The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel (7 page)

As Eve studied the animated faces around her, she wondered if she could be happy in New York, too. Maybe Vadis was right. How hard could it be to live here? It was just a spot on a map like any other. One that held not just Chumley’s, but all the other places her mother had spoken of with their wonderful names, like the Gaslight, the Cedar Tavern, and the San Remo. Forty
years had passed, but maybe Eve could uncover a bit of the magic Penelope had once known.

When she got back to Ohio, she sat her father down and informed him that as soon as she could put her affairs in order (which would include simultaneously breaking up with Ryan and fixing him up with her friend Corrine), she’d be moving to New York.

Today, after the show, she’d call Gin to tell him he could forget his misgivings, that it had all been worth it; she’d landed a job at
Smell the Coffee
.

The bag wobbled and Vadis jerked her chin back. “What the hell is in there?”

“A dog,” said Eve, in a low voice.

“Why not let it out?”

“Are dogs allowed in here?”

“It’s okay. I know the owner.”

Eve lifted the puppy out and set her on the floor. She blinked up at them. “Voilà.”

“So cute!” Vadis, in suit and heels, got down on her knees and rubbed the dog behind her ears. “I wish I could have one but who has time for a pet? What’s her name?”

“Doesn’t have one yet. I just got her.”

“Aww.” The dog, amiable, and seemingly well recovered from the previous day’s drama, licked Vadis on the knuckle. “There’ll be some bacon in it for you later,” Vadis said, standing and brushing off her knees. “So—check it out.” She pointed at a television hanging on the wall. “I told them all about your big moment and got them to put on Channel 6 instead of
Squawk Box
.”

“Thanks,” Eve said, tying the leash to her chair. They looked at their menus for several moments before she spoke again. “So, how do you know Orla Knock? You never said.”

“Concert at Chelsea Piers. I was trolling for new clients.” Vadis leaned forward. “Corporate PR stuff pays well but it’s boring. So I’ve decided to go after musicians. So far I’ve only signed one band, but I’m going to knock them into the stratosphere.”

Vadis had always been hard-charging. She’d won the Aesthette’s presidency junior year over one or two seniors chiefly due to bravado and a breezy comfort with sizing up club members and telling them what to do. It was as though she saw those around her as pieces in a chess game, but she had an uncanny way of making people want to please her, which seemed to keep the other girls from taking offense.

The waiter poured some coffee and took their orders.

“What’s the name of your band?” asked Eve.

“Spoilt Picnic. They’re rap/folk, totally modern. I’m trying to get Orla to put them on
Smell the Coffee
, to promote their debut CD. She’s stalling, though. Says she’s not sure they’re ready for national TV. So I’m taking them on tour around the Northeast and hopefully, when we get back, she’ll decide it’s go time.” Vadis raised her cup in a toast. “Plus thanks to you I’m going to have another in at the show, right?”

“Right.” Eve toasted back, trying to quell her distress that her only friend in town was going on an extended trip. Eve would be completely alone in New York. Though with her new job, she was about to gain a whole bunch of colleagues.

“So, what is the job, anyway? Pretty much what I said?” Vadis asked.

Eve explained about bouillabaisse and senators and scripts with a line down the middle and writing exactly twenty seconds, enjoying the surprise spreading over Vadis’s face.

“Damn.” Vadis gave a low whistle. “Still, writing for Bliss Jones will probably open a lot of doors.”

“You think?” asked Eve.

“Um, yeah, she’s, like, a major deal.” Vadis reached for a mini muffin in the basket that had arrived, then continued. “You really don’t know?” Eve shook her head. “First off, she’s the only person alive who’s been a Miss America runner-up and a Rhodes scholar. She’s interviewed practically every world leader and parachuted into war zones. She’s supposed to be the highest-paid journalist on television and her Q score is higher than Santa’s.”

Eve wanted to ask what a Q score was but Vadis had already moved on.

“And Hap McCutcheon is hot. He was a baseball player in the eighties. Can’t remember what team. At some point he got hurt and became a commentator. Then he snagged an interview with Castro during a secret trip to check out emerging players in Cuba or something. I think that’s how he wound up in news.”

Eve reached for a muffin but put it down before taking a bite. War zones. Castro. These were the people she’d be writing for.

“Hey, it’s starting,” said Vadis, looking at the TV hanging on the wall over Eve’s shoulder. “When’s your thing on again?”

“Not for a while. Eight-thirty-something.”

The food arrived but Eve’s eggs grew cold while she gazed at the television. So this was
Smell the Coffee
. The two anchors introduced themselves from behind a sleek blue desk. Bliss Jones was a vision in a glossy blond bob, with purply-blue eyes and the best kind of nose, the kind that didn’t interfere with the rest of your face. Hap McCutcheon sported cinnamon hair and a comforting, dad-standing-over-the-barbecue smile.

After a short newscast hosted by a no-nonsense brunette named Sandy Horowitz, which featured videotape of various world conflicts, forest fires, and squirrels on water skis, the show segued into a series of discussions about politics (with an animated-looking Senator Farnsworth, who never did get to bring up his wife’s aid organization), classroom size, and a drug recall in which Bliss and Hap led participants who gestured wildly at each other.

The dog nuzzled Eve’s calf and she fed her a piece of toast. At exactly eight o’clock, Bliss’s voice sounded urgent as she introduced the next segment. “—New information just coming in at this hour on an ongoing crime spree here in New York City. It involves a mugger holding up his victims at knifepoint while wearing, very often, women’s clothing—and always sporting high-heeled shoes. So far, four victims, one seriously wounded. Here with the latest on the attacks is Police Chief Sebastian Pell. Chief.
Pell, thank you for joining us. Please start, if you would, by telling us what we know about the man they’re calling the Stiletto?”

The police chief was barrel-chested and the bristle of his salt-and-pepper crew cut made Eve want to pass her palm over it.

“Well, Bliss, thank you for having me this morning. This is one perplexing case. You have no idea the manpower we’ve had to put on this.” He went on for a good thirty seconds, saying, if you listened carefully, precisely nothing.

“Be that as it may,” said Bliss, sounding irritated, “what our viewers want to know is, who is this madman? And why can’t you find him?”

The chief cleared his throat and began again, this time soberly detailing the most recent attack and explaining that the victim had arrived at the hospital overnight, slashed in the stomach. Thankfully, she was expected to recover. “The Stiletto is a dangerous, disturbed man,” Pell continued. “His MO is unlike any we’ve seen.…”

When the interview was over, Vadis began making notes on what looked like a contract, while Eve sipped her coffee. The next time she looked up at the television, the hosts were donning boxing gloves for a workout segment. After that it was gardening overalls and straw hats to dig in an on-set garden, and then crash helmets for a spin in some bumper cars. Finally, there was Bliss Jones saying, “Coming up a little later, why your socks could be killing you. But first, the exotic flavors of southern France, right here at home. When
Smell the Coffee
continues.”

“This is it,” announced Vadis, lifting her voice to address the surrounding tables. “After this commercial, my friend here’s going to become a television legend. She wrote everything Hap McCutcheon’s about to say. And she made the soup they’re about to eat, too.” A couple of other diners looked up from their breakfasts to offer polite smiles. The dog put her front paws on Eve’s knees and yawned deeply. Eve thought she’d heard somewhere that dogs yawned when they were nervous.

A commercial for bug repellent faded from the screen and Hap appeared in a long white apron. Eve sucked in her breath. This was it. She closed her eyes and imagined flying over the breakfast tables of America as each family heard the word “bouillabaisse” and realized that
that
was what was missing from their lives. They’d put down their coffee cups and maple syrup, hypnotized by her words, enthralled by her images, and believe that they, too, deserved a hearty fish soup at the end of a long hard day.

Hap stood next to a portly man in a crisp white chef’s outfit with a giant
Z
over the left breast and a billowy hat. In front of them, the same panoply of ingredients Eve had used, and the big steaming cauldron she’d prepared yesterday. Her heart was beating like a hummingbird’s wings as Hap opened his mouth in slow motion and began to speak:

Eve grimaced.

Her mouth found the words along with Hap.

He said it all with such sincerity he could have been a world-class bouillabaisse expert. The words sounded exactly as they had in her head. Everyone in the restaurant fell silent, clearly awestruck.

Vadis gave Eve a thumbs-up.

Chef Zorin playfully slapped a dish towel at Hap. “Ees bouillabaisse. BOO-YAH-BASE-UH. Hap, you seely-beely. I show you how make.”

Zorin began putting the ingredients together. He sautéed an onion before adding the shrimp and the halibut. Then came Hap’s first question, just as she had scripted it: “Can I leave out the red pepper flakes if I want?” Zorin assured him this was entirely possible. On they went until the chef announced with flair, “And here we have the feenished product, already seemering on the stove! Time to taste.” Eve watched as Zorin dipped his ladle into her pot. He lifted out a series of steaming bowlfuls and handed one to Hap and another to Bliss, who entered the frame with an expression that said she couldn’t believe her luck at finding fish soup in the studio at 8:42 in the morning.

In unison, they dunked their spoons, then lifted them into the
air. “One. Two. Three,” Hap called out. Spoons disappeared into mouths, accompanied by appreciative murmurs.

“Delicious, Zorin, as always,” said Hap, although he sounded slightly less convincing than in the intro. “Stay with us everyone.
Smell the Coffee
continues.”

Eve nearly floated off her chair. She wanted to dance around the room. Vadis leaned over and patted her hand. “Right on,” she said. Then she looked around. “Everybody, huh? What about my friend?” A man at the next table raised his coffee cup and somebody put their hands together in a single, tiny thunderclap of approval.

Vadis went outside to make a call and Eve picked up the dog and held her tightly, savoring the earthy, sweet smell of her fine fur. After the commercial break ended, she looked up to see Bliss Jones leading into another segment.

“… deadly new strain of bacteria, showing up in laundry hampers across America. Joining us now is our medical editor, Dr. Frank Gibbons. Frank, who needs to be worried about this?”

The doctor crossed one leg over the other and began his answer. “Well, Bliss, it’s complicated. You see …” He spoke for a few moments, then cut himself off. “You all right?”

The screen cut to Bliss, hunched over, with one hand on her sweating forehead, the other on her abdomen. Her delicately painted face had become a tangle of pain and confusion. “I’m sorry, I just—I just don’t feel well. It’s come over me all of a sudden. I don’t know what’s wrong. L-L-Lark, would you take us to commercial, please?” She lifted her head and somehow produced a glorious smile. “Stay with us everyone … 
Smell the Coffee
continues.”

A chill gathered around Eve’s neck. Several people glanced in her direction. She squirmed in her seat, waiting for the commercial break to end. Finally, Sandy Horowitz came back on, just as Vadis arrived back at the table. Sandy announced that Bliss would be unable to finish the program. It seemed to be a mild
case of tummy trouble, but Dr. Gibbons was seeing to her and she was expected to be “just fine.” The rest of the broadcast would be filled by a taped interview Bliss had done with Colm Lowry, author of
Mothers and Daughters: The Healthy Spleen Connection
.

Icy pricks of sweat sprouted on Eve’s upper lip. What had happened? As Vadis looked at her with alarm, she went over all the steps she’d taken. She’d followed the recipe exactly. Except … that odor. Hadn’t it been a bit worse than seafood was supposed to smell? Especially that spiteful halibut. Could it have gone bad? And if it had, how could she not have known? Then, with a shudder, she realized she had at least suspected it. She’d just chosen to tuck her misgivings behind her dreams of success, like the driver who sees, but doesn’t see, the oil light come on.