Private Screening

by Richard North Patterson

“You have a law degree, I had Christopher. I didn’t have the opportunity.…”

  “Sorry.” Lord held up one hand. “By now we could have this conversation in Swahili.”

  More softly, Marcia said, “If you went back to the district attorney’s, at least you’d be on salary.”

  “I’d also be working for Ralph DiPalma.”

  “He can’t be that bad.”

  “He’s a psychopath in pinstripes. Besides, I’ve done that job.”

  She frowned. “Well, you wouldn’t go to a firm. With your record you could have doubled what you were making.…”

  “I can’t see working for someone like Danziger, either.”

  Marcia watched him. “Or anyone else?”

  Lord leaned against one armrest. “All right,” he said wearily. “Or anyone else.”

  “But why are you like that?”

  “My dad, I guess.” Lord inspected the label on his tie. “Each morning he put on his hat—and his work face with it—and rode in a carpool of other men in hats to an insurance department jammed with metal desks. The man he worked for was a bully. Every so often he’d raise Dad’s salary a pittance and Dad thanked him, for my mother and for me.” Lord looked up at her. “Because he did, I went to an expensive college, when he never went at all. I love him for it, and he knows that. But what he’ll never know if I can help it is that I hate what he had to do.”

  “That was years ago,” she sighed. “Tony, why can’t you join the human race?”

  “I have a talent.” Saying it, Lord knew this must sound like a catechism. “I need one big case, that’s all.”

  Marcia paused. “You’re afraid of being ordinary,” she said finally.

  It was so right that it scared him. “Yes.”

  She let her body slump in resignation. “I wonder if Captain Ahab had a mortgage.”

  “Not in California.” Lord smiled faintly. “But then he didn’t have Christopher, either.”

  Marcia did not smile back. “He’s downstairs,” she said, and stepped into the shower.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  Taking the last steps to the basement, Lord smiled. “Is that all, Christopher?”

  His son dropped the rubber ball to start a running leap which ended in Lord’s arms. He kissed his father on the cheek. “Boys don’t kiss other boys on the lips,” he explained. “Not when they’re six.”

  “I’m not six. Besides, I still kiss Grandpa.”

  “And Mom. Right?”

  “Right.”

  Face to face, they smiled at each other. But for a dash of freckles, Christopher was a six-year-old version of Lord—blond hair, blue eyes, confident smile, even the cleft in his chin. The resemblance was so marked that strangers laughed out loud; Christopher would laugh too, enjoying the effect they made. “I told the whole class we’re going to see baseball,” he said.

  “You did?”

  “Uh-huh.” Christopher wriggled to the floor. “Clifton got mad. He’s Chinese.”

  “Did he stay mad?”

  “A little. Afterwards, we were friends again. Sometimes we are, and sometimes we’re not. When I play with Mikie.”

  He headed for his toy shelf; a six-year-old’s swayback made the purposeful stride a slightly comic swagger. Turning with a baseball cap on his head, he asked, “Are you wearing that?”

  Lord mentally cursed Marcia. “I’m afraid we’ll have to go tomorrow.”

  His son’s shoulders drooped; it was when Christopher was sleepy or disappointed that Lord noticed how small he was. “You said tonight, Daddy.”

  “I know, mugwump. Something happened.”

  “What was it?”

  “It’s kind of complicated.” Lord sat, patting the floor beside him. “I’m trying to help a man who has troubles.”

  Christopher sat an inch or two from Lord. “What kind?”

  “Lots, really. He got divorced, and then he lost his job and the money he was making.”

  “And you’re giving him more money?”

  “I’m trying to help him get it back. You see, he has a little girl about your age, and since the divorce the girl’s mommy won’t let my friend see her.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s mad—her feelings were hurt. But I think my friend should get to be with his girl, and if he has money and a job, maybe the people who decide these things will let him.”

  Christopher was quiet. Lord felt his shoulder against him.

  “What do you think, Christopher?”

  “I think daddies should be with their kids.”

  Lord put one arm around his son, and then the telephone rang.

  He listened until he was sure that Marcia wouldn’t answer, and went to the phone near the stairs.

  It was Cass. “Danziger called,” she told him. “He wants to meet with you tomorrow to discuss settlement.”

  Lord glanced at Christopher. He had picked up the ball and begun bouncing it. “Did he mention a time?”

  “Noonish.”

  “Try to make it morning, all right? I’d like to keep the afternoon free.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Be firm with him,” he smiled. “Just leave a message with the sitter.”

  “Enjoy the party,” she said dryly, and hung up.

  Christopher was throwing the ball at an angle, trying to make it ricochet off the wall up into the Chinese lantern that Lord had hung for him. “What happens if you get it in?” Lord asked. “It’ll be stuck there.”

  Christopher’s eyes danced. “That’d be delightful.”

  “Delightful?” Lord grinned now. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “That’s what you said when the toilet stuck.” Turning, Christopher got ready to throw. “Let’s make a rule—you have to stay here till I get the ball in.”

  Lord leaned against the wall, smiling. “But by then I might be very old.”

  “Not too old.…”

  “Tony?” Marcia called. “The sitter’s here.”

  “Just one sec.” He scooped up Christopher and kissed him. “Got to run now.”

  “But we didn’t get to play.”

  “You’re going to need your rest. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  As they left, Lord watched him in the rearview, waving through the screen door. Their home was tucked into a hillside, with trees surrounding it and a deck overlooking the Noe Valley district; idly, Lord reflected that this was the only house his son had ever lived in. “You look nice,” he said to Marcia.

  “I try to. Actually, I’m looking forward to meeting James Kilcannon. He certainly comes across on television.”

  Lord adjusted the rearview. “With or without makeup?”

  “That’s mean, Tony. I really do like what he stands for.”

  When Lord did not answer, Marcia turned on the radio.

  10

  SPOTTING faces at the party, Stacy guessed the lives they led.

  She and Jamie stood in the living room, chatting with guests brought over by Alexis or Jamie’s aides. Around them, people drank and talked until their turn arrived. Nat Schlesinger hovered on Jamie’s left, murmuring the names of those with money to give, then easing them to Stacy before they used up too much time. Like the lead in a drawing-room comedy, Jamie made his role look effortless; no one but Stacy knew that he was working hard at something he disliked. But for her, watching people was a distraction from twenty thousand other people, waiting. Her stomach was empty.

  “This must be so different for you,” the overdone blonde in front of her condescended.

  Smiling, Stacy answered, “That’s what makes it interesting,” and then the aging coquette stared up at Jamie.

  “Oh, Senator,” she trilled, “I must think of something clever to say to you.”

  Jamie laughed, taking her hand. “Just be nice to me.”

  Amused despite her edginess, Stacy looked around the room.

  Teeth flashed; heads bobbed; mouths moved that made no sound; waiters served champagne and drinks
from silver trays. No one really stood out. For sport, Stacy guessed that the pinstripes and alert, attentive looks belonged to lawyers or investment bankers; the continental suits, affected languor, or young faces without character to real estate speculators, and those with an inheritance; the silk handkerchiefs and bright-eyed animation to restaurateurs and decorators and younger entrepreneurs; the blue or gray suits and added bulk to older self-employed businessmen or local politicians. One of these, a man whose red hair was cropped to bristles on a pink fleshy neck, talked to a blond man in a tan linen suit who studied him with keenness but without respect.

  This man, Stacy decided, didn’t look like the others.

  He was in his early thirties, she thought, and the slimness and clean angles of his face suggested exercise. His ridged nose and ice-blue eyes were those of a model in a cigarette ad, but their effect was more arresting. Part of it, she realized, was the stillness of someone in perfect control of his own thoughts.

  “It’s been so nice to meet you, Miss Tarrant.”

  Nat had steered the woman back. “Thank you,” Stacy replied.

  As the woman paused, Stacy sensed that her face was being checked for lines. “You’re in such an odd business, after all. Aren’t there a lot of drugs?”

  Stacy smiled cheerfully. “And sex.”

  The woman looked startled; Stacy felt Jamie’s elbow nudge her own. “But it’s normal sex,” she added. “Mostly.”

  “Oh—I see.”

  Stacy’s smile widened. “It’s been nice to meet you, too.”

  As the woman retreated, staring, Jamie murmured, “I really never wanted to be president.” He did not sound amused.

  Wondering if she should try to eat an hors d’oeuvre, Stacy glanced back at the room.

  The women, she reflected, pretty well matched the men. Some had the tailored clothes and confident air that went with having jobs. Others were so perfectly coiffed and dressed that they spent too much time at it to work. Stacy reflected that these last ruffled both the middle-class girl and feminist in her; she thought it bad taste and unliberated to dress like an ornament from Vogue. But the small brunette with the blond-haired man merely puzzled her.

  She had a thin, pretty face, slim figure, and a quick, high-strung smile. Like the blond man, she dressed simply and well, but they were quite different in manner. Listening to the red-haired politician—that was how Stacy had pegged him—she flashed all the nervous party animation her companion would not. She leaned slightly away from him. He did not look at her.

  What set him apart was his manner of watching.

  Flickering across the party and back to the politician, his gaze seemed meant not to ingratiate but to dissect. She wondered what he was doing here; if he had ever been anyone’s fan, it was probably so long ago that he couldn’t remember. Then it struck her that he might be some relative of Alexis’s.

  “What on earth did you say to Nancy Pickering?”

  Alexis had come to her side, whispering avidly. “I just put her on a little,” Stacy confided. “She was about to check my arm for puncture marks.”

  Alexis laughed. “Don’t I know that one. I think Colby half-believed I went to Hollywood to become Sam Goldwyn’s mistress.” Patting Stacy’s wrist, she moved into the crush again, high-spirited and alert. For an instant, Stacy saw Parnell’s eyes following her from a circle of older friends, as though she were some exotic bird who might take off into flight, or else be trampled by the crowd.

  “Stacy.” Jamie was breaking away from a florid, friendly man. “Have you met George Carroll?”

  He managed to make this sound as stimulating as a trip to Marrakesh. The thought made Stacy smile again. “Hello,” she said, and the party went on around her.

  Its rhythm seemed to quicken; Stacy sensed Jamie’s aides ensuring that everyone saw the candidate before he had to leave. Faces passed so rapidly that her smile felt like a reflex.

  A woman in a silk dress put a pen and album in her hand. “I promised my son I’d ask you to sign this.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Charles.”

  “For Charles,” she wrote, then asked, “How old is he?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Please vote,” she finished writing. “Love, Stacy.”

  Smiles all around; more faces and hands to grasp.

  “I never realized that Senator Kilcannon was so handsome.”

  Stacy put a finger to her lips. “Don’t let him hear you.”

  Laughter. Watching, Nat Schlesinger smiled. Stacy began to like the people she was hardly meeting better than she liked her role. Preconcert nerves, she thought; it was better to be alone. Checking her watch, she saw that it was 8:15, and decided not to eat.

  “But what about the balance of payments?” a man was asking Jamie.

  “It’s a ten-year problem.” Jamie’s smile flashed. “Unless Stacy sells more records to the Japanese. By the way, have you two met?”

  As the man went by, Stacy sneaked a quick glance at the Parnells.

  Head held high, Alexis searched for couples to meet Jamie. But Parnell, encountering the blond man, nodded and edged away. Stacy was trying to guess the meaning of that when the blond man’s gaze met hers. Though she was used to men acting afraid of her, this one did not turn away. Just the faintest amusement suggested that he saw through the veneer of charm and glamour to the heart of Jamie’s business.

  “We hope to see you again, Senator.”

  She could hear the smile in Jamie’s response. “You’re coming to the inaugural, aren’t you—that’s why I’m working so hard.” Then he added, “Stacy, this is Alexis’s good friend Carla Curran,” and she turned from the blond man to the pixie grin of a department store heir’s second wife.

  More faces. By now, Stacy should be pacing backstage; she’d been standing still for close to two hours. The next time she glanced around her, restless, the blond man had disappeared. The party was louder now; the cigarette haze had lowered, and guests drank and smoked in the loose-jointed rhythm that comes with the second cocktail. Spotting her, Alexis waved and then came over, murmuring, “It’s going very well, don’t you think?”

  “Beautifully,” Stacy answered. She’d begun to swallow as she did when feeling sick; for a moment she debated asking for a quiet place to sit. But Alexis was already gone.

  When Stacy turned, the blond man was talking with Jamie.

  Angular and unlined, his look of boyish alertness would have stamped him as an American if this were the middle of Paris. The brunette stood next to him—his wife, Stacy saw from their rings.

  “So you’re a friend of Colby’s,” Jamie was saying.

  “An acquaintance.” His answer was quiet so that only those closest could hear. “Our relationship’s a little more complex.”

  Jamie’s face grew wary. “Oh?” he said easily. “How so?”

  “I cross-examined him this morning in a lawsuit.”

  Nat Schlesinger edged nearer; as Jamie hesitated, Stacy saw the mental connection moving through his eyes. He covered in a joking voice. “So my campaign has brought you together.”

  “The judge is a supporter of yours.” The muted response suggested someone too polite to spoil a party. “I was impressed by the depth of his commitment.”

  Jamie glanced past him, but the other guests seemed not to have heard. “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what you suspect.”

  The brunette looked stricken. Jamie seemed to be gauging how serious the stranger was when she spun and left him there.

  “We’ll return your contribution,” Jamie said.

  “Please don’t.” The man smiled a little. “Nice to have met you, Senator.”

  He began turning.

  “But you’re not exactly an admirer, are you?”

  The man looked back at Jamie, as if considering whether to speak. “Not exactly,” he answered softly. “But what scares me is how smart you are.”

  As Jamie bit back an answer, the ma
n stopped in front of Stacy. “Sorry,” he murmured, and turned to leave.

  Stacy watched him.

  “Jesus,” Nat Schlesinger muttered.

  “Stacy,” Jamie asked. “Have you met Nancy Stewart?”

  11

  “DAMN you,” she said.

  Her angry profile faced the windshield. Quietly, Lord answered, “They’ll take care of McIlvaine.”

  “That was done.” Marcia’s voice grew level. “I must say that Senator Kilcannon handled it very well.”

  Lord watched their headlights cut the dusk. “Reagan’s not the only actor in politics. Just the only one with screen credits.”

  “You insulted him, Tony. And humiliated me.”

  “You weren’t humiliated by being there?”

  “It’s a lot more practical than hoping for ‘the big case.’” Marcia leaned closer to the dashboard. “What’s that sound?”

  “The gears are worn.”

  Marcia let that hang for a while. “But you had too much pride to help your practice.”

  “It’s just that I’m not a courtier.”

  “And you couldn’t stand to have anyone think that, either.” She turned. “I saw you look at Stacy Tarrant.”

  For the first time, Lord smiled. “Where did that come from?”

  “You were.” Marcia frowned. “I know you like that type.”

  “What type is that?”

  “The tall, model type. You buy her records, don’t you?”

  Lord smiled again. “That hardly rises to adultery, Marsh.”

  She fell silent. Crossing Market Street, they headed for Noe Valley on the main drag of the city’s gay nightlife. Lone men and men in twos or threes cruised the sidewalk of shops and cafés packed into a two-block area. Faint colored lights and bits of rock and folk music rose and fell with the traffic through the doors of the clubs; Lord was depressed by the feral, rootless rhythm of seeking.

  He touched Marcia’s hand. “This whole conversation is silly. We have a marriage, a home, and a child.”

  Softly, she asked, “Is there someone else?”

  “Of course not.”

  Waiting for the babysitter, he wondered why she’d asked that. When he returned, she was staring into the mirror, face stripped of makeup. He went to Christopher’s room.

  His son slept with the batting helmet next to his hand.