Текст книги "The Hell Yo "
Автор книги: Josh lanyon
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velvet doublet over a white shirt. His long, silvery hair gleamed like sterling against the
claret-colored velvet. He was a striking presence, oblivious to his surroundings.
Even without the powers of Darkness. Well, there are powers, and there are powers .
I rested a hand on the chair across from him. “Professor Snowden?”
He must have been watching my approach from under his lashes, because he looked up
out of his book, and without missing a beat, drawled, “Call me Guy.” He set the book aside
and offered his hand. We shook. His gaze held mine a few seconds longer than politeness
required.
Interesting.
I sat down across from him. “Guy, then. Thanks for meeting me.”
Guy moved his book aside. He had beautiful hands, tanned, graceful, but with long–
fingered strength. I could still feel the imprint of his palm against mine.
The waitress appeared. I ordered a glass of the Clos du Bois merlot. When she was out
of earshot, Guy said, “I have good news. I don’t think you’ll be…pestered any further.”
“Really?”
“I’ve spoken to the students involved – former students, actually. It was mostly
a…misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding? That’s it?”
The remarkable green eyes met mine. “Er…yes.”
Maybe he was happy to let it go at that, but I wanted a little more reassurance that it
was truly over.
The waitress returned with my wine. She was one of those pert waifs, flirting
reflexively with us while we ordered our lunches. Guy went for the mesclun salad with
marinated ricotta, pine nuts, and crostini currants. I opted for a sandwich with smoked meat,
provolone, and tangy cherry peppers.
“So what caused this misunderstanding?” I inquired, returning to our original topic of
conversation. “Did anyone explain it to you?”
“Yes. And I’m satisfied that it is over.” His gaze found mine again, and he smiled wryly.
“I know the kids involved. They got a little carried away, that’s all. You can tell Angus it’s
safe to come home.”
“Just in time for finals,” I said. “Unfortunately, I don’t know where he is.”
His eyes never wavered. “You don’t?”
“Nope.”
After that we chatted idly, politely, until our meal arrived. I thought that, although this
was not really a social occasion, certainly nothing remotely resembling a date, it was pleasant
to be sharing a nice meal with an attractive man – in public. And he was very attractive.
Cultured, urbane, witty – exuding an easy, unconscious sexuality. Polar opposite from Jake. I
wondered what Jake would make of him.
“What happens when Angus does come back?” I inquired eventually.
“Is he coming back?”
I thought of Mrs. Tum and Lester Naess. “I hope so,” I said.
Glass stem between his fingers, Snowden gently circled the base of the glass on the
linen-covered table, warming the wine. “You see, the others believe that Angus is a
warlock.”
“Isn’t everybody?” That wasn’t exactly what I meant. “I mean, aren’t they all part of a
coven?”
He answered me indirectly. “Warlock is the term for an oath breaker. For one who has
lied or broken a pledge of silence.”
“I thought it was a male witch.”
“Partly. It would be a witch who practices the Black Arts. A witch who worships Satan.
Most modern witches are Wicca, and Wiccans don’t, you know.”
“So this group or coven is Wicca? Then I don’t understand why an inverted pentagram
was painted on my doorstep.”
His brows drew together. “Inverted? Are you sure?”
I removed one of the photos from my day planner, pushed it across to Snowden. He
stared at it for a long moment.
“Are you sure you talked to the right people?” I inquired, watching his expression.
His eyes veered to mine. “Certainly,” he said, but he sounded less than certain.
“What’s the Ars Goetia? ” I asked.
“Where the devil –?”
I kid you not. “Where the devil,” like you’d expect to hear from Colonel Mustard in
The Study. I murmured, “No pun intended?”
He stared at me, but I didn’t think he saw me. At last he said, “It’s the first section of an
anonymously-written seventeenth-century grimoire known as The Lesser Key of Solomon.
Do you know what a grimoire is?”
“Book of Shadows, right?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You surprise me.”
“I had a lot of time to read as a kid.” Not that you would find a copy of the Book of
Shadows in your school library – unless you’re attending Hogwarts.
“Then you’re probably aware that the Book of Shadows is a kind of witches’ Bible, only
rather more than that. It’s a personal record of rituals and spells and lore, each one unique.”
“But isn’t there a definitive Book of Shadows?”
He grimaced at this ignorance. “No. Different traditions have reclaimed and reedited
the most famous source materials into their own grimoires. There are illustrious historical
grimoires: The Black Pullet, The Greater Key of Solomon, The Lesser Key of Solomon.”
“So what is Ars Goetia? ”
“Essentially it’s the name, rank, and serial number of seventy-two demons King
Solomon is said to have conjured and then imprisoned in a bronze vessel fastened with magic
seals.”
“And this symbol?” I pointed to the line drawing that Ariel had told me was the
signature of a high-ranking demon.
He shook his head. “It’s a sigil. A sign or seal in magic.” He glanced at me and said, “It’s
a symbol designed for a specific magical use.”
“This sigil is the name of a demon, isn’t it?”
Reluctantly, he admitted, “That also.”
“And the point of this sigil would be to invoke or conjure this particular demon, right?”
“Correct. The idea would be to summon the demon to do the work of the conjurer.”
“Which of the seventy-two demons is this? Out of curiosity.”
“I have no idea.”
I must have looked skeptical. He said, “Off the top of my head? Don’t be ridiculous.”
He sounded unexpectedly haughty. “I’m no expert in this particular arena. If you want to
understand the role of modern witchcraft in primitive societies or the devolution of Goddess
worship into modern religion, I’m your man. Traditional witchcraft…Satanism…is not my
scene.”
“But you could find out?”
“What do you care which demon it is?”
That earned curious glances from our fellow diners. Guy lowered his voice, said, “You
need to stay well clear of this.”
“That old black magic gotcha?”
“You may laugh, but the point is not whether you believe in this. The point is that
whoever left this on your door believes in it. This is one who wishes you great harm –
merely because you got in his – or her –”
“Or their?” I suggested.
“Or their way.”
“I thought you said it was all settled?”
“It is. If you let it lie.”
“What about Angus?”
He didn’t seem to have an answer.
“Dessert?” the waitress asked brightly, materializing beside our table.
I resisted the impulse to ask for devil’s food cake.
* * * * *
Chan was waiting by the front door when I got back to the bookstore. He appeared to
have been there a while. He looked tired and frazzled; there was a mound of cigarette butts
at his feet.
“Hey,” I greeted him, sliding back the ornate security gate. “What’s up?”
“Adrien –” There was something in his face.
I put my hand out to steady myself on the gate. I’d as soon as not remember the sound I
made.
Chan said, sounding kind of frantic, “He’s okay, Adrien. Jake’s okay. That’s why I’m
here. In case it makes the news. He didn’t want you to hear it that way.”
I turned to stare at him across a great crumbling distance, hanging on to the gate like it
was my spar in a swell.
“He’s fine. I swear to God. Maybe a little concussion.”
“What happened?”
“We were chasing a suspect, and he got hit by a car. Jake, I mean. The suspect got
away.”
“Where is he?”
“The suspect?”
“Jake.”
“Oh. Huntington Hospital.” He added as I started back toward my car, “But he doesn’t
want you driving down there. Adrien” – he trotted after me – “he doesn’t want you there.”
Chapter Seven
I hate hospitals. I hate the antiseptic smell, the artificial light. I hate those crisp,
professional smiles that tell you they’ve seen a million like you come and go, and your little,
life-threatening illness isn’t nearly as important as you imagine.
It took a while to locate Jake’s room up on one of the skyscraper floors. I prowled
around the sterile halls until I found the right room – the room with the uniformed cop in
the doorway.
The cop looked like a younger version of Jake. Probably one of his brothers, most likely
the one fresh out of the Academy. He wasn’t watching me, he was staring into the room,
grinning, and as I walked by, I was able to snatch a snapshot glimpse of Jake. He sat bolstered
by pillows in bed, his face bruised, his head bandaged. He was laughing. The room seemed
full of people. There was an older man in a navy cardigan standing with his arm around a
woman with a young face and gray hair. A young woman with red hair sat beside the raised
bed holding Jake’s hand. She was sort of laughing and sort of crying.
The cop who looked like a younger version of Jake glanced my way. The
uncomfortably familiar hazel eyes met mine. I kept walking.
I walked all the way down the hall, stopped by the drinking fountain. It felt like the
longest walk of my life. I bent over the fountain and drank ice-cold metallic water. I pressed
the button again, splashed my face. My hand was shaking.
Satisfied? I asked myself. Feel better now?
* * * * *
The body dug up in the park turned out to be a missing teenager named Tony Zellig.
He had been nineteen, a freshman at UCLA. He had disappeared a year ago, in October.
Classmates described him as quiet and a bit of a loner who worked hard and took his studies
seriously. There was a photo of Zellig, a nice ordinary-looking kid. Not the kind of kid who
gets himself carved into pieces during occult rituals.
I spent a couple of hours working on the computer, seeing what I could come up with
on Blade Sable. I found plenty of info on blades and sable, but nothing on any organization
called Blade Sable.
I’d have to dig deeper. I noted the titles of a number of occult “classics” that kept
popping up on various recommended reading lists. I decided to skip those not written in the
past century. At the top of my TBR list was Anton LaVey’s The Satanic Bible. LaVey was the
founder and high priest of the Church of Satan. He was credited with creating the official
religion of Satanism. A guy named Peter H. Gilmore had been appointed High Priest
following LaVey’s death, but he wasn’t much for the written word. The reigning expert in
the field seemed to be an Oliver Garibaldi.
Unlike the flamboyant Anton LaVey or the other occult showmen, Garibaldi kept a
low profile. I tried surfing for biographical information, but no joy. I figured he had to be in
his sixties, given the copyright info on his bibliography
So I looked for what I could find on Guy Snowden – and was surprised when all kinds
of info sprang up. He had a Web site, for chrissake. I had to admit he photographed well. I
studied a moody and dramatic photo of him and then read the bio. He had been born in
Seattle. Wasn’t that a well-known haven for Satanists? He had traveled extensively, spending
several years in Great Britain.
So the English accent was fake. I suppose it said something about his character, but I
wasn’t sure what. A love of theatrics?
He was a Rhodes Scholar, accumulating a nice batch of impressive-sounding academic
accolades. He had published a slew of articles with titles like “The Feminist Witch,” “The
Politics of Twentieth-century Witchcraft,” and “Witch Hunt: An American Tradition.” And
he had written two weighty-looking tomes: Modern Magick and The Craft in Conflict.
Both were out of print. Instead, I ordered a copy of the Cop’s Guide to Occult
Investigations, telling myself I could always give it to Jake for Christmas. (I mean, how much
fishing tackle does any guy truly need – especially a guy who never takes vacations?)
Back to prowling the Internet, I found mention of Snowden in a couple of gossipy
student blogs. For what it was worth, a male student, “Spelwerx,” felt he was an arrogant ass.
“Devil-Dog” had been taking him every semester apparently since time began and could be
listed under the Fan column. Over several months of blogs, “Destiny’s Child” weighed the
pros and cons of “bearing his precious seed” (I couldn’t help flashing on a Rosemary’s Baby
moment) and frequently speculated on his age (I bet he was in his forties, myself).
All very readable, if not germane. I finally powered down the computer, went through
the shop, turning off the Christmas lights twinkling gently in the gloom.
Upstairs, I caught the last minutes of Pirates of the Caribbean on TV, which cheered
me a little. There’s nothing like rolling seas, buried treasure, and handsome pirates as an
antidote to whatever ails ye. In my expert opinion – a fortune in video rentals should carry
weight – Pirates was the finest swashbuckler of the last two decades.
I read in bed for awhile, treating myself to award-winning Anthony Bidulka’s amusing
Tapas on the Ramblas, but found my thoughts wandering to Gabriel Savant and his missing
disk. I wondered again about his relationship with Bob Friedlander. There was something
there, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t a romantic partnership. Not that you can always tell.
I’ve had gay friends who felt I acted too straight, and straight friends who’ve told me they
knew I was gay the minute they met me.
I’d asked Jake once if, in his admittedly warped opinion, there was anything
particularly gay in my appearance or demeanor.
He’d replied, “You’re…too graceful.”
Too graceful? What did that mean?
“Physically, intellectually, or spiritually?”
“All of the above,” he’d said wryly.
I’d considered this. “It’s probably the tai chi,” I’d answered seriously. He’d laughed.
“It’s probably the ballet lessons.”
Jake had never recovered from learning that Lisa enrolled me in ballet from age seven
to nine. It made sense; Lisa had been a ballerina with the Royal Ballet before she met my
father.
But Jake was always trying to find an explanation for my homosexuality: my father’s
death when I was a small child, being raised without a strong male role model, being raised
by Lisa – hell, knowing Lisa. The one theory he never wanted to consider was that I might
have been born with a genetic predisposition.
I usually didn’t bother debating him, because I knew he was smart enough to realize
that none of the above explained him.
* * * * *
The phone rang about ten-thirty. I almost didn’t pick it up, then on the third ring,
fumbled it off the hook.
It sounded like a TV was playing in the background, then Jake’s voice was in my ear,
quiet and intimate as though he were lying next to me. “I wanted to make sure you were
okay.”
It took me a second to get control of my voice. Then I said, “Me? I’m not the one who
got nailed jaywalking. How are you feeling?”
“Fine. I should be out of here tomorrow. Just bumps and bruises. Next time I’ll look
both ways.”
Me too, I thought. Inexplicably there was something about the size of a baseball lodged
in my throat, making it impossible to speak.
Into my silence, he said awkwardly, “I hope Chan didn’t – I told him to try not to scare
the shit out of you.”
“He was…uh…very diplomatic.” Again I couldn’t seem to think of what to say to him.
It was Jake’s turn to fall silent. Then he said with a curious gentleness, “Are you okay,
Adrien? You don’t sound okay.”
My heart started thudding in a kind of fight or flight reaction. “I’m fine,” I said tersely.
“Still half asleep maybe.”
He didn’t answer for a moment. I heard the TV blasting away in the background.
“Right. Well, I’ll let you go. They’re trying to close the switchboard down anyway. I’ll talk to
you tomorrow.”
“Sure,” I said and hung up.
* * * * *
Once again nobody showed from the temp agency. I tried not to take it personally. The
agency offered to send back Lester Naess, who had apparently been kind enough to give me a
thumbs-up.
Ungrateful bastard that I was, I declined.
What would I do if Angus didn’t return? I hated to think. Even without the holiday
rush and the longer hours, I couldn’t handle it all myself. Besides, my editor at Lunatic
Fringe Publishing was tactfully hinting that I had a manuscript due in a couple of weeks.
Why had I been so hasty in sending Angus away?
Not that Angus was the perfect employee, but I was used to him, he was used to me.
Better the devil you know, as the saying goes. Today especially, I felt I needed the company
as much as the help.
A regular client brought in a bag of paperbacks, and I found a couple of Gabe Savant’s
early efforts. Back when he wrote pulp fiction, he had gone by the nom de plume of G.O.
Savage. I glanced through a dog-eared copy of So Lovely, So Dead. Pretty much what you
would expect. I recalled Bob Friedlander talking about how Savant’s career had gone
nowhere while he was writing deathless prose for the entertainment and edification of
literary critics, but this was your standard-issue formula fiction. Maybe Friedlander had
never read Savant’s early stuff.
Not that it mattered. I re-priced the books to reflect Savant’s current popularity and
shelved them.
There were no new developments in the Eaton Canyon murder, but that didn’t keep
the local newspaper from rehashing and speculating on past events. There was an earnest
interview with a prominent psychiatrist who explained why the young are often attracted to
magic and the occult, for those readers so lacking in imagination they couldn’t see the
obvious for themselves.
“The idea of being able to empower yourself through magic is appealing to the insecure
adolescent,” quoth the shrink.
Appealing to all kinds of people, I thought.
There was an interview with a local religious figure. His angle was that interest and
examination of the occult lured the young away from Jesus and the path of righteousness.
“These organizations make a point of accepting behavior considered sinful in the
Judeo-Christian tradition. For example, homosexuality is condoned by Wicca.”
I wondered what the other examples were. It seemed likely to me that the people who
condemned Wicca and the study of the occult for religious reasons might be as likely to
condemn the study and practice of Islam or Buddhism or Catholicism or Mormonism on the
same basis.
I gathered from Guy that the same bias existed in occult circles: Wicca versus
Traditional Witchcraft, for example. Which started me thinking. If this coven of ex-students
was upset with Angus for practicing the Black Arts, then why had they turned around and
decorated my entrance with the most instantly recognizable symbol of Satanic worship?
What kind of a warning was that?
Maybe it wasn’t a warning. Maybe it was a welcome home sign in anticipation of
Angus’s return.
Maybe it was a welcome home sign in anticipation of someone else’s return. Someone
or something?
I thought about the card the Dragonwyck ladies had given me. Was it worth calling the
mysterious number? According to Guy, my troubles were over. Well, my problems on the
spiritual plane.
There was still the problem of finding good help in the material world.
* * * * *
“Did you talk to Jake about the house?” Lisa asked, when she guilted me into meeting
her for lunch later that afternoon at Cafe Santorini.
“Not really.” Not at all, as a matter of fact. Certain things could be taken for granted in
this world.
“The pool would be awfully good for you, darling. You always loved swimming. The
doctors –”
“I know!” I said sharply. She looked hurt. I softened my tone, “Lisa, I don’t think it’s
practical. It’s too far from the shop, to start with.” I glanced over my shoulder. I had that
funny feeling you get when you’re being watched. No one seemed to be paying us any
attention. I turned back to Lisa. Her eyes were burning Siamese cat blue, which occurred
whenever the bookstore came up as a stumbling block to one of her plans.
“At least think about it,” she urged.
Shoving more pita-wrapped grilled chicken and hummus into my mouth to prevent
myself from saying what was on my mind, I stared down from the brick rooftop balcony.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her bowed head as she drew invisible circles in
the linen tablecloth with one perfect fingernail lacquered in the palest possible pink.
Uh-oh, I thought, watching her. What now?
“Adrien,” she mused aloud, “it’s important that you and Bill get to know each other. It’s
important to me that you like each other. I want us to be a real family.”
I gulped the lump of pita and chicken. “Okay.”
“I was thinking that perhaps if you two were to spend time together – alone –”
Oh, God. What was she thinking? A baseball game? Or worse: a fishing trip for the
guys? A safari?
“Lisa, I like him. Really. And I can’t take any more time. I mean, with Angus gone –”
And battling the forces of darkness and all.
“It would only be dinner. Bill suggested it himself.”
“But I already like him,” I pleaded. “I like them all.”
She blinked her lashes as though she felt the tears welling – though I didn’t see a cloud
in the sky. “No one can be to me what your father was, Adrien. Stephen was…well, he was
the great love of my life. That kind of love happens once. But Bill is a good man. What we
have together is special.”
“Lisa….”
“He’s certainly not going to replaceyou . You’ll always be –”
“Okay! Where am I supposed to meet him for dinner?”
The sun appeared in all its dimpled glory. She said nostalgically, “You look so like your
father sometimes, Adrien. He used to get that same expression.”
“And yet, funnily enough,” I said, “’twere not the apoplexy what done him in.”
* * * * *
I spent a jolly evening surfing the ’Net and was once again taken aback to discover how
many Web sites were devoted to Satanism, witchcraft, Wicca – you name it. There were
sites for chaos magic, Voodoo, vampires, guided meditation, and candle magick. What is the
deal with candles? There were occult personals, online spell purchases (through PayPal, no
less), and even organizations for gay pagans, gay witches, and gay Wiccans.
Several links led me to Yahoo Groups. Again I found groups based on region (Boston-
Occult), school of thought (angelsoccultforum), age (teenwitches), gender (goddessonly).
There were groups dedicated to the black arts, to sex magic, to alchemy, to hermeticism.
There were groups for specific covens and for solitary witches. But there was no entity
anywhere called Blade Sable.
Holy moly, what kind of menacing cult couldn’t afford its own Web site?
On impulse, I joined a “community” called Dark Realm, with 983 members. The brief
web intro indicated that this was a group for those who wished to peruse the dark side of the
moon – and maybe exchange spells, lore, and phone numbers.
I filled out a quickie questionnaire, naturally lying about almost everything, and
twenty minutes later, Frank Hardy, age twenty-one, interest sex magick (Yahoo ID
blackster21), had been officially welcomed into the Dark Realm.
The Blackster didn’t waste any time on social niceties. Right away he posted, asking
whether any of the dark denizens had ever heard of a group called Blade Sable.
No response. I hit refresh a couple of times, but zilch.
Well, it was getting late on a Friday night. Time for all bad little witches to be out
raising Cain. I turned off the computer.
* * * * *
The employment agency wasn’t open on weekends, had I the heart to ring them. I
rushed through the morning and early afternoon, taking advantage of a lull around three
o’clock to microwave a bowl of Top Ramen soup and scan the weekend edition of the Times.
The front page news froze me, spoon dangling foot-long noodles about an inch from
my mouth. Bestselling author Gabriel Savant was missing. I speed-read the article. Savant
had not been seen since Friday morning, when he had left his hotel without mentioning to
anyone where he was going. When he had not returned in time for a book club luncheon,
his assistant Robert Friedlander had begun calling around. Whatever that meant.
When Savant had still not turned up for the evening’s scheduled book signing,
Friedlander had filed a missing person’s report. Apparently when the person missing was a
celebrity, the usual waiting period was waived.
I re-read the article. Unless I was mistaken, it sounded very much as though Savant had
walked out of my bookshop and disappeared into thin air.
Chapter Eight
“I was wondering…” a voice inquired diffidently into the ether. “Are you hiring?”
I jerked my head out of the paper. A small, brown-haired woman stood on the other
side of the counter. She was young, and she looked clean – that was my main impression.
She looked quiet. Beyond that, she was about as nondescript as a woman could be and still
remain visible to the human eye.
I was afraid to move, afraid to speak too loudly in case I scared her off. I asked
carefully, “When could you start?”
Possibly that came across as too needy. Her brown eyes widened.
“Don’t you want me to fill out an application?”
“Absolutely. When can you start?”
I smiled, but apparently it was not a reassuring effort. She said warily, “Tomorrow, I
guess.”
“Full-time? Part-time?”
“Whatever I can get, I guess.”
Did she guess about everything? Were there no certainties in her young life?
“What’s your name?”
“Velvet. Velvet White.”
See, this is why people should have to be licensed to have kids. Imagine going through
years of homeroom as White, Velvet.
“Hang on, Velvet,” I told her. “I’ll find an application.”
I hustled to find the forms in the storeroom archives before Velvet had time to make an
escape. Still doubtful, she filled the application out at one of the library tables in the back,
while I went into the office to let LAPD know that I might have been the last person to see
Gabriel Savant before he vanished.
* * * * *
Velvet showed up on time Sunday morning. We spent the day going over basics. She
seemed to be an intelligent life form – at least she followed directions, and that seemed as
good a place as any to start.
When she showed for work on Monday, I began to think I had a live one. She was
quiet, even quieter than Angus, and she seemed to watch me when she thought I wasn’t
noticing. I figured she’d relax as soon as she realized that her first impression was wrong, that
I was actually quite the model of mental stability – barring recent lapses.
I hadn’t heard from Jake since Thursday night. Monday night was one of our usual get-
togethers, but I had agreed to meet Lisa’s councilman for dinner. I left word on Jake’s cell
phone, but still hadn’t heard from him when time came to close shop.
So when the downstairs phone rang, I doubled back to pick it up, though I was already
running late.
A pause followed my greeting. Then, “We’re watching you,” whispered the voice on
the other end.
“Yeah? Did you see what I did with my keys?”
Silence. Then dial tone.
These younger demons. So easily discouraged.
Not discouraged enough, though, I had to admit half an hour later as I negotiated my
way into the river of cars flooding the I-210. I got my cell phone out and dialed Guy
Snowden’s number.
No answer.
Was the man ever home? I left a message, flipped shut the cell, and returned my
attention to insinuating my way into the fast lane.
The good news was that they apparently only had the shop number. The bad news was
that, regardless of what Guy believed, the minions of evil were still way too interested in my
corner of the cosmos.
Why?
I merged onto the C-118, considering this objectively.
* * * * *
Down in the valley, the valley so low, lights glittered in the blackness like jewels in a
pirate’s chest. The Odyssey offers a spectacular view of the San Fernando Valley at night if
you can get a table by a window. The councilman could and did.
“Glad you could make it, Adrien,” he said gruffly, giving me another of those
industrial-sized handshakes. His eyes bored into me under the shaggy eyebrows.
I batted something inane back, and we settled into our game.
Over drinks we discussed cars, gas prices, traffic, California’s economy, and scotch
versus whiskey. Or maybe it was whiskey versus scotch. Bill was drinking Johnny Walker
Black Label, which apparently wasn’t up to scratch. I stuck to Chivas Regal, and apparently
that was also for the tourists. He promised me the life-altering experience of a “wee dram” of
Laphroaig at Christmas. I declared myself ready and willing, and wondered if there was any
chance in hell of avoiding a full-scale family Christmas with “the troops,” as Bill referred to
his harem.
Classical music and the murmur of voices from other tables filled the silences, which
fortunately weren’t many.
We ordered, both opting for seafood, for which the Odyssey is justly famous. Over our
meals, Bill filled me in on what a city councilman actually does. I wasn’t sure I was getting
my tax money’s worth.
The soft lights, sweet music, and gallons of alcohol began to have their effect. Bill’s
keen eye grew less keen, his voice went deep and resonant with emotion.
“When Eleanor, my first wife, died, I believed that I would never remarry, never find
anyone who could begin to fill that void. I’ve known and admired Lisa – your mother – for
many years, but I never dreamed…”
I nodded – not so much in encouragement as indicating that he need say no more.
He went on to tell me that obviously no one would have to tell me how beautiful and
delightful and charming and intelligent and warm and wonderful Lisa was, and I agreed and
