A Champion for Tinker Creek, page 6
“And why should he give me that information?”
“Because you ask for it,” the caller said. “It’s all public information. They have to give it to you under the law.”
“And what’s your interest in this? Did you get a notice?”
“Me, oh no. I’m a renter in another part of town. I’m a reporter with the South Georgia Record. I was at the meeting tonight and thought if you didn’t know about the PSD, I would tell you and maybe save you some time and effort.”
Damn. A reporter. Of course. I fought to keep my voice calm.
“Thank you for the tip, Mr.…Porter. But I don’t like reporters and generally don’t deal with them. This has not been an interview, and I don’t want to see myself quoted anywhere in your paper, do you understand?”
The young male voice sounded flustered. “Of course this wasn’t an interview, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Do you understand,” I demanded more firmly.
“Yes sir, I understand,” he finally said.
“Goodbye, Mr. Porter.”
I hung up.
Chapter Five
Aunt Sammy
“Will you hurry the fuck up,” I said, sticking my head into Tommy’s bathroom to glare at him as he stood in front of the vanity mirror. “I swear you’re slower than your mom.”
“Oh, I am not,” Tommy snapped back. “You’re always exaggerating.”
“We’re going to be late,” I said.
“To an event we don’t even know is happening, much less exactly when.”
“It’s happening. Three sources told me it’s on at St. Benedict the Moor at around six p.m.”
“There,” Tommy said, flashing a quick smile into the mirror. “I’m ready to be seen in public.”
I rolled my eyes as we walked back into the hall and headed for the stairs.
“It’s not like there are going to be any cruising opportunities at this thing,” I pointed out. “Your smile is always great, and anyway, you have a boyfriend.”
“First, it always pays to be on point when you’re out in public,” Tommy said. “Second, I had spinach quiche for lunch, and you never know when a bit of leaf is going to show up on a tooth, and third, who said having a boyfriend means I can’t flirt? It’s not like I get lots of offers, so flirting helps my self-confidence.”
We descended the stairs to the front door.
“So,” Tommy said.
“So, what?”
“So, spill. You came in this morning with that ridiculous smile on your face looking like you just got away with something, but won’t say what it is. I would have said you got laid, but that would have violated the Manny Porter code for ‘Narrowly Escaping a Good Time.’”
I shot him an annoyed look. “I seem to recall someone being far too stressed getting out the door yesterday morning to talk to me.”
“Fair point. But you know I can’t be late to the editorial meeting Friday morning.”
We strode off the porch through the grounds to the garage. Tommy had finally found the right person to authorize proper gardening. The cars were parked along paths lined with blooming purple fountain grass, and we got in my rented cherry-red Mazda Miata. As usual, she started right up and I drove toward the gate.
I glanced over to find him gazing at me expectantly.
“Okay, since someone has decided to become Nosy Nancy, yes, yours truly got laid Thursday night.”
“I knew it,” Tommy said.
“And more than laid.”
“More?”
“Laid times three. Would have been four but we ran out of time Friday morning.”
“Really?”
The car gave a jolt as we pulled up short to allow the gate to open. I waited for traffic to ease for my right turn.
“Yes, really. And the reason I didn’t come running into your office after HR on Friday was because I’m still processing what happened and didn’t want to talk about it yet.”
“But—” he said.
I gave him a hard look.
“Okay, no talking yet. Where are we going anyway?”
“First, Tinker Creek. A church on Third Avenue called St. Benedict the Moor. Do you know it?”
“Of course.” He laughed. “It’s the most famous church in town. It’s been there since like 1870 and played a role in the civil rights struggle.”
“Sorry. I don’t have an encyclopedic knowledge of local churches. All I know is where we’re going.”
I took the left on Washington, soon getting closer to the beach.
“Remember, can’t turn onto Third from Washington during rush hour,” Tommy pointed out. “Better take Fourth instead.”
“Right,” I said, speeding up and hanging a fast left onto Fourth in front of a wall of oncoming traffic, leaving a cacophony of horns and curses in our wake.
“Every time I ride with you, I swear I never will again.” Now it was Tommy’s turn to grumble.
“And yet you do,” I said as we pulled into the parking lot behind a large gray stone church at the corner of Madison and Third. There were few cars, and no lights in the windows.
“Are you still sure this is the place?”
“Yep. Meeting would be in the parish hall, not the sanctuary,” I replied.
We both got out of the car and made our way toward the building, finding our way on the Madison Street side until we saw some stairs leading down to a lighted doorway.
* * *
The meeting’s program had started. Three lines of chairs were set up in front of the small stage, but they were all filled. I nodded to Tommy and pointed to two seats more toward the back of the room.
“Good turnout,” I said. “I count somewhere between seventy-five and a hundred.”
“Probably. It’s hard to tell without all the lights on.”
The well-lit platform held three seats, with their eventual occupants still in the shadows stage right. In a few moments they walked out to the chairs, an older woman who appeared to be from South America and two men, one who looked like he might be an accountant and the other who was the man from last night.
“Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap,” I whispered to Tommy.
“What?”
“It’s him,” I squeaked. “The guy on stage, farthest right. He’s the guy from last night.”
“He is?” Tommy craned for a better view without leaving his seat. “Oh my God, you slept with Superman.”
An older lady seated about fifteen feet away stiffened her back.
“Could you speak a bit more loudly, please? Someone in the front row might not have heard you,” I whispered furiously.
“Oh my God, Manny. No wonder you were smiling. Did you get his number? Is there going to be a follow-up?”
“Shh. Can I remind you that at least I’m working. Pull yourself together. Aside from the one onstage that I happen to know, who are the other two?”
“The woman’s named Lucinda Alverez, and she runs Lucinda’s Café over on Monroe. I don’t know the other one. My God, he’s beautiful.”
I shot Tommy a glance. “Put your tongue back in, Tommy,” I said, but I secretly agreed.
The program continued from the stage.
“Now, I know many people here have questions about the notices and what they mean, so I am going to call on Mr. James to tell us what he has been able to discover about them,” Alverez was saying. “Mr. Lyle James.”
Well, now I have his last name, I thought, studying him as he rose to take the microphone. I used this chance to get a clear, detailed look without him knowing I did it.
As I remembered, he stood at least six feet, but I found it no easier to guess his weight tonight. He kept fit, but he’s a big man and all that muscle mass must weigh something. Under the stage lights and without any product, I thought his short haircut served him well and favored his frank, open face. Tonight he wore much the same as last night, a pair of dark jeans and a white dress shirt with what might have been a silk vest, and cowboy boots. The outfit worked for him. He was hot as fuck, which was how he looked all the time, I thought.
“I am not a lawyer. Nothing I say here tonight should be considered legal advice. If you have legal questions about these notices, by all means consult a lawyer,” James said in a solid baritone.
“Too bad he’s not a lawyer,” Tommy said. “He’s got a lawyer’s voice.”
“If he’s not a lawyer, what does he do?”
“Weren’t you paying attention? She introduced both of them.”
“I missed it,” I said.
“Well, didn’t you ask last night?”
“We didn’t get around to discussing careers.”
Tommy rolled his eyes. “For the sake of the record and to save you from sorry reporting, he’s a mechanic,” he whispered.
“What?!”
“He runs Bonne Chance Motors, over on Jackson.”
He lives above his own shop, I thought. Interesting.
“The last thing to add is that the government cannot just take your property without paying you for it,” James was saying. “But the the amount the government wants to pay is rarely enough to cover full costs.”
“What do you know about eminent domain,” I asked Tommy.
“I’m trying to remember from political science. He’s mostly got it all, I think.”
The program moved on to questions and ended in a few minutes. People began talking and gathering their things.
“So, what do you think,” Tommy asked. “Is there enough to write?”
“Not right now, but I want to know more, and I’m definitely going to follow the story,” I said. “I’ll ask Aunt Sammy about it over dinner.”
“What time is it?” Tommy asked.
“A little bit before seven thirty.”
“Oh damn. When’s the reservation at Au Pied?”
“Not to worry,” I said. “We’re eating at Aunt Sammy’s table, and she’s somewhere here.”
“She is? What does she look like?”
“Short. Probably wearing something extraordinary. Likely has two-toned hair.”
* * *
Then Aunt Sammy let loose one of her trademark staccato laughs from somewhere on the other side of the room. We headed over as she started to pull on her coat.
Of all my unique relations, my Aunt Samantha Calabria is my favorite, packing more joie de vivre, wisdom, humor, and backbone into her five-five frame than the rest of the family combined.
Tonight she had dressed in a black silk business suit, white blouse, dark low-rise pumps, and her trademark two-toned, bowl-cut hair—the top third white and the bottom two-thirds black. A pair of dark jade earrings and brooch of the tragedy and comedy masks finished the ensemble.
“Manny!” she called out to us as soon as she saw me. “We found each other at last. Now come give me a hug.”
I dutifully obeyed, and after recovering my breath from her bearlike embrace, I turned to Tommy.
“Aunt Sammy, may I present my best friend and social reporter for the South Georgia Record, Mr. Tomas Kingsbury. Tommy, may I present the noted Broadway actress, director, producer, and current restaurateur, my aunt, Ms. Samantha Calabria.”
“I hate it when people call me that. The only Samanthas in the world are on old TV shows.”
But Tommy, remarkably unperturbed, bowed slightly, took her hand, and in a voice a good deal deeper than I had ever hear him use, said, “Enchanté, madame.”
“Oh,” Sammy gushed. “I could swoon, but that would leave all of us particularly hungry. Let’s go, I have a rideshare waiting.”
“It’s only four blocks,” I protested.
“You try walking four blocks in shoes that cut off circulation to the toes,” Aunt Sammy said, herding us out to the parking lot where a Jeep with all its windows removed awaited.
“Ooh, a Jeep,” Sammy said. “I love Jeeps. I call shotgun.”
She quickly moved around the vehicle to hop in the front passenger seat while Tommy and I climbed in the back through the almost vestigial side doors. It had been years since I’d ridden in a Jeep, and I had forgotten how industrial the vehicle felt.
“Can you take us down Breaker?” Sammy asked the driver. “I like to smell the ocean.”
“Of course. It’s your ride, ma’am.”
As the vehicle pulled out onto Madison, I leaned forward. “Aunt Sammy, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dressed in black before. You could have been at a bank board of directors meeting.”
She smiled. “It was a serious meeting, so I felt I needed to dress in a serious way,” she said. “After all, it’s not every day your city wants to put a wrecking ball through the heart of your livelihood.”
The driver got the green arrow and turned left from Madison onto Breaker, and we immediately heard the rhythmic roll of the waves against the beach. Sammy breathed it in deeply.
“God, boys, sometimes I feel like I could live on sea air and nothing more,” she said, and we rode the rest of the way to the restaurant in silence, enjoying the evening.
Sammy’s restaurant, Au Pied de Cochon, occupied the bottom two floors of Mansfield House, a rambling Victorian structure a prominent banker had built in 1880 as a beach home. The building’s former ground floor, back, and side porches had been converted into the restaurant’s bar and lunchroom, while the house’s main living spaces and balconies on the lowest levels had been turned into dining rooms, another bar, and server stations.
Sammy lived in a renovated apartment on the third floor and used the building’s widow’s watch, the high tower overlooking Breaker Street and the sea, as her office.
We stood in the restaurant’s front garden, enjoying the rose-scented space before we went in.
“Do either of you need a drink before dinner?” Sammy said. “I have a bottle of champagne at the table, but we can order something from the bar before we go up if you like.”
Tommy and I looked at each other and shook our heads. Neither one of us were big drinkers, and the prospect of a full bottle of champagne split three ways was enough of a treat.
“I think we’re fine, Aunt Sammy,” I replied as Henri, her maître d’, appeared at the front door.
“Your table is ready Ms. Calabria.”
“Then we’ll go in.”
Entering Au Pied de Cochon was to travel in time back to the Belle Époque in Paris with all the art nouveau colors, textures, and design that characterized the era. Standing in the small entryway in front of the maître d’s carved cedar podium left me awed, and a quick glance at Tommy suggested it had a similar impact on him.
“We’re eating on one of the second-floor balconies,” Sammy said as we followed Henri up the restaurant’s spiraling central stairs to the second floor. Finally, we stood on the threshold of the spacious, enclosed balcony Aunt Sammy had set aside for our meal.
“Aunt Sammy, you didn’t have to provide great champagne and close the space,” I said, observing the distinctively orange-labeled Veuve Clicquot bottle in the wine chiller next to the table. “My original reservation would have been fine.”
“But it wouldn’t have been fine for me.”
Suitably lambasted, I followed her and Tommy to the table.
“Should I open the champagne now, madame?” Henri asked.
“Of course, and let me offer a toast.”
Henri deftly removed the cork cage and released the bottle with an audible but reserved pop, pouring the bubbling liquid into each of our flutes before retreating. We followed Aunt Sammy’s move and raised our glasses.
“Gentlemen,” she said, “to the birth and presence among us of Mr. Tomas Kingsbury and to new and existing friendships, I offer this lovely wine. Salud!”
“Salud!”
For many years after, the meal that followed Sammy’s generous toast became the standard Tommy and I would use to judge every celebratory dining event to come. From the Caesar salad made tableside, to the onion soup steaming through its floating raft of cheese, to the steak, melting in each bite, and the chocolate mousse like a cocoa cloud, we were seduced and subdued.
At the end of the repast, I recalled her comment earlier from the evening. “I was a little surprised you were at tonight’s meeting, Aunt Sammy. Do you really consider this eminent domain effort much of a threat?”
“Yes and no,” she replied, taking a long sip of her cognac. “Yes, because if we were not to do something, all this could go away,” she said, waving her snifter of cognac. “No, because I know the people leading the fight and believe they will win the battle for us.”
“How do you know the leaders?”
“I’ve known Lucinda since she opened the café. Remarkable woman. She’s had a tragic life but continues going in her indefatigable way. Oscar Torres helped me find the funds to renovate and repair this place so we could keep going when no one else would.”
“I never knew that.”
“Well, you weren’t around then.”
“And the last man, the one on the far right?” Superman, I thought, but I didn’t say so. “What do you know about him?”
“Not a lot. He keeps my cars and delivery van running and in good shape. He keeps himself to himself. Lucinda trusts him implicitly. Why all the questions, darling?”
“I’m a reporter.” I gave my standard answer. “Questions are part of the territory.”
“Ahem,” Tommy coughed.
I glared at him, and Aunt Sammy caught the look. “What?”
“As my Granny Woodrow used to say, it’s always better to tell the truth and shame the devil. Isn’t it, Manny?”
I could have cheerfully strangled him.
“What are we talking about?” Sammy asked.
“Oh nothing,” Tommy said. “Just that Manny here has already met Mr. James and would probably give you his weight in gold coins to learn everything you knew about him.”
