"Have a seat, Mr…?"
"Tooms."
"I wish I could offer you something to drink, Mr. T-Tooms. But my bar is empty."
Before sitting I pulled the pint bottle out of my pocket and set it on the glass table. This brought a light into the senior Lear's murky brown eyes.
"Oh," she said, straightening her shoulders. "I'll go get us a bucket of ice and some crystal."
She left the room, and I silently thanked Christian Latour for his diligence in collecting information on the people Rinaldo had him look into. It was the fruit of his research, I was sure, that had said Mrs. Lear was a heavy drinker who preferred scotch.
The lady's living room was filled with warm, dark color. It was like another time; not the past necessarily, but a period that only certain people inhabited-not my kind. My world smelled of sweat and smog, while Lizette Lear's was a world of potpourri, peach pie, and mothballs.
"Here you go," she said, bringing in two squat glasses and a white plastic bucket on a silver-plated tray.
She seemed to have some trouble with her left hip so I helped her set the platter down on the table.
"Ice, Mr. Tooms?" There was color in her cheek and the beauty that had shriveled over the years now seemed to be blossoming once more.
"A lot of it," I said. "Please."
The ice clinked and Lizette's smile threatened to become a laugh. She cracked the seal, poured my drink and hers. She drained her glass, sighed, and poured another.
Along with the relief flowed beauty. I had never seen anything like it. Lizette curled back in the chair and her body seemed to become young again, supple, even enticing. She looked into my eyes and for a moment I forgot why I was there.
"Angelique," I said, as much to remind myself as to pull away from Lizette's instantaneous charms.
Mrs. Lear smiled, downed the second glass, and tossed her mouse-brown hair.
"She's an amazing human being," she said. "Pretty, smart, certain about what she wants. And she always gets it."
Lizette poured a third drink.
"Do you know where she is?" I asked.
"No. No, I don't. But you can be sure that wherever she is she's another step closer to something else she wants."
You couldn't help but note the jealousy in her words.
"You aren't worried that she's missing?"
"Not at all." She finished the third shot and poured another.
"Angie makes silk from straw, sows' ears, and bad boyfriends… If I wasn't a good Christian I'd say she was a witch. She doesn't approve of me. Doesn't like my drinking. Blames me for her father leaving."
"Where is her father?" There was no mention of him in Rinaldo's files.
"I don't know," Lizette said, gazing up at the ceiling. She was rounding pretty and making a run for beautiful. "He rolled into my life, made me jump for joy, and then was gone before I hit the ground. Angelique doesn't have an ounce of him, and less than a pound of me, in her makeup. She has an old soul, that one."
"Do you know her boyfriend?"
"Johnny," Lizette said with a smile. The mention of this new name brought her into full blossom.
"I thought his name was Shad. Shad Tandy."
"Shad Tandy?" It was as if I'd shoved a sour lemon against her teeth. "He's just a momentary mistake for my girl. Her true love is a young man named John Prince. He's an architect. Probably walks on water, too. He and Angie break up now and again, but they always get back together."
"Do you have a number for him?" I asked.
"Sure." She finished her fourth shot, stood up, none too steady, and lumbered toward a door.
While she was gone I allowed myself a smile. There was no John Prince mentioned in Rinaldo's files. I liked that. It let me feel that I had a leg up on the Big Man.
When she returned, Mrs. Lear had forsaken the off-white dress for a flimsy robe. She was only in her forties, after all. She liked drinks, and men; I represented both.
"I can't seem to find it. Must have thrown it out in one of my cleaning binges. But you can probably look it up."
"Do you know where he works?" I asked as she slumped back into her chair.
"For an architectural firm. I'm sorry… I don't know which one."
"That's okay."
"You haven't touched your drink," Lizette chided.
"On the job," I said. "What do you do for a living, ma'am?"
"Lizette."
"What do you do for a living, Lizette?"
"I haven't had a job for a while, Mr. Tooms. What's your first name?"
"John."
"I haven't had a job in a while, John. My nerves, you know. Angie helps me out with the rent, and she has groceries delivered every Monday and Thursday. She doesn't give me any cash, though. If I want a cigarette I have to bum one on the street."
"She must do very well at her job."
"She told me that someone gave her a grant or something, and she's using part of that to help me. You'd think she could give me a few bucks, though. A bottle of wine now and then isn't such a sin…
"Maybe you and me could go out for a little swizzle."
"Maybe some other time," I said, rising to my feet.
"Do you have to go already?"
"I need to find your daughter."
"Angie's fine. She's like a cat."
Lizette wanted to stand up but her body wasn't accommodating the desire.
"Will you come back again?"
"When I find Angie I'll come back and tell you."
"Angie," Lizette said with a sneer.
As I went out the door I heard her mutter, "Bitch."
21
It wasn't much after eight when I left Lizette's hungry cave. From there my feet took me down the street to the Naked Ear.
The Ear was busier that evening. Large groups of young and not so young people hovered around the bar, drinking and talking, laughing and trying to get the bartender's attention.
I wedged my solid bulk between two women in identical blue dresses, said Excuse me to a man who was laughing so hard that he couldn't take a sip from his glass.
Finally I sidled up to the bar next to a middle-aged man who was reading The New York Times.
"Anything happening?" I asked.
"Not yet," he said, refusing to look at me. "Everybody's waiting for January twentieth like early Christians waiting for the end of time."
There are very few rules I adhere to. In my line of work you can't let something from yesterday keep you from right now. But one thing I never do is talk politics with strangers in bars.
"You're McGill, right?" a woman said.
The bartender that night had black hair and shocking cobalt eyes. She'd been the runner-up to beauty her entire life, but the judges always left the party with her.
"Cynthia," I said, reaching back into my memory.
"Cylla," she said. "You were close."
"Not bartender close."
"Lucy said to tell you that she had to take off tonight but she'd be back on duty tomorrow."
I felt the twinge of unrequited infatuation where instinct told me my heart was.
"Three cognacs, right?" Cylla said.
"Yeah."
"Find a seat and I'll bring them to you."
THE OUTER CIRCLE OF the bar was never heavily inhabited, even on the busiest nights. When the Ear got going, ninety percent of the clientele thronged around the bar like youngsters in a mosh pit.
I found a small round table near a couple of young smoochers. Their love transported them. The beers were glasses of red wine and the table was outside on the Champs-Elysees en ete.
Ignoring the lovers, I tried to understand the life of Angelique Tara Lear. Her boyfriend had betrayed her. Her mother, whom she supported, called her a bitch. Her friend had been murdered, maybe in her stead, and the most powerful man in New York seemed to be obsessed with her every move and acquaintance. Few people did that much living in an entire decade.