I gave my glass a small snap of Wyborowa, a dressing drink, and sipped at it in the bedroom while I considered my wardrobe. The black guy who left the case for Dave could have connections with Fenk. He ran the delivery errand, and Fenk completed the arrangement by picking up the case in Toronto. Yanking the case out of Dave’s hands and slamming him with a two-by-four wasn’t precisely synonymous with “picking up”, but it rounded out the enterprise that began at the Alley Cat. Say the black guy snitched Dave’s old case, substituted the new, which had something hidden in it, and Fenk took delivery when the case reached Toronto with Dave.
Should I congratulate myself on this marvel of deduction? Definitely premature. The whole house of cards hinged on the presence of something concealed in the case, and until James and I checked out Fenk’s room at the Silverdore, I wouldn’t know about the case or concealment. If Fenk still had the case. If the concealed goods existed. If they existed and Fenk hadn’t disposed of them. If you were the only girl in the world and I were the only boy. I got out the clothes for my date with Annie and put them on.
13
THE WAY I WAS DRESSED, someone would have asked for my autograph at the Belair Café. I had on a white linen jacket, a dark-red silk tie against a light-grey broadcloth shirt, and grey flannels fresh from the dry cleaner’s hot press. Instead, I took Annie to Emilio’s.
Our waitress brought us menus, and I ordered a bottle of Vouvray. The waitress looked like Cher’s younger sister. Same pile of black hair, same lean curves, same expression that said attitude.
I said to Annie, “You don’t suppose that girl’s got a tattoo in a very private place?”
“Don’t bother asking her.”
“Not till we’re better acquainted,” I said. “Around dessert time.”
Emilio’s made me feel cosmopolitan and funky. It looked like it belonged in SoHo, the one in Manhattan. Which, in Emilio’s case, didn’t mean it had done a copycat act. The guy who owned it was a New Yorker who used to live in SoHo. I retained that bulletin of news from one of my intensive readings of Toronto Life’s restaurant reviews. Annie and I were at a table under a Canadian Opera Company poster for a 1986 production of Un Ballo in Maschera. Beside it was a black-and-white photograph of Emilio’s staff softball team, and in my sightline I could contemplate a metal sculpture of a white pineapple. Annie had on a black silk shirt and black cotton pants. Both were loose and billowy. Nat Cole was singing “Lush Life” on Emilio’s tape, and when he finished, a Latin group began a rendition of a Beatles song whose title I couldn’t remember.
“Hear that?” I said to Annie. “I’ve eliminated it from my thought processes.”
“If ‘Norwegian Wood’ was clogging your thought processes, you were in serious trouble.”
“Not just the song,” I said. “The whole of Beatle lore. John, Paul, George, and Ringo are right out of my head.”
“That’s a laugh. I’ve never noticed Sergeant Pepper in your record collection anyway.”
“I’m not talking music, kid,” I said, “I’m talking information overload.” Cher’s Younger Sister arrived with the Vouvray. It was sweeter than I liked in my wine, but the fruitiness and acidity were close to the mark. I think I read that in Toronto Life’s wine column.
I said to Annie, “What I’m trying to deal with here, it’s the bane of life in the 1980s.”
“That’s easy. The bane of the 1980s is shoulder pads.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You realize how many jackets and blouses I haven’t bought because they looked like they were made for some guy on the Pittsburgh Steelers?”
“You going to listen to my theory or shall we just order?”
“Both,” Annie said. Her face wore about as much makeup as Annie permits—a touch of blusher on the cheeks, even less lipstick, and a hint of black eye-liner. For some people, perfection requires little elaboration.
We ordered. Annie wanted cannelloni that came with ricotta, spinach, and tomato. I asked for chicken Taipei, and we said we’d split a starter of mussels that were steamed in ginger and honey.
“Actually it’s more than a theory,” I said. “It’s a route to sanity.”
Annie started to say something and stopped.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Nothing. I’m all ears.”
“It’s about the bombardment of facts,” I said. The Vouvray wasn’t too sweet after all. “We get so many of the little suckers beaming in from radio, TV, printed page, wherever, our poor brains can’t absorb and compartmentalize and recall as required. Makes for muddy thinking. But I got the solution. Eliminate. Get rid of whole topics.”
“But, honestly, the Beatles?”
“Newspaper story pops up about a Beatles reunion, about the latest tally on Yoko Ono’s fortune, George plagiarizing a song from Motown. Any of those, I can give them a pass.”
“How ’bout another example?” Annie said. “Something with more muscle?”
“Red China.”
“Nobody calls it Red China any more. Plain China will do.”
“My point entirely,” I said. “I’ve been so successful at blocking the subject I missed the change in name.”
“Get out of here.”
“China ruled out, that makes a couple of billion potential stories I don’t have to account for.”
The waitress brought the mussels. Little pockets of steam hovered over each open shell, and I could sniff the ginger in the air.
“Evangelists,” I said. “On or off television.”
I began to divide the mussels on the plate. One for Annie, one for me, another for Annie, another for me. Annie reached over and put her hand on top of mine.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” she said. “I trust you not to take more than your share.”
I ate the first mussel and tried to come up with an adjective that went beyond delicious.
“Evangelists you were saying?” Annie said.
“Exclude them, and think of the Newsweek cover stories I don’t have to read.”
Annie said, “Now and then I really can’t tell when you’re putting me on.”
A moment of quiet of the pensive sort came from Annie.
She said, “Another topic occurs to me you might jettison.”
I can tell when Annie isn’t putting me on.
“Criminals,” she said.
My glass was empty. I poured more Vouvray into it and topped up Annie’s glass. We’d finished the mussels.
I said, “That might involve a career