Remember Me, Irene

“Roberta’s out of town,” I said. “I wouldn’t even know where to look for Lucas. I was such a jerk that day. Ran away from him.”

“You expect too much of yourself,” he said. “You didn’t know who he was. He scared you. That’s not your fault. And you didn’t make him crawl into a bottle, either.”

“No,” I said, but grew silent.

“Listen, from what you’ve told me about him, you’re probably right-some time after graduate school, something must have really gone wrong. But right now, until he contacts you, there’s not much you can do about him. I could ask the guys who work that section of town-”

“No, don’t. Just knowing where he is wouldn’t be enough. And it might embarrass him. I don’t want Lucas to think I’m putting pressure on him. He’ll come to see me when he’s ready.”

We came to another section of the city, this one much more affluent than the one we had just left. Separated by one of the oil fields that have brought money into Las Piernas since the 1930s, the two neighborhoods might just as easily have been separated by outer space. Here in the Knolls, as the enclave was called, big, sloping lawns fronted large homes.

The Terrace isn’t in one of the fancier parts of the Knolls, but it is on an actual knoll. It’s at the end of a small street, bordered by the high walls of one of the housing developments. One of the smaller lots of oil pumps is across from it. Despite the noise made by the rhythmic, rolling, rocking-horse motions of the pumps outside, the restaurant itself is quiet.

Even though it’s packed every night, something about the Terrace invites its diners to speak in low voices. Dark paneled wood, candlelight, and traditional fare-no menu items that belong in a lab notebook. Perhaps a little straitlaced, but reliable.

Before the maitre d’ could do much with his look-one that said he wished he wasn’t too polite to pinch his nose shut-I said, “We’re just here for a drink,” and guided Frank into the bar.

“Going to drink your dinner?” Frank asked as we sat at a small table.

“No, but you can make a meal out of the appetizers. We can’t have dinner here tonight, anyway. They didn’t have any tables open in the dining room by the time I called.”

“Now you tell me.”

I shrugged. “This will be cheaper.”

He laughed. “I guess we can stop by Bernie’s on the way home.” He wasn’t looking at me as he said this. He was looking around the room, checking out the occupants. Cop habit of his. He caught me catching him at it and asked, “Do you need to take a stroll around the restaurant to look for Moffett and his guests?”

“I could, but I think I already know where he is. We’re sitting next to a private dining room,” I said, pointing at a hallway off the bar.

“So that’s what the note on the reservation’s list meant.”

“Mr. Harriman, I’m dazzled. I didn’t think you had a chance to read it while the maitre d’ was snubbing us.”

“I’m full of tricks. You’ve been in this private dining room?”

“Not as an invitee. Are you familiar with the Brown Act?”

“The law that gets you and all your pals at theExpress into government meetings, right?”

“Well, yes, but there’s more to it than that. Without getting into a lot of details, let’s just say one of the most important things the Brown Act does is to prohibit local public agencies from meeting secretly.”

“Public agencies?”

“Local legislative bodies, for the most part. School boards, city councils, and commissions are included. It’s a state law. One of the best sections of the Brown Act-great for reporters, anyway-extends the requirement for open and public meetings to any committee or task force those councils and commissions appoint-even advisory groups.”

I paused in my civics lecture while the waitress came to take our drink order.

“You’re going to tell me what this has to do with the private dining room at the Terrace, right?” Frank asked.

“Patience. So-these commissions can’t exclude reporters from meetings, right? And ‘meetings’ aren’t just those formal gatherings in the council chambers. The law can extend to social functions. Parties, picnics, you name it.”

“Wait a minute. You mean the city council members can’t have a party without inviting theExpress?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Depends on what they discuss. If the city council members all get together for a picnic, they don’t have to invite the public-unlessthey start discussing public business. They can’t evade the law just by going to the park and playing Frisbee while they tell each other how they plan to vote on a zoning change.”

“I’m beginning to see where this is leading. Someone held a meeting here and you found out about it.”

“Right. The Redevelopment Agency. People with business and construction interests used to invite the city planning commission members down to the Terrace for dinner meetings. That’s in violation of the Brown Act. Someone leaked word of one of the meetings to me, and I barged in on it-it was a great story.”

Frank shifted a little in his chair. The drinks arrived, and he took a long sip of scotch before asking cautiously, “You do remember that I’m employed by the city? I mean, I won’t get in the way of your doing your job, but-”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to barge in on this meeting, Frank. I can’t.”

“Why not? You just said-”

“Moffett doesn’t qualify. He was the city manager, and now he’s a private citizen. The people who are in there with him have been involved in city projects, but none of them are members of a public board or advisory committee-at least, not right now. So it’s a private meeting.”

“So why are we here? Were you going to try to eavesdrop?”

“TheExpress may be cheap, Frank, but we haven’t crawled down to tabloid level yet. No, I just want to know who showed up for this cozy little gathering. And I want them to know that I’m around-that will be enough to make a couple of them nervous. If I get a chance, I’ll try to corner one of them on the way out. Even if I don’t, someone may want to talk later.”

“Any ideas about what’s up?”

“Not exactly. But it’s got to be connected to whatever caused Moffett to resign.”

WE ORDERED ENOUGH APPETIZERSto keep the alcohol from going straight to our stomachs. We made the most of our chance to be alone, to talk, to catch up on the day’s events-even though I was keeping one eye on the hallway near the private dining room.

After we had been there about an hour, Andre Selman came out of that hallway. I hadn’t seen him in more than a decade. His once-blond hair had turned silver, he had gone soft in the middle, but otherwise he hadn’t changed much. For some odd reason, he seemed shorter.

Most of the women in SOS would probably say that Andre’s charm was more powerful than his looks, but at the moment, neither was in evidence. He looked like hell. He was dabbing a handkerchief across a perspiring forehead and he was pale. His blue eyes watched nothing but the carpet as he hurried along. I thought he might be headed for the restroom, but his destination was one of the telephone booths. Like everything else in the Terrace, the phone booths are old-fashioned-real booths with doors made of wood and glass. By the time I figured out that Andre hadn’t gone into the restroom, he was returning to the dinner party. It was on his way back that he spotted me. His eyes widened, then his face screwed up in anger. For a moment it looked as if he would storm his way over to me, but then he seemed to notice Frank.

Frank had realized some moments before that I was watching someone, and had turned in his chair and started watching, too. I couldn’t see Frank’s face, but Andre’s seemed to go pale again. Andre hurried down the hallway to the dining room.

Frank turned back to me, a self-satisfied grin on his face. “Well, well, well,” he said, and finished off his drink.

“Out with it.”

“That, I take it, was the old boyfriend?”