“And that you and I met.”
Sara nodded. “But even that isn’t really a coincidence; in my job I meet so many people who come here on business and need to get organized quickly.”
Reuben thought about it. “Mack might work for Corcoran, but he could be selling real estate, not organizing demonstrations at River Bend.”
“You’re such a nice person,” Sara said, “defending my brother against my accusations. Thank you, but I don’t think it will change any-thing.” She paused, her hands still twisted together. “After I saw Corcoran at River Bend, and called you, I remembered your telling us about the woman you’d interviewed the day we saw the marchers, Charlotte, I think her name was. She told you some kid said he’d get signs and banners if they wanted to protest the village, and later you said she used a phrase that seemed out of character, as if she’d heard it from someone else. She said the village would bring in strangers who would destructively destroy a decent town.”
“Yes, I remember, and Carrie said that Mack talked like—” He stopped, remembering the other phrase Charlotte had used. “Not even a token grandparent,” he murmured.
“I remember. Another one that sounds like Mack.”
“We didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it, but we did say it was unlikely.”
“I don’t think that anymore.”
The steward offered coffee and breakfast; they accepted the coffee, and while he filled their cups, Sara turned to look out the window. Lake Erie was below them, towns strung like a necklace along its shore throwing off small flashes from the sun’s reflections. The last time she had looked down on that lake, she had been on her way to medical school in New York. For the first time, she recalled the excitement and sense of adventure of that day without the sharp regret she had come to expect. There are so many ways to live a life, she thought, amused at her unoriginality, but pleased and relieved to discover that she was able now to acknowledge all that was wonderful in the way she was living.
And it did not exclude school. She could go back; it was just a question of timing. She’d been deflected, she thought, a bump in the road, but thinking of Abby and Carrie and Doug, she knew that was a poor way to describe these past years with her family.
And meeting Reuben. The wonder of meeting Reuben.
(As if she knew already—mostly hope, but somehow assurance— that this trip would settle things between them, that he would not have let it happen unless his path was clear.)
“What can we do about Mack?” Reuben asked.
“Perhaps,” Sara said a little hesitantly (after all, River Bend was hugely important to him), “we could forget Mack for a while. Not let him intrude on these two days.”
And Reuben, who had thought her family was foremost in Sara’s mind, the one concern that took precedence over all others, took her hand. “An excellent idea,” he said.
FOURTEEN
Mack was asleep in Rosa’s apartment in Hyde Park when his cell phone rang at six-thirty in the morning. He tried to ignore it, but the crazy tune he’d chosen repeated itself insanely until he gave up. “Shit,” he muttered, and reached to the floor, sweeping his hand back and forth until he found it. Rosa never moved; she could sleep through a war. “Yeah,” he said into the phone.
“What the fuck you been up to,” Corcoran barked.
“What?” He sat up. “Nothing. I mean, the usual. I’m going to St. Louis today; you told me to—”
“You’re not going anywhere. Get your ass over here.”
“Now?”
But Corcoran had hung up.
Why did he have to work for a guy who blew up every time he turned around? Spouting off over nothing until Mack would set him straight, and then he’d calm down and get back to work like nothing had happened and not one fucking word of thanks or an apology. I’d go somewhere else in a minute, Mack thought, half a minute if something came along. But he knew he wasn’t going anywhere; he had things too good with Corcoran. The pay was good, the hours were good, the work was a piece of cake. And he knew how to handle Corcoran. Mack was into Lew Corcoran, had him down pat. Still, he thought as he slid out of bed, not a great idea to keep the boss waiting.
“What time is it?” Rosa asked.
“Six-thirty. I thought you were asleep; go back to sleep.”
“Nobody could sleep with your crazy phone. Why don’t you make it ring like a normal one?”
“And be like everybody else?” He pulled on his shorts and looked around for his pants.
“Where are you going?”
“To see my boss. My bossy boss with great bossiness has demanded that his worthy worker worshipfully present himself.”
Rosa giggled. “Pretty good for early morning. Couldn’t you put it off for a few more minutes in bed? Look, I’m ready for you.” Lying on her back, she spread her legs wide and stretched her arms above her head, grasping the headboard as if she were tied there. She was seventeen years old, slim, and olive-skinned. Her parents were at home in Sicily; she lived with an aunt, but had rented her own studio apartment, and now and then told her aunt she was spending the night with a girlfriend. Her nose was large, her eyebrows thick, her chin square— Mack had thought all Italian women were beautiful, but Rosa proved him wrong—but her sexual energy seemed limitless and she was smart. Mack liked smart women, and hung out at university bars and coffee shops where he could meet and charm them. “You want something different this morning?” Rosa asked. She flipped over, and kneeling on all fours, her firm buttocks teasingly high, she winked at him from beneath her arm. “Get your juices flowing before you meet the big bad boss.”
Mack paused for an agonizing second, then zipped his pants against the bulge straining against them. “Is that how they teach you to talk at the University of Chicago?”
“I talked that way before I got here.”
“And when you’re in class?”
“I talk about Aristotle and Homer and I really like it. I like it with you, too.” She sat up. “Mack, you’re not going.”
“I’ll be back.”
“I won’t be here. I have class. Aristotle.”
“Call me this afternoon.”
“Where will you be?”
“St. Louis, there’s a new project we might start there.”
“You are no good to me in St. Louis.”
“I’ll be good when I get back.” He waved from the doorway.
“Don’t I at least get a kiss?”
“You know the answer to that.” Of course she did, he thought as he left the building. He never kissed; he didn’t like it.
Away from her, he could think about Corcoran, figure out ahead of time what might be eating him, but in the twenty minutes it took to get to Corcoran’s building, and park and take the elevator to the penthouse, nothing had occurred to him. He liked Lew’s apartment: enormous high-ceilinged rooms with oversize furniture (Pussy had complained she got lost in the chairs and sofas; she got lost, all right) and wide vistas of the lake and the city, so that at night it was like being in a plane, and in daytime, when the clouds were below you and there was only you and the sky, you owned it all.
“Hi, boss,” he said, and followed Corcoran through the foyer, turning toward the kitchen, expecting breakfast. But Corcoran was going in the other direction, toward his office.
“You got any coffee?” Mack asked. “I had one of my busy nights.” He leered; it always got a laugh from Lew.
But not today. Corcoran took a brochure from his desk and thrust it at Mack. On the cover was a photo of the land near River Bend with a line beneath it that read HOW DO YOU WANT THIS LAND TO LOOK TOMORROW?
Puzzled, Mack opened the brochure and was hit with the photo of a riverboat casino. “What the fuck—?” A LICENSE FOR A NEW ILLINOIS CASINO IS PENDING, the text read. COULD IT BE IN RIVER BEND?
“Shit.” He looked up at Corcoran. “How did they get this?”
“You tell me.”
“How the fuck would I know? Christ, Lew, you d
on’t think I had anything to do with this! I’ve been keeping it to myself, shit, why would I let it out?”
“Don’t play games with me, you asshole. Who’s paying you?”
“Paying me?” A wave of dizziness hit Mack and he reached out to sit down.
“I didn’t say you could sit. Stay where you are.”
“Lew, I don’t feel good, I have to—”
“You give me answers, you can go to a hospital or any fucking place you want. First you tell me who’s behind this.”
“I don’t know! Listen, nobody’s paying— Honest to God, Lew—” Mack heard his voice whining, and began to cough, to give himself time to regain control, but the cough suddenly sounded like a sob, and, frantically, he plunged ahead. “Honest to God, I don’t know anything about it. You know I’ve been keeping it a secret, I’ve done a good job, you told me yourself—” Stop babbling! He tried to stand straight against the dizziness sweeping over him. “Hey, Lew, I’m your guy, remember? Whatever you want, I do it. You said keep it a secret, I keep it a secret. I don’t know anything about this. You think about it, you’ll know I don’t; you trust me! Somebody found out about it. I mean, it’s public, you know, anybody can call the Illinois—”
“You don’t call unless you’ve been tipped off.” Corcoran grabbed a bottle of scotch from the bar behind him and took a swig as he stood looking down at slips of paper fanned out across the desk. The apartment was air-conditioned to near freezing but Mack saw with surprise and a surge of fear that Lew was perspiring. Why? What’s he scared of? There was a buzzing in his ears; his head vibrated and his fingers began to tingle.
Corcoran looked up. “You’re through with me, but if you want to stay healthy, you’ll tell me who’s paying you.”
Through? Stay healthy? What’s he talking about? “Nobody’s paying me! I work for you! You trust me! Look, why don’t we sit down and talk about—”
“There’s nothing to talk about and you’re not sitting down. The only people who sit down are people who work for me.”
Through the buzzing in his head, Mack forced a chuckle. “You don’t mean that. I’m your guy. Well, hey, if you’re too busy to sit down and talk, I’ll come some other time”—he took a step backward—“I know how busy you are, you’re a busy man, I’ll come—”
Corcoran yanked open the top drawer on the right side of his desk, where, Mack knew, he had two guns, both loaded. “You fucking bastard, tell me who you’re working for.”
Mack felt a warm wetness spread across his groin. Sick with fear and embarrassment, still dizzy, he clasped his hands in front of him. Corcoran was looking at him, knowing he had wet his pants, and Mack started shaking. Everything was out of control, racing past him, leaving him behind, and he couldn’t stand it, he felt as if he were back in the police station waiting for somebody to come and rescue him.
He lunged toward Corcoran, gleeful at Lew’s instinctive lurch backward. He saw that the slips of paper on the desk were telephone messages from Lew’s answering service, and knew, with the swift clarity of terror, that Lew’s partners in the casino—and maybe the newspapers?— had been calling, had seen the brochures and had been calling to find out what the hell was going on. That was why Lew was perspiring. That was why he was afraid.
Well, make him more afraid. Take control here. Who the fuck does he think he is, threatening me? He needs me!
“You better watch it.” His voice was thick. “Watch it, Lew, you shouldn’t threaten me, I’ve got things, things you wouldn’t want me to show around… photos of what’s-her-name, Pussy, when you shot her—”
He saw Corcoran’s face change, but by now he could not stop. “You wanted it cleaned up, fixed like she was alone, shot herself, so you called me. Me, you called me! And I did it, did what you wanted, and you took off, left me alone with her and the mess, how about that, big man Lew Corcoran ran away but Mack Hayden stayed, cleaned up his shit. But Mack Hayden is smart, Mack Hayden takes pictures, Mack Hayden covers his ass!”
He backed away from the desk, almost blind with fear, but at the same time crazily exhilarated. Corcoran’s face, dark with fury, wavered before him. “Nobody catches Mack Hayden sleeping! I’m the smart one, you’re just a bully, wouldn’t be anywhere without me. No demonstrations, no TV and reporters, no nothing. No casino!” He began to laugh. “Maybe no casino anyway! You know what, Mr. Corcoran? One of your partners did it. To get rid of you. They’ve got a plan, they’re smart, not like you, get rid of you and have it all for them. Ask ’em!” he cried. “You’ll see!”
He had backed himself almost to the doorway. Corcoran, momentarily arrested by the idea that one of his partners—or all of them together?—had thought this up, decided in the next instant it could not be true, and he pulled a gun from the drawer. “Photos,” he said tightly. “You son of a bitch. Where are they?”
Mack looked at the gun, such a little thing, like a toy in Lew’s broad perspiring hand.
“Where are they?”
“Put away.” The words were strangled. His excitement had shriveled, leaving behind only fear. “Told lots of people, though. Hundreds. Anything happen to me…” The lie was so absurd it died away. The buzzing was worse, filling his head until he thought it would burst. He could not stand the fear and the pressure behind his eyes. He felt a scream rise in his throat, he hurt all over as everything inside him pushed to get out, and without thinking, in one reflexive motion, his hand shot out to a nearby table and grasped a bronze statue of a naked Greek Olympian. Like an enraged pitcher, Mack hurled it at Corcoran’s head.
It happened so quickly Corcoran had no time to dodge, and Mack saw him fall before he was fully aware of throwing the statue. He stood trancelike beside the door, unable to move, everything, even the buzzing, suddenly muffled. He waited, his mouth slack, and then the buzzing increased, pressing inside his ears, his eyeballs, his scalp, until at last the scream burst from his throat.
It broke his trance. He scurried across the room. Corcoran lay behind his desk, blood flowing from a gash in his head. He’s dead. Or he’ll bleed to death. The thought did not come from him; it was part of the buzzing in his head. Well, either way, serves him right. What the hell. Fired me. Gotta get outta here, get the hell out—
No, wait. He was shivering in the frigid air; his wet pants clung to his groin and thighs, his fingers were tingling, and buzzing filled the room, but somewhere inside his bursting head words wove themselves into commands. Can’t leave now, not like this. Think. Think. Fix up the place. Did it with Pussy bitch, do it again now.
As if still in that strange trance, he bent down to look for the statue. What he saw first was the gun. It lay on the rug beside Corcoran’s outstretched hand. Leave it alone. His prints on it. He bent farther, looking for the statue, until he saw it where it had bounced to the side of the room. He walked around the outside of the desk to avoid walking in Corcoran’s blood, retrieved the statue, and wiped it clean with a napkin from the bar before returning it to its place on the table. He soaked a corner of the napkin in Corcoran’s blood and smeared it on a corner of the desk, calculating which corner to choose by estimating the angle at which Corcoran would have fallen after striking it. Smart thinking, haven’t lost my touch. He began to put the napkin in his jacket pocket, but stopped himself. Jacket can’t be washed; pants can. He shoved the napkin deep into his pants pocket and looked around the room, checking it out. He had not touched anything else; the bastard hadn’t let him touch anything, even to sit down.
With a last look, he scurried to the front door and opened it with his hand inside his jacket pocket. No one had seen him arrive, no one was there to see him go; Lew hated strangers in the apartment, and only tolerated the cleaning service when he was at his office.
Nobody here, nobody to hear. Mack gave a laugh that came out as a whimper, and let the door close and lock behind him.
I need a drink, he thought. Should have taken the scotch from old Lew’s desk. He tried to grin, but his mouth hurt when
he stretched it. Have to figure things out, get away from here. He drove up the garage ramp and onto Pearson Street, his tires screeching. Christ, slow down, some fucking cop give me a ticket and then—
He slowed down, crawling at the speed limit when every nerve in his body pushed him to fly, to flee, to shove the accelerator to the floor and leave everything behind. “Son of a bitch,” he said aloud through the buzzing in his head. “Son of a bitch, I was all set, I had him where I wanted him, I had a future. Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?”
And where was he going now? He didn’t know, but it didn’t matter; he just had to keep moving. He turned south onto Lake Shore Drive. “Shit, I have to figure the whole thing out by myself. Like I always do. Nobody ever helped me with anything, I had to grow up by myself and get away by myself, and now I have to figure this out by myself. Fucking Lew Corcoran was supposed to take care of me, acted like a daddy and then let me down like a fucking daddy, like everybody else in my whole fucking life.”
He drove all day. The buzzing went on and on, his eyeballs ached, his fingers tingled. But he drove. He drove to the Indiana border, turned north and drove as far as Wisconsin, and turned south again to Chicago, through the Loop and on to the university. He found a parking place on the Midway a few blocks from Rosa’s apartment. Rosa would take care of him, put him to bed, feed him… but Rosa was in class all day. “Fuck it!” he screamed in frustration, the scream swallowed up by the stifling air in his car. The scream had not helped; he wished for a new vocabulary that said what he felt. Run down, run over, run out of words. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel.
Well, then, just look around; that always made him feel good, being part of the campus. But today it was no fun being there. The fucking students all belonged and knew where they were going, and chattered away and laughed with the hand gestures he’d sneered at in the past, but now he felt so far out of it that in a few minutes he drove away, hating the place and everybody in it.
The Real Mother Page 37
