Shift: A Novel

comb etched with some sort of Indian scrollwork. Despite the lack of hairspray or makeup (aside from some elaborate paint around the eyes, which gave her face the look of an Egyptian death mask)—not to mention the slim trousers and button-down blouse she wore—her extreme thinness and pinched tones, along with the emerald nugget on her right hand, gave her away as a member of the aristocracy.

“Miss Hitchcock,” he said, taking a chance. He decided to drop the beatnik pose and revert to his Southern accent. “I’m so glad we’ve finally run into each other!”

“Have we met?” Peggy Hitchcock said, looking, in the manner of one whose every social interaction is cushioned by millions of dollars, completely unconcerned that she might have forgotten an acquaintance’s name. “I don’t seem to recall your face, or your accent for that matter. Southerners are as common as dodos around here, if not quite as funny-looking.”

BC had no idea how to take this, and decided to pass over it. He extended his hand.

“Beauregard Gamin. We, that is I, am nothing more than a gatecrasher. I was at the Blue Note to see Miles blow”—BC had in fact read a review by Nat Hentoff of the performance in the Village Voice—“and a pretty hep character mentioned your pad was the place to meet the coolest cats in town.”

“The coolest cats, you say?” Hitchcock’s eyebrows went up in amusement. “I think Miles is in the library. I tried to get him to play, but he’s having more fun standing around the musicians and intimidating them.”

BC had assumed the faint sound of jazz in the apartment came from a hi-fi. He was impressed, and showed it.

“Back in Oxford, Mississippi, where I come from, the only Negroes we ever let indoors wore livery.” He glanced at a beautiful Negress who had her arm around a bearded white man. “You can’t imagine how exciting this is for me.”

“Change will come to the South just as it has to the North. If it’s not Martin Luther King, it’ll be Mary Jane.”

“A wonderful girl! I hope to meet her one day!”

Hitchcock looked at BC sharply again. “So, did I hear you say you were looking for Richard Alpert before?”

“I’ve heard that he traffics in, how shall I put it, mind-opening experiences?”

Hitchcock was silent for so long that BC was sure she was going to throw him out. But finally she laughed and said, “My God, Mr. Gamin, you practically sound like a G-man. Just call it acid, please.”

BC lowered his eyes modestly. “Pardon me, Miss Hitchcock. It must be that Southern reserve.”

“I’m from New England. From my point of view, you’re all flatulent windbags.”

“I, ah …” BC had never spoken to a woman who was so matter-of-factly rude. “I believe flatulent windbag is redundant.”

Hitchcock threw back her head and laughed the kind of laugh that would have caused BC’s mother to stab her in the throat with a kitchen knife.

“Oh, you are a hoot, Mr. Gamin. You hold on. I’m going to see if I can find Dickie. Don’t hesitate to grab him if you see him. Big guy, thick beard, rather less hair on his head. Black turtleneck with a gold medallion on his chest.”

BC waited fifteen minutes before he realized Hitchcock probably wasn’t coming back, and then began to make his way through the apartment in search of her. He’d just finished his second revolution when he turned and collided with a large, solid man. Coarse strands of beard rasped across his lips and he felt something hard strike his chest. A pair of hands landed on his hipbones, pushing him back a few inches, then held him there.

“Easy there, young fellow,” a soothing voice, mildly redolent of anise, breathed into his face.

BC wanted to step back, but the hands on his hips rooted him to the spot. He looked up into a tangle of black beard, liberally laced with gray. A pair of warm brown eyes sat atop furred cheeks, glinting at him like a benevolent bear’s.

“I, uh, that is, pardon me …”

“Do we know each other?” the man said, still holding BC in place. A big cavey warmth radiated from his chest and stomach.

“No.” BC’s eyes fell to the gold medallion dangling from the man’s throat. “That is, are you Richard Alpert?”

A smile appeared in the beard.

“As long as you’re not a federal officer or vice cop, I am.”

He laughed, and the shaking was just enough to dislodge his hands. BC stepped back.

“My name is Beauregard Gamin.” BC stuck out his hand, which Alpert took in both of his and held softly but firmly, as though it were a wild bird. “I was hoping to meet you.”

“And what have I done to earn the attention of such a handsome young peacock?”

BC grinned in spite of himself, smoothing the front of his vest.

“I heard that you, that is, it’s my understanding—”

“Oh, are you the Southern gentleman Peggy mentioned? Goodness, she didn’t do you justice.”

“Do you think you can help me out?”

Alpert smirked. “It’s my mission in life to help out men such as yourself. Open your mouth and say aahh.”

BC blushed. Before he could say anything, however, Alpert laughed and said, “Just kidding. Follow me.”

He led BC into a nearby bedroom where two—no, three—legs protruded from a pile of jackets. He reached into