now little more than a bone.
I shook with him. “We’re a long way from Tulsa, Charlie, wouldn’t you say?”
He nodded, pumping my hand like a politician hoping for a vote. “Long, long way. How old are you now, Jamie?”
“Fifty-three.”
“And your family? Are they well?”
“I don’t see them much, but Terry is still in Harlow, running the oil business. He’s got three kids, two boys and a girl. Pretty well grown now. Con’s still stargazing in Hawaii. Andy passed away a few years ago. It was a stroke.”
“Very sorry to hear it. But you look great. In the pink.”
“So do you.” This was a baldfaced lie. I thought briefly of the three ages of the Great American Male—youth, middle age, and you look fuckin terrific. “You must be . . . what? Seventy?”
“Close enough.” He was still pumping my hand. It was a good strong grip, but I could feel a faint shake, just the same, lurking beneath the skin. “What about Hugh Yates? Are you still working for him?”
“Yes, and he’s fine. Can hear a pin drop in the next room.”
“Lovely. Lovely.” He let go of my hand at last. “Al, Jamie and I have a lot to talk about. Would you bring us a couple of lemonades? We’ll be in the library.”
“Now, you’re not going to overdo it, are you?” Stamper was looking at me with distrust and dislike. He’s jealous, I thought. He’s had Jacobs all to himself since the last tour ended, and that’s just the way he likes it. “You need your strength for your work.”
“I’ll be fine. There’s no tonic like an old friend. Follow me, Jamie.”
He led me down the main hall, past a dining room as long as a Pullman car on the left, and one-two-three living rooms on the right, the one in the middle graced by a huge chandelier that looked like a leftover prop from James Cameron’s Titanic movie. We walked through a rotunda where polished wood gave way to polished marble, our footfalls picking up an echo. It was a warm day but the house was comfy. I could hear the silky whisper of air conditioners, and wondered how much it cost to cool this place in August, when the temperature would be a lot more than warmish. Remembering the workshop in Tulsa, my guess was very little.
The library was the circular room at the far end of the house. There were thousands of books on the curving shelves, but I had no idea how anyone could possibly read in here, given the view. The west wall was entirely made of glass, and I could look out over leagues and leagues of the Hudson Valley, complete with cobalt river shining in the distance.
“Healing pays well.” I thought again of Goat Mountain, that rich people’s playground that was gated to keep hicks like the Morton family out. Some views only money can buy.
“In all sorts of ways,” he said. “I don’t need to ask if you’re still off the drugs; I can see it in your complexion. And in your eyes.” Thus having reminded me of the debt I owed him, he asked me to sit down.
Now that I was actually here and in the presence, I hardly knew how or where to begin. Nor did I want to with Al Stamper—now serving as assistant-cum-butler—due with lemonades. It turned out not to be a problem. Before I could find some meaningless chit-chat to pass the time, the ex–lead singer of the Vo-Lites came in, looking grumpier than ever. He set a tray down on a cherrywood table between us.
“Thank you, Al,” Jacobs said.
“Very welcome.” Speaking to the boss and ignoring me.
“Nice pants,” I said. “Takes me back to the days when the Bee Gees quit the transcendental stuff and went disco. Now you need some vintage platform shoes to go with.”
He gave me a look that wasn’t very soulful (or very Christian, for that matter), and left. It would not be a stretch to say Stamper stamped out.
Jacobs picked up his lemonade and sipped. From the bits of pulp floating on the surface, I deduced it was homemade. And from the way the ice cubes clittered together when he set it back down, I deduced I hadn’t been wrong about the palsy. Sherlock had nothing on me that day.
“That was rude, Jamie,” Jacobs said, but he sounded amused. “Especially for a guest, and an uninvited one, at that. Laura would be ashamed.”
I let the reference to my mother—calculated, I’m sure—pass.