by Peter Israel
“That he wouldn’t tell me,” Penzil answers. “I understand it’s foreign money. But don’t you see, Bear? A company like The Cross, they’ve got millions riding on it, probably hundreds of millions. It’s a very major deal. That’s why they couldn’t afford to have you rocking the boat.”
Say no more, ole buddy. I get it, even in my cups. I get it all. So they were peddling the company. As far back as October probably, they were peddling the company. The last thing they wanted was an investigation. Not because of an investigation itself, but because even the rumor of one might make a buyer look closer. At what, for instance, went into the balance sheet and income statements. Would make them want to talk, for instance, to people like … Lawrence Elgin Coffey.
Unless Lawrence Elgin Coffey has already discredited himself, in public? Which I just did, in Joe Richter’s office?
Who’d believe me now?
Jesus Christ.
That’s why they didn’t can me, in October. They were afraid I’d start squawking. That’s why they strung me out, and why, when the going got rough, they panicked and stole Justie.
And Spain. It figures. Mark Spain is the missing link, the deal-maker behind the scenes. Otherwise it’s just too big a coincidence.
Forty-love, set and match.
“Who was it who brought them together, Runt? The sellers and the buyers? It was Spain, wasn’t it? Your boss? Isn’t that what got you into it, because Spain’s your boss?”
But all he’ll say is that, at Gamble’s urgent request, he drove up to New Canaan late yesterday. Gamble asked him what he thought it would take to get me to go to Richter.
Justin’s return, he told Gamble. And money in my pocket.
Jesus Christ.
I think that’s when I take a swing at him. We’re in a john somewhere. I’ve got my head over the sink, dumping water on my face, and when I look up, I see him in the mirror. My best fucking friend.
I miss anyway. Probably I’d have missed him sober. The Runt was some kind of regimental boxing champ in the Marines.
“I let them off cheap, the bastards!” I shout at him. “They gave me three hundred grand for eight years, and they’re making millions! I had them by the fucking balls!”
There’s more to it. I think I end up bawling. I don’t think I’ve been this drunk since Hanover, New Hampshire, class of ’77. The Runt keeps telling me I’ve done just fine. He has his arm around my shoulders. People like us, he says, we’re not in their league. He says I went up against the heavyweights—Holbrook and Gamble. The only way to look at it is that now I’m getting Justie back, and a sweet deal on top.
Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah.
8 January
That’s about the last thing I remember, that and that on the worst day of my life, when I sold my soul down the river, we still somehow ended up friends. Big Bear and the Runt.
I must have passed out in his car. I guess he must have loaded me into the house.
It’s four in the morning now. I just woke up, on the couch in the den. My head is pounding and I’ve still got all my clothes on.
Remember Justie. That’s about all I can tell myself.
Twenty-four hours—less now.
That’s all that matters.
Hey, I can’t re-recant anyway, can I?
8 January
“Good morning, Mr. Chairman! How does it feel to be an almost very rich man?”
“Almost is for horseshoes and grenades. You know, somebody could have called me before now.”
“Called you about what?”
“Yesterday afternoon, for Christ’s sake! I didn’t sleep a fucking wink. I’m a nervous wreck!”
“You mean nobody’s called you?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Oh my God. I—oh for crying out loud, I know what happened.”
“What’s so fucking funny about it?”
“Never mind. Jesus, I’m sorry though. It was an oversight—a simple oversight—on my part. Not that I found out myself till after midnight. But the important thing is that it went like clockwork. Hats off, my friend, to you and your partner. However you did it, you set him up perfectly.”
“All it took was money.”
“I told you so. How much?”
“Plenty.”
“Look, whatever it cost you, it was a drop in the bucket. I understand Mr. Richter’s been baying at the moon, but let him. As far as I’m concerned, I see no reason why we can’t start Thursday. Do you? With signing scheduled for Friday?”
“No. No problem. But who’s keeping up our side of the bargain?”
“It’s all being taken care of.”
“And there’ll be no loose ends at that end?”
“Practically speaking, not a one. How’s your partner doing?”
“Him? It beats me. The minute we finished up yesterday, he was gone. After all we’ve been through. No postmortems, nothing. Just send me the check when it’s over. I don’t mean he actually said that, but that’s what it was like. Maybe I’ll hear from him today, but somehow I doubt it.”
“Probably you’re better off that way.”
“Yeah, I guess so. At the end of the day, he’s pretty fucking weird, if you know what I mean. You never know what he’s really thinking.”
“That’s his reputation.”
“Yeah, the cold fish of Wall Street.”
“Maybe the best way to look at it is that, from your point of view, he’s served his purpose.”
“Amen to that.”
Georgia Levy Coffey
8 January
My husband came home last night after midnight, dead drunk. According to Helen Penzil, it was Joe who brought him home.
He’s spent the whole morning closeted in Mission Control. I’ve heard them shouting at each other. Then, just a little while ago, Joe called for him, and he came rushing out to take it, and when I accosted him after he hung up, his moon face all sweaty and red-eyed, all he’d say, in a loud whisper, was, “It’s all fixed, Georgie. Our little boy’s coming home, but—this is crucial—you don’t know a goddamn thing about it.”
Great! It’s all fixed, is it?
“What’s all fixed?” I shouted at him, but he was already gone, back in the den, the door shut behind him.
I can’t stand it anymore. I just walked in on them. Karnishak of the FBI, Conforti, the local lawyer, Capriello in blue serge and the too-tight collar. My husband.
The room reeks of men.
“I have to talk to you privately,” I say to Larry.
“Georgia, honey, we’re in the midst, can’t you see? Honey, I’m sorry, but—”
“Just a minute, please.”
This is Karnishak. He’s standing, holding some papers in one hand. His normally bland face is furrowed, serious.
“Mrs. Coffey,” he says, “Larry’s given us a statement he made yesterday to a colleague of mine at the Justice Department. I’d like to hear what you know about it.”
“She doesn’t know anything about it! I haven’t had a chance—”
“Please, Larry,” Karnishak interrupts, not taking his eyes off me. “I want to hear about it from Mrs. Coffey herself.”
He’s holding the papers out to me. I don’t take them.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know anything about a statement.”
“Larry’s recanted, Mrs. Coffey. Everything. Everything he told us about Shaw Cross and other people, he now says he was lying.”
“I didn’t say lying!”
“A fabrication,” Karnishak persists, and now I can hear the angry irritation in his voice. “An invention. Now he’s saying he made it all up, under pressure. I needn’t tell you how serious this can be, if it turns out he’s lying now.”
“Jack, that sounds pretty coercive to me.” This is Conforti speaking. “I don’t think she has any obligation to say anything at all.”
The FBI agent shrugs, tightens his lips. “She can say whatever she wants,” he says tersely.
; I’m aware of Larry in the background, but I can’t bear to look at him. It’s all fixed, he said. Is this what he meant?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell Karnishak. “I’ve hardly seen Larry the last few days. I don’t know what he’s been doing.”
“But you’re aware of the charges he made before?”
“What charges?”
“Against Shaw Cross and the others. I remember going over the names with you myself.”
“Yes,” I answer.
“And you took them seriously, didn’t you?”
“Yes, of course I did.”
“Thank you,” Karnishak says. “That’s very helpful. We’ll be out of your hair in a little while.”
Just a few anxious moments—God, what has he done now?—and then, from my bedroom window, I watch their cars roll down the driveway, and here comes Larry, climbing the stairs.
“I made a deal, honey,” he says.
I stare at him, sweaty, puffy face, eyes small and bloodshot. I don’t know how I’m supposed to react. It’s almost funny—another deal? (complete with fingers twiddling at his hair?)—but somehow it isn’t.
“Our little family’s going to be back together again.”
Am I supposed to believe him?
He’s all full of it, though, full of himself. I’m sworn to secrecy, he says. The police, Karnishak, can never know. No one can know. It’s Gamble, he says, Holbrook too. Yes, what Karnishak said was true: He did recant, everything, but only in exchange for Justin. That was the deal. Mark Spain’s involved in it too, he says, even the Runt, his old buddy. It all has to do with The Cross, but not in the way we thought. The company’s being sold.
“What has to do with Shaw Cross? I don’t understand. Are you saying they kidnapped Justin?”
“No, for Christ’s sake! Harriet kidnapped Justie, except Harriet Major’s not her real name.”
“Oh? What’s her real name?”
“I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me. It’s a complicated story. She comes from some old Wall Street family, I think that’s why they’re trying to cover it all up. I know that sounds lame—it does to me too now, probably we’ll never know the whole truth—but what difference does it make? All that matters is that they’re getting Justie back for us.”
“Who’s getting Justin back for us?”
“Gamble and Holbrook. It’s all fixed. They’re in it together. It turns out Holbrook owns a piece of The Cross.”
Suddenly I can’t take it anymore. All his goddamned Mission Control, the cloak-and-dagger stuff, the deals. While his son—my son—is caught in the middle!
“Where is he then?” I snap at him.
“Where’s who?”
“Justin, for God’s sake! Where’s our son? You just said we’re getting him back.”
“I said it’s complicated. They need twenty-four hours, but it’s going to happen.”
“How do you know it’s going to happen?”
“Georgie, for Christ’s sake, I’ve got a head like Vesuvius! You don’t know what I’ve been through! They’ve had me in the fucking wringer all day, and it’s not over, I could be in big—”
“I don’t give a damn about your head!” I shout at him, fists clenched. “How do you know it’s going to happen?”
“Because they gave me their word!”
“Who gave you their word?”
“Gamble, Holbrook! The Runt too! It’s all part of the deal.”
Suddenly it explodes out of me. He’s so … so goddamn dumb! I’m screaming at him, I don’t even know what—“If anything happens to Justin!”—and he’s screaming back. He’s like some hulking ruined teddy bear, ten times my size, but I could smash him, flatten him.
“For Christ’s sake, Georgie, don’t you realize she’s crazy? Harriet, whatever her name is? The woman you hired? That she was institutionalized?”
“You fucked her, you bastard! She’s the same woman you wanted to fuck!”
“Goddamn it, I never—”
“Don’t you goddamn me! You’ve lied so much, you don’t know what’s true anymore, and what’s a bald-faced lie!”
“Georgie, I swear—”
And now, so help me—hound-dog eyes—he’s reaching for me.
“Don’t you realize,” I say, backing off, “I don’t give a good goddamn whether you fucked her or not?” Then, my voice hoarse, “I want you out of here now, Larry. Out of my house.”
This stops him. He stares at me for a second, mouth wide open.
“But Georgie, that’s nuts! Good God Almighty, Justie’s coming home! That’s what this is all about, I swear it! He’s coming home!”
“Out,” I say, pointing. “I want you out.”
“This is my house too, remember? And he’s my son.”
“For God’s sake,” I hurl at him, “go make another deal!”
I’m heaving painfully, deep gulps of air.
He turns tail. Doesn’t leave the house, though. I can hear him downstairs, his voice. The phone? For what it’s worth, I’m no longer tempted to listen in.
This is what life’s become for us, I think. The downstairs is his, the second floor mine. The kitchen: neutral territory.
Later, his footsteps on the stairs again.
He’s standing in the doorway. I glance up. He’s got on the shaggy coat, the one with the alpaca lining, and a stupid-looking ragg cap on his head.
“Remember, Georgie,” he says, “whatever happens, you don’t know anything about this. Everything I told you. That’s vital.”
I say nothing.
“I’m going now. I’m going to find out what’s happened.”
No answer from me.
“Fuck you, Georgie,” he says.
Nice.
It’s almost dusk. A minute later, I can hear the grinding of gravel outside.
It’s pitch-dark now. Over by the chaise longue is an abandoned turkey sandwich and a mug of milk, no longer warm, but I’m lying on the bed, in my bathrobe, reading Adrienne Rich, or trying to. It’s not Rich’s fault that I can’t concentrate. Zoe, changed and fed, sleeps in the portable crib next to the bed. Meowie, Justin’s calico, is curled in a ball at my feet.
The phone’s rung several times, but I can’t bring myself to talk to anyone in other than monosyllables. Once it was Larry, but just to ask if I’ve heard anything. Heard anything about what? About Justin. No, I said, at which he hung up.
I ought to call someone, to find out what this is all about, but whom? To find out what? Confirmation that my husband is a total asshole?
I’m very calm, strangely. I sent my parents home yesterday and, over my mother’s better judgment, let the baby nurse go, who was useless anyway. For once there are no sounds. It’s as though the whole earth is uninhabited, except for this one room. Else fogged in. Else muffled in snow. Except there’s no snow, of course. There never is anymore. People in St. George like to reminisce about the last blizzard, a couple of years before we moved in, and who got stuck where that night, but—
The front bell just rang.
Or did it?
But Meowie must have heard it too! She just trampolined off the bed in a brown blur.
It can’t be Larry; he has the master code.
I glance at the alarm panel on the far wall. The red light is on, thank God, the system still armed.
I hold my breath, strain for porch sounds, footsteps, anything.
Nothing.
Is that a car engine? No. It’s more of a whine, high-pitched, and too far off.
It’s stopped anyway, gone.
I wait for a second ring.
Nothing.
Could I have imagined it?
Finally I make my way out to the top of the stairs.
The stairwell is dark, the front hall too. The only source of light is behind me in the bedroom.
I go down gingerly, bare feet, avoiding the creaky spots. I’m conscious of my heart thumping. Even the front hall mirror is black, no reflection.
All I see is a corresponding dot of red light, the downstairs alarm panel.
Suddenly I remember Zoe, upstairs, alone.
Should I call someone first? But whom, the police?
All I have to do is press the panic button and they’ll come. But what if I’ve invented the whole thing, what would I say?
I open the inner door. It has a faint creak at the hinges. I hear nothing else. The porch light is on outside, but through the lace panels that cover the front door glass, I can see only a hazy light, shadows from the columns. I’m prepared for there to be nothing out there—some prankster? kids ringing doorbells and running away?
On tiptoe, I pull aside the panels, making a narrow break between them.
I just barely have the presence of mind to reach back and disarm the system before I yank the door open.
Justin is standing on the front porch.
My son is standing on the front porch, all alone, just standing there.
“Oh, my darling! Oh, my darling boy!”
I’m on my knees in the front hall. I’m holding his face in my hands. I’m flooding. Whatever else has happened, he’s alive, he’s home. My little boy. Justin. Thank you, God.
I pick him up in my arms, talking to him, murmuring. He’s wearing high-top sneakers I’ve never seen before, and some grubby sweats outfit that seems too big for him. He’s all skin and bones inside, a featherweight. Could these be the same clothes as the description from the mall? But didn’t they change him? Didn’t they feed him?
I realize now that I’m crying. Big tears, no sound. He hasn’t said anything, not a word. I carry him into the kitchen. He seems bewildered. Is it the lights? Sudden lights after darkness?
“You’re home, darling,” I babble at him. “It’s Mommy. It’s your own mommy. You’re home, Justin. This is your own house. You’re home at last. Can I fix you something to eat? A turkey sandwich? Your grandma was here this weekend, she roasted a whole turkey for us.”
Finally—such a small voice—he says he’s thirsty.
I sit him down on the butcher-block counter, his legs dangling over the side. Then I panic—suppose he falls?—and put him instead on one of the kitchen stools. I hug him again, pull his head into my breast, but now I’m afraid of squeezing him too hard. He doesn’t react, though, just lets it happen. My tears—I can’t stop them. Oh God, he’s so skin-and-bones!
