3

Jack walked in the main entrance of the Waldorf at six precisely and went up the steps to the bustling lobby. It had been a hectic day but he had managed to get here on time.

He had arranged for analysis of the contents of the bottle he had found in Grace’s room, then had gone down to the streets and looked up every shady character he knew—and he knew more than he cared to count. There was no talk anywhere about anybody snatching a rich old lady. By late afternoon he was drenched with sweat and feeling gritty all over. He had showered, shaved, dressed, and cabbed over to Park Avenue.

Jack had never had a reason to go to the Waldorf before so he didn’t know what to expect from this Peacock Alley where Kolabati wanted to meet him. To be safe, he had invested in a lightweight cream-colored suit and a pinkish shirt and paisley tie to go with it—at least the salesman said they went with it. He thought at first he might be overdoing it, then figured it would be hard to overdress for the Waldorf. From his brief conversation with Kolabati he sensed she would be dressed to the nines.

Jack absorbed the sights and sounds of the lobby as he walked through it. All races, all nationalities, all ages, shapes, and sizes milled or sat about. To his left, behind a low railing and an arch, people sat drinking at small tables. He walked over and saw a little oval sign that read “Peacock Alley.”

He glanced around. If the Waldorf Lobby were a sidewalk, Peacock Alley would be a sidewalk cafe, an air-conditioned model sans flies and fumes. He didn’t see anyone at the outer tables who fit his image of Kolabati. He studied the clientele. Everyone looked well-heeled and at ease. Jack felt very much out of his element here. This was not his scene. He felt exposed standing here. Maybe this was a mistake—

“A table, sir?”

A middle-aged maitre d’ was at his shoulder, looking at him expectantly. His accent was French with perhaps a soupçon of Brooklyn.

“I think so. I’m not sure. I’m supposed to meet someone. She’s in a white dress and—”

The man’s eyes lit up. “She is here! Come!”

Jack followed him into the rear section, wondering how this man could be so sure he had the right party. They passed a series of alcoves, each with a sofa and stuffed chairs around a cocktail table, like tiny living rooms all in a row. There were paintings on the wall, adding to the warm, comfortable atmosphere. They turned into a wing and were approaching its end when Jack saw her.

He knew then why there had been no hesitation on the part of the maître d”, why there could be no mistake. This was The Woman in the White Dress. She might as well have been the only woman in the room.

She sat alone on a divan against the rear wall, her shoes off, her legs drawn up sideways under her as if she were sitting at home listening to music—classical music, or maybe a raga. A wine glass half-full of faintly amber liquid swirled gently in her hand. There was a strong family resemblance to Kusum, but Kolabati was younger, late twenties, perhaps. She had bright, dark, wide-set, almond-shaped eyes, wide cheekbones, a fine nose dimpled over the flare of the left nostril where perhaps it had been pierced to set a jewel, and smooth, flawless, mocha-colored skin. Her hair too was dark, almost black, parted in the middle and curled at the sides around her ears and the nape of her neck. Old fashioned but curiously just right for her. She had a full lower lip, colored a deep glossy red. And all that was dark about her was made darker by the whiteness of her dress.

The necklace was the clincher, though. Had Jack the slightest doubt about her identity, the silvery iron necklace with the two yellow stones laid it immediately to rest.

She extended her hand from where she was seated on the couch. “It’s good to see you, Jack.” Her voice was rich and dark, like her; and her smile, so white and even, was breathtaking. She leaned forward, her breasts swelling against the thin fabric of her dress as it shaped itself around the minute nipple-bulge centered on each. She did not seem to have the slightest doubt as to who he was.

“Ms. Bahkti,” he said, taking her hand. Her nails, like her lips, were a deep red, her dusky skin soft and smooth as polished ivory. His mind seemed to go blank. He really should say something more. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your necklace.” That sounded good, didn’t it?

“Oh, no. Mine stays right where it is!” She released his hand and patted the cushion next to her. “Come. Sit. We’ve much to talk about.”

Close up, her eyes were wise and knowing, as if she had absorbed all the wonders of her race and its timeless culture.

The maître d’ did not call a waiter but stood by quietly as Jack took his place beside Kolabati. It was possible that he was a very patient man, but Jack noticed that his eyes never left Kolabati.

“May I get M’sieur something to drink?” he said when Jack was settled.

Jack looked at Kolabati’s glass. “What’s that?”

“Kir.”

He wanted a beer, but this was the Waldorf. “I’ll have one of those.”

She laughed. “Don’t be silly! Bring him a beer. They have Bass Ale here.”

“I’m not much for ale. But I’ll take a Beck’s light if you’ve got it.” At least he’d be drinking imported beer. What he really wanted was a Rolling Rock.

“Very good.” The maître d” finally went away.

“How’d you know I like beer?” The confidence with which she had said it made him uneasy.

“A lucky guess. I was sure you wouldn’t like kir.” She studied him. “So… you’re the man who retrieved the necklace. It was a seemingly impossible task, yet you did it. I owe you a debt of undying gratitude.”

“It was only a necklace.”

“A very important necklace.”

“Maybe, but it’s not as if I saved her life or anything.”

“Perhaps you did. Perhaps return of the necklace gave her the strength and the hope to go on living. It was very important to her. Our whole family wears them—every one of us. We’re never without it.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

Full of eccentricities, these Bahktis.

The Beck’s arrived, delivered by the maitre d” himself, who poured the first glassful, lingered a moment, then wandered off with obvious reluctance.

“You realize, don’t you,” Kolabati said as Jack quaffed a few ounces of his beer, “that you have made two lifelong friends in the past twenty-four hours: my brother and myself.”

“What about your grandmother?”

Kolabati blinked. “Her, too, of course. Do not take our gratitude lightly, Jack. Not mine. And especially not my brother’s—Kusum never forgets a favor or a slight.”

“Just what does your brother do at the U.N.?” It was small talk. Jack really wanted to know all about Kolabati, but didn’t want to appear too interested.

“I’m not sure. A minor post.” She must have noticed Jack’s puzzled frown. “Yes, I know—he doesn’t seem to be a man who’d be satisfied with any sort of minor post. Believe me, he isn’t. Back home his name is known in every province.”

“Why?”

“He is the leader of a new Hindu fundamentalist movement. He and many others believe that India and Hinduism have become too Westernized. He wants a return to the old ways. He’s been picking up a surprising number of followers over the years and developing considerable political clout.”

“Sounds like the Moral Majority over here. What is he—the Jerry Falwell of India?”

Kolabati’s expression became grim. “Perhaps more. His singleness of purpose can be frightening at times. Some fear he may become the Ayatolla Khomeini of India. That’s why everyone was shocked early last year when he suddenly requested diplomatic assignment at the London Embassy. It was granted immediately—no doubt the government was delighted to have him out of the country. Recently he was transferred here to the U.N.—again at his request. I’m sure his followers and adversaries back home are mystified, but I know my brother. I’ll bet he’s getting enough international experience under his belt so he can go home and become a credible candidate for a major political office. But enough of Kusum…”

Jack felt Kolabati’s hand against his chest, pushing him back against the cushions.

“Get comfortable now,” she said, her dark eyes boring into him, “and tell me all about yourself. I want to know everything, especially how you came to be Repairman Jack.”

Jack took another swallow of beer and forced himself to pause. He had a sudden urge to tell her everything, to open up his whole past to her. It frightened him. He never opened up to anyone except Abe. Why Kolabati? Perhaps it was because she already knew something about him; perhaps because she was so effusive in her gratitude for achieving the “impossible” and returning her grandmother’s necklace. Telling all was out of the question, but pieces of the truth wouldn’t hurt. The question was: what to tell, what to edit?

“It just sort of happened.”

“There had to be a first time. Start there. Tell me about it.”

He settled into the cushions, adjusting his position until the lump of the holstered Mauser .380 sat comfortably in the small of his back, and began telling her about Mr. Canelli, his first fix-it customer.