During my New York layover I had lunch with my agent, Elaine Goldman. Elaine is the mother of two, a self-confessed workaholic and one of the few people willing to try to peddle my wares in the unfriendly canyons of the Big Apple. I told her what I was working on and received my customary lecture on going home and writing instead of flitting around the countryside chasing the ghosts of kid eaters. The lecture, as usual, was delivered over a seafood salad at the noisy bar at Squints in the Village. Ten minutes later I was standing on the curb waving goodbye as Elaine hopped into a taxi and roared off in pursuit of an unwary publisher. Brief as they are, these touchstone visits with Elaine are vital to my self-esteem; she is the validation of the fact that I write for a living. I feel even more validated when she sells something.
The transition from New York to the campus of Saint Francis is a great deal like plunging head first into a time warp. It was dark by the time I pulled up in front of the condo complex. I stumbled up to the second floor, dragging my survival kit and the overnight bag, plunked them down in the foyer and went directly to the answering machine. There were three messages.
The first one was from the "call lady" (we had a lengthy discussion one time on why she shouldn't call herself the "call girl") of our local writers group informing me that the monthly meeting was postponed. The second was from Brenda Cashman, and the third from a growling Cosmo Leach who was more than mildly irritated that I wasn't there to snap up the phone and hang breathlessly on his every word. It was after nine o'clock, which meant that Cosmo had already retired to his study for the evening and wouldn't answer the phone even if I returned his call. Ergo, I called Brenda. To my surprise, it was a local number, and she answered on the third ring.
"I came to see you," she said in a voice surprisingly husky for a woman I had pictured as sounding much younger.
"You're lucky you caught me. I've been out of town."
"It was a long shot," she admitted. "Did you get the clippings I sent you, and did you find them interesting?"
"Yes to both of your questions."
"Were they interesting enough that you'd like to know more?"
"Interesting enough that I invested several hundred bucks in airline tickets, rental cars and motel bills to spend a few minutes with what's left of Myron Bell."
"And?" she pushed. Brenda Cashman was fast establishing her reputation with E.G. Wages as one very aggressive female. Already she was interrogating me, and I hadn't even met the woman. "So what did you learn?"
"Nothing! Something! I don't know yet. I'm still thinking about it."
Her next question was right out of left field. "What do you drink, Mr. Wages?"
Questions like that have a tendency to leave me speechless. Over the years, my bachelor lifestyle has allowed me to become a pretty private sort of person; most folks sense that and keep their distance. Still, when a question is asked, I feel obliged to respond. "Scotch. Why?"
"Me, too. I'm a Scotch drinker. Haul out a bottle of your best 'cause I'm on my way over. I've got something to tell you."
There was a time when I would have been absolutely enchanted and perhaps even salivated at such a proposal, but that was another time and another place — and I think even another world. The truth is, after a day of battling New York traffic and United Airlines, a hot soapy tub, four ounces of my trusty Black and White splashed over an equal amount of shaved ice and some peace and quiet sounded decidedly more appealing. Besides, I needed the opportunity to review all those brilliant observations I had so cleverly poured into my little recorder. On balance, all of the above far outweighed exchanging whatever with someone called Brenda Cashman.
"I have a better idea," I countered, albeit a little weakly.
"I'm open to suggestions."
"There's a terrific little breakfast restaurant on High Street, two blocks down from Elmore — world class biscuits and gravy. I'll meet you there at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll be the one who looks like his beard is rusty."
"I know what you look like, Mr. Wages." She giggled, hung up and left me with that irritating buzz that goes hand in hand with an empty line.
Later, while soaking in my tub and sipping my Scotch, I paused to wonder what I had passed up.
Brenda Cashman was one of those wispy, moon-child-looking-females you see in perfume advertisements for fragrances with masculine names. She had soft, shoulder-length auburn hair and deep, liquid lime-green eyes that could penetrate granite. She was willow thin and wore a chic one piece olive-colored jumpsuit that concealed every female feature.
She demolished her plate of sausage gravy, then started on what I couldn't finish.
The exchange of pleasantries was unusually brief, and within a matter of minutes she vaulted headlong into the personal aspects of her life. She was 29 years old (I would have guessed younger), a doctoral candidate at Ann Arbor in the field of anthropology, never married, twice engaged, and flat broke. Along the way she avoided any mention of her family, her hometown and any other references to a life prior to her association with Cosmo Leach. She'd arrived on time (a plus with E.G. Wages) with a battered rust-colored portfolio that she carefully guarded on the seat beside her.
Only once did she fumble. She began a slavish proclamation that she had read everything I had ever written, and that if such things could be measured, she was in fact probably one of my biggest fans.
The great Cosmo Leach once endowed me with a great one-liner for such occasions, and it seemed appropriate to haul it out. "Miss Cashman, you're full of bullshit." Having demonstrated my Leachonian vocabulary, I continued. "If we're going to have an adult, semi-intelligent conversation, let's start with the premise that we're going to be honest with each other. Okay?"
Score one for E.G. She winced, blushed, intensified her fragile smile and sagged back in the booth; she looked a little more relaxed. "I wanted you to like me. The truth is, I do like the stuff you write — and the truth is, I haven't read everything simply because I didn't discover you till I ran into our mutual old grump, Cosmo. He's the one that told me about you."
I reached across the table in a gesture of conciliation. We shook hands and settled down to the business of talking about our mutual interest.
"So tell me, Brenda Cashman, how did you develop this bizarre little theory of yours?"
"Research," she said cryptically. "I was fascinated with the social structure of some of the nomadic cultures of the Northwest Territories. My thesis advisor suggested that some of the military and maritime records were untapped sources of unbiased information. I was focusing on the Lutes when I ran across the Baffin Island incident. I don't know why it occurred to me to send those two pieces of information to you, but I got curious when I couldn't get through to you on the phone and ended up contacting the only other person that knew us both."
"Good old Cosmo."
"Precisely! He said you talked to him and that you had come up with some additional information, all of which only served to make me more curious."