Run Before the Wind (14 page)

"Is there any indication that he isn't an honest, upright businessman?" I was a little annoyed at the implied criticism of my new, independently found friend.

"Not really, but it's very difficult for any man to do business on the scale that he apparently does without cutting a lot of corners.

Men like Thrasher buy politicians as a normal business expense."

"A politician can't be bought unless he's for sale."

"It's not the reality, but the perception. If I represented him, many people would quickly assume he was backing me financially.

And if something went wrong for him, if he were only perceived to be dealing illegally or unethically--even in something I had nothing to do with--well, I'd hate to be in the position of proving I was innocent of involvement."

"I see your point. Does that mean that you don't want me to associate with him? Might that rub off on you?"

"It might, but you're old enough to decide who your friends are.

He's a very discreet, even secretive person, so you're not likely to get your picture in the paper with him."

"I'm not so sure." I told him about the night before.

"I thought it might be something like that when he left through the kitchen. But you'll notice that he avoided the situation, and in any case, it was probably Mrs. Wheatley the photographer was onto. She was much more likely to be recognized than Thrasher.

You and Lady Jane seem to be getting along well together."

I reddened.

"I only met her yesterday."

"It seemed to me at dinner that you had made great strides in your relationship," he said drily.

"You know who she is?"

I nodded.

"I didn't until last night, though."

"Will you be seeing her again?"

"She's off to Paris for a year, leaving today, and that might be a good excuse for a trip to Paris. Her father is apparently getting her ready for the family business, and he has installed her in a bank over there to learn the ropes. She's been working for Derek for the past three years, it turns out. Been very close to him, learned a lot."

"Sounds like a bright young woman, as well as a pretty one.

Just how close to Thrasher?"

"Personal assistant." Then I caught his meaning.

"He introduced the two of you?"

Now my ears were turning red.

"Yes, at lunch yesterday."

"He arrange the dinner date?"

I didn't answer him.

"You mustn't take my cynicism too seriously."

"Then you shouldn't make it so obvious." I think that was the closest thing to a rebuke I had ever handed to my father.

He paused.

"I just want to give you the benefit of some experience in these things."

"What things?"

"Men like Thrasher always want something. Their minds are so constantly engaged in gaining an advantage that I think it becomes impossible for them to have normal friendships the way other people do. They choose their friends, even their acquaintances from among people they think will be of use to them."

"The way politicians do, you mean?"

He looked down at the tablecloth.

"I suppose I had that coming." He paused again.

"I catch myself doing that; I try not to do it, but yes, it's one of the liabilities of political life."

This admission caught me off guard. I had always thought of my father as being rather self "righteous, and it came as a surprise to me to find that he might recognize his own faults.

"Listen, Will, you must know by now that there are people who will want to know you because of me. Be careful. Use your common sense."

"I'll try."

"Jane is older than you, isn't she?"

"Maybe. Couple of years, I guess."

"That means the men she's accustomed to seeing are probably a lot older than you. You should keep that in mind."

"Think I'm getting out of my depth with giris, too?" I would have been annoyed if I hadn't been wondering myself.

"I didn't say that. There's more to it, anyway." He paused and ate some kipper. I waited.

"You've grown up an American and a democrat, with a small 'd' as well as a large one. There is a great deal more social mobility in the United States than there is in Britain; people are judged more on their accomplishments."

"It's all family here, then? I can't believe that. Not today."

"Oh, I'm sure a young man from an ordinary background can do very well here if he works hard and all that, but he will find it almost impossible to crack certain social barriers."

"You're talking about Jane's family. The aristocracy."

"Jane's family is more than aristocracy; they are near-royalty, at the very top of the aristocracy."

"And I'm just a country boy."

"You're an intelligent, well-educated, and quite charming country boy. To tell the truth, I was becoming worried that that was all you wanted to be. But since you've been over here something has changed, I'm not quite sure what."

I wasn't sure what, either. I didn't feel particularly changed, except that I felt, perhaps, more independent.

"Your mother was quite pleased with you last night, by the way."

I grinned.

"I don't suppose she ever thought her son would introduce her to Derek Thrasher."

"Don't get too puffed up with your social connections, my lad.

Remember, you didn't even know who Derek Thrasher was until she told you."

He was right, of course.

"So what is it you're warning me about, that a country boy shouldn't aspire to a Lady Jane?"

"Aspire all you like, enjoy it, but don't let it become too important to you. Those people can cut you off at the knees between the soup and the fish. Don't want it too much, and you'll enjoy it more."

It was a good point, but I didn't want to think about it.

"What's happened with your Irish friend, Connie?"

"Oh, come on. Dad, I'm not exactly engaged to her, you know." I didn't want to think about that, either.

"So what's your day going to be like?" I was ready for a change in subject.

"I'm not quite through, yet," my father replied, pinning me to my evasion.

"I've always believed that we should bring you up as simply as possible, not let politics or too much spending money ruin you on the way up. Your mother is responsible for whatever social graces you left home with; I kept you in jeans and beat-up pickup trucks. I think both our efforts worked well. Now, I think I'm moving more over to her point of view, because I think maybe you can handle it."

"Well, thanks," I said, not sure of his point.

"How's your money holding out?"

"Pretty well. I didn't travel far before I met Mark and Annie, and I'm getting my room and board and twenty quid a week. I bought the Mini-Cooper, but that's about all."

"I'm going to have an American Express card sent to you. Don't go crazy with it; it will make it possible for you to do the things you really want to do while you're over here." He pulled a Connaught envelope from his pocket and handed it to me.

"There's some money and a list of good shops in there. Get yourself some new clothes. You're moving in more sophisticated circles, now."

"Dad, I really appreciate this." I really did, too. All this largesse was clearly not impulsive; my father was not an impulsive man.

He had never been exactly stingy either, but he had always made sure I earned something along the way. Like most men of his generation, who had grown up during the Great Depression, he placed great importance on the handling of money. Giving me not just cash, but an open-ended credit card was, I knew, as strong an expression of approval as I had ever received from him. I would have to be careful with it. I knew he would go through the monthly bills to see how I was managing this privilege.

My mother suddenly appeared and sat down with us, looking great in a caramel-colored suit that went beautifully with her auburn hair.

"Morning, you two. Am I in time for breakfast?"

"Not with us, you're not," my father said, rising and kissing her.

"I've got an appointment."

"Oh, drat."

"That's what you get for being lazy and sleeping late. Why don't you two do something together?"

"Oh, yes. Will, let's do the Tate Gallery. You've never seen the Turner collection, and we can have lunch there, too."

"Sounds good to me."

As we left the Connaught and looked for a taxi, the dark blue Mercedes drove up and parked. The driver wasn't Blunt Instrument, but I knew that Derek Thrasher had been as good as his word.

My mother and I did the Tate and had lunch, then I spent the remainder of the afternoon shopping for clothes and was back at the Connaught in time for tea and a nap before dinner. We dined with my father's old war buddy and client. Sir Somebodyorother, at the Mirabelle and got to bed late.

Next morning, as I was packing my new clothes into a new suitcase, I came across a loose sheet of paper in my canvas sailing bag, my only other luggage. It was a list of expenditures thus far on the building of the yacht; I reckoned it had come out of the packet I had given Thrasher. I stuck it into a Connaught envelope, wrote Thrasher's name on it, and put it in a pocket. Downstairs, the package containing the replacement fittings for the boat was waiting for me, right on time. I had a farewell breakfast with my parents, and the doorman got me a cab for the airport.

"Drive around into Berkeley Square," I said to the driver, "I want to drop something off."

"What number. Guv?"

"I'll point it out to you." We drove down into Berkeley Square, "Just up there," I said to the driver, pointing. He double-parked next to a blue van, and I opened the taxi door. The package of fittings was on my lap, and I took it with me; it was my reason for coming to London, after all, and I felt uncomfortable about leaving it in a taxi. I ran up the steps to Thrasher's door and opened it. The elderly commissionaire who had been there at the time of my visit two days before rose to meet me. His desk had been pulled squarely across the hallway.

"Yes, sir, may I help you?" he inquired--cautiously, I thought.

"I just want to leave something for Mr. Thrasher," I said, reaching into my inside pocket for the envelope.

He seemed to flinch and looked relieved when I produced only the envelope.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said evenly.

"There's no one here by that name."

I heard the heavy, wrought-iron and glass door open behind me.

The commissionaire looked over my shoulder and shook his head.

"It's all right," he said. I turned to find another man in a business suit standing in the open door. His coat was unbuttoned and his hand was inside, reaching up under his armpit. He was staring at the package in my hand. I turned back to the commissionaire.

"You remember me, I was here for lunch with Mr. Thrasher day before yesterday. My name is Lee."

He shook his head.

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't help you."

"Look, I just want to leave this envelope for him. I gave him some other papers that day, and this got left out."

"I think you'd better leave, now, sir. Please." His tone was kindly but insistent. The man behind me pushed the door all the way open and stood holding it, leaving my way clear. I looked back and forth between them. The commissionaire's hand moved to the under edge of the desk top.

"Please, sir. I can't help you."

I walked out, down the steps and to my waiting cab.

"Heathrow," I said to the driver as I got in.

"The terminal for flights to Ireland." As we drove away I looked back and saw the man in the business suit talking with yet another man, nodding in the direction of my departing taxi. I put the envelope back into my pocket, wondering if I had somehow offended Derek Thrasher, or if he just wasn't feeling sociable today.

IT BEGAN TO RAIN while I was on the way to Heathrow. By the time I had reached the ticket counter, the weather was lousy outside and flights to Ireland were being delayed. The airline checked me in and accepted my luggage, but as I stood there it was flashed on the departures board that Cork Airport was closed.

I could fly to Dublin and change planes, but that wouldn't get me there any sooner. They could give me no estimate of what time the weather might clear, but I decided to wait.

I read the Times. I bought a magazine and read it thoroughly. I had lunch and gazed out the steaming, streaked windows at a typically English autumn day, mist and fog. I bought another magazine. As I was turning away from the cashier's stand a man came and thumped down a stack of the Evening Standard. The headline stopped me in my tracks.

BERKELEY SQUARE BOMBING!!!

MIRACULOUS ESCAPE FROM IRA ASSASSINS?

Underneath was a large photograph of what had been a car and now was nothing more than a mangled hunk of metal. I snatched up the top copy and dug for a coin, reading all the while.