saxophone to its rightful blower, make everybody happy, with the possible exception of Fenk, and when all was wrapped and packaged, tell Annie the story. That wasn’t dissembling. That was postponing.
“I wouldn’t mess with that Fenk,” Annie said. “Mean face on him and built like a house.”
“The dealings are going to be what you might call arm’s length.”
The waitress picked up our plates, and Annie asked for dessert.
“Bananas au rhum,” she said, reading from the menu.
“With two forks,” I said.
Emilio’s had a Friday-night SRO crowd. The standees lined the wooden bar at the front. But the room was open and airy, and nobody’s conversation spilled over onto Annie’s and mine. It felt cozy in the crowd.
I asked Annie, “How’s it shaping up for Cam’s festival?”
“Nicely,” Annie said. “He’s bringing in at least a dozen movies you wouldn’t see booked into the commercial theatres in a million years. A Quarter to Three isn’t in that category. Harp Manley’s film. It’ll be in release all over the place later this fall. But, you have to hand it to Charles, it’s a sweet little coup he’s pulled, snagging the movie for its world premiere. All the press on Manley and the movie won’t hurt Charles’s festival one bit.”
“At a cost in credibility,” I said.
“Because A Quarter to Three doesn’t fit the festival theme?”
“Political content, minorities, oppressed people, and all.”
Annie said, “Well, Charles made a lot of noise at the press conference about Manley representing a breakthrough in American film for black actors.”
“That’ll come as news to Sidney Poitier,” I said. “And Richard Pryor, Eddie Murphy, Dexter Gordon. Harp Manley’s about the fifth breakthrough.”
“The way Charles talked, it came across as very plausible,” Annie said. “Criminal lawyers are good at that.”
The bananas were slathered in brown sugar and nutmeg and cinnamon and a squirt of rum. The waitress forgot the second fork. I used a coffee spoon.
“The only trouble with Charles’s festival is the timing,” Annie said. “For me personally, I mean. It’s already taking hell’s own footwork to cover two festivals going on at once, and the Alternate hasn’t even started showing movies yet.”
“That’s Cam’s way of making a statement,” I said. “Confrontation. Nose to nose. Up against the wall. Festival against festival.”
“Take tomorrow,” Annie said. “Between Charles and Helga Stephenson, I got a choice of four press conferences, not to mention I can’t miss two movies the Festival of Festivals is running.”
“And a party?”
“No more parties. Last night’s was de rigueur, the opening bash and everything, but as far as getting material, forget it. Too many faces, too much crush.”
“Dan make the party?”
“Dan?” Annie scrunched up her face. “I’m trying to think Dan. Dan Rather? Danny DeVito? Daniel Ortega? ‘O Danny Boy’? Am I getting warm? Which Dan at the party?”
“Day-Lewis.”
“Daniel Day-Lewis,” Annie repeated, her face unscrunched. “Brother, you really got a bee in your bonnet about the man. No, he wasn’t at the party. He isn’t on my calendar until Tuesday or even in town till then for all I know. Besides, he isn’t my only interview. I got two more solo and a bunch of others in general scrummy media conferences.”
“Dumb word.”
“Which one?”
“Media.”
“Plural of medium,” Annie said.
“You know what someone clever once said of medium?”
Annie said, “Your definition of clever doesn’t always match up with Webster’s.”
“Television is a medium,” I said. “So called because it is neither rare nor well done.”
Annie laughed.
“For a quip,” she said, “that one’s worth stockpiling.”
Annie did most of the damage to the bananas au rhum. We had coffee, lingered another half-hour, and left. The Volks was parked at a meter on Jarvis Street. Walking to the car, Annie had her arm around my waist, and my arm was draped over her shoulders. I made a U-turn on Jarvis and drove to Annie’s place. It’s a flat on the third floor of a fine old house in Cabbagetown with an equally fine reno job. In the bedroom, Annie had two more black garments under the black blouse and trousers.
“Want me to tear those off with my teeth?” I said.
Annie went into the bathroom, and when she came out five minutes later, she’d removed her makeup and her black bra and panties. I was already in bed.
Just before daylight, Annie and I came awake at the same time. We didn’t make love again. We snuggled. Like spoons. I lay on my left side facing toward the window. Annie lay on her left side facing in the same direction. Her right arm was around my waist, and her body touched mine in nice places.
“I remember who said it,” I said.
“Ummm.”
“About medium.”
“Um.”
“Ernie Kovacs.”
Annie was asleep.
14
BY THE TIME Raymond Fenk walked out of the Silverdore Hotel at two o’clock on Saturday afternoon, James Turkin and I had been lounging inside and outside the Volks for almost three hours.
A little after eleven, I’d gone into the hotel and asked for Fenk’s room on the house phone. Someone male, presumably Fenk, answered. That you, Bill? I said. Wrong room, the male voice said. He sounded bad-tempered. Had to be Fenk.
The Volks was on the north side of Charles east of the Silverdore. The hotel was on the south side. James filled in the wait with tales from the pickpocket world. He said, apart from South Americans, Soviet émigrés ranked near the top of the craft in the United States. Émigrés was James’s word. They had a touring company, James said. Hit the big conventions in the midwestern cities. Cute, I said.
At twelve-thirty, I sent James over to Yonge Street for coffee and doughnuts. I wanted my doughnut plain. James reported back none of them came plain. The one he chose for me oozed something in raspberry paste.
At one-fifteen, James asked did I know whether Fenk carried a hotel key with him or left it at the front desk? The one occasion I knew about, I told James, a key was in Fenk’s pocket when he went into the hotel. James seemed to like my answer.
At two o’clock, Fenk emerged. He had on a deep-blue jacket with lighter blue piping around the lapels. The guy collected jackets like Lord Thomson of Fleet collected newspapers. Fenk walked west toward Yonge. He was carrying a briefcase. It was slim and black and had more locks than most bank vaults.
“I got another way,” James said.
He got out of the car and crossed Charles. What other way? I hired him to pick the lock on Fenk’s hotel room. That was the way.
James strolled Charles in Fenk’s wake. I left the Volks and stuck to the north side of the street, watching the action. Fenk walked. James strolled. Some action. Just short of Yonge, Fenk wheeled into a small self-serve restaurant. The restaurant had six or seven tables on a front patio. Fenk went through the door. James stayed outside reading a menu mounted beside the entrance. Fenk came back carrying a glass of something in the hand that wasn’t clutching the briefcase.