Final Paradox

Chapter 7

When Bronwyn found the phone number on her dresser, excitement coursed through her. She rushed to call. The phone was answered on the second ring.

“Yes?” The man’s voice was raspy.

“Is this 789-0909?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“A friend gave me this number.” Wondering how to proceed, she paused. “I have a project for you.”

“Project? This is a limousine service.”

Bronwyn was uncertain. “Should I make an appointment to come in?”

“If you want a limousine, you need not come in. Otherwise, you should.”

“Then I’ll come in.”

“This is a cash business, lady.”

A tremor of excitement passed through her. “How much?”

“I do not yet know. Come to 1223 Amoco Drive at four o’clock, and we will talk.”

Once she put Norma’s check in her purse, she hurried from the house. Just enough time to deposit it in the bank and get some cash. How convenient. A nice sum of money just at the right time.

She pulled into the Canon Club parking lot next to a line of BMWs and Mercedes. Lunch with Allison would be the first step in damage control of Meredith’s version of the Holt’s story.

Allison was hovering over a tray of veggies and Perrier water in the dining room.

“Allison, darling! You’re looking marvelously svelte.” She gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “You must be going to exercise classes religiously.”

Smiling, Allison adjusted the zipper on her velvet tracksuit. “Well, I do try to keep up a regimen.”

“I admire your dedication, dear.” Poor Allison. Everything she ate went straight to her hips. “I hear Brad has just made partner. Is he liking his new responsibilities?”

“Oh, he just loves it. Working late every night.”

Far too gushy, thought Bronwyn. “Yes, we must watch they don’t over-do it.” Smiling sweetly, Bronwyn continued, “Have you met his new secretary? She’s an absolute wonder. She’ll have Brad organized in no time.”

“Brad didn’t mention …”

“No, I’m sure he hasn’t had a minute to talk. Partnership at Blackburn and Swanson does have its price. Home late at night: believe me, I know.”

“Is Meredith joining us?” Allison asked.

Bronwyn looked heavenward then smiled sadly. “No, the poor dear’s been having such trouble in the mornings.”

“Trouble?” Allison frowned.

“You must keep this under your hat, dear. Meredith is in therapy at the Lawrence Clinic. They have all sorts of innovative treatments for a host of psychological problems.” Bronwyn forged on with her plan. “Seems Meredith has difficulty distinguishing reality from fiction. The trouble started last year when she took up novel writing. I hear there’s wonderful therapy for someone with such an active imagination. ”

“Really?” Allison had never heard of such an ailment.

“Why last week, she was even making up some crazy story about you and Brad.” Bronwyn shook her head violently. “Don’t worry. I didn’t believe a word! Next she’ll be fabricating stories about Peter and me.”

Bronwyn was certain she had struck home. After all, Allison was not that bright. She picked at her spinach salad and watched Allison tackle an immense club sandwich.

“You and Brad must join us for dinner soon. Your husband has such a bright future at the firm.”

The mission had been accomplished. She concluded the lunch as soon as decently possible.

Finally, she found 1223 Amoco, a low rambling warehouse in a desolate industrial subdivision. The orange sun dropped low in the sky, casting long dark shadows of the transport trucks at the loading dock. One white limousine was parked near a wrought iron staircase snaking up the side of the building to a small door. She cursed as she caught her heels in the slats of the stairs.

Inside, a thin, blonde woman pointed to another door. Bronwyn entered a dark corridor, lit only by a red exit sign at the far end. Bulky shapes of boxes rose up on either side of her as she stumbled along. A light flashed on, and Bronwyn shielded her eyes. A grinning face loomed up before her. An arm thrust outward, blocking her way. Transfixed by the scrawling serpent tattooed on the man’s arm, Bronwyn shrank back.

“I’m looking for the limousine service,” she managed to say.

The man stepped back and muttered, “Third door on the left.”

When no one answered her knock, she pushed the door open. A huge man sat behind a small desk. His face was broad, smooth, and hairless. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt. His several chins hung over his collar and rested on a blue and white polka-dot bow tie. His narrowly set eyes gave him a piggish appearance, but they danced with merriment. Bronwyn concluded his general appearance was benign.

“Welcome, Mrs. Saunderson.” He did not rise or offer his hand.

“How did you know my name?” she asked as she sat down.

“Forgive the mess. We do not often have a lady in here.” He spoke shyly.

She opened her purse. “I brought the money, Mr. … ?”

“Call me Mr. Prince, my dear,” he breathed. “Before we discuss monetary matters, I need certain information.”

“Such as?” Bronwyn felt the first tremor of nerves. In theory, it had seemed so simple.

“Would you prefer to write the individual’s name down?” Mr. Prince asked solicitously.

Bronwyn nodded and accepted his pad and pen. Quickly, she scrawled the name Archibald Brinks.

Mr. Prince looked grave as he examined the name. “Ah, Mrs. Saunderson, that could be rather expensive.”

Bronwyn felt more secure talking price. “How much for such a project?” She felt in her purse for her wallet, hefty with cash.

Mr. Prince chuckled; soon his whole mass was silently shaking. After a few moments, he regained control. “My dear lady! We do not do projects. If Mr. Pappas agrees, I take care of the details.” His face grew unpleasant. “We call such matters—arrangements.”

“Call it whatever you like. Will you look after this business for me?”

“I will consult with Mr. Pappas, and if he agrees, I will call you back.”

“Who is Mr. Pappas?” The name was vaguely familiar to her.

“You do not need to know,” Prince said flatly.

Unused to being thwarted, Bronwyn felt her anger rise. “Perhaps I should speak with this Mr. Pappas directly.”

Spreading his hands flat on the desk, Mr. Prince rose. “You do not speak with Mr. Pappas, lady.”

 “Obviously I’ve wasted my time.” She stood and turned for the door.

Mr. Prince scurried from behind the desk. He laid his soft hand on her arm. Bronwyn recoiled. “When I have spoken with Mr. Pappas, I will call you, dear lady. Surely you did not think such a serious matter could be arranged so lightly. At that time, we will discuss price.”

“All right.” Bronwyn hesitated. “So nothing will happen until I hear from you?”

With a gallant flourish, Mr. Prince held the door open for her. “We must await the decision patiently, madam. You will hear from me at the very earliest moment.”

Threading her way through the hallways and past the loading dock, Bronwyn met no one. In her car, she locked the doors and found a cigarette. Her hand shook violently as she tried to light it.