right?” Again, Isobel nodded. “But we do have Sherman’s description. Can we use it? Can the New York Times publish a story about a physical description of Leonard Martin that differs from the public record? Can we do that based solely on what you say somebody else said?” He paused for a long moment. Isobel said nothing and she did not nod her head. She waited. “No,” he said. “We can’t. If we don’t have a first-hand sighting or a cooperative source, which I gather Walter Sherman is not, plus a second witness, we will not print a description for which we have no backup. Am I clear? Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now go back and write it. Give me every little detail Sherman gave you about Leonard Martin’s appearance. Do it on paper or on your own computer-not here. I don’t want it showing up anywhere on anyone’s hard disk or mainframe or wherever in hell all this shit gets stored. Print it out and give it to me. I’ll keep it at home. You and I will be the only ones who know, but I must know. There has to be a record. Believe me, the time will come when there has to be a record. And you and I have to know what we’re looking at when we see it.”
“You won’t share it with anyone? And we won’t print it?”
“Absolutely correct. I know you speak French and some other languages, even some I’ve never heard of, but you speak English too. You heard me. You do understand me, right?”
Isobel smiled at the big man. “Eai, I, Han jee, Io,” she said-yes, in Kiribati, Rotuman, Hindi, and the standard Fijian she spoke as a child.
Mel Gold grinned from ear to ear, then told her to get out of town until after New Year’s. He’d get someone else to finish writing the Louise Hollingsworth story. She would get her byline with whoever wrote the final draft.
“Now get out of here. You’re on the beach for a week or so.”
“D-d-dog days of summer, eh, Mel?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he said. “It’s December. It’s fucking Christmas, for Christ’s sake.”
Isobel gave him a kiss on the cheek, called Walter, and headed for the airport.
“Ike is close,” said Isobel. “Einstein published two theories of relativity. The first when he was only twenty- three years old. Can you believe that? He called it the ‘special theory of relativity,’ and ten years later he published a second one he called the ‘general theory of relativity.’ Relativity takes into account different points of view- literally, like Ike pointed out-and says that what you think is real could be seen in a different way. Einstein was all about questioning the interchangeability of absolute time. And this fits because his theory holds that the idea that every object has a form and a mass that are constant is false. He also deals with heavy mass objects, saying they actually curve with the universe, which explains gravity, although I don’t think that has much to do with the size of this boat.”
“Damn,” Ike said. Billy and Walter had nothing to add. They were indeed speechless. Each assumed the others, like himself, were still in the dark. “Damn. Where’d you learn that, child?”
Isobel said, “St John’s.”
“Not here you didn’t,” said Billy.
“That’s for damn sure,” said Ike, poking through his pockets, looking for another cigarette.
“I didn’t mean here, St. John. I said St. John’s, with an s.”
“What’s that?” Billy asked.
“It’s a college,” said Walter. “Unlike the three of us, this charming and lovely young lady is an educated woman.”
“That true?” Ike asked. “St. John’s a college?”
“It is,” Isobel said. “A fine institution of higher learning. In Annapolis, Maryland.”
“And you learned about Einstein?”
“I did Billy. I surely did. But don’t hold that against me.”
“You studied it, but I almost got it right, didn’t I?” Ike was bubbling with pride and soon smoking with it too. Isobel smiled and nodded at the old man.
Walter said, “I still say that sounds like an argument to me. Write it up, Billy.”
“Write what up?”
“Einstein, Stugots, and Isobel.”
“I don’t know what that means,” said Ike, “but it sounds good.” He shook his head, giving the okay to Billy.
“What’s the ‘Isobel’ for?” Billy asked.
“Beauty,” said Walter. “Beauty and knowledge.”
“A mighty powerful combination,” Ike said.
Once more the bartender with an uncertain past and more than one name picked up the chunk of blue chalk lying near the register and wrote on the familiar blackboard: Einstein/Stugots/Isobel. He poured himself a glass of tomato juice, took a swig, and said to no one in particular, “It ain’t ‘Stugots.’ It’s ‘The Stugots.’”
New Orleans
Leonard rented a one -bedroom second-floor apartment on St. Ann near Burgundy, a block away from N. Rampart Street, the northern end of the French Quarter. He paid a premium holiday rate, taking the place for both Christmas and New Year’s. He’d seen an ad for the apartment on the Internet and made all his arrangements by e-mail. The owner told him there had been a cancellation and he was lucky to find a place, any place, still available inside the French Quarter. Leonard e-mailed back that he wanted to rent the apartment through the month of January. He told the owner he and his wife loved New Orleans and this was a special surprise for her. He mentioned he was already in transit, and, as such, it would be more convenient if he paid in cash when he arrived. Leonard called when he was less than an hour’s drive from New Orleans, arriving purposely after dark. The owner, a middle-aged gay man named Erubio, was waiting at the entrance to the building with the key. The transaction took only a moment. Leonard did his best to look away from the man’s face as he handed him the money, and he wore a floppy, brown cowboy hat pulled down across his eyes. He handed the money over in an envelope, took the key, and disappeared inside. He never said where his wife was and was not asked. Although he paid for six weeks, he intended to be gone by the middle of January.
Leonard had been there ten days, far away from Vermont. Newspaper and TV reports speculated he was headed for, or already holed up in, New York City gunning for the rest of the crew at Stein, Gelb. The New York Post twice reported Leonard Martin sightings complete with fuzzy, grainy, out-of-focus photos in which, of course, his face was never shown. They were all photos of fat guys with long, light-colored hair. One such picture, supposedly showing Leonard leaving a movie theater on Third Avenue, made most of the major papers in the country. He saw it on page one of the New Orleans Times-Picayune over coffee and funnel cake loaded with powered sugar, in a tiny restaurant near Jackson Square. He laid the paper, photo up, next to his coffee cup on the small, round table and looked at himself in the mirrored wall. He looked as much like the man in the picture as he did like Santa Claus. His waitress came over and refilled his empty cup. Gazing at the paper, she said, “I hope they catch that guy, but I hope he gets all the others first.” Then she smiled at the real Leonard Martin and asked if he wanted anything else.
New Year’s Eve was already a thing of the past, and the Super Bowl still weeks from kickoff. The French Quarter was crowded anyway. Even the unusually cold weather didn’t keep the crowds away or the best players from coming out to blow their horns. In the mornings, Leonard took the twenty-minute stroll to Jackson Square or Decatur Street down by the Mississippi River. He’d have breakfast in one of the many small coffee shops in the area, read the morning paper, and take in some fresh air. After two winters in the mountains of New Mexico, a chilly morning in New Orleans was like a spring day. The rest of the time he spent in the apartment, on the Internet, making calculations, checking the spreadsheets Carter Lawrence had sent him. Most nights he walked up the block to the corner of St. Ann and N. Rampart to Donna’s Bar amp; Grill. He liked Donna’s because the place had the casual atmosphere of a neighborhood bar or a slightly rundown Cajun hangout. Of course there were always a few out-of-towners and tourists, but Donna’s was off the beaten path for the conventioneers at the Hilton or the Marriott, and certainly not the kind of place visited by the folks from Iowa in the Big Easy on a two- night, three-day package holiday.
