by Phil Edwards
“I see.”
“Jean-Gil studied in France. I keep him here and cycle him through some of our communities. He’s got a great touch. A real sense of food.”
“I see.” He looked at his notebook and Rothschild laughed.
“You use a notebook. How quaint. Do you need me to spell Jean-Gil’s name? If not, then shoot.”
He didn’t want to. He had two sets of questions written in. The real ones and “Handling Handle’s” gossip inquisition. He decided to start with his own.
“So, Mr. Rothschild—”
“Simeon.”
“Simeon,” he said. “Thanks again for your time. Are you sure you want to photograph on a separate day? You seem fine now.”
“Absolutely. I only do photographs in suits. Our residents expect a professional, not a casual supervisor. You can quote me on that. I’m merely dressed like this today due to a prior engagement.”
“What’s that?”
“I have kite-sailing later.”
“I see.” He wrote it down. His readers wouldn’t know what kite-sailing was. But whatever they imagined would probably be as glamorous.
“Simeon, I wanted to start with the environmentalists I saw at your banquet. Has that type of protest happened before?”
“I’m glad you asked.” He glanced down at his desk and pressed another button. “They are true radicals. Have you seen this?”
Jake looked right as a projector screen descended in front of a well-stocked bar. Rothschild shook his head.
“I had my secretary record this for me. It’s simply absurd.”
He pressed another button and a bearded man appeared on the screen. It was the man from the banquet. He was flanked by a woman wearing overalls. Images of trees moved in the background, and the woman shouted while the man shook his head in silence.
“Vote No on the Development Proposition! We cannot allow development on our wetlands.”
Jake wrote it down.
“Keep watching.”
“Our wetlands have been here for centuries,” the woman cried. “But man has not! We must respect the native environment. We never should have come here. And we never should have interfered with nature. You all have blood on your hands.”
The bearded man showed his hands, painted red. The woman seemed to do the talking.
“We hope you are all destroyed if the wetlands are.” Rothschild raised his eyebrows. “It’s only fair. Someone will do to you what you have done to our environment. Don’t let this Development Proposition hasten nature’s revenge.”
The bearded man clapped his red hands together. The screen flashed a screaming face and a fallen tree, and then showed “Paid for by the Saving Tomorrow Initiative” before turning black. Rothschild rested his hands on his perfectly clean desk.
“Do you know where they aired that advertisement, Mr. Russo?”
“No.”
“Everywhere. They showed it on all the morning shows locally. On the talk shows. On some of the soaps. Every channel that most local residents watch.”
“It’s very…dogmatic.”
Rothschild laughed.
“That’s one word for it. I have a few more.”
“What?”
“Insane,” he said sharply. “Outrageous. Threatening. Cruel. They are willing to do anything for their cause. And you saw it. I’d say that the entire thing is, frankly, anti-human. It doesn’t even give people an opportunity to weigh the issues involved.”
Jake wrote and underlined the group’s name: Saving Tomorrow Initiative. He’d check on them later. He looked at the next line in his notebook—all “Handling Handle” questions. Rothschild’s face was red with anger—it wasn’t the right time. It would never be the right time.
“Has this been going on long?”
“They’ve ramped up for the Development Proposition. The vote is coming soon, and they know they have to resort to this kind of fear mongering. Forgive me, but I believe that people don’t have to apologize for building homes. And you can quote me.”
He was quoting him when someone knocked at the door. A man wheeled in a cart with their food on it. He set a steak and salad in front of Jake, the white plate tinged pink with juice. He could smell the smoke and steam mingling. He imagined how it would feel, the knife slicing through with just a touch. Like the old days. He blinked and looked at Rothschild.
“How did it get here so quickly? That took less than ten minutes.”
“Simple.” Rothschild started cutting. “I ordered before you got here.”
“But how did you know what I’d order?”
“What you ordered didn’t stop me.” He stabbed a large chunk of beef. “Did it?”
Jake picked up a fork and looked at the salad. He pushed the steak aside, only touching the plate with his pinky finger.
“Mr. Rothschild, I’m sorry, but—”
“Simeon. Please.”
“Simeon, I have to ask you another question.”
Rothschild stopped chewing.
“Is it about the recent tax code changes? I think you’ll find that we have an interesting position. Some of my critics—Jerry Rubenstein—might tell you differently, but it’s really a more nuanced issue than that.”
“No, I wish it were something like that.”
“Well, spit it out.”
He had to ask the question. After all, this is what he’d come to do. Whether Rothschild liked it or not.
CHAPTER 25:
“If you could be on a desert island with any celebrity, who would it be?”
The half eaten piece of meat dangled from Rothschild’s mouth.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Jake looked up from the notebook. “Handling Handle,” question number one. Rothschild didn’t chew. He just swallowed.
“If I could be on a desert island with a celebrity? Do you mean a celebrity developer? Like the Toll Brothers or something? Or Donald Trump?”
“No. I mean a celebrity. Like a movie star. Or a singer.”
Rothschild started chewing another piece, and he didn’t talk until he was finished.
“Are these actually your questions? I would never develop on a desert island.”
“No, I know you wouldn’t develop there. It’s like a game, where you pick a celebrity you’d like to be stranded with.”
“Right. You chose this question for our time together?”
“No.” He sighed. “I just have to ask these. But I want to do more. The rogue environmentalist angle, it has a lot going for it.”
Rothschild mumbled.
“Katharine Hepburn.”
“What’s that?”
“Katharine Hepburn,” he said again. “She’s my choice.”
“Why is she your choice?”
“Because of her humor. Also—don’t print this—my managers have told me she consistently wins polls at community movie nights.”
“Have you seen her movies?”
“I don’t have time for things like that. Just like I don’t have time to develop on desert islands.”
Jake looked at the next question. The steak bled on his plate. He didn’t know if he’d feel worse about eating the steak or asking Gillian Handle’s next question.
“OK. What’s your middle name and the street you grew up on?”
“What?”
“Your middle name and the street you grew up on.”
“What is this for?”
Jake rubbed his temples. He should have eaten the steak.
“It’s a question to figure out…your porn star name.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” he said and paused. “I guess I’m Harold Longwood.”
They were both silent. Rothschild ate more steak. Jake’s leaked. Harold Longwood.
“Have the environmentalists ever threatened you?”
“I can’t talk about it extensively.” He didn’t miss a beat. “The police won’t let me. But let’s suffice it to s
ay that they are dangerous people.”
“How dangerous?”
Rothschild dropped his knife on the plate.
“Very dangerous.”
“I see. Did you press charges against the group for what happened at the banquet?”
“I can’t say.”
“I understand. On a related note,” Jake started, “I have another question.”
It was next on the list. He just had to get through a few more.
“Let’s hear it.” Rothschild wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin, raised his chin, and stared at Jake without blinking. His eyes were black as stones. Jake sighed.
“Simeon, are you a player?”
“What?”
“A player. You know, someone promiscuous.”
“I know you aren’t this type of reporter. I know you do real work. You are playing games with me.”
“I have to.”
They got through the rest of the questions. The favorite foods and colors, vacation homes, and first loves. Rothschild complied. When it was over, Jake merely nodded and left. His plate of steak was still sitting on the desk, uneaten in a pool of blood.
He made the long drive home. Pulled up a chair and sat at the desk. He wrote up his notes and went through the old ones. He wished he’d paid more attention to Charlotte. What should he have asked her? How could he have helped? He thought of her voice shaking while she talked. Confused. Frightened. She had reason to be both. Then he noticed a name in his old notes.
The Saving Tomorrow Initiative. The environmentalists were part of that group. The bearded man with blood on his hands. The shouting woman. They were all involved. And, somehow, they tied back to Charlotte and Sheryl Goldfein. He looked back through everything he’d transcribed.
Charlotte started investigating the group after Sheryl kicked her out of bridge. For Charlotte, it was just revenge on a personal grudge. But all their charitable money went to the Saving Tomorrow Initiative. Sheryl knew that Charlotte Ward was conducting her own investigation. And from the sound of it, Abram Samuels knew about it too.
He tried not to think about the connection during the car ride to Sunset Cove that night. He let his brain line up with the hum of the car. Blank out. But he couldn’t stop wondering. As he looked along the side of the highway, he thought about the bearded man clapping his hands. Red. All red. What had Charlotte found about the Saving Tomorrow Initiative? And who wanted to stop her from getting further? The man had red hands. Like the brim of Abram’s hat.
At Sunset Cove, he parked in the back of the large lot. As he shut the car door, he heard it echo in the empty night. 8:00 PM. He was early for his meeting. He’d thought about bringing something with him—a witness or a camera. He locked the door. He’d come with his notebook and nothing else. If Abram Samuels was going to do anything, or say anything, he’d have to do it with Jake’s knowledge.
The palm trees barely moved. Their trunks seemed too firm to sway, and the leaves sank in the dark. Lights flickered on and off in the residences of Sunset Cove. TV screens clapped on and clapped off. Jake heard his footsteps pad on the path. It was empty when he reached the beach.
The concession building where they found her was just a slab of shadow. A man was standing at the edge of the beach, hunched over. He looked like he was wearing a long coat. And, as usual, he was wearing a hat. Jake let his shoes sink into the sand. The white sea-foam blurred on the dark waves. He approached the hulking body on the beach. It didn’t turn.
Jake walked closer and started to slow down. His steps were silent in the damp sand. The form ahead of him seemed surprisingly large. It was a big trench coat, as still as a scarecrow stuffed with straw. But he could eventually see it breathing, then turning left and right. The collar was starched up. It covered everything. All Jake could see was the black water in the distance and the person ahead of him. He hadn’t realized Abram was so tall.
He stopped and looked at his hands, shaking. He cursed himself. Be aggressive. What could Abram Samuels do? He might be smart. And angry. But there was nothing Abram could do to him. If Abram had something to hide, he’d already gone too far. Now he’d have to show his cards or hold back again. Jake guessed it was too late to hide again.
He got closer and started to get confused. The body was still too big. And then he saw the hat. It was a dark brown hat, with a thick band of leather circling around the base. No red brim. He decided to stop sneaking up. And his breathing seemed to be getting heavier.
“Hey,” Jake said. “I’m here.”
He saw the left shoulder twitch. Then the right curved around in a blur, big and loose. He saw the elbow of the trench coat, right before it hit him in the jaw. Then it hit. Everything became brighter. Then the other side was smacked by something solid. Jake heard a crack and started to stumble. He had to catch himself with his hands as sand and gravel dug beneath his fingernails. He felt like he was breathing it.
Next a black stamp. Kicked in the face, faster than he could see. He felt the sand flow in his ear. He was an hourglass, passing time too quickly. He could barely speak when he was kicked again.
“Abram, stop.” He wheezed. “It’s me, Jake.”
His head was flat on the beach. It sounded like he was pressing his ear against a seashell. Or was inside of one. Then he saw the trench coat rise and flap in the wind as the man sprinted in the other direction. Jake’s head lay sideways on the ground and he watched the man run away, each crash of the waves making his body tremble. Then he looked out at the water, his eyeballs rolling back into his head. He stared at the white scrapes on the waves. The water and his eyelids were the same color.
Black.
CHAPTER 26:
“Can you hear me? Hello? Are you awake?”
The voice echoed in his ears. Everything was still black. Then he tasted salt at the corners of his lips, seeping in. Each second he felt a little more of the world, that painless place outside his head. There was cold on his face and salty liquid seeping in his eyes. Was it blood? He hoped it wasn’t—there was too much of it. He felt his jaw and opened it. Slowly. Then he let his head roll to the right and looked down at the beach. Abram Samuels was cupping his hands and running back to Jake. He got a foot away and Jake realized he could talk.
“Abram,” he whispered, “I’m awake.”
Too late. Abram splashed more water on his face.
“Can you hear me?”
“I’m awake,” he whispered again.
“You’re awake?”
He tried to sit up but it didn’t go well. He’d try again later.
He could see Abram looking down at him. His frame was smaller than the man in the trench coat, and he was only wearing a light jacket. And there was the hat—the red brim looked dark at night, but it was definitely there.
“It wasn’t you,” Jake whispered. “It wasn’t…”
“I got here at 8:15.” He sounded scared. “When we set our appointment. And I looked out onto the beach. At first I thought the man in the trench coat was you, but then I saw that it was one person fighting with another.”
“Fighting’s one word for it,” Jake coughed out. He blinked and opened his eyes again. A little more focus. But it still sounded like he was inside a seashell.
“He was beating you up. As soon as he saw me, he ran away. He was covering his face up with his trench coat. I couldn’t see anything.”
“I can’t…”
“What?”
Jake started to feel it coming back. He closed his eyes and realized he’d seen the man in the trench coat before. The night that Charlotte died. The man had been watching the concession building from a distance. The only problem was that both times, Jake didn’t know who the man was.
“Can you hear me?”
Abram looked worried—Jake didn’t see that one coming. He sat up and wiped the sand off his hands. No blood. He felt his face. No blood, but all bruises.
“What happened?” He felt back for his notebook. It was there and he stra
ined to pull it out. Somehow he’d hurt his back too. It ached to stretch. He opened the pad and wrote what Abram said.
“I got here at 8:15. And I saw that man beating you up. I ran a little closer and then I yelled out.”
“You yelled?”
“Yes,” he said. “I forgot to mention that before. I yelled out ‘Stop’ and I saw his head turn back toward me.”
“Could you see the face?”
“No. Did you?”
“I barely saw the fists.”
“After he heard me yell, he looked down at you and kicked you again.”
Jake felt his jaw—he believed it.
“Then, after he kicked you, he ran off. I saw he was wearing a hat and a trench coat. But that was all I could see.”
Jake looked at his handwriting in the notebook. Nothing better than scribbles. He’d try to decipher it later. Reading anything seemed about as hard as writing. He was scared to touch his face again. He knew that would make it worse. It was like the water in hurricane season. Everything swelled. He finally formed a thought.
“That hurt.”
Abram almost laughed.
“I would guess that. Did he say anything? The man who assaulted you?”
“No.” That seashell sound got old fast. He hit his ear. Sand came off his hair in clumps as thick as cookie dough. “I just said hello, and then he turned around and hit me.”
“I see.”
“What?”
“Well, it leads to interesting conclusions.” He lowered himself onto the sand. Jake breathed in deep for the first time, starting to recover.
“What conclusions does it lead to?”
“Did the man know who you were?”
“I don’t know. He must have, I guess.”
“Why?”
“Because he hit me.”
“Did he see you though?”
“I guess not. But he must have seen me while I was walking up the beach, right?”
Abram paused.
“Well, do you have a cellular phone?”
“Why?”
“We need to call the police.”
