He ate the breakfast, not finding it as addictive as they’d suggested but washing it down with the tea and feeling satisfied for having eaten it. Conversation continued to drift around the table, always genial, a general surge of goodwill each time a couple finished and left the room.
JJ let it all wash over him, but at the same time he was already turning over why Holden wasn’t there, and why no one had mentioned him in passing. The absent McCowans received another mention, as did the apparently somber Lassiter who’d made room for JJ. Susan Bostridge got a couple of mentions, one woman dropping in that the children were beautiful, an all-encompassing, meaningless use of the word that nevertheless earned general approval around the table.
But there was no mention of Holden. It crossed his mind briefly that Tom Furst had gotten the location wrong, then that someone had already gotten to Holden, then perhaps that he’d given up on JJ coming and moved on. Whatever the explanation, he didn’t seem to be there, and if Holden wasn’t around there was no reason for JJ to be there either, no reason for him even to have made the trip.
On the other hand though, there weren’t many further options that sprang to mind, apart from going to ground which in a sense he’d already done. And of course it was possible that Holden was there but keeping a low profile, staying in the family’s own quarters, too much of a shadow to feature in the breakfast table conversation but there all the same and already aware of JJ’s arrival.
At the end of breakfast there was one couple left at the table with him, Lenny and Dee Kaplan, well-preserved and perma-tanned, from some town in Southern California, a quiet sporty affluence about them.
When JJ asked whether they’d been there before Lenny said, “First time here in the Copley Inn.”
“Not the last,” added his wife.
“Definitely not the last. But we come to the East Coast every year around this time. It’s our way of making our children love us.” JJ smiled affably, seeing a joke coming; Dee was already holding back a giggle. “See, the grandparents move in to keep an eye on them; one week of that and they thank God they’ve got us for the other fifty-one.”
“Isn’t he terrible?” asked Dee. “Our two boys are great kids. I mean, really beautiful kids.”
“It’s true, I admit it,” Lenny agreed, like it was never in doubt. Dee was the person who’d described the Bostridge kids as beautiful too, and as it turned out hers were around the same age. Lenny and Dee were eager to bring them the next time so the four could meet, no doubt in their minds that the Bostridge children would like their own.
A little while later Kathryn came through and said to the couple like it was their regular routine, “If you’re ready to go in, I’ll bring you some fresh coffee.”
“Thanks, Kathryn, you’re an angel,” said Lenny, and then to JJ, “Join us? We always sit in the lounge and read the papers. “ JJ agreed, accepting Kathryn’s offer of more tea.
The lounge was more like a sunroom, half conservatory, the Kaplans basking like lizards in the enhanced morning sunlight and warmth, as if needing a fix of their own climate. They didn’t seem to read much but used the various stories instead as springboards for views on different subjects, stories about themselves.
At one point as Dee turned a page JJ caught a glimpse of a couple of columns and a picture of the kid from Viner’s apartment, the kind of odd grinning portraits that he guessed came from high school yearbooks and always looked as though they’d been taken in the fifties. Dee focused on the story too, reading in silence for a few minutes before saying, “How terrible.”
“What is it?” asked Lenny without looking up from his paper.
“This boy was traveling in Europe and they shot him. In Paris of all places.” She looked at JJ and said, “Have you seen it?” He took the paper from her and looked at it briefly. The picture didn’t do the kid justice, and didn’t sum up either what had happened to him; JJ was thinking how a picture of his sleek corpse would have told more truth.
“I saw something about it yesterday,” he said finally. “Paris can be a dangerous place.”
“Isn’t it terrible though? His poor family.” Her words were heartfelt, feverish with empathy, a mother with children approaching the same age where they’d go out into the world, fend for themselves.
JJ passed the paper to Lenny who’d looked up now. He looked at the article, or maybe just at the picture, shaking his head. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said, exasperated. “Kid goes on vacation and gets shot. In Europe, for God’s sake.” He looked at JJ then and said, “Maybe it wasn’t a robbery. You know, maybe there’s something we don’t know about. I mean, why would they kill him? This isn’t L.A. we’re talking about, it’s Paris. France, for God’s sake! So why would they kill him, shoot him dead, just for a street robbery?”