by Clea Simon
Greg laughs. It’s a joyless laugh. ‘You were always clueless. About Chris, about Neela. Shit, that bartender – the one who was so sweet on you? He could’ve clued you in.’
‘Wait, Nick?’ She doesn’t remember. He has to be wrong.
‘You should’ve asked him about Chris and Neela. He could’ve told you some stories. Look, this was a mistake.’ He pushes his chair back. It grates on the tile. ‘Chris, shit.’ He’s shaking his head as she stands. As he turns away. ‘The kid didn’t have a chance.’
Tara doesn’t feel much like eating, but everyone is watching. The other patrons turn away as Greg lurches out, and Tara’s cheeks are hot as she approaches the counter.
‘Turkey club. To go.’ The counter man nods and turns away.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ A voice beside her. An older woman, her face pale and drawn despite her rose-red lipstick.
‘Yeah, thanks.’ She summons a smile for reassurance. ‘I’m … researching an article. I’m a journalist.’
The woman shakes her head. ‘That’s no job for a nice girl,’ she says. ‘Not with hooligans like that around.’
Tara’s smile widens. Greg is a businessman. One of the successful ones. ‘You’re right,’ is all she says.
TWENTY-ONE
It’s funny how they never talked about family. As if the only way to be was to have created oneself anew, out of whole cloth, in the world. Her own parents never understood why she did what she did – staying in Boston. Becoming a journalist. They weren’t crazy about Peter, either – he’d made the mistake of talking politics with her father. But at least, once he’d married her, they’d stopped nagging her to move back.
Now that so many of them were parents, those strictures had loosened. Or maybe it had only been her family that turned inward, afraid of the world their daughter sought to join. Onie had spoken fondly of his mother, of how she’d supported him in his band days. And Chris Crack?
Back in the office, Tara does another search – this time for Chris/Christopher Kantrowitz, instead of Crack. This time she gets a hit. Chris hadn’t been famous, not yet, not in the wider world by the time he died. But drug casualties had already begun to pile up. The Herald took that angle – ‘Dead Too Young’, the headline reads – and Tara clicks through. But there’s no story. Only a photo and a caption. His name, a street address in the Fenway, and a date in March, twenty years before. The basics of a crime scene report, nothing more.
The grainy black and white shot doesn’t show her much. An empty apartment, a mess. Whatever money Chris had earned – been promised – he certainly wasn’t spending it on furnishings. The couch in the background is shredded, the stuffing poking through. The table before it is littered with styrofoam cups, one spilling out ashes. Cigarettes smoked down to the butt. There are no drugs to be seen. Any substances, or his works, must have been taken for evidence, before the journalists were allowed – snuck? – in. Some of the clutter, Tara realizes, might have been made by the EMTs. By the police who responded. Maybe by Neela, who was reported to have found him. Who was taken away, hysterical. Crying.
Still, the photo is moving in a way that a write-up might not have been. The room it depicts is sad. Poor. A pair of jeans lies bundled in the corner, with a crusty towel or maybe two. Band T-shirts that looked the worse for wear, and some of the lacey cast-offs he wore on stage, ripped and frayed. A few records, too, scattered on the floor. Vinyl, because Chris would have been a purist. The flash picks out the covers, glossy still, despite the general grime. Reflects off a jacket, as well. Leather, studded with hardware, and its mate, lighter in the black and white shot, crumpled behind a chair. Tara sets the photo aside. Even without a body, the shot makes it all too real. Someone lived here. Someone died.
Tara bookmarks the site. Scott wanted art, and this was certainly lurid enough. Without knowing the names of his parents or his siblings – a sister? that brother? – she is pessimistic about finding anything more. Anything that can help her search. Finally, in a suburban weekly, she finds a lead.
‘Christopher “Chris” Kantrowitz,’ the piece begins, ‘had a promising artistic career cut short on Friday.’ The Haverhill Examiner. Tara vaguely recalls going up there for a job interview when she first graduated from college. An office in a strip mall that smelled of gas. ‘A talented trumpet player, the Hamilton native had performed in All-County and All-State bands before leaving school to pursue a singing career …’
No wonder Chris had left. Had re-invented himself. She reads on. ‘He leaves behind his grieving parents, Sarah and Ronald, and a sister, Madeleine. His older brother, Daniel, pre-deceased him as an infant.’
In the back of her head, she hears the lyrics: ‘Boy in a bubble … Coddled, fondled, packaged, bundled. I barely survived, barely got out alive.’ Funny, she’d always thought he was talking about himself. Maybe he was. The Hamilton she’s been reading about certainly sounds isolating. Out of touch.
‘Tara?’ The sound of her name breaks into her thoughts. Rebecca, looking more worried than usual. ‘Are you joining us?’
‘Of course.’ Tara clicks into work mode. ‘I guess I lost track of the time.’
The two thirty meeting should be easy. She doesn’t have to present, only take notes on what the other departments will be doing. She gets copied on all their memos, so there are rarely surprises. Only today, she’s aware of a difference. Partly, it’s that she’s late – the last one to the conference room, where the seven other department heads are waiting. All eyes rise as she walks in, and it hits her once again that her screw-up is common knowledge. That Rudy’s words were not an empty threat. She needs to reclaim some ground.
‘Sorry, I’m late, everyone.’ She takes her accustomed seat, halfway to the window. ‘As you’ve probably heard, I had to rework part of the quarterly. I guess I got bogged down in my notes.’
‘Tara, would you like to chat?’ Martha heads up HR, so it’s not an empty question. ‘I’ve been hoping to talk with you.’
‘I’m fine, Martha.’ Tara takes care to enunciate carefully. ‘I simply confused some files. Believe me, I’ve undertaken a thorough reevaluation of my labeling and storage procedures.’ After five years here, she can talk the talk as well as any of them.
‘It’s not the report I’m worried about.’ Hugh and Donnie nod, Tara sees, as the HR boss keeps talking. ‘I’m sorry. I was hoping to discuss this in private, but I’m afraid it’s now general knowledge, at least at this level.’ She looks at the assembled faces. Licks her lips and continues. ‘We’ve had reports – disturbing ones – that you’ve been involved in extracurricular activities that have put you in touch with some unsavory characters. And while your private life is, of course, your own, Zeron has to act when you bring the threat to our doorstep.’
The car. They’re talking about the car, as if an intervention were in order.
‘Excuse me?’ She’s not faking her outrage. Maybe misdirecting it a bit. ‘I did not “bring a threat”.’
‘Your extracurricular—’
‘My car was vandalized.’ She’s gaining steam. ‘On Zeron property, which brings up the very real question of culpability.’ She scans the table, as another question comes to mind. ‘Of course, I would hate to think that a member of the Zeron family was responsible.’
Nobody gasps. Not audibly. But she sees a few heads jerk back, ever so slightly.
‘You’re clearly upset.’ Hugh is trying for comforting but even with his deep voice, he only sounds patronizing. ‘Which is understandable.’
‘What isn’t understandable—’ Tara is not going to let this pass – ‘is vandalizing my car.’ She scans the table. Nobody blinks. ‘And blaming me, rather than coming forward to offer support.’ She stands to leave. ‘I have work to do.’
‘Tara, please.’ Martha rises. Follows her into the hallway. Stops as Tara turns to glare at her. ‘I didn’t mean – not like that.’
‘Really?’ Tara lets the acid drip. She’s tougher than these
corporate types. They wouldn’t last a night. ‘Then why don’t you tell me what you did mean, Martha?’
‘I got a call.’ She’s stammering. ‘About you being here late. Hanging out after the building was closed.’
‘A call? From who? When?’ Her mind reels – works backward. Peter. The police. Greg? ‘What did it say?’
‘It – he – just sounded concerned.’ Martha is in full retrenchment mode. She is even wringing her hands. ‘That one of our employees seemed to be loitering – to be spending time with unsavory characters, and weren’t we concerned about the safety of our other employees.’
‘Loitering?’ Tara had left the building and gone directly to her car. True, she had had to wait around for the auto service and the police. But besides that …
‘And also,’ Martha’s voice dropped to a whisper, ‘he said you’d been overheard asking about drugs.’
She goes back to work. She has to, really. No matter what she thinks, she’s not twenty anymore. Not that she’d been the type to walk off a job even then. But as she extricates herself from Martha, she realizes how grateful she is that she hasn’t given in to Peter’s urgings. That she doesn’t have a mortgage, not yet.
But she does have rent and a car that she now owes twelve hundred on. And so she begs off as gracefully as she can. Tells Martha that there must be some mistake. That she has been meeting with some old friends, but nobody disreputable. Only when she mentions Frank – his funeral – does Martha relent.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, and Tara dips her head in gratitude, accepting the misplaced sympathy. By that point, she’d have brought up Frank’s twelve-step program, if it would have gotten her back to her office. Away from that meeting, and off the hook.
‘Thanks.’ She knows she ought to leave it at that, but she can’t resist. ‘I don’t know why anyone would make a call like that,’ she says. ‘I mean, if someone saw me in the parking lot, waiting for AAA, why not come wait with me? Or offer me a ride?’
Martha doesn’t have an answer to that one. Not one she’s willing to voice, though the tight-mouthed smile implies something other – something that goes beyond one call, one night. One messed-up report.
Back at her desk, Tara calls Scott. He’s got to know about this – know that someone wants her off the story. It’s the only reasonable explanation. Peter may be paranoid, but the anonymous tip has convinced her. But reaching her old friend isn’t as easy as it once was, and by the time she gets through the receptionist and Scott’s personal assistant, she’s feeling better. Defiant.
‘Whoever it is,’ she says, when she finally gets him on the phone. When she finishes laying it all out. Rock and roll, she thinks. Scott will understand. ‘He’s overplayed his hand.’
‘That’s great, Tara!’ Yeah, she’s feeling tough. But still, this shocks her. In the silence that follows, she can hear him rising from his desk. Walking with the phone. She imagines his office as big and airy as his apartment, though minus the waterfront view, and feels her anger – for it is anger that has caught in her throat – turn inward. This isn’t her old friend. Not anymore. ‘This means you’re onto something,’ he says. He’s walked away from his desk for a reason, she realizes. His voice has dropped to confidential. ‘You’ve touched a nerve.’
‘I’m not getting paid enough.’ She grouses. It’s reflex. Their old joke, from back when neither got paid at all. Back when what excited Scott was the music. The writing. Not whether the writer had been threatened.
‘I’ll see if I can squeeze more out of the budget.’ He doesn’t remember. Thinks she’s serious. ‘This is worth it.’
‘You don’t—’ She stops herself. More money might be useful, especially if her job is on the line. But there’s something else going on – something she can’t quite identify. The lowered tone, the distance from his desk. From the office door? ‘Scott, how badly do you need this story?’
The pause is telling. ‘Scott, are you OK? I mean, at City?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ The old Scott. Dismissive. Almost jovial enough. ‘Jonah’s being a hard ass is all.’
‘In general, or about this piece?’ She thinks about their lunch, but there’s something else. A thread she can’t quite grab. An off note. ‘Is it your job?’
‘No.’ His chuckle sounds forced, but she’s out of options. ‘It’s been – well, maybe I pushed for this story a bit too hard. But it’s worth it. I know how good you are, and once I bring you in …’
She bites her lip. That had been her dream, too. She thinks of the photo. Knows Scott – this new Scott – will see it as sensational, rather than sad. ‘I may have some art for you.’ It feels dirty even to offer.
‘I knew I could count on you.’ Hale and hearty again, as if someone had entered his office. ‘Look, I should go. Back-to-back meetings today. Keep at it, kid. We’ll talk, OK?’
She’s too paranoid to work on the story for the rest of the day. Feels like someone’s watching her. Watching what she does on the office computer anyway, and the afternoon ticks by as slow as molasses. She waits until after five to leave, making sure Rebecca knows she’s still at her desk. She’s on her way to pick up her car when her phone rings, and she jumps. The T is crowded. Rush hour and the Sox, and there’s no room for excess movement.
‘Tara, it’s Nick.’ He sounds so calm – so happy – she’s a bit taken aback. ‘Congrats on making your work deadline.’
‘Thanks.’ She puts her hand to her forehead, as if to contain all the thoughts. To block out the stare from the woman she’s bumped into. ‘God, that feels like a year ago.’
‘Rough day?’ His voice is warm. He’s in a good mood.
‘Kind of.’ Her stop is approaching. She begins to maneuver toward the exit. ‘At least it’s over.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ he says. ‘I was wondering about that dinner. We can make it a celebration, if that’s in order.’
‘Hang on.’ She pushes between two backpacks. Makes it to the door. ‘I’m in transit here.’
‘Sure, sorry.’ She walks to the stairs, trying to gauge her mood. Yesterday, she was looking forward to seeing him. The day has been a bear. Is it that they’re not aligned – he’s not reading her mood, her mind? Is this because she let Peter spend the night?
‘I’d love to have dinner.’ The words burst out of her. Min was right. ‘Just don’t make me talk about my day.’
Two hours later, she’s glad of her decision. Mellow with wine and with a surprisingly good spaghetti puttanesca, she leans back on Nick’s sofa and closes her eyes.
‘That bad, huh?’ The cushions move as he settles down beside her, his own glass in hand. ‘Wait, you don’t have to tell me.’
‘No, I’m good now.’ She looks at him. Those blue eyes are warm. She made the right choice. ‘It’s – well, I was going to say it’s this article. The one on the scene. But it’s more than that.’ She closes her eyes again, this time to gather her thoughts.
‘I don’t like my job.’ It feels good to say it out loud. ‘It pays well, but I’m bored to tears. I mean, that’s why I screwed up, the report I had to re-do in a hurry.’
She peeks at him, but his face is still, somber. Concerned, she thinks, but not judgmental.
‘I miss doing journalism. Writing stories like this one.’ She stares at the ceiling. ‘I don’t even know if I could make a living anymore doing this kind of thing. I mean, it’s not just that I’m used to earning more, it’s that the outlets don’t exist any more. The papers.’
‘The Dot,’ he says, nodding.
‘Yeah, or any of them. The Weekly, the Real Paper.’ A moment of silence as they remember. ‘And this story. I’m finding more questions than answers, which is cool, but …’
‘Questions about Frank?’ His curiosity is piqued.
‘About the scene. About Chris Crack. I mean, do you think he killed himself?’ She pulls herself up on the sofa and turns toward him. He’s the one staring into space, distracted.
‘I
don’t know, Tara. He was into some stuff.’
‘That’s just it.’ She’s waking up. ‘I’ve even heard that maybe he was murdered somehow. That he was going to snitch.’
He shakes his head and looks at her, confused.
‘You know there was an investigation going on, right? That one year, when smack was everywhere? Well, I have it on good authority that somebody knew who was bringing it in. That somebody was going to talk.’ She’s so excited that she chooses not to see how his brow furrows. How his mouth opens to protest. ‘Then Chris dies, and the lead disappears.’
‘Tara, no.’ He reaches for her hand. For her glass of wine, which he places on the table, ‘You can’t – this isn’t the music story you told me about. You know what was going on then.’
‘Well, that’s just it.’ She draws a knee up, as if to prop herself up. As if to stand. ‘I don’t know. Just that there were no drugs – nothing serious – and then suddenly there were. I mean, what if Chris was the police informant? What if he was murdered to keep him quiet?’
‘And what if those people are still around now, Tara?’ His face is serious. Sad, even. ‘You said you’re having problems at work, right? But they’re normal problems. Safe problems. Please, Tara, let this go.’
She pauses, and it hits her. She hasn’t told him about her car. About the call to her office. Only that she screwed up at work. At her safe, dull corporate job. Who else knew she was working on this story? That she was working late last night at Zeron? Suddenly, she feels nauseous. Dizzy from the wine.
‘I’ve got to go.’ She pulls herself to her feet. What was it Greg had said? That bartender – the one who was so sweet on you? ‘I – I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep, and the wine …’
‘Of course.’ He’s beside her. Takes her hand. ‘Do you want me to give you a ride home?’
‘No, no, I’ll be fine.’ She grabs her coat. Takes the car keys in her hand. ‘I’m just tired, not drunk.’ She manages a smile and hopes it looks less fake than it feels. ‘Thanks for dinner, Nick.’
