The voice of the crowd rose.
“But he shall not speak!” cried Mrs. Wisher. “We want action, Mr. Mayor, not talk!”
The crowd roared.
“Action!” she cried. “Not talk!”
“Action!” roared the crowd. The young men began jeering and whistling.
The mayor was stepping up to the podium now, smiling and waving. It appeared to Smithback that the mayor was asking Mrs. Wisher for the microphone. She took a step backward. “We don’t want to hear another speech!” she cried. “We don’t want to hear any more bullshit!” And with that she ripped the microphone out of its plug and stepped down from the platform, leaving the mayor standing alone above the crowd, a plastic smile frozen on his face, deprived of any possibility of being heard over the roar.
More than anything, it was her final expletive that caused the crowd to explode. A great unintelligible roar rose up and the crowd surged toward the podium. Smithback watched, a strange sensation rippling up his spine as the assembled group turned dangerously angry before his eyes. Several empty liquor bottles came sailing toward the stage, one shattering not five feet from the mayor. The groups of younger men had consolidated into a single body, and they began muscling their way toward the stage, cursing and jeering. Smithback caught a few isolated words: Asshole. Faggot. Liberal scum. More pieces of trash came flying out of the crowd, and the mayor’s aides, realizing all was lost, quickly hustled him off the stage and back into his limousine.
Well, Smithback thought, interesting to see how mob mentality affects all classes. He couldn’t remember having seen quite so brief or so fine a display of mob oratory as Mrs. Wisher’s. As the sense of menace faded and the crowd began dissolving into seething knots, the journalist threaded his way toward a park bench to jot down his impressions while they were fresh. Then he checked his watch: five-thirty. He stood up and began trotting northwest through the Park. Better get in position, just in case.
= 15 =
AS MARGO JOGGED around the corner onto 65th Street, her portable radio tuned to an all-news channel, she stopped short, surprised to see a familiar lanky form lounging against the front railing of her apartment building, cowlick rearing above the long face like a brunette antler.
“Oh,” she panted, snapping off the radio and tugging the speakers from her ears. “It’s you.”
Smithback reared back, mock incredulity flooding his features. “Can it be? ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth,’ indeed, is a thankless friend. All we’ve been through together—all that vast shared reservoir of memories—and I merit just an ‘Oh, it’s you’?”
“I keep trying to put that vast reservoir of memories behind me,” Margo said, stuffing the radio into her carryall and bending forward to massage her calves. “Besides, whenever you run into me these days, it’s to talk about one subject: My Career and How Great It Is.”
“ ‘A hit, a palpable hit.’ ” Smithback shrugged. “Fair enough. So let’s pretend I’m here to make amends, Lotus Blossom. Let me buy you a drink.” He eyed her appreciatively. “My, my, you’re looking good these days. Going for the Miss Universe title?”
Margo straightened up. “I’ve got things to do.”
He caught hold of her arm as she maneuvered past him toward the door. “Café des Artistes,” he said teasingly.
Margo stopped and sighed. “Very well,” she said with a slight smile, disengaging her arm. “I’m not cheap, but I guess I can be had. Give me a few minutes to shower and change.”
They entered the venerable cafe through the lobby of the Hotel des Artistes. Smithback nodded at the maître d’hôtel, and they made their way toward the quiet old bar.
“Looks good,” Margo said, nodding toward the quiche tray that was waiting to make its rounds among the tables.
“Hey, I said a drink, not an eight-course dinner.” Smithback selected a table, positioning himself beneath the Howard Chandler Christy painting of naked women frolicking tastefully in a garden.
“I think the redhead likes me,” he said, winking and pointing his thumb at the painting. An ancient waiter, his face creased by wrinkles and a perpetual smile, came by and took their drink orders.
“I like this place,” Smithback said as the waiter shuffled away, a study in white and black. “They’re nice to you in here. I hate waiters who make you feel like low-class shit.” He caught Margo in an interrogating gaze. “So. Quiz time. Have you read all my articles since last we met?”
“I’ll have to plead the fifth on that,” Margo replied. “But I did see your pieces on Pamela Wisher. I thought the second article was especially well done. I liked the way you made her out to be a real human being, not just something to exploit. New tack for you, isn’t it?”
“That’s my Margo,” Smithback said. The waiter returned with their drinks and a bowl of filberts, then departed. “I just came from the rally, actually,” Smithback continued. “That Mrs. Wisher is a formidable woman.”
Margo nodded. “I heard about it on NPR just now. Sounds wild. I wonder if this Mrs. Wisher realizes what she’s unleashed.”
“It became almost scary toward the end. The rich and influential have suddenly discovered the power of the vulgus mobile.”
Margo laughed, still careful not to drop her guard. You had to be wary around Smithback. For all she knew, he had a tape recorder running in his pocket as they spoke.
“It’s strange,” Smithback continued.
“What is?”
He shrugged. “How little it takes—a few drinks, maybe the stimulant of being part of a mob—to strip a group of its upper-class veneer, make it ugly and violent.”
“If you knew about anthropology,” Margo said, “you wouldn’t be so surprised. Besides, from what I heard that crowd wasn’t as uniformly upper-crust as some of the press like to think.” She took another sip and sat back. “Anyway, I assume this isn’t just a friendly drink. I’ve never known you to spend money without an ulterior motive.”
Smithback put down his glass, looking genuinely wounded. “I’m surprised. I really am. That doesn’t sound like the Margo I knew. I hardly see you these days. When I do, you talk this kind of trash. And just look at you: all muscled up like some gazelle. Where’s the frumpy, slope-shouldered Margo I used to know and love? What’s happened to you, anyway?”
Margo started to reply, then paused. God only knew what Smithback would say if he knew she now carried a pistol in her carryall. What has happened to me? she wondered. But even as she asked the question, she knew the answer. It’s true, she hadn’t seen much of Smithback. But it was for the same reason she hadn’t seen much of her old mentor, Dr. Frock. Or Kawakita, or Pendergast the FBI agent, or anyone she’d known from her earlier days at the Museum. The memories they all shared were still too fresh, too dreadful. The nightmares that still troubled her sleep were bad enough; the last thing she’d wanted was more reminders of that terrible ordeal.
But even as she pondered, Smithback’s hurt expression dissolved into a smile. “Oh, God, there’s no point in dissembling,” he cackled. “You know me too well. There is an ulterior motive. I know what you’ve been doing, working late at the Museum.”
Margo froze. How had it leaked? But then she checked herself; Smithback was a clever fisherman, and there might be less bait on his line than he was letting on.
“I thought as much,” she said. “So exactly what am I doing, and how did you find out about it?”
Smithback shrugged. “I have my sources. You of all people should remember that. I looked up some old Museum friends and learned that Pamela Wisher’s body, and the unidentified body, were brought to the Museum last Thursday. You and Frock are assisting in the autopsies.”