Authors: Stephen Greenleaf
“Faster. Come on, Tanner. Floor it! We're going to miss the beginning.”
“It's only a movie. Which you've seen twenty times.”
“But the beginning's the best part.”
I increased my speed to forty-five, hoping the cops who patrolled Van Ness during the workweek were bowling or boozing on Saturday night instead of looking for scofflaws like me.
When I pressed the pedal, my Buick groaned at the abuse. A woman on the corner shook her fist as my rusty muffler frightened her dog. And Jill punched me in the arm with her fist. All so we could make it to Jill's place in time for her to see her favorite actress, Katharine Hepburn, and her favorite actor, Cary Grant, in her favorite movie,
The Philadelphia Story
, on Channel 27. We had to get to Jill's house because I don't get Channel 27. I don't get Channel 27 because it costs extra. But as people keep reminding me ad nauseam these days, I don't have to live like that anymore.
I took a left on Lombard and another on Broderick and wound my way to the cozy nook that was Jill Coppelia's handsome home. I was surprised we arrived on schedule, actually, since my mind had been even more wayward and undone than usual ever since Jill had told me about Pearl Gibson's winnings and her will. As it turned out, everything Jill had said on the phone was true and then someâfor reasons known only to her, Pearl had made me a rich man. I'd barely ventured out of my apartment since hearing the news, which Jill thinks means I haven't come to terms with it yet. I think it means I'm determined not to let my windfall make me flagrant and crude and ubiquitous.
I parked at the curb, went around to open Jill's door, took her hand to help her out, and wrapped my arm around her waist as we strolled up the walk toward her house. “Nice night,” I said absently, meaning, I imagine, that it wasn't raining.
“I hope so,” she said, and dug her elbow in my side. There'd been a lot of that latelyâjokes and pokes and tickles. I'm not sure it's a compliment to either of us to say that Jill was happier about my good fortune than I was.
When we reached the stoop, she handed me her key and I unlocked the door. When we were inside, I handed the key back to her, but in the crepuscular gloom of the foyer, she dropped it. “Just a minute,” she said. “I'll get the lights.” Whereupon she bumped into things and banged into other things, making enough noise to wake the neighbors.
I stayed put till the lights came on, then fished the key from under an antique church pew that served as a coatrack, and handed it over. Jill dropped it in her purse, checked her hair and makeup in the mirror above the antique commode, then tugged me toward the center of the house. “Come on,” she urged. “We'll barely make it.”
Like a child being towed toward the potty, I followed her down the hall and into the pitch-dark of the den. “A bulb must have burned out,” Jill said, and fumbled for the switch on the wall. An instant later the room filled with light. An instant after that, a chorus of voices yelled, “
Surprise!
”
There were thirty or more of them, emerging from a variety of hiding places, smiling broadly and bellowing my name, toasting me with various forms of libation, and reveling in my dismay and embarrassment. The celebrants included virtually everyone I knew in the city, almost everyone I considered a friend but for two: a mother and a daughter, and the mother was still mad at me.
I looked at Jill, who was grinning as if this were a beauty pageant and she was Miss Congeniality. “I suppose you're to blame for this,” I muttered.
“Ruthie, too.”
I surveyed the throng. “I'm not sure the name tags were necessary.”
“We didn't want people to take it too seriously. Plus with you about to turn fifty, some of us got concerned about your powers of recollection.”
I stuck out my tongue. “So what's the occasion?”
“Your good fortune, of course. And your birthday. These people are happy as clams for you.”
“Good for them.”
The grin dropped off her face the way spoons drop off a table. “If you're going to be a grump about this, I'm going to be royally pissed.”
“We wouldn't want that.”
“No, we wouldn't.”
I took a deep breath. “I'll be good. And thanks.”
“Don't mention it.” She goosed me in the side again and gave me a quick kiss. “Till later, that is. Now mingle.”
Jill moved off toward the crowd clustered like minnows near the buffet table, leaving me vulnerable to attack from all sides. The first to venture forth was Zorba, proprietor of my favorite restaurant. His
HI, I'M ZORBA
tag almost put me in stitches.
“I got to get back to the café,” he said in his still slightly broken English. “I want to say I'm happy like punch for you.”
“Thanks, Zorba.”
“I name a breakfast after you, next time I redo the menu.”
“You don't have toâ”
“Marsh Madness, I'm calling it. Bacon, Cheddar, and onion scramble, just like you like. What you think?”
“Sounds great.”
“Good. See you in morning.”
“I'll be there.”
“Good. Old ways are best ways. Money not same as happiness. Is true?”
“I'll let you know.”
Zorba left, to be replaced by the triple divorcée from Guido's who had brought me tons of food when I was laid up after Charley had shot me. Her smile seemed a little less than pure, but maybe that was projection. Even after all the casseroles, I still didn't know her name.
“So you hit the jackpot,” she said after a sip of straight bourbon from a Waterford glass that she gripped with both hands.
“Looks that way.”
“Guess you won't be needing any more tuna casseroles.”
“I'd eat tuna casserole three nights a week if I could.”
“Your girlfriend might not like it if I dropped by that often.”
“My girlfriend may need to broaden her gustatory horizons.”
A glance at Jill and then at her glass made her decide not to pursue the flirtation. “You going to keep coming to Guido's?”
“Sure.”
“Guido says hi, by the way.”
“He does not.”
She grinned. “Well, he thinks it, at least.”
I laughed and she waved good-bye and drifted back toward the pack. Jill swept past, handed me a highball, but kept moving. “Blink twice when you need a refill,” she said over her shoulder, then headed off toward the kitchen. She was replaced by Al Goldsberry, pathologist and charter member of the poker group.
As usual, Al was a man of few words. “Hey, Marsh.”
“Al.”
“Heard the big news.”
“Miracles actually happen, apparently.”
“I see them every day in the hospital.”
“This is a little different.”
“Not really.”
Not for the first time, I declined to debate him. “Thanks for coming down,” I said instead.
“Glad to. We got a game Friday night?”
“My place at eight.”
“Great.” Al looked left and right. “Marsh?”
“What?”
“Your friend. Jill.” He leaned closer. “She's more of a treasure than the money.”
“Thanks for confirming my suspicion.”
Al hurried off when he saw Ruthie Spring lingering and waiting a turn. “Now you and me got
two
things in common, Sugar Bear,” she began with her usual bluster.
“What's that?”
“One, we loved the hell out of my late husband. Two, when we weren't looking, a big bag of money fell right on our heads.”
“Right on both counts, Ruthie.”
She lowered her voice. “The thing you need to know is, I made my peace with both of them. It took time, and it was damned hard work, but eventually I found a way to be happy.”
“I know you did.”
“So don't let this money business drag you down like I know it is now.”
“I'll try.”
“Hell, it's all serendipity anyway. Some people are allergic to lobster; some people strike it rich.”
“But rich people usually earn it.”
“Bullshit. Rich is random, Marsh. Was, is, and always will be. It'll help if you keep it in mind.”
Ruthie moved off toward the bar, and Tommy Milano replaced her. “I brought some of that ravioli you like. Want me to bring you a plate?”
“Maybe later, Tommy.”
“We playing cards next week?”
I nodded. “My place.”
“Great. Well, I got garlic bread in the oven. I better keep track of it.”
“Thanks for bringing the food, Tommy.”
“No problem. You come to the restaurant some night next week. I got a nice Chianti Classico put back for you. We drink to your
buona fortuna
.”
“I'll be there.”
After Tommy left, Jill brought me a fresh drink. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine.”
“These are really good people, Marsh.”
“I know.”
“And every one of them adores you. You should be proud of that.”
“I am,” I said. “Except when I'm afraid I haven't kept up my end.”
“Gangway,” Clay Oerter directed before Jill could instruct me further in matters of group dynamics. He sidled up to her and planted a kiss on her cheek as naturally as a dog licks a bone, then shook my hand with vigor. Clay was a stockbroker. He was used to making the most out of parties. “So the big guy finally hit the jackpot,” he said to Jill.
“Big time.”
Clay regarded me with the glint of a guy who works on commission. “We should talk.”
Jill excused herself and Clay edged closer. “Sooner or later your uncle back in Washington will try to take a big bite out of your money. We need to get together with Andy and figure out how to turn the bite into a nibble.”
“Probably so.”
“Plus we should put the funds to work right away. There are some diversified futures programs I'd like to put you into. Any idea when you'll get the first check?”
“Not for several more months.”
“Good. Because people are going to be coming out of the woodwork with bright ideas about what you should do with your money. I'd like you to run them past me even if they sound good to you.”
“Will do,” I said without knowing if I meant it.
When Clay motioned for him to do so, Andy Potter joined us. “Between the two of us, we should be able to keep you solvent for a few years,” Andy said after we exchanged pleasantries.
“So far that's been a tough task.”
“But now we've got something to work with. I'll have our trust and estates guy make me a memo on your options.”
“Okay. But let's wait till the money shows up.”
“Sometimes it's better to have things in place beforehand.”
I shrugged. “Whatever's right. As long as the bill is contingent on actual money being in an actual account having my actual name on it.”
“I'll talk to you, Marsh,” Andy said. “Nice party.”
“Thanks.”
Clay and Andy moved away to huddle in private just as a commotion sounded from somewhere back near the foyer. A moment later, Jake Hattie swept into the room, complete with a blonde on his arm and a cape down his back. “
Tanner
,” he boomed with his usual bluster. “I hear now I'm only ten times as rich as you.”
“Conservatively.”
“Shit, the only conservative thing about me is my Rolls. Now you got money, you should get in the horse business. I got a three-thousand-dollar claimer would be perfect to start a small stable.”
“I don't think I'm going down that road, Jake. Thanks anyway.”
“You see your colors cross the line in front, it's better than sex.” He squeezed the blonde closer to him. “Course there's always the chance someone will prove me wrong.”
The blonde tittered and jiggled and scolded, then Jake swept her off toward the door, having given me my quota of his valuable time.
By the time the perpetual whirlwind that was Jake Hattie had calmed down, Ruthie was back at my side. “There's someone in the sunroom,” she said in a near whisper. “Wants to talk to you privately.”
“Who is it?”
She shook her head. “Check it out; I'll stand guard.” Ruthie shoved me toward the door at the end of the room.
The lights were out, so when I slid the door to the sunroom open, I couldn't see anyone amid the furnishings and drapes and wall hangings and the shadows formed by the spotlight shining from a post in the garden outside. Then a figure rose off the couch and moved into the pool of light to make sure I saw her. “Hello, Marsh.” Her voice was warm and unmistakable.
“I'll be damned,” I managed.
“I hope you don't mind. Ruthie called to tell me the news and ⦠I wanted to be here.”
“I'm glad,” I said, amid rushes of memory from the ocean of time during which Peggy Nettleton had become my secretary, and then my lover, and then a comparative stranger until I had gone to Seattle to help her solve a delicate problem with her stepdaughter, which was the last time we'd talked.
I walked to where she was and we hugged, isolated in the bright light of memory and sentiment. “You look great,” I said, because she did.
“You do, too,” she said, because she was kind.
“How are things in Seattle?”
“Fine.”
“Ted?”
“Fine.”
“Nina?”
“Fine as well. Thanks to you. They send their love.”
“Good.”
She grasped my hand in both of hers. “So you won the lottery.”
“The equivalent, at least.”
“That's so great. You've been poor long enough.”
“I was never poor, Peggy.” For some reason, at this place and time, the declaration seemed important.
Peggy hurried on. “You know what I mean. Now tell me about your personal life. Ruthie hinted at developments.”
“I seem to be in love. With the woman who owns this house.”