The Osterman weekend

by Ludlum, Robert

  "It's over with. Here's your drink." Tremayne Hfted the glass to his lips. He could drink any of them under any table.

  "You can't leave it like that. Why did you call me in the first place?"

  Tanner, stupidly, wasn't prepared for the question.

  "I ... I didn't like the way the police handled it."

  "The police? Fat-cap MacAuliff?"

  "I never talked to Captain MacAuliff."

  "Didn't you give a statement?"

  "Yes . . . yes, I did. To Jenkins and McDermott."

  "Where the hell was old law'n'order himself?"

  "I don't know. He wasn't there."

  "Okay, Mac wasn't there. You say Jenkins and McDermott handled it. Ali told me they were the ones who found you ..."

  "Yes. Yes, that's what I was pissed-off about."

  "What?"

  "I just didn't like the way they handled it. At least I didn't at the time. I've cooled it now. I was hot then, that's why I tried to reach you."

  "What were you figuring? Police negligence? Abridged rights? What?"

  "I don't know, Dick! I just panicked, that's all. When you panic you want a lawyer."

  "I don't. I want a drink." Tremayne held Tanner's eyes. Tanner blinked—as a small boy defeated in a game of stare.

  "It's over with. Let's go back inside."

  "Maybe we ought to talk later. Maybe you have some kind of case and I don't see it."

  Tanner shrugged, knowing that Dick didn't really want to talk later at all. The lawyer was frightened, and his fear arrested his professional instinct to probe. As he walked away. Tanner had the feeling that Tremayne was telling the truth about one aspect of Wednesday afternoon. He hadn't been there himself.

  But did he know who had been?

  By six, the Cardones still hadn't arrived. No one asked why; the hour passed quickly and if anyone was concerned he hid it well. At ten minutes past. Tanner's eyes were drawn to a car driving slowly past his house. It was the Saddle Valley taxi, the sun causing intermittent, sharp flashes off the black enamel. In the rear window of the automobile he saw Joe Cardone's face for a moment. Joe was making sure all the guests had arrived. Or were still there, perhaps.

  Forty-five minutes later the Cardones' Cadillac pulled into the driveway. When they entered the house it was obvious that Joe had had several drinks. Obvious because Joe was not a drinker, he didn't really approve of alcohol, and his voice was just a degree louder than it might have been.

  "Bernie! Leila! Welcome to the heart of the east-em establishment!"

  Betty Cardone, prim, stoutish, Anglican Betty, properly added to her husband's enthusiasm and the four of them exchanged embraces.

  "Betty, you look adorable," said Leila. "Joe, my God, Joe! How can a man look so healthy? ... Bernie built a gym and look what I got!"

  "Don't you knock my Bernie!" said Joe, his arm around Osterman's shoulder.

  "You tell her, Joe." Bernie moved towards Cardone's wife and asked about the children.

  Tanner started towards the kitchen, meeting Ali in the hallway. She carried a plate of hors d'oeuvres.

  "Everything's ready. We can eat whenever we want, so I'll sit down for a while. . . . Get me a drink, will you, dear?"

  "Sure. Joe and Betty are here."

  Ali laughed. "I gathered that. . . . What's the matter, darling? You look funny."

  "No, nothing. I was just thinking I'd better call the studio."

  Ali looked at her husband. "Please, Everybody's here now. Our best friends. Let's have fun. Forget about Wednesday, please, Johnny."

  Tanner leaned over the tray of hors d'oeuvres and kissed her. "You're dramatizing," he said, remembering Fassett's admonition. "I really do have to call the studio."

  In the kitchen. Tanner walked again to the window. It was a little after seven o'clock and the sun had gone down behind the tall trees in the woods. Shadows lay across the backyard lawn and the pool. And beyond the shadows were Fassett's men.

  That was the important thing.

  As Ali had said, they were all there now. The best of friends.

  The buffet of curry, with a dozen side dishes, was Ali's usual triumph. The wives asked the usual questions and Ali slightly embossed the culinary answers—as usual. The men fell into the normal arguments about the relative merits of the various baseball teams and, in between, Bernie revealed further the humorous—and extraordinary—working methods of Hollywood television.

  While the women cleared out the dining room, Tremayne took the opportunity to press Tanner on the robbery. "What the hell was it last Wednesday? Level with us. I don't buy the burglary story."

  "Why not?" asked Tanner.

  "It doesn't make sense."

  "Nobody uses gas on anybody," added Cardone. "Blackjacks, blindfolds, a shot in the head, maybe. Not gas."

  "Advanced thinking, perhaps. I'd rather it was a harmless gas than a blackjack."

  "Johnny." Osterman lowered his voice and looked toward the dining room. Betty came out the kitchen door and began removing several dishes and smiled. He smiled back. "Are you working on something that might make you enemies?"

  "I imagine I always am in one way or another."

  "I mean something like the San Diego thing."

  Joe Cardone watched Osterman carefully, wondering if he might elaborate. San Diego had been a Mafia operation.

  "Not that I know of. I've got men digging in a lot of areas, but nothing like that. At least I don't think so. Most of my best people have a free rein. . . . Are you trying to tie in Wednesday with something at work?"

  "It hadn't struck you?" asked Tremayne.

  "Hell, no! I'm a professional newsman. Do you get worried if you're working on a sticky case?"

  "Sometimes."

  "I read about that show of yours last Sunday," Cardone sat down on the couch next to Tremayne. "Ralph Ashton has friends in high places."

  "That's crazy."

  "Not necessarily." Cardone had trouble with "necessarily."

  "I've met him. He's a vindictive man."

  "He's not crazy," interjected Osterman. "No, it wouldn't be anything like that."

  "Why should it be anything, period? Anything but a robbery?" Tanner lit a cigarette and tried to watch the faces of the three men.

  "Because, Goddamn it, it's not a natural way to get robbed," exclaimed Cardone.

  "Oh?" Tremayne looked at Cardone, sitting next to him on the sofa. "Are you an expert on robbery?"

  "No more than you are, counselor," said Joe.

  There was something artificial about the start of the weekend; Ali felt it. Perhaps it was that the voices were louder than usual, the laughter more pronounced.

  Usually, when Bernie and Leila arrived, they all began calmly, catching up with each family's affairs. Conversations about this or that child, this or that career decision—these always occupied the first few hours. Her husband called it the Osterman syndrome. Bernie and Leila brought out the best in all of them. Made them talk, really talk with one another.

  Yet no one had volunteered a single important personal experience. No one had brought up a single vital part of their recent lives—except, of course, the horrible thing on Wednesday afternoon.

  On the other hand, Ali realized, she was still concerned about her husband—concerned about his staying home from the office, his short temper, his erratic behavior since Wednesday afternoon. Maybe she was imagining things about everybody else.

  The other women had rejoined their husbands; Alice had put away the left-overs. The children were in bed now. And she wouldn't listen to any more talk from Betty or Ginny about maids. She could afford a maid! They could afford a maid! But she wouldn't have one!

  Her father had had maids. "Disciples" he called them. "Disciples" who cleaned and swept and brought-in and ...

  Her mother had called them "maids." Ali stopped thinking and wondered if she'd had a drink she couldn't handle. She turned on the faucet and dabbed her face with cold water. Joe Cardone walked through the kit
chen door.

  "The boss-man told me if I wanted a drink, I pour it myself. Don't tell me where, I've been here before."

  "Go right ahead, Joe. Do you see everything you need?"

  "Sure do. Lovely gin; beautiful tonic. . . . Hey, what's the matter? You been crying?"

  "Why should I be? I just splashed water on my face."

  "Your cheeks are all wet." "Water on the face does that." Joe put down the bottle of tonic and approached her. "Are you and Johnny in any trouble? . . . This Wednesday afternoon . . . okay, it was a crazy type of robbery, Johnny told me . . . but if it was anything else, you'd let m.e know, wouldn't you? I mean, if he's playing around with sharks you wouldn't keep it a secret from me, would you?"

  "Sharks?"

  "Loan-sharks. I've got clients at Standard Mutual. Even a little stock. I know the company. . . . You and Johnny live very well, but sixty thousand dollars after taxes isn't that much any more."

  Alice Tanner caught her breath. "John does very well!"

  "That's relative. In my opinion, John's in that big middle mess. He can't take over and he won't let go of his little kingdom to try for anything better. That's his business, and yours. But I want you to tell him for me. . . . I'm his friend. His good friend. And I'm clean. Absolutely clean. If he needs anything, you tell him to call me, all right?"

  "Joe, I'm touched. I really am. But I don't think it's necessary. I don't, really."

  "But you'll tell him?"

  "Tell him yourself. John and I have an unspoken pact. We don't discuss his salary any more. Frankly because I agree with you."

  "Then you've got problems."

  "You're not being fair. Problems to you may not be problems for us."

  "I hope you're right. Tell him that, too." Cardone walked rapidly back to the bar and picked up his glass. Before Ali could speak he walked through the door back into the living room.

  Joe was telling her something and she didn't understand.

  "Nobody appointed you or any other member of any news media to set yourselves up as infallible guardians of the truth! I'm sick and tired of it! I live with it every day." Tremayne stood in front of the fireplace, his anger obvious to everyone.

  "Not infallible, of course not," answered Tanner. "But no one gave the courts the right to stop us from looking for information as objectively as we can."

  "When that information is prejudicial to a client or his opponent you have no right to make it public. If it's factual, it'll be heard in court. Wait'll the verdict's rendered."

  "That's impossible and you know it."

  Tremayne paused, smiled thinly, and sighed. "I know I do. Realistically, there's no solution."

  "Are you sure you want to find one?" asked Tanner.

  "Of course."

  "Why? The advantage is yours. You win the verdict, fine. If you lose, you claim the court was corrupted by a biased press. You appeal."

  "It's the rare case that's won on appeal," said Bernard Osterman sitting on the floor in front of the sofa. "Even I know that. They get the publicity, but they're rare."

  "Appeals cost money," added Tremayne with a shrug. "Most of the time for nothing. Especially corporate appeals."

  "Then force the press to restrain itself when there's a lot of heat. It's simple." Joe finished his drink and looked pointedly at Tanner.

  "It's not simple," said Leila, sitting in an armchair opposite the sofa. "It becomes judgment.

  Who defines restraint? That's what Dick means. There's no clear-cut definition."

  "At the risk of offending my husband, God forbid," Virginia laughed as she spoke, "I think an informed public is just as important as an unbiased courtroom. Perhaps they're even connected. I'm on your side, John."

  "Judgment, again," said her husband. "It's opinion. What's factual information and what's interpreted information?"

  "One's truth," said Betty off-handedly. She was watching her husband. He was drinking too much.

  "Whose truth? Which truth? . . . Let's create a hypothetical situation. Between John and myself. Say I've been working for six months on a complicated merger. As an ethical attorney I'm dealing with men whose cause I believe in; by putting together a number of companies thousands of jobs are saved, firms which are going bankrupt suddenly have new lives. Then along come several people who are getting hurt—because of their own ineptness—and start shouting for injunctions. Suppose they reach John and start yelling 'foul!' Because they seem—seem, mind you—like underdogs, John gives their cause one minute, just one minute of network time across the country. Instantly my case is prejudiced. And don't let anyone tell you the courts aren't subject to media pressure. One minute as opposed to six months."

  "Do you think I'd allow that? Do you think any of us would?"

  "You need copy. You always need copy! There are times when you don't understand!" Tremayne's voice grew louder.

  Virginia stood up. "Our John wouldn't do that, darling. ... I'm for another cup of coffee."

  "I'll get it," said Alice, rising from the sofa. She'd been watching Tremayne, startled by his sudden vehemence.

  "Don't be silly," answered Ginny going into the hallway.

  "I'd like a drink." Cardone held out his glass, expecting someone to take it.

  "Sure, Joe." Tanner took his glass. "Gin and tonic?"

  "That's what I've been drinking."

  "Too much of," added his wife.

  Tanner walked into the kitchen and began making Cardone's drink. Ginny was at the stove.

  "I'm heating the Chemex; the candle burned out."

  "Thanks."

  "I always have the same problem. The damn candles go out and the coffee's cold."

  Tanner chuckled and poured the tonic. Then he realized that Ginny was making a comment, a rather unattractive comment. "I told Ali to get an electric pot, but she refuses."

  "John?"

  "Yes?"

  "It's a beautiful night. Why don't we all take a swim?"

  "Sure. Good idea. I'll backwash the filter. Let me get this to Joe." Tanner returned to the living room in time to hear the opening bars of "Tangerine." Ali had put on an album called "Hits of Yesterday."

  There were the proper responses, the laughs of recognition.

  "Here you are, Joe. Anyone else for anything?"

  There was a chorus of no-thanks. Betty had gotten up and was facing Dick Tremayne by the mantle. Tanner thought they looked as though they'd been arguing. Ali was at the stereo showing Bernie the back of the album cover; Leila Osterman sat opposite Cardone, watching him drink his gin and tonic, seemingly annoyed that he drank so quickly.

  "Ginny and I are going to backwash the pool. We'll take a swim, okay? You've all got suits here; if not, there're a dozen extras in the garage."

  Dick looked at Tanner. It was a curious look, thought the news editor. "Don't teach Ginny too much about that damned filter. I'm holding firm. No pool."

  "Why not?" asked Cardone.

  "Too many kids around."

  "Build a fence," said Joe with a degree of disdain.

  Tanner started out toward the kitchen and the back door. He heard a sudden burst of laughter behind him, but it wasn't the laughter of people enjoying themsleves. It was forced, somehow unkind.

  Was Fassett right? Was Omega showing the signs? Were the hostilities slowly coming to the surface?

  Outside he walked to the edge of the pool, to the filter box. "Ginny?"

  "I'm over here, by Ali's tomato plants. This stake fell down and I can't retie the vine."

  "Okay." He turned and walked over to her. "Which one? I can't see it."

  "Here," said Ginny, pointing.

  Tanner knelt down and saw the stake. It hadn't fallen over, it had been snapped. "One of the kids must have run through here." He pulled up the thin broken dowel and placed the tomato vine carefully on the ground. "I'll fix it tomorrow."

  He got up. Ginny stood very close to him and put her hand on his arm. He realized they couldn't be seen from the house.

&n
bsp; "I broke it," Ginny said.

  "Why?"

  "I wanted to talk to you. Alone."

  She had undone several buttons of her blouse below the neckline. He could see the swell of her breasts. Tanner wondered if Ginny was drunk. But Ginny never got drunk, or if she did, no one ever knew it.

  "What do you want to talk about?"

  "Dick, for one thing. I apologize for him. He can become gross ... rude, when he's upset."

  "Was he rude? Upset? I didn't notice."

  "Of course you did. I was watching you."

  "You were wrong."

  "I don't think so."

  "Let's get the pool done."

  "Wait a minute." Ginny laughed softly. "I don't frighten you, do I?"

  "My friends don't frighten me," Tanner said, smiling.

  "We know a great deal about each other."

  Tanner watched Ginny's face closely, her eyes, the slight pinching of her lips. He wondered if this was the moment the unbelievable was about to be revealed to him. If it was, he'd help her say it. "I suppose we always think we know our friends. I sometimes wonder if we ever do."

  "I'm very attracted . . . physically attracted to you. Did you know that?"

  "No, I didn't," said Tanner, surprised.

  "It shouldn't bother you. I wouldn't hurt Ali for the world. I don't think physical attraction necessarily means a commitment, do you?"

  "Everyone has fantasies."

  "You're sidestepping."

  "I certainly am."

  "I told you, I wouldn't harm your commitments."

  "I'm human. They'd be harmed."

  "I'm human, too. May I kiss you? At least I deserve a kiss."

  Ginny put her arm.s around the startled Tanner's neck and pressed her lips against his, opening her mouth. Tanner knew she was doing her best to arouse him. He couldn't understand it. If she meant what she was doing, there was nowhere to complete the act.

  Then he did understand. She was promising.

  She meant that.

  "Oh, Johnny! Oh, God, Johnny!"

  "All right, Ginny. All right. Don't. . . ." Perhaps she really was drunk, thought Tanner. She'd feel like a fool tomorrow. "We'll talk later."

  Ginny pulled slightly back. Her lips to the side of his. "Of course, we'll talk later. . . . Johnny? . . . Who is Blackstone?"