Services will be held at 3:00 p.m. at Harris Brothers Funeral Home, located at 155 Western Ave, North Shore, IL. For those who require transportation, a charter bus will depart at 1:45 p.m., parked at the Randolph Street exit, returning to Chicago after the service.
We ask that you don’t speak to the press out of respect for the family in this trying time. Please direct any inquiries to Leigh Ann Kingsley, corporate counsel, ext. 3606.
In lieu of flowers, Mrs. Sarabeth Chandler has asked that donations be made to the W3 Clean Water Initiative.
Chicago, Illinois
Tuesday
“You okay, Jack? You’re a little green around the gills.”
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting at this antique leather-topped desk, staring at the phone in my hand. Perhaps if I stare long enough, what I heard won’t be true and the roiling nausea I feel will cease.
“Jack, seriously—you need some ginger ale or something? Plastic trash can? Looks like you’re about to hurl. Why’s that? You didn’t have any of my Bobby-ritas last night. Thought it was just Terry and me working the tequila like a boss. Or, like bosses.”
Bobby comes over to the banker’s desk, where I’m still motionless. How long have I been here? Five minutes? Five hours?
Terry and Ted created this work space for me, located in a little nook off the main living area in the basement. The fine, old desk is nestled between two bookcases full of all the volumes I didn’t care to lug all over the world. There’s a small but elegant and efficient galley kitchen down here, too, where all the stainless steel appliances are top-of-the-line, yet apartment-sized. As always, the fridge was stocked with every manner of treats for my arrival.
I have one of the two small bedrooms in the back of the apartment and Bobby has the other. My room includes a regal, four-poster mahogany bed that’s so tall I have to climb a step stool to get in. Once mounted, I sink down into a billowy cloud because Terry’s layered three featherbeds on top of the mattress. (He calls it my Princess and the Pea bed—says this makes up for all the times I sleep in a tent.) The sitting area’s up front and it boasts a beautifully aged, button-tufted, leather Chesterfield couch, which is flanked by a couple of wingback chairs. The whole scene is reminiscent of a gentlemen’s club or an old English manor. Funny, I haven’t covered the Home and Garden section for more than a decade, but still retain the lingo. This place is a far cry from my usual digs.
Normally I’m so grateful for how my family insists on spoiling me when I’m in the States, despite my protests. Visits here entail fluffed pillows and a never-ending stream of gourmet meals, but right now the luxury is cumbersome. Discordant. I feel like I should be sitting on a metal folding chair in a cold room with damp, bare cement walls. I don’t deserve any creature comforts for having been so derelict in my duties as a friend.
Trip triggered my internal alarm bells from the first day. Because I didn’t want to lose Sars, I kept my concerns to myself after she so thoroughly rejected what I thought I saw at the Air France counter. Thought my interference would be the Kitty situation all over again. Yet with this new information, I’m certain my initial assessment was on point. He was not to be trusted and I fear the repercussions may be far-reaching.
Bobby passes me a steaming mug. He lowers himself into the club chair across from me, after nudging a snoozing Bode Meowler out of the patch of waning sun. Feels like a storm’s gathering out there, both literally and figuratively. “You’re making me nervous with that scowl, Jack,” he says. “So drink this, you’ll feel better.”
I take a whiff of the smoky, lemony concoction. “What is it?”
“An experiment. Terry might expand into the space next door and open a café. I said he’d bring in more business if he served cocktails that went with cake. Teddy says booze doesn’t go with cake, so I’m proving him wrong.” He points at the mug. “It’s my take on the traditional Hot Toddy. There’s Irish whiskey, Earl Grey tea, and a citrus simple syrup I make with sugar, a bunch of lemons, a couple of blood oranges, and a secret ingredient.”
I take a sip and can feel the soothing vapors rush down my throat, warming me from the inside out. When I exhale, I feel like I’m walking through a lemon grove in Tuscany. “Amazing. I’d order this in a heartbeat. Imagine a cup served with a plate of scones.”
“I know, right?”
“What’s the secret ingredient?”
Bobby makes the shape of a heart with his thumbs and fingers. “Love. Splash of single-malt scotch for earthiness. But mostly love.”
“What does Terry think?”
He flashes me the heart-hand again. “Only problem is he wants to call it a Hot Teddy.”
“Gross.”
“Cosigned.” He hooks one leg over the arm of the chair in order to get more comfortable. “Anyway, nice job of dodging my question. You’re upset, so spill. Who were you talking to? What’s going down? More bad news? Hope not.”
“You remember my friend Simon?” I ask. I begin to worry at a ragged cuticle around my thumb.
Bobby scrunches his eyes shut, trying to remember. “The rugby player?”
“Definitely not.” There was no mistaking Simon for an athlete back then. I used to have better-developed quads than he had. Surely still do.
“He came home with you for Thanksgiving a few times? Pasty kid, real pretentious? The one who couldn’t decide if he was Sid Vicious or an English professor? Kept saying ‘Anaïs Nin this’ and ‘Anaïs Nin that.’ Spoiler alert, I still don’t know who Anaïs Nin is.”
I fondly remember a young Simon, so intense with his pipe tobacco and his elbow-patched cardigan, worn over a red capital-A anarchy symbol T-shirt. He’d accessorized his dissonant look with black eyeliner and white-boy dreadlocks. His persona was all over the map, back in the days when we’d try on new identities like a stack of Gap blue jeans, desperate to figure out which one fit best.
God, we were so young then.
“That’s him. He’s a deputy managing editor for the Times now. Lost the dreads, kept the sweater.”
“Good call. He keep the pretention, too?”
“Little bit,” I admit. “Anyway, he phoned because he remembered my connection with Sars. Says they’re breaking a huge story on Sunday regarding the Chandler Financial Group. He has confirmation from three independent sources, at least one within the SEC, so I don’t doubt he’s onto the truth. The short of it is, CFG clients were anxious about Trip’s passing.”
“He was kinda their poster boy, yeah?”
I nod. “Trip was definitely the face of the group. So, investors started pulling their accounts at the news. A few were able to cash out, but now Simon hears that the money isn’t there to handle the onslaught of requests and everyone’s beginning to panic.”
“Like that scene in It’s a Wonderful Life?”
“Yes, but on a global level.”
“Where’s the money?”
“Therein lies the problem.”
Bobby’s eyes grow wide. “Holy shit. Did Trip pull a Bernie Madoff or something?”
“For Sars’s sake, I hope not, even though evidence points in that direction.”
“Aw, Sars. She doesn’t need this, too,” he says, empathy causing his voice to crack. He’s been profoundly impacted by Trip’s passing, crying more than anyone else at the first calling hour. Sars ended up having to comfort him. Ted and I worry that Bobby’s too delicate for his own good.
Wracked with emotion, he says, “Poor kid, especially after losing both her folks in the last two years. Fuck cancer. Fuck cancer hard. I’m glad we’re all here for her now.”
I nod, aching with the guilt of not being around when either of her parents passed away. Bobby said Sars was inconsolable. I was out of range in Sar-e Pol, not hearing the news about either Martin parent until far too late. Sars said she understood why I wasn’t there and that she forga
ve me, but I’ve yet to forgive myself. Her folks were such kind, loving people, always finding reasons to create a celebration for anyone they knew. Teddy getting a learner’s permit? Better bake him a cake shaped like a car! Bobby’s braces coming off? Let’s take the whole neighborhood to the candy store for caramels! Jack’s first byline? Champagne by the case. They could not have been more proud of Sars, particularly after she founded W3. If there’s any blessing in this instance, it’s that they aren’t here to see her so crushed.
Bobby clears his throat and tries to get a handle on himself. “If Simon’s right, Sars is in for a shit show. I used to work for a real fun guy in Southampton five years ago. Name was Gidon, came from Israel. Cool accent. Made all his dough in the family diamond business and retired real young. Lived in a huge mansion on Meadow Lane, right on the beach. I’d run the bar at his parties, which were historic events. He’d hire actresses and models to dress up like Greek goddesses and they’d feed guests grapes and give ’em shoulder massages.”
“You and I orbit entirely different planetary systems,” I blurt, marveling at how far removed our worlds are from each other. “Sorry, Bob. Didn’t mean to interrupt your story.”
“Nah, it’s okay. Club Gidon was pretty surreal for me, too. For example, we’d go through a hundred bottles of Cristal in a night, easy. Guests all went nuts for this raspberry-vanilla puree I’d add because Gidon loved anything raspberry. I’d try to tell him, ‘Cristal doesn’t need accessories,’ but he didn’t care. Said the raspberries reminded him of growing up in the Golan Heights. Anyhoo, the Madoff thing happened and the guy was wiped out. Boom, everything he’d invested was gone. The next summer, I stop by his place the first weekend and it’s all shuttered. Foreclosed. The bank took his cars, too. I heard he’s working as a club promoter in New Jersey. Sad, sad story and now I’m bummed any time I see a pint of raspberries. Jesus God, please don’t let this happen to Sars.”
I slam my fists down on my thighs, hard. “Damn it, I should have protected her! I should have convinced her that Trip was no good!”
Bobby grabs my hands and holds them steady. “Whoa, take it easy, slugger. Number one, there’s no proof yet, right? So far it’s all hearsay. And number two, how could you have known anything? What, are you a psychic now? If so, we need to have a very important conversation about Powerball numbers.”
I can’t accept his solace. Because I stood by and did nothing about Trip, I’m essentially complicit. “I wish I’d trusted my gut. Why wasn’t I more insistent when I went to Vegas for her bachelorette party? I knew that was him at the airport in New York all over some other woman. He was so smarmy, so slick, but covered it up with that veneer of old money and Ivy League respectability. I should have made Sars listen. Better for her to have had a small hurt than this heartbreak.”
Satisfied that I’m not going to punch anything else, Bobby lets go of my hands, picking up the antique brass pheasant-shaped object on the corner of the desk, turning it this way and that for inspection. I always wondered if he wasn’t a little ADD with his inability to sit without fidgeting.
“But that’s not your job,” he says, finding the hinge on the back of the pheasant’s neck that opens to reveal a hidden reservoir. He opens and closes the pheasant’s head, like Pac-Man gobbling pellets. “You aren’t responsible for protecting everyone. People have to make their own decisions and live with their own consequences. Remember how Mom was always saying that?”
“How’d that work out for her?”
He snaps shut the head, which makes a clacking noise. “Don’t go there.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying you should be logical, Jack. What were you gonna do? You aren’t Sars’s keeper. Never were. She’s a grown-ass adult. Think about what Dad was always saying to us as kids. ‘Not your circus, not your monkeys.’” He begins to toss the item back and forth; each time it lands with a satisfying smack on his palms. “Hey, what is this thing, anyway?”
“That’s one of the vintage inkwells Teddy started collecting in college,” I reply. “Remember? He kept this one on his desk. The best ones are the lion and the jackal—they’re here somewhere, too—shelf in the living room, I think?”
Bobby halts his game of catch to look at me, brows knit, genuinely confused. “Inkwell collection. In college. When I was busy collecting tequila bottles. How did we not know he was gay?”
I begin to pick at my nails again, finally tearing off the offending bit of skin on my thumb. The area begins to bleed and I blot at the tiny bead of red with the bottom of my shirt. “Probably because I’m a lousy reporter.”
Before Bobby can disagree, Teddy materializes behind us, scooping up the inkwell and placing it back on the desk. “Are you making her feel bad again, cock-muppet?” He cuffs Bobby lightly on the back of the head.
“I wasn’t! I swear!” he protests, holding up his arms to protect himself.
“I thought you’d be with Sars,” Teddy says.
“I took the morning shift. She’s going to be there this evening,” I say, not wanting to use her actual name. Even now, Sars is helping to manage Kitty and me, advising each of us where to be when so that we may avoid each other. This isn’t fair. Our stupid feud should be the last thing on her mind.
Teddy perches on the edge of the desk, clean-shaven with closely cropped hair, clad in a sharply creased pair of khakis, a crisp, pale yellow oxford, a summer-weight blue blazer, and loafers so shiny they glow. He’s quite the contrast to shaggy Bobby in his faded cargo shorts, Tevas, and DÍA DE LAS MUERTOS T-shirt. “So, why are you a lousy reporter, Pulitzer Prize–nominated Jack Jordan?”
While I explain what’s transpired, we gravitate out of the crowded office nook, resituating ourselves in the seating area of the little apartment. Teddy and I sit at opposite ends of the gracious old Chesterfield, while Bobby opts for a wingback out of striking distance. All the cats immediately swarm me, settling in my lap and around my shoulders. Tomba-Cat purrs against my ear so loudly that I have to strain to hear conversation.
“Not to be morbid, but it sounds like Trip died at just the right time,” Teddy says. “And there’s poor Sars, holding the bag. Does Simon believe investors will go after her? Even though she’s not part of the company? Didn’t Madoff’s wife lose everything?”
My heart begins to pound in my chest. “Say that again.”
“Madoff’s wife lost everything?”
I stand and the cats go spilling off my lap. The boys dart away in all directions as I begin to pace. “No. You said Trip died at just the right time. He died at just the right time. How can I be so blind?”
“Hereditary astigmatism?” Bobby volunteers.
“That’s a rhetorical statement, you ass-jacket,” Teddy says.
“You’re a rhetorical statement,” Bobby replies, picking up a pillow and hugging it into his chest.
I walk back and forth behind the sofa as I work everything through. “Why didn’t this occur to me sooner? Rescuers didn’t find the whole jet, just an easily identifiable tail piece, complete with registration numbers, part of a wing, a couple of seats, and a few other floating artifacts. Where’s the oil slick? Where are the bodies? Why wasn’t his usual pilot flying the plane? How does no one else have questions? This strikes me as, ‘Here’s a simple answer for a complex question, move along, nothing else to see.’”
Teddy narrows his gaze. “Are you saying . . . ?”
“Exactly,” I reply. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Could he be that insidious?” Teddy asks, more to himself than to anyone else. “Would he go that far?”
I reply, “People aren’t always rational when it comes to money. Remember that story I wrote about the Taliban commander who turned himself in for the hundred-dollar reward?”
Teddy muses, “You almost had to feel sorry for the guy, right? T
here he was, pointing at his WANTED poster, saying, ‘I am him! Please to give me my reward now!’ and then didn’t understand why he was being dragged off in cuffs.”
Bobby’s eyes dart back and forth as we talk, tennis match–style.
“Do not feel pity. That guy plotted two separate attacks against Afghan security forces. Spend five minutes with the wounded in the med center at the Ramstein Air Base and any compassion you feel for that piece of garbage will disappear right quick,” I snap.
Teddy quickly backtracks. “Whoa, of course, Jack. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to sound insensitive. But I follow your point—people will always surprise you in what they’re willing to do with enough cash on the line.”
“You also believe it’s possible?” I confirm.
Bobby throws his arms wide, which causes his pillow to fall and almost knock over a vase on the coffee table, which Teddy quickly rights. “What the hell are you guys saying? Like the crash didn’t really happen? Like Trip somehow faked it all? Come on! This is real life, not the movies!”
“Bob, you never believe that anyone could have a darker side or base motives. I wish I had your optimism about human nature, but I’ve seen people at their worst,” I say. “He had the means and the motive.”
Bobby’s cheeks begin to redden. “Uh-uh. No. That’s the kind of crazy conspiracy talk you hear on late-night AM radio. Not finding a whole plane doesn’t mean shit. Water recovery can take a lot of time depending on tide and wind. Lindy and I went diving in Belize once and the barrier reef really messes with how everything flows. We were swept so far off course that we almost didn’t get back to the boat and she was an expert. No. I don’t buy it. They found the black box—the plane clearly crashed. Don’t make it all worse by disrespecting the dude’s memory. Uncool.” He eases forward to retrieve his pillow. “Major league uncool.”
Dad always said Bobby’s patented refusal to see the worst in anyone is both his greatest blessing as well as his biggest liability. “Still,” I insist. “Consider the ramifications if the plane didn’t really crash? What if Trip knew he was under SEC investigation and he somehow made it seem like there was an accident?”
The Best of Enemies Page 15
