Montaro Caine A Novel

18





AS SHE CIRCLED THE FLOOR OF HER ROOM IN THE TREMONT Hotel in Paris, awaiting a phone call that could conceivably be worth approximately ten million dollars to her and her boyfriend Victor, Cordiss Krinkle paused to consider how she had gotten here. In some way she could trace her arrival at this moment all the way back to her early Nebraska childhood, when she had rebelled against her strict Catholic upbringing and her repressively religious, admonishing mother. Cordiss briefly considered her early teenage years when she had first realized that her full and sensuous lips, her smoldering brown eyes, and her wild, unruly hair could compel men’s second looks. Then, Cordiss thought about the years not so long afterward when she became aware of the fact that her good looks would never be enough to win her all she wanted. But if she had to pick one day that had led her to this particular moment, it would have been the one earlier this year, when Whitney Carson arrived for what would be her final checkup at the Mozelle Women’s Health Center.

On that fateful morning, Cordiss had been working for the clinic as a receptionist, office manager, and general all-around helper for approximately six years. She had been drowning in a sea of paperwork, too preoccupied to notice the entrance of the young black woman until she heard someone clearing her throat.

When Cordiss looked up she saw the attractive, soft-spoken Whitney standing before her, a sheepish smile on her face, as if she had been trying to keep a secret but was not doing a very good job of it.

“Whitney Carson. Well, what a nice surprise,” Cordiss blurted out. “Sorry, my mind was off somewhere in Medicare land.”

“Hi, Cordiss, how are you?”

“Fine. But never mind me, how the hell are you? Where’ve you been?”

“Around.”

Cordiss searched her appointment book, looking unsuccessfully for Whitney’s name. “I don’t see you down in our book,” she said.

“I just wanted to stop by and say hi to everybody,” said Whitney.

“But why haven’t we seen you for such a long time?” Cordiss pretended to scold Whitney, but she truly did want to know the answer to her question.

“What can I tell you?” Whitney said. “Things get hectic sometimes. I’m sure you know how it is.”

“From that grin you’re wearing, it couldn’t have been all bad.”

“As a matter of fact, it’s not.”

“Aha! Tell me, tell me.”

“In a minute. Let me just peek in and say hello to Dr. M. first,” said Whitney, turning toward the doctor’s office.

“Oh, honey, he’s not in.”

“Aw, shoot. What about Anna?”

“No, she’s not here either. The doc’s on vacation and Anna’s under the weather. Her arthritis is pulling her down.”

“Oh damn,” Whitney said.

“Yeah. You’re overdue for a checkup, and the doctor’s gonna be pissed when he hears he missed you. Let me see”—she reached for her book—“you better come in next week. He’ll be back then,” she murmured as she leafed through the pages.

“I can’t next week. Won’t be able to for a while,” said Whitney.

“What do you mean? What about your checkup? I told you you’re due for one.”

“Some other time.”

“You want to get me fired, right?”

Whitney laughed. But Cordiss’s flip remark was heartfelt; the doctor always took very special care of Whitney, and Cordiss sensed that part of her job description involved according the same special treatment to this patient.

“You know what?” said Cordiss. “Since you’re here, I think we should let Dr. Chambers examine you. Let me see if I can get his nurse to slip you in before he goes to lunch.” She pointed Whitney down the long corridor. “Last door on the right. I’ll be there in a jiffy with your chart.”

A half-hour later, Whitney reentered the reception area from Dr. Chambers’s office.

“So, you were saying?” Cordiss asked, picking up the conversation where they had left off.

“Well, you remember that I graduated CUNY about four years ago?”

“Yes. Dr. Mozelle and Anna went to the graduation,” Cordiss said. She had found it unusual that both the doctor and Anna seemed to act as if Whitney was their own daughter, even though she knew that Whitney was not related to either of them.

“Right. Well, those first years out of school were a complete mess.”

“Happens to most of us,” said Cordiss.

“Yeah, I moved out on my own—and that was a trip. It’s a whole different world out there when you’re responsible for yourself, and that took some getting used to. My uncle didn’t want me to leave Brooklyn, but I had to earn my own living and all that. Then, because I was lonely or scared, I spent some time with my cousins down in Cleveland. Eight months. Then back to Brooklyn. Aaaa-nd,” she stopped and another sheepish grin alit on her face.

“And what?” Cordiss prompted with an expectant smile.

“I met a very special guy,” Whitney said.

“Now it’s getting good.” Cordiss moved closer.

“Well, it gets a lot better,” Whitney teased.

“Uh-oh.” Cordiss moved even closer.

“We got married,” Whitney whispered.

“You’re kidding.”

“No, really.”

“Oh. Wow.” Cordiss sighed, then recovered. “Congratulations! That’s great news.” She sprung up from her chair, then stepped around her desk to hug Whitney. As they embraced, Cordiss laughed and said, “So that’s what you’ve been up to, you lucky girl.” She kissed Whitney on the cheek, then led her to a couch in the center of the empty waiting room, where they both sat down. “So, Mrs.…?” prompted Cordiss.

“Mrs. Walker. Mrs. Franklyn Walker,” Whitney said.

“I like it. Mrs. Walker! So, go on, go on. Where did you meet him?”

“Uptown. At the planetarium.”

“Stargazing?” asked Cordiss.

“We didn’t spend much time looking at the sky,” said Whitney with a coy smile.

“And it was love at first sight? Just like in the movies?”

“Pretty close to that.”

“And you had this big wedding and you didn’t invite me or Anna or the doctor?”

“Well, we didn’t invite anybody; we eloped.”

“Eloped? Oh, how romantic!” The two women giggled like schoolgirls. “But why?” Cordiss asked. “Were there problems?”

“No, just a spur of the moment impulse.” Whitney spoke at length about how refreshingly honest, direct, and unpretentious her husband was. She described how they felt destined to be together, almost as if some otherworldly force had drawn them to each other. She spoke of how desperately she wished her mother could be with her now, in this time of her greatest happiness, that without her mother to see her through the wedding, eloping had seemed like the right idea.

“Jesus,” Whitney said when she was done, “I haven’t seen Dr. Mozelle and Anna in over a year. I’m so disappointed they aren’t here.” As she stood and slowly ambled toward the door, she added, “Give them my love. Tell them I stopped by and that I’ll be in touch soon.”

“I will,” said Cordiss.

“Also, tell them that my uncle Frederick sends them his best regards. And”—she paused for a moment—“If Dr. Chambers doesn’t mention it to them, tell them I’m pregnant.”

Cordiss tried to hide the complex emotions that were hurtling through her brain all at once. “What?” she asked, desperate for Whitney not to leave just yet, at least not until she had learned all she could. “You saved the best for last! Pregnant! Oh, Whitney, you’re gonna make me cry. When’re you due?”

“About six months or so, give or take.”

“Did Dr. Chambers just tell you?”

“No. He just confirmed what I already knew. That’s what I dropped by to tell Dr. Mozelle and Anna.”

“Ooooh,” Cordiss cooed, opening her arms. “It’s so wonderful. Really wonderful.”

“Thank you, I think so too. But we haven’t had a chance to talk about what’s going on in your life.”

“Oh, no, forget it,” said Cordiss. “With Victor and me it’s always the same. Nothing new. Next time I’ll bring you up to speed with all the glorious details. Meanwhile Victor is Victor, my saving grace. But I haven’t woken up to find a little gold ring on my finger yet.”

“You will, honey, I know. It’s written somewhere.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” Cordiss said, adding, “I just can’t help myself; I love that rascal.”

As she turned to the door, Whitney did not notice the glazed look that had come over the receptionist’s face as Cordiss Krinkle’s thoughts switched to a private track.

“By the way, where did you say you’re living now?” Cordiss asked nonchalantly. She reached for a notepad and a pencil.

“Atlanta.”

“Atlanta?” Cordiss frowned.

“I gave up my apartment here. Packed and shipped everything yesterday. Franklyn comes from Georgia, so we thought we’d try it down there for a while, see if we have any better luck finding work.”

“So we won’t be seeing you?” asked Cordiss, her pencil poised.

“Not for a bit. But I’ll stay in touch, I promise.” She then dictated her new address and phone number to Cordiss.

“Was your husband born right in Atlanta?” Cordiss asked, affecting the casual disinterest of a medical interviewer as she jotted down the information.

“No, about a hundred and fifty miles away, in Augusta.”

“Is he a Pisces like you?” Cordiss maintained the same monotone voice.

“Aries.”

“Aries? My dad’s an Aries,” Cordiss lied. “What date?”

“April eighteenth.”

“No, my dad’s the eighth.” Cordiss smiled before returning her attention to the notepad. “Let’s see, Franklyn Walker, born April eigtheenth, 19 …?” she looked up questioningly at Whitney.

“1984,” Whitney responded. “I even know the time—10:56 in the morning.”

“I bet you even know which hospital,” Cordiss said, teasing.

“Yep, I do. County. With a midwife,” Whitney said with a laugh.

“You are hopelessly in love, honey,” said Cordiss.

“You got that right,” Whitney said. “Nice seeing you, Cordiss, take care.”

Cordiss told Whitney that she hoped to see her soon—she added that Victor frequently traveled to Atlanta on business and that perhaps the four of them could get together sometime.

“I’d love it,” Whitney said. “I don’t have too many friends down there yet. I’d even cook you dinner.”

“You’ve got a date,” said Cordiss.

Then Cordiss said good-bye with a wave of a hand and Whitney Carson Walker was gone. But long after Whitney had left, Cordiss continued to think about her. She thought back to her second year on the job to one evening when she was working after hours, and she had overheard Dr. Mozelle and Anna Hilburn discussing the circumstances of Whitney’s birth. Cordiss could hardly believe her ears when she heard them mention a coin they’d found in Whitney’s hand at her birth, how shocked they had been and how curious, afraid to mention the strange circumstance to anyone, lest they be ridiculed. They had said they didn’t want Whitney’s mother, a young woman they had cared for since she was a teenager, to become some freakish attraction just at a moment when she would need peace and quiet alone with her baby. She heard the doctor and Anna speculate about where the coin might have come from, what materials it might have been made of, whether there might be a second coin somewhere, one that had appeared in the hands of Whitney’s future husband, what might happen if and when Whitney became pregnant and had a child. All this explained the doctor’s unusual interest in Whitney. In the following months, Cordiss took every opportunity to dig into the doctor’s old files to track down as much information as she could about Whitney. During the course of all this snooping, Cordiss also discovered a key hanging on a nail between the old wooden file cabinet and a wall in the cluttered safe that office personnel used as a storeroom. She knew exactly where Howard Mozelle and Anna kept the coin.

Now Cordiss also knew information that Dr. Mozelle and Anna had not yet learned—that Whitney had gotten married, that she was pregnant, that her husband’s name was Franklyn Walker, and that he had been born at the county hospital in Augusta in April 1984 with a midwife in attendance. With this information, Cordiss spent hours online scouring birth records, genealogical websites, and other Web resources to learn all she could about Whitney’s husband Franklyn and the circumstances surrounding his birth. If Dr. Mozelle and Anna’s theories proved true, with a little luck, those theories could lead to Cordiss Krinkle’s salvation. Whitney had described her relationship with Franklyn as if it had been somehow fated—she had used the words “otherworldly force” to describe their meeting. Perhaps Whitney was some kind of messianic figure, Cordiss wondered. And yet, she had never noticed anything remarkable about the pleasant young woman who came into the office every year for her checkup.

Over the following week and a half, Cordiss made a series of phone calls and sent a flurry of e-mails—to the Bureau of Vital Statistics in Augusta, Georgia, to the county hospital, to each of the local elementary schools, and finally to the aged minister of an A.M.E. Church in the town’s black section, which was now known as the Laney-Walker Historic District. The minister Cordiss spoke with mentioned a midwife named Carrie Pittman. “If you’re looking for someone who was born at the county hospital round about that time, chances are good Ms. Pittman was there or knew about it,” said the minister. “Of course, she retired years ago and moved to Kansas City, but I’ll bet she’s still alive.”

Carrie Pittman was surprised when a caller with a pleasant voice introduced herself as the curator of the Augusta Richmond County Historical Society, which, the caller claimed, was preparing an exhibit on the history of midwifery in Georgia. The caller went on to make polite inquiries about the birth of a certain baby the midwife may have delivered early in her career.

“We here at the Historical Society understand that you were the midwife in attendance on April 18, 1984, when Franklyn Walker was born,” Cordiss Krinkle said.

“Yes … I suppose so … Franklyn Walker … Yes …” The midwife chuckled at her next thought. “ ’Course you know they run into the hundreds, all the babies I pulled into this life,” she said.

“Well,” Cordiss continued, “our information also tells us that something unusual and dramatic occurred during that particular birth. You brought Franklyn Walker into life with something special in the palm of his hand.”

The name itself had been one Pittman had never forgotten, even as her memory had begun to fade. But now she was stunned into silence. The old midwife’s thoughts raced backward, but only fragmentary flashes from the past danced across her mind. She could not recall having mentioned this incident to anyone, not even to her sister. Dear God, she thought, did I tell someone? How could I have told someone and not remember?

“Who told y’all about that?” Carrie Pittman asked, haltingly.

“It was some time ago,” Cordiss continued in a soothing tone. “The information reached someone connected to our museum, but no one acted upon it. Now that that someone is no longer with us, it was recently brought to my attention. Frankly, I thought the discovery you made that morning was much more than just a wonderful human-interest story. I think the object should be a part of our exhibit. Something that might, in time, prove useful for history and science. It should be properly preserved.”

From the silence at the other end of the line, Cordiss sensed Pittman’s anxiousness. She continued to reassure the woman before she pushed her luck.

“Do you still have the coin?” she asked.

The old woman hesitated before answering. “Yes, yes, I think I do have it somewhere.”

Cordiss gulped, but quickly pressed on. “We would be willing to purchase it from you for a reasonable sum.”

“You want to buy it?”

“Yes, if you agree.” The thought had never occurred to her that she would find the coin so quickly, and she hadn’t considered what sum to offer. “Ten thousand dollars,” Cordiss stated.

There was a long pause. “I don’t know,” the elderly woman finally said. “I’ll have to think about it and talk about it with my sister. I don’t know right now.”

The change in the old woman’s voice told Cordiss she should let things rest for a while. “All right, you think about it, and I’ll call you again in a couple of weeks.”

Cordiss was ecstatic when she hung up the phone. The coin existed, and aside from the old woman, she was the only one who knew. Mozelle didn’t know. Anna Hilburn didn’t know. It appeared that Franklyn Walker didn’t even know. Her plan might just work.

While she waited patiently for her next conversation with Pittman, Cordiss force-fed herself a diet of information about rare art collectors. She was coached by her streetwise boyfriend of five years, Victor Lambert, who was a product of Hell’s Kitchen, where even now, survival depended, more often than not, on highly honed instincts and the ability, so said Victor, to “piss ice water.”

With Victor’s help, Cordiss selected as their first choice a man named Roland Gabler. Unlike some of the other top collectors, Gabler had not been born into wealth. A native of Needles, Nebraska, he had worked at the Brixton Hardware Store throughout his teenage years. He had charmed and manipulated store owner Ed Brixton to such an extent that the man had remembered Gabler in his will, which had provided Gabler with the money to put himself through Columbia University. Cordiss had recognized something of Victor’s and her own stories and backgrounds in Gabler’s biography and thought he might be a man with whom they could do business.

When she finally succeeded in getting Gabler on the phone, she calmly let drop the information that she had access to an item so rare that it would, unquestionably, be the number one prize in the entire world for the collector lucky enough to possess it.

Of course, Roland Gabler had heard such talk before, hundreds of times, in fact; but on the off chance that one in a thousand such calls might yield something of substance, he usually had an assistant check them out. In the past thirty years, only once or twice had there been anything worth pursuing. This time, Gabler’s assistant came back with a simple message inviting him to a private viewing of what the caller claimed was the most astounding discovery in human history. So Gabler agreed to see Cordiss in person and asked her to send his assistant some photographs and corroborating documents regarding the object she was preparing to sell.

Then Victor Lambert boarded a plane with fifteen thousand dollars in cash that he and Cordiss had borrowed from a loan shark and flew to Kansas City to meet Carrie Pittman, who had told Cordiss that she was willing to do business with the Historical Society.