Free At the Twilight's Last Gleaming by David Bischoff Page B

salary to charities.”
    “Well, John D. Rockefeller always said if you had a lot of money you should money around before it stinks,” said Mr. Brown “But I can still smell this money.”
    The doorbell rang.
    “I’ll get this,” said Mr. Brown.
    I was quite taken aback by Emory Clarke’s performance then.
    “Good evening,” came a strong Southern twang. “My name is Emory Clarke and this is my good friend Cheryl Ames. I believe we are expected?”
    Sullen and aloof at school amongst his own age group, he was much more the polite Southern gentleman in front of his elders. He simply shone with good manners. He wasn’t exactly in black tie, but he was dressed well in a cashmere sweater with an expensive shirt peeking out. Slacks with stiff creases reached down brown shoes that matched. I had to think then, suddenly of Leslie Howard as Ashley in
Gone With the Wind
.
    He looks, I thought, just like Ashley!
    Much more than Bela Lugosi, he was also the gentlemen Dracula who knocks on the doors of London society and is allowed entrance. No wonder Mr. Crawley saw him as Dracula! The method to the school play director’s madness was trickling into my head.
    Cheryl, on the other hand, was still quiet and aloof. She didn’t look at me at all as greetings were distributed.
    It wasn’t long until we were shuffled down into the basement. Soft drinks were provided, brownies and popcorn promised.
    Harold gestured to the long column of records lining the shelves.
    “What would you like to hear, folks?” he said amiably. “We’ve got the Beatles through Beethoven.”
    Emory nodded. “I hate to trouble you with what I enjoy to listening to most.”
    “What’s that, Emory?”
    “Emory likes jazz,” said Cheryl. She rolled her eyes, as though this were a peculiarity that almost was too much to bear.
    I felt a bit crestfallen. Emory was going to get psychedelicized and clam up tight. The glimmers he’d been showing in his character fascinated me, and now they’d shrink away under the wobbly guitars and fuzz boxes of Vanilla Fudge and Pink Floyd.
    However, Harold smiled.
    “So. Are we talking bebop? Cool? West Coast? Swing? Big band.”
    Emory’s button dark eyes sparked. “You mean — you have some jazz? You know about jazz?”
    Harold shrugged. “It’s not my cup of tea morning, noon and night, but my Dad’s a jazz buff and has been collecting it since the early 40s. So we’ve got lots of the stuff. 78s, if you can believe it! Boy, are those wacky! Me, I got
Captain Kangaroo’s Guide to Jazz
when I was a kid, and just being around my dad. Been to some jazz festivals…. Look at
Downbeat
sometimes.”
    A smile trembled at the edge of Emory’s thin bloodless lips. “You wouldn’t happen to have any Miles Davis, would you?”
    “Oh sure. Dad’s got miles of aisles of Miles!”
    “Anything by that gifted man would sound good to me right now!” The smile broke out, and it was like the dawn on the delta. It was a warm and genuine smile. It made those impenetrable eyes suddenly seem accessible — and it was a pleasant, amiable sight indeed.
    “Oh sure. Anything for guests. I’ll see what I can find. They’re upstairs in Dad’s study.”
    “If it’s not too much trouble,” said Emory.
    “None at all! Be back in a jiff!”
    Harold took off, leaving me alone with the dire duo.
    They’d been parked together on the couch. Cheryl was munching at the popcorn. Emory was sitting straight up, hands on his knees, still looking stiff — but now he didn’t seem at all uncomfortable.
    “You know, Emory,” I said. “I’m just so taken at how good you are as Dracula.”
    “Method acting!” said Cheryl. She squeaked with laughter between chomps of her popcorn.
    “That’s very gracious of you, Rebecca. And I was just telling Cheryl on the way here how nice it is to hear an American able to do a proper English accent.”
    Cheryl, obviously loosening up a bit, cocked a thumb at Emory. “So, honey chile, can you