years ago. He and some guy got into it in a tavern. Then he got picked up last year for smoking.”
“For smoking?” I asked.
Alvin nodded. “It was in a bar down by the old
Post-Intelligencer
building. They had a big sign outside saying ‘Smoke-Free Lounge.’ Ronnie thought it meant he could go in and smoke free cigarettes. He lit up his own and they tried to throw him out. He put up a big fuss, and they called the cops. Oops!” Alvin knocked over Snoopy.
I was beginning to wonder if Ronnie was the only loser in this scenario.
For the first time since leaving Alpine, I remembered to check the voice messaging on my cell phone. Finally surrendering to the modern age in December, I'd bought the cell phone and spent the first month trying to figure out how it worked. Three months later I still hadn't gotten in the groove of checking it out on a regular basis.
“They
are
handy,” Vida remarked as I poked various buttons while we sat in the Lexus outside the county-city buildings. “Do you think I ought to get one?”
The question surprised me. Vida was still a computer holdout, relying on an ancient typewriter and lightning two-finger accuracy on the keys. Despite the fact that Kip had to enter all her copy in the back shop, she refused to give in. But a telephone was different: Vida could communicate directly with her many sources. Maybe if she got a cell phone, she'd eventually come around to a word processor.
“I think of this as a safety device,” I said, hearing the unctuous recorded voice of a woman who might be dead by now for all I knew. “You have one new message…” I poked two more buttons. “Milo nagged me until I realized it was only stubbornness that prevented me from… Oh, shoot. It's Ed.”
The call was from my former ad manager who had inherited wealth and, with it, a sense of superiority. Ed Bronsky was calling not from his so-called villa in Alpine, but from the Hyatt Regency in Bellevue.
“Shirley and I are taking a meeting with Irv and Skip today,” Ed said, sounding all puffed up even in a recorded message. “I heard you were in Seattle, so I thought you'd want to sit in on it. It's big, Emma, really huge.” Like Ed, I thought. “We've got a producer lined up for
Mr. Ed
.”
Mr. Ed
was Ed's rags-to-riches autobiography, published by a vanity press on the Eastside. The publishers, Irving Blomberg and Skip O'Shea, were representing Ed in an attempt to sell the book to a movie or TV producer. Frankly, I thought they were stringing him along.
“The meeting's at one,” Ed's message continued, “in the restaurant at the hotel. Talk about breaking news! You can be here in person to get the lowdown. By the way,” he added slyly, “I'm buying.”
“That
is
news,” I said after repeating the message to Vida. “I'm almost tempted to go so we can see Ed pick up the check.”
“We don't have time for such foolishness,” Vida declared. “We must figure out a way to get into Carol's apartment.”
The idea seemed useless to me. The police had undoubtedly removed any sign of evidence. Still, Vida wouldn't be satisfied until we got inside so she could snoop around.
But first I had to call Ed back at the hotel. In their room—a suite, no doubt—Ed answered on the first ring. “Bronsky,” he said in that pseudo-gruff voice he'd adopted since becoming rich. While he was my ad manager, he never picked up the phone until it was ready to trunk over to Ginny, and when he did, he uttered a beleaguered “Ed here, what can I do for you?” He always sounded as if he expected the worst, like having to dig ouradvertisers out of a rock quarry or save them from a raging bull at the Overholt farm.
Forcing regret into my voice, I explained that Vida and I were on a mission to help one of my relatives who'd gotten into trouble. I didn't want to be explicit, lest all Alpine learn that I had a cousin who was a jailbird. Worse yet, I didn't want Ed incorporating my problem into his life
“For smoking?” I asked.
Alvin nodded. “It was in a bar down by the old
Post-Intelligencer
building. They had a big sign outside saying ‘Smoke-Free Lounge.’ Ronnie thought it meant he could go in and smoke free cigarettes. He lit up his own and they tried to throw him out. He put up a big fuss, and they called the cops. Oops!” Alvin knocked over Snoopy.
I was beginning to wonder if Ronnie was the only loser in this scenario.
For the first time since leaving Alpine, I remembered to check the voice messaging on my cell phone. Finally surrendering to the modern age in December, I'd bought the cell phone and spent the first month trying to figure out how it worked. Three months later I still hadn't gotten in the groove of checking it out on a regular basis.
“They
are
handy,” Vida remarked as I poked various buttons while we sat in the Lexus outside the county-city buildings. “Do you think I ought to get one?”
The question surprised me. Vida was still a computer holdout, relying on an ancient typewriter and lightning two-finger accuracy on the keys. Despite the fact that Kip had to enter all her copy in the back shop, she refused to give in. But a telephone was different: Vida could communicate directly with her many sources. Maybe if she got a cell phone, she'd eventually come around to a word processor.
“I think of this as a safety device,” I said, hearing the unctuous recorded voice of a woman who might be dead by now for all I knew. “You have one new message…” I poked two more buttons. “Milo nagged me until I realized it was only stubbornness that prevented me from… Oh, shoot. It's Ed.”
The call was from my former ad manager who had inherited wealth and, with it, a sense of superiority. Ed Bronsky was calling not from his so-called villa in Alpine, but from the Hyatt Regency in Bellevue.
“Shirley and I are taking a meeting with Irv and Skip today,” Ed said, sounding all puffed up even in a recorded message. “I heard you were in Seattle, so I thought you'd want to sit in on it. It's big, Emma, really huge.” Like Ed, I thought. “We've got a producer lined up for
Mr. Ed
.”
Mr. Ed
was Ed's rags-to-riches autobiography, published by a vanity press on the Eastside. The publishers, Irving Blomberg and Skip O'Shea, were representing Ed in an attempt to sell the book to a movie or TV producer. Frankly, I thought they were stringing him along.
“The meeting's at one,” Ed's message continued, “in the restaurant at the hotel. Talk about breaking news! You can be here in person to get the lowdown. By the way,” he added slyly, “I'm buying.”
“That
is
news,” I said after repeating the message to Vida. “I'm almost tempted to go so we can see Ed pick up the check.”
“We don't have time for such foolishness,” Vida declared. “We must figure out a way to get into Carol's apartment.”
The idea seemed useless to me. The police had undoubtedly removed any sign of evidence. Still, Vida wouldn't be satisfied until we got inside so she could snoop around.
But first I had to call Ed back at the hotel. In their room—a suite, no doubt—Ed answered on the first ring. “Bronsky,” he said in that pseudo-gruff voice he'd adopted since becoming rich. While he was my ad manager, he never picked up the phone until it was ready to trunk over to Ginny, and when he did, he uttered a beleaguered “Ed here, what can I do for you?” He always sounded as if he expected the worst, like having to dig ouradvertisers out of a rock quarry or save them from a raging bull at the Overholt farm.
Forcing regret into my voice, I explained that Vida and I were on a mission to help one of my relatives who'd gotten into trouble. I didn't want to be explicit, lest all Alpine learn that I had a cousin who was a jailbird. Worse yet, I didn't want Ed incorporating my problem into his life
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