Name Games (17 page)

I turned to her. “What’s so funny?”

“Hérisson,” she repeated the name. “If my college French serves me correctly—I’d need to check the Larousse, but I’m almost certain—
hérisson
means ‘hedgehog.’” She laughed again.

I joined in laughter at the image she’d conjured—a roly-poly Bruno in cravat and beret, covered head to toe with quills. I asked her rhetorically, “How do people come
up
with this stuff?”

She waved an arm in a theatrical flourish, posing a rhetorical question of her own, courtesy of Shakespeare: “‘What’s in a name?’”

Mirroring her flourish, I declaimed, “‘That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’”

A few people actually stopped to watch us, one lady breaking into applause. To my way of thinking, our brief performance wasn’t all that good, but so as not to disappoint our little audience, we offered a series of elaborate bows to our onlookers and to each other. Our parody of star-crossed tragedy soon degenerated into a genre more akin to slapstick, and we moved on.

Nearing the end of the block, we paused at the intersection, waiting for traffic. The corner storefront, I noticed, was vacant—one of several along the way—and I couldn’t help musing that this one would make an attractive office for Neil. I didn’t know what the store had been, as it was empty when I’d arrived in Dumont and its signage was removed. But the facade was tastefully subdued, and it didn’t take a lot of creative vision to see that it could easily be adapted to the needs of an architect who would, perhaps eventually, retain a small staff.

In my mind’s eye, a sign already hung from the eaves near the door:
NEIL M. WAITE. AIA.

“Hey, Mark,” said Roxanne with a nudge, “it doesn’t get any greener.” She was referring to the traffic light, which had turned. I hadn’t been paying attention, and other pedestrians now streamed around us, casting annoyed glances.

So I shrugged an apology, locked my arm through hers, and proceeded into the crosswalk. Our destination, First Avenue Grill, was still a half block ahead, and my mind was still occupied by the possibility, however remote, that Neil could be persuaded to move his practice from Chicago. The
WALK
light changed, flashing amber, as we stepped onto the opposite curb. On the corner was a tavern; in its windows were neon signs extolling various brews, flashing out of sync with the traffic light. This visual noise would not normally make a dent in my thoughts, but one of the signs flickered nervously, tugging for my attention:
MILLER BEER.

I snapped my fingers. “Miller,” I said, waltzing Roxanne under the awning to the window where the feeblish neon blinked and quavered.

She shook her head, tisking. “It didn’t take long for Wisconsin to cast its spell. You used to be a vodka man. What’s next—bratwurst?”

“No, listen, I forgot about this. A couple of days ago, I overheard part of a phone conversation—and a reference to the ‘Miller standard.’ I didn’t know what was meant by this, but I was left with the impression that it might be a legal term. Have you ever heard of the ‘Miller standard’?”

“Of course.” She paused as if I were an idiot.

“I’m not a lawyer,” I reminded her. “So—what is it?”

Clearing her throat, she lectured, “The Miller standard was established by a 1973 Supreme Court ruling in the case of
Miller v. California.
It partly defined obscenity as material that appeals to a prurient interest in sex. The Miller standard has not been significantly reduced over the years, and to this day, it remains the darling of book burners, the bane of free-speech advocates.”

Enlightened by this bit of information and stunned by its implications, I asked, “Would the Miller standard have any bearing on the obscenity trial that’s looming in Dumont County?”

“You betcha.” Then a puzzled look crossed Roxanne’s face. “Who was talking about this?”

“Carrol Cantrell, king of miniatures.”

“
Slain
king of miniatures,” she corrected me.

Arriving at the Grill, we found the place crowded—in fact, full. Generally regarded as Dumont’s best restaurant, it attracted a loyal clientele of business people at lunch, including me. Shortly after I’d arrived at the
Register,
the Grill had extended to me a standing noon reservation at my favorite table, held for me until twelve-fifteen. Today, having lost track of time during my meeting at the office, I was late.

The hostess rushed to greet me at the door. “I’m so
sorry,
Mr. Manning. We assumed you weren’t coming.” It was twenty past the hour.

“That’s okay,” I assured her, “I should have phoned.”

She glanced about, wringing her hands. “The kitchen’s running slow today, so there won’t be a table for at least twenty minutes.” She repeated, “I’m so sorry.”

As Roxanne had commitments, we couldn’t afford to dawdle, but still, we’d save no time by walking back to my car and driving somewhere else. So I told the hostess, “We’ll wait. Maybe we could look at menus and order before we sit down.”

“Certainly, sir. May I bring you and the lady something from the bar?” There was no actual bar with stools, but they served liquor at the tables.

I asked Roxanne, “Would you like something?”

“Just mineral water, thanks.”

The hostess nodded. “And you, sir—Lillet?”

I didn’t realize till then that the soft-tasting, blond-colored aperitif had become my “usual” at lunch (I still saved the vodka ritual for evening). The week I moved to Dumont, I was surprised to discover that Lillet was available at this modest (by city standards) storefront restaurant. One evening, at table with Barret Logan, the
Register
’s founding publisher, I noticed that he ordered it. Assuming that it had been stocked at his request, I thought it fitting to continue the tradition—after all, I was assuming his position at the paper. More often than not, then, if I drank at lunch, I ordered Lillet. Curiously, though my tongue often tripped on French words, it had no problem whatever with
Lillet
(lee-
lay
).

Today, though, in deference to Roxanne, I thought it best to nix the booze. Roxanne had managed to kick a drinking problem three years earlier, around the time she introduced me to Neil. While the early phases of withdrawal were surely rough for her, she had since shown no difficulty with social situations involving liquor. Indeed, she routinely insisted, “Do enjoy yourself; don’t mind me,” finding it condescending if others abstained on her account.

Still, I didn’t want to be the one to tempt her, and I certainly didn’t
need
a drink. I told the hostess, “Mineral water sounds good—La Croix is fine.” I smiled without enthusiasm.

“Mark!” a familiar voice interrupted these weighty deliberations. It was Sheriff Pierce, approaching us from a table, napkin in hand, as the hostess retreated into the crowded room.

“Hi, Doug,” I told him. “You remember Roxanne Exner, from Chicago.”

“How could I forget?” he queried graciously, shaking her hand. I noticed her eyes widen as he continued, “What brings you back to Dumont—Quatro business, or our latest manhunt?” His tone was light and amiable, surprisingly so, in light of the pressures of the murder investigation.

“The former,” she answered, practically cooing, “which I assure you is considerably less interesting than the latter.” Then she added with a chortle, “It seems you’ve got your hands full again, Doug.” Her manner was more than friendly, almost flirtatious. In a sense, I didn’t blame her—they were both attractive single professionals. Roxanne knew very well, though, that I had long harbored suspicions Pierce was gay. What I hadn’t yet told her was that I was now convinced Pierce had been sleeping with Carrol Cantrell.

Determined to prevent Roxanne from getting any giddier, I made the insipid observation, “Quite a crowd today. Must be the weather.”

Roxanne moaned, “Twenty minutes for a table…”

Pierce’s head bobbed around the room, surveying the situation, then he turned back to ask, “Care to join us?”

That might work, I thought. “Who’s with you?”

“Harley Kaiser.” Pierce motioned to a table along the far wall, where the district attorney sat, finishing his salad. Another plate, presumably Pierce’s, had been abandoned. There were two vacant spots at the table, chairs tucked beneath. Pierce explained under his breath, “Harley’s not exactly my idea of a congenial lunch date, but this was his idea—said it was important. So far, though, nothing of substance, just routine shoptalk on the case. We’re well along with our meal, but if you’d like to join us, there are two empty chairs.”

Though the prospect of lunch with Pierce was enticing, I did
not
want to share a table with Kaiser. I assumed Roxanne would also be averse to Pierce’s suggestion, as she’d had a previous, disagreeable encounter with the DA, judging him a “hot dog,” a slur that got back to him.

“Maybe we
should,
” said Roxanne, tapping her watch. “Thanks, Doug.”

Thanks, indeed. The lady had spoken, so the three of us wended our way through the packed room, sidling between tables like a stunted conga line.

Kaiser rose when he saw Pierce returning to their table with Roxanne and me in tow. The look in his eye (a look of quizzical apprehension verging on panic) suggested that he’d had no idea Pierce would ask us to sit with them; it also suggested that he had no more taste for the idea than I did.

Seemingly oblivious to all this interplay, Pierce casually announced to his lunch companion that Roxanne was rushed and we’d be sharing their table.

“Very well,” said Kaiser with a smile so twisted, it must have hurt.

Without further discussion—and pointedly, without the niceties of greetings or handshakes—we all sat down, arranging ourselves around the table. The hostess had eyed this maneuver from across the room, sending a waitress with our bottled water. A buxom, middle-aged woman in a crisp white uniform (she looked like a nurse), she produced, seemingly from nowhere, a complete set of tableware for Roxanne and me, whisking everything into position with a few adept snaps of her wrist. Tucked under her arm were two menus, which she handed to us. “Today’s special is meat loaf—it’s real good,” she told us. “I’ll check back.” And she vanished.

Roxanne and Pierce suppressed a snicker. In defense of our earnest server, I told the others, “I’ve had their special meat loaf—many times—and it
is
real good.”

Roxanne now broke into open laughter, clamping her hand on my arm, as if telling me to stop. Pierce also laughed, but tried to cover it with a cough, which only added to the noise. Kaiser watched us sternly, sitting ramrod stiff, telegraphing his disapproval of the merriment. His blue-black pompadour jittered atop his head, and he suddenly looked like a
pissed
poodle. This ludicrous image was more than I could stand. Staring at the DA’s hair, I too broke into laughter. Good grief—Fin Kaiser, poodle with an attitude.

Everyone at the table, including myself, seemed at a loss for words, as if afraid that whatever was said would take on comic overtones. In truth, our antic behavior had turned a tad juvenile, and it was time to shape up. Mercifully, our waitress returned at that moment to deliver Pierce’s and Kaiser’s main courses, removing their salad plates as she did so—an impressive feat of juggling that proved sufficiently distracting to curtail my laughing jag.

“Decided?” she asked Roxanne and me.

Though we hadn’t even looked at our menus, we were pressed for time, so I ordered the meat loaf without even considering other choices. Roxanne queried the woman about fish; learning that the closest available species was shrimp, she ordered the ubiquitous chicken Caesar.

When the waitress had waddled off, I insisted that Pierce and Kaiser begin without us, which was of course the only sensible option under such awkward circumstances. With hesitation and apologies, they began to eat, which hampered their ability to converse. Roxanne and I were therefore left with nothing to eat and little to discuss. Speaking idly to each other, we attempted to include the other two in our patter, but their participation was limited to an occasional smile or nod while chewing.

Our small talk could be stretched only so far. The unspoken topic of Carrol Cantrell’s murder hung over the table like a massive chandelier, supported by an impossibly weak thread, threatening to crash. What’s more, only moments before our arrival at the Grill, I had learned from Roxanne that Carrol’s overheard reference to the Miller standard was in all likelihood related to the issue of obscenity—what was
that
all about? And here we sat with the district attorney—not only did he have a vested political interest in an impending obscenity case, but he’d also invited the sheriff to lunch to discuss something important. The DA wasn’t talking, though, and my reporter’s instincts had revved into high gear. That metaphorical chandelier now creaked and swayed overhead.

Avoiding the obvious issue of the murder, I said to Kaiser, “So then, Harley, do you think you’ve got a fighting chance to get an obscenity conviction this time?”

Slowly, he swallowed what was in his mouth and placed his fork on his plate. He knew only too well that I was philosophically opposed to his antismut campaign; he had read my editorial rejoicings when his previous efforts had failed. He probably assumed that I now raised the issue to taunt him, an assumption that, while correct, was incomplete, as my deeper motive related to the intriguing possibility of some connection between the obscenity issue and Carrol Cantrell.

In a flat, emotionless tone, he told me, “I have no comment on the impending trial, Mr. Manning.” He often addressed me as “Mark,” I noted, but not this time; today he saw me as the press, which is to say, the liberal press, the enemy. He continued, “The war against pornography will not ultimately be won in the courtroom, but in the hearts of the public.” This struck me as an odd statement, coming from Kaiser. Though there were many things I didn’t like about the man, I generally admired his sapless pragmatism; he rarely indulged in such flights of rhetorical blather. As if to explain this seeming inconsistency, he reminded me, “The County Plan Commission has issued its report, you know, and Dr. Benjamin Tenelli speaks with a highly persuasive voice in our community.” He said no more, but continued to eye me, smiling wryly. His implication was clear: Dr. Tenelli had called, in effect, for a crackdown on porn, so public opinion was destined to heed that call. This meant that Kaiser was more apt to recruit a sympathetic jury in his case against the porn shops at the edge of town. It also meant that Sheriff Pierce was less apt to find a sympathetic electorate in his bid for reelection.