Why hadn't I reached out? More than that, why couldn't I?

  "Because it would have hurt," I said.

  Win turned away as if that said everything. It didn't. I know that there were many who concluded that Win used misogyny to protect himself, but I never really bought it. It was too pat an answer.

  He checked his watch. "One more drink," Win said. "And then I will go in the other room because--oh, you'll love this--Mee so horny."

  I shook my head. The hotel phone rang. Win picked it up, talked for a moment, hung up.

  "How tired are you?" he asked me.

  "Why, what's up?"

  "The officer who investigated Terese's automobile accident is a retired policeman named Nigel Manderson. One of my people informs me that he is currently getting soused at a pub off Coldharbour Lane, if you want to pay him a visit."

  "Let's do it," I said.

  14

  COLDHARBOUR Lane is about a mile long in South London and joins Camberwell to Brixton. The limousine dropped us off at a rather hopping spot called the Suns and Doves near the Camberwell end. The building had a third floor that got only about halfway across the top, like someone had gotten tired and figured, ah, hell, we won't need more space than that.

  We headed about a block farther down and turned into an alley. There was a good ol'-fashioned head shop and a health food store that was still open.

  "This area has a reputation for gangs and drug dealing," Win said, as though he were a tour guide. "Thus Coldharbour Lane's nickname is--get this--Crackharbour Lane."

  "Known for gangs and drug-dealing," I said, "if not nickname creativity."

  "What do you expect from gangs and drug dealers?"

  The alley was dark and dingy and I kept thinking Bill Sikes and Fagin were lurking against the dark brick. We reached a grotty pub called the Careless Whisper. I immediately flashed to the old George Michael/Wham! song and those now-famed lyrics where the heartbroken lothario will never be able to dance again because "guilty feet have got no rhythm." Eighties deep. I figured the name had nothing to do with the song and probably everything to do with indiscretion.

  But I was wrong.

  We pushed open the door, and it was like walking into a past dimension. Madness's classic hit "Our House" poured out onto the streets along with two couples, both with their arms around each other, more to keep themselves upright than out of affection. The smell of sizzling sausage wafted through the air. The floor was sticky. The place was loud and jammed and clearly whatever no-smoking law had taken effect in this country had not stretched down into this alley. I bet few laws had.

  The place was New Wave, which was to say Old Wave, and proud of it. A large-screen TV showed a petulant Judd Nelson in The Breakfast Club. The waitresses maneuvered through
the boisterous crowd clad in black dresses, bright lipstick, slicked-back hair, and nearly Kabuki whiteface. Guitars hung from around their necks. They were supposed to look like the models in that Robert Palmer "Addicted to Love" video except, well, they were rather, uh, more mature and less attractive. Like the video had been remade with the cast of The Golden Girls.

  Madness finished telling us about their house in the middle of the street, and Bananarama came on offering to be our Venus, our fire at our desire.

  Win gave me a little jab. "The word 'Venus.' "

  "What?" I shouted.

  "When I was young," Win said, "I thought they were singing, 'I'm your penis.' It confused me."

  "Thanks for sharing."

  The trappings might have been eighties New Wave, but this was still a working-class bar, where hardy men and seen-too-much women came after a full day of labor and damned if it wasn't deserved. You couldn't fake belonging here. I might be wearing jeans, but I still didn't come close to fitting in. Win, however, stuck out like a Twinkie at a health club.

  Patrons--some wearing shoulder pads and thin leather ties and Terax in their hair--glared daggers at Win. It was how it always was. We know about the obvious prejudices and stereotypes and Win would be the last to ask for sympathy, but people saw him and hated him. We judge by looks--that's no surprise. People saw undeserved privilege in Win. They wanted to hurt him. It had been that way his whole life. Even I don't know the full story--Win's "origin," to use superhero lexicon--but one of those childhood beatings broke him. He didn't want to be afraid anymore. Not ever. So he used his finances and his natural gifts and spent years developing his skills. By the time we met in college, he was already a lethal weapon.

  Win walked through the glares with a smile and a nod. The pub was old and run-down, and it looked almost fake, which only made it feel more authentic. The women were big and chesty with rat-nest hair. Many wore those off-one-shoulder Flashdance sweatshirts. One eyed Win. She had several missing teeth. There were little ribbons in her hair that seemed to add nothing, a la "Starlight"-era Madonna, and her makeup looked as though it'd been applied with paintball pellets in a dark closet.

  "Well, well," she said to Win. "Ain't you pretty?"

  "Yes," Win said. "Yes, I am."

  The bartender nodded at us as we approached. He wore a FRANKIE SAY RELAX T-shirt.

  "Two beers," I said.

  Win shook his head. "He means two pints of lager."

  Again with the terminology.

  I asked for Nigel Manderson. The bartender didn't blink. I knew this was useless. I turned and shouted out, "Which one of you is Nigel Manderson?"

  A man wearing a baroque ruffled white shirt with squared-off shoulders raised his glass. He looked like he'd just walked out of a Spandau Ballet video. "Cheers, mate."

  The slurred voice came from down at the end of the bar. Manderson had his hands around his drink as though it were a baby bird that had fallen out of a nest and needed protection. His eyes were rheumy. He had one of those spider veins on his nose, though it looked as if someone had stepped on the spider and squashed it.

  "Nice place," I said.

  "Ain't it just the maddest? It's a little rough diamond to remind me of the better times. So, now who the hell are you?"

  I introduced myself and asked him if he recalled a fatal car accident from ten years ago. I mentioned Terese Collins. He interrupted me midway through.

  "I don't remember," he said.

  "She was a famous anchorwoman. Her child died in the accident. She was seven years old."

  "I still don't remember."

  "Did you have a lot of cases where seven-year-old girls ended up dead?"

  He turned on his stool to face me. "You calling me a liar?"

  I know his accent was legit, the real deal, but it sounded to my tin ear like Dick Van Dyke's in Mary Poppins. I half expected him to call me guv'nor.

  I told him the intersection where the accident occurred and the make of her car. I heard a waa-waa sound and glanced to my left. Someone was playing a game of Space Invaders on an arcade machine.

  "I'm retired," he said.

  I kept at him--patiently repeating all the details I knew. The TV screen was behind him, and I confess that I love the movie The Breakfast Club and it was a little distracting. I don't get why I love the movie. The casting had to be a joke--"a hard-core jock wrestler? How about muscle-free Emilio Estevez? A convincing tough school punk? How about Judd Nelson?" I mean, Judd Nelson. Who came in second place? It would be like, to maintain the Golden Girls analogy, remaking a Marilyn Monroe film with Bea Arthur. And yet Nelson and Estevez worked and the movie worked and I love it and I can say every line.

  After a while Nigel Manderson said, "Maybe I remember a little."

  He wasn't very convincing. He finished his drink and ordered another. He watched the bartender pour and scooped it up the second it touched the sticky wood in front of him.

  I looked at Win. Win's face was as usual unreadable.

  The woman with the paintball makeup--hard to say an age, could have been an easy fifty or a hard twenty-five, and I was counting on the latter--said to Win, "I live near here."

  Win gave her the superior gaze that made people hate him. "In that alley perhaps?"

  "No," she said with a big hearty laugh. Win was such a card. "I have a basement flat."

  "Must be divine," Win said in a voice richly marinated in sarcasm.

  "Oh, it's nothing special," Paintball said, not picking up on Win's tone. "But it's got a bed."

  She pulled up on her pink 'n' purple leg warmers and winked at Win. "A bed," she repeated. In case he wasn't getting the drift.

  "Sounds enchanting."

  "Want to see it?"

  "Madam"--Win faced her full--"I would rather have my semen removed via a catheter."

  Another wink. "That a fancy way of saying yes?"

  I said to Manderson, "Can you tell me about the accident?"

  "Who the hell are you anyway?"

  "A friend of the driver's."

  "That's a load of bull."

  "Why do you say that?"

  He took another deep sip. Bananarama ended. Duran Duran's classic ballad "Save a Prayer" came on. A hush fell over the bar. Someone turned down the lights as the clientele lifted lighters and started swaying as if they were at a concert.

  Nigel held up his lighter too. "I'm just supposed to take your word for it--that she sent you?"

  He had a point.

  "And even if you were, so what? That accident was . . . how long ago did you say?"

  I had said it twice. He had heard it twice. "Ten years ago."

  "What would she need to know now?"

  I started to ask a follow-up question but he hushed me. The lights went lower. Everyone sang that we should not say a prayer right now, but for some reason we should save it till the morning after. The morning after what? They all rocked back and forth from drink and song with their lighters still raised, and I feared with all the big hair this had to be a major fire hazard. Most patrons, including Nigel Manderson, had tears in their eyes.

  This was getting us nowhere. I decided to prod a bit. "The accident didn't happen the way your report says."

  He barely glanced at me. "So now you're saying I made a mistake?"

  "No, I'm saying you lied and covered up the truth."

  That made him stop. He lowered the lighter. So did others. He looked around, nodding at friends, looking for support. That wasn't my concern. I kept my eyes on him. Win was already checking out the competition. He was armed, I knew. He didn't show me the weapon and I know that they are supposed to be hard to come by in the UK. But Win had at least one firearm on him.

  I didn't think we'd need it.

  "Piss off," he said.

  "If you lied about something, I'm going to find out what."

  "Ten years later? Good luck. Besides, I didn't have anything to do with the report. It had all pretty much been taken care of when I got there."
<
br />   "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I wasn't called first, pally."

  "Who was?"

  He shook his head. "You said Mrs. Collins sent you?"

  Suddenly he remembers the name and that she was married. "Yes."

  "Well, she'd know. Or maybe ask her friend who called it in."

  I let that sink in. Then: "What was her friend's name?"

  "Damned if I know. Look, you want to go tilting at windmills? I just signed the report. I don't give a crap anymore. I got my pitiful pension. Nothing they can do to me. Yeah, I remember it, okay? I got to the scene. Her friend, rich girl, I don't remember her name. She called it in to someone at the top. One of my superiors was already there, a pissant maggot named Reginald Stubbs, but don't bother calling him, cancer ate him up three years ago, thank Christ. They carted off the little girl's body. They rushed the mom to the hospital. That was all I know."

  "Did you see the girl?" I asked.

  He looked up from his drink. "What?"

  "You said they carted off the little girl's body. Did you actually see it?"

  "It was in a bag, for chrissake," he said. "But judging by the amount of blood, there wouldn't have been much to see even if I looked inside."

  15

  IN the morning Terese and I headed to Karen Tower's house while Win met with his "solicitors" to do some of the legal legwork, like getting the car accident's file and--man, I didn't even want to think about this--figuring out how to exhume Miriam's body.

  We took a London black taxi, which compared to the rest of the world's cab services is one of life's simple pleasures. Terese looked surprisingly good and focused. I'd filled her in on my conversation with Nigel Manderson at the pub.

  "You think the woman who called it in was Karen Tower?" she asked.

  "Who else?"

  She nodded but said no more. We drove in silence for a few minutes when Terese leaned forward and said, "Drop us off at the next corner."