"Damn it, of course it is! In the long run you'll be in charge of your papers: Keegan's almost seventy, Matt; one of these days he'll start turning things over to you—if he trusts you. And meanwhile you've got influence and wealth and recognition . . . my God, how can you even talk about being a puppet when you have those! So you don't make every little decision; so what? It's ridiculous that you ever thought you could. Keegan has to have final authority; it's his company. You've always known he gave you the newspapers; he can take them away—"
"So he told me. Do you two get together periodically to run through your lines?"
"That's not funny. Of course we don't."
Matt gave her a long look. "Of course you do. The two of you discuss everything, don't you? Including me."
"We're friends, Matt. You've known that from the beginning. We talk about anything that interests us."
"Including me."
"Matt, he's very fond of you! He needs you! Go back to him! Don't throw everything away!"
He stood up and paced to the windows, then to the door of his study where the papers were spread out on the desk. He wondered if Nicole knew about them. It didn't seem to matter anymore. He turned and looked at her across the room. "Let me ask you the same: don't throw everything away. You were right about our time together; we've had eight good months. Why don't we have eight more? Wherever I am, you'd still be my hostess, we'd still have good times together, we'd still have lovely times in bed. Why not, Nicole?"
"Because that isn't what I want! I can't do it! Oh, damn it, damn it, can't you understand?" She was sitting straight now, head back, eyes blazing. "Couldn't you be satisfied with what you had? You had more
than most men ever dream of, much less get close to! Why couldn't you be content and protect what you have instead of throwing it away? And on top of it, ask me to wander around with you while you look for a job . . . Damn it, Matt, we could have been so happy! And now we can't, we won't, and damn you to hell for that!"
She waited, but he was silent, watching her from the doorway of his study.
"I can't go with you!" she cried. "I can't! How many times do I have to say it! I need a man who's already powerful! I thought you understood that. Matt, don't you see, I don't feel real unless I'm with a man everybody knows! I'm afraid there isn't any me unless I'm connected to somebody who opens doors and people clear a path for. Can't you see that?"
Her hand was trembling and the ice cubes shook in her glass as she drank, tilting back her head. "Some people do things—my God, I've kept track of what Elizabeth has done and I can't believe it! She writes and she's so damned good, and she was marvelous on television, much better than Tony, and she's got children, and I suppose friends—women friends —and she's always doing something that makes her Elizabeth Lovell! By herself, without anyone else! / can H do that! I can't do anything but be a perfect companion!"
"That's not easy to be," Matt said gently. She had never been so exposed and vulnerable and he wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her and tell her she was beautiful . . . but of course she knew that and she'd already said it wasn't enough. "And you're leaving out the homes and offices you decorate."
"I dabble in it. I can't do it alone; I get advice from experts. I never told you that, but it's true. I don't need the money—I know Keegan told you about how well my family has done and how I don't have to worry— and that's why I could devote myself to you and make it easier for you to be everything a man should be. You see, Matt, I could never be a sweet little woman for a man who's struggling. I could never cook wholesome dinners for him and work at making him feel big even though he's a little cog working for some corporate mogul. I can't help it; that's the way I am. But it was lovely with you because I do care for you—you're a nice man and that's rather charming and rare—and we do have good times, in bed and out . . . Matt, I don't want to lose you. Please, please go back to Keegan, be somebody again, stay with him, stay with me."
Be somebody again. Matt's gaze went past Nicole to the wall of windows, with the lights of Houston stretching below. A memory came to him: Elizabeth, laughing into his eyes in a noisy room. The women are all wondering where they can find a husband like mine.
She'd said it in Aspen, he remembered. When he was a small-town publisher of one paper. No, two; that trip was to celebrate their purchase of the Alameda Sun. But another time, when they'd bought the Chieftain and toured it for the first time, she'd pointed to the corner office and said, It's yours, Matt. Publisher and editor-in-chief. And she'd said it with pride.
"Matt?" Nicole asked. "Tell me what you're thinking."
"I was wondering what it means to 'be somebody again.' What am I now?"
"Powerless. When it comes to shaping the world, you're nobody."
He thought about it. "There are so many worlds to shape," he said at last. "Of course some are bigger and noisier than others, but what if that really doesn't make any difference? Maybe the only important thing is being visible in our own world, whatever its size."
"I don't believe that. And you don't either; I know you better than that. Those little worlds are like the ones Elizabeth writes about; nobody pays any attention to them; the people in them live and die and get trampled by men like Keegan Rourke. And Keegan's big world—and yours, too, Matt, if you have any sense!—never knows the difference. When she writes about those people, they're real for a minute and then they're gone. The newspaper wraps the garbage and that's all. Nothing is left. But what you were doing—! You were creating something that will last! Matt, you got angry and you lost sight of what's at stake. Think about it tonight, that's all I ask. Then tomorrow you can call Keegan—"
"Do you think he's thinking about it tonight? And deciding to call me tomorrow to tell me I can run my—those papers without interference?"
"That's not his style, Matt; you know that as well as I do. Good Lord, can't you admit that he owns those papers and that means you aren't equal? You work for him!" She poured vodka into her glass. "Do you want some more?"
"No, I've had enough."
She looked at him as she drank. "You know how much he admires you; he gives you more leeway than most people he hires. He thinks of you as his son; you're the one he wants to take his place eventually, no one else. How many men have a mentor like Keegan Rourke? Matt, think! You've got to take what he can offer; you'll never have a chance like it again!"
"He thought of me as his son, once; that only made it easier for him to think of me as his puppet. That's the trade-off, Nicole, and there's nothing I'd take—"
"Nonsense. Everyone has a price; it's just a matter of finding out what drives them."
It struck Matt like a blow. "Another line of Keegan's. He's taught you well." He walked to the couch and picked up her suit jacket. "Forgive me, Nicole. I can't be what you want. There isn't anything I can do for you."
She stared up at him. "You're telling me to leave?"
"I'm asking you to leave. I want to make a telephone call and then I have a great deal of work to do."
"I can't believe you're doing this. I'm trying to help you—you said you wanted help—"
"I said I wanted comfort and support. We don't agree on what that means."
"If you would listen to me—!"
"I listened to you. I'd like to help you feel better about yourself, but I can't—"
'Tee! better about myself! That sounds dangerously close to pity, Matt. And I do not need pity. I do what I want; I'm close to some of the most powerful men in the world; and I do not need pity!"
"Then I'll keep my feelings to myself. But I can't help you, any more, it seems, than you can help me. I wish we could end this with some affection—"
"It's all right, Matt; don't overdo your solicitude. I'm quite able to find affection when I want it." Deliberately, she finished her drink, set the empty glass on the table, and stood. "You'll miss me."
"Yes, I think I might. But it won't change anything." He put his arm around her shoulders, she allowed it to r
est there briefly, then turned her back, waiting, and when he held her jacket she slipped it on.
They walked toward the door together; halfway there, she stopped, opened her purse, and pulled out a key on a small ring. "You'll need this for the little woman who cooks your wholesome dinners."
He felt again the desire to comfort her in her vulnerability, and put his hand on hers. But she snatched it away.
"I'm not usually this wrong," she said coldly. "But you fooled us all. Shrewd, ambitious, aggressive Matt Lovell, or so we thought. Instead, you're short-sighted, narrow-minded, self-destructive. . . . My God, what you are giving up! No one will believe it!"
"They'll believe what they want, no matter what they hear." Matt kissed her briefly. "I wish you good fortune, Nicole."
Her eyes glistened; the first time Matt had ever seen her even close to tears. "Matt, call him! Call him tomorrow! He'll understand . . . he'll take you back!"
Matt shook his head and opened the door. "Good night, Nicole."
"I'm thinking of what's best for you!"
He smiled faintly. "If you were, my dear, it would be out of character."
Her tears were gone; the amber of her eyes was cool as she studied him for some last sign that he was wavering. Then she gave the tiniest of shrugs and walked down the short hallway to the elevator. She turned to him as it arrived and the mahogany doors slid noiselessly open. "If you call him, call me right afterward. I'll wait for a little while. Not long, but for a little while."
"Goodbye, Nicole," he said, and in another moment he was alone, gazing at the smooth mahogany surface of the elevator doors.
When he returned to his study, he turned off the light and sat in the darkness. Leaning back in his chair, feet crossed on the window sill, he gazed out the window at the panorama some thirty stories below. Houston: a network of tiny blazing lights, dark patches that were parks and neighborhoods, highways like great desert snakes flung across the sprawling city. In the distance, its windows lit against the star-studded sky, the black Transco Building stood alone, looking across the city at Matt's white, balconied apartment building. His two towers, he thought. Beacons of home and work. Symbols of power, symbols of the huge exciting dream that had beckoned all his life, until Rourke offered to make it come true. Now he'd lost it. He'd left his wife and family behind in the pursuit of it and now all of them, and the dream as well, were gone.
But the longer Matt contemplated it, the smaller the Transco Building looked, like a toy tower in a miniaturized town. And he knew his own imposing building looked as small and fragile from the Transco Building. And the city itself, though he knew it to be a restless and energetic place where fortunes were made and failure was larger than life, looked from his windows like a scale model, wired and motorized to convince skeptics that it was alive: a place where dreams came true.
Images, he thought. Nicole had wanted images. As long as she clung to the arm of a powerful man, or dressed for one or slept with one, she could look in a mirror and believe she was powerful. And real. Whatever was the reality of Nicole Renard, whatever substance she had, she couldn't trust it: she was too afraid of the dark beyond the spotlight that followed dominant, powerful men.
And what about Matt Lovell? he asked himself silently. He'd thought he was fulfilling his own dream, after so many years . . . but all he'd done was replace one father with another: building Rourke's dream instead of Zachary's. He'd thought he finally had everything, and it turned out he'd had only images. A woman whose reality came from someone else. A job with someone else pulling the strings. Newspaper stories writ-
ten from faked reports. Friendships as instant and shallow as conversations on a chair lift.
I've been chasing mirages all this time.
In the city below, tiny cars scurried around the 610 Loop and its branches, whipping around each other to pick up a few seconds here or there. He'd been one of them. He remembered that urgency, like a disease gnawing his insides, making hi m feel he had to go faster and farther, pushing aside anyone who seemed to be in his way. But something had happened to it. It had shrunk. It wasn't overwhelming anymore. It no longer drove him.
Sour grapes, he thought with a smile. Maybe I'm just disappointed at not having what I thought I had, so I tell myself it no longer seems important. Or maybe I'm angry at myself for being fooled by image and mirages. Or maybe I'm sorry. Maybe I think that if I'd taken everything a little slower over the past three years, and looked around, I would have seen what was happening—and maybe salvaged something from it, instead of being left with nothing.
He sat without moving for a long time; he didn't look at his watch. But at last he began to think of all he had to do, and he swiveled and faced his desk. The first step was learning the truth about Nuevo; the second was writing it and publishing it in a way that would clear Elizabeth's name. But it had been a long time since he rolled up his sleeves and plunged into investigative journalism; a long time since he got down to the real work of newspapering. He didn't want to do it alone: he needed a friend.
And he had a friend. Maybe. If he could get in his explanation a lot faster than he had with Elizabeth. He turned on his green-shaded desk lamp, picked up his telephone, and dialed Saul Milgrim's number, at home.
Y
ou son of a bitch," Saul growled into the telephone. "Whatever you're looking for, I don't have it; you picked the wrong— M
"Who's somebody named Bent?"
"What?"
"Bent. Possibly in Houston; more likely in New Mexico. Does it ring a bell?"
Saul struggled between curiosity and outrage. Curiosity won. "Why do you want to know?"
"Chet Colfax wrote the name Bent in the margin of a faked report on Nuevo; I'm assuming whoever he is, he knows about it, possibly even helped write it."
"Faked? Which report?"
"Resettlement help. I just got hold of a draft version and the final one."
"I'll be damned." After a pause, Saul said, "There's a Thaddeus Bent in the New Mexico legislature. Chairman of the State Committee on Land Use and Recreation."
"The one that recommended funding the dam?"
"The very one." He paused again, long enough for his simmering anger
to surface. "Listen, you bastard, you've probably found what I've been scrounging for and I'd give almost anything to see it, but I can't work with you. I have a friend, and you've fucked up her life—"
"Wait a minute; I want to talk about that and don't hang up on me! That's what Elizabeth did, and God damn it, at least listen for thirty seconds! I didn't know Artner worked for the Daily News; I had nothing to do with that rotten story; the first I knew of it was an AP report that I read in Florida; I'm going to write my own version of it when I get the real story; and I resigned from Rourke's outfit this afternoon."
Saul dropped into his desk chair. "Resigned. Why?"
"What the hell difference does it make why I resigned? I'm not there anymore. I'm working on a story. I need help in getting information so I can write it. What else do you need to know?"
"Need? Nothing. Am I curious? You're damned right." He began to draw stick figures on a pad of paper. "Who's going to publish the story when you've finished it?"
"You are."
He grinned. "If I like it."
"If you do the research at that end, I'll make it a double byline. We've never written a story together."
"It's a possibility. And then what are you going to do?"
"I don't know. There are newspaper chains all over the country . . . magazines ... I have to look around. I don't know what I want."
"Did you, with Rourke?"
"I thought I did. It's a long story and I'll tell you some time if you want to hear it, but not on the phone and not now. Saul, I'm asking for your help."
Saul drew a stick figure hanging from a gallows. "No close friends in Houston to help?"
There was the briefest hesitation. "I don't owe you any explanations; I wish to hell you'd stop passing judgment on t
hings you don't understand."
"I understand everything I need to."
"You don't, but I don't give a damn. I want to write a story that will help Elizabeth; if you're really her friend, you'll work with me."
"You're doing it for Elizabeth?"
"Damn it, why else would I do it?"
"Maybe you want to make a name as an investigative reporter. How the hell do I know why you want to write it? You haven't been doing a whole lot of favors for Elizabeth in the last year. Have you talked to Holly recently?"
"No. I'll be calling her tomorrow, and Peter, too."
"She's stopped singing."
"She's what? Stopped? Why, for God's sake?"
"I don't know. I suppose her mother does, but we don't. She withdrew from the senior musical and she stopped her voice lessons."
"I'm going to call her now. I'll call you back after I've talked to her."
"She's not here; Elizabeth took her to Denver for the weekend. Anyway, why bother? Damn it, Matt, stop fucking around; either be a part of that family or disappear. It may not be my place to say it—"
"It's not."
Saul was silent, angry and frustrated. God damn it, who else is there, besides Spencer and Lydia? And they won't tackle Matt; afraid they'll make things worse. But there are limits to what a friend can do, and maybe Vve reached them. "You may be right," he said. He drew a guillotine and a stick figure with its neck beneath the descending blade. "Okay, I'll work on the story with you. To help Elizabeth." And because the damn thing has been driving me crazy since I first heard about it and this may be my only chance to find out what the hell has been going on. "Tell me about the resettlement report. Who faked it? Was it the only one? I saw the others, on jobs and all the rest, and they looked okay to me."
"I don't know about them, yet. When will Elizabeth and Holly be back?"
"Sunday night or Monday morning. I'll tell Elizabeth you called. Now are we going to get to work?"
"Yes. Thanks. First let me tell you about my conversation with Chet Colfax—who's been bugging his leader's office by the way—"
"Rourke's office? I'll be damned. Blessed are the weasels, for they shall use tape recorders to cover their asses."
Private Affairs Page 60
