Fool's Errand Read online

  “Yeah? You writing a book or what?” Turning to Donna, he said, “We always figured he would write a book some day. Maybe about the club?”

  “Maybe I will. Some day.”

  “What then?”

  “Something came up. Some old business. You remember my father’s friend Benny?”

  “Do I remember Benny? Of course. Great guy.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  Ralph gave me another playful clap on the shoulder. “Well if you got business around here, you better not wait another ten years to stop by.” He drank off his wine, stood up with his empty glass in hand, and said, “So, I’m gonna make the two of you dinner, right? A little antipasto, rigatoni Bolognese, some veal with a side of escarole. Good?”

  “Better than good,” I said. “Donna?”

  “Perfect for me.”

  “Okay.” Ralph refilled our glasses. “Now forget all these old timers and talk to the girl about something interesting, you chooch.” He shook his head and gave me a big smile before ambling off to the kitchen. “You bright guys, you don’t know anything.”

  As it turned out, Ralph wasn’t entirely wrong.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Donna and I were quiet on the ride back to the city, tired after the flight and the dinner and the wine. I pulled up to her hotel and we sat in my car, not speaking for a few moments. I was trying to figure the right thing to say but came up empty.

  “I’m only in town for a couple of days,” she reminded me.

  “And you have friends to see.”

  “You seem to be the busy one, all these meetings with people from your past.”

  I nodded.

  She stared straight ahead, looking out the windshield. Then she smiled. “Las Vegas and New York, that would be quite a commute.”

  “I guess so.”

  She started to get out of the car, then turned back. “It really has been nice meeting you.”

  “That’s it, then?”

  She squinched up her eyes, trying hard to look confused. Then she smiled. “What’d you expect? An invitation to spend the night?”

  I gave her a perplexed look of my own, like I was thinking it over, which I actually was. “Will I see you again?”

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  She didn’t respond, so I leaned toward her, took her gently by the shoulders and drew her to me. As we kissed, she placed her hand gently on my cheek, which I think is a terrifically intimate thing to do when you’re kissing.

  When she sat back, I asked, “How about dinner tomorrow night?”

  “I’ve got a lot to do before I leave for Europe,” she said.

  “You’ve got to eat dinner.”

  She studied my face, as if it had words printed all over it. “All right,” she said.

  After we got out of the car and I carried her suitcase into the lobby, I thought about kissing her again, but there were a lot of people around and Donna looked like she was ready to say good night, so I let it go.

  Walking out into the balmy autumn night, I was feeling a lot better than I had all those hours ago, when I boarded the plane for home.

  ***

  I TEND TO WAKE UP QUICKLY, not like people who ease their way out of sleep slowly, as if they’re pulling off a turtleneck sweater, careful not to stretch the fabric as they emerge into the light. That’s not how I operate. My eyes pop open and I’m up, simple as that.

  The morning after I got back from Vegas, I jumped out of bed and made for my father’s box of papers.

  It was so obvious. Benny had given me the name. Gilles. But he was also telling me there must be something about him in the box.

  There was.

  It took a while, pouring through the photographs with faces I didn’t recognize and letters from people I never knew, but then I found it. It was a letter from one Gilles de la Houssay, the name Benny had written out for me. The letter was still in its envelope, postmarked the year before my father died.

  It was written in English, the penmanship excellent, a chatty note from an old friend. How are you? When are you coming back to visit us in France? That sort of stuff. At the end he wrote, “I know you are impatient. It has been a very long time, but you must act with caution. Let me hear from you soon.” Then he signed off.

  The return address was a place called Roquebrune. I checked my atlas and found it, a small town in the south of France.

  I know what you’re thinking. If Gilles had something to do with this, why hadn’t my father mentioned him by name in his letter, why only mention Benny?

  I wondered the same thing.

  There was also the possibility that Gilles might have died, as Benny said.

  Or maybe Blackie wasn’t sure how Gilles would react if I showed up, a total stranger asking him a lot of questions.

  I decided on the most likely answer—Blackie wanted to be certain I got to Benny before I spoke with anyone else. I had done that, and now I knew I had to find Monsieur de la Houssay.

  ***

  I SPENT MONDAY MORNING IN THE OFFICE, working on a small account we had recently signed. It was a Cadillac dealership on Long Island, which is not the sort of client that tends to inspire madcap flights of creative fancy. It’s tough enough trying to come up with original material for a new car, with everything that’s already been done about new cars in the past fifty years, but the age of long, big-finned sedans was over, and even the Cadillac had become a stubby version of its prior self. Try inventing a meaningful ad campaign about that, especially when there’s something much more important you want to be doing.

  Taking a break from studying photographs of the client’s showroom, I called a friend who worked for an international company with an office in Paris. She got me a listing for a Gilles de la Houssay living in a town called Roquebrune, somewhere just north of Monte Carlo. She gave me the address and phone number.

  For all I knew, this M. de la Houssay could be a different fellow altogether, not the Gilles my father knew. He lived in the town named on the postmarked envelope, but what did that mean? This M. de la Houssay could be Gilles, Jr. Or Gilles the nephew. Or Gilles the cousin.

  I took a deep breath, picked up the handset and dialed the number.

  Listening to that funny overseas ring, my nervousness turned to concern. What if no one answered?

  And then, after what seemed a long time, someone did.

  When he said “Bonjour,” I just knew he was the guy. It was the age of his voice, or something in it.

  “Is this Gilles de la Houssay?” I asked.

  “Yes it is,” he said, in heavily accented English. After a brief pause, he added, “And you, I presume, are young Monsieur Rinaldi.”

  I didn’t fall off my chair or anything, but I was more than a little surprised. “Yes,” I admitted, sounding as if that made me guilty of something.

  “Our mutual friend has been in touch with me,” he said before I could ask the question.

  Of course, I told myself. Benny. “He told you I might be calling?”

  “He did.” For some reason, I could imagine M. de la Houssay smiling at the phone. “He also told me why.”

  I waited, but he didn’t seem to have anything more to say, so I decided to get right to it. “You know about my father’s letter.”

  “Mais oui. And you know, as our friend has told you, this is not a subject to be discussed on the telephone.”

  I nodded, even though there was no one there to see it. “I understand that, but I really want to speak with you.”

  “I know,” he said in a kind way that almost sounded like an invitation.

  “I think we should meet. Would that be all right?”

  He sighed. “I am not sure that it will benefit you in any way, but for me to meet the son of my dear old friend would be the delight of a
lifetime. That much is certain.”

  And just like that, without the burden of reason or the control with which fear too often ruled my insular life, I was confirming his address, bidding him au revoir, and preparing to buy a plane ticket to France.

  Then I realized I needed to pay a visit to my boss.

  Harry was a short, heavy guy with a quick mind and a quicker temper. He wore a perpetual scowl that led some to say that the only way you’d ever see him smile was to turn him on his head. I always thought turning him on his head would be quite the trick, since he weighed more than a washing machine. Not what you’d call a health nut, the most exercise I ever knew him to get was a brisk walk back and forth to the men’s room.

  Harry had yellow stains on the fingers of his right hand from the ever-present cigarette he seemed to hold more than he smoked, burning them right down to the end. Even in those days, smoking was not allowed in our office, but that didn’t stop Harry—he had a portable smoke-eater, kept his door shut, and figured he made enough concessions to modern values. He wasn’t giving up the cancer sticks and no one complained, at least no one who wanted to keep their job.

  His testy disposition, combined with the constant flow of nicotine, led to an ulcer, which caused him to switch his regular drink from scotch and soda to scotch and milk—convincing himself that the dairy ingredient provided a sufficient buffer for the ravaged lining of his oversized stomach.

  I should mention again that this was 1979, just after that golden era in Madison Avenue advertising celebrated decades later in a popular television series, where the men wore trim-fitting suits with narrow lapels and narrow ties; drank heavily at lunch, in the office and after work; and chased women with abandon, since a woeful inequality of the sexes was the order of the day.

  Which is not to say that people didn’t drink or flirt when I started in the business, but this was a darker time, just after New York City almost went bankrupt and the disastrous Carter administration had spent almost four years destroying the country. Interest rates were inflated beyond all reason; our foreign policy was a debacle; the business world was struggling; and income was tight.

  As to Harry, even in the face of those bleak economic conditions, I knew that behind his bluster he was basically a compassionate guy who recognized that I was one of his hardest working account execs, and felt sure he’d be understanding when I strolled into his office that morning to tell him I needed some time off to attend to family business.

  “Are you batty?” he hollered. “I need an entire print and TV campaign for this dealership in two weeks. What the hell am I supposed to do without you?”

  I told him it felt good to be needed.

  “Spare me your pale attempts at humor.” He lit a cigarette. “Can’t this family business wait a couple of weeks?”

  “It can’t. But it shouldn’t take long. I can bring the material with me. I’ll work on the road.”

  “The road? What are you now, a traveling salesman? I hear you just spent the weekend in Vegas.” He nodded in response to my surprised look. “That’s right, I keep tabs on my people. So where’s your next stop?”

  “Monaco, I think.”

  “Monaco? You think? What is that, like maybe you’re wrong, maybe you meant Sweden?” Harry wasn’t given to expending a lot of unnecessary physical energy, so I knew he was fairly worked up when he lifted his corpulent frame out of the chair and started pacing around the room. “Monaco, you think. Maybe you mean Russia. Or South Africa. Why don’t you just throw a dart at a map? While you’re at it, why not throw a dart at my head and put me out of my misery.”

  “I need to do this,” I explained as calmly as I could. “Worst case, I’ll only be gone a few days.”

  “Worst case for who? The client? Me? The firm?”

  “I’ll work on it while I’m gone, I promise.”

  Harry was running out of steam. He could only rant for so long before he got winded, so he sat down and puffed on his cigarette.

  I said, “You know me, Harry. If I tell you I have to do this, then I do.”

  Harry thought that over. “What if I say no?”

  I never really argued with Harry. Even when he would holler about something, I would let him finish, then work things out the best way I could. This time, I met his gaze through the small haze of gray smoke and said again, “I have to do this.”

  I think my tone took him by surprise, because Harry is rarely at a loss for words. He just sat there without speaking.

  “It’s only a few days.”

  He finally waved a pudgy, dismissive hand in my direction. “Do whatever it is you have to do. But take the goddamned paperwork with you.”

  “Right,” I said. I got up, started out of the office, then turned back. “I really appreciate this, Harry.”

  “I know, I know,” he said as he inhaled a lungful of poison. “I’m a fucking prince.”

  Back in my office, as I was pulling together automobile brochures and graphic layouts, the phone rang. It was Frank.

  “I thought you were getting back to me.”

  “It’s just been crazy,” I said.

  “Hey, I knocked myself out getting a number for Benny.”

  I couldn’t imagine that “knocking himself out” consisted of more than one phone call. “I found him myself,” I said, “but thanks.”

  “You could’ve told me you got to him, saved me a headache, eh?” He paused. “You speak to him? How is he?”

  “He’s good, he’s really good. He asked for you,” I lied.

  “And the letter, when do I get to see this mystery note?”

  “Right, the letter. Uh, we’ll have to get together.”

  “Lunch. They let you out of your cage for lunch, don’t they?”

  “Sure, uh—”

  “Great. One o’clock.” Before I could respond, he gave me the name and address of a restaurant and hung up.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When Frank insisted we meet for lunch, I knew it was pointless to argue. He would catch up with me sooner or later.

  He chose an Italian restaurant on East 27th Street, a place he said was owned by a friend. The dining room was light and airy, with white stucco walls, high ceilings and large overhead fans that turned very slowly. I strolled to the back, where Frank was already seated with a colleague.

  Colleague is a generous description.

  I wasn’t surprised to find that Frank brought someone with him. It was an old Blackie move, having a flunkie in tow, just in case you needed help of one kind or another.

  “This is Lou,” Frank announced as I approached.

  I responded with a look that said I needed a better explanation than the lug’s first name.

  “Big Lou is the best,” was all Frank offered.

  I am still not clear what Big Lou was best at, but I can tell you he certainly was big. He was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt he wore open at the neck, three buttons worth, to display a hairy chest and an assortment of gold chains that would have given a smaller man a backache hauling them around. His complexion was pock-marked, his eyes as dark as his suit, and his black toupee the kind of piece that gives wigs a bad name.

  Frank said, “Whatever we want to talk about, we can talk about in front of Lou.”

  I was about to tell my cousin that there wasn’t a single thing I wanted to discuss with either of them, but Frank clearly read my impulse to turn and walk out.

  “Lou,” he told his compatriot, “say hello to my number one cousin.”

  Big Lou unfolded himself and got slowly to his feet, introducing himself as Lou Grigoli or Grisanti or something like that. It was hard to concentrate since he blocked out most of the light in the room.

  Lou offered his hand, which was the size of a small ham, and I was glad to have all of my fingers returned without injury when he was done squeezing
it.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Frank urged us.

  Lou and I sat down.

  “Well,” Frank said, “glad you managed to break away from the office.” He turned to Lou, gave him a conspiratorial wink and the two of them chuckled.

  “Yeah,” I said, “they unlocked the shackles.”

  Lou must not get out much, because he had himself a long laugh over that one.

  “Very good. Shackles. I like that.”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased,” I told him, which brought his laughter to an abrupt end.

  “All right,” Frank jumped in. “How about some snacks, eh?” He called out to our waiter by name and began ordering for the three of us.

  That’s Frank. He grew up in Rockland County and lives in Florida, while I’m a lifelong New Yorker, but he comes to town, chooses the restaurant, knows the waiter by name and starts ordering for everyone.

  After he called for just about every appetizer on the menu, he looked up and said, “While we wait for the food, how about you bring us a bottle of Pinot Grigio.”

  “I prefer red,” I said, and asked the waiter, whose name I didn’t know, if I could order red wine by the glass.

  “Forget that,” Frank said, sending the waiter off to bring the Pinot Grigio. “Try the white first, you stubborn bastard.” He turned to Lou. “My cousin is like a brother to me, you understand what I’m saying?”

  Lou replied with a look as nuanced as a panel of sheetrock.

  “I don’t drink white wine,” I said.

  Frank looked at me and said, “You’ll never change,” then reached over and gave me an affectionate slap on the shoulder.

  What the hell am I doing here? I wondered.

  The waiter brought the Pinot Grigio, then the prosciutto, melon, salami, provolone and grilled vegetables Frank ordered. I resigned myself to eating, drinking and dealing with the numbing sensation of the clock ticking away, one second at a time.

  “So what gives with your treasure hunt?” Frank asked.

  I didn’t recall any mention of a treasure hunt, so I said I’d rather not discuss it.

  We ordered our main courses, which Frank was generous enough to let me do for myself. Then he took some time to choose a red wine before asking, “How was your trip to Vegas?”