Purcell and I have lunch in what he calls the “Emperor’s Dining Hall”.  It’s only one of three dining rooms in the apartment, but it’s the most lavished and expensively furnished and the least used of all three, according to Purcell.  Before lunch, he gives me a partial tour of the residence which occupies the whole eleventh floor of the historic Mann Hotel.  But he claims that the Emperor’s Dining Hall is modeled after Emperor Wu’s own dining hall who ruled China during the Great Han Dynasty and that all of its furnishings—vases, figurines, tapestries, and what have you—that decorate the Hall, originated from either the Western or Eastern Han Periods.  Frankly, the whole provenance of stuff—which Purcell obviously enjoys talking about—and which Han period this or that object comes from is completely lost on me.  That said, the dining room and our lunch are both exquisite and, by themselves, worth the flight out from New York.

The luncheon’s chef is a young woman named Meilin, a native of Guangdong Province and one of five international chefs in Purcell’s employ.  I learn, too, that she presently lives in New York but Purcell had her fly out to Tulsa, just for our meeting.  Meilin, Purcell tells me, is a modern master of Chinese cuisine who studied in Hubei.  Her English is impeccable.

She serves each course herself and, with each, gives us a description of how it was prepared and how its creation links to traditional dishes of China’s past.  All of the courses are memorable.

Mrs. Purcell—“Mackenzie”—is not in Tulsa this afternoon.  She’s in Cannes, I’m told, where the Purcells own a large estate and a couple dozen Picassos.  She’s overseeing preparations for their annual Christmas party which the Purcells host each year for two hundred of their closest friends.

“I hope I don’t offend you, Henry,” says Purcell as we finish dessert, “but I’ve got a keen nose for smokers because I used to be one.  What I’m trying to say is:  Would you have a cigarette I could bum?”

Everything Marcus Purcell owns and the people he surrounds himself with might all be sophisticated and chic but the man himself is not.  He’s practical and street smart and, I would imagine, knows how to fight dirty.

“Of course,” I answer about borrowing a cig and retrieve a box of Camels and a lighter from my attaché.  Besides, I’m aching for a smoke, myself.

“Let’s go to the atrium,” he suggests and leads the way.

We sit in one corner of the atrium, overlooking the city and the river.  It’s a dismal view.  Purcell opens windows, letting in a rather sour smell from the river below and retrieves crystal ashtrays from the drawer of an antique desk.  He hands me one and we sit in big, cube-like chairs opposite each other, a magnificent Persian carpet underfoot.

The cube-like chairs, scattered throughout the atrium, are arranged in such a way that they resemble a tower of pastel colored blocks that has been knocked over by a child and left where they’ve spilled.  It seems odd to me that a billionaire would tolerate such a pre-school-like arrangement of furniture.  But maybe that’s the price one pays for marrying a young, attractive, socialite who employs European interior designers, as is the case with Mackenzie Purcell.

“See, I’ve never actually quit smoking,” says Purcell as he lights up, “but I hardly ever do, anymore.  In my younger days, I smoked like a chimney.  Loved to smoke.  Still do, in fact.  But the problem now is, when I want a cigarette there’s nowhere to smoke it.  Mackenzie won’t let me smoke in the atrium, when she’s here, or even in my study.  She says I’ll ruin the paintings or the carpet or some damned thing.  I don’t think she gives a shit about my lungs; it’s her artifacts she cares about.  She’s an antiquities dealer by trade; studied at the Beaux Arts, you see.  But to a barbarian like me, you know, it’s all just furniture.  So, what am I supposed to do?  Go down and smoke on the street?”

I only smile at his question without offering an answer, but “smoke on the street” is what I’ve always done—even in the worst of weather.

 

Damn, I’m pissed!  One thing I know for certain is that the excuse he gave for leaving the interview was bullshit!  Billionaires do not schedule things then change their minds on a whim.  That I know!  Because every one of them could live on a deserted island in the middle of Pacific and run his whole damned empire—and the world if he chose to!—with nothing more than a cell phone.  Anyway, the impact of what has just happened to me is beginning to sink in while I sit in a cab on my way across town to some moronic-sounding place called the Speedway.  (The cabby assures me they serve alcohol there.)

This can’t possibly be punishment of some kind, can it?  But if it is, then why?  For what?  What have I done?  Was the whole interview and having me fly all the way out to Oklahoma from New York a premeditated ruse, perpetrated simply to humiliate me?  It doesn’t make any sense!  There’s absolutely no reason Purcell should target me.  Yet, I’m beginning to feel this—this, cold numbness gripping my brainstem, like there’s something really wrong here.  Have they fired me?  Or even worse, blackballed me for some inexplicable reason?

As you may have guessed, the interview did not go as expected.

This is bullshit!  Nothing but cowardly bullshit!  And unless it has something to do with the “Scrappy incident” I witnessed in front of the building—which I doubt, by the way—then I have no idea what it’s about, why Purcell would pull the plug on the interview before it began.

So I begin to review it all in my head:

After our smoke in the atrium and a few minutes of casual conversation, I ask Purcell if we can start the interview.  He says, sure.  So I gather my notes and audio recorder and set everything up.  But no sooner have I read my first question—“Mr. Purcell, where did you grow up?  And characterize for us, if you will, your childhood”—than Marcus Purcell asks to be excused because he has suddenly remembered a phone call he was supposed to have made earlier to New York.  I say sure, of course, so he leaves, presumably, to make his call.  He says it won’t take long and he’ll be right back.

But the call, apparently, takes longer than expected.  In the meantime, I’m sitting in the atrium twiddling my thumbs.  After a few minutes, I get up and stroll to the windows and gaze down at the muddy Arkansas River and the gray, blighted landscape that is Tulsa.  I’m thinking, if I was a gazillionaire like Purcell, I certainly wouldn’t spend my time in a hellhole like Tulsa when I could be fishing on a yacht, off an island in the Mediterranean somewhere, but that’s just me!  And I’m still waiting, but no Purcell.

After about twenty minutes, I begin to suspect he has fled the building and won’t be seen again when, just then, he shows up.  But his demeanor has changed.  He’s not the easy-going, loquacious host he was during lunch.  Instead, he’s reverted to billionaire-mode: a bottom-liner, a capitalist shark and I’m just another business appointment who wants something from him he has no interest in relinquishing—especially not his most valued possession: time.

“I’m terribly sorry, Henry,” he says without a hint of apology in his voice as he brusquely enters the atrium, “but we’re going to have to reschedule.  Give Caroline a call and she’ll work something out—probably next month.  I’ve asked Noah to see you out since I have to scoot to the airport, but it was great to meet you, Henry.  Thanks for coming.”

And that’s it!  He shakes my hand and leaves.  Noah, one of Purcell’s toadies, has by now appeared in the atrium and is ready to walk me out of the building.

“Mr. Thakur, I’ll be happy to see you to the lobby,” says Noah.  “The elevators are this way, sir, if you will, please.”

I feel like I’m getting the bum’s rush.  Noah continues his apology:  “By the way,” he says, “we’re terribly sorry for whatever inconvenience you may have experienced today but I’m sure you understand Mr. Purcell is a very busy man and has had to fly back to New York unexpectedly on urgent business this afternoon—”

Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah, whatever, I think to myself.  I just flew in from New York for this damned interview; why couldn’t we have met there, instead?

Noah continues talking even though I’m too angry to care what he says:  “So the car and driver that brought you here, Mr. Thakur, unfortunately, won’t be available to take you back to the hotel as planned, since Mr. Purcell is taking the car to the airport.  Here we go.”

He ushers me into the elevator and presses the button for the lobby; quickly the door closes.  My guts leap into my chest as the elevator car free falls and the numbers on the black screen above the door rapidly count backward.

Still, Noah cannot stop blathering:  “I’ve taken the liberty of calling you a cab, Mr. Thakur.  I hope that’s okay.  It should be waiting by the time we reach the lobby.  Oh, and don’t worry about the fare; I’ve taken care of that already.  Will you be flying back to New York this afternoon?”

I want to ask: Do you really give a shit, Noah?  But I don’t.  Instead, I try to answer him politely.

“No, actually, I haven’t seen my mom in a while so I plan to visit her in Ohio before returning home.”

“Oh how delightful!  So it won’t be an entirely unproductive trip, after all.  Is your mother expecting you or are you planning to surprise her?”

“She’s expecting me.”

“Very good,” says Noah.

I know Noah is just making small talk and trying to keep the mood light until he can get rid of me.  I know that an assistant to a billionaire has bigger, more pressing, fish to fry than escorting writers off the premises.  But still, I can’t help but resent him asking me personal questions—about my plans, my mother—when I know full well he doesn’t give a shit about either.  It’s as if people like Noah think they’re doing you a favor, feigning interest in your life—your small, pathetic life.  And in return, I’m supposed to feel what?  Grateful?  Grateful that he would pretend to take an interest in my little world?  Well, he can go straight to hell as far as I’m concerned, and the quicker the better!

It takes us no time at all to fall eleven stories to the lobby in the elevator.  Noah, I guess, is perceptive enough to sense that I’m not exactly in a talkative mood so lets the final seconds of our elevator ride pass without further chitchat.

My cab is waiting out front.  I tell Noah thanks and goodbye and stride quickly through the lobby and out of the building.  On my way to the cab, I pass over the spot where Scrappy fell and bled on the sidewalk, earlier that afternoon.  I climb into the cab and slam the door without looking back.  The truth is I’m pissed and I don’t care who knows it.

The cabby already has his signal blinking as I get in.  He pulls away from the Mann Building and without saying anything immediately turns right onto North Atlas Avenue which butts into New Market Boulevard and runs parallel to the Interstate, north and south.  We’re circling back towards the business district and the heart of town.

Finally, the cabby glances up at me in the rearview mirror.  He has dull eyes, dark hair and features, and a three day shadow.  Perched obtusely on top his oily head, sits a filthy St. Louis Cardinals ball cap.  The Cardinals moved to Charleston eighteen years ago.

“Where you wanna go?” he says through the mirror.

“I don’t know,” I reply.

“They said to take you anywhere you want.  You got a hotel somewhere?  The airport?  I could give you a tour of the city,” he suggests and grins at me in the mirror.  His teeth need brushing.

“I need a drink,” I say.  “You know anyplace nice?”

“I’ve got just the place for you, pal.  Trust me.”

“As long as it’s nice and not too far away.”

“Oh this place is very nice.  You’ll like it.  Tell you what, I’ll take you there then I’ll come back when you’re ready and take you someplace different if you want.  I’ll be your personal chauffeur for as long as you like.”

“What’s the place called?”

“What place?  Oh you mean the club.  It’s called the Speedway: very hip; lots of beautiful women—young ones too.  Hey, you like to dance?”

“I’m not in a dancing mood; I just need a drink.”

“Well, the Speedway’s got everything.  You’ll like it.”

“Will it be open this early?”

“Oh yeah, they’re open all the time—twenty-four seven.”

“All right.  Sounds fine,” I say.

“I’ll fix you up, don’t worry,” he says.

That all happened a few minutes ago and, like I said, now I’m headed to a bar called the Speedway.

It seems like thirty minutes before we reach the Speedway, but when we pull up, there are doormen in tuxes and valets in organ grinder, monkey uniforms out front and Las Vegas style lights exploding in fantastic displays of color and images over the entire wall of its entrance.  It’s garish and probably pricey.

“Here’s my card,” shouts the cabby as I’m getting out of the car.  He stretches to hand me his card without undoing his seatbelt.  “Just give it to the doorman when you’re done.  I’ll be here to pick you up in no time.”

“Thanks,” I say, “I owe you anything?”

“No, you’re all taken care of.  See you later.”

I throw the door closed; the cab speeds away.  I read his card: “Damian Chuba.”

“Don’t go too far, Mr. Chuba,” I say and stuff the card into a pocket on my way to the glitzy club entrance.

I ask one of the musclebound doormen/bouncers if there’s a cover charge to get in.  He says, no, not till five.  So I enter the club uneasily, looking for somewhere out of the way to be alone with my thoughts.

It being early afternoon, I expect the club to be empty: not so at the Speedway.  There’s a mob of people bouncing up and down on the dance floor and others clogging tables around the perimeter of the expansive main room.  The place is dark.  Lights strobe as if a gang of fugitives are being chased by SWAT teams in helicopters at one a.m.

The dance music pulsates like a giant heart—it vibrates my spine—and the central chamber, where the dancers are, goes black between blinding shocks of light.  It’s like being caught in an Oklahoma lightening storm.  The noise and flashing lights would surely trigger migraines for someone prone to them.

Despite the confusion, I find my way to the bar.  A chirpy girl behind the bar greets me and shouts, “What can I bring you?”  She looks like she can’t be a day over fifteen, though I know that’s impossible.

“Is there someplace quieter I can go to have a drink?” I ask, suddenly aware that I’ve phrased my question poorly so that it begs an invitation to go someplace darker and hotter than the Speedway.  But she’s sweet and directs me to a hallway that has a glowing sign above it that reads “Restrooms & Lounge” and tells me there’s a quiet-bar down the hallway.  I thank her and leave behind the Oklahoma storm.

The quiet-bar is empty except for a couple sitting together in a booth at the other end of the room.  I take a stool at the far end of the bar.  The bartender takes my order.  This room is better lit and not loud.  I order a double Scotch and water.  He pours it for me; it tastes good and dissolves the hubbub in my head, though the throbbing heart of the Speedway can still be felt beneath the soft music of the lounge.

I drink the first one quickly and ask for a second.  Now the alcohol sinks in and washes over my brain, engulfing it, warming it, soothing it into a relaxed state so I can focus.  For the lack of other subjects, my attention falls on the couple sitting across the room in the booth.

They appear engaged in a disagreement of some sort.  I’m amused by them, by their attempts to suppress emotions which obviously verge on eruption.  Why should they be self-conscious here? I think.  Who would give a damn if they screamed at each other?  But instead, they whisper fiercely back and forth, though now and then their voices break into audible levels.

“That’s what I said!” I hear the woman say.

The woman catches my attention because she bears a striking resemblance to Patsy, my kid sister, or at least to the image I’ve carried of Patsy since the last time I saw her.  But that was years ago; Patsy would be older now.  The resemblance is especially close in the way the young woman gestures, and in her profile, and the righteous indignation I hear in her voice, the belligerence in her posture.  And the young woman might be close to Patsy’s age—now that I think about it—and, as best as I can tell, she has the same build.  But, with the lock of hair that falls against her left cheek blocking my view, it’s hard to get a clear look at her face.  But would I even recognize Patsy now? I wonder.  It’s been sixteen years since she ran away, seventeen since I saw her last.  She was fifteen then and still a girl.  She would be a young woman, age thirty-one now—no, thirty-two, I believe.

Patsy graduated high school a year early but I missed it—her graduation, I mean.  It was my first year of graduate school, and I was knee-deep in my own studies—researching a Master’s thesis in Journalism.  I spent that whole summer holed up in the university library and didn’t come home until Mom called with the news that Patsy was missing.

But it was clear she had run away because she left a note in her room listing her grievances and the reasons why she had gone.  In the note she stated she wanted to live among the “oppressed” so she could better fight for their freedom because it would mean her own freedom as well.  And she wrote: “There’s no point looking for me.  You will not find me and even if you do, I will not come home.”  That statement turned out to be prophetic.  For several months, Mom and I tried to find Patsy, but never did.

But before Patsy ran away, the battles between her and my mother were bitter.  Patsy was a precocious girl who, in my opinion, read too much crap.  Beginning in her early teens, after our dad’s death in a car accident, Patsy read volumes of radical political literature and understood it.  When she declared herself an Anarchist at age fourteen, I told Mom it was only a phase; Patsy was too young to know what she was and, sooner or later, she’d grow out of it.  At fifteen, Patsy believed she understood the political underpinnings of the human catastrophe unfolding all around her—around all of us, actually.  And she was mortified by it and blamed “zombie capitalism,” as she called it, for the desperate plight of so many.  She insisted something had to be done, that we—she, our mother, and I—had to take responsibility for the mistakes of history and commitment ourselves to dislodging the wreckage of the old system and, while doing so, relieve the suffering of others, as much as possible.

I never took Patsy seriously.  How could a fifteen year old presume to tell two adults what they were obligated to do? I thought.  And how could three individuals, even if we tried, make any difference at all in solving such an enormous social crisis?  No, Patsy was much too idealistic and detached from reality to be taken seriously, and I told her so.  Mom, on the other hand, was terrified by Patsy’s ideas which became the root of their battles which continued right up until the night Patsy left.

I continue staring at the young woman in the booth until finally she catches me doing so.

“Take a picture, weirdo,” she yells at me across the room and flashes me the middle finger.

No, not Patsy, I realize.  I got a good look at her this time.  So I quit watching the couple and order another Scotch.  It’s doubtful Patsy would ever enter a place like the Speedway, anyway.  She would consider it too bourgeois and despise me for being there.

Suddenly I want to dismiss all of these thoughts about Patsy.  They’re too heavy.

“Mr. Thakur?”

A light hand touches my shoulder.  I look up from my drink.

“Do you remember me?  I’m Meilin.  Mr. Purcell’s chef?  I cooked your lunch today.”

“Oh, of course, of course.  Meilin!” I say, surprised to see her.  “What a pleasure to see you again!  I didn’t recognize you without the chef’s uniform.  What a nice surprise!  Please join me if you can.”

“I’m meeting a friend so I can’t stay long, but sure, I’d love to join you for a minute.”

Meilin sits down beside me.  She’s young and beautiful.  I offer to buy her a drink but she orders a mini-Perrier instead, explaining she’s not ready to drink yet because she hasn’t eaten anything.

“My friend and I are having dinner later—here, this evening.  You wouldn’t believe it but they actually have a great menu.  I know the chef.  Have you eaten here before?”

“No, I’ve never been here before,” I reply.  “Is there a restaurant too?”

“Oh sure, it’s on the other side but my friend said he’d meet me here first.  But when I came in, I thought I recognized you sitting here and was surprised you were alone.  I’m only here because Mr. Purcell flew back to New York after lunch so I’ve got the night off.  Yippee!  Dinner with a friend, a little dancing, kick back; you know, while the cat’s away—  So, what are you doing tonight?”

“I don’t know really; getting drunk maybe.  With this one I’m halfway there,” I say.  I lift my glass.  Damn!  The Scotch is working; I already sound pathetic, I say to myself.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Oh yeah, I’m fine.”  I try to sound courageous.

“Are you missing someone—a wife, girlfriend maybe?”

“Oh no, neither.  I mean, I don’t have either a wife or a girlfriend,” I confess, as my cheeks confirm the statement by lighting up.

“Really?  Seems like an intelligent, successful guy like you would have a girl in every port.  So what are you?  Thirty-one, thirty-two maybe?”

“I wish!  No, I turned thirty-nine this year.”

“That’s still young,” she says unconvincingly.

“Well, you’re in the right place,” she adds, “lots of cute girls here, especially a little later.  Maybe you’ll find someone to hook up with, have some fun tonight.  Oh, by the way, I read your last article.”

“Really?  Which article was that?”

“The Henri Roaché piece; I thought it was quite good.  Oops, I see my ride’s here.  I’d better go.  But it was great chatting with you, Mr. Thakur.  Good luck, tonight!”

She’s already walking away, toward a handsome young man standing near the entrance.

“Call me Henry,” I say.

“Pardon?”

She turns, walking sideways in her stilettos.

“Thanks for lunch!” I say.

She smiles, wiggles an index finger goodbye, and blows me a kiss, then turns and walks to her friend.  They greet by holding hands and brushing cheeks like Europeans.  He gestures toward the door.  She threads her arm in his and together they disappear.

Somehow, my already crappy day feels even worse.  I order another Scotch.

Henri Roaché!  The name sticks in my brain like a cocklebur in a sock.  It’s odd she would mention him.  It feels like a clue, dropped in my hat.

The bartender—a young man, sporting Sir Walter Raleigh facial hair and a billy club ponytail—lingers after serving my drink and polishes an Old Fashioned glass with a towel.  He acts nonchalant—like nothing’s on his mind except the glass he’s holding.   But common barkeep etiquette says that, usually, the server disappears after serving a customer.  So it’s a little odd that he stays, polishing his glass in the hot spotlight until it sparkles.

After a minute, however, he casually says to me:  “I see you know Meilin.”

I think: Maybe he’s bored and just wants conversation.  Or maybe he and Meilin used to be an item and he’s curious about what she’s up to these days,  or something of that nature.

“Yeah, I just met her today,” I say.  “She’s certainly a beautiful and talented woman—a wonderful chef, too.”

“So I’ve heard,” replies Sir Walter.

He continues polishing without making eye contact.

“It’s none of my business, but you might be careful what you tell her—Meilin.”  He says this and nods in the direction of the door where she and her friend just left.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“What I mean is: be careful what personal information you share with Meilin.  Some people say cooking is only a hobby with that girl, that her real expertise is less savory, shall we say.”

I blink my eyes in disbelief.  The bartender stares directly into my eyes but does not offer further explanation.

“What expertise are we talking about?” I ask.

“Just be careful.  If Meilin takes an interested in you, then someone’s watching,” he says, then nods at me and moves away.

I’m dumbfounded.  What an insane day! I think.

I fish several bills and Mr. Chuba’s business card out of my pocket and leave the bills on the bar.

“What a waste,” I mumble as I start to get up.  I have to stop though and steady myself before walking.  What a waste, indeed!  My entire day has turned into one tangled riddle without the hint of an explanation as to what’s going on.

Copyright by Dale Tucker.  All rights reserved.