Glamorama

"That is because I was informed you never checked into the Four Seasons," Palakon says sharply. "How were we supposed to call you when we had no idea where you were?"

"But... that's not true," I say, sitting up. "Who told you that? I mean, what are you talking about, Palakon?"

"It means that there are no records of you ever staying at the Four Seasons," Palakon says. "It means that if someone tried to contact you at the Four Seasons we were simply told that neither a Mr. Victor Ward nor a Mr. Victor Johnson was staying there." An icy pause. "What happened to you, Victor?"

"But I checked in," I'm protesting. "The driver who picked me up in Southampton saw me check in."

"No, Victor," Palakon says. "The driver saw you walk in. He did not see you check in."

"This is wrong," I'm muttering.

"All attempts to get in touch with you at the Four Seasons proved fruitless," Palakon says, glaring. "When we finally tried to make actual physical contact, as in searching the hotel for you, we came up with nothing."

"Ask him," I say, pointing at the Christian Bale guy, standing behind me. "He's been following me ever since I got to London."

"Not really," Palakon says. "He lost you that night after you were at Pylos and didn't find you again until the other night, when he spotted you at the opera." Pause. "With Jamie Fields."

I don't say anything.

"But because of your actions let's just say his part has been beefed up considerably."

"Palakon," I start. "I don't care about the money anymore. I just want to get the hell out of here."

"That's very noble, Mr. Ward, but you were supposed to get Jamie Fields out of London and back to the States," Palakon says. "Not traipse off to Paris. So the money-as of now-is beside the point."

Looking down again, I mutter, "I traipsed, I traipsed, I admit it, I traipsed..."

"Why are you..." Palakon sighs, looks up at the ceiling, curved and stained, and then, thoroughly annoyed, back at me. "Why are you in Paris, Mr. Ward?"

I'm still muttering, "I traipsed, I traipsed..."

"Mr. Ward," Palakon snaps. "Please."

"What else do you know?" I ask. "How did you find me?"

Palakon sighs again, puts his cigarette out, runs his hands over the jacket of a very natty suit.

"Since you had mentioned that you were going to follow that girl you met on the ship to Paris, we simply pursued a few theories."

"Who is 'we,' Palakon?" I ask hesitantly.

"Does the third person alarm you?"

"Who's... the third person?"

"Mr. Ward, what is the situation as of now?"

"The... situation is... the situation is..." Grasping, unable to figure it out, I just give up. "The situation is out of my control."

Palakon takes this in. "That's too bad." After a thoughtful pause, he asks, gently, "Can it be remedied?"

"What does that... mean?" I ask. "Remedied? I told you-it's out of my control."

Palakon runs a hand along the desk he's sitting at and then, after a long pause, asks, "Are you in any position to fix things?"

"I don't know." I'm vaguely aware of my feet and arms slowly falling asleep as I sit slumped on the edge of the bed. "I'm not sure."

"Well, let's start with does she trust you?" he asks. "Is she willing to leave? Is she coming back to the States?" Another pause. "Is she in love with you?"

"We've... been intimate," I say hollowly. "I'm not sure-"

"Congratulations," Palakon says. "So you've become a duo. How cute. How"-he tilts his head-"apropos."

"Palakon, I don't think you know what's going on." I swallow. "I don't think you're in the same movie," I say carefully.

"Just get Jamie Fields out of Paris," Palakon says. "Just get her back to New York. I don't care how you do it. Promise her things, marry her, perform a kidnapping, whatever."

I'm exhaling steam. "She has... a boyfriend."

"That has never been an impediment for you before, Mr. Ward," Palakon says. "Who is it? Who's she seeing? Someone in that house? Not Bruce Rhinebeck. And it can't be Bentley Harrolds."

"It's Bobby Hughes," I say hollowly.

"Ah, of course," Palakon says. "I'd forgotten about him."