by Alan Hruska
Back on the highway, this time going east, Alec thinks about that statement, about how sick Carrie is. How many people have told me this? How certain they all are. Doesn’t seem to change anything.
And no one should know better than Alec how quixotic the dream is of changing her. But he can’t help dreaming the dream. He can’t help seeing her sober and settled—with him.
I don’t have to understand it, Alec thinks. The fact is we’re joined at the brain.
Alec laughs at himself. It’s better to get detached, outside oneself, see the humor in the human condition. Tears come to his eyes. It’s not funny at all. He’s never felt so totally helpless.
“I’ll think of something,” he says aloud to himself.
FORTY-SEVEN
Phil, at dinner at Ponte’s in the printing district, has a feeling of well-being. Just back from London, he’s surrounded by loyal lieutenants at a restaurant to whose owners and staff he’s more important than the mayor. He has enjoyed, as a result of his venture with Martini, nearly a doubling of his wealth. And, despite the admonitions of his uncle, almost all the loose ends—Poole, his crew, Martini himself—seem to be staying in place. You can’t kill everyone, he thinks with some amusement. Not immediately, anyway. Looks bad.
As for Carrie… well, he has a plan for her too.
Little John wheels in with his entourage. He waves to Phil, settles his group across the dining room, then comes over. Phil nods to Vito, who vacates his seat.
“You good, Phil?”
“Splendid, John. You?”
“Just the one thing.”
Little John, his big butt slopping over Vito’s chair, spreads out the napkin, removes a pen from his breast pocket, starts doodling a submachine gun.
Phil grabs the pen and says to the look of astonishment on the fat man’s face, “I’ve got one thing too, John. My uncle. He’s an old man. At peace with himself in a city he loves. I don’t want anyone—even you, John—disturbing that man’s equanimity. Capisce?”
Little John seems to recover himself. “We at war, Phil?”
“I’m trying to avoid that.”
“By shoving me around?”
“I needed your full attention.”
“Be careful, Phil,” says Little John, rising slowly. “My full attention may be more than you want.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Giving advice. Just be careful.”
“Oh, I will,” Phil says.
FORTY-EIGHT
Alec, crouching over a stack of documents on the floor of his office, has his mind on other things.
It’s Sunday morning. He’s there in khakis and a blue button-down shirt. Joni, in pedal pushers and a frilly blouse, is typing at her station outside his office. Alec is literally up to his ass in documents strewn over chairs, credenza, desktop, and floor, but the stack in front of him is the most important. It consists of monthly reports on the operations of the warehousing subsidiary and other memoranda submitted by Whitman Poole to the management of the parent company. Any hint in them of the Martini fraud would constitute the proverbial “smoking gun” and effectively end the lawsuit. Not, of course, favorably.
What’s preoccupying Alec more, however, is how matters stand with Macalister. Alec played the Raffon tape for Braddock, who grunted approval, but Mac was elsewhere at the time. Alec’s not even sure he himself is still employed by the firm, let alone still on the case. He raised the question with Braddock who told him to discuss it with Mac. Wonderful. Discuss it with a guy who won’t see him or take his calls.
Mac, Alec learns, has been in Miami, so Alec couldn’t just walk in on him either. But his secretary tells Alec that Mac is scheduled back last night.
Alec pulls the first document off the stack and gets distracted by the intercom. Joni’s voice: “Mrs. Macalister on one.”
He’s not expecting calls, much less from Mrs. Macalister.
Grabbing, cradling the phone, “Evelyn?”
He pictures her: tall, athletic, still lissome. Out of place at firm dinner dances, in her strapless evening gowns and diamonds; easier to visualize playing tomboy roles in B-Westerns, which was, in fact, what she’d been doing before meeting Mac during the war. By that time, she was entertaining the troops. Alec has learned more about their relationship from Evelyn, whom he sees only at firm parties, than from Mac, with whom he works almost every day. She’s open; Mac’s closed. But now he can’t seem to get her to talk.
“Evelyn?” he repeats.
“Alec?” It’s a whisper.
“Evelyn, what’s wrong?”
“Mac wrecked up his car last night. Drove it into a fucking tree. In the driveway of his fucking golf club.”
“Jesus!” says Alec. “Is he—”
“All right? No, I’d say he’s definitely not all right. The surgeons have just finished putting him back together. He’ll live, they tell me, and he’ll walk—not very well, all pinned up. And I had a lovely night too, thank you.”
“My God.”
“It’s pretty bad.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Should I come out there? Is there anything I can do for either of you?”
“No, Alec. Really. I didn’t…. Look. I’m just so… we’ve got to get Mac to stop drinking. All of us. Everyone who loves the son-of-a-bitch. Or he’s going to kill himself. I mean… shit! Fifty miles an hour in the fucking driveway!”
“What hospital?”
“Alec, don’t!”
“Is it Greenwich?”
Silence.
“That’s where you’re calling from, isn’t it?”
“There’s nothing you can do for him.”
“I’ll be there in thirty to forty. For you.”
They sit in the lobby of the vast hospital atrium on low, wood-framed, soft leather chairs. Evelyn, in profile, yawns like the sleep-deprived beauty she is, sun-blanched from Aspen. Her clothes have an expensive, rumpled quality: the sort of pants made only by designers; the kind of oversized, floppy, camel-colored turtleneck sold only in pricey specialty shops. Sun flaring through the windows irradiates the curve of her cheekbone, the tightness of her skin. She and Alec are conspicuously not talking about the man lying in a private bedroom upstairs in a state of drugged unconsciousness.
It’s a hospital built by rich people for their own kind and all the lesser locals having the right insurance. Over Alec’s shoulder is the Harry B. Helmsley Medical Building, funded by the real estate tycoon, and over Evelyn’s, the Olive and Thomas J. Watson, Jr. Pavilion, a gift from the son of the founder of IBM, and the leader of its current worldwide ascendancy. Apart from guards, who are an acre away, and a surprisingly small number of passing visitors, they’re alone.
Alec says, “If you came with the ambulance, I could give you a lift home.”
“Someone’s coming from the house, Alec, with a change of clothes. No point going home, I can’t sleep.”
“What about eating something?”
“Here?” She kicks off her loafers, laughs, curls her legs under her.
“Coffee?”
“All coffeed out, thank you.”
“Where are your children?”
“Hither and thither.”
“They know?”
Evelyn shrugs.
“But you’ve called them?” Alec says.
“Let’s not talk about my children, shall we? They’re away at school, they’re fine. I don’t want them running back right now.”
“Nor me, running up here.”
“No, I’m glad you came.” She reaches over, grips his knee. “You know what it’s like. Living with this sort of mess.”
Her remark surprises him.
“I’m not thinking only about your childhood,” she says, releasing him.
“Ah.”
“Mac’s told me about… this woman. He’s furious with you, which I thought was a bit ironic. To say nothing of hypocritical.”
“With her, it’s something worse than alcohol.”
“Worse? That’s debatable. These people—whatever they take—they escape, that’s the purpose of it. We don’t get to escape.” She slurs the last few words, then closes her eyes.
It’s obvious what she meant by the first “escape”; not so clear about the second. But he can’t ask her; she’s fallen asleep.
After several minutes, her eyes open, and she smiles. “I do that. Catnap.”
“All’s fine.”
“Is it?”
“With Mac, now, yes, I think so,” Alec says. “He’s survived the worst. This may be the shock he needs.”
“Ha! Shocks! If only they’d work, we’d have them administered by machine.”
“Something will work.”
“What about on you?” she says.
“Me?”
“Yes, Alec, you. Working for an alcoholic, living with a heroin addict, raised by woman with a drinking problem.”
“Wow.”
“Sorry.”
“You see a pattern?” he says, trying to keep it light.
“I see a problem.”
“A problem we share?”
“Yes. Aren’t you tired of it, Alec?”
“I didn’t ask to be assigned to Mac.”
“You could ask for a reassignment, or leave the firm.”
Alec rubs the back of his neck without answering.
“But you won’t do that,” she says, “will you?”
“No,” he admits.
“Because you like it.”
“There are other considerations.”
“In addition to the fact that you like it.”
“Yes.”
“What about the girl? You knew about her going in, right?”
He hesitates. “Mostly right.”
“Plaintiff rests his case, your Honor.”
Alec smiles. “Things are more complicated than that, Evelyn.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Did you know about Mac’s drinking, going in?
“Of course. I did it with him.”
“But you got out. Of the drinking.”
“I’m not an addict.”
“Me neither,” he says. “Somehow didn’t get the gene. Don’t even like the stuff. So we try to help them, right?”
She laughs. “Oh, right.”
“There must be some drugs, experimental, whatever.”
“Sure. There are. Experimental. Makes you hate the taste of alcohol. God knows what the side effects are. Must be something like that in the works for heroin. And that’s great. If you can get ’em to take the pills—and, bear in mind, the more they love the booze or smack, the stronger their aversion to the antidote. But what’re we doing? Just substituting one drug for another.”
“What about treatment methods?”
“He’s tried ’em all. Sauna detox, meditation, yoga, fasting—fasting was a ball—vitamin therapy.”
“AA?”
“He’s been. Not a take for Mac.”
“Sheer willpower?”
“Great idea. Tried that too. You ever try living with that? Lasts about a week, if you’re tough. Then you start begging him to begin drinking again.”
“I can’t believe it’s hopeless.”
“Not for you, Alec. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. For me. It’s hopeless for me. Maybe you can’t escape your own demons, but you sure as hell don’t have to wallow in hers… or, for that matter, his.”
FORTY-NINE
Carrie, in sweat clothes, walking from classroom to cottage, is hailed by Jim Velsor, who approaches out of breath. “Hey, looking good, Carrie! And in better shape than me, obviously.”
“Human again, if barely,” she says.
“You’ve put the work in,” he says. “Including the detox, it’s been five weeks. But I came over to tell you. You have a visitor.”
Her face brightens, and she pushes past Velsor, without waiting for him to tell her more.
Over the hill, from the direction of her cottage, strides Phil Anwar, his overcoat open and swinging, his face wreathed in a smile. Carrie stops, the life pumped out of her. Phil, towering, clamps his big hands on her shoulders. “I want you back,” he announces, as if he thought she feared he might not.
“Or,” she says, “any other woman you can flog with that stupid belt of yours.”
“I mean it, sweetheart. New beginning. Your terms. Everything the way you’ve always wanted it.” He touches her face, and she pulls away from the one hand still on her shoulder.
“It’s not as if I’m unaware,” he says lightly, “of… the violence in me.” His expression conveys deep remorse. “I’m told recognizing the tendency is the first step to controlling it. I’m sorry for the past. I’m working on it, love. Getting help. But I need your help. And Sarah needs her family—together.”
“Sarah needs her mother, Phil. She needs time with me.”
“Not under the present circumstances. The present circumstances are—” his face scrunches up, as if he’s searching for the word—“unstable.”
“What does that mean?”
“Must we really?”
“I want to know what the hell you mean.”
“Okay, sweetheart, sure. Right out on the table. I know perfectly well how you’ve been living, my darling. With whom you’ve been living. Let’s just forget about that, is what I’m saying. It’s in the past. There’s blame, so far as Sarah is concerned, but it’s not all yours. I acknowledge that. The thing is, the way you were going—that can’t keep happening. I’m not going to allow it to keep happening.”
“What the hell do you mean, allow?”
“You don’t come back, love? This guy you like so much, this lawyer bastard? You’re gonna find him in a Dumpster somewhere. Minus the back of his head.” Phil’s high-voltage smile laced with melancholy. “That’s just the way it is.”
FIFTY
Gen. Rand gives thought to Alec’s report on the progress of the litigation. Alec waits for the man to speak. Mac’s chair is conspicuously empty.
“There’ve been settlement discussions?” the general asks.
“There have been two, yes,” Alec answers.
“What’s Rosenkranz’s current offer?”
“Four-hundred-fifty million.”
“That’s the limit on our D-and-O insurance.”
“Not a coincidence,” says Alec.
“Right. He wants it all. The greedy bastard wants every cent of the insurance money.”
Alec sits back. “When we talk about settlement, sir, you and I….”
“Yes?”
“There’s arguably a conflict.”
“There’s no conflict,” snaps Rand.
“The appearance of one, which, legally, is the same thing.”
“Explain.”
“Settle at Rosenkranz’s figure, you’ll personally owe nothing. The insurance company picks up the tab. Litigate and lose, you’ll be wiped out, as will all the other directors.”
“And if we take Rosenkranz’s figure, the insurance company will bless this?” Rand asks with some asperity.
“Pretty close. They’re willing to go to four hundred. They figure they’ll save fifty million plus counsel fees.”
“My God! They think we’re dead in the water? No chance at all?”
“They like certainty.”
“And what do you say?” Rand gives Alec a hard stare.
“I think we’ll win.” He says it levelly.
Rand barks out a laugh. “Well, I should hope so. Look! I haven’t moved from what I said at the outset. I’m not giving those bastards one fucking cent. And with Ben Braddock trying the case—I assume he will, after Mac’s accident—we should be fine.”
Twenty minutes late, Alec rushes from the parking lot to Carrie’s cottage from which Brunhild is emerging. “She’s gone,” says the large woman without breaking stride.
“Whatta you mean, gone?” Alec calls after her.
Her departing back shrugs indifference.
&nb
sp; Inside the cottage, there’s no one in the parlor or downstairs lavatory, and no response to Alec’s calling up the stairwell. He heads toward the main building.
Jim Velsor, pinning a notice up on the bulletin board, says, “Alec? You looking for Carrie?”
“Yeah, hi Jim. Have you seen her? We were supposed to meet at her cottage at one-thirty.”
“She left this morning.” Velsor gives Alec a glance, as if no longer sure of him. “Guy said he was her husband.”
“What?”
“He paid her bill.”
For several seconds Alec can’t breathe.
Velsor says, “She left of her own volition. That’s certainly what it looked like.”
They stand there a moment unguarded. In Alec, the news distends his face with pain. “Right,” he says and lurches off. Then throws a look back over his shoulder. Velsor wears a puzzled expression, as if to say, She comes with one guy, leaves with another—what the hell’s going on?
Alec’s rented car is parked on the edge of town. He’s on a pay phone with Harvey, who’s saying, “What makes you think it wasn’t voluntary?”
“Look,” Alec says, “I know her, okay? I need home addresses. He’s got a place on Long Island, North Shore, and an apartment in Manhattan—I think Central Park West.”
Harvey says grimly, “Then what’s your move? Stalk both addresses?”
“I’ll need phone numbers too,” Alec says.
“Telephone stalking! Much better! Should increase your life expectancy—by about five minutes.”
“Just get me the information, Harvey. Okay? Please?”
“Okay, kid,” Harvey says, then pauses to say more, but Alec has already hung up.
“Ben.”
“Marcus.”
“Good of you to come to my office.”
“Why’s that?” asks Braddock.
“Well…”
Braddock laughs. “You think it elevates your status? I know you military fellows care about such things.”
“And you don’t,” says Gen. Rand archly. “Beneath you to give it any mind at all.”
