“And this had better be good, friend, not some wild fairy-tale goose chase,” said Kelly. “We had plans to connect with Basie’s crew backstage at the Olympia tonight.”
“No, it’s no fairy tale,” said Oliver, pulling out his wallet and taking all the cash out of it. “First of all, as promised, here’s the down payment on the fee. It’s all I have on me at the moment, but there’s plenty more where that came from. Now, did you bring the jumper cables? I’m going to need them to get this damn Chevy moving.”
“Yep, though I’m not sure our little car’s gonna be able to get that big ol’ Chevy going,” said Red.
“Well, let’s give it a try. And the shovels?”
“We got ’em,” said Red. “We had to, um, borrow them from the building manager.”
“Fine, excellent. If all goes to plan you’ll be able to return them by morning. Now, let’s see, where to next?” Oliver said, taking a folded-up document out of his wallet and laying it out gingerly across the hood of the car.
Kelly looked down over his shoulder. “What you got there, Oliver?”
“Looks like some crazy-assed treasure map,” Flats said.
Oliver flashed a grin. “An astute observation, Flats. It actually is a treasure map of sorts. It shows where, back during the war, you see, a man I know hid—”
“—crazy-assed treasure map,” said Red.
Kelly shook his head. “And we could be hanging with Basie.”
V
The chef looked down at the little girl. Noelle held the egg up. “Fry it on both sides, please, and keep the yolk soft, then place it on a piece of dry white toast.”
The chef looked around impatiently. “You should not be here. The house manager will be very upset. And you cannot bring me some random ingredient in off the street and expect me to simply cook it up. If we start here, where will it stop, will you bring in a cow? Will you walk in a pig? If I do this for you, there will soon be a line of people from here to Les Halles asking me to boil their cabbages and bake their bread.”
But the little girl did not move, she just kept holding the egg up to his face.
Noelle had found the egg that morning, still warm, and tucked in the yellow folds of her hotel bedcovers. Sitting across the room from her, atop the couch in a pose that was both haughty and aloof, the chicken pretended not to notice that the girl had found it.
The little girl had risen late, feeling rested though slightly nervous that Elga had still not returned. She hoped the old woman turned up soon, before any employees came knocking at the door with questions about the hotel bill. But Noelle did not let herself worry too much, the chicken was there with her, after all, and it had already proved itself very useful in keeping her out of trouble. Noelle picked up the big black phone and called room service, ordering a creme brulee, some sherbet, a half dozen beignets, and a slice of chocolate cake for breakfast. She ordered a bowl of raw rice for the chicken—that was what Elga had been feeding it and the bird seemed to like it. Then Noelle nestled into the high pillows and studied the egg.
She was still mulling it over as the breakfast cart was rolled in. Sitting on the end of the bed, she carefully tucked the white napkin into her nightgown and gobbled down all the deliciousness, while keeping one eye focused on the egg. She pondered the very real possibility that it was magical and might grant her a series of wishes, like the magnificent genies from the storybooks. She ticked off her possible wishes. First, she thought, she wanted to become the most splendid and celebrated prima ballerina in the world. She imagined a sea of roses falling at her feet as bouquets were tossed up to her on the Opera House stage. Next, she thought, she wished to be a movie star, like her idol Audrey Hepburn, wearing glistening pearls and diamonds that sparkled as the flashbulbs went off, capturing her kissing her tall, handsome husband on the Cannes red carpet. Oh yes, she thought, who will my husband be? Who? Who? With her mouth full of chocolate cake, Noelle was now bouncing on the mattress, tickled by all the possibilities. She quickly ran through her options, deciding she did not want to marry another film star, because they always had to kiss the other pretty actresses in other movies and she did not like to share. She did not want to marry a president or king, they were often overthrown or guillotined; and she did not want to marry a soldier, even a heroic one, because they were always being shot. Businessmen were boring, doctors came home with diseases, and race-car drivers had a tendency to crash and burn. She thought about a young man who worked in her village, helping a local beekeeper. He was a tall, thin boy with curly brown hair whom she knew only from watching him walk through town carrying his smokers and gear, often awkwardly weighed down by his harvested honey. He was shy, and she was shy, but by the time she scraped out the last bit of creme brulee from the bottom of its ramekin, she had decided on her course of action.
First, however, she had to get the kitchen to prepare this egg for her, which was turning out to be difficult. “Please, sir,” Noelle said, “it is only one egg.”
The stubborn chef threw up his hands. “I have said no, and little girls need to learn that no means no.”
“No only means no until you say yes,” she said with a smile.
He returned to the onions he had been mincing.
Noelle thought for a moment, wondering what Elga would do in this situation. “Hmmm, well, I am sorry,” she finally said, looking around the kitchen. “The chef at my father’s house would cook it for me. You know, his kitchen is a lot like this, only a little bigger.” The hotel chef kept chopping at his onions. “He is an old chef, Louis is his name. Sweet Louis,” she continued. “I think he has grown half blind and now Papa does not like his food at all, he says his broths are flavorless and watery and his roasts are so dull even salt cannot help them.” The chef slowed, listening as Noelle spun her story. “Yes, it won’t be long before Louis is gone and Papa needs a new chef. Have you ever been to Monte Carlo?”
The chef put down his knife and came over to the girl. “How do you want your egg?”
“Cooked on both sides, but keep it runny, and then put it on a slice of dry white toast.”
He took it from her hands. “You are a silly little girl. I will put it between two pieces of toast, then you can eat it like a sandwich.”
“Thank you.” She curtsied and the chef shook his head.
A few moments later, she carefully carried the fried-egg sandwich on its white china plate down the long, high-ceilinged hallway back to her suite. There, she hopped into the big, comfortable velvet chair and gave the chicken a conspiratorial wink before opening her mouth wide and taking her first bite.
Within seconds she was lying in convulsions on the floor, kicking her legs spasmodically, flailing her arms, and snapping her neck back and forth. Her eyes had rolled up so that only the whites showed and her veins bulged and pulsed out from her skin as the visions flooded her mind with the force of a storm’s foaming waters breaking through an overwhelmed dam.
Over the next two hours, in the muscular thrall of this unrelenting seizure, Noelle saw many things, but she did not see the beekeeping boy.
VI
Will was in Detroit. He wasn’t sure how he had gotten there, but it was a sunny day and he was walking down Congress Street toward Woodward Avenue. There was the Guardian Building straight ahead, with the classical Buell Building towering up on his left. He could smell the yeast from the Stroh’s brewery and hear the distant clickety-clack of a streetcar traveling down Michigan Avenue. Then Will stopped, puzzled. On the corner where the Ford Building should have been there stood a weathered saltbox farmhouse with white clapboard siding. A little beyond that a Holstein cow grazed on a patch of grass by the intersection with Griswold.
The screen door of the farmhouse slammed opened and Oliver’s friend Jake stepped onto the front porch. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and a copy of
