column.
'Tell me something – when you say a little birdie, are you referring to a female source? Because if it was a guy who told you, you'd say ‘a little bird,’ right?'
'Would I? Never actually thought of it that way.'
'You still haven't answered my question.'
His voice hardens. 'A good newsman doesn't reveal sources.'
'Way I hear it you deal in gossip.'
'‘Gossip is news, old boy’ – that's what dear old Waldo used to say whenever some scamp challenged the honor of his profession. Then he'd instruct by naming several of the great gossip-mongers: Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw, Madame de Sevigne… even Shakespeare, if you know how to read him. The list is long, a rollcall of greats. So let there be no mistake – what I write is news. What people say and do and think at social gatherings – that's the very essence of news. And now – would you believe it? – they study Waldo's old ‘About the Town’ columns in a course on a local social history at Calista State. He was not only this town's anecdotist, he was its chronicler, its Boswell.' Deval squints, makes an I'm-a-modest-fellow face. 'I like to think my own raconteuring, if there is such a word, meets the high standard he set.'
Taking in this little oration, I begin to understand why some of my media colleagues are so bedazzled. It's a style that either seduces you or totally turns you off. I put myself in the latter category.
'When you're ready to identify your little birdie, Deval, I'll consider having a chat. Until then, please leave me alone.'
He stares at me, astonished. Watching his throat contract beneath his ascot, I know he's thinking up a rejoinder to save face. Finally, he comes out with it:
'‘Have you no decency, suh?’' he asks, switching to a Southern accent. '‘At long last. Have you no decency?’' Then, resuming the phony British intonation: 'Those were Amy Counsel Welch's words to Senator McCarthy back in the Fifties, days when class still reigned and a gentleman didn't behave rudely toward his betters.'
He displays a steely little grin, picks up his drink, and, with studied dignity, withdraws.
Pam arrives, panting and apologetic. Seems some CNN honchos flew in unexpectedly this afternoon. She pecks my cheek, says she hopes I'm not annoyed.
'Not at all,' I tell her. 'By the way, have you talked to Deval?' She shakes her head. I recount our conversation. 'Do you think he was the guy who talked to Johnny at the motel?'
'Probably not. I doubt he'd strike anyone as a cop type. But let's face it, he's a pro. He's got his antennae out. You've been asking a lot of people a lot of questions.'
'I wonder why he's interested?'
'Probably because the Foster case is a dog and he's always on the lookout for a juicy item. Look at it from his point of view – this weird guy, David Weiss, turns up in town asking questions about an old murder case. When he finds out you're Dr. Thomas Rubin's son, then he will have something juicy, won't he?'
'I hate the way he calls me ‘old boy.’'
'He calls everyone that. And I got news for you, darling – I can't stand him either.'
I drive her out to Covington, show her the Gold Coast, then turn onto Indiana where I park. Waling past the coffeehouses and boutiques, Pam responds to the neighborhood.
'Gays with poodles. Dykes with German shepherds. Kind of a mini Greenwich Village.' Outside Spezia, she sniffs the air. 'Um! smells good! Is this the place?'
Jurgen Hoff's greeting is smooth and warm.
'Mr. Weiss, how nice to see you again.'
He leads us to a small table in back. 'This is absolutely our best table… from the romantic point of view,' he adds.
Almost immediately we receive two complimentary kirs, apparently standard treatment for friends of the house.
Pam lets me know she's impressed. 'He's handsome and oh-so suave,' she says, gesturing at Jurgen, now chatting with a middle-aged couple at the bar.
'He served in the French Foreign Legion. They say he killed a man in Mexico.'
'I get it, a Bogart type. He looks like a womanizer, too.'
'He likes black call girls. Doesn't get it on with white chicks.'
'Hmm, kinky Bogie. Interesting…'
I've got to hand it to Pam, the way she takes in everything I say without asking where I heard it. this, I realize with admiration, is her trademark technique – getting people to talk by not asking questions.
Near the end of our meal, Jurgen stops by to ask if everything's been all right. As Pam assures him it has, I start a quick sketch of his face.
'You know Tony the bartender over at The Townsend?' I ask.
'Sure, known him for years.'
'Please, Jurgen, hold it like that. I want to get the line of your nose.'
Jurgen, suave as always, indulges me with an ironic grin.
'Good.' I draw his eyebrows, then his chin. 'I gather you and Tony worked together out at The Elms?'
Jurgen nods. 'Tony did a stint there. Most of the better old-time barmen did.'
'I like his mouth,' I tell Pam as I sketch. 'You've got a sensual mouth, Jurgen.' I glance at Pam. 'Don't you think?'
'Oh, very sensual,' she agrees.
'The other night, after I left here, I dropped in at Waldo's to ask Tony about Rakoubian. Tony said Max was kind of a sleazeball, that he did “bust-in stuff.’ Said he was close to Waldo Channing too.'
'That sounds about right,' Jurgen says. He appears unfazed by my questions.
'The other night you described Max as “one of the best.’'
'He was an excellent photographer, Mr. Weiss – one of the best in town.' Jurgen raises an eyebrow. 'Oh, I see, you thought I meant he was the best in – what? Human values?' Jurgen chuckles. 'Max was a good guy, but ethics weren't his strong suit. One time he showed me some private stuff he'd shot. Not nice pictures.' Jurgen winks at Pam. 'Okay now if I move?'
I release him. Jurgen lets his arms hang loose. 'Tough work, modeling. I had no idea.'
'I'd like to come back one day and do a serious portrait, sit you down, get you into a comfortable position. It wouldn’t take more than half an hour.'
Again he looks at Pam. 'Sounds like fun.'
'I'll call you.'
'Please.' He moves away.
Pam leans forward. 'God, what was that all about?'
'Just one of the curious contradictions surrounding the cast of characters.'
'Characters in the Flamingo thing?'
'Uh huh.'
'And am I going to be privy to these contradictions?'
'You'll be privy soon enough,' I assure her.
'You know. You're quite the bad cat in bed,' Pam tells me, a couple hours later. 'Tomcatty, frisky.' I start to laugh. 'What's so funny?' she demands.
'The first time I slept with you I thought: “Making love with her's like driving a Lamborghini, so smooth and elegant.’'
