1985

Damn. No letters again. So I pour another cuppa joe and hit the pavement in search of God Knows What. Good gumshoe work is all connections... I know a guy who knows a guy... you get the picture. So I turn the screws on my old roomie, Stephan Chase, a "freelance business consultant" (if that isn't shady-sounding I'm Agent Dale Cooper). Seems Chase works out of a basement in Potomac, down D.C. way. He's got a Mac, phone, and fax machine that plug him into a whole sleazy underworld network. He's doing deals, giving advice and he doesn't wear a tie. I hate that. So I mess him up a little. Chase puts the finger on Steve Brookner, who launders money for unnamed offshore interests. "Puts together large commercial real estate deals for foreign investors" is how he'd explain it to his mother. Yeah, right. That and a quarter will get you a cruller at Montgomery Donuts, Steve.

Next, I put the squeeze on Mark Preston, back from a "business trip in Holland." Let's see biggest burg in Holland is Amsterdam ... What kind of business would that be, Mark? "Plastics," he says (like I've never seen "The Graduate"). Says he works for GE Plastics, out of Pittsfield. I buy that like I buy the Enquirer. A few knuckles later, Preston squeals on Craig Byrne, newly promoted VP at Morgan Guaranty in international private banking. Seems his clients are wealthy Colombians. Enough said.

Just as the sordid details of this worldwide syndicate begin to emerge, I get another case. Guy worried his girl is doing him dirty. I tail Gayle Gilman from glamour film production job to secluded house on Lake Winna-pa-something, N.H. Pretty cozy love nest, I think. Next thing you know, seven other 'B5 dames show, and the whole tryst angle flies out the window. Socialite reuners Finegan and Reilly arrive and start water-skiing. Kate Lauer checks in sans law books, clutching a plane ticket for Europe. Jackie Miller wings in from Chi-town looking every inch the triathlete. A skirt pulls up in a fire-engine-red Subaru it's Joanna Tsiantas. Pam Cohen flashes an admission ticket to Harvard Business School. Susie Reynolds Capetta arrives, new history department head at the Fenn School.

Whole thing reeks of yuppie fun like a Michelob commercial on Lifetime, so I scram. I'm dismantling the phone tap when Gayle calls mom for her lobster recipeseems none of these liberally-educated damsels has a clue how to cook. Leaving, I notice a bachelor party of '84s arriving at a nearby cottage. Coincidence? I don't think so.

Back in town, I find a message from a stoolie about Sally Crane Goggin. Sally missed reunion due to a heavy dose of pregnancy. Turns out itsa boy, Mark Christopher Goggin. Nice work, Sally. Also on my desk are a coupla rap sheets on new mugs at my place of employ, Booz, Allen & Hamilton. One is Joel Margolese, recently out of the joint at Tuck, the other is Galan Daukas, a numbers runner last seen at Fleet Financial and Drexel Burnham Lambert (Diana, make a note I should lunch this guy up and see if he and Ivan Boesky were buddy-buddy).

As this cliche-ridden column wheezes to a pathetic halt, I guess we've all learned a few hard truths. You've learned that just 'cause you don't write doesn't mean I don't know what you're up to, and that I've learned to make a fool of myself in print. But I ain't playing the sap forever, sweet-heart. I don't get the goods from you soon, I start making stuff up. You Have Been Warned.

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