Authors: Michael A. Kahn
The Sirena Quest (5 page)
“Think she ever has visitors?” Ray asked.
Lou looked up from a dog-eared issue of
Better Homes and Gardens
. They'd been waiting in the lobby for almost an hour. He shrugged. “Does she have any family left?”
“Nope. It was just her and her brother. Neither of them married.”
“So, no nieces or nephews,” Lou said. “Maybe cousins? Check the sign-in book.”
Ray walked over to the narrow table in front of the reception desk and Lou returned to “The Man Next Door” column at the back of the magazine. His mother had subscribed to
Better Homes and Gardens
for as far back as he could remember. He hadn't actually looked through an issue since he left home for college, but most of the contents were exactly as he remembered them. Indeed, as he skimmed through the jokes in “The Man Next Door” column, he found himself asking the same question he'd asked back in high school: Are there readers out there who actually find these jokes funny? Presumablyâfortunatelyâhe was still outside the magazine's demographics.
Ray joined him on the couch. He held the sign-in book, his expression was grim. “You are not going to fucking believe this.”
“Who?”
“Over the last six months, Abigail Washburn had a grand total of two visitors. Two. And they signed in together three weeks ago.”
“Who?”
Ray handed him the book and pointed to the entry for April 3rd:
H. R. Pelham
F. Burke
Lou leaned back. “Reggie and Frank?”
Ray slammed his fist into the couch. “I can't believe those bastards beat us here.”
“What bastards?” Brandi asked as she joined them. She had a triumphant expression.
“Well?” Ray asked. “Have fun with the social director of the Bates Motel?”
“Raymond, my darling,” she said playfully, “remember that diamond pendant we saw at the shop in La Jolla?”
Ray frowned. “Sort of.”
“I earned it today.”
“Yeah, yeah. Let's hear your story first. Did you get beyond the appetizers with that crazy broad?”
“Way beyond the appetizers, my dear. I had the main course. Guess what she has under her bed?”
“A twelve-inch vibrating dildo?”
“A footlocker.”
“Letters?” Lou asked her.
Brandi nodded. “Including close to a hundred from her brother. Organized in chronological order, with each letter still in its original envelope. We divided them up. She looked through the first half and I looked at every letter from 1955 through his death.”
“And?” Lou asked.
Brandi smiled. “Bingo.”
“No shit?” Ray looked around and then gestured toward the front door. “Outside.”
When they were on the parking lot, Ray said, “He told her where?”
“Not where, but who.”
“What do you mean?” Lou asked.
She turned to Lou. “Apparently, her brother wasn't the one who hid the statue.”
“Why do you say that?” Ray asked.
“He sent her a letter on July 4, 1959âwhich was about two weeks after he had the statue removed from the college.” Brandi pulled a folded sheet of paper out of her purse. “I wrote down the key paragraph from the letter. Here it is.”
“I was determined,” she read, “to forever rid my school of that accursed harridan. Fortunately, among the sons of Barrett on campus for their reunions was the mastermind of the Homecoming Heist. Alas, he must remain nameless, even to you, my beloved sister. Suffice it to say, I summoned the gentlemen to my home later that evening, explained my decision, and requested his clandestine assistance. He accepted with alacrity. Four days later, I received a pithy message via Western Union: SHE HAS REACHED HER FINAL DESTINATION. My hands trembled as I carried that telegram over to the fireplace in my study, struck a match, lit the corner, and placed the burning slip of yellow paper on the metal grate. As it curled and blackened, I softly uttered, âMay she rest in eternal peace.'”
Brandi looked up from the sheet of paper and smiled. “Well?”
“Fucking aye.” Ray punched Lou in the shoulder. “We're in the hunt, dude. I've got that book on Sirena at the hotel. I'm sure it'll have something on the Homecoming Heist, whatever the hell that was. Let's go.”
“Wait,” Lou said, nodding toward the sign-in book, which was still in Ray's hands. “Perhaps Abigail's friend Melinda should ask her about Reggie and Frank.”
“Oh, yeah. Good thinking.”
Ray explained the entries to Brandi and described what Reggie Pelham and Frank Burke looked like.
After Brandi returned to Abigail Washburn's room, Ray turned to Lou. “You're on board, right?”
The question had been looming since Ray's original phone message. Lou had already ducked it once, and now his first thought was to beg offâto say he just couldn't get away, to apologize and wish his college buddy the best of luck. It was the responsible thing to do, and it was also true. He had plenty of responsibilities on his platter. A forty-two-year-old single parent with two children, a big mortgage, a stable of important clients, and several big lawsuits that needed attention didn't just drop everything to head off on what was likely a futile hunt for a missing statue that had eluded all pursuers for thirty-five years.
Right?
Ray put his arm around Lou's shoulder. “Your housekeeper can take care of your kids. Your partners can take care of your clients. We're talking one week of your lifeâten days max. No one's indispensable. Trust me. Life goes on, man.”
“I know, Ray, butâ”
“But what? You're never gonna get a chance like this again. Again? Hell, man, most guys never get a chance like this once. And if we actually find herâ” He paused, grinning. “Oh, man, it'll be incredible.”
Lou studied Ray as he tried to consider his options rationally.
Ray said, “If you won't do it for yourself, you loser, then do it for me. I've already flown halfway across the goddamned country for this. If I have to haul around Gordie and Bronco all by myself, I'll go fucking nuts.”
“Let's take it one step at a time,” Lou said. “First let's see if we can identify this mastermind of the Homecoming Heist. Then let's see if he'll even talk to us. This whole thing could be a nonstarter.”
Ray shook his head, amused. “You're so damn cautious. You've always been so damn cautious. For once in your life, dude, you gotta take a deep breath and say to yourself, âWhat the fuck.' And it's not just the money. It's the glory.”
Lou held up his index finger. “One step at a time.”
Brandi returned.
“Well?” Ray asked.
She shrugged. “Hard to say. I told her their names. She claims they're catering some big party of hers. She started lecturing me on Swedish meatballs.”
Ray groaned. “Not again with the lean pork.”
Brandi smiled. “And plenty of prime veal.”
Her smile faded, and she shook her head. “She told me no one else has seen those letters, but the poor thing is so confused. I doubt whether she'll remember tomorrow that she showed them to me.”
Ray looked at Lou, who shrugged.
“The hell with them,” Ray said. He put his arm around Brandi. “You done good, kid.”
Brandi leaned against him. “You know what they say about diamonds, darling.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
She put her arm around him. “Lead on, Sir Lancelot.”
The three of them were back in the hotel room at the Marriott.
Ray was on the king bed, his back cushioned against the headboard with two pillows, a hardbound copy of
The Legendary Sirena
open on his lap as he leafed through the pages. Brandi was clattering around in the bathroom packing her toiletry bag. She was leaving for Peoria that afternoon to spend a few days with her folks. Lou stood by the window looking down on the street below. Vendors outside Busch Stadium were setting up their wares for the crowd, which would start arriving in another hour or so.
Lou was holding Ray's copy of the special issue of the alumni magazine, the one with Sirena on the cover. He'd reread the article, looking for clues.
Nothing.
But there were other sources. Sirena had inspired an impressive bibliography over the years, including a cover story in the
New York Times Sunday Magazine
, “The Lady Vanishes: Pining for the Eternal Prom Queen of Barrett College,” (Dec. 10, 1972); a segment on CBS' “60 Minutes” narrated by Morley Safer (“The Hunt for the Siren of Barrett,” Nov. 6, 1989); an epic poem (“O Sirena,”
Connecticut Valley Journal
, 1977); and a two-page tribute in
Esquire
magazine's annual women-we-love series (August 1992), which labeled her “the heartbreaker of Barrett College.”
But now, with the twenty-three-million-dollar pledge to the school plus two million for the finders and another million from
People
magazine for their story rights, the four of them would be just one of dozens of groups out there in the hunt. There was the so-called Bigfoot Crusadeâa group from the Class of '84 who supposedly followed a clue into the Willamette National Forest near Tumalo Falls, Oregon. According to rumors, the group had “found something bigger than Bigfoot.”
Then there was Buddy's Patrol. Ephraim “Buddy” Lagerfeld ('68) was supposedly leading an expedition down to Cabo San Lucas on the tip of Baja California, which happened to be the spot where Henry Washburn spent a month on a geological study during the summer of 1958, which also happened to be the summer before Sirena vanished.
And the Spelunking Sextetâa group of Delta Upsilons, headed by Kentucky Congressman Hank Fielding ('63). They were convinced that reasons other than geology had inspired President Washburn's three post-1959 trips to Mammoth Cave in central Kentucky. Reports had them inside the cave exploring nonpublic passageways, thanks in part to special arrangements made by Department of the Interior Undersecretary Daniel Maxwell ('52).
“Here we go,” Ray said. “Chapter Twenty-one, âThe Homecoming Heist of 1956.'”
He skimmed the pages and gave them a quick summary: in the fall of 1956, the Class of '58, juniors at the time and the possessors of Sirena, decided to bring her out of hiding for a surprise appearance during halftime at homecoming game against Bowdoin. Word of their plan leaked, and before the end of the first quarter Sirena had been “liberated” by a group of masked students.
“Raymond, love,” Brandi said as she came into the bedroom carrying a pair of jeans, “enough with the backstory.” She folded the jeans and placed them into her suitcase. “Who is he?”
Ray glanced over at Brandi and then back down at the book. “Jeez, woman, cool your jets. I'm trying to set this up.” He turned the page, and then another. “Here we go.”
He read aloud: “âAlthough the mastermind of the Homecoming Heist has never stepped forward to acknowledge his achievement, few today question the conclusion reached by Professor Thatcher Hewitt in the article he authored in the fall 1966 issue of the
Barrett College Alumni News
. In that well-researched essay, Professor Hewitt concluded that the mastermind was Graham Anderson Marshall III, just a sophomore at the time of the heist.'”
“Graham Marshall,” Brandi said. “So where is he now?”
Lou frowned. “That name sounds familiar.”
“Let's see,” Ray said, skimming the text. “Apparently, he was a young attorney with the Chicago firm of Abbott & Windsor when Professor Hewitt's article appeared.” Ray looked up at Lou. “Abbott & Windsor. They're real big, right?”
Lou nodded. “Huge. Main office in Chicago, branches around the world. There's even a small office here in St. Louis”
“You know anyone in their Chicago office?” Ray asked.
Lou thought for a moment. “Gabe Pollack. He's from St. Louis.”
“Give him a call,” Ray said. “Maybe he can tell us the best way to approach this Marshall guy.”
Ten minutes later, Lou hung up the telephone.
“Well?” Ray said. He'd just come out of the bathroom.
Lou shook his head. “He's dead.”
“Your friend?” Brandi asked.
“No. Graham Marshall.”
“Dead?” Ray groaned. “Fuck.”
Brandi asked, “When did he die?”
“About two years ago. Gabe said he died of a heart attack at the office one night.”
Brandi closed her suitcase and gave Lou a sympathetic smile. “Bummer.”
“This Gabe guy,” Ray said, “how well you know him?”
“Not that well. Same high school, but I was in eighth grade his senior year.”
“You think he'd let you look at Marshall's stuff?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On what stuff we're talking about. I doubt whether his firm would let anyone look at Marshall's private papers. But there might be other stuff.”
“Call him back. What is itâa five-hour drive to Chicago? See if your buddy can spare us an hour tomorrow.”
Lou picked up the receiver and punched in the number.
Ray started pacing the room. “He's got to help us.”
“Hey, Gabe,” Lou said into the receiver, “it's Lou again.”
It was eight-thirty that night, and Lou was finally alone with his children. His son's bedroom was a sanctuary after a day of departure preparationsâarranging for others to cover his cases, to do the car pools, to help with Kenny's baseball team and Katie's dance classes. But that was all behind him now. He was seated on the edge of Kenny's bed. His son was under the covers. Katie was on the bed, too, although not in her pajamas. She'd taken a break from homework to come listen. She was in her Rusted Root T-shirt, baggy shorts, and red Converse All-Stars.
Ever since they were toddlers Lou had been putting them to bed with fairy talesâall the popular ones, and dozens of obscure stories he'd found in the big Brothers Grimm collection that Andi had purchased the week before Katie was born (along with
Pat the Bunny
,
Goodnight Moon
,
Horton Hears A Who!
and at least a dozen other children's books she'd bought in a pre-delivery buying spree). Katie had loved the fairy tales from the start, and she and her brother still enjoyed them. For tonight he'd picked one of their favorites, and they were both wide-eyed as he neared the end.
“At last they reached the edge of the forest,” Lou read, “and caught sight of their cottage in the clearing.”
Kenny began to smile, his eyes shining.
“They ran as fast as they could and burst through the door, shouting âDaddy, Daddy!'”
Katie was smiling, too.
“When their father saw his children, he jumped to his feet and scooped them into his big arms. Tears ran down his cheeks as he hugged them and kissed them and told them how much he loved them. He promised that they had nothing to fear anymore and that nothing would ever come between them again. Gretel opened her apron to show her father the beautiful pearls, and Hansel pulled all the gold coins out of his pocket. From that moment on, none of them was ever sad again, and they all lived together happily ever after.”
Lou ran his fingers through Kenny's hair.
“Where are you and Mr. Gorman going?” Katie asked.
“Chicago.”
“Why Chicago?” Kenny asked.
“We're going to try to find that statue.”
“Sirena?” Kenny asked.
Lou nodded.
“Why?” Katie asked.
As Lou considered the question, Kenny turned to his sister. “It's like Sleeping Beauty. Daddy's the prince, and he's trying to find her.”
Katie said, “Really, Daddy?”
He smiled and shrugged. “We'll see. It could all fizzle out in Chicago. I'll call you guys every night. I promise. Mrs. Walters will know how to reach me during the day if you need me.” He placed his hand gently on Kenny's shoulder. “Jake's dad will coach the game on Sunday if I'm not back by then.”
Kenny nodded. “Okay.”
“No matter what happens,” he said to them both, “we're all going to be at Barrett together for the reunion.” He kissed Kenny and tucked in the covers. “I love you, pal.”
He walked Katie to her bedroom.
“I'll be back soon, peanut,” he said to her.
She gave him a fierce hug. “I love you, Daddy.” She leaned back, eyes bright. “Go for it.”
He kneeled down and kissed her on the bridge of her nose. “I'll try.”
When he got downstairs, Mrs. Walters was in the foyer talking with Ray.
“I'll call tomorrow,” Lou told her. He lifted his travel bag in one hand and the case of audio cassettes in the other. “I left the hotel phone number on the kitchen counter.”
Lou got in the driver's side of his minivan and started the engine. He turned to Ray. “Ready?”
Ray was studying the titles on the cassettes. “Let's do it.”
As Lou backed the van out of the driveway, Ray inserted a cassette into the tape player.
Lou shifted into drive and looked over at Ray. “What'd you pick?”
Ray gave him a wink. “Something to get us in the mood.”
Soon the van was reverberating with the wailing feedback of the opening of Credence Clearwater Revival's “Run through the Jungle.”
As with so much of the music from his youth, the initial chords triggered a flashback. All the way back to the last time Lou had seen Ray at college, just two days before graduation. Their paths hadn't crossed for more than a year, when Lou, strolling across the quad, came upon Ray seated beneath an oak tree, his back against the tree trunk, his unwashed black hair tied back in a ponytail, his skin pale, his T-shirt torn, his jeans filthy, his feet bare, his eyes dilated. Very dilated. Lou had said hello. Ray just grinned, his head lolling. Blaring from the speakers through an open window in one of the dorms facing the quad was “Run through the Jungle”:
They told me, “Don't go walkin' slow
'Cause the Devil's on the loose.
Lou remembered the wave of sadness he'd felt as he walked past his freshman year roommate, so changed since then. Although Lou had wondered whether Ray would graduate, he did, and with honors in philosophy, earning an A+ on his senior thesis, a critique of William James' pragmatism that he apparently wrote, from scratch, without notes, in forty-eight hours, fueled by amphetamines, Wild Turkey, and two dozen Hostess Twinkies.
For the first decade after graduation, Lou kept track of Ray through the alumni gossip mill. Ray was in the philosophy graduate program at the University of Chicago, married a law student at Northwestern, spent a night in jail after a barroom brawl at Somebody Else's Troubles on Lincoln Avenue, dropped out of the graduate program, drifted into the drug trade, got divorced. Someone heard that Ray was in Colorado, a rumor confirmed when their goofball class secretary Bryce Wharton III wrote in his alumni magazine column that classmate Chip Reynolds (a Beverly Hills entertainment lawyer) had run into Ray at a film festival in Telluride.
“According to the Chipster,” Wharton wrote, “Ray's present domicile is a commune on the outskirts of Telluride, where he shares space with a Brandeis grad named (I kid you not) Namas-te Abramovitz.
Ahh-ooom! Ahh-ooom!
A long way from the Pittsburgh steel mills, eh, Raymundo?”
The next time Ray's name appeared in Wharton's column, he was living in a bungalow near the beach in San Diego. Only someone as credulous as Wharton would have reported that Ray was “now an independent sales rep for several South American pharmaceutical houses.”
Ray went legit eight years ago, shortly after one of his cocaine customers, a La Jolla plastic surgeon, complained to Ray about his limited partnership investment in a strip shopping center south of downtown San Diego. The doc said the bank was hassling the partnershipâsomething about loan ratios out of whack. Ray sensed an opportunity, since the bank's loan officer happened to be another one of his customers. Ray gave him a nice discount on his next cocaine buy in return for a photocopy of the bank's entire loan file on the project. When the bank foreclosed, Ray was ready. He bought the shopping center, refinanced it a year later, sold his drug business, and used the proceeds to buy a controlling interest in another strip center.
He added his first mall two years later. His shopping center holdings expanded at the same pace as San Diego, which was then the fastest-growing city in America. By last fall, Ray was wealthy enough and respectable enough and Republican enough to be profiled in a cover story in
Forbes
magazine entitled: “The Shopping Center Czar of San Diego County.”
Lou had seen that issue on an airport magazine rack. He'd stared at it, astounded. The Ray Gorman beaming at him from the magazine coverâclean-shaven, close-cropped, clear-eyedâwas the Ray Gorman he hadn't seen since freshman year. Later that fall, Lou was in Orange County on a deposition and drove down to San Diego to meet up with Ray at his home in La Jolla. He was delighted to discover the Ray Gorman from their James Gang days, including the membership in a bowling league (instead of a country club) and the addiction to crossword puzzlesâthat odd corner of the language inhabited by strange birds (the Moa and the Erne), odd coins (the Avo and the Obol), Charlie Chaplin's daughter Oona, and an Oreo cookie in every puzzle. Of course, the effects of money were visible. Back at Barrett, Ray did the
Times
crossword in the back row of the lecture hall during Professor Barker's Econ 101 lectures. Now he did it in the backseat of his BMW while his driver took him to his office.
Lou pulled onto the highway just as the song reached the better-run-through-the-jungle chorus. He looked over at Ray, who was playing air guitar in the front seat and nodding his head to the beat. Ray grinned and gave him the thumbs-up.