Hot Ticket (15 page)

“Bobby Marvel’s boudoir doesn’t interest me. Thank your Aunt Justine just the same.”

Glancing at his watch, Duncan headed out. “She’s had enough of this place, you know. She’s thinking about coming to Berlin.”

Power was a drug, politicians were hopeless addicts. Justine was as likely to kick the habit as I was of throwing my Strad
into the Potomac. “Isn’t this the pinnacle of her career?”

“She hates Bobby Marvel.”

“What was she high on when she told you that?”

The door slammed. My accompanist wouldn’t speak to me for days. On the other hand, our verbal exchange had been a nice little
reintroduction to civilized conversation. I picked up the phone. “Still on for tonight, Fausto?”

“I’ve been practicing my weenie off.”

“I can hear your metronome. What’s the program?”

“Let me surprise you. Sixty minutes, you said?”

“That’s what Aurilla ordered.”

“Perfect. See you at seven.”

This did not sound like the Fausto of yore. I ate a huge lunch then began to practice. Fingers were stiff and the gash on
my shoulder wasn’t happy with a hunk of wood pressing on it, but the moment sounds began, another demon seized my brain, squeezing
jungle out, artistry in. In a few hours I was half back to warp speed, ready for whatever Fausto might throw at me.

As I was dressing, Justine called. “You’ve been away.” When I didn’t explain, she continued, “You’re expected at the White
House tomorrow at three.”

“Sorry, I’ve got a rehearsal. And I never screw married men in their own beds. It’s unethical. By the way, I hear you’re coming
to Berlin. Duncan’s beside himself.”

“He told you that?”

“He tells me everything. Would you have any more of those pills you gave him backstage at Carnegie Hall? I might need a few
for Fausto. God knows if he can get it up for Aurilla’s concert.”

“Fausto can fend for himself.” Justine hung up.

The phone immediately rang again. “You’ve been away,” said Bendix, inflection half amity, half accusation. Somewhere in the
back of my brain a branch snapped, a carnivore growled.

“I’ve been visiting friends.”

“I enjoyed our dinner the other night. And congratulations on your review. I’d like to drop something off for you at the hotel.
Will you be in?”

“In and out. Just leave it at the desk. I’ll get it eventually.”

On to my next beast: I drove through clots of traffic to Fausto’s. He came to the door in bow tie and linen pants. There was
an effervescence about him I had not seen. When he kissed me, I smelled talcum and stage fright. “Hi darling. I’m nervous
as a bride.”

“Relax, you’ve got the gig.”

We went to his music room. Scores were piled on top of the piano, as if Fausto had been sifting through every piece in his
library. He had been fortifying himself with a mound of steak tartare. My stomach curled: I had seen enough ground meat lately.
Fausto watched me unpack my violin, perhaps wondering where I had gotten the scratches on my face. “I’ve been practicing day
and night,” he said. “People think I’ve gone mad. Would you like something to eat? Drink?”

“No thanks.” This room was too damn cold. Too clean. Utterly artificial.
Get in gear, Smith.
I tuned to his A. “What have you got for me?”

“One of my favorite pieces.” Fausto handed over a worn score.

Triptyche
by Camille Saint-Saëns? Off to a sick start. Someone had marked bowings on every inch of the music. We played the first piece
through. Fausto was with me all the way, like a perfect dance partner. Against my will, I could feel myself leaning into him.
“You’ve only been practicing since Sunday?” I asked.

“Dear, I know this piece like the back of my hand.” He wiped his brow. “And playing the piano is like sex. You never really
forget how.”

Next,
Vision Congolaise,
Saint-Saëns’ evocation of Africa. Absolute
merde.
The third piece in the triptych was one of those perpetual motion affairs where I played fifty notes to one on the piano.
“Odd,” I said afterward.

“French! Saint-Saëns was a genius.”

I checked my watch. “That took thirteen minutes.”

Fausto rooted around his pile of music. “Next I thought we might do this.” More decadence, this time by Jenö Hubay, a Wagner
wannabe. Piano and violin oozed enough chromaticism to generate a second fin de siècle. Fausto relished his part as he would
a Sacher torte. He was one hell of a pianist: deep inside, beneath the rubble, part of me trembled. “Well?” he asked afterward.

“It’s harder than it sounds.”

“Sorry, darling. Maybe you’ll like this better.”

Now he hit me with Wieniawski’s fantasy on motifs from Gounod’s
Faust,
the musical equivalent of peanut brittle. “Your signature piece?” I asked a little testily, pulling several broken hairs
from my bow. “This is supposed to be after-dinner entertainment, not the Tchaikovsky Competition.”

“Oh come on! We may as well have a little fun!”

I’d be inside all week practicing this dreck. Maybe that’s what Fausto intended. I looked at my watch. “Eighteen more minutes.”

“The grand finale,” he announced, spinning a handwritten score across the piano. “You are going to love this.”

I could hardly decipher the title. “Sonata by … Bendix Kaar? Are you out of your mind?”

“Trust me, darling. I know what I’m doing.”

“Is Bendix going to be at this dinner?”

“Who cares?”

“He might, for one. You don’t want to humiliate the man.”

“What? We’re paying him the ultimate compliment! At least try it before passing judgment.”

“I can hardly read the notes.”

“Just muddle through. Believe me, this time my part’s harder than yours.”

Inside the score was an old program of Fausto’s. Pushed that aside, frowning in anticipation of the next hour. The piece opened
with a siege of tone clusters. Then came an itchy scherzo. Bendix’s penchant for disharmony reached an excruciating climax
in the slow movement, which he had subtitled
Elegy.
After a ten-ton fugue, the sonata petered out on the G string. I now knew more about Bendix than I ever wanted to know. “You
want the program to end with this?” I asked my accompanist.

“Absolutely. We need a serious piece.”

Saint-Saëns, Hubay, Wieniawski, Kaar: the molasses and roughage here would give the most ardent music lover indigestion. “When
did Bendix write this?”

“Ages ago. I commissioned it for my mother’s birthday.”

“Birthday? It sounds like something you’d commission for a funeral.”

Fausto’s face went fiery red. He calmed himself with a hill of raw meat. “You promised I could choose the program.”

“All right, all right, we’ll play it. It’s got some good spots.” Like the spaces between movements. We drank lemonade in utter
silence. Fausto was very far away. “You sound great,” I said finally, patting his hand.

“Are you surprised?”

“No.” I squinted at the name on a score. “Who’s Ethel Kiss?”

“My mother. She was gifted. Not like you, of course. You sight-read these pieces better than she played them after practicing
for years.”

“This program must bring back a lot of memories.”

“You’re worth it.” Fausto returned to the piano. “Care to review anything?”

“No thanks.” Fausto had chosen a recital impossible to screw up: he could skip a page, I could drop my violin, and not seriously
undermine the artistic impact. No one would be listening anyway. Well, maybe one person. “You’d better warn Bendix.”

“Why? I paid him plenty of money to compose this piece. He accepted it.”

“I don’t think he’s the type who likes surprises. He told me he tore up all his operas.”

“Come now! That would be like burning his child at the stake!” Fausto poured himself a few inches of champagne. “Why are you
so concerned about Bendix’s feelings? It’s me he’ll be angry with.”

“What the hell, he’s your friend.”

I could hear the thoughts galloping through Fausto’s head as he walked me to the Corvette. Suddenly he put a hand on my arm.
“I’ve got two tickets to a fund-raiser tomorrow. Can you come?”

“Whose funds are you raising?”

“Bobby Marvel’s.”

Forget it, I almost said.
Look after Fausto.
“We won’t stay long,” I sighed.

“Only as long as you’re amused.”

I hit the ignition. “I have a high amusement threshold.”

“Wear your flimsiest dress,” Fausto called as I drove away.

What had he been doing in the jungle?

I cut through the woods near the zoo with laughable ease. A smattering of bush, a few stones: no jungle this. Middling heat,
tepid smells and it never got dark. City lights had denatured night into a weak, stalled dawn. I missed the cicadas; without
them, nature here lacked a pulse. Didn’t lack noise,, though: cars, far-off radios … mechanical beasts, harmless. Still, I
had to be careful. Armed guards knew the zoo better than I and midnight was not a legit visiting hour. A cougar roared as
I crept by its cage. Two nights ago that sound would have traumatized me. Now I just kept walking: in Washington, only humans
threatened my survival.

Paused outside Maxine’s hollow in the rock. Where was Ek tonight? Louis? Who had dared welcome me back with orchids? Only
half-sure I was alone, I pressed a tiny button in the stone face. Door clicked ever so slowly open. I sent Maxine a report
about Louis’s camp and Barnard’s cave, about waterfalls and Ek. I told her about dead Tatal, visiting Fausto, about Koko’s
café and Jojo’s conference … and Simon.

When the phone rang, my pulse constricted. “You killed a man?” Maxine asked incredulously. “And let your witness go?”

“The witness saved my life. If Ek hadn’t distracted him, I would have gotten my head chopped off.”

“Since when do you practice charity? You should have taken care of him.”

What did Maxine know? The closest she had ever gotten to a jungle was the Tiergarten. “Ek won’t say a word until he sees Louis.”

“Don’t count on it.” I heard keys tapping: Maxine raking over my report. “So the camp left you clueless. The boy was probably
hiding something. He says Fausto visited for Louis’s birthday? That’s unbelievable. Did you rehearse with him tonight?”

“Yes. He invited me to a fund-raiser for Marvel tomorrow.”

The Queen stuck to her original theme. “Why would Barnard leave behind the pictures she took at that environmental conference?”

“Maybe the conference was just an alibi to get to Belize City. To a real phone. Obviously the mobile unit didn’t work in the
jungle.”

“She didn’t call me from Belize City.” Maxine swallowed something, maybe spit. In Berlin it was too late for booze, too early
for coffee. “Do you think Ek ratted to Louis about Barnard’s phone call?”

“He told me he didn’t. Said Louis was jittery enough already.”

“Take everything that kid says with a grain of salt, okay? I wonder why someone would want to kill Yvette Tatal. She was like
a saint in Belize. And why that particular day?”

“Everyone knew she went digging on Mondays.”

Maxine clicked to the top of my report. “Let’s go over this again. Louis seems to have been looking for some sort of magillah
plant. For whom or what, we don’t know. Fausto visits for a birthday lunch. A week later, the environmental conference goes
down. Every Washington heavy but Bobby Marvel makes an appearance. Week or so later, Louis hits Koko’s café while the boy
goes with Barnard to Tatal’s. Louis disappears. Barnard goes after him and winds up dead. You try to see Tatal, she’s dead.
You chase Tatal’s killer, he gets away.” Maxine’s travelogue halted in disgust.

“He was on a bike. I didn’t have a chance.”

“You go to Koko’s, where you are recognized by the killer, a mercenary named Simon. Ek turns up with a bottle of liniment.
Do you realize how
preposterous
that is?”

“Keep going, Maxine. Don’t lose the thread of the story.” She was leaving so much out: darkness, heat, terror … the real stuff.

“The merc knows you’ve trailed him through the jungle. He tries to clean up after himself by going after you with a few arrows.
You counter with lethal injection. After Ek distracts him, of course. So the poison worked this time?”

“Like a champ,” I sighed.

“Did you happen to notice if Simon was shooting any arrows at Ek? Sorry, you were too busy ducking. So Ek claims Simon once
tried to follow them back to camp. Good thing they lost him. I suspect Louis would have ended up like Tatal. Any idea who
may have hired Simon?”

None whatever. Maxine’s clicking finally ceased: a deceptive silence, like that of the eye of a hurricane. “After Simon floats
away, you retrieve Barnard’s camera and call it a night. Quite a trip!” That was Maxine’s way of saying
Thanks for risking your neck.
“Did anyone miss you back in Washington?”

Someone fond of orchids. “Duncan. Justine and Bendix. Maybe Fausto.”

“How’s Marvel?”

“Out of sight, out of mind.”

She sighed. “We don’t know shit here.”

“Maybe we’ve got video,” I said after a silence. Barnard’s camera was a fine replica of a cheap aim-and-shoot. She had programmed
the computer inside to recognize Louis’s face. If he walked into Koko’s, film would roll until he left. No audio unless she
had managed to replace one strategic button on each of Louis’s shirts, but I doubted that had been a problem: Barnard was
hell on men’s clothing, particularly buttons and zippers. I nestled the camera into a notch in the wall. Tiny whirs. Soon
a digital clock appeared in a corner of the screen in front of me.

July 20, 1310 hours. Barnard must have just hooked up with Louis. The two of them waded through a clutter of chairs and backpacks
to a table at the far wall. Barnard had dressed in baggy shirt and shorts. Unfortunately she couldn’t tone down her height,
face, or legs, so her arrival was noted by everyone in the café. Louis Bailey looked as desiccated on film as he had appeared
in my computer file. Barnard’s height, without her curves. He walked as if shards of glass lodged inches from his vital organs.
Neither hands nor eyes made contact with the beautiful derriere ahead of him. Had Barnard finally met a man impervious to
her charms? Maybe that’s what had derailed her.