Part 9 (1/2)

”It has a gold lock and key, gold edging, the most charming gold studs in the tufted padding.” She runs her hand across the top of the book, then looks up at me.

”I ... I don't understand.”

”Oh,” she says, setting the book down. ”Usually I have a good sense about these things. You look like the diary type.”

I feel my face warming. ”Sorry, no. I really just have a question.” I take the address book from my purse and set it on the counter in front of her. ”Is this from your shop?” She tilts her head at me and then looks down at the book. She flips the cover open to the stamp on the inner leaf.

”I guess you already knew that,” she says.

My face grows warmer still. ”I do. I guess ... I suppose what I m asking is if you might, somehow, know anything about this purchase. If you might remember making this sale.”

”Do you know how many of these we might sell in a given week?” she asks with a clipped voice, looking back down at the Deau stamp.

”I'm sorry. Of course. Really, I have no idea. Pardon me,” I say, reaching out to retrieve the book.

”We sell less than one in a given week, on average,” she says, holding on to the book with pressed-together forefingers. ”Actually, we sell maybe one or two a year.”

I look up at her.

”It's not a comment on business, which is fair, all things considered,” she continues. ”It's just that this is a custom-made book, sewn with special French thread, hand-pressed leather. We had to order it specially.”

I nod, not seeing.'

”This book,” she says, holding it up between two fingers. ”This tiny book costs two hundred and fifty dollars.”

”Two hundred and fifty dollars,” I repeat.

”Yes. This tiny book cost us two hundred and fifty dollars when the check bounced.”

”Oh.” I see at last.

”Oh indeed. Would you mind telling me how you came upon this book? We'd obviously be very interested in finding its owner.” She holds the book still, despite my unthinking effort to take it back again.

”Don't you know, from the check?”

Pursing her lips, she pulls out a small clipboard from under the counter. To it are attached a few checks and a list of names.

She slides the clipboard toward me, her finger pointing at one of the checks.

”This person does not exist. We don't know who pa.s.sed it.” It reads, John Davalos.

I feel a wave of disappointment. The name means nothing.

”Ring a bell?”

I say, ”No.”

I say no. But, on a hunch, I take the book from her tight little fingers.

And wish her a fine day. I leave too-quickly for her to try to take the book back.

I have the thought it might come in handy.

I do try, at first, to forget about the address book, too. What, after all, do I really know? But it keeps b.u.mping up against me, shoving itself in front of my face like a carnival huckster trailing after you as you hurry past, avoid eye contact, resist the spiel, the hot, fast patter of infinite and gaudy persuasion. Somehow, it lingers with me even more than the dirty playing card. That photo seemed part of Alice's ancient past, but this is Alice's- and Bill's-present.

It is with a vague twitch of guilt that I begin watching her. Before I know it, I find myself watching her everywhere. At Sunday dinner, at social events, at the new school year's first department meetings, I keep waiting to see a connection, a clue. A clue to what, though, really, after all.

There is a string I am pulling together, a string of question marks so long they are beginning to clatter against each other, and loudly.

I count them on my fingers, beginning to feel the fool: the missing credentials, the unexplained absences, the playing card, the postcard, and now the address book. And perhaps most of all, Alice herself. Something in her. The hold so tight over my brother, and suddenly it appears more and more as though she is this brooding darkness lurking around him, creeping toward him, swarming over him. Her glamour like some awful curse.

”Mr. Standish is on set right now. If you'll wait.” The receptionist with the silver fingernails gestures toward a long row of chrome-trimmed leather chairs.

Guests of publicists and press agents don't rate too highly with the front office staff, or so I've come to learn in recent months. I sit down, back straight, as awkward as I always feel anywhere near the studio.

I watch the top of her foamy blond head tilt this way and that as she answers calls on her headset, fingers tapping the earpieces with each turn and swivel of her chair.

I look over at a rough-hewn boy seated four chairs down. He has a scar like a lightning bolt over his left eye and wears a sweater and gymnasium shoes.

When he spots me looking at him, he nods, straightening in his seat. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a packet of cigarettes, gesturing toward me.

”No. Thank you.”

He nods again and slides one into his mouth. ”Do you mind?” I shake my head and smile slightly.

Blowing a shallow stream from his mouth, he looks back toward me. ”You in that college movie? The one with all the football scenes?”

”Pardon?”

”Sorry. I just know they're shooting this afternoon and I thought I seen you over there before.”

”No.” I shake my head. ”I'm just visiting someone.”

”I did a few stunts over there,” he says, leaning forward. ”Those pretty boys in the letter sweaters can't take a tackle to save your life.”

I smile. Sensing he expects a reply, I say, ”Did you get that scar from doing stunts?” He touches his forehead self-consciously, and I feel bad. I a.s.sumed he'd be proud of it, like a battle wound.

”No, I got this a long time ago. Old bar fight. But I've been working here for a while now.” He looks at me expectantly, and I can tell he is waiting for a response.

”How did you get into stunt work?” I offer, hoping Mike will show up.

”Oh, I was knocking around, trying to find a way to make some money for taking punches, rather than taking them for free,” he says. It sounds like he's said it many times before, to great effect.

I try to stop the conversation politely with a closing smile. ”I been doing it for four years now.” He takes another drag. ”I did a stunt for Alan Ladd once. Frank Sinatra even.” ”Well, well.”

Suddenly, the foamy blond head of the receptionist pops up, and her nasal voice rings out, ”Teddy, Mr. Schor is through with him. Mr.