Adam's Daughter (27 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-
FOUR

Adam put down the
Journal
and leaned back in his chair. He had just finished reading two weeks’ worth of columns by Sandy Francisco. The columns were drivel, nothing but overwritten accounts of parties and fluff straight from press releases put out by ambitious businessmen and politicians.

He
glanced at the stack of
Journals
piled near that afternoon’s copy of the
Times
. The
Journal
had never quite recovered from its losses during the war. It had lost so much advertising that four copies of the
Journal
put together barely equaled the bulk of one weekend edition of the
Times
. It bothered Adam that he had pirated away the
Journal'
s advertisers and some of its best reporters, but he couldn’t capture the hearts of its readers.

What
did the
Journal
give them that the
Times
did not? Surely it wasn’t trash like Sandy Francisco.

Adam scanned the front page of the
Times
. Eisenhower had upped the quota of atomic fuel use. A shake-up in the Kremlin had left a man named Khrushchev in the spotlight. The only light touch was a news story about the New York Giants moving to San Francisco.

He flipped through the other sections, but they were just as dry, just as serious. The
Times
had become exactly what he promised Robert Bickford it would be so many years ago —- a respectable symbol of good and truth.

But it had also, somehow, lost its life along the way.
It had failed in its most important function. It did not capture the soul of its city.

Kellen was right. T
he
Times
had become dull and gray.

Adam’s eyes
went to the photograph of Elizabeth on his desk.

“Just like me,” he said softly.

He picked up the front section of the
Times
again, reading now not for content but tone. Flat, it was all flat. But then one column in the sports section caught his eye. It was about the outdoors and was well-written, in a breezy offhand way. It had...a bit of style.

The
byline was C.J. ABLE. Adam had never heard of the fellow.

He called the sports editor, who told him that C. J. Able was a thirty-year
-old ex-bookstore clerk who had talked his way into his current job on the strength of a sample column he had written on the metaphysical joys of salmon fishing in Michigan.

Adam told the editor to send Able up to his office
then asked Adele to get copies of Able’s columns from the morgue.

Adam was reading the columns when Adele brought Able in.

Able was a tall reed-thin man wearing wire-rimmed glasses and the ugliest suit Adam had ever seen.

Except maybe that one I wore my first day here, he thought.

“Come in, Able. Sit down, please.”

The man slid into a chair nervously.

“I’ve been reading your stuff,” Adam said. “It’s good. You get good quotes from people. That’s a real art, getting people to talk.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bryant.”

“Call me Adam, please. And I’ll call you...?”

“C.J. is fine, sir.”

Adam smiled. “I never trusted bylines with initials. I always like to know a fellow’s name.”

The man seemed to freeze up then his face reddened slightly. “Clark,” he said firmly.

“Clark Able,” Adam said with a nod. Then, slowly, very slowly, Adam’s smile faded as he repeated the name to himself several times.

Able sighed. “It’s all right,” he said. “You can’t help it. I just wish my mother could have. She saw Gable and Leslie Howard in
A Free Soul
back in thirty-one when she was pregnant. She got inspired. I got the name.”

Adam smiled. “Could be worse. She could have called you Leslie.”

The man laughed and began to relax.

“I’ll get to the point, Able,” Adam said. “I want to start a new column, real high profile one that could make the person writing it one of the most important people in this town. And I think you might be the man to write it.”

Able sat up straighter. “I’m interested, sir.”

“Good.” Adam glanced at his watch. “My god, it’s nearly six. Let me take you to dinner, Able. How about the Big Four?” Adam pushed the phone over to the other man and rose. “Call for a table, will you? I have something to finish up.”

The man blanched. “We’ll never get near that place this late. You’d better call, Mr. Bryant.”

“No, you do it. And use your real first name.”

Able waited until Adam left the room then gingerly dialed the phone. He hung up just as Adam returned. “We all set?” Adam asked, slipping on his suit jacket.

Able stood up and smoothed his hideous maroon tie. “I got a table,” he said incredulously. “No problem at all.”

They took a taxi to Nob Hill and once inside the restaurant Adam hung back to talk to someone, telling Able to go ahead.

“I
have a reservation,” Able told the maître d’. “The name is Clark Able.”

The
maître d’ gave him the once-over. “Yeah, buddy, and I’m Carole Lombard.”

“No, really, I called. I reserved a table for six
-thirty.”

“
Get lost,” the maître d’ hissed.

Adam stepped forward. “How’s it going, Claude?”

The maître d’ looked up and smiled broadly. “Mr. Bryant! How good to see you!” He glanced quickly to the book for Adam’s name then nervously toward the crowded dining room. “We didn’t know you were coming. If you’ll wait one moment we will find a table for you.”

“I’m with Mr. Able here,” Adam said. “Just show us to his table.”

The maître d’ stared at Able. “Of course,” he said. “Right this way.”

“You know, Claude,” Adam said as he sat down, “Mr. Able is my new columnist and he’ll be dining here often. Right now, I think he’d like a martini. You know how I like mine.”

“Right away, Mr. Bryant.”

“Extra dry for me, Claude,” Able said.

Able leaned back in his chair, his eyes traveling around the room. It was an elegant masculine place. The few women were bright spots of color in a sea of blue and gray suits. Able recognized only some of the faces —- Mayor George Christopher, golf pro Ken Venturi and Jimmy Stewart, who was in town to film an Alfred Hitchcock movie called
Vertigo
. Able knew instinctively that the faces he didn’t recognize were among the city’s most powerful men.

“Don’t worry,” Adam said, as if reading
his mind. “Pretty soon, you will know who all these people are, what they do, what they’re hiding, and who they sleep with.”

“Is that going to be my job, dishing dirt?” Able asked. He looked Adam in the eye. “I’m not another Sandy Francisco.”

Adam took a drink, studying Able. “If I thought that, I wouldn’t have brought you here. I want you to write a column about the people and this city, Able. For lack of a more graceful term, call it a gossip column. I know that you’ve lived here all your life, so I know you know this town.”

“Yes sir,” Able said. “I know this city and I love it.”

Adam
nodded. “But I want more than gossip. I want a column that’s witty, lustful and even a bit bawdy. And it must have a very large heart. I want it to be as fresh and biting as stepping out into a morning fog.” Adam paused. “I want it to be about this city. Do you understand?”

Able smiled slowly. “Yes, I think so.”

“Good. If you can do that for me, I promise I can do a lot for you.” He picked up his glass. “To your future.”

During the next two hours, they discussed the column and the
Times
. As they were leaving, Able noticed a mural on the wall. It was a panoramic photograph of San Francisco taken in the late 1800s.

“What a strange photo,” Able said. “Look at the streets. They’re deserted, like a ghost town.”

Adam stared at the mural but said nothing. They exited the restaurant into a heavy fog and walked slowly up the block toward the Mark Hopkins. The baritone foghorns played a doleful duet with the chimes from nearby Grace Cathedral. Just outside the courtyard of the hotel, Adam paused, staring at the entrance. A foursome of teenagers, dressed in rented tuxedos and pastel prom dresses, spilled out of a taxi. One boy paused to pick up the corsage that his date had dropped. He gently pinned it to the bodice of her white gown, and they fled giggling into the hotel lobby. Adam watched them until they were out of sight.

Able waited, pulling up his collar against the chill.

“Ghosts,” Adam said softly. “There are always a lot of ghosts up here on this hill.”

After a moment, he turned to Able. “I think I’ll walk for a while,” he said. “Good night, Able.”

He started down the hill and was soon lost in the fog.

CHAPTER THIRTY-
FIVE

Kellen set the needle down on the record and the bedroom filled up with the sound of Puccini.

“What is this?” Stephen asked.

“
‘
Madame Butterfly,’" Kellen said, sitting down on the bed next to Stephen. “My father would kill me if he knew I took it from his study. Do you like it?”

“Yes, very much.”

She leaned back on the pillows, raising her arms to prop up her head. “This is the love duet,” she said. “It’s very sad.
Très triste, très romantique
...”

Stephen hid his smile. “I thought you liked Elvis.”

“Sometimes. But not always.”

They were quiet, listening to the music. Kellen glanced over at Stephen. He had been in the bedroom dozens of times yet now he was nervous, as if he expected someone to come bursting through the door. Kellen thought of telling him that he had nothing to worry about; no one was home. She had made sure of that before she invited him to her room tonight. It was part of the plan she had launched a month ago after Stephen had kissed her in the park.

Since that day she had sensed a change in Stephen. He looked at her differently now, no longer as just a friend. Now he looked at her just like those other boys at school did. She had always ignored the boys. She had wanted to wait for Stephen to notice her.

She had been waiting for a long time. She had waited while her friends started dating, waited while they went steady. And when they gathered in her bedroom to smoke cigarettes and talk about boys, she listened when they talked knowingly about sex.

What it was like to have a boy touch you. How he expected you to touch him. Their bold talk shocked and intrigued her. But she waited —- for Stephen.

She wanted him to be the first. And now, finally, the time had come. She turned toward him. He was looking at her. Then, he leaned over and kissed her, a tentative kiss. Then again,
harder. His lips felt soft and good. She felt his fingers touch her neck then move down to the buttons of her blouse. She was dizzy with expectation as she waited for him to touch her breast. When he did, she felt as if her skin were suddenly on fire.

H
e pressed his body against hers and she could feel his penis hard against her thigh. She wondered what she was supposed to do. She thought back to what the other girls had said. Was she supposed to touch it? She did, tentatively, and he moaned and began to kiss her neck and breasts.

Slowly, she became aware of the power she had. With just her touch she could excite him so much. She began to move her own body now against his, and he responded. His hand moved down and slipped under her skirt, moving up over her bare thigh.

Then, suddenly, he pulled back slightly.

“Kellen, I’m sorry
—-” He glanced at the closed door.

“No one’s home,” she whispered
. “I want you to, Stephen. I always wanted you to be first.”