THIRTY
At midnight, the McDonald's restaurant at the corner of Commerce and Griffin in downtown Dallas looked like a goldfish bowl. It was brightly lit. Through the plate glass windows, everyone inside was as clearly visible as actors standing on center stage.
The cashier was taking an order from a somber loner. A wino was sleeping it off in one of the booths. Two giddy teenage couples were squirting catsup on each other.
Breathless from having walked three blocks from the hotel, Avery approached the restaurant cautiously. Her formal attire distinguished her from everyone else who was out and about. It was foolhardy for a woman to be walking the downtown streets alone at this hour anyway.
From across the street, she peered into the capsulized brilliance of the dining room. She saw him, sitting alone in a booth. Fortunately, the booth was adjacent to the windows. As soon as the traffic light changed, she hurried across the broad avenue, her high heels clacking on the pavement.
" Mmm-mmm, mama, lookin ' good!" A black youth licentiously wagged his tongue at her. With punches and guffaws, his two chums congratulated him. On the corner, two women, one with orange hair, the other with burgundy, competed for the attentions of a man in tight leather pants. He was leaning against the traffic light post, looking bored, until Avery walked by. He gave her a carnivorous once-over. The orange-haired woman spun around, propped her hands on her hips, and shouted at Avery, "Hey, bitch, keep your ass outta his face or I'll kill you."
Avery ignored them all as she walked past, moving along the sidewalk toward the booth. When she drew even with it, she knocked on the window. Van Lovejoy looked up from his chocolate milk shake, spotted her, and grinned. He indicated the other bench of the booth. Avery angrily and vehemently shook her head no and sternly pointed down at the grimy sidewalk beneath her black satin shoes.
He took his sweet time. She impatiently followed his unhurried progress through the restaurant, out the door, and around the corner, so that by the time he reached her, she was simmering with rage.
"What the hell are you up to, Van?" she demanded.
Feigning innocence, he curled both lanky hands in toward his chest. " Moi?"
"Did we have to meet here? At this time of night?"
"Would you rather I had come to your room—the room you're sharing with another woman's husband?" In the ensuing silence, he casually lit a joint. After two tokes, he offered it to Avery. She slapped his hand aside.
"You can't imagine the danger you placed me in by speaking to me tonight."
He leaned against the plate glass window. "I'm all ears."
"Van." Miserably, she caught her head with her hand and massaged her temples. "It's too difficult to explain—especially here." The women at the corner were loudly swapping obscenities while the man in leather cleaned his fingernails with a pocketknife. "I slipped out of the hotel. If Tate discovers that I'm gone—"
"Does he know you're not his wife?"
"No! And he mustn't."
"How come?"
"It'll take a while to explain." "I'm under no deadline."
"But I am," she cried, clutching his skinny arm. "Van, you can't tell anybody. Lives would be put in danger."
"Yeah, Rutledge just might be pissed off enough to kill you."
"I'm talking about Tate's life. This isn't a game, trust me. There's a lot at stake. You'll agree when I've had a chance to explain. But I can't now. I've got to get back."
"This is quite a gig, Avery. When did you decide to do it?"
"In the hospital. I was mistaken for Carole Rutledge. They had done the reconstructive operation on my face before I could tell them otherwise."
"When you could, why didn't you?"
Frantically, she groped for an expeditious way to tell him. "Ask Irish," she blurted out.
"Irish!" he croaked, choking on marijuana smoke. "That cagy son of a bitch. He knows?"
"Not until recently. I had to tell somebody."
"So that's why he sent me on this trip. I wondered why we were covering Rutledge like he was fuckin ' royalty or something. It was you Irish wanted me to keep an eye on."
"I guess. I didn't know he was going to assign you this detail. I was stunned when I saw you in Houston. It was bad enough when I answered the door that day at the ranch and you were standing on the porch. Is that when you first recognized me?"
"The day you left the clinic, I noticed how Mrs. Rutledge's mannerisms in front of a camera were similar to yours. It was spooky the way she wet her lips and made that movement with her head just like you used to. After that day of taping at the ranch, I was almost convinced. Tonight I was so sure of it, I decided to let you know that I was in on your little secret."
"Oh, Lord."
"What?"
Over Van's shoulder Avery had spotted a patrolman approaching them on foot.
"Okay, what is it?" Tate asked his brother irritably. Jack closed the door to his hotel room and shrugged out of his formal jacket. "Drink?"
"No thanks. What's up?"
The moment they entered the lobby of the Adolphus , Jack had cupped Tate's elbow and whispered that he needed to see him alone.
"What, now?"
"Now."
Tate didn't feel like holding a closed-door session with his brother tonight. The only one he wanted to speak with privately was his wife, who had been behaving strangely since their arrival at Southfork . Before that, she had been fine.
Over dinner, she had mentioned a gray-haired man— obviously someone from her past who had inconveniently showed up at the banquet. Whoever he was, he must have confronted her when she had gone to the ladies' room, because she had returned to the head table looking pale and shaken.
She'd been as jumpy as a cat for the remainder of the evening. Several times he had caught her nervously gnawing on her lower lip. When she did smile, it was phony as hell. He hadn't had an opportunity to get to the bottom of it. He wanted to now—right now.
But for the sake of harmony within the camp, he decided to humor Jack first. While they were waiting for an elevator, he had turned to her and said, "Jack wants to see me for five minutes." He shot his brother a meaningful glance that said, "No more than five minutes."
"Oh, now?" she had asked. "In that case, I'm going back to the concierge and ask for some brochures and, uh, hotel stationery to take to Mandy. I won't be long. I'll see you in the room."
The elevator had arrived. She'd dashed off. He'd gone up with Jack and Eddy. Eddy had said good night and gone to his own room, leaving the two brothers alone.
Tate waited expectantly as Jack withdrew a white envelope from the breast pocket of his tux and passed it to him. It had his name handwritten on it. He slid his index finger beneath the flap and ripped it open. After reading the message twice, he looked up at his brother from beneath his brows.
"Who gave you this?"
Jack was pouring himself a nightcap from a bottle of brandy. "Remember the lady—woman—in blue at the luncheon this afternoon? Front row."
Tate hitched his chin toward the liquor bottle. "I changed my mind." Jack handed him a drink. Tate held the note at arm's length and reread it as he polished off the brandy in one long swallow.
"Why'd she ask you to deliver it?" he asked his brother.
"I guess she didn't think it would be proper for her to deliver it herself."
"Proper?" Tate scoffed, glancing again at the brazen wording of the note.
Not even attempting to conceal his amusement, Jack asked, "May I hazard a guess what it's about?"
"Bingo."
"May I offer a suggestion?" "No."
"It wouldn't hurt to accept her invitation. In fact, it might help."
"Has it escaped your attention that I'm married?"
"No. It also hasn't escaped my attention that your marriage isn't worth shit right now, but you wouldn't welcome my comments about either your wife or your marriage."
"That's right. I wouldn't."
"Don't get defensive, Tate. I've got your interests at heart. You know that. Take advantage of this invitation. I don't know what's going on between Carole and you." He lowered one eyelid shrewdly. "But I know whatisn't.You're not sleeping together and haven't since long before the crash. There's not a man alive, not even you, who can function at his optimum best if his dick's unhappy."
"Speaking from experience?"
Jack lowered his head and concentrated on the swirling contents of his glass. Tate raked his fingers through his hair, wincing when it pulled against the sutured gash on his temple. "Sorry. That was uncalled for. Forgive me, Jack. It's just that I resent everybody meddling in my business."
"Comes with the territory, little brother."
"But I'm sick of it."
"It's only started. It won't end when you get into office."
Tate propped his hips against the dresser. "No, I guess not." Silently, he studied the nap of the carpet. After a moment, a small laugh started in his chest and gradually worked its way out.
"What?" Jack failed to see the humor in their conversation.
"Not too long ago, Eddy offered to find me a woman to work my frustrations out on. Where were the two of you when I was young and single and could have used a couple of good pimps?"
Jack smiled wryly. "I guess I deserve that. It's just that you've been so uptight lately, I thought a harmless roll in the hay with a lusty, willing broad would do you good."
"It probably would, but no thanks." Tate moved toward the door. "Thanks for the drink, too." With his hand on the doorknob, he asked as an afterthought, "Talked with your family recently?"
"Speaking of 'drink,' hey?"
"It just came out that way," Tate replied, looking chagrined.
"Don't worry about it. Yes, I talked to Dorothy Rae today. She said everything was fine. She can tell that Fancy's up to mischief, but doesn't yet know what it is."
"God only knows."
"Maybe God knows. Sure as hell nobody else does." "Good night, Jack."
"Uh, Tate?" He turned back. "Since you're not interested. . ."Tate followed his brother's gaze down to the note he still held in his hand. Jack shrugged. "She might be willing to settle for second best."
Tate balled up the paper and tossed it to his brother, who caught it with one hand. "Good luck."
Tate had already removed his jacket, tie, and cummerbund by the time he opened the door to his room. "Carole? I know that took longer than five minutes, but. . .Carole?"
She wasn't there.
When she saw the policeman, Avery averted her head. The sequin trim on her dress seemed to glitter as brilliantly as the golden arches outside the restaurant. "For heaven's sake, put out that cigarette," she said to Van. "He'll think. . ."
"Forget it," her friend interrupted, smiling crookedly. "If you were a whore, I couldn't afford you." He pinched out the burning tip of the joint and dropped it back into his shirt pocket.
While the policeman was busy breaking up the shouting match at the corner, Avery indicated with her head that they should slip around the corner and head back toward the Adolphus . With his slouching gait, Van fell into step beside her.
"Van, I need your promise that you won't reveal my identity to anyone. One night next week, when we're back home, I'll arrange a meeting between Irish, you, and me. He'll want to hear about my trip anyway. I'll fill in the blanks then."
"What do you think Dekker would pay for this information?"
Avery came to an abrupt halt. She roughly grabbed Van's arm. "You can't! Van, please. My God, you can't."
"Until you make me a better offer, I might." He threw off her hand and turned away, calling back, "See ya , Avery."
They were even with the hotel now, but across the street. She trotted after him and caught his arm again, swinging him around. "You don't know how high the stakes are, Van. I'm begging you, as my friend."
"I don't have any friends."
"Please don't do anything until I've had a chance to explain the circumstances."
He pulled his arm free again. "I'll think about it. But your explanation better be damn good, or I'm cashing in."
She watched his sauntering retreat down the sidewalk. He seemed not to have a care in the world. Her world, by contrast, had caved in. Van was holding all the aces and he knew it.
Feeling like she'd just been bludgeoned, she crossed the street toward the hotel. Just before she reached the opposite curb, she raised her head.
Tate was standing in the porte cochere , glaring at her.