A Matter of Taste
Chapter 1
Angie Hoban found Valentine Kaiser waiting for her just where he had said he would be, occupying the end booth in a busy street-level coffee shop just off Michigan Avenue, a little south of the Water Tower. From outside she could see through the window that he was watching the entrance, and as soon as she came in through the revolving door he got to his feet, smiling. Tall, youthful, and actually one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. He was pulling a business card out of his vest pocket now, and as soon as she came within reach he handed it to her. A flashy printing job, she noticed, red on yellow. The message was simple enough:
Valentine Kaiser
Celebrity Publicist
At the bottom were two phone numbers with different area codes, both of them somewhere in California, if Angie could trust her memory on such matters; she'd visited the West Coast a couple of times. There wasn't any address on the card; the implication seemed to be that Valentine Kaiser moved fast, so did his business, and if you had to mail him a message or travel to his office, you weren't going to reach him in time anyway.
She dropped the card into her purse, thinking that she could always throw it away later.
'And you're Angelina Hoban. Even prettier than you sounded on the phone.' He spoke in a low voice, as if musing to himself, and didn't wait for her reaction; any way she wanted to take it was quite all right with him.
In another moment she was sitting opposite him in the booth, and ordering coffee. In front of her companion stood another cup, almost untouched, or perhaps it had been diligently refilled by the hurrying waitress. Outside the plate-glass windows, faintly steamy with October chill, Chicagoans were hurrying past as Chicagoans generally did. Inside the coffee shop things were comparatively slack, the weekday lunch-hour rush having abated hours ago.
'So, what's this all about, Mr. Kaiser? You said something about a talk being to our mutual advantage?'
'Call me Val,' the man across the table said, smiling. Then he paused, as if he were trying to plan his answer carefully. His behavior in the flesh reinforced an impression she'd formed during their brief phone conversation. Certainly this was not a man who'd try to drown her in a gush of salesman's or press agent's babble. The sincere type. Angie suspected that he was some kind of salesman, though, and that he could be very convincing if he did lie. The scar of some old injury, or blemish, spread over a large part of his right cheek, but too faintly to destroy his looks. Dark, Mediterranean type, though not tanned—she'd heard somewhere that tan had been out for a couple of years now among Hollywood people, among celebrities in general, she supposed. And what exactly did a Celebrity Publicist do?
Sizable shoulders, and a lean waist under the vest of his three-piece, blue-gray suit. Most likely a college athlete somewhere, only a few years ago, and still in very good condition. Red tie, white shirt, all in all a sharp dresser, though a little more conservative than she would have expected from California, which she sometimes tended to identify with Hollywood.
'I understand,' said Kaiser, evidently having completed his mental preparations, 'that you're going to have the pleasure of paying a visit to Mr. Matthew Maule this evening.'
'Who told you about that?'
'And, you may well ask, what business is it of mine? You're quite right, I can't argue.' Valentine Kaiser smiled engagingly, displaying excellent teeth, probably not capped. 'I'd love to tell you who told me, but the fact is I promised I wouldn't, and I keep my promises. I do happen to know you're engaged to John Southerland—right? And the Southerland family, as you know, has a connection with Mr. Maule. And—let me just put it this way—certain members of the family would like to see that Mr. Maule finally gets credit for a lot of the great things he's done over the years.'
'Gets credit?'
The self-proclaimed publicist spread his hands. 'There's the hospital for burn victims he endowed in California—I could show you pictures. There's the Retired Stage and Screen Actors' Fund; there's—well, I could go on all day. The thing is, I'd like to be able to get in to interview him.' Having revealed that much, Valentine Kaiser shut up suddenly, as if reminding himself not to babble like a salesman.
As if, thought Angie, he were trying to mold himself into a brash extrovert, but it didn't come naturally to him. She felt a growing sympathy. 'So you want to—write an article about him?'
'That's about it. Yes.' Kaiser looked relieved.
Still an element of suspicion persisted. 'If you want to interview this man, have you tried just asking?'
'Angelina—what do your friends call you? Angie? Angie, if it was only that easy.' The man sitting across from her shook his head. 'A lot of people have tried just asking Mr. Matthew Maule, over the years. Let me tell you right up front why I invited you to have a talk with me. What I really hope to have you do is, eventually, put in a word for me so I can get an interview.'
'Wait a minute, wait a minute. I don't even know him.'
'But you're going to know him. Right? All I say now is
Angie's coffee had arrived. She added a little nondairy creamer, picked up the heavy cup, and sipped at it absently. Not as bad as you got in a lot of these places.
She was intrigued by the man across from her, but had the feeling that she wasn't close to understanding him. She said: 'You know… some people might say you have a hell of a lot of nerve.'
'I know.' Kaiser let his gaze slide over her shoulder. His forehead wrinkled as if the mild accusation pained him. It was hard to tell how much, if any, of the pain was real 'People do say that, all the time. It's one of the hazards of my business, and so far I've managed to live through
Angie found herself hesitating between annoyance and laughter. 'I tell you, I don't even know the man, this Mr. Maule,' she said at last. 'How in the world am I supposed to persuade him to give you an interview? Assuming that I wanted to?'
Her companion nodded thoughtfully. He raised his cup to his lips—she noticed now that he was wearing a golden wedding ring on one strong finger—then put it down as if struck by a sudden idea. 'If you don't want to risk offending the reclusive Mr. Maule by helping me boost his reputation—then how about just helping me defend it, for a start? You won't have to ask him anything.'
'Excuse me?'
Kaiser shook his head and put on the expression of one forced to contemplate something distasteful 'There are a few rumors about him—I don't believe them for a moment. And I wouldn't pass these stories on to anyone I didn't know was going to be his friend. They're ugly things, and I'm not going to repeat them in full even to you. But there's one in particular—it has to do with the way his condo here in Chicago is said to be decorated. Outrageous, sexist, obscene—you get me, I'm not talking about art here. I'm talking exploitation.'
'I'm sorry, I don't—'
'I'm not talking artistic nudes. I mean really exploitive pictures of women. Bondage and sadism. Photographs and paintings, even murals painted right on the walls. Let me repeat, I don't believe the truth of such a thing for a minute. But if I can't get in to see the place, how can I deny it authoritatively?'
'Mr. Kaiser, I hope you don't think I'm going to try to sneak you in there. To snoop around his paintings and pictures, I suppose you'd want to take photographs too. Whatever your good intentions. As I keep telling you, I've never even met the man myself, I—'
'Sure, sure.' Her companion's tone was soothing, and he made sideways brushing motions with his large, capable-looking hands. 'No, no, I'm not trying to push you into doing anything like that.' The way Kaiser made it sound now, that he might talk Angie into sneaking or smuggling him in must have been really the furthest idea from his thoughts. 'But let me say this. If you, after having actually been in the apartment, would consent to talk with me
