Max Collins - The first quarry

I sat for maybe fifteen minutes trying to think, but when my stomach began to growl-all I’d had for supper was a bowl of soup-I thought, Fuck it, and went on in to the Sambo’s.

This was still winter break, and fairly late at night, so the garish, brightly illuminated orange-and-white restaurant was underpopulated, enough miserable kids in orange caps and orange-and-white uniforms for every customer to have a personal waiter or waitress.

I damn near laughed, though, when I saw two big black guys, who looked like they’d wandered off the set of Cotton Comes to Harlem, sitting at the endless counter. One wore a green hat with a gold band, tilted rakishly, and a green long-sleeve shirt and green-and-brown plaid bell bottoms. The other wore a similar hat, but black with a leather band and a red feather, and a red shirt with pointy collars and deep-brown corduroy bells. Both had major Afros and Groucho-wide mustaches, and each had folded a leather (one black, one brown) topcoat carefully over the free stool next to him. They were drinking coffee and having pancakes and every side you can imagine. Tiger butter and all.

Call me a racist if you like, but this urban pair sitting in a Sambo’s made a wonderful sight gag.

Anyway, I found a booth and ordered my own big breakfast, and I sat by myself, thinking about how fucked-up this job had become and seriously considering risking the wrath of the Broker and bailing. Every time I turned around, some new wrinkle, some new conflict, presented itself. Whatever happened to Wait till he’s alone, go in and pop him and leave?

Of course this had never been that kind of job. It had always had that little extra “challenge” (as the Broker put it) of destroying a certain manuscript, and wondering what to do next had my head swimming.

I was well into my late-night breakfast when Annette came into Sambo’s, a green pants suit and ruffly blouse taking the place of naked skin under her white leather coat. She saw me at once, and smiled, and came over.

“Nice to see a friendly face, Jack,” she said, and slid in across from me. “Mind if I join you?”

Kind of hard to say no when she already had, so I said, “Sure,” and asked, “Rough day?”

“Don’t ask! Horrible. Simply horrible.”

I touched a napkin to my lips, then asked, “Want to order something?”

“Oh yes, I’m starved.”

A waitress came over, and the “starved” girl ordered a dinner salad with oil and vinegar, and a cup of coffee.

I was almost done with my food, so I shoved it to one side and asked, “Trouble with your book?”

“Kind of.” She shook her head and dark brown hair danced on her shoulders. “It’s tough, collaborating.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Collaborating?”

“…Not exactly.”

“Your book, your non-fiction novel-is Professor Byron co-writing it?”

Again she shook her head. “Not really. I think of it as a collaboration because he’s given me so much advice, so much support. We’ve become very close.”

“Really. Doesn’t he have a kind of reputation for…if I’m out of line, just say so, but…”

Her salad came.

She said, “I’m not in love with Professor Byron or anything. We’re just good friends.”

I could use a good friend who looked like her who would blow me.

“But I won’t deny,” she said, “that he’s something of a satyr.”

“A what?”

She smiled, more to herself than at me. “He is known to hit on his female students.”

“A letch, you mean. Dirty old man.”

She smiled, maybe a tad embarrassed; she forked some salad. “He’s a wonderful, talented writer, and I’m glad to have a relationship with him. He’s mature but young at heart. Anyway, I’m not looking for a…a husband, or any kind of serious relationship. He’s a virile, charismatic man, and I’m single right now, and we are very close, very, very close friends, so…what’s the harm?”

“Nothing, I’d say. You have your eyes open, anyway.”

“Yeah, but…” She shook her head yet again, and those big brown eyes really were open-wide. “…tonight, out of nowhere, his wife showed up. God, she’s a crazy person. A shrew. Just a horrible monster.”

“How long have you known her?”

“Oh, we’ve never met. But K.J. has told me about her.”

“Oh.” I sipped iced tea. “Listen, I’m interested in this non-fiction novel concept. I’ve fooled with writing since I was in grade school. I mean, I know I’m not in your league, but I am interested in pursuing it.”

She shrugged. “Glad to help, if I can.” Another bite of salad. Her lips were very full and quite beautiful; female lips that stay beautiful while chewing food are to be treasured. “What can I tell you?”

“You’re writing your own story-of your own life.”

Eager nod. “Yes.”

“And the professor isn’t doing any of the writing. He’s just guiding you.”

“That’s right.”

“Well…how old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Okay. Isn’t twenty-two a little young to have a life story to write? I mean, don’t people do their memoirs right before they croak, generally?”

She laughed and it was musical, contrasting with faint Muzak piped in. “I had an unusual childhood. An unusual life all the way around.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “My father is someone…famous. Or infamous.”

“Oh. So it’s a celebrity story. What it’s like to be the kid of a celebrity. Cool.”

She frowned, shook her head. “Not so cool. My father…you’ve heard of Lou Girardelli?”

“You mean…Sinatra’s pal?”

That caught her off-guard and she laughed again. “Yes. Yes, Sinatra’s pal.”

“You mean you’ve met Sinatra?”

“Oh yes. He’s charming, most of the time. The nicest manic depressive I know.”

I thought, I bet he’s mature but young at heart, too…

I asked, “Isn’t that a dangerous story to write?”

She leaned forward, her eyes earnest. “You mean, wouldn’t my father be displeased? Yes, he will. But I’m his daughter. He’ll dismiss my story, in public, as a drug-addled fantasy from an estranged daughter, trying to make a fast buck by writing a ‘tell-all.’ You see, I don’t know any of the criminal details of his life. I only know the home life. But that’s enough. Really enough.”

“You said ‘drug-addled.’…You don’t seem very drug-addled to me.”

Her eyebrows lifted and she looked down at her mostly eaten salad. “I was into pot and pills in high school. It did get bad, I won’t deny it, and I had to be hospitalized for a while. But I’m fine now.”

“You seem awfully well-adjusted, for all you’ve been through.”

She brightened. “Thanks. And K.J., Professor Byron, he’s helping me throw off the…the final shackles of my past.”

I nodded. “Write about it, and get it out of your system, you mean?”

“Exactly. Exorcize the demons. Everyone has them. I just happened to have one as a father.”

I had a drink of tea, then I asked, “So now that Mrs. Professor has shown up, what’s your plan?”

She sighed. “I guess I’ll burrow into my little apartment and work by myself till I hear from K.J. In any event, I won’t work any more tonight. I can use some sleep.”

She reached for her check but I touched her hand.

“Let me get it,” I said. “You’re a cheap enough date.”

With a laugh, she said, “Thanks,” and slid out of the booth.

“See you, Jack. You’re easy to talk to.”

“You are, too.”

Then she was gone.

The iced tea had run through me, so I went back to the men’s room, thinking that since I knew Annette would not be returning to the professor’s until she was summoned, I could wait till tomorrow before my next step. After Dorrie Byron left the prof’s pad to take her meeting with me, and pick up those photos, I wouldn’t show up, being busy back at the cobblestone cottage, killing her straying husband and destroying his manuscript.