Cutting Edge

would be down to admit him in a few moments.

When the door opened, DeVane was not surprised to see Melissa Phillips herself standing in the entry. She was an attractive woman. Small framed, thin, her blond hair just slightly laced with gray.

The widow had appraised him with intent, pale blue eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Nemaine,” she said, and smiled. “I’d thought your appointment at that literary agency might delay you… it can be horrible getting up here from downtown.”

DeVane shrugged, returned her smile with one he had studied on other faces and taught himself to reproduce.

“A playwright’s timing has to be perfect, and I try not to miss my beats,” he said, taking her extended hand. Her fingers were long, slender. “It’s an honor, Mrs. Phillips. You have a distinguished reputation as a benefactress of the arts.”

A glint in the widow’s eyes. They met his own.

“I’m charmed and flattered to know my efforts are appreciated,” she said. “And please call me Melissa… I’m not that much older than you.”

DeVane stood with her hand in his. Behind her, a glimpse of a high-walled entry parlor of palatial dimensions. He was struck by the burnished gold chandelier that hung from its vaulted ceiling, clean white candles in its curved, graceful arms.

She noticed him looking in through the halfway open door, and glanced over her shoulder to see what had caught his attention.

DeVane was quick; he had worked hard at perfecting the cheat.

“I apologize for becoming distracted, but the chandelier is magnificent,” he said. “Gilded wood, isn’t it? I’d imagine it must date back to the English Restoration.”

Melissa Phillips faced him again, impressed.

“Very close,” she said, and opened her door wide to admit him. “It’s British. From the early eighteenth century, though. You’ll find it even more beautiful at night with the candles lighted.”

He had nodded and entered.

As DeVane followed her into the parlor, he had felt almost like a treasure hunter who had unearthed a trove of wealth he had sought for a lifetime — struggling, digging, boring past endless layers of dirt and stone to expose it — and now that he had broken through, now that it was within reach, had discovered it contained an even greater hoard than he had allowed himself to envision.

He wanted to see every prize, take it all in at once…

But here Harlan DeVane’s string of memories broke off like a film reel that had run out inside a vacated projection booth.

In his cabin on board the Chimera, his body had finally released its tension and let him plunge into dreamless sleep.

* * *

“I gotta admit, Petey, you were a hundred percent right about the Gabonese having a knack for entertaining their visitors,” Scull said cheerfully, his voice raised above the piano-accompanied singing from the club’s round central stage. “If I’d realized how, you wouldn’t have heard me complain.”

“Great,” Nimec said.

“Also, you should’ve told me the cooking was Senegalese. Didn’t I hear you mention that you been wanting to try African food for the longest time?”

“Could be you did.”

“Well, that goes double for me, believe it or not. Which is why—”

“I would have told you,” Nimec said. “If I’d known.”

“But what about that ad you read?”

Nimec snapped a look at him.

“I suppose I missed the part about the cuisine,” he said. “I had other priorities on my mind.”

“Hey, don’t get defensive on me, I’m just saying it’s too bad you didn’t know.” Scull slurped from his spoon. “Anyway, this fish soup’s delicious. The spices, boy, they’ve got a sneaky kick. The heat kind of creeps over your tongue, front to back. Then wham!”

“Glad you’re enjoying it.”

“I’ll have to remember its name. Better yet, I should ask the waiter to scribble it on a piece of paper for me, tiebou dienn, right?”

“I think so.”

“Because it’s one I don’t want to forget. When you get down to the rice and stuff at the bottom, take my word, it’s freakin’ bliss—”

“I’m glad.”

Scull looked at him. “You already said that.”

“Said what?”

“Forget it. How’s your chicken yassa?”

“Good.”

“So why the long face?” Scull said. “Gunville couldn’t have steered us toward better eats. Doesn’t have a bad set of pipes, either. Though, you want me to be truthful, I’d still prefer he wasn’t singing in French so I could understand the words.”

Nimec didn’t answer.

Scull shrugged, dunked his spoon into his bowl, slurped. Nimec looked at him across the table, trying to decide whether his effusive praise of the food and song offered at Scintillements was authentic, a vaudeville routine intended to needle him, or perhaps a typically obnoxious Scullian mixture of the two. Regardless, Scull had succeeded in wearing his patience down to the thinnest of tatters. Or contributed to it, at least.

He turned toward the middle of the room, which neither sparkled, glittered, nor squirmed with crayon-colored lasers but instead fit the travel brochure description to its very letter. A sedate, softly lit, classic dinner club atmosphere. Around the stage were about thirty tables filled with well-dressed men and women, an appreciable percentage of whom were expatriates from the United States and elsewhere. On stage, Pierre Gunville, crew master of the Africana, sat on a stool beside the baby grand, vocalizing a sentimental ballad he’d introduced as being about love gained, betrayed, and forsaken — speaking French and English for the benefit of his multinational audience. Gunville was clad in a black tux, wing-collared white shirt, and black cravat that had been gradually undone over the course of his performance to reveal a thick, braided gold chain around his neck. It was the most ostentatious thing about the place.

Nimec ate his food, listened, and waited. When he and Scull had arrived at their reserved table earlier, Gunville had come over from the stage — where he was doing a sound check or something — proclaimed his great delight at making their acquaintance, and guided them through the menu, recommending his favorite house specialties. He had then explained that singing at the club was both his joy and sideline, a bit of diversionary moonlighting to compensate for the ennui and accumulated pressures of his hard, extended stints at sea. It was his wish, he’d said, that they enjoy the first of his two half-hour sets during dinner. He would promptly rejoin them for a drink at intermission and be pleased, indeed eager, to discuss whatever matters were on their minds relating to his primary vocation.

By that, Nimec assumed he had meant his captaining of the Africana.

Now Gunville’s sad serenade seemed to be concluding. Or crescendoing. Or whatever the hell love’s-loss songs did when they finally wrapped up. The pianist, whom Gunville had introduced only as “Maestro,” struck a resonating minor chord on the keyboard, added a blue trickle of melody. Then Gunville dramatically rose off his stool, lifted the microphone close to his mouth with his right hand, clenched his left hand into a trembling impassioned fist at his side, and ended his number with a sustained, sonorous note and a dashing full bow. Nimec noticed his lingering eye contact with a woman seated alone at a little table for two near the stage, her hands raised higher than the rest as patters of laid-back but appreciative applause spread throughout the room. She was blond, shapely and had on a sleeveless dress with a plunging back line.

Slipping the mike onto its stand now, Gunville thanked the crowd for their kind and wonderful reception, “Merci, merci beaucoup mes amis!” Then he gave the blond another glance, momentarily touched a hand to his heart, and exchanged intimate smiles with her before stepping off the stage.