Elsinore (9 page)

“Why did you come to us as a pretender, Mr. Holden? Couldn't you have said you worked for Howard Phipps?”

“You'd never have seen me.”

“You're wrong. I've been expecting you. I always like to meet Howard's latest messenger boy.”

“I'm not a messenger boy.”

“Then what are you, Mr. Holden?”

“It's hard to define. His bodyguard, maybe. And his companion.”

“Do you go with him into the toilet when he has to pee?”

“You shouldn't talk about his infirmities like that.”

“Why not? He's one of the richest men in America.”

“But somebody's been bleeding him. I'd say that somebody is your daughter … with a little help from the Mimes.”

“My daughter?”

“Please, Mrs. Church. This isn't Shakespeare. And we're not miming anymore. She calls herself Mrs. Vanderwelle, but her name is Judith Church.”

“I'm Judith Church.”

“Little Judith then. Are you happy? She likes to play Phippsy's lawyer.”

“I don't know Howard's lawyer. What did he say about me?” The bones of her face seemed incredibly fine in the spangled light of the loft. “What did he say?”

“That he loved you. That he was stupidly jealous. That you ran away and got married to a Rochester man. That the man killed himself on account of Phipps … and you went into a funny farm.”

“Elsinore,” she said.

“What?”

“Howard put me in a sanitarium. Elsinore.”

“Is it in Queens?”

“No. Vermont. Near Montpelier. It was a deluxe prison camp. A gulag with champagne. Howard visited all the time. I bit him on the mouth. I drew blood. It was like having a year ripped out of my life.”

Two Elsinores? One in Queens. One in Vermont.

“Is it still functioning? Elsinore.”

“Not unless Howard had other old companions who went berserk. It was much too grand. Every patient with her own butler. Elsinore must be buried under the snow by now. But who told you about this daughter I never had? Not Howard. It must have been your librarian, Tosh.”

“Tosh doesn't lie,” Holden said.

“Then he lives in too many libraries.… Thank you, Mr. Holden, but I have work to do.”

“How can I get a ticket to one of your performances?”

“We never perform in public. I'm opposed to audiences who come in off the street. Whatever we do is by invitation only. And I'm afraid you're not right for our guest list. Good-bye, Frog.”

“I'm not so fond of good-byes.”

“Then I'll have to ask my people to throw you out.”

“I still say you have a daughter. No one but little Judith could have told you who I am.”

Six or seven mummers appeared from behind a door, like waltzing skeletons. Frog tried to pull at their masks, hoping he'd uncover little Judith or Dr. Herbert Garden. But he still couldn't understand how the Manhattan Mimes had captured Fay and put her in their own Elsinore at College Point. And while he dreamt about that, the mummers seized Holden and tossed him down two flights of stairs. He couldn't even get a single mask in his hands. He arrived on the street with a twisted shoulder. He heard a door click. The mummers had locked him out of their loft.

He went straight to the Phipps Foundation.

Gloria Vanderwelle greeted him outside Phippsy's office. Frog began to doubt himself. He couldn't imagine that girl with the bow in her hair as one of the Mimes. But she had to be Mrs. Church's daughter. Little Judith.

“Mr. Phipps is waiting for you,” she said.

“How did he know I was coming?” Frog asked, looking into her eyes.

“He's psychic about his employees.”

Holden didn't believe in psychics. Phippsy must have had a secret route to the Manhattan Mimes.

“He's upstairs in the Supper Club,” she said. “Having his tea.”

Frog rode up to Phipps' crazy Manhattan, that enormous bowl of metal and glass where the conqueror liked to eat by himself. Phipps sat far from the windows, at a modest table for two. He was nibbling on a soda cracker. Frog had to think like a president. The overhead on that cracker must have been half a million.

“Hello, Sid. Should we move to a bigger table?”

“No. This one is fine.”

Frog sat down with the old man.

“Would you like a breakfast steak?”

“It's almost dinnertime,” Holden said.

“So what? I keep the hours in this establishment. I'm Father Time.”

“I'll have a soft-boiled egg, an orange, and a bit of toast.”

Holden didn't have to bark his order. The egg appeared with the orange and a piece of rye toast. Five waiters hovered over him, one to open the egg, one to slice the orange, one to bother about salt and pepper, one to supervise the supervisor.

“Damn you,” Phipps shouted, “will you let the boy suck his egg in peace?” And the waiters disappeared. Phipps was silent while Holden devoured the egg.

“How's the grub?”

“Good.”

“We have to get back on the road. It's Europe this time, Sid.”

“More funny paper?”

“Ah, you've been reading my mind.”

“But the other swag we collected was good as gold.”

“Who told you?”

“I swiped one bill and had it checked.”

“So I make you president and you become a bloody thief.”

Holden returned the thousand-dollar bill. The old man tore it to bits. “I could give you to Paul Abruzzi. He'd love to get his hands on the boy who romanced his daughter-in-law.”

“I'm not a boy,” Holden said. “And I didn't romance Fay.”

“I could borrow a couple of heavy hitters. You'd never leave this building alive.”

“Probably not. But I'll bring you along, Phippsy.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“Call your hitters and see what happens.”

“I promoted you and you scheme behind my back.”

“I used my wits, that's all. And don't talk to me about funny paper and
the life
. You're a billionaire who happens to be cash poor. How come?”

“There's a leakage and I can't find it. So I have to collect what's mine. I'm too old to run around the world alone. And you're the best collector in the business.”

“Aladdin didn't have your kind of debts. Phippsy, why don't you concentrate on the leaks. You have lawyers, accountants.”

“They're pissing in the dark.”

“Then look a little closer to home.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like Mrs. Vanderwelle.”

The billionaire froze behind his cardigan in that restaurant that was like a cathedral. Whatever mercy he had for Holden was gone.

“I told you. She's off-limits.”

“But she's the key to all your cash problems.”

“You're fired,” Phipps said.

“Good. I can go back to early retirement.”

But when Frog stood up, the old man started to mewl like a little boy. Then he wiped his eyes with his end of the tablecloth. “Sit down, Sid. Please.”

“Not if we can't discuss Gloria Vanderwelle.”

“She's my daughter. I told you that.”

“But her name isn't Gloria. It's Judith. Judith Church.”

“You're cracking up, Sid. There's only one Judith in my agenda. And she runs an acting school.”

“The Manhattan Mimes. I've been there.”

“You visited Judith?”

“Someone has to look out for your interests. Besides, if you lose your empire, I'll lose Aladdin. And I like being president, even if I can't tell where our capital comes from.

“You visited Judith? Without my consent? Not a word of warning. What does she look like?”

“You ought to remember. She was your woman, for God's sake.”

“But I haven't seen her in twenty years. She could have developed a tick, or some monstrosity of the face. And I'd be the last to find out.”

The old man seemed miserable, and Frog had to reassure him. “She's beautiful, Phippsy. With a gorgeous head of gray hair.”

“Go on. What else?”

“She knows I'm working for you.”

“That's insignificant,” the old man said, growling again.

“Only one person could have told her. Your daughter, Mrs. Vanderwelle.”

The old man stared out of those merciless wet eyes. “Sid, do I have to fire you again? Judith, damn you. Did she mention my name?”

“Yes. She calls you Howard.”

“Why shouldn't she call me Howard? That's who I am. Ought to be obvious to a child.”

“She said you put her in a sanitarium after her husband killed himself. The sanitarium was outside Montpelier. And she bit you on the mouth.”

“I still have the scar. Took a couple of operations to heal that wound. But did she talk about this restaurant? She loved sitting here, surrounded by glass. She'd dance from morning to midnight. Had to keep my saxophones on a twenty-four-hour call. People would line up forever, just to watch her dance. Can you imagine? My competitors thought she was a shill. They hired a woman to haunt their own clubs. But it never worked. Judith was the genuine article.”

“She didn't say a word about the Supper Club.”

“That was to punish me.”

“We talked about Elsinore.”

“Bloody Elsinore? What's that?”

“The sanitarium where you put her.”

“It didn't have a name. That was the whole point of it. The clientele wasn't interested in publicity. It was a house in the woods.”

“Well, she called it Elsinore.”

“That's not pertinent to this conversation. Judith has an inventive mind. What else did she say?” Holden was silent. “What else?”

“She asked if I went into the toilet with you every time you had to pee.”

Phipps started to laugh. But the sound was very shallow. And Holden was sorry he'd ever talked about toilets. “She was joking, Phippsy.”

“Judith doesn't joke. She wanted to eat my heart out.… Come on, Sid. We have to go to Spain. I already booked the seats.”

“I thought I was fired.”

“Can't fire a president, just like that. You have certain privileges.”

The old man got up from the table. And that one gesture brought a fury to the restaurant. Waiters ran to him from every side.

“Stop it,” Phipps shouted. “I have my man.”

And Holden walked him out of the restaurant.

8

Holden loved the airport at Bilbao. He didn't have any steps to climb. The Aeropuerto de Bilbao was a bright little box on a simple plain. The hills outside were summer green, and Holden saw a cemetery surrounded by poplar trees. The stones in the cemetery looked like gray teeth. The Guardia Civil didn't bother him. Holden had never bumped in Bilbao. It was neutral territory. He'd bumped in Madrid, which had its own street of furriers, furriers who'd tried to steal patterns from his old senior partner, Bruno Schatz. Schatz had arranged Holden's calendar of hits. But now Holden was president of Aladdin, and he didn't have to take calls from Schatz in the middle of the night. Schatz had married Holden's bride, Andrushka the twig.

A red Jaguar was waiting for them in front of the airport. Holden didn't see any driver. “I warned you, Phippsy. I'm not your chauffeur.”

“Will you get in? I can't have a third party involved in our affairs. One of us has to drive. Me or you.”

“But you're making a habit of it.”

“Then give me a better solution. Get in.”

The keys were in the dash. Holden stared at the silver emblem of a very long cat. He'd never driven a Jaguar before. Phipps spread out his map of the Spanish coast like some commandant. The map had a leather cover and a magnifying glass. Phipps searched the coast with that glass. “This is Basque country,” he said. “The Basques would tear our heads off if they could. The Basques hate everybody except the Basques. They're the only people in the world who never wanted to get rich. That makes them honorable.”

“And dumb.”

“No. Not dumb. There's a difference. The Basques wouldn't have wanted my Supper Club. They're crazy about bingo. They build palaces for their bingo games.”

“I thought they despise money,” Holden said.

“They do. But they still love to gamble.”

“Where did you learn so much about the Basques?”

“I lived near those motherless sons. A long time ago. I bartered with them. The Basques made me rich.”

“Where haven't you lived?” Holden asked. “You're like Marco Polo with your maps.”

“Just drive the car, Sid. Just drive the car.”

They traveled down the coast, passing tiny villages with beauty parlors and cider houses off the highway. There was odd writing engraved on the mountain walls:
HERRIBATASUNA
. Frog had never encountered such a word. “Phippsy, what does it mean?”

“Pay no mind to it. It's Basque.”

They passed a beach that looked like Copacabana. And Holden was reminded of Brazil. He'd followed a furrier there, hunted him down in Rio, a rival of the Swisser's who'd stolen designs from Aladdin. Holden had to retrieve the designs and bump the furrier as a lesson to other furriers. But he never got near the beach. It was in and out of Rio. That was the legend of Holden's life.

They drove across another province and entered the mountains of Asturias.

“Anarchist country,” Phipps said.

Holden didn't see any anarchists, just a few donkeys crossing the road and the Marlboro Man painted on the side of a bald mountain. They stopped at a town called Pescadores. It had its own port, a church on a hill, Roman ruins, a tobacco factory, a park named after some Asturian queen, a ramblas, gardens, plazas, a beach, but only one hotel, called Carlos Marx, on the Calle Don Quijote. The Carlos Marx advertised itself with three stars, but Holden couldn't find a caballero to park his Jaguar. There was no one behind the desk, not even a grim-eyed man to inspect Holden's passport, or a boy to fetch him some mineral water without gas. Holden had to bring in all the luggage by himself.