Long Time No See by Susan Isaacs

Author:Susan Isaacs [Susan Isaacs]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781453219683
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media LLC
Published: 2011-04-10T14:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

“WHAT’S WRONG?” Fancy Phil Lowenstein peered across the yellowed laminate of our table in a booth in Coffee Heaven. A half step up from greasy spoon, the place stood in grubby contrast to the recently renovated, excessively quaint white clapboard railroad station across the street, about eight miles up the track from the Shorehaven stop.

A few leisurely commuters, dressed down in chinos or suited up in seersucker, atilt from attaché cases and tote bags, let their eyes drift in our direction to check if ... Yes! The Long Island Bad Guy himself was at his usual table. Uh-huh, today he was wearing—Je-sus—a giant sun medallion on a rope of gold and a belly-hugging sports shirt, gray, with wide, horizontal bands of red. The shirt was so tight it broadcast the news nobody really had to know, that his navel was an outie. Before he could catch them ogling, they turned to check the day’s special: OJ 2 POCHED EGGS ON TOAST COFFEE $2.20.

Still, these suburbanites, basking in the shine of Fancy Phil’s celebrity, suddenly seemed to be living more fully. Like drooping plants brought into the sun, they were revitalized by his light. Shoulders rose from their slumps. Eyes sparkled. “Two eggs over easy, very crisp bacon!” was ordered in a cocksure manner, as if being a mere few feet from the source of power had transformed men and women alike into wise guys. Mornings couldn’t get much better than this unless a genuinely more transcendent celebrity, a Dick Cavett, say, or a Madeleine Albright, would pop into Coffee Heaven for a bagel and cream cheese.

“You don’t like your breakfast, Doc?” my client inquired. My half-eaten egg white omelette lay on the plate like an exhausted invertebrate.

I myself was feeling fairly jaunty. “No, the omelette was fine,” I replied.

“Because if you want, I can get Monte to make you a waffle. Or a real omelette, with the yellow in it.” Phil himself had finished off a breakfast of scrambled eggs and all the accoutrements. Not a shred of hash-brown potatoes was left, nor a crust from the tower of toast he’d been served. Miniature foil containers of grape jelly and strawberry preserves, now empty, as well as a minor mess of small paper rectangles Phil had ripped off pats of butter, were strewn across the table. “Maybe some pancakes?” He grabbed a few napkins from the dispenser and dabbed the already clean corners of his mouth. “They got hot oatmeal. The kind that still’s got a little crunch in it, not the mushy kind.”

“No thanks, Phil. Look, I want to talk about money.” His poker face was impressive, though the almost imperceptible slosh of black coffee in his cup showed me something had registered. “No, no,” I came back quickly. “Not money for me. I’m in this as a volunteer, just as I said I’d be. I mean Courtney’s money. I need to ask you some questions about her, and please understand I don’t mean to be disrespectful—”

“What are

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