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Page 14.
 "The coffee is great here," Jeff said when they were settled at their table.
"It always has been," Lexa said. "I've come to this place for a long time."
"I'll bet," Jeff said, "they fly the coffee direct from South America. On flying boats."
"You mean those old--"
"Yes," he said, "the old streamlined Pan Am Clippers. Cabins with curtained windows. Huge pontoons. Capable of crossing the Atlantic. Nobody thought you could cross the ocean without pontoons."
"South America means mostly flying over jungle, not ocean," she teased.
"That's why they also have wings," he countered.
She stuck out her tongue.
Donuts came, and were eaten.
"Sounds like you're doing some reading," she said, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin.
"You bet. I have been steeping myself in period history and literature."
"You'll write a great book. I'll tell you what, Jeff. If World Anaconda for any reason doesn't like the book you write, I'll make sure Grace looks at it. Wouldn't it be truly rad if I ended up being the responsible editor?"
"Yes," Jeff said, thinking back on books he'd been responsible for, "very rad." Then he thought about the ring she wore. "Those rocks, Lexa. I can't help but think that you're very rad and I wonder why Arthur isn't out there shopping with you? Or whatever?" Inwardly, he had already decided that Arthur deserved to be strangled.
"Oh," she said, choking on her coffee, "well, Arthur is busy building up the business so we can live in style. He's a good man, really, and he wants the best for us so we can have children and give them all the advantages."
Jeff thought, you're already living in style. How much style does anyone need? He got a cold feeling inside, realizing he could never provide that kind of style. No need to worry about being impulsive; if she had any idea that he'd had stray thoughts of confessing his affections on bended knee, she would laugh and take a cab home. Let this woman shed her sunshine while they were eating donuts; it would come to nothing more than that. She would go off with her Arthur, and he would share cold pizza with his Checky, until some more down to earth woman came his way.
"Have you read about this clock killer?" she asked.
He said: "Of course. Tell me, do you know a fellow named Louis?"
She looked genuinely baffled. "What, like Louis the 14th or something?"
Jeff pressed: "Your grandfather showed me a photograph. He seemed to be mentioning it as an afterthought, but I got the impression it was something serious. It was a picture of a relative of his, and he wouldn't let me have a copy. He did say the guy's name was Louis, and I might want to keep an eye out."
She shook her head slowly. "Louis? There isn't anyone by the name in our family."
"I just wondered," Jeff said. "Never mind." How puzzling. If there were a relative--and Beering had said it was--Lexa must know of him.
"Believe me," she said. "We are one of the smallest families on earth." She had a way of saying things with a biting little humorous edge. "My grandfather was an only child. He had a son, my Daddy, who was killed in Vietnam. So there's only me and my Mom. And Grandfather of course."
"Your Daddy's name wasn't Lou or anything, was it?"
She gave him a hurt look, and he felt like a heel. Then she brightened. "No, silly. It was Alex."
"Ah, the connection," Jeff said, thinking of her name.
Lexa nodded. "He was the apple of Grandfather's eye. Mom says Grandfather was never the same again when word came that my Daddy had stepped on a land mine and died."
"I can imagine," Jeff said quietly, suddenly aware of the
enormous burden of pain that must have soured Beering.
"Then you can understand," Lexa said, "why he puts so much stock in me, his only surviving blood relative, despite any negatives."
Jeff nodded. "But it's your life." He frowned inwardly; negatives? What negatives could Lexa possibly possess?
"That's right," she said brightly. "It's my life and I have a right to lead it the way I want. And I'm just not interested in finance." She leaned forward. "I'm interested in editors."
"You've been eating your Flying Wing without dunking it," he said.
"I'm doing it in hopes of annoying you." She grinned. "I should warn you, Dr. Maxxon, I can be very nice. And then, I can be a real pain. Are you prepared for that?"
Jeff leaned close. "I don't plan to marry you, so as long as we are just friends, would you please annoy Arthur and just give me your sunny half?"
In the pedestal of another one of those gray office towers, surmounted of course by a clock, was the Museum of Raritania City, a private nonprofit enterprise funded by Albert Beering.
"Beautiful," Jeff said, walking around inside. In the marmoreal silence, the atmosphere smelled of thick carpets, drying wood, and faint cigar smoke. Under high ceilings, the walls bore huge colorful murals; titanic shapes male, female, and infant wrestled with spaces: Sky, trees, skyline, commerce, progress, and (subtly hidden?) hints of Socialism. Where the walls were not muraled, they were paneled in sumptuous woods. The display cases were varnished and polished. Under thick glass, like objects sunk in a sea of years, lay artifacts, each with its identification card printed in sans serif: An alabaster plate from the Queen Mary; a menu from the Graf Zeppelin; a high fashion catalog; a soapstone cameo of Amelia Earhardt. There were collections of photographs: Barnstorming planes at a county fair; officials laying the foundations of Raritania City; workers erecting the clock towers...
"Jeff?"
Startled from his reverie, Jeff looked up to see that Lexa had brought somebody for him to meet.
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