fabulous high-octane gasoline. I wrote and did research like a mad machine in the morning, played with the Tates in the afternoon, and went home to bed at night feeling that my life couldn’t possibly be much fuller than it was right at that moment. I had found the friends I’d been looking for all along.
On my twenty-fifth birthday, they put the cherry on top of the cake.
I was sitting at my desk on August 19, working on an interview I was doing on spec for a Swiss magazine. It was my birthday, and because birthdays almost always depressed the hell out of me, I was trying hard to work my way through this one with as few distractions as possible. I had had an early dinner at a neighborhood gasthaus , and instead of going to a café and reading for an hour, as I usually did, I raced home and restlessly pushed the sheets of typescript around my desk in a vain attempt to forget that no one in the world had tipped me a nod on my Day of Days.
When the doorbell rang, I was frowning at the minuscule pile of pages I had done. I was wearing an old sweatshirt and a pair of blue jeans.
An old man in a seedy but still-elegant chauffeur’s outfit was standing there with his cap in his hand. He wore black leather gloves that looked very expensive. He looked me over as if I were last week’s lettuce and said in a nice hoch-deutsch accent that “the car” was downstairs and the lady and gentleman were waiting. Was I ready?
I smiled and asked what he was talking about.
“You are Mr. Lennox?”
“Yes.”
“Then I have been told to come for you, sir.”
“Who, uh, who sent you?”
“The lady and gentleman in the car, sir. I assume they hired the limousine.”
“Limousine?” I squinted suspiciously and pushed him a little to one side so I could peek out the door into the hall. Paul liked to play tricks, and I was dubious of anything he had his finger in. No one was out there. “They’re down in the car?”
“Yes, sir.” He sighed and pulled one of the gloves farther up onto his hand.
I asked him to describe them, and he described Paul and India Tate in evening clothes.
“Evening? You mean formal? A tuxedo?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, God! Look, uh, look, you tell them I’ll be down in ten minutes. Ten minutes, okay?”
“Yes, sir, ten minutes.” He gave me one last tired look and marched off.
No shower. Rip the tuxedo off the hanger way in the back of the closet. I hadn’t worn it in months, and it was full of creases. So what? Seconds of trouble buttoning the silk buttons with shaky, happy hands. What were those two up to? How great! Fabulous! They had known it was my birthday. They had even double-checked the date a few days before. Why had they hired a limousine? I took a fat glug of mouthwash and spat it loudly in the sink as I was turning out the light and heading for the door. At the last second I remembered to take my keys.
A silver Mercedes-Benz 450 was purring majestically in front of my apartment house. Inside I could see the chauffeur (with his cap on now — all business) lit by the calm yellow of the dashboard lights. I stepped over to look in the back seat and there they were, champagne glasses in hand, the bottle sticking out of a silver bucket on the darkly carpeted floor.
The window on my side zizzed down, and India’s wonderful face peeped out of that rich inner gloom.
“What’s up, Birthday Boy? Wanna go for a ride?”
“Hi! What are you doing here? What’s with this silver chariot?”
“Joe Lennox, for once in your measly little life, don’t ask any questions and get in the damned car!” Paul’s voice rumbled out.
When I got in, India slid over so I could sit between them. Paul handed me a chilled glass of champagne and gave my knee a short, friendly squeeze.
“Happy birthday, Joey! Have we got some big plans for you tonight!”
“And how!” India clinked her glass to mine and kissed my cheek.
“Like what?”
“Like sit back and you’ll see. You wanna spoil the
On my twenty-fifth birthday, they put the cherry on top of the cake.
I was sitting at my desk on August 19, working on an interview I was doing on spec for a Swiss magazine. It was my birthday, and because birthdays almost always depressed the hell out of me, I was trying hard to work my way through this one with as few distractions as possible. I had had an early dinner at a neighborhood gasthaus , and instead of going to a café and reading for an hour, as I usually did, I raced home and restlessly pushed the sheets of typescript around my desk in a vain attempt to forget that no one in the world had tipped me a nod on my Day of Days.
When the doorbell rang, I was frowning at the minuscule pile of pages I had done. I was wearing an old sweatshirt and a pair of blue jeans.
An old man in a seedy but still-elegant chauffeur’s outfit was standing there with his cap in his hand. He wore black leather gloves that looked very expensive. He looked me over as if I were last week’s lettuce and said in a nice hoch-deutsch accent that “the car” was downstairs and the lady and gentleman were waiting. Was I ready?
I smiled and asked what he was talking about.
“You are Mr. Lennox?”
“Yes.”
“Then I have been told to come for you, sir.”
“Who, uh, who sent you?”
“The lady and gentleman in the car, sir. I assume they hired the limousine.”
“Limousine?” I squinted suspiciously and pushed him a little to one side so I could peek out the door into the hall. Paul liked to play tricks, and I was dubious of anything he had his finger in. No one was out there. “They’re down in the car?”
“Yes, sir.” He sighed and pulled one of the gloves farther up onto his hand.
I asked him to describe them, and he described Paul and India Tate in evening clothes.
“Evening? You mean formal? A tuxedo?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, God! Look, uh, look, you tell them I’ll be down in ten minutes. Ten minutes, okay?”
“Yes, sir, ten minutes.” He gave me one last tired look and marched off.
No shower. Rip the tuxedo off the hanger way in the back of the closet. I hadn’t worn it in months, and it was full of creases. So what? Seconds of trouble buttoning the silk buttons with shaky, happy hands. What were those two up to? How great! Fabulous! They had known it was my birthday. They had even double-checked the date a few days before. Why had they hired a limousine? I took a fat glug of mouthwash and spat it loudly in the sink as I was turning out the light and heading for the door. At the last second I remembered to take my keys.
A silver Mercedes-Benz 450 was purring majestically in front of my apartment house. Inside I could see the chauffeur (with his cap on now — all business) lit by the calm yellow of the dashboard lights. I stepped over to look in the back seat and there they were, champagne glasses in hand, the bottle sticking out of a silver bucket on the darkly carpeted floor.
The window on my side zizzed down, and India’s wonderful face peeped out of that rich inner gloom.
“What’s up, Birthday Boy? Wanna go for a ride?”
“Hi! What are you doing here? What’s with this silver chariot?”
“Joe Lennox, for once in your measly little life, don’t ask any questions and get in the damned car!” Paul’s voice rumbled out.
When I got in, India slid over so I could sit between them. Paul handed me a chilled glass of champagne and gave my knee a short, friendly squeeze.
“Happy birthday, Joey! Have we got some big plans for you tonight!”
“And how!” India clinked her glass to mine and kissed my cheek.
“Like what?”
“Like sit back and you’ll see. You wanna spoil the
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