Robert Bennett - The Company Man

“I don’t know. You hungry, Miss Fairbanks? Want to grab something to eat around here?”

“Like what?”

“Anything. I never eat around here. I’m willing to go anywhere about now.” He smiled lopsidedly at her. It was like a crack in his face, breaking through all the fatigue and the frustration to the rangy, wiseacre boy hiding behind. Samantha found herself smiling along with him in spite of herself.

“All right,” she said.

He took her to the northern end of Newton, where the apartment buildings dwindled and the clubs and band halls began to sprawl across the shore. She had passed through that part of her neighborhood before and heard the bands playing from somewhere nearby, but she had never tried to attend any of the shows. The customers and crowds of Newton had seemed forbidding and impenetrable then, the women all glamorous and preening, the men regal in their top hats and tails. Yet now they all parted before Garvey, who plodded through their ranks without a care in the world, amiably discussing weather or baseball or the offenses of his coworkers as Samantha struggled to keep by his side. He walked as though they were alone on the street. Samantha felt a thrill of guilty pleasure each time they broke through a line for a show and attracted countless foul looks.

At one corner Garvey glanced at her with a crafty look in his eyes, and mentioned that he knew a place nearby. He then led her to a club called Mirabelle’s, a thoroughly modern affair with alabaster pillars and needle-thin spotlights that flashed up through the evening air. It sported the longest line of any club Samantha had yet seen, but Garvey passed them by and casually walked up to the maitre d’, who first gave them a sour glance but then blinked in surprise as he looked again. As Garvey strode forward the maitre d’ smiled in recognition and reached out to shake his hand, and he greeted them both as old friends, enthusiastically asking how Detective Garvey was these days, and where he’d found this beautiful girl to grace them all with her presence. Samantha blushed hugely at that. The maitre d’ hustled them inside and the other patrons waiting in line shouted their objections, but he and Garvey seemed totally unaware of it.

Samantha almost gasped as they were led in. The interior of the club was almost entirely done in white-white marble floors and walls, white pillars, and a wooden center stage painted a gleaming white. It seemed wintry and fragile and impossibly beautiful, as though the arches and pillars might melt at any moment and it would all collapse. Tables were crowded around the center stage, and waiters in white dress coats threaded through the narrow lanes, delivering plates and drinks with demure smiles as though they were used to treating customers far more reputable than these, but were kind enough to bear the ignominy without mention. Behind the corner of the stage a full brass band played an unobtrusive jazz number while a sharp man in a three-piece suit stood beside them, sucking on a cigar and watching the crowds. When Garvey walked in a light went on in the man’s eyes, and he smiled slightly and pointed at Garvey and then to one of the choice corner tables, where they were immediately ushered to sit.

“ This is a place you know?” asked Samantha in awe once they were seated.

“Sure,” said Garvey. “They know me here.”

“I can see that. How on Earth did you ever manage this?”

He shrugged and smiled mysteriously. “I did a favor once or twice.”

“A favor?”

“Yeah. The owner’s daughter was in trouble once. Nothing serious, but it could’ve been. I kept it quiet and sorted it out.” He nodded at the man with the cigar, who just barely nodded back. “They’ve been kind to me ever since. I come here every couple of months or so. What do you think?”

“I must admit, I’m shocked by it. For a moment I thought you were going to threaten them with your gun to get us in.”

He smiled. “No. I don’t have it on me, anyway.”

“You don’t? Why not?”

“I forgot it,” he said. “It happens all the time, actually. Today was one of those times.”

“I thought all policemen carried their trusty revolvers with them.”

“Not murder police. We don’t do the shooting. We just clean it up. The gun has nothing to do with the job.”

They ordered martinis and calamari, and laughed and spoke quietly as the band played. Samantha was astonished to learn that Garvey’s previous job had been as a librarian, but the more he talked about police work the more that seemed perfectly apt, as it seemed to be nothing but filing and papers. She soon noticed he had a curious way of conversation, however-where before he’d seemed a very quiet man, now he was so enthusiastically candid about his life that Samantha couldn’t help but volunteer some of her own history, telling him things she’d almost never tell any other acquaintance. It was an almost invasive sort of sympathy, this big, lanky boy of a man bounding forward to make himself utterly vulnerable at your feet. You soon found you were giving yourself up to him, telling him everything you ever thought he’d want to hear, just to match how exposed he’d made himself. She wondered if it was a tactic and if he handled his suspects the same way, or if it was just his nature. She figured it probably was a bit of both, and then she couldn’t help but compare him to Hayes, who was so evasive, forever changing names and accents and stories until you didn’t know what was sitting on the other side of the table from you.

At ten o’clock the club host announced that the show would soon be starting, and Garvey excused himself and slipped off to the restroom. Samantha drank the rest of her martini, and soon the lighting in the club changed, the tables growing dimmer while the spots on the stage grew bright. As the patrons began standing Samantha followed suit, and found herself with one of the best views. The band started playing, picking up a soft, waltzy tune, and then there was a whir overhead. She looked up and then laughed in surprise as the ceiling above the stage seemed to be snowing, the flakes drifting down from some machinery hidden above. She caught a few and found they were real ice that melted on her fingertips. Soon the stage was almost hidden by a veil of soft white snow, yet through some cunning nature of the machinery it snowed in bursts that lined up with the beat of the song. Then two dancers came swooping out from the side of the stage, and the crowd gasped in surprise. One was a man in a black-and-white tuxedo with tails, the other was a long, slender-limbed woman in a glittering white dress that seemed to be made of snow as well. Once they came to the center of the stage, they began to dance and sing together.

Later Samantha never could recall what the song was about. It felt as if it was partially in French, with only snatches of meaning scattered throughout the words. But the words were a mere excuse for the performance. The dancers’ clothing was adapted so that at times it blended in with the flakes of ice, and as they swung one another in and out of the light they would flash bright and then seem to vanish, flitting across the stage in each other’s arms. It was powerfully mesmerizing, these faint white-and-black figures slipping among the bursts of the falling snow. She had never seen anything like it. She doubted if it could have been done anywhere else in the world.

It was never clear when the dance was done. Between the lighting and the camouflaged outfits, it was difficult to tell if the dancers were really there or not. But then the song came to an end, and everyone suddenly remembered themselves and started clapping furiously.

“It’s a seasonal thing,” said Garvey’s voice over her shoulder.

She turned and saw him standing beside her, watching the snow end. “Pardon?” she said.