by Jaime Clarke
Phillip Sprague wasn’t as keen to get away from his parents as he was pleased to have been chosen as a fellow. Sprocket’s parents had wheeled him up to the bus, dropping his bag next to his chair, telling him to have a good time. He was a lithe kid, sallow from never spending any time outside, and while his parents didn’t consider him a burden, they were overwhelmed with his care. They’d politicked intensely to get Sprocket, who would one day sell his fledgling software company for millions, on the roster, even going so far as to donate a set of the Oxford English Dictionary to the Randolph library. For his part, Sprocket was good-natured, and there were those of us who genuinely liked him and didn’t treat him any differently than anyone else.
Casey Murfin, the chronic ditcher, helped load Sprocket onto the bus, his small frame struggling behind the wheelchair. Some of us had balked when we saw Smurf’s name on the roster, but there was no denying that his father was a powerful businessman whose philanthropy was famous. The Murfin Group controlled the majority of real estate in the Valley of the Sun, the family name minted on signage all over town, which would still be true when Smurf one day successfully slandered a female colleague with whom he’d cheated on his wife.
Warren James fidgeted with his glasses, a new prescription with tinted lenses so he wouldn’t have to carry two sets. Warren, who would later be unwittingly implicated in an Internet Ponzi scheme, was the most well-liked of our class, though our affinity for Warren was born more out of admiration for his contemplative nature than camaraderie. In fact, Warren was regarded as the forward thinker among us. True, conversation with Warren was an exercise in patience, a furious replication of questions with a dearth of answers following, but he was not aggressively opinionated, and if you struck up a conversation that you wanted to break away from, that was your own fault.
Vince Glassburn hung back, reclining against his father’s cinnamon-colored BMW. He ran his hands through his long black hair, which he wore within millimeters of Randolph’s policy about hair not exceeding shoulder length. Assburn, who would die plunging into a frozen lake somewhere between Canada and Detroit, had transferred to Randolph from Minnesota his sophomore year, and it was well known that he burgled houses in his upscale neighborhood and stole whatever he could grab, selling the loot out of the back of his Ford Bronco in the parking lot after school. Most of us had radar detectors whose former owners lived on Assburn’s street—or on the next street over—and some of us had expensive neckwear that we’d flaunt at Mass or any other affair that mandated a tie. None of us questioned where Assburn’s stuff came from—we didn’t want to know. But while we were happy to acquire contraband at bargain prices, Assburn never got what he most wanted: to fit in. There was never an outright edict against him, but for one reason or another he remained an outsider.
Father Matthews conferred with Mr. Hancock and Mr. Malagon, the faculty who administered Garden Lakes. Mr. Malagon, junior to Mr. Hancock by some thirty years and himself a Randolph alum, listened dutifully with his arms crossed, nodding. This was to be Mr. Malagon’s first year at Garden Lakes, and he appeared to the rest of us to be taking his duty more seriously than he did the instruction of his history class. Which isn’t to say that Mr. Malagon was a bad teacher—students tried to transfer into his class when word spread about how much fun it was. Also, Mr. Malagon’s reluctance to put too much emphasis on test scores made him very popular.
Mr. Malagon, whose mysterious exit from Garden Lakes we could never forgive, was popular with the students on the other side of the Bridge of Sighs too. His classroom was situated inside the breezeway in Regis Hall that led to the bridge, and we gawked at the sidewalk outside his window. And Mr. Malagon encouraged us to gawk. He’d gawk too, cracking the window on any Xavierites who were dawdling, telling them that they were a major disturbance, sending them on their way in titters. The administration would be particularly interested in these details once their inquiry into that summer began, details we wrongly assumed to be harmless, though we could not have saved Mr. Malagon.
Mr. Hancock, on the other hand, was a sixty-year-old divorcé who was also the school’s most feared disciplinarian. There were those of us who became flushed with terror upon seeing Mr. Hancock’s shaved dome towering over other students in the hall. Legend had it that Mr. Hancock, whose departure from Garden Lakes would doom us all, had never cracked a smile in his thirty-five years at Randolph, and none of us could dispute it.
The fellows’ fathers shook hands with one another (except those who were professional adversaries, either lawyers on opposing sides of a case, or businessmen toiling in competing industries). Some of the Jesuits spilled out onto the steps for a cigarette, concealing their smokes in the palms of their hands. Several of the priests collected around Brian Lindstrum. Lindy’s father and older brother had been killed in a boating accident his sophomore year. Where the stigma of tragedy could’ve led to ostracism, the school rallied around Lindy, members of all classes adopting a feeling of protectiveness toward him. For his own part, rather than becoming sullen and withdrawn, Lindy immersed himself in his studies, cultivating such a strong love for astronomy that the school’s astronomy club asked him to be their new president, an honor usually reserved for seniors. The Jesuits watched Lindy—who would one day die in his sleep, leaving behind a bereaved wife and two small children—board the bus.
“Just like camping,” Mr. Malagon said, slapping me on the back as I plopped down in my seat.
Father Vidoni blew the horn, and Assburn and the group of sophomores volunteering as staff in the hopes of being chosen as fellows the following year climbed aboard, the bus still reeking from the basketball team’s final away game against Saint Mary’s (a loss). Smurf dredged an old, bloodied bandage from between the seats and flung it at Assburn. Mr. Hancock strode through the aisle, making sure everyone was wearing a seat belt, while Mr. Malagon called roll.
“Hands?”
“Here!”
“Figs?”
“Here!”
“Q?”
“Here.”
“Smurf?”
“Here, here!”
“Lindy?”
“Here.”
“Sprocket?”
“Yes, here.”
“Roger?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Warren?”
“Here.”
“Assburn?”
“Here!”
“Martens?”
Mr. Hancock protested as I answered, the official roster in his hands, unfamiliar with our nicknames. Mr. Malagon reached for it, but Mr. Hancock pulled back. He called roll for the sophomores and all answered accordingly. The two teachers took their seats, Mr. Malagon up front, Mr. Hancock in the back next to Figs and Hands.
The bus pulled out onto Central Avenue, braking at the light at Indian School Road, in front of the First National Bank. We felt like Christopher Columbus, serenaded at court, about to set sail for a new world. To look at us was to remark on our similarities: our white polo shirts, khaki shorts, shoes always worn with socks. But while we might’ve appeared interchangeable to outsiders, we knew the uniformity of our dress was just a mask for our disparate personalities, though the ambitions that seethed within us remained secret as the bus idled at the light.
The bank sign flashed the time and temperature, which flitted between 100 and 99. The light turned green as the sign flashed 101.
Chapter Two
Charlie stirred cream into his coffee, the rhythm of the spoon against the inside of the cup soothing his seared nerves. He’d spent an anxious afternoon refraining from the impulse to search the Internet for people he’d known in all the places he’d lived. The same impulse visited him in moments of crisis, and each time he vanquished it with the truth that knowing that life had gone on for friends he’d known in Denver and Santa Fe and Rapid City and San Diego and New York City would puncture his precious memories of his time in those places. A small but vain corner of his soul wondered if anyone ever thought of him, w
ondering what had become of the boy who was there and then wasn’t.
Outside, cars raced up and down Central Avenue as the sun descended, setting the interior of the coffee shop aflame. The restaurant had been the scene of many late-night bull sessions after making deadline, which was why he’d chosen it as a venue for reconciliation with Charlotte. Also, he knew his colleagues at the Arizona Sun would be at the Christmas party at Mary Elizabeth’s, the swank bar at the Phoenician resort that the paper rented for its cozy nooks where office romances that wouldn’t last through the winter were kindled.
He longed for Charlotte to clatter through the front door, the diaphanous sunset at her back, her tanned skin ablaze with a warmth he needed to feel. Their last moment together, filled with screaming and the cold touch of her hands shoving him toward the door of her condo on Camelback Road, had left him with a dread he couldn’t shake. The scene replayed in his waking hours and menaced his sleep. He thought of a thousand things he could’ve said, or maybe one true thing. He knew the right words would make a difference, that Charlotte would reinstate their engagement before their mutual friends and families could learn of the rupture, though he could bridge any personal embarrassment. Closure and final decree worried him constantly, and if his job had taught him anything, it was that any dialogue could extend indefinitely if there was affinity between the speaker and the listener. He aimed to reestablish that rapport with Charlotte and anticipated her arrival with a zeal bordering on lust.
But the gloaming settled over the desert and Charlie’s hope faded as his reflection took shape in the coffee shop window, a solitary figure at the end of another long year, taking sips from a never-ending two-dollar cup of coffee. He smiled at the waitress, whose curiosity about him had dimmed. He’d delayed an urgent need to urinate out of fear of missing Charlotte’s entrance and quickly washed his hands in the cramped, yellow-lit restroom off the kitchen, the air heavy with the smell of greasy meats.
Upon his return, a thin man in his early forties inhabited the space in his booth where he’d hoped Charlotte would sit. Charlie stutter-stepped, the man unfamiliar to him. The waitress, assuming the man was Charlie’s long-awaited companion, had served him a cup of coffee, refilling Charlie’s idle cup as well.
“Excuse me,” Charlie said as he approached. Any other day, he would’ve guessed the stranger to be an anonymous source who would plead with him to write a story or, as had happened every so often, the angry subject of one of his columns, though those complaints usually took the form of e-mail or hang-up phone calls.
“Hello, Charlie,” the man said, smirking. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“I’m expecting someone, actually,” Charlie replied.
“This’ll take a minute,” the man said. He extended his hand. “I’m Robert Richter.”
“Do we know each other?” Charlie asked. He let Robert Richter’s hand fall unshaken.
“I work for Tom Gabbard,” Richter said, his voice lowering needlessly, as the coffee shop had emptied of everyone, including the waitress.
Charlie searched his mind for any unsavory insinuation he might have made about the county attorney in any of his recent columns, but he couldn’t recall any. “This is my personal time,” he said. “If you could e-mail me—”
“Why didn’t you go to the Christmas party tonight?” Richter asked, his face lit with curiosity. Charlie noticed that Richter hadn’t shaved in a number of days, and he began to doubt that Richter worked for Gabbard. “I thought for sure you’d go to the Christmas party.”
“Do you have some identification?” Charlie asked. Had Richter actually shown up at the Christmas party? Or had he been following him since he left the office? Richter’s casual demeanor suggested the latter, but Charlie couldn’t be sure.
Richter comically touched the lapels of his charcoal suit and shrugged.
“How do I know you work for the county attorney?” Charlie asked. People could say they were anyone, he knew.
Richter shook his head. “I work for Tom Gabbard,” he said, his gray eyes slitting above a quick smile. “There’s a subtle difference, if you catch me.”
Charlie didn’t, but the freight of Robert Richter’s abrupt appearance dashed what small hopes he had that Charlotte would assent to his plea to meet. He’d left specific instructions on her answering machine, calling once and hanging up just to hear her voice. Leaving a message was a bad idea, he knew, but he’d run out of options.
“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions,” Richter said, raising his coffee cup to his chapped lips. He reminded Charlie more of a surfer than a . . . what was he? An investigator?
Charlie waved at the waitress to bring his check, an indication Richter mistook as his acceding to the request.
“How important would you say integrity is to what you do?” Richter asked, as nonchalant as asking him the time.
Charlie blinked rapidly, remembering a piece from last Friday’s edition about how liars tend to blink more rapidly than those professing the truth. He remembered the piece was not about rapid eye movement’s relation to the truth, but was a profile of an outgoing Arizona State University psychology professor beloved by his students for the past twenty years. “The answer seems self-evident,” he said.
Richter smiled. “Agreed,” he said, nodding. “What’s more important, eh? Everything springs from integrity, right?”
The double rhetorical relaxed Charlie; here was no professional, just a hired hack—possibly hired by Tom Gabbard, but possibly not—fishing for . . . what?
“The world is lousy with people who can’t understand that concept, though,” Richter added. “Your paper is full of them.”
Charlie wasn’t sure if Richter meant the content of the paper or his colleagues, an uncomfortable thought aggravated by Richter’s pulling out a pack of cigarettes.
“You can’t smoke in restaurants,” Charlie warned him more stridently than was called for.
Richter shook free a cigarette and lit it with a fat silver lighter. The waitress materialized and Charlie braced for rebuke, but to his surprise she left the check and ambled back into oblivion.
“I know the owner,” Richter said.
Charlie reached into his pocket, wondering if he could still make the Christmas party at Mary Elizabeth’s. His colleagues would’ve outpaced him at the open bar, but their mirth would be a welcome salve to the raw wound of being both stood up by Charlotte and haunted by Richter, who posed two or three more questions that were variables of the first, before stubbing his cigarette out in his coffee cup. Charlie tapped the twenty he’d laid across the check and considered leaving without his change, a gesture he was sure would mean something more to Richter than his just wanting to flee the scene.
“You must think you’re the cat’s ass,” Richter said.
Charlie felt his back straighten. “Excuse me?”
“The youngest columnist in the Sun’s history,” Richter said. He let out a whistle. “You got something on old Darrell Torrence, something you’re holdin’ over his fat head?”
Charlie hadn’t heard the Sun publisher’s given name spoken since his days at the Phoenix Tab, the weekly where he’d started on the west side of Phoenix after his brief foray into the New York literary scene, the only remnants of which were a stack of Shout! magazines, featuring his only published short story, and a box of copies of Last Wish, his novelization of the movie of the same name that he’d written for money under the pseudonym J. D. Martens. In the end, he hadn’t possessed the fortitude to ruminate continually on human weakness and desire, to catalog life’s ambiguities in the hope of suggesting meaning, and so had ended his career as a fiction writer. He’d settled for the notion that his columns would be his legacy, however small, an archive of his thoughts and feelings, proof that he’d lived.
To everyone at the Sun, as well as his admirers and foes, Darrell Seymour Torrence Jr. was known as Duke. Duke the renegade publisher. Duke the decorated World War II pilot. Duke the philanthropist,
appearing in the pages of the Sun every other week at this charity ball or that, flashing his famously toothy grin.
“Look, I don’t—”
“I’m joshing you,” Richter said. “I know you earned it. When Mr. Gabbard asked me to talk to you, I remembered your name from the Tab.”
“Why did Mr. Gabbard ask you to talk to me?”
Richter didn’t hear the question, or ignored it. “It isn’t every day that someone changes the world, right?”
“No one can change the world,” Charlie retorted.
“But they can change the laws, right?”
Charlie nodded involuntary. There was no sense in arguing over what had been the defining moment of his career, Heather’s law, named for Heather Lambert, the girl who had been killed in a hit-and-run accident out in Tolleson, the small, predominantly Hispanic community west of Phoenix, by an illegal alien working as a day laborer on a nearby farm. The Tab had sent Charlie to talk to Heather’s high school teachers and, preferably, to get an exclusive with the girl’s parents. Just six months back from New York by way of a road trip to Los Angeles, Charlie had no connections in the local police or in any city hall in any town in the metro Phoenix area, so verifying even the basic facts of the incident required a level of sleuthing that he hadn’t yet acquired. It was apparent the real story was that the farmer who had employed the illegal alien was a Tolleson kingpin and that the wheels of justice would turn slowly, if it all, in tracking down the illegal alien, who had fled back across the border after running the red light and plowing into sixteen-year-old Heather Lambert, sending her flying, her body deposited hard against the oil-stained blacktop at the gas station adjacent to the intersection. Charlie had proposed a piece to his editor at the Tab implying that if Heather Lambert had been from Tolsun Farms, the gated community on the outskirts of Tolleson, the farmer would already be arrested, an article his editor promised to fire him over if he wrote it.
