Chapter 14
Thank God for Sunny. She did what she always does . . . gave me a passionate hug, fixed me an Evan Williams and water, promised a night of wild sex, and sat down to listen to my sad tales of frustrating investigative work. You could almost see the astute sifting of information and the infusion of intuition taking place as she focused, not only on the facts, but my posture, the tone of my voice and every nuance as I related the details of my day. At first she didn’t speak. Then her vibes began to dominate my thoughts, challenge me to explore the depths, and question the competence of my consciousness and comprehension.
“Okay Cowboy. A few things stand out. You have been warned. That shit about cold places is about as obvious as it gets. The photos in his office may tie him to Sirelli. That group shot you saw . . . the fuzzy one. Hang on.”
She turned on the laptop and pulled up the sites on Sirelli. I stared at his smiling mug again. I couldn’t be absolutely sure, but I would bet my last buck and add my first born, if I had one, that it was him in the middle of the line of hotshots that graced the wall of Panko’s office. She hit a few more keys.
“Patience, my dear. I got a hunch.” Now the screen greeted me with the long nosed Barbie who looked like a shoo-in as Her Honor, the mayor of Norfolk. Sunny performed a little more magic and grinned.
“Okay, big boy. Time for Double Jeopardy and the answer is Sirelli. What is the question?”
I looked at her with more than a little disgust. I just didn’t think it was an appropriate time for half-assed games.
“Well . . . you’re a bit slow tonight, genius. The question is ‘What is the maiden name of the bimbo who is currently running 10+ points ahead of her opponent in the upcoming mayoral election.”
All I could say was “Holy shit.” She pulled up the photo of Sirelli with wife and kids. It was 12 year old Alison Bondura holding his hand and looking up at her dad with obvious pride and adoration.
“Okay,” I said, “now the work really begins.”
“Yes, it does and here’s a serious flash for you, Mr. Ghostcatcher. You’re going to a brunch tomorrow. A gala affair to secure the support of prominent members of the university faculty and administration. 11 A.M. at the conference center. Coat and tie are requested. The guest of honor is the leading candidate for the office of mayor, Ms. Alison Bondura. Be there or be square.”
Now I was really worried. My blue blazer was wrinkled, probably smelled of mildew, and I didn’t own a tie, but somehow I’d have to make do.
The HOTEL AUSTIN nightclub was probably about half-full. No sign of the Talent Pro entourage. Thank God for that, not to mention the dim light and the booze. The place still hadn’t been cleaned, but the small crowd was already in their cups and waiting for the main event, Virginia Beach’s own American Treasure, Miss Pam Watson and HIGH FLYER. They kicked it off with a Rolling Stones’ classic, “Beast of Burden.” Shorty’s guitar was wailing and Pam was pleading. Glen’s bass provided the throbbing rhythm and the drums pounded every vibration straight from the soles of the feet to the top of the head. The dancers were an orgy of gyrations and haunting grimaces. We grooved and drank.
To close the final set Pam went to an old Bee Gees love song that Janis Joplin had transformed into a lonely, longing anthem. “Nobody knows what it’s like to love somebody . . . to love somebody . . . Baby, like I love you.” I thought the audience was going to crawl up to the stage and demand she be christened the Holy Mother of the Blues. I went up to the bandstand and hugged the miniature diva. Shorty smiled, waved, and silently mouthed what I thought was a thank you. I felt a tug on my arm and turned to see Glen standing behind me. “Remember what I said,” he whispered into my ear. He didn’t have to remind me.
I spent the night at Sunny’s. No wild sex. Too much to drink and just plain tired. That’s okay. Patience is virtue . . . at least that’s what they tell me. Sunny left early. There was a note on the kitchen table. “Buy a tie. See you at eleven. Love.”
My Schwinn was at the marina. It was okay. A good walk in the morning sun might loosen up the smog in my head. I stopped off at a Family Dollar store and found an appropriate cravat for $1.99 plus tax. Such a deal. Nobody would notice it was cheap rayon unless they looked too closely.
KAMALA lay motionless in her berth and conveyed a quiet accusation. “Where were you last night?” I mouthed the name “Sunny” and she seemed quite satisfied. I pulled my blazer from the hanging locker. It didn’t look all that bad and I figured it would air out if I hung it in the light breeze for a few minutes. A shirt was another matter. Fortunately I had a travelling iron on board for emergencies like this one. A light blue oxford would do. It damned sure better . . . it was the only dress shirt I owned.
I thought it a bit improper to arrive by bicycle, despite the academic trappings, so I took a cab.
Sunny had apparently been watching. She met me at the door.
“We‘re on our way. I am going to introduce you as a retired professor and distinguished author,” she said, “and by the way, you look pretty damned good.” I smiled and pretended to straighten my tie. She took my arm and we promenaded into the large banquet room. There was a speaker’s stand at one end decorated with an American flag. A series of long tables covered in sparkling white cloth was on the opposite side. Assorted canapes, of course, small china plates, tiny forks and linen napkins finished off with two sterling silver urns of hot coffee.
I’d been to a hundred of these affairs during my years of imprisonment in higher education. It required a healthy dose of bullshit, replete with political correctness and pompous hypocrisy. Clothes, posture -- both physical and intellectual – and a general attitude of superiority were requisite. There were lots of tweed coats and bowties on the professors, conservative business suits on the ladies and gentlemen of the administration, and an air that this was all the norm -- if not expected or even dictated. There were a few legitimate human beings sprinkled about the crowd. I could tell by their knowing smiles, but they were definitely in the minority.
Of course, the belle of the ball had garnered most of the attention. Alison Bondura was the center of a mesmerized group of pseudo admirers. She looked absolutely stunning . . . a gracious smile tattooed on her face as she wordlessly made promises to the chairman of the building committee and the chancellor of the university. She wore a black suit with a satiny white shirt topped off with a multi-colored scarf tied at the neck. Hermes, I suspected. Black stilettos, probably Jimmy Choo, adorned her feet. She wore her jewelry discreetly, nothing flashy, but it definitely complemented her conservative fashion statement. I was sure there was a little dye in her blond tresses, but it contrasted beautifully with the black fabric, shimmering in the florescent light.
Sunny spoke to a few of the dignitaries and introduced me as she indicated. I smiled congenially and hoped there was no broccoli embedded in my teeth, but I was sure Sunny would tell me. I watched Ms. Bondura work the crowd. She was no amateur. I couldn’t hear them, but I was confident she spoke all of the right words, laughed at all of the right jokes, and patted an arm when it was appropriate. We migrated closer and closer. When there was a small opening in the fawning crowd, I made my move.
“Ms. Bondura, I am so pleased to meet you. I am T.K. Fleming, the significant other of . . .”
“Oh please, Dr. Fleming, call me Alison. I certainly know who you are. I am a great admirer. Your murder mysteries have been favorites of mine for several years. They have an intellectual gravitas combined with suspense and raw excitement. It must be eminently satisfying to be so creative.”
It was a bit over the top, but I couldn’t have said it better myself. Her intimate smile and the tone of her voice were all decidedly on key. This lady was a pro. But even with that insight and the vague sense of hazard that accompanied it, it would to be tough not to be lured into her web of charm and blatant patronizing.
“I understand you have an interest in music,” I said, testing the waters slightly.
“I do, but it is limited to some of the old show tunes, Lerner and Lowe, Rogers and Hammerstein . . . things of that sort. My parents were great fans of “Camelot,” “Oklahoma,” and many others of the classic musicals. They were on the stereo in our home constantly when I was growing up.”
“The home of Mayor Sirelli?”
She gave me a look that pierced and sliced. I fought a chill at the back of my neck.
“I see you have done your homework, Dr. Fleming.” I didn’t respond at first. Then I moved on.
“I understand there is a vibrant rock scene in the area. Lots of local talent waiting for that all-important break. I believe Leo Panko of Talent Pro is a friend of your father’s.”
“I wouldn’t know. My father has many friends with business concerns of all sorts.” For a split second she shot me an icy glare. Then went on, “Of course, entertainment and the boost it provides to tourism are crucial to the economy of our area. But I’m afraid I’ve been so involved with matters of good government that I haven’t had the opportunity to explore that scene personally.”
Her voice had taken on a barely perceptible edge. There was probably some truth in the words, but I guessed there was more behind that accommodating smile. Suddenly we were surrounded by another bevy of worshippers. She shook my hand and told me that the pleasure had been all hers, but that nose seemed to be tilted upward. Then she cut me a look with hard crystal eyes that held something else. I couldn’t be sure, but it felt like a warning.
Sunny had been watching the whole time. She grabbed my arm and pulled me back toward the buffet table. She picked up two pigs-in-a-blanket, dipped them in mustard, and stuffed the handful into her mouth.
“Don’t get in too deep,” she mumbled. We stayed for another hour. I listened to her and an assortment of colleagues delve into campus politics and moan over the new lows in motivation among some of their students. Teacher talk. I’d heard it all before, but I just nodded and smiled a lot. After more pigs-in-a-blanket and a couple of handfuls of cookies, Sunny grabbed my arm and we backed out into the sunshine.