Write me a Letter

He was an old pal of mine, an ex-cop name of Frank O’Brien who I got to know years ago upstate before I started up on my own when I was doing more or less what he was doing these days—standing around a lot keeping an eye on other people’s property.
    Frank was a fit-looking, stocky man a few years older than me, dressed in his working clothes of black shoes, blue trousers, short blue jacket caught at the waist, blue cap, and holstered weapon. We shook hands; I introduced him to Evonne, and he shook hands with her too, then he raised his eyebrows at me in that man-to-man look that means ”You lucky old dog, you.”
    ”All quiet on the western front?” I said.
    ”Yep,” he said.
    ”Annie up at the house with the guest list?”
    ”Yep,” he said. Annie was his wife, a tiny powerhouse who looked, and was, just as fit as her old man. She talked about as much as him, too, which was hardly at all, except when she was squiffed.
    ”OK, pal,” I said, getting back in the car. ”Any problems, give me a call.”
    ”Yep,” he said. ”Anythin’ particular I’m lookin’ for?”
    ”Nope,” I said. I proceeded slowly up the curving tree-lined drive, waving once in a casual fashion to a gardener who stopped work to admire my classic wheels as we passed, then I was directed by yet another valet parker toward the side of the house, where I slipped in neatly between a caterer’s van and a stretch limo. The catering van’s rear doors were open and two youths in T-shirts were busy unloading large, foil-covered trays and serving dishes and, I was pleased to see, cases of liquid refreshments, and then toting them down a path at the side of the house to the kitchen. The house itself was huge, sprawling, and utterly gorgeous. It was Spanish in design, with white stuccoed walls and terracotta roof tiles, also with decorative tiles outlining all the windows and doors. My friend Mr. Aaron Lubinski, looking very sharp indeed in a dark blue tux, ruffled shirt, red cummerbund, and red rose in his lapel, was standing at the front door waiting for us.
    ”Hmm, a regular clotheshorse suddenly,” he said to me as we shook hands.
    ”Look who’s talking,” I said, grinning down at him. ”So how are you?”
    ”How should I be on such a day, heartbroken?” he said. ‘”You will no doubt remember Miss Evonne Shirley, who came to your reopening party with me,” I said.
    ”Could I forget such a vision?” He took her hand and kissed the back of it gallantly. Then he led us into the house, through the large living room, and then out through open French doors into a spacious courtyard enclosed on all sides by various wings, ells, projections, and abutments. There we discovered other members of the catering crew busily putting the final decorative touches that mean so much on rows of linen-draped trestle tables. Three additional tables at the rear, under some arches next to the kitchen, groaned under the weight of enough high-class comestibles to relieve the famine in Somalia overnight.
    The booze—plus all the soft drinks, fruit juices, ice buckets, Maraschino cherries, and cunningly cut slices of assorted citrus fruits—were temptingly laid out on yet more tables right next to the food.
    I raised my eyebrows. ”Quite a spread. Quite a joint, too. I never knew there was so much money in ankle bracelets and mood rings.”
    ”Don’t mind him,” Evonne said. ”He’s just jealous.”
    ”You better believe it,” I said. ”Mr. Lubinski, how about you entertaining Evonne for a few minutes while I have a little snoop around.”
    ”A rare pleasure,” he said, taking her arm and leading her toward the drinks table. ”I think there’s a bottle of champagne already open, my dear, and if not, there soon will be.”
    ”What a treat to meet a real gentleman at last,” my beloved said over her shoulder so she’d be sure I heard it. I winked at her and wandered back into the front of the house. As I was admiring the artwork in the living room, Frank’s wife Annie called to me through the open door of an adjoining room.
    ”Peekaboo, I see you,” she said, raising a glass of cheer in my general direction.
    ”Likewise, I’m sure,” I said. I went in and patted the top of her head. She blew a kiss up at me. She was sitting at a desk in what turned out to be Nathan’s office or study or den or all three, two pages of guest list in front of her and in front of them, a complicated-looking telephone setup, almost a junior