Katharine clears her throat.
‘So you like him too, Saul?’ she asks, as if it is a test of character.
‘Not as much as Clint,’ he replies. ‘But Wayne’s great. One of the best.’
‘The best,’ says Fortner with emphasis. ‘Eastwood’s just a pretty boy.’
‘Maybe it’s a generational thing, honey,’ Katharine suggests. ‘Sorry, guys. My husband has a weakness for draft dodgers.’
I don’t know what she’s referring to, and Fortner says, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘John Wayne didn’t fight in World War Two,’ Saul informs him. ‘He did everything he could to avoid conscription.’
‘Right,’ says Katharine triumphantly.
‘So what?’ Fortner replies. Although his tone is aggressive, he may be enjoying the argument. ‘Wayne did more for the war effort as an actor than he ever coulda done getting shot at on Omaha Beach. He was a patriot, an anti-Communist–‘
‘–Who hated riding horses, hated wearing his cowboy outfits, and actively encouraged American participation in the Vietnam War,’ Katharine interrupts him in full flow. She has a brazen, mischievous intelligence, a self-confidence not dissimilar to Kate’s.
‘But he made some great films,’ Saul says, perhaps as a way of defusing what he thinks is tension.
And then the idea comes to me. As simple as it is shrewd. A way of guaranteeing a second encounter.
‘Well, I have an idea,’ I suggest. ‘We should solve this by going to see one of these films at the NFT. I was going anyway. Why don’t you join me?’
And without any hesitation, Fortner says, ‘Great,’ shrugging his shoulders. ‘You wanna go too, Saul?’
‘Sure,’ he replies.
Katharine looks less enthused, a reaction that may be more instinctive than premeditated.
‘Count me out,’ she says. ‘I can’t stand Westerns. You fellas go right ahead. I’ll stay home with Tom Hanks.’
The Hobbit, Bishop, and Audrey have by now been pulled away into a larger group of six or seven people, two of whom are employees of Abnex. And, across the garden, David Caccia is coming down a short flight of stone steps, joining the party late. He catches my eye, but when he sees that I am with the Americans a mild look of concern passes across his face. In his right hand he is balancing a little pastry parcel oozing feta cheese.
‘Is that David Caccia?’ Fortner asks. ‘That guy looking at ya?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He and I had a couple of meetings back in the New Year. Tough negotiator. We were discussing the joint venture. You know about that?’
‘A little. Fell through, I hear.’
‘That’s right. Not a smart move if you ask me.’
‘I have to say–off the record–I agree with you.’
My voice is quiet here, collaborative.
‘You do?’ Katharine seems surprised by my candour. This may be a good time to leave.
‘Look, I have to have a word with him about something. Will you excuse us?’
Saul takes an instinctive step backward and Fortner says, ‘Sure, no problem. It sure was nice to meet you fellas.’
He takes my hand and the shake is firmer than it was before. But I am worried that the plan to visit the NFT will be forgotten as a casual passing remark. I cannot mention it again at the risk of appearing pushy. The invitation will have to come from them.
Fortner now turns to Saul, and Katharine takes me to one side.
‘Do you have a card?’ she asks, holding a slim piece of embossed white plastic in her hand. ‘So Fort can get in touch about the movie.’
Luck is on my side.
‘Of course.’
We exchange cards. Katharine studies mine carefully.
‘Milius, huh? Like the name.’
‘Me too,’ says Fortner, breaking in from behind and slapping me hard on the back. ‘So we’re set for John Wayne? Leave the womenfolk at home?’
Katharine adopts an expression of good-humoured exasperation.
‘Looking forward to it,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll give you a call.’
An hour later the Hobbit weaves towards me carrying a glass of sparkling mineral water. Saul is inside the club, talking to the waitress.
‘Hi, Matt.’
He looks slightly sheepish.
‘How did you get on?’
‘Very well. I think we’re going to see each other again. I just bumped into them as they were leaving and we chatted for another ten minutes.’
‘Good,’ he says, picking a piece of lemon out of his drink and dropping it to the ground.
‘Manners, Matthew.’
‘Nobody saw,’ he says, looking quickly left and right. ‘Nobody saw.’
THIRTEEN
The Searchers
‘So how did it go?’
Hawkes is leaning back in a moulded plastic chair on the second floor of the Abnex building. The blinds are drawn in the small grey conference room, the door closed. His feet are up on the table, hands clasped behind his neck.
‘Fine. Really well.’
He arches his eyebrows, pressing me.
‘And? Anything else? What happened?’
I lean forward, putting my arms on the table.
‘I met Saul at seven for a drink in the bar. You know, where they have all those bookstalls under Waterloo Bridge.’
Hawkes nods. The soles of his shoes are scuffed to the colour of slate.
‘Fortner was on time. Seven fifteen. We had another round of drinks, bought our tickets, and went in.’
‘Who paid?’
‘For the drinks or the tickets?’
‘Both.’
‘Everybody went dutch. Don’t worry. There was no largesse.’
Somebody walks past outside at a fast clip.
‘Go on,’ he says.
As it always is when we are talking business, Hawkes’s manner is abrupt to the point of being rude. Increasingly he has become a withdrawn figure, an enigma at the back of the room.
‘Saul sat between us. There was no planning to it. It just worked out that way. We saw The Searchers, and afterwards I told him we had to go to a party. Which we did.’
‘Did you invite him along?’
‘I thought that would be pushing things.’
‘Yes,’ he says after a moment’s contemplation. ‘But in your view Grice wasn’t offended by that?’
I light a cigarette.
‘Not at all. Look, I’ve obviously been thinking about what I was going to tell you this afternoon. And it’s a measure of how well things went that I feel as if I have nothing of any significance