Private Screening (11 page)

“What on earth did you say to Nancy Pickering?”

Alexis had come to her side, whispering avidly. “I just put her on a little,” Stacy confided. “She was about to check my arm for puncture marks.”

Alexis laughed. “Don't I know
that
one. I think Colby half-believed I went to Hollywood to become Sam Goldwyn's mistress.” Patting Stacy's wrist, she moved into the crush again, high-spirited and alert. For an instant, Stacy saw Parnell's eyes following her from a circle of older friends, as though she were some exotic bird who might take off into flight, or else be trampled by the crowd.

“Stacy.” Jamie was breaking away from a florid, friendly man. “Have you met George Carroll?”

He managed to make this sound as stimulating as a trip to Marrakesh. The thought made Stacy smile again. “Hello,” she said, and the party went on around her.

Its rhythm seemed to quicken; Stacy sensed Jamie's aides ensuring that everyone saw the candidate before he had to leave. Faces passed so rapidly that her smile felt like a reflex.

A woman in a silk dress put a pen and album in her hand. “I promised my son I'd ask you to sign this.”

“What's his name?”

“Charles.”

“For Charles,” she wrote, then asked, “How old is he?”

“Eighteen.”

“Please vote,” she finished writing. “Love, Stacy.”

Smiles all around; more faces and hands to grasp.

“I never realized that Senator Kilcannon was so handsome.”

Stacy put a finger to her lips. “Don't let him hear you.”

Laughter. Watching, Nat Schlesinger smiled. Stacy began to like the people she was hardly meeting better than she liked her role. Preconcert nerves, she thought; it was better to be alone. Checking her watch, she saw that it was 8:15, and decided not to eat.

“But what about the balance of payments?” a man was asking Jamie.

“It's a ten-year problem.” Jamie's smile flashed. “Unless Stacy sells more records to the Japanese. By the way, have you two met?”

As the man went by, Stacy sneaked a quick glance at the Parnells.

Head held high, Alexis searched for couples to meet Jamie. But Parnell, encountering the blond man, nodded and edged away. Stacy was trying to guess the meaning of that when the blond man's gaze met hers. Though she was used to men acting afraid of her, this one did not turn away. Just the faintest amusement suggested that he saw through the veneer of charm and glamour to the heart of Jamie's business.

“We hope to see you again, Senator.”

She could hear the smile in Jamie's response. “You're coming to the inaugural, aren't you—that's why I'm working so hard.” Then he added, “Stacy, this is Alexis's good friend Carla Curran,” and she turned from the blond man to the pixie grin of a department store heir's second wife.

More faces. By now, Stacy should be pacing backstage; she'd been standing still for close to two hours. The next time she glanced around her, restless, the blond man had disappeared. The party was louder now; the cigarette haze had lowered, and guests drank and smoked in the loose-jointed rhythm that comes with the second cocktail. Spotting her, Alexis waved and then came over, murmuring, “It's going very well, don't you think?”

“Beautifully,” Stacy answered. She'd begun to swallow as she did when feeling sick; for a moment she debated asking for a quiet place to sit. But Alexis was already gone.

When Stacy turned, the blond man was talking with Jamie.

Angular and unlined, his look of boyish alertness would have stamped him as an American if this were the middle of Paris. The brunette stood next to him—his wife, Stacy saw from their rings.

“So you're a friend of Colby's,” Jamie was saying.

“An acquaintance.” His answer was quiet so that only those closest could hear. “Our relationship's a little more complex.”

Jamie's face grew wary. “Oh?” he said easily. “How so?”

“I cross-examined him this morning in a lawsuit.”

Nat Schlesinger edged nearer; as Jamie hesitated, Stacy saw the mental connection moving through his eyes. He covered in a joking voice. “So my campaign has brought you together.”

“The judge is a supporter of yours.” The muted response suggested someone too polite to spoil a party. “I was impressed by the depth of his commitment.”

Jamie glanced past him, but the other guests seemed not to have heard. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what you suspect.”

The brunette looked stricken. Jamie seemed to be gauging how serious the stranger was when she spun and left him there.

“We'll return your contribution,” Jamie said.

“Please don't.” The man smiled a little. “Nice to have met you, Senator.”

He began turning.

“But you're not exactly an admirer, are you?”

The man looked back at Jamie, as if considering whether to speak. “Not exactly,” he answered softly. “But what scares me is how smart you are.”

As Jamie bit back an answer, the man stopped in front of Stacy. “Sorry,” he murmured, and turned to leave.

Stacy watched him.

“Jesus,” Nat Schlesinger muttered.

“Stacy,” Jamie asked. “Have you met Nancy Stewart?”

11

“D
AMN
you,” she said.

Her angry profile faced the windshield. Quietly, Lord answered, “They'll take care of McIlvaine.”

“
That
was done.” Marcia's voice grew level. “I must say that Senator Kilcannon handled it very well.”

Lord watched their headlights cut the dusk. “Reagan's not the only actor in politics. Just the only one with screen credits.”

“You insulted him, Tony. And humiliated me.”

“You weren't humiliated by being there?”

“It's a lot more practical than hoping for ‘the big case.'” Marcia leaned closer to the dashboard. “What's that sound?”

“The gears are worn.”

Marcia let that hang for a while. “But you had too much pride to help your practice.”

“It's just that I'm not a courtier.”

“And you couldn't stand to have anyone think that, either.” She turned. “I saw you look at Stacy Tarrant.”

For the first time, Lord smiled. “Where did that come from?”

“You
were
.” Marcia frowned. “I know you like that type.”

“What type is that?”

“The tall, model type. You buy her records, don't you?”

Lord smiled again. “That hardly rises to adultery, Marsh.”

She fell silent. Crossing Market Street, they headed for Noe Valley on the main drag of the city's gay nightlife. Lone men and men in twos or threes cruised the sidewalk of shops and cafés packed into a two-block area. Faint colored lights and bits of rock and folk music rose and fell with the traffic through the doors of the clubs; Lord was depressed by the feral, rootless rhythm of seeking.

He touched Marcia's hand. “This whole conversation is silly. We have a marriage, a home, and a child.”

Softly, she asked, “Is there someone else?”

“Of course not.”

Waiting for the babysitter, he wondered why she'd asked that. When he returned, she was staring into the mirror, face stripped of makeup. He went to Christopher's room.

His son slept with the batting helmet next to his hand.

Lord felt a kind of sadness; the day seemed so long that cross-examining Parnell must have happened the day before. Which day, he tried remembering, had he last made love to Marcia?

Perhaps that would help things.

The next morning would be filled, he recalled, by Danziger. Watching Christopher's dreamless face, for the first time Lord let himself think about giving it up.

“Tomorrow,” he promised his son. “I'll spend time with you tomorrow.”

He went to find Marcia.

As they left, Alexis hugged Stacy. “We'll watch for you on television.”

Stacy kissed her. “We'll be back. Really.”

Alexis looked pleased. “I hope so.”

From behind her, Parnell nodded, then said, “We'd better let them go, Alexis.”

Jamie shook his hand, then began walking Stacy toward the limousine. When she turned to wave, Alexis was halfway down the steps.

The limousine was ringed by shadows, reporters, and Secret Service. Another shadow stepped from the darkness—Nat Schlesinger. Jamie bent close to him. “Put someone in touch with whoever that judge is,” he said quietly. “I don't want problems from this.”

“Senator!”

Jamie's head snapped up. “We're running late,” he called. As he and Stacy hurried to the limousine, Nat opened the door.

Stacy slid in. A lone man caught Jamie. “Just one, Senator. Do you think your opponent's slip on nuclear weapons is like Romney's admission that he was ‘brainwashed' on Vietnam?”

Jamie turned. “Oh, I don't know,” he said carelessly. “In this case, I think a light rinsing would be sufficient.”

The reporter laughed. Hastily, Nat stepped in. “Jamie's tired—for God sakes, don't print that.”

Smiling, the reporter turned to Jamie. “You owe me.”

“Always.”

Jamie got in the car.

Nat closed the door behind him. Jamie propped his elbow against it, staring out. As they pulled from the driveway, Stacy saw Alexis waving in the faint glow of a porch light. Arm around her shoulder, Parnell looked not at the limousine, but at his wife.

“Well,” Jamie said. “That's done.”

Stacy gazed past him. “She looks so fragile. Like a butterfly in a box.”

“Does she?” He glanced at his watch.

Stacy felt her stomach tightening. “Don't worry,” she said. “John's on top of it.”

They passed from streetlight to streetlight, accenting the hollows of his face. “God save me,” he murmured, “from frustrated, ambitious men.”

“John?”

“This man Lord.” Jamie kept watching the dark. “Norman Mailer once told me that everyone thinks they can write. The truth is that everyone thinks they should be president. But what does someone like that lawyer know about living in the media?”

“It could have been worse, Jamie. At least he was quiet.”

“
You
heard it, didn't you?”

“It doesn't matter.” She breathed in. “The thing that bothered me was Chinatown.”

He lapsed into silence. When he spoke again, it was in the tone of a man remembering something he once had heard. “The definition of a fanatic,” he said to the window, “is someone who goes on when he can't remember why.”

Fretting with her bangs, Stacy let this pass. It was 9:15; she was late.

“What
did
Romney say about Vietnam?” she finally asked.

“That he'd been brainwashed into supporting the war.” Facing her, Jamie's eyes glinted. “It was probably the most honest thing he said. Nixon killed him with it.”

Stacy tried to picture the concert. “There's a guy on the crew,” she said at length. “John doesn't say much about it, but he thinks Vietnam fucked him up.”

“He's probably right.” Jamie's gaze returned to the window. “I've met with some veterans. But they're not organized enough to have any impact. What can
I
do if nobody gives a damn?” He stared moodily into the darkness, his question foreclosing all others.

Stacy turned from him.

In her mind, she could ear them yelling “Sta-cee.” But she saw no image of stepping through the curtain; it still bothered her that she could not write the song.

12

B
EHIND
the curtain, Carson felt like a pair of ears and eyeballs.

On the other side Secret Service ringed the stage; feet stomped the concrete floor; fans snaked to the toilets for a last snort of coke; deejays and distributors clustered by the ramps. Carson heard and saw them on his nerve ends.

“Sta-cee.…”

The luminous dial of his wristwatch read 9:25.

It was 12:25 in Columbia; Cathy was sleeping.

“Sta-cee.…”

Daylight.

A suicide mission so golden boy can look good. Damone isn't there; in the sun he and Capwell won't pass for Vietnamese; they've napalmed the trees so there's no cover now.

“Sta-
cee
.…”

Leeches stick to his feet.

“She's giving me good vi-brations.…”

They've changed the tape.

The sonofabitch is listening to his Beach Boys albums.

“Sta-
cee
.…”

Fucking parasite; thank God she was sleeping.

“She's giving me ex-ci-tations.…”

Capwell's blood on his hands. Palsied fingers.

“
Sta-cee
.…”

Fumblingly, Carson opened the journal and read the poem he had finished:

Feeding the camera

Hair golden, spirit dead

Time circles back to you

A bullet through the head.

Hands trembling, he put a bullet in the Mauser.

The limousine stopped at the rear of the Arena.

The loading dock seemed pale yellow, dim light coming from inside. The Secret Service men waited. When one of them opened the door, Stacy heard the cry echo from above.

“Sta-cee.…”

Jamie stepped with her up the ramp, into the bowels of the Arena. In a cocoon of Secret Service they waited for the freight elevator. Metal boxes were stacked crookedly around them; Stacy saw a motorcycle by the catwalk.

“Sta-
cee
.…”

They crowded into the iron cage. As it groaned upward, past two levels of cement walls and catwalk, their call for her grew louder. She noticed Jamie's faint, ironic smile.

The elevator lurched, stopping at one side of the darkened stage. Their sound came through the curtains.

She was not ready.

Curtis waited with a flashlight. Waving them forward, he shined it at their feet. “Band's in the tuning room,” he murmured.