by David Chill
"All right."
"We'll order some pizza. Nothing fancy."
The pizzas arrived at seven, the Sterling family rang the front doorbell five minutes later. They gave us a round of hugs, Eli asking how I was holding up, Jill and Leslie fighting back tears. Angelina and Courtney, separated by three years, an immense gap at this age, were friendly, albeit distant. We ate out on the deck, where there was a cool, gentle breeze forming. It was close to the summer solstice, so the sky was still light out. But the marine layer continued to hover above us, obscuring the sun, continuing the gloom.
"You know, I'm really ready for summer," Angelina said, between bites of a slice of pizza dotted with mushrooms. "I am so done with this weather."
"All things will pass, honey," Jill said, and Leslie abruptly stopped eating.
"Do they?" Leslie said quickly. "Really?"
"Oh," Jill said with a start. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean ... "
A moment of awkwardness ensued; it was a snipe that Leslie most likely did not intend for Jill. In moments of sadness, the anger turned within can sometimes misfire and spray whoever happens to be nearby. I stepped in, told Jill not to worry about it, and shot Leslie a glance. This was starting to play out as I had feared, the first signs of friends being forced to act differently, to walk on eggshells. To fall into the trap of making a seemingly harmless, off-the-cuff statement that previously would not raise an eyebrow, but now ran the clear risk of being misinterpreted.
"How are you holding up?" Eli asked me.
"It only hurts when I think about it," I mused. "So, I've been trying not to."
"There is something to be said for denial," he responded. "Dwelling on one illness can actually create another."
"How is that possible, Eli?" Courtney asked, addressing her father by his first name. I knew the Sterlings liked to treat their precocious daughter as an equal, I had seen other families do this, yet I never bought into it. Angelina once addressed me as Ned, and I stopped her, saying she was the only person in the world who could call me Dad. I liked it that way. I didn't want certain things to change. I didn't want a lot of things to change.
"Well, you can worry about something so much, it can actually trigger another disorder," Eli said.
"Do you mean depression?" Angelina queried, putting her pizza down.
"Certainly a possibility. But I've actually seen the opposite, depression can actually cause a new illness. I've had patients who fell into a depression over something nasty, a divorce, a job loss, a foreclosure, all because they had trouble handling the stress. And a year or two later, they ended up being diagnosed with something more serious. In a few cases, cancer. I've come to believe the initial anxiety from that depression played a role in being diagnosed with a more serious disease. I've seen it numerous times. It's quite extraordinary."
"That is indeed extraordinary," Leslie said, adding, "I hope I'm not one of those. I've been feeling pretty terrible the last few days."
"I know it's a tough time," Eli said soothingly and put his hand over Leslie's. He rubbed it reassuringly.
We ate and chatted, although the mood became a little darker, a bit more grim. Eli nodded when I mentioned I was taking some of Leslie's sleep meds, and he offered to write me a prescription of my own. Rest was critical, he said. He also asked whether I thought I needed to speak to a psychiatrist, if I was feeling the need to talk to someone about my situation.
"What will that accomplish?" I asked.
"They can provide an outlet for you. Someone to confide in. I know you have a lovely wife and daughter to talk to. But psychiatrists are trained in this area. And there are some things that are so deeply personal, it's sometimes difficult to share, even with your own family. Having an outsider gives you the freedom to say what's on your mind. For some people, that's what clergy is for. I know you're not especially religious. Not yet anyway."
"Meaning?" I frowned.
"People often become more spiritual when things get tough. It's not uncommon. Or a bad thing, either. I know it's not for everyone. But everyone does need to talk. Just who you talk with, is the question. It needs to be someone you can feel comfortable with."
"I'll think about it," I said, wondering what other swirling winds were going to invade my heretofore cloistered and secure life.
"Well, no one's mentioned it yet," said Jill. "So I'll do it. Congratulations, Ned. You were wonderful on TV this morning."
"You saw it?" I asked.
"Of course I saw it. Leslie told me. How many friends do you know that get to joust with Merry Teale on television? You handled yourself well. Were you nervous?"
"I didn't really think about it," I admitted. "I just went in and treated it like we were having a one-on-one conversation. But Blair did most of the talking."
"He does that so well," Jill said. "How is he reacting to your diagnosis?"
I froze for a brief moment and then reached down inside a cooler and pulled out a bottle of beer. Twisting it open, I looked at the cap and then tossed it onto the table. "He doesn't know yet."
"You haven't told him?" Jill asked incredulously.
"Dear ... " Eli started.
"No, it's okay," I said. "I haven't told anyone else. Well, not exactly. I told a stranger. At the bar of the Century Plaza. After I met with Sudeau. That's all."
"Oh, for God's sake, Ned," Leslie railed. "You can only confide in a stranger?"
I shrugged. "It's complicated."
"But why?" she asked. "Why don't you want to talk to your friends? Your colleagues? They are your support system. They're the ones who'll be there for you."
I sat back and took a sip of beer. "I don't know exactly," I said. "I'm not sure how to tell people. How do you explain this to someone? How do you explain it at all? How do you get them to understand that it's not your fault? How do you avoid generating pity? How do you have that conversation and not move forward without feeling ... changed?"
"Ned," Eli began, "you're too worried about what other people will think. Give your friends some credit. Most people will be supportive. Not all, but you'd be surprised. I'm actually starting to get concerned about how you are dealing with this. You're too worried about other people's opinions."
I looked at Eli. "I spend my life asking people questions. What do they like, what do they dislike. Why do they think this way or that. I conduct opinion research. That's what I do. I study opinions."
"And yet," he said, "you're so focused on other people's opinions, what's happened to your own opinion? What do you care what other people think of you? You know it wasn't your fault you acquired this disease. It wasn't through smoking or an unhealthy lifestyle. It was through bad luck. Simple as that."
"Easy to say. But lung cancer has a stigma to it. I heard it doesn't get as much funding as a lot of other diseases. Don't some doctors even blame lung cancer patients for their situation?"
"Where did you hear that?" he asked, looking at me curiously.
"I read it on the internet," I said and managed to hold back a smile. "So, it has to be true."
Eli gave a small chuckle. "All right. Maybe there's a few kernels of truth in there. And I do happen to know a few doctors -- very few by the way -- that look down their noses at lung cancer patients. That the patients brought it on themselves, that they lied about not being smokers. They think some patients still sneak a cigarette occasionally. Look, there are crackpots in every field. Even medicine."
"Which is why," I said, "I am concerned about who knows what. And that some clients may not want me around. They may be fully aware that what I have isn't contagious. And they may sympathize. But that doesn't mean they still want to see me regularly, and watch me deteriorate."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. You don't know what the future holds."
"No," I said and took a final swallow of beer. "And I'm not so sure I want to."
Chapter 18
The Sterlings left at midnight, and I spent awhile combing through the internet again. I wasn't sc
ouring the web for cancer stories this time, but rather, catching up on the news of the day, which is to say the assassination inquiry. There were no new leads, although a number of conspiracy theorists were claiming a certain Los Angeles pollster was surely the mastermind of this assault on American liberty. The last one to be with the vice president was naturally the first one to be suspected. After spending too much time reviewing other people's wildly incoherent postulations, I managed to push myself to bed at four o'clock, swallowing a Dalmane on the way, and slept to the almost respectable hour of twelve noon.
I checked my phone upon awakening, saw that I had twenty-three messages, and started listening to the most recent ones first. The first four were calls from old friends, expressing amazement and even congratulations at my newfound, though largely unwanted, fame. The fifth was a telemarketer wanting to sell me handyman services, but the sixth one grabbed my attention, perhaps to a greater degree than it should have. Iris Hatcher had left a message and asked if we could meet for lunch. Having slept through breakfast, feeling hungry and also feeling more than a little curious, I called back and agreed. The Baker Lipschitz Team was down a major client, and lunching with an aide to the speaker of the House had its appeal. That she was a former CIA agent who just happened to be at the Century Plaza at the same time I was simply added to the intrigue.
"Should I make reservations somewhere?" I asked. "I know a few good bistros in Santa Monica."
"Oh, no," she said. "No place fancy. Let's go discreet. Someplace out of the way. I don't want to run into anyone right now."
"I suppose we could find a taco truck," I said.
"Fine. That's more my speed today."
"I was just kidding."
"I was not. Say, do you know where Kogi is?"
"Isn't that the crazy truck that serves Korean tacos?"
"It's not crazy," she said. "It's actually good. They have regular tacos, too. And they opened a storefront in Palms. Right at Overland. It's in a strip mall, kind of a dive. How's one o'clock?"
I got up and glanced into the mirror at my straggly hair, unshaven face, and droopy eyes.
"Two might be better."
"See you at two," she said and hung up.
Both Angelina and Leslie were out of the house; a note on the kitchen counter told me they had gone shopping. I fixed some coffee, got ready, pondered if I should let Blair know about this lunch, but finally concluded Iris might not want him to know. I wondered what she saw in Blair Lipschitz, and I wondered why she was at the Century Plaza the other night. Curiosity had led me into a full-fledged career. I wondered where it would lead me today.
Kogi was not really a dive, it was housed inside of a busy strip mall, a two-story stucco building that was painted the color of spicy brown mustard. All the spaces in the lot were filled, and I needed to park a half block away and walk back. When I entered the small restaurant, only two patrons were inside, and one was waiting at the counter to order. Iris was sitting at a table by herself. She had a platter of half a dozen small tacos in front of her, untouched, as she sipped on a coke. I moved toward and she looked up. Those green cat eyes were always the first things that grabbed me.
"Hello there," I said, pointing to the spread on the table. "You must be hungry."
"Don't be silly," she said quickly, in her staccato voice. "I ordered for both of us, I got here early. It sometimes takes a while. Sit down. These are good, try the short rib taco. It's my favorite."
"They all look alike," I pointed out.
She gave me a brief tour of the taco plate, pointing out the short rib, the carnitas and the calamari tacos, and handed me an empty plastic cup to go get a soda. Then she told me she needed to go feed some quarters into the parking meter, but please start eating. This was a woman who was organized to the point of being robotic. I filled the cup with Coke, sat down, and pulled out a short rib taco. Taking a large bite, I chewed quickly, the sauce was spicy and tangy, becoming hotter as it made its way to the back of my throat. I swallowed and then took another bite, It was indeed very good. I was on my third taco when Iris sat back down.
"You're wondering why I wanted to meet," she said, not bothering to even look at the food.
"Yes," I said between bites.
"It's not what you think," she said.
"It never is."
Iris swirled her drink around in the cup. It was clear plastic and looked like it held more crushed ice than cold soda. Frost lined the exterior. She stared at the beverage and struggled to put her thoughts into words. Finally she leaned in and spoke quietly.
"Listen to me, Ned. I need to pass something to you. It's an envelope and it contains information about who I think is responsible for Rich. I believe I know the triggerman."
I had picked up another taco but slowly put it down. "Go on," I said, my own voice lowered to a whisper.
"The other night I told you I used to work for the Company," she continued. "This man, he used to work for the Company, too. I recognized him when I was driving near the hotel. He was walking away from the crime scene. I did the time lapse. He was crossing the street four minutes after the shooting. We know the shots came from the building across from the hotel. It all adds up. He was wearing a disguise, but it was him. I never forget a face, even if it were disguised by a fake beard."
"Okay," I said, trying to make sense of this. "But why aren't you alerting the FBI? Or the Secret Service? They're the ones who can actually catch this guy. I'm not in law enforcement. In fact, I'm under a very large cloud of suspicion myself right now."
"What you must understand," she said, her voice scratchy and low, "is that I do not know who else was partnering with this man. He did not act alone, I can assure you. He is a paid assassin. He used to do work for the Company, but he's since gone off the grid. He has assets in other agencies, his tentacles reach far and wide. He knows some very important people. The last thing I want to do is alert someone who might be working with him."
"My God. You make it sound like anyone in the FBI could be in cahoots with this psychopath."
"I can assure you someone very high up in government -- maybe ours, maybe someone else's -- is in deep with him. I have no doubt about that. And while most federal agents are above-board, well, there are a few who aren't. I don't know who. And I can't risk it with such a high profile case like this."
I stared at her in utter disbelief. "And you don't know anyone, FBI, CIA, Secret Service, wherever, that you can trust to be above-board? After working in government for so long? I just don't believe that."
"Then believe this. The FBI has fucked up more than its share of investigations. You only know of the public ones. There are more. Even if I were sure which agents were straight arrows, there is so much opportunity for calamity here, I can't risk it. The agents may be all right, but their supervisors might not. And the Secret Service? Well, they grilled someone like you all night. Do you really think they have a clue about what they're doing?"
I could not disagree. But still, something didn't add up.
"Why not hand it to the media?" I asked.
"Are they any more trustworthy?" she countered. "Think about it. What are their goals? They are a business. They are after ratings and readership. Advertising dollars. That's their life's blood. They would take this and milk it for all its worth. Their goal is to stretch this story out for as long as they can and squeeze as much capital out of it as they can."
"That's astoundingly cynical. In your eyes, everyone and everything is corrupt."
"Look at it this way. If I gave this to the media, the networks and newspapers would plaster his face all over the world. He'd burrow underground, and he would not be found."
"Maybe there's some truth to that. But here's what I really don't understand," I said, looking straight into those stunning green eyes. "Why me?"
"Why not you?" she countered. "Look, Ned, I hate to say this, but there aren't a whole lot of people in my life I can trust. Not my colleagues in the speaker's office, not a singl
e politician in Washington. Not even law enforcement. And I know this man. I know who he is and what he is. It all adds up. My own life is at risk here. I'm in a bad place. He saw me the other night, just like I saw him. He knows me. He just doesn't know how to find me. At least I hope not."
"And you're going to entrust me with this knowledge? Of the man who assassinated the vice president?" I said, incredulous. "You don't know me. Yet you've ordained me to be the keeper of a monumental secret."
She nodded as if expecting this rejoinder, as if she were speaking with a small child who is unaware of the wily ways of a cold and unforgiving world. "I am highly skilled at a few things. Reading people is one of them. You're a good person, Ned. Deep down, you have goodness in you. And you're very smart. No, I don't know you very well, but I've checked you out thoroughly. You'll do the right thing, Ned. I know you will."
"And just what is that? What am I supposed to do with this great secret? If you, with all your years in government and law enforcement don't have anyone you can trust, how am I going to find that person?"
"At some point, that will become clear to you. If my life were not in such peril, I'd stay here and wait. I'm pretty sure someone tried to follow me here. Don't worry, I ditched them."
"Trust me, I'm worried."
"You're okay. I know you are. But I'm not. Look, if I'd seen the assassin but was sure he hadn't seen me, then I could stick around L.A. And yes, I'd have some time to figure out how to pass this along to the right person. There is a right person, Ned. I just don't know who they are yet. And I just don't have the time to find out."
"So, you're deputizing me," I sighed, trying to process all of this.
"I've been in hiding the past few days. I'm making plans to leave the country. I'll come back once all this has moved forward. Once things calm down."
