The Ladies' Man (39 page)

S
he has the number, and uses it. Mrs. Chabot says, “He's on the third floor. I'm gonna have to walk up there. It might take a coupla minutes.”

“Fine,” says Dina.

He doesn't answer the bellow from the second-floor landing, which obligates Mrs. Chabot to climb another half flight to his door, and reinforces her house rule: No phone calls after nine
P.M.
She knocks. No answer. “Mister …” What the hell is his name. “You in there?”

She descends the stairs slowly, hand sliding down the banister. Lighting's bad. Maybe a brighter bulb will be enough. She's learned not to rush back to girls calling boarders who prove not to be in. “Not here,” she barks into the phone. “Don't call back later, ‘cause I'll be asleep.”

“Can you give me his address with zip code?”

“This one?”

“Is he still registered there?”

“Fifty-five Grove Street, Boston, Mass., oh two one one four.”

“Room number?”

“He'll get it. It all comes to me.”

“Thank you,” says Dina. “That's all I need.”

He takes the Commonwealth Avenue trolley to Brighton and walks down the hill. His thirty-year-old key fits into the gummy
lock and, with some twisting and finessing, opens the door. The kitchen is exactly the same, just dustier and stickier: faux red-brick linoleum, yellowed appliances that look old-fashioned and bulbous. If he were a sentimental man, his childhood would flood back to him. He'd notice the stain on the ceiling where the pressure cooker blew, the ivy-tendriled wallpaper, the curtains sewn from percale sheets, adorned with three colors of rickrack, and, if he opened the oven, carbon stalagmites from his mother's Comstock-filled pies. No one wants to buy it—three rooms down, two up. One bath, with no half-bath potential—along with lead paint and high radon levels—are said to be the problem. No one wants to rent it or call it their starter home. He could live rent-free here, utilities and taxes only. Say it's his studio; tell clients and lady friends that he pulls all-nighters here, hence the bedroom and the kitchen; hence the lived-in look. When his musical ship comes back in, he could remodel.

He shows up at the station in a suit, bolo tie, and cowboy boots, and asks for Adele.

“You could have called first,” she says when she fetches him in the lobby. “Some people make appointments.”

“Two minutes,” he says.

He follows her; notes her brisk walk, her low heels clicking, her ankles trim, her rear end firm. “Pretty dress,” he says. “Brown is your color.”

Adele says affably, “You are so full of shit. Does anyone believe anything you say?”

“Some. The less penetrating. Where are you taking me?”

“Third floor, Development.”

She introduces him all around: Nash Harvey or Harvey Nash—Michael and Scott, the coworkers.

“Nice boots,” says Michael.

“From Santa Fe,” says Nash. “Great city. Wall-to-wall souvenir shops—cowboy and Indian stuff. You'd love it.”

“Time's up,” says Adele.

Her office is no bigger than a tool shed. The furniture is laminated white, the carpet is cool gray. Plants line the windowsill, and a Tanglewood poster adorns the wall behind her desk. “I've got lots of work to do today,” she begins.

“One question: Who does your station IDs?”

“IDs? I have no idea. Why?”

“Why do you think? I'm in town, and I'd like a shot at it. Whatever they're charging you, I can do it cheaper.”

“I have nothing to say about that.”

“Then who does?”

“Sorry,” says Adele.

“What's his name? The head guy?”

Adele coughs delicately into her fist. “Mr. Glazer.”

“First name?”

“Marty. Martin.”

“Can I meet him?”

Adele says, “No,” then reconsiders, if only to report to Cynthia that she did something socially adventurous. She hits four numbers on her phone. “Carmen? It's Adele. Is he in? No, don't interrupt him. I'll just come by.”

“One tip,” says Nash. “You could say—and I know this doesn't come as naturally to you as it does to me—‘It's my great pleasure to introduce Mr. Harvey, the composer, visiting from the coast,' and if you deliver it with a certain expression and in a certain tone of voice, it would send a very strong signal, i.e., ‘Give this guy anything he wants. His money's got money, and I'm reeling him in.' ”

Adele laughs. “As a friend of mine recently taught me to say without blanching, ‘You've got balls.' ”

“Is that a no? Because it's not a lie. Let's just say you characterize me with a few words—'composer,' ‘Los Angeles'; even hum a few notes of my Legacy jingle under your breath—
Legacy … it sets you free.…
He won't know I make nothing from it. Then, if
he
fills in the blanks, it's not a lie.”

“I'm doing this for my own reasons,” she says, “not because I want to do you a favor. I'll ask about the promos, period. He'll say, ‘Sorry,' then you'll leave. You'll go straight to the airport—”

“Not today, kiddo. First of all, my ticket isn't open-ended. It's for Friday. And what about my luggage? Also, in case I haven't mentioned it, I'm looking at a little house-cum-studio in Brighton. So, no way. Too many loose ends to tie up.”

“Since when,” Adele asks, “did you care about tying up loose ends?”

He rubs his face with his open palms, then announces, his eyes bleary, “It wasn't all my fault, you know.”

Adele is rooting around in her top drawer for something, but she stops. “What wasn't?”

“Running out on you before the party.”

“Then whose fault was it?”

“I meant, I was a product of my environment—the little prince, their one and only with perfect pitch. I could do no wrong. That, and what I've already apologized for—my immaturity, my bad manners, my Hollywood dreams.”

Adele asks, unexpectedly and lightly, “Did my father have anything to do with your leaving Boston?”

“No, he did
not
,“ says Nash.

“I think it's possible,” she says. “In fact I think it's likely.”

Nash takes a moment to study the pointed toes of his boots. When he looks up he says, “What kind of thing is that to carry around with you? Wondering if you should hate your old man retroactively? It's better if you hate me.”

“Why?”

“Because he's your old man! It'll make you bitter and suspicious of everyone, and it'll hang you up for life.”

“Or liberate me,” she says.

“Nash Harvey,” says Nash, pumping the hand that isn't offered. “I know you're way too busy for this. In fact, I'm disgusted with myself for taking up the time of a man running this distinguished operation.
How
many Emmys last year?”

Marty looks to Adele, who offers nothing.

“Miss Dobbin has graciously agreed to advance my request to the next level,” Nash continues.

“Concerning?”

“Business. How mine intersects with yours.”

“He writes advertising jingles,” says Adele, “and has some notion that you'd give him a crack at our station promos.”

Marty says, “We're not thinking of changing at this time.”

“Hey! Last thing I want to do is take advantage of my friendship with Adele. She didn't jump at the idea, either, but I can promise you this much—”

“How do you know Adele?”

Nash says, “We go way back.”

“To what?”

“We were children together,” says Adele.

“An item,” says Nash.

“When?” asks Marty.

“After college,” says Adele.

“In my case,” says Nash, “after the conservatory, but before film.”

“Things didn't work out,” says Adele.

“But now I'm back,” says Nash, who notices that the more personal he gets, the more forlorn this Martin Glazer looks.

“For?” asks Marty.

“For?”
Nash repeats. He looks around the office. “Mind if I sit? It's a long story.”

“I'm late for a meeting,” says Marty.

Nash takes a visitor's chair, but Adele retreats to a couch against the wall. “I'll be quick,” he says. “A thirty-second jingle out of my life's reel: I never settled down, never had kids, never went to a P.T.A. meeting, never owned a lawn mower. So I finally asked myself the hard question: Why the hell not? What's the hang-up? And you know what I came up with? All roads led home. Which is the same thing as saying, All signs pointed to Adele. I mean, why the pull? Why do I keep writing songs about her? Why have I kept her picture in my wallet for thirty-odd years?”

Adele looks up.

Marty asks, “You have an old picture of Adele?”

Nash says, “I
hope
I have it. I might've put it in a photo album with another bunch I have of her.”

“Of our engagement party, no doubt,” says Adele.

Nash brings forth his wallet and its gatefold of expired credit cards.

“Don't bother,” says Adele. “I'm sure it's hideous.”

Nash searches one compartment, then another. Finally he slides two fingers behind his driver's license. After some shuffling of what appears to be his lady-friend photo archive he says, “Here. A little moth-eaten around the edges, but that's our girl.”

Marty takes the photo, studies it, measures it against Adele, puts it down on his blotter, but doesn't give it back.

“Always a looker,” Nash says happily.

Marty's already high color deepens.

Adele murmurs, “I had no idea.”

“I'm a sentimentalist,” says Nash. “I thought you knew that about me.”

“I must have forgotten,” she says.

Marty looks at his watch.

“One more question,” says Nash.

“Which is?”

“Studio space: nothing elaborate. A piano and a pencil. Any old empty corner.”

“What's he talking about?” Marty asks Adele.

“I'm never quite sure,” she says.

“A place to work,” says Nash. “To show you what I can do.”

Marty asks, “Do you mean right now? For a couple of hours? Or something permanent?”

Nash swivels around to face Adele, cinches his bolo, and with as true and as unflirtatious a stare as he's ever dispensed, says, “That's up to you, darlin'.”

She takes a magazine from the coffee table in front of her, flips through half of it without reading a word, puts it back, then says, “I don't mean to be cruel, Harvey, but if it were up to me, you'd be on the next plane.”

“Out of the question,” says Nash. “I'm not going stand-by.”

Adele looks toward Marty. His head and upper lip are damp. He rises to announce in a slightly deeper voice than usual, “We have no recording studios. And if we did, we wouldn't lend them out like study carrels in a library.” He presses a buzzer. “Carmen? Can you escort Adele's guest to the reception area?”

“What's there?” Nash asks.

“The door,” says Adele.

Carmen appears, eager, helpful. Mr. Glazer has seemed depressed all week.

“Will I see you tonight?” Nash asks Adele.

“I need her for a project we've been working on,” says Marty.

“Later, then? What time will you get home?”

“It doesn't matter,” says Adele. “We have an answering machine now.”

“Welcome to the world,” says Nash. He walks to the couch, takes her hand, caresses it, presses his lips to her knuckles. “I must be losing my touch,” he says.

“Or not,” says Adele.

“I need to speak to Adele in private,” says Marty.

“Carmen, this is Mr. Harvey,” says Adele. “He's an award-winning arranger.”

“Wow,” says Carmen.

“Nash,” corrects Nash.

“Shut the door on your way out,” instructs Marty.

L
ois reads the perplexing note, scribbled in Kathleen's hand and stuck to the refrigerator: “I'll be staying chez Lorenz tonight.” Well, that explains half of the ghost town she has found at Stearns Road—no chains latched, no bottles set. But where's Adele? She hears no TV, no music, no water running. The usual hallway lamp is lit, next to—what's this?—a new phone, white, buttons, functions, a small red dot of light … a built-in answering machine! Because of me, she reasons: If I wanted to get in touch with them, they wouldn't miss my call. The digital readout says “01.” She hits the “play” button. “Adele?” says a woman's voice. “This is Sin. Any progress today? I want a report.”