Eye Contact

by Michael Craft

  Manning tries not to appear too eager. “That might be a good idea, Mr. Cain. A fine suggestion. Thank you, sir.”

  “See if you can get him to come up with those missing numbers.”

  “That’s a start,” says Manning. “I’d also like to learn more about Zarnik’s personal background—since he’s a foreigner, I haven’t found much file material on him. Maybe some secondary interviews with other sources.”

  “Sounds good.” Cain leans back in his seat, visibly more relaxed. “And this time, Manning, there’s no pressure, no deadline. Spend the next week on this. If you come up with something, great—we’ll run with it. If not, we’ll chalk it off as an investment in responsible journalism. After the Fourth, when things have calmed down, let’s meet again and assess where we’re at. Needless to say, if anything big develops, let me know at once. Gordon can give you my beeper number. Sound reasonable?”

  “Very,” says Manning, thinking, Too good to be true. He arrived at this meeting prepared to squirm, anticipating Cain’s displeasure with his recent work. Instead, he’s been ordered to proceed exactly as he intended.

  Smith jots a phone number on the back of a business card and hands it to Manning while asking Cain, “Can I assume Mark has carte blanche on this project?”

  “Absolutely. Entertainment, research fees, travel—whatever it takes to get to the bottom of this.”

  Smith reminds Manning, “And you’ve still got David Bosch in your hip pocket.”

  Manning responds dryly, “That’s one way of putting it.”

  Their conversation is interrupted by a rap on the door to the outer office. Heads turn as Lucille Haring trundles in backwards, towing a serving cart stocked with a huge silver coffee urn, carafes of various juices, cups, glassware, and ice. “Pardon the intrusion, Colonel,” she says, “but the kitchen said you’d placed an order.”

  Before Cain has said, “Thank you, Miss Haring,” she has positioned the cart near the bar, returned to the door, snapped to attention, bowed, and retreated.

  Cain says, “As I’ve mentioned before, she’s a model of efficiency.” As he rises and moves toward the cart, the others do also. “Coffee, Gordon?”

  “Sure, Nathan. Thanks.”

  Cain pours a cup for himself as well as for Smith. “Mr. Manning?”

  “Some orange juice would be great.”

  “How about something in it, Manning? An accelerator. Champagne, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  “Hngh.” He hands the juice to Manning, coffee to Smith. They all sip. Cain’s lips gnarl. He dumps the remainder of his cognac from the snifter into his coffee cup, tastes again, and exhales a grunt of satisfaction. Smiling, he tells them, “Ambrosia, gentlemen. Sheer, silken ambrosia.” He gulps half the cup. Then he shifts gears, saying to Manning, “Now tell me about Clifford Nolan. What have you learned?”

  “Well, sir”—Manning instinctively grabs for the notebook in his jacket, but withdraws his hand from it, deciding that his report to Cain will remain vague on crucial details—“I’ve identified several possible suspects at this point, none of them very firm. One is an eccentric neighbor whose motive may have been no stronger than her displeasure with Cliff’s loud music. But others may have had stronger, darker reasons to kill Cliff.”

  Both Cain and Smith lookup from the coffee they are drinking.

  Manning continues, “Two possibilities have come to light. First, there may be some connection between Cliff’s murder and Pavo Zarnik’s discovery.”

  “Such as?” asks Cain. His tone is skeptical.

  Manning is not yet prepared to reveal to his publisher that Zarnik is a fraud, so he simply tells him, “Cliff may have been writing about Zarnik at the time he was killed, and there’s apparently some political interest in Zarnik’s discovery, but at this point, I’m merely exploring a hunch.”

  Cain swirls the mix of coffee and cognac. “And the other possibility?”

  Manning moves a step closer, between Cain and Smith, tightening their circle. “Yesterday, while cleaning out Cliff’s desk, I came across something very disturbing.” Responding to Smith’s questioning look of surprise, he explains, “I intended to meet with you, Gordon, first thing this morning, to tell you what I found, but, well … here we are. I regret to inform both of you that Clifford Nolan was involved in an activity that should be a profound embarrassment to the Journal. He had compiled dossiers, handwritten files of ‘dirt’ on numerous friends, colleagues, and public figures. He was running a profitable little sideline of extortion.”

  “Christ,” says Smith, sitting on the arm of the nearest sofa. “I wondered how he managed that art collection on a reporter’s salary—I should have suspected something.” Smith is clearly crushed by this news, which reveals an entirely different facet of the science editor who had brought such esteem to the paper.

  Nathan Cain may be similarly disheartened, but he does not show his emotions. All business, he says to Manning, “You mentioned ‘colleagues.’ Do Clifford’s files point to suspicion of anyone here at the Journal?”

  “Yes.” Manning thinks of Lucille Haring, hoping Cain won’t press further.

  Cain asks, “Do the files point to suspicion of anyone in this room?”

  “No, sir.”

  Cain and Smith share a sigh of relief. Cain tells Manning, “Well done. By all means, proceed with your investigation. It sounds as if you’re on the right track.”

  Manning assures his publisher, “I’ll do my best to sort this out. I’m wondering, though—What should I do with Cliff’s files, turn them over to the police?”

  Cain nods. “I suppose you’ll have to.” Then he reconsiders. “No, wait. I’m loath to sound calculating, but the Journal has to guard its own interests in this matter. We’ve been riding a wave of sympathy in the wake of Clifford’s murder, but if those files become public, we’ll be the goat of Chicago journalism. Just proceed with your own investigation, Mr. Manning, and let the police proceed with theirs. If the files are useful to you in naming Clifford’s killer, use them. Ultimately, we should destroy what’s not needed.”

  Manning concurs, “This is a gray area, I know, but it’s important not to let these files get into the wrong hands. They would simply cause a lot of needless emotional pain. I have a call in to a detective friend at police headquarters, but I won’t mention this to him, at least not yet. I’m hoping he can tell me what was the last piece of music played on Cliff’s CD player. Also, the ballistics tests should be complete by now. Maybe he’ll be willing to share some hard evidence. I’ll phone him again as soon as I get back to my desk.”

  “You needn’t bother.” Cain dismisses the idea with a flick of his hand. “The report came over the city newswire last night. There were four bullets in Clifford’s body, but the ballistics tests were ‘inconclusive,’ with no clues regarding the gun that killed him. The police are officially ‘frustrated.’” He snorts his derision, presuming they have bungled. He turns, and his gaze travels to the showcase that displays his collection of rare firearms.

  Noticing this, Smith walks over to the glass-doored cabinet. Tapping the window with a fingernail, he tells Cain, “I wish you’d let us run a feature on the collection. There’s at least a dozen great stories in there. It’s a natural for the Sunday magazine.”

  “I’m flattered,” Cain replies, “but I don’t care to draw attention to it. Other collectors would get interested; there would be requests for visits from curators and academics. I don’t care to be bothered by all that. The collection is private.”

  Crossing to the display, Manning says, “Last time we were here, sir, you said you might share the history of the Nambu pistol.” He peers through the glass at the gun in question, which rests on a small silk cushion, centered among the other weapons, gleaming in the beam of a miniature spotlight. The pistol itself is unremarkable, but its distinctive handle is inlaid with intricately carved jade. An easel near the cushion holds a gold-edged card that traces the gun’
s pedigree. Manning squints to read it.

  “Very well, gentlemen.” Cain snorts, moving toward them. “The story. That’s a Nambu Type Two, a Japanese model that was rare to begin with, but this particular weapon is unique, as you might guess from the jade handle. It belonged to Field Marshal General Sugiyama, the Japanese minister of war. His wife nagged him into using it on himself in September of ’forty-five, to avoid being placed on trial for war crimes. After he did it”—Cain slurps from his cup—“she poisoned herself.”

  Smith chokes on his own coffee. “Whew!” he says. “They are a strange race. Clever, but strange.”

  With no humor, Cain tells Smith, “They are a people of high principles.”

  Manning asks, “How did you acquire the general’s gun, Mr. Cain?”

  “Our occupation forces were already in place in Tokyo, so it must have been picked up by one of the MPs investigating Sugiyama’s death. The pistol found its way back to the States and many years later was presented to me as a gift from an old army friend—a buddy, you might say—who’s now at the Pentagon. The Nambu has been the centerpiece of my collection ever since.”

  “Very impressive, sir.” Manning sips his juice.

  Their small talk moves on to politics, new restaurants, the approach of Celebration Two Thousand. At the mention of the festival, Cain waves an arm toward one of the huge Gothic arched windows that look out across the city. Even through the summer haze, the new stadium is visible a mile to the west. “That tranquil view will change before our very eyes, gentlemen. The fete, I fear, will transform this fair city into a veritable zoo. Oh I know, ‘the people’ will love it, and it’ll be a boon for our circulation, but it’ll bring with it that element of—what?—a certain madness. I, for one, plan to be out of town next weekend.”

  Smith is jovial. “Not me, Nathan. Wouldn’t think of missing the opening spectacle, and I’ve got a press pass.” He pats his breast pocket, where he keeps the credentials, which truly are coveted—anyone would be foolish to leave such a pass lying on a desk, or even in an unlocked drawer. He adds, “As for the congestion of the city, well, I guess that’s inevitable. But it shouldn’t be all that disruptive.”

  Even as he speaks, workers on a scaffold winch their way up the outside of the tower, rising just above the stone gargoyles, stopping smack in the middle of the window, blocking the view. Cain watches them for a moment, then turns to Smith with a look that says, I told you so. “That’s been going on for a couple of weeks now.”

  The workmen are conversing in shouts with unseen brethren, some on top of the tower, others apparently on another scaffold hanging below. Inside, the particulars of this communication cannot be understood, reduced to muffled noise by the thick glass of the windows. There are repeated references to “fucking,” however, that are transmitted loud and clear.

  Manning stifles a laugh as he sips his orange juice. He asks his publisher, “What are they doing out there?”

  Cain breathes an exasperated sigh. “Preparing for the great civic clambake, naturally. There’s all manner of equipment to be installed atop the Journal Building as part of a laser show. We’re to be one point of a triangle, I’m told.”

  “A pink triangle, in fact,” Manning adds.

  “You’ve heard about it, then?” says Cain.

  Smith interjects, “I haven’t. What laser show?”

  “I guess the plans haven’t been made public yet,” says Manning, “but Neil told me about them. As a surprise finish to the opening ceremonies and human-rights rally, a giant pink triangle will appear over the stadium. There’s some new laser technology involved, and the image will be simultaneously projected from the masts of three tall buildings, including this tower.”

  Smith looks confused. “What am I missing here? Why a pink triangle?”

  “For Christ’s sake,” snaps Cain, “you’re better-read than that, Gordon. It’s the symbol of gay liberation … or pride or whatever.”

  Manning steps closer to Cain to tell him, “And I must say, sir, that it’s unexpectedly progressive and ‘inclusive’ of the Journal to take part in it.”

  “Don’t be condescending, Manning. You’re starting to sound like our bleeding-heart archbishop. The fact is, the Journal would appear unenlightened and prejudiced if we refused. I don’t see that we had a choice—and I won’t pretend to like it.”

  Manning smiles. “Regardless of the circumstances, sir, I think the company is doing the right thing. Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Cain does not return the smile.

  Their conversation has grown louder to compete with the noise from outside the window, where winches now whine and scaffolding creaks as a huge, menacing contraption is hoisted into view.

  “Holy shit,” says Smith. “It looks like something out of Flash Gordon.”

  “Jesus,” echoes Manning. “It looks like a … like a gun.”

  With no discernible emotion, Cain tells them, “I believe it is a gun—of sorts. Probably part of the laser apparatus. One of the three projectors for the spectacle.”

  “Ohhh,” says Smith. He should have guessed. He finishes his coffee and sets the cup on the cart.

  “Beastly-looking thing, though,” says Manning with a short, hesitant laugh. He can’t take his eyes off the device. It has coils and armatures, an array of controls positioned in front of something like a tractor seat, and a long, tapered snout, like the barrel of some high-tech weapon. The casing is painted a drab gray-green.

  “Well,” says Cain with a tone of finality, “enough of this commotion.” He steps to the window and turns a knob mounted in the trim. Heavy velvet blackout curtains emerge from pockets in the side walls and draw together over the glass. The workers’ noise is reduced to a distant hubbub as the light in the room fades. Cain asks, “More juice, Mr. Manning?”

  The offer, Manning knows, is not meant to be accepted. “Thank you, sir, but no.” He sets his glass on the cart next to Smith’s cup. “I think we’re all set.”

  “Excellent.” Cain begins crossing the room in the direction of the door—clearly, Smith and Manning are being escorted out, and they walk along with him, one on each side. Cain tells them, “I’m glad we were able to have this little ‘breakfast’ together.” He eyes Smith with a facial tic that’s not quite a wink, then swallows the last of his fortified coffee. He turns to Manning, “Keep up the good work, and do keep me posted.” He gives the reporter a pat on the back. The gesture is unnatural to him, and he delivers it stiffly.

  When they pass through the door into the outer office, the pace of activity has picked up since their early arrival. Lucille Haring taps commands into a computer’s keyboard, while an assistant stands nearby, waiting for the diskette that Haring hands over without looking at him. Other minions scamper about the room, breaking stride just long enough to deliver a curt “Good morning, Colonel.” One of them takes the publisher’s empty cup and whisks it away. No one seems fazed by the fact that he’s standing there in his sleepwear.

  When Lucille Haring notices Cain in their midst, she quits her keyboard and stands facing him, as if at attention. He tells her, “Mr. Manning is embroiled in some very important work and may be accruing some atypical expenses—travel and such—during the next week or so. Anything he sends through is authorized and approved.”

  “Very good, Colonel.”

  Cain thinks of something. He tells Manning, “You might find a laptop useful. A modem too. Miss Haring can set you up.”

  “I’m already fully equipped,” Manning assures him.

  “Pager?”

  “I have one, sir.”

  “These days, who doesn’t?” Smith interjects.

  Cain suggests, “Maybe a memory upgrade?”

  “I’m fine,” says Manning. “Thank you, though.”

  Cain thinks of something else. “Miss Haring, regarding that upgrade of the network server for these offices, we need to be certain that the new configuration won’t allow users to breach the corporate m
ainframe.” On a lighter note, he adds, “Too many people online these days. No telling what mischief some hacker might wreak if he gets access.”

  Miss Haring nods vigorously, attuned to his concerns. “Security has been our top priority in every phase of the new design.”

  “Hngh.” He returns his attention to Smith and Manning. “Gentlemen, good day. You’ve got a newspaper to put out, and I’ve got to get dressed.” He erupts into a hearty laugh, then smiles (it’s a genuine smile for once, not the wooden expression he forces for banquet photos with the mayor or the archbishop), waves (it’s a single whirl of his hand that could pass for a salute), and retreats into the inner sanctum. The sturdy timbered door closes behind him with a thud.

  Two minutes later, the door of the private elevator slides shut, leaving Manning and Smith alone together as they begin their descent through the Journal Building. “Well?” says Smith, speaking under his breath.

  Manning tells him, “Wait.” The glass eye of a camera watches them, but he doesn’t know whether anyone is listening.

  The elevator delivers its two passengers to one of the ground-floor lobbies. They walk a few steps down the busy arcade, stopping to talk in front of the window of a tobacco shop.

  “Well?” repeats Smith. “What do you think?”

  “I think he let me off too easy concerning my Zarnik piece. That story was riddled with shortcomings.”

  “But,” Smith reminds him, “Nathan’s main interest in the story was to repay a favor to his Pentagon pals. They were satisfied, so he was satisfied.”

  Manning considers. “That’s true,” he admits. “And the important thing is, Cain wants to keep me on the story. If he had ulterior motives, however far-fetched, he wouldn’t order me to dig deeper—he’d transfer me out to the suburbs, writing obits.”