by A. C. Fuller
Alex put a hand on his shoulder. “But now you can go back to school, have a life. You know, not be in jail. I don’t understand how you can—”
“Calm down,” Camila said, taking Alex’s hand. He quieted and the three of them headed toward the center of the park.
Santiago gestured toward the statue of Garibaldi, illuminated by a spotlight from below. “The finance students throw pennies at the base of the statue at the beginning of each semester,” he said. “For luck.” They stopped under the statue and Santiago picked up a penny. “Who is he anyway?”
“An Italian general and politician,” Alex said. “He’s credited with helping to unify Italy.” He looked at Santiago, who didn’t seem to be listening. “Eric, I’ve been wondering, why did you come to NYU anyway? I mean, it’s not much of a baseball school and you had offers to some good California programs.”
Santiago looked down at the penny. “You really want to know?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t care about baseball. I came here ‘cause I didn’t want my mom to see what I was going to do. You know, the drugs and peep shows and all that.”
Camila said, “If you don’t mind me asking, Eric, from the video it looks like you saw that something was wrong with him, with Professor Martin, I mean. Then, after he collapsed, it looked like you smiled. What was going on with you?”
Santiago sat on a slatted wooden bench near the base of the statue. Alex and Camila sat on either side of him.
“Did you know he was dying?” she asked.
Santiago looked at her. “Remember in the trial, when Sharp said that I used to kill bugs? He wasn’t right about that. I never killed any of them.” He looked at Camila. “In LA we had one of those little patches of grass in our front yard—a little square of grass like everyone else. You know those?”
Camila nodded. “We had one of those in Des Moines.”
Santiago smiled. “We get a lot of sunshine out there, and when it does rain it usually doesn’t last long. But sometimes it’ll rain buckets for an hour or two. The worms will crawl outta the dirt and make their way into the middle of the sidewalk. Then, all of a sudden it’ll stop raining and be, like, eighty degrees. The sun burns down hot, right on them. The worms get trapped on the sidewalk, ya know?”
Camila nodded and Santiago turned to stare into her eyes. “My mom used to shoot at flies with rubber bands while sitting on the couch. But I could never do that, ya know? I could never even wash an ant down the drain of my bathtub. I just wouldn’t take a tub that day if there was an ant crawling around in there. But when the worms would get stuck out on the sidewalk, I would just watch them. The sidewalk would dry off quick in the bright sun and then all of a sudden the worms would be stuck, trying to crawl back to the wet dirt. Sometimes they made it, but sometimes they didn’t. The ones that didn’t just dried out in the sun and died.” He paused. “I don’t know who told Sharp that I like to kill bugs. That wasn’t true. But I do like watching them die.”
Camila was staring at him. Alex had looked away.
Santiago stood up and put his hand on Alex’s shoulder. “If you want to know why I’m not going to be in your story, that’s why. I know I’m broken. There’s something inside me that God bent crooked when he made me and it’s never gonna be fixed. That’s why I should be in jail. But you and all the guys who wrote about me, you’re all broken, too. You just don’t know it.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Alex said.
Santiago put his hands in his pockets. “I watch the worm die and I smile about it,” he said. “You see the worm on the ground, watch him die, then write a story about his tragic death.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Wednesday, October 2, 2002
ALEX WAS SIPPING black coffee and reading The Post at a Starbucks on West 72nd when Greta Mori walked in and sat next to him. He put down the newspaper and she stared at the front page—a picture of Alex from college, standing shirtless and covered with mud in a boxing ring with two women hanging off him. The headline read “Muckraker?”
“Nice,” she said, pulling her long black hair into a ponytail. “You must be so proud.”
“I have to admit, that was a fun night. It won’t be the last article either.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?” she asked.
“You should see the quotes inside. They are anonymous, from people I used to work with, saying I’m undisciplined, lazy. An ambitious pretty boy who would make up anything for fame.”
She eyed him. “That sounds about right.”
“Doesn’t mean my story isn’t true, though.”
A group of tourists walked to the window and stared at Alex. One man held a copy of The Post up to the window and pointed at Alex as another man photographed him.
“Didn’t expect you to call,” she said at last.
“I didn’t either.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that I’m surprising myself these days.”
“So, how’s your fifteen minutes going?”
“I’m hoping it’s almost over.”
“Why did you want to see me?”
Alex sipped his coffee and smiled. “I wanted to apologize. I’m sorry I didn’t call when I said I would. I’m sorry I didn’t return your call.”
“Well, you had a pretty good reason not to, with all that happened.”
A photographer came up to the window of the Starbucks, paused for a moment, then took their picture together.
“Is that normal now?” Greta asked.
“Yes, it will die down soon.” He looked out at the photographer and waved. “But by tomorrow morning, you might be in the paper as the high-priced Asian call girl I’m spending all my ill-gotten riches on.”
“Well, as long as they recognize me as high-priced.”
They smiled at each other.
“I didn’t not call you because of what happened,” Alex said. “I . . . just didn’t call you. That’s what I do, at least historically.”
“Is this one of the twelve steps to recovery from being an asshole?”
“I don’t know what it is,” he said.
“Well, apology accepted. And I still wanna get you on the bodywork table sometime. Even if only as friends.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
Wednesday, October 30, 2002
ALEX WAS DREAMING about the crash. He saw the blue Camry swerving off the road again and again, smashing the cedar tree and exploding in flames. When his phone rang, the Muzak version of In Bloom hovered over the scene, eventually drowning out the sound of his parents’ screams and waking him up. He groped for the phone and looked at the caller ID. Sadie Green.
He flipped it open. “Hey, what’s up?” he said, the music still echoing in his mind.
“Have you heard? I mean, have you heard?” Loud music and voices almost drowned out her slurred words.
“Heard what?” Alex asked, sitting up in bed.
“The Times piece. Did anyone leak it to you yet? The merger is off. Sonia Hollinger is pulling her money. Bice might be out. You did it.”
Alex rubbed his eyes and turned on a bedside light. “Did what?”
“Brought down the evil empire!”
Alex could hear Sadie shouting and laughing. “Are you in a bar?” he asked.
“Hell yes.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Hell yes. Why aren’t you?”
“I was sleeping, Sadie. What are you talking about?”
“A Times reporter leaked me the story. It’ll be in tomorrow’s paper. Wait, it’s today’s paper. Anyway, Nation Corp. is pulling out of the merger and Sonia Hollinger is taking half her money out of Standard Media. And there’s a rumor that Bice might be out as CEO.”
“Wow. It looked like he might weather this thing.”
“Anyway, I’m celebrating. I’ve been getting calls for weeks from Internet startups, mom and pop newspapers, and other non-profits, wondering whether the deal might fall through. The
Internet is gonna stay free for at least a little while longer. A lot of people have been holding their breath over this.”
“It’s just one merger,” Alex said. “There’ll be more.”
“Yeah, but this is a good start.”
“I guess, but I don’t really feel like celebrating. I don’t know . . . I wasn’t in this to stop the merger.”
“C’mon, Alex. This is the scene in Return of the Jedi where they blow up the Death Star. But it’s not just some dance party for the Ewoks.” Her words were almost incomprehensible. “It’s the remake where they show the whole galaxy celebrating. You blew up the fucking Death Star! This is a big deal.”
“Bice isn’t even in jail, and he’s not going to be.” Alex thought he heard another woman’s voice, muffled by loud music.
“I gotta go,” Sadie said. “Anyway, I just wanted to say you’re awesome. Not that you need to get any more full of yourself. But . . . thanks.”
She hung up without saying good-bye, and Alex went back to sleep.
* * *
At 5 a.m., Alex drank coffee on a bench outside the corner deli as he read the story.
Nation Corp. Pulls Out of Merger
Cites Bad Publicity and Declining Stock Price
Hollinger Widow Said to Contemplate Divestment as CEO Bice on Hot Seat
Wednesday, October 30, 2002
In a stunning about face, Nation Corp., the world’s largest cable and Internet service provider, is backing out of a planned merger with Standard Media. Though a final vote of the board will not take place until next week, multiple sources have confirmed that the merger is off.
The Standard Media stock price has dropped 10% over the last month after a story on news-scoop.com, an Internet start-up, implicated its CEO, Denver Bice, in an elaborate plot involving conspiracy and murder. Though no substantial evidence against Bice has emerged, and no charges have been filed, the rumors were enough to damage the merger.
Sources inside Nation Corp. say that a key element was a planned divestment by Sonia Hollinger, the widow of Macintosh Hollinger.
To make matters worse for the CEO, who has defended himself vigorously in the weeks since the story broke, an executive inside Standard Media says that Bice himself may be at risk. According to the executive, who declined to be identified, a rift exists on the board of directors between those who want Bice out, and those who want to continue to back him.
Alex stopped reading when he got to the B-Matter. He sighed with satisfaction and watched the cars go by, then finished his coffee and walked back to his apartment.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
DENVER BICE LEANED back in his black leather chair. He took five breaths with his eyes closed, then opened them and took five more. He looked down at the copy of The Times on his desk, pounded his fist on it, then picked up the phone and dialed.
After five rings he left a message. “Laurence, it’s Denver. Are you avoiding my calls? We can still fight this. There’s more we can try. Call me back. I’ll be in the office all day.”
He pulled the small key from his pocket and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He took out the gun and the flattened NYU hat and placed them on the desk. From the back of the drawer he pulled out a tattered Polaroid photograph and placed it face down on the hat. He was staring at it when his phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Denver, it’s Gathert.”
“Yes, hello Chairman Gathert. Before you say anything, just let me say that we can fight this, it’s—”
“Denver. It’s over. The deal is off. You’re out.”
Bice looked down at the gun. “Chairman, this is just a bargaining tactic. Nation Corp. wants us to lower the price. It’s not over.”
“Denver, you’re out.”
He picked up the gun.
“Look,” Gathert continued. “You’ve done a helluva job for us, and no one believes the crap they’re saying about you, but we can’t go forward with you at this point. I think you understand.”
Bice closed his eyes. “I understand,” he said. He saw his father’s body on the edge of the stream behind their house. Blood pooling in frozen shoeprints.
“Good,” Gathert was saying, “it’ll be easiest for everyone if you just clear out quietly today. We’ve got to put a new face on this as soon as we can.”
Bice opened his eyes and hung up the phone. He still had the gun in one hand and he picked up the photograph with the other. He heard the thud of Hollinger’s head hitting the sidewalk. When you hurt someone, you deserve to be punished. He breathed deeply and turned the photograph over in his hand. Bice as a young man stood smiling on a vast green lawn, his arm around the shoulders of a beautiful young woman with a striking smile and long dark hair. “Martha Morelli,” he whispered. He smelled cedar trees and mist and saw the blue Camry sliding off the road. He passed the gun from hand to hand, then slowly lifted it up to his head. When you hurt someone, you deserve to be punished.
He pressed it hard into his temple, his index finger on the trigger. He heard the roar of the river again, the thud of Hollinger’s head, and the screams of Alex’s mother, trapped in the car as it burned. “Martha Morelli.” He smelled cheap Scotch and felt belt lashes on his back. When you hurt someone, you deserve to be punished.
His finger pressed slightly on the trigger. I deserve to be punished.
He looked down at the NYU hat and his finger relaxed. He set the gun down on the desk.
He put the hat on, tucking his ears in carefully. He put the gun in the drawer and pulled out a headset and a small black box with two silver wires running from it. He connected the box to the back of his cell phone. He put on the headset and connected it to his phone.
He dialed Alex Vane.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
“EVEN FOR A PRE-SEASON game, Madison Square Garden is the best,” Lance said as they rode the escalator down into Penn Station. Alex and Camila stood in front of him, Malina, Tyree, and James behind him.
“Can we look around the station before we go to the game?” Malina asked. “Little Tyree has never been here.”
They all walked toward the center of the station. When Tyree saw the soaring ceiling and giant schedule board, he tugged at Malina’s hand. “Look, Muppāṭṭi. Look how high it is. Can we go under it?”
Malina turned to Lance, who was walking next to Alex. “Is it okay?” she asked.
Both men nodded and they all followed the little boy as he ran toward the center of the station. A dog led by two officers sniffed at his heels as he ran by.
Lance turned to Malina. “Is this his first game?”
“Yes,” Malina said. “Mine, too. And thank you. I do appreciate the invitation.”
“Thank Alex.” Lance said. “It was his idea.”
“But Lance’s tickets,” Alex said. He turned to Malina. “It’s the least I could do. I promised Demarcus I would get him onto the floor.”
They walked in silence for a moment, then Lance turned to Camila. “What about you? This your first game?”
Camila nodded. “I used to watch football with my dad a little,” she said, “but I’m not much of a sports lady.”
Lance laughed. “A sports lady? Is that what they call them these days?”
Camila wrapped her arm around Lance’s. “Oh, be quiet,” she said.
They stopped in the center of the station. “I’ll buy you a hat when we get in there,” Alex said, “then you will be a real sports lady.”
Camila crinkled her nose at Alex, then wrapped her other arm under his.
“Look what he’s d-doing,” James said, pointing at Tyree. He was jumping toward the schedule board thirty feet above him and swiping his hand as though it was just inches away.
* * *
They took their seats courtside—James on the end, Lance next to him, Alex in the center, Camila next to him, and Malina at the end with Tyree on her lap.
A hot dog vendor came by. “Who wants one?” Alex asked. “I’m buying.”
“No,” Alex said, handing the vendor the cash, “but I’m making an exception today.”
Alex gave everyone a hot dog, sat down, and took a big bite. He turned to Lance. “You don’t think the Knicks have any shot at making the playoffs?”
“You can scratch that dream. Only upside is maybe they’ll be bad enough to get that Lebron kid in the lottery next year.”
James said, “Maybe you oughta write a p-piece on it. You know, ‘Ownership Guts Franchise to Save a Buck.’ Four years ago we’re in the finals, and now this?” He waved his hand at the players who were warming up on the floor. “I think the sports press needs a wake-up call.”
Tyree got off Malina’s lap and stood right at the edge of the court, jumping up and trying to reach the scoreboard fifty feet above him.
The stands were filling and James pointed across the court to the front row on the opposite side. “L-look who it is.”
Alex turned and saw Daniel Sharp laughing next to a tall blonde woman. He wore jeans and a black blazer with a Knicks hat.
“Must be phase two of his mayoral marketing campaign,” Lance said. “Start pretending to care about the Knicks and Yankees.”
Alex laughed. “Maybe I should go see if he wants to go on the record about Bice.”
One of the players came over and slapped Lance on the shoulder. He was a light-skinned black man in his late thirties, with specks of gray in his short hair. “You gonna write some nice stuff about us this year, fatty?” he asked.
“Don’t work for The Standard no more,” Lance said. “And aren’t you too old to be playing basketball? I thought you’d be an assistant coach by now with your old rickety ass.” He handed the player a card. “News-scoop.com.”
