Where the Truth Lies by Holmes Rupert

Street.”
    “That’s a nice neighborhood,” Lanny commented. “There’s a CBS recording studio right in the middle of the apartment buildings. Can’t record after tenP .M.”
    I nodded agreement.
    Helen asked, “Is there an apartment number or …”
    “Apartment 4D,” I answered. “New York, New York, obviously. Zip is, uhhhh, one zero zero one six.”
    “Phone number?” asked Helen.
    I gave her a number and saw that Reuben was leaning around from Lanny’s seat and writing all this in a notebook. Lanny asked, “You don’t mind if Reuben takes down your phone number as well, do you?” I said of course I didn’t. He added, “Great. Anyone meeting you at JFK?” I said there wasn’t and he said he’d give me a lift home. I couldn’t think of a reason to say no. He told me to give Helen the luggage claim check that was stapled to my ticket and I explained I just had my carry-on garment bag.
    At JFK, we were allowed to exit before everyone else. The wordsecurity was invoked a few times to pacify the Brit and the businessmen, who were annoyed at having to wait until Lanny had “cleared the gate area.” There were cries of “Bye, Lanny” and “We love you!” from the economy passengers, and Lanny acknowledged them with a sideways wave of his hand.
    I had apparently become part of Lanny’s entourage. Reuben insisted on carrying my garment bag and looked as if it would offend him if I didn’t allow this. Halfway up the gangway, an American Airlines employee opened a door in its side and the four of us descended a portable flight of stairs that had been rolled up to this side door leading down to the tarmac. A Lincoln Continental stretch limo was waiting not far from the very DC-10 we’d exited.
    A big-chested driver stood with his hands clasped together. “Hi, Mr. Morris. Mr. Fleischmann. Hi, Reuben.”
    Fleischmann handed his carry-on bag to the driver. “You’re uhm … ?”
    “Michael Dougherty. From Dav-El. I’ve driven you a number of times. The airline says they’ll bring your bags by hand over to the limo, you probably would like to wait inside the car. I kept the A.C. on. You remember me, Mr. Morris?”
    Lanny looked at Michael. “Your mother is a typist for Senator Javits, right?”
    Michael nodded proudly. “That’s really nice you remember, Mr. Morris. I have no bigger fan than you.”
    Michael had opened the car door for us, and we scooted in. It was nearly midnight in the late summer, and even minus the sun the evening was still warm. It was nicer in the limo. Cool and dark. Through the tinted glass, I saw a uniformed American Airlines worker pull up in a mini-train. He had a load of luggage and quickly set about putting some of it into the trunk of the Lincoln Continental under the supervision of Reuben and Mike Dougherty.
    Irv needled Lanny, “You should have let me set up a press conference here. It would have been good publicity.”
    Lanny rolled his eyes. “It’s not like I landed the plane, Irving. Please. You’ll get the word in a couple of columns that I’m a good scout, okay? End of story. To hold a press conference would imply I’d done something heroic. That would be ostentatious.” He produced this last word with some pleasure.
    Mike sat himself down in the driver’s seat and called back through the dividing window, “The Plaza, folks?”
    Lanny looked at me. “First we’re taking Miss Trout to …”
    Two thirty-five was the number I had given Helen. “Two thirty-five East Thirty-third,” I said.
    “And thanks for dealing so nicely with the luggage, Michael,” said Lanny.
    “All I’d ever ask back is one question, Mr. Morris,” said Michael.
    “What’s that?”
    Michael steered the limo onto the Van Wyck Expressway. “When are you and Vince Collins gonna kiss and make up?”
    “Make up what?” asked Lanny.
    We all laughed, but a look of displeasure fluttered across Lanny’s features.
    No matter how excited I may be whenever I return to New York, the drive from either of its airports into Manhattan—past abandoned