Saving Grace (18 page)

“Excuse me?” Rossiter said.

Ronnie gave him an earnest look. “I can assure you that normally, Barnaby would never let his little problem interfere with his work. Besides, for all we know, the Fleishman kid seduced
him
.”

Rossiter’s eyes widened. He put down his drink and stood up. “Got to run. So nice to have met you. Kudos again, Barnaby.”

They watched him leave, Barnaby and Ronnie and the rest of the bar. Then Barnaby took a step toward Ronnie, and she took two steps back.
 

“Calm down,” she said, not a bit drunk now. “This is a public place.”

“Isn’t that why you picked it?” He gestured abruptly at the table. “Sit.”

Warily she took a seat.
 
Barnaby joined her. He looked down at his hands. Kind hands, Gracie had called them, silly little bitch. He’d like to wrap those kind hands around Ronnie’s scrawny neck, but he kept his hands and voice down. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

“Same reason people climb Mt. Everest,” Ronnie said. “Because it’s there.”
 

“What’s there?”

“Your monumental ego. Your arrogant male superiority complex.”

“My balls!” he hooted, playing to an attentive gallery. “Look who’s caught the feminist bug!” And he looked with disdain at the lanky, indignant woman with her brown hair, sallow skin, and long nose, nostrils reddened at the tip. Barnaby had both the impression that he could see past her skin to the web of fine vessels that irrigated her brain, and the discomfiting sensation that she, too, could see through him. Their long affair had just ended, yet already it was a distant memory. He couldn’t even remember what had attracted him.

He lowered his voice. “Why are you and Roger so convinced I did that thing?”

“You didn’t deny it.”

“I do deny it—of course I deny it.”

“Too late. Besides,” she said, “I know you.”

He laughed scornfully, flicking his hands toward his lapels. “You know me? What do you know?”

“I know that if you hadn’t screwed his daughter, you would have charged Fleishman with assault.”

“Then you know nothing. A guy throws a punch after you bring down his whole life, so what? That’s penny-ante bullshit.”

“Yes, it is. But you’re a penny-ante player.”

“You don’t know me. Do you realize what you’ve done? And for what? Jealousy? Did you really think that because I balled you now and then, you had some kind of claim on me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Then why?”

She leaned back and regarded him with half-closed eyes. She took a pack of Camels from her purse and, for the first time since he’d known her, lit a cigarette.

“Since when do you smoke?”

Ronnie shrugged. “You know how it is. You give up one bad habit, you take up another. I don’t like what you did to that kid. It turned my stomach, the way you chewed her up and spit her out. It was like watching one of those repulsive drivers’-ed movies in high school. You’re my worst nightmare about what this profession can lead to. Which is funny, because I used to really admire you.”

“How many times do I have to say it? I never touched the little bitch!”

“And the pathetic thing is, you didn’t even need what you got from her. It was just piggishness. So I won’t allow you to profit from it.”

“
Won’t allow
? Who the fuck are you, the morality police?”

“Just another bitch,” Ronnie said.

12

MONDAY MORNING, JONATHAN SAT in his Eastborough office with his door open as usual, but even though he could hear people all over the building, no one came in or even passed by. His corridor, usually the hub of activity, seemed cut off from the rest.

He was sorry but not surprised. His colleagues took their lead from the bigwigs in City Hall, who had adopted a wait-and-see policy. The mayor, questioned by reporters, said on television: “If the
Probe’s
allegations against Fleishman turn out to be true, that would be very serious indeed. Personally, though, I put a lot more stock in Fleishman than I do in that reporter fellow, Barnaby.”

Beneath the surface message was a perceptible distancing; suddenly he was just plain Fleishman to the mayor, when two weeks ago it was “my dear friend Jonathan.” Even so, qualified support was better than none, especially considering how many times the mayor had been stung. But when Jonathan called to thank him, the mayor wouldn’t take his call.

Since none of the six company presidents had returned Jonathan’s calls, he concluded that they were talking to Rayburn’s people; they had joined in the conspiracy against him. He remembered Michael Kavin as he had seen him last, standing on a hill, peering around him and jabbering about long-range directional mikes. Paranoid, Jonathan had called him to Lily; but now he knew how Michael had felt. Lately it seemed as if all certainties had been repealed, as if he had strayed across an invisible boundary into a world where anything at all could happen and the foundations of his life were no more than two-dimensional
trompes I’oeil.

The only calls all morning came from reporters, and those were screened out by Maggie. Just as Jonathan was leaving for lunch, the phone on his desk rang at last. The caller was Robert Mazur, a political aide to the governor and Jonathan’s liaison to Albany. Close political allies for years, they’d also done some serious sailing together.
 

“How’re you doing, buddy?” Mazur’s tone was a shade too hearty.

“Not bad, all things considered. I’ve still got my health.”

“I know you must be busy, so let me get to the point. First of all, I want you to know that no one here gives Barnaby’s smear piece any credence. We know you. Your integrity is not an issue for us.”

“Thank you, Bobby.” Jonathan was moved. Gratitude and loyalty had been thin on the ground. “I won’t forget this.”

“That said, the perception is bad. There’s a feeling it might hurt the party.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Have you given any thought to stepping aside for the duration?”

“The duration of what?”

“The investigation.”

“No, Bob, I haven’t. Why, do you know something I don’t?”

“No, how would I know? All I know is what I read.”

Jonathan got up and kicked his door shut. “What are you saying? You’re asking me to commit political suicide. I’ll be damned if I’ll cut my throat for you, the governor, or anyone.”

“Don’t even think like that, Jonathan. This is just a temporary thing. I’m not saying quit. I’m talking leave of absence, on salary, of course.”

“You’re talking suicide. Dammit, man, I thought you were my friend.”

“I
am
your friend.” But he sounded uneasy, and Jonathan was certain other people were listening in. He cut the conversation short, practically hanging up on Mazur. To hell with him. To hell with them all.

His heart was pounding and his palms felt clammy. It wasn’t so much the pain of betrayal, to which he had lately grown inured, as it was pure funk—fear, not of the outcome of this ordeal, for of that he would admit no doubt, but of the cost to his family. Jonathan was too much his mother’s son to live beyond his means, but the life-style he had chosen to provide for his family, and which he deemed necessary for a man in his position, kept him stretched to the limit. Ever since Barnaby’s first articles on Michael Kavin had appeared, several major sources of income had dried up. His private practice was suffering; no one wanted a lawyer with problems of his own. Now Mazur had popped up with the suggestion Jonathan take a hike—”step aside on salary,” he’d called it, but he knew and Jonathan knew that was bull. You don’t walk away from power and expect it to be there when you get back.

He wasn’t hurting for cash yet, but it wasn’t so far down the road that he couldn’t see it coming. He could eliminate the frills— the cruise to Bimini was out of the question now—but Jonathan’s real trouble was with basic living expenses. It was damned expensive to keep up two houses, and Paul’s tuition was astronomical; thank God, he thought, Gracie had turned down Harvard. Then he was appalled at the thought. It was all so humiliating.

Maggie buzzed. “Michael Kavin on line two.”

“About time.” Of all the phone calls he had not received since Black Thursday, Michael’s had hurt the most. Jonathan lifted the receiver. “Where the hell have you been,
paisano?”

“Up shit creek,” Michael said comfortably, “lookin’ for a paddle, just like you. How’re you holding up?”

“I’ve had better weeks. Mostly I’m pissed as hell. That shit Barnaby...”

“Tell me about it.”

“You were right, man. They are like cockroaches. You can’t see ‘em but you know they’re there, the buggers.”

“Don’t I know. Tell me something: have you heard from Solly?”

Jonathan winced. The caution of his salad days, when Hoover’s FBI really was on his tail, had returned in full measure. Perhaps fear is like bicycle riding, something that once learned cannot be forgotten; but if so, Michael should have known better than to mention Solly’s name on the phone. “Where are you calling from?” Jonathan said.

“A booth. I make most of my calls from public phones these days. I walk around jingling like Santa Claus from all the change in my pockets.”

“Yeah, well, I’m in my office.”

“I can’t get him at home or in the office. I even called his bookmaker;
he
hasn’t heard from him either. Do you know where he is?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
 

There was a silence; Michael had caught on at last. “Never mind,” he said appeasingly. “Who the fuck cares? Are we still on for Sunday?”

“As far as I’m concerned, we are.”

“I read Barnaby’s piece. Fucking douche bag.”

“You know what? I slugged the son of a bitch.” Jonathan didn’t care who heard that.

“ Barnaby? You’re kidding. When, where?”

“In his office. Broke his nose, I hope.”

“God bless. How’d it feel?”
 

“Like a really good appetizer.
 

Michael laughed. Then his voice turned sober. “How’s Lily coping?”

“You know her. She’s a trouper.” In fact, since Barnaby’s story appeared, he and Lily had hardly spoken except to quarrel. But he’d never tell Michael that. He wouldn’t put Lily on a par with Martha.

Some of their worst fights were over Michael. That morning at breakfast, Lily had predicted that Michael would break their standing golf date. “And if he doesn’t,” she’d added, “you should.”

He’d glowered at her. She was wearing an old robe of his and no makeup. There were deep shadows underneath her eyes, and her hair was uncombed. He’d never realized how much work went into making Lily look like Lily until she ceased to make the effort. “We’re talking about Michael here, my old buddy, remember?”

“Lucas was your buddy too.”

“Lucas has lost his marbles.”

“Michael is not going to have any choice in the matter.”

“There’s always a choice.”

“You know how they work; they use the small fish to catch the big. Don’t you think they’d trade Michael for you?”

“They might. He wouldn’t.”

“First there were three,” she said in a singsong voice, “then there were two, now there is one.”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

“Then how come you understand me?”

“Understand you? I’ll lay odds you don’t even understand yourself.”

She blushed. They were both aware that lately Lily had not been herself. Sometimes she was so distracted that he had to call her name three times before she answered. When she spoke, her words surprised her as much as they did him. It seemed as if this business had jolted something loose inside, jarring to the surface thoughts that would normally have been repressed.

Until the past week, Jonathan, if asked and perhaps even if not, would have pronounced his marriage the most successful of his acquaintance. Granted, since that regrettable incident of two years back, they did not, perhaps, talk quite as much as they used to; and for many years there had been areas of his life about which Lily, by tacit agreement, knew little. But that was only natural in a long marriage; there was nothing wrong with moderate reticence and a decent respect for each other’s privacy. One couldn’t, after all, live forever in one’s spouse’s pocket.

But ever since Barnaby’s attack on him, Lily had started breaking the rules, as if the story were a natural barrier behind which she could stand and snipe at him. Such un-Lily-like behavior. Just last night, dining alone in Highview, Lily had suddenly and with no discernible change of tone or expression asked, “Was Melanie your only affair, or were there others?”

Jonathan choked. She came over to pound on his back. “What are you talking about?” he sputtered. “We haven’t got enough problems, you’ve got to excavate for more? This is extremely ancient history you’re talking.”

“Two years is not ancient history. Two years is unfinished business.”