Saving Grace (22 page)

Behind their thick glasses, Clara’s eyes watered. She walked to the door. “I’ll let you rest.”

When she was gone, Lily covered her eyes and wept silently. How could she speak like that to Clara, who had been like a mother to her and who was trying to help? The crazy thing was that Lily half wanted to see a doctor. Since the first time in the park, she’d had four more of these headaches. They frightened her. If pain is a warning signal, these were air-raid sirens.

But what if the attacks were connected to the return of her mother’s voice? After all, they had started at about the same time. What if curing the headaches meant silencing that precious, soothing voice? Lily had lost her mother once; how could she bear to lose her again?

There was another reason. The intense pain told her that if her headaches had an organic cause, it was nothing minor.

She didn’t want to know. More than being sick, she feared knowing she was sick. This shameful realization came to her clearly in the pale, pure light of exhaustion. Martha Kavin had been right: she was a coward.

* * *

She was lurking in the supermarket parking lot when Gracie emerged, carrying two bags. The woman was in her thirties, with a long nose, freckled cheeks, and a lanky body dressed in jeans and a checkered shirt. Apart from Gracie, she was the only woman in sight not wearing makeup.

“Grace,” the woman said, hurrying over, “can I talk to you?”

“No.”

“It’s not about your father. It’s about Barnaby, what he did to you.”

Gracie kept going. “Everyone knows what he did to us.”

“Not ‘us.’
You
.”

She glanced at the woman, who now seemed vaguely familiar. “Who are you?”

“Ronnie Neidelman.”

“You work for the
Probe.”

“Yes, but-”

“Fuck off.” Scowling, Gracie opened the trunk of her mother’s car and shoved the bags in so hard she heard something crack.
 

“Give me five minutes. You don’t have to say a word; just listen. It’s to your benefit.”

After what had happened, Gracie didn’t trust herself in the vicinity of any reporter, and she feared what her father would do if he heard of this. But her curiosity was greater than her fear, and she told herself that if she did not speak, it could do no harm to listen.

They sat in the parked car, and Ronnie Neidelman lit a cigarette from the dashboard lighter, took a few puffs, then snubbed it out with a grimace of disgust. “Reporting’s a rough business. We spend our lives cajoling people into telling us stuff they don’t want to tell us. But despite what you probably think, there are boundaries. If it’s true Barnaby seduced you, he stepped way over the line. I wanted you to know that line exists, and there are consequences.”

Was he bragging about it? Gracie wondered. She could see him in a bar, surrounded by laughing, leering colleagues
. I didn’t just fuck the father, I fucked his daughter, too!

“Is that his story?” she asked Neidelman.

“No.” The reporter looked startled. “No, he denies it, of course. I believe his exact words were, ‘I never touched the little bitch.’”

“And you’re telling me this because…?”

“Because it offends me. And because you should know that if he broke the rules, he can be called to account. You’re not powerless.”

“I never thought I was,” Gracie said.

Neidelman stared and shook her head. “Some kid.”

“I gave up teddy bears a while ago. Is he your boyfriend?”

Now the woman looked flustered. “How do—That’s got nothing to do with why I’m here.”

“No?”
 

“I’d like to know, though, if you can tell me. Did you and Barnaby…did he seduce you?”

“Who told you that? You said he denies it.”

“Your father.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, not me
personally
,” Neidelman said. “Everyone in the newsroom heard him. Didn’t he tell you? The day the story broke, your father burst into the office, called Barnaby out in front of the entire newsroom, and broke his nose.”

Gracie smiled.

15

THE DAY AFTER HIS SECOND PIECE ON Jonathan Fleishman appeared, Barnaby got a call from Jane Buscaglio asking for a meeting in their usual place, a downtown greasy spoon whose only merit was that it was frequented by no one they knew.

“Good story,” she told him after a cursory handshake. “Where’s Tortelli?”

“Who?” Barnaby said innocently.

“Your printer friend. You left his name out of the story, but it wasn’t hard to find.”

He gave up the pretense. “Actually, I asked if he’d been to see you. He seemed reluctant.”

“We need to talk to him.”

“So who’s stopping you? You don’t need my permission.”

“Can’t find him.”

Barnaby clucked sympathetically.

“Don’t fuck with me, Barnaby. I know you know where he is. I need this guy.”

“Why, is your case so weak?”

“We’ve got a strong case. But if your story’s true, Tortelli’s a smoking gun.”

“Even if I knew where he was, journalistic ethics would—”

“Yeah, tell me about ethics!”

“Jesus, what’s the matter with you, Jane? On the rag this morning? You’ve been acting weird ever since I walked in.”

Buscaglio stared at him over the top of her glasses. “Fine, you want to talk about ethics: what’s the story on the Fleishman girl?”

Barnaby felt himself blush. “What about her?”

“Did you fuck her?”

“You, too, Jane, really? You’ve known me long enough. You think I’d do that?”

“I don’t hear you denying it.”
 

“I shouldn’t have to. Just for the sake of argument, though, even if it were true, what difference would it make? It doesn’t make Fleishman any more or less guilty.”

“No, but it would put a whole new spin on our relationship. I’d have to think about information flowing both ways.”

Barnaby paled. This was an accusation of a different color, and they both knew it. She’s jealous, he realized suddenly. She’s pissed he never hit on to her. It made perfect sense.
 
Buscaglio was pushing forty, a notoriously sensitive age for single women. On the six-o’clock news, she looked dashing, almost glamorous, but up close, he could see the crow’s-feet around her eyes, the gray strands in that flaming red hair. There was ambition in the set of her mouth, and she had a runner’s body, lean and mean; no tits to speak of. Not Barnaby’s type, but he could have taken one for the team.
 

Too late now, anyway, with Buscaglio looking at him like he was a roach in her bran flakes. “You disappoint me, Jane. I thought we had some respect for each other as professionals.”

“We did have. But never mind the girl. We’ve got bigger fish to fry. I want Tortelli.”

“I want Lebenthal.”

She shook her head.
 

“I just need him for confirmation,” Barnaby wheedled. “I’ve got it figured out. Kavin hits on Fleishman’s targets, and Fleishman reciprocates. No one shits in their own stable. Lebenthal’s their joint bagman, because neither Michael nor Jonathan like getting their hands dirty.” He raised an eyebrow and waited.

 
Buscaglio said nothing.
 

Barnaby went on. “I keep remembering what the printer said about the look on Fleishman’s face while Kavin was counting money in the john. That didn’t jibe with the Fleishman holier-than-God image. So much neater and cleaner to accept little pink deposit slips from Solly Lebenthal. How’m I doing, Jane?”

“No comment.”

“Is Lebenthal talking to you?”

“No comment.”

“What about Kavin? Why hasn’t he been indicted yet?”

“No comment on Kavin either. I didn’t come to trade.”

Barnaby stuck a toothpick in the corner of his mouth and chewed on it. “Too bad. ‘Cause I want Lebenthal just as badly as you want the printer.”

“You are skating on thin fucking ice, Barnaby. By withholding this witness—”

“I don’t control him!”

“You know where he is.”

“If I did, I’d never break confidentiality to tell you.”

“Would you,” asked the prosecutor, “in return for an interview with Lebenthal?”

He hesitated.

Buscaglio laughed unkindly. “Okay, Barnaby. Now that we know what you are, let’s talk price.”

* * *

Michael Kavin came running into the locker room twenty minutes late. His face was red and he was panting. Jonathan flicked a towel at him.

“You son of a bitch, I thought you’d stood me up.”

“Sorry Jonathan. I knew that’s what you’d think. Goddamn car conked out on me—bastard needs a new transmission and I’ve been putting it off.”

On the way out, the manager offered them a caddy; they declined in unison. The club was crowded, and it wasn’t until the sixth hole that they found themselves thoroughly, reliably alone.

Michael peered over his shoulder, a recent habit Jonathan found irritating. He grasped Jonathan’s elbow and stage-whispered, “I’ve talked to Solly.”

“Where is he?”

“He wouldn’t say. He called last night. Jonathan, I think he’s thrown in with them.”

Fleishman’s face looked like wood. His eyes were unreadable behind dark glasses. “I’m glad he’s okay,” he said. “I was worried about him, disappearing like that.”

“He’s not the one we’ve gotta worry about. Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“I heard. You don’t have to spit in my ear. What did Solly say?”

“He said Buscaglio’s been all over him. He said they’re looking to do a package deal.”

“Why’d he call you?”

“He said it was to warn me, but I think he was sounding me out, like would I go in with him. Only my feeling is he’s already in.”

“I see.” Jonathan lined up his shot, sighting along his club.

It wasn’t distrust of Michael that made him mask his shock (he would no sooner distrust Michael than he would himself), but rather an instinct for self-preservation forged in the streets and schoolyards of Brooklyn, where he’d learned a fundamental lesson: if you cry when you’re hit, you’ve already lost. Nevertheless, Lily’s relentless campaign had had an effect. Though her hints and accusations infuriated him, Jonathan knew that she wasn’t often wrong in such matters. To his own disgust, he found himself weighing Michael’s every word, answering with care.

“Don’t you realize what this means?” Michael demanded.

“It means shit. Fuck Solly. Let’s play.” Jonathan swung his club and the ball flew down the fairway, coming to rest less than two yards from the hole.

“Jesus,” breathed Michael. “Someone still likes you.”

Jonathan laughed—this was more like the old days. But when he clasped Michael around the shoulders, his friend stiffened and pulled away.

“Look, Jonathan, we need to consider our options.”

Jonathan took off his sunglasses and looked straight at him. “My friend, the only option I’m considering on this fine day is whether to use my five-iron or my putter.”

“What’s with the attitude, buddy? I’ve been waiting a long time to get you alone.”

“Me too, Kemosabe. Only why’d you jump when I touched you?”

“You startled me. Christ, now who’s paranoid?”

Jonathan sank his ball with one putt. It was typical of the man that the more upset he was, the steadier his hands became. Michael had sounded hurt but not hurt enough. His shirt was soaked, and every few minutes he mopped sweat from his brow. Of course, thought Jonathan, clinging to hope, Michael never could take the sun.

They finished the course in near-silence.

In the locker room Jonathan peeled off his shirt and headed for the showers. Michael hung back.

“Jeez, look at the time,” he said. “I gotta run. I was supposed to meet Martha half an hour ago.”

“Since when do we finish before twelve?”

“Yeah, well, we’ve got this meeting...
 
Hey, take care of yourself, pal.” He waved and walked toward the door. Without seeming to hurry, Jonathan arrived before him. He leaned against it.

“You know, Michael, Lily really did not want me here today, and my lawyer had a fucking cow. I told them to go to hell. I said, ‘Michael would cut off his right hand before he’d turn on me.’ I’d hate to think,” he said, smiling, “that I was wrong.”

Kavin’s face looked like a red balloon on the point of bursting. He swallowed hard, said nothing.

“Take a shower, Michael.”

“I can’t, really, Jonathan. I’m running late as it is.”

“For what, a meeting with the feds?”

Michael closed his eyes. “I wish you hadn’t said that, man. I really wish you hadn’t said that.”