Jack O'Connell - Wireless

“She just went into the crowd. You don’t know what she looks like, do you? I’ve seen a photo, but the die-hards all say it’s a decoy—”

“Most give you a description?”

“I didn’t ask. It was the voice that killed him, you know?”

“I know.”

Flynn starts out of the chamber and up the stairs.

“What?” Ferrie yells after him. “You’re going to talk to every woman in here?”

The Volvo pulls up under the winged portico of the Baron Quinsigamond, and two carhops, a man and a woman, jump into action. They pull open doors, give a small bow with the head, and offer an arm to help Olga and Wallace extract themselves from the front seat.

Olga straightens the crocheted shawl around her shoulders and smiles up at the young Hispanic woman, presses a five into her hand, and takes from her the pink parking stub for validation. She walks around the front of the car and takes Wallace’s arm, brings her mouth to his ear, and says, “We’re going to break some records tonight. I can feel it.”

They enter the hotel lobby with the saunter of self-imposed nobility. The Baron is already a decade old, but has lost none of its impressiveness. It’s got that top-of-the-franchise feel to it. None of the old Mickey Mouse stuff that used to pass for traveler accommodations here in Quinsigamond. This place has the big open lobby with the hanging crystal chandelier, the rooftop revolving restaurant, the health club and pool. And most of all, the beautiful, crushed-velvet, mauve uniforms worn by the staff. Wallace thinks, You know you’re in a big-money place when the bellboy’s thighs whistle .

A tall, bony-faced woman in a black satin evening gown says, “Mr. and Mrs. Browning, we’ve been expecting you.”

She takes each of them by the hand, smiles down at them.

“Just like the president and secretary to be late,” Wallace says.

Olga does a practiced eye roll. “Don’t listen to him, Magda. Wallace likes to make an entrance.”

Magda gives a just-as-practiced laugh and says, “I think you’ll find everything you requested. I can tell you the ice sculpture is a big hit. Table One has been asking for you. Now, if you need anything at all, just ask for Aldo or myself.”

“I’m sure it’s all perfect,” Olga says.

“Did the drummer make it?” Wallace asks. “They said yesterday there could be a problem with the drummer.”

Magda puts a hand on his shoulder. “He’s been punctuating all of Mr. Dixon’s jokes.”

Wallace brings a hand up to his forehead like a migraine’s just exploded over the eyes. “Oh my God, honey, we’d better get in there. Dixon is trying to play emcee again.”

“Have a wonderful night,” Magda says, then lowers her voice. “You’re the odds-on favorite to bring home the gold.”

Olga takes Wallace’s arm and they walk through the lobby and veer left into the Duchess Ballroom. Hanging over the entryway is a crimson banner that reads:

Q.L.P.L. 19

And underneath, the explanation:

Quinsigamond Little People’s Lodge 19

Eighth Annual Dinner Dance

They stop in the entryway, directly underneath the banner, survey the room, and let the crowd observe their arrival.

“Oh, honey, Magda outdid herself this year,” Olga says softly.

“You pay for the best …” Wallace responds, and starts to wave at the crowd.

From the other side of the room, a voice yells, “Our fearless leader made it.”

Wallace cups his hands around his mouth and yells back, “No more of the punch for Dixon,” then gives a “yer out” sign with thumb and swinging arm. There’s some laughter and a rim-shot drumbeat. Assured of the room’s attention, Wallace takes Olga’s arm and they start to move through the crowd toward the head table, patting backs and grabbing extended hands along the way.

The room is a sight. All the chrome and gold plating has been polished immaculate. The bandstand is lit professionally with multicolored spots for the slow numbers. There’s an ice sculpture, a huge four-foot swan, neck turned as if in the midst of a vision. They’ve remembered the fresh-cut flowers, the hundreds of helium balloons, the crepe paper and streamers. There’s the train of gleaming aluminum Sterno carts for the endless buffet. And, thank God, Magda was able to rent enough of the special-order tables and chairs, custom-designed for formal dwarf functions.

Now Magda just has to pray that Wallace triumphs at the dance contest. She can only hope the band, the locally famous Les Roberts Quintet, will supply the tunes he likes, the ones that allow him to show his best moves. The odds are that Wallace and Olga will walk out with the night’s biggest trophy. They usually do. If not, she knows Olga already appreciates the extra effort. But Wallace is another story. Three and a half feet of tough customer.

She watches him as he moves toward the head table, an instinctive politician, a crowd handler, an image pro. His stature is inconsequential. He knows how to maneuver within the heart of the mob. He knows when to go with the joke and when to plunge into soulful earnestness. He knows when to smile, when to roll the eyes, when to grimace, and when to drop the salty tear to the cheekbone. And like all creatures who know how to use these tools to optimum advantage, Wallace is, at his core, a cold and ruthless device, a machine for goal attainment.

He reaches Table One, seats Olga, then lingers for a moment behind his own chair, an arm stretched upward to recognize someone supposedly toward the rear of the room. Then he settles in at the table with a greeting for each of his dinner companions.

“So, Al,” he says, “will we be having some fun tonight?”

“Don’t we always, Wallace,” Al says. “I just hope you and the missus cleared some room in the trunk for all the metal you’ll be hauling out of here tonight.”

The table laughs its agreement and approval and Wallace nods and says, “I put on the lucky shoes. The feet have no excuse.”

There’s a second chorus of laughter and Wallace feels a hand on his shoulder. Before he can turn to greet his visitor, he sees the fright on Olga’s face and knows it’s Billy J. These younger kids have no sense of timing or manners. He was just getting the table off the ground.

Wallace pushes his chair back and says, “Excuse me for just a sec. Kitchen problem, I’m sure.”

Billy J works as a busboy at the Baron. He’s dressed in a double-breasted white cotton busing jacket decorated with fading gravy stains. Wallace takes Billy J by the elbow, gives a squeeze that he hopes will leave a bruise in the morning, and moves the youngest member of his inner circle over near the bandstand where they can talk privately.

“You’ve got all the polish of a carnival act, you little putz.”

Billy J puts on the hurt eyes and swallows down the last of his drink.

“I’ve been trying to call you all day,” he says.

“Olga and I were practicing. We never take calls when we’re practicing.”

“Jeez, Fred and Ginger here—”

“Okay, Mr. Smart Mouth, what’s the big emergency that you have to pull me away from dinner?”

“I was down Wireless last night—”

“Something new?”

“Hazel was in. We got talking—”

“A regular miracle.”

“Hey, you want to know?”

“Come on, come on.”

“You want to know?”

“Yes, Billy, I want to know.”

“Hazel says, and I told you this would happen, you go back two months, I told you this. She says, they’re going to break, they’re going to splinter off. They want nothing to do with us, Wallace.”

Wallace looks down at his shoes, custom-made in the Philippines, just now at that perfect holding pattern between broken in and wearing out. He shakes his head slightly, lets just enough of a smile spread over his lips so that it looks like an unsuccessful attempt to suppress his amusement.