by Mark Lisac
“I have a son in the oil industry, as you no doubt know. He holds a senior executive position and he has a family of his own. They do not deserve notoriety. My daughter has a prominent husband and is engaged in charitable works. She does not deserve to be embarrassed.”
Asher briefly wondered if the old man could have been involved in Apson’s death. He said he agreed that children do not have to inherit their fathers’ burdens. Manchester decided to go on to the end.
“I slipped and enjoyed myself with carnal pleasures. The temptation was too great. So was the pride in knowing that I myself was tempting to a young woman. I have paid for straying with bitter regret. I still pay with bitter regret when a feeling comes over me that I enjoyed the episode even though it was wrong. I have paid as well in the coin of disavowing a child and not knowing him.
“Yes, he was my son. If you can call someone a son who was never publicly acknowledged. It’s hard to sit in my home when funeral arrangements are being made by others and carried out far from here. It was hard to watch a television newscaster say he had died. I felt grief, but I did not cry. I will not cry for your benefit, either.
“I saw him for mere minutes of his entire life. Nor was his death a surprise. It was merely a shock. But superbly talented sons of leaders are dangerous to pretenders and jackals. It was that way when Richard the Third had the young princes smothered in the tower. It was that way when Sextus Pompey was murdered and his wife disappeared into Asia Minor.
“Oh yes, I have no doubt that someone else has grasped this bit of gossip. Gossip oozes like oil. It can only be contained — perhaps, with some luck, burned.
“I had him placed in a good home as an infant. Don’t ask me with whom. I will not tell you. I will not confirm or deny any guess you may hazard. I did not keep in touch with the foster parents. Nor did I follow his upbringing in any way. I was interested, but communication would have been too dangerous.
“He approached me several months ago, after he became a political figure. He was not certain of his origins himself. I chose not to confirm or deny his theories. I told him he was free to speculate, but that if he had any talent and character he would make his own name in the world. He did not need mine.
“He was initially angry. He had thought he could picture himself as the legitimate heir — illegitimate heir, if you prefer — of a dynasty. The young Pompey arrived to scatter the pretenders and schemers. In the end, I persuaded him to accept my private encouragement. He led a different party but I saw more vision and down-to-earth qualities in him than I do in your Mr. Karamanlis.
“Now he is gone. So are my hopes for redemption. Not my redemption but that of the people, led as they are by mere politicians.”
Asher let that go, although he was tempted to make a crack about Manchester having survived decades in power as a masterly politician. He was surprised that he had persuaded the old man to talk without applying the kind of pressure that could have amounted to a threat, but he needed more.
“There’s a conspicuous absence here,” he said. “What about his mother? She seems to have disappeared.”
“His mother. I will not talk about her. You have what you came for. You have no right.”
“She’s a loose end in all this. For all I know, she’s the loose end that Apson started tugging on. If he found it, who knows whether anyone else will?”
“People are lost to history. Like Sextus Pompey’s wife. Some stories say a woman like her lived in the court of a local prince in lands east of the Mediterranean. Others say she sailed off with protectors in the direction of Greece and was never heard of again.”
Asher read that as deliberate distraction. He didn’t take the bait.
“There was a woman who worked for Tom Farber,” he said. “You knew her too. She had dark, wavy hair that came down to her shoulders. She probably stood about five-six. She had an open expression and a bow-shaped mouth. She sometimes wore a dark suit and on the jacket she would wear a brooch that may have looked like some animal, something with long legs. She grew up on a farm. People would often describe her as vivacious. She was Farber’s correspondence secretary for awhile but she didn’t stay long. And then she went away and no one seems to know why or what happened to her.”
This time he got the reaction he had thought he might get when he told Manchester that his son was dead.
“You are to stop that malicious fishing now. You know nothing, nothing! Morley, this young man has neither sense nor decency. It was not her fault. I pursued her. I was able to tempt her because she found me attractive. You are not to indulge in guesswork about her identity or suggest names. A lawyer. Hah! More like a petty slanderer. Worse than a gossipmonger.” He shouted for the nurse. “Isabel! Isabel!”
She came quickly. “Show Mr. Jackson to the door,” Manchester said, “and see that he takes his, his mongrel terrier with him. All dogs need a walk at this time of day.”
The dry snow squeaked under Asher’s and Jackson’s boots as they walked back to the car. They squinted in the overwhelming glare of the sun searing down from the sky and reflecting back up from the encompassing whiteness.
Jackson said, “I know you’re not welcome back. I’m not sure whether I would be accepted either, but then I don’t have much reason to talk to George anymore. Now that he’s not quite the person I remember.”
“What did you make of that? He has no reason to tell that to anyone, least of all me. It came out more easily than I would have guessed, even if he thought I had the facts mostly nailed down.”
“It’s always been hard to tell with George. My guess is he knows he’s nearing the end and he was almost relieved to tell someone. He’s a Baptist or some variety of evangelical, not a Catholic. No confessions needed in his faith. It almost sounded more like boasting than confession. He used to talk sometimes about sowing wild oats when he was younger. Now he’s an old man sliding into dementia. But he is lucid enough that you can take his statement as corroboration for what you’ve already discovered. Do you think this will satisfy Karamanlis?”
“It should. He suspected there was something bad behind Apson’s murder. This is bad enough. Devereaux’s dying should wrap it up. Very neatly. What would Clausewitz have to say about this, Morley?”
“He wrote that when something is very important but presents a confusing image like dazzling colours on a bright surface, it is essential to seek out the situation’s inner logic.”
“I guess sin and secrets are logical.”
17
ASHER OPENED THE DOOR TO POULOS’ BACK ROOM AND SAW Karamanlis sitting there alone.
“Where’s your faithful advisor, Jimmy?”
“Gerald has other things to do tonight. He’s faithful, but he’s only an advisor. He doesn’t have to know everything that I know or say.”
“That one of the rules of leadership? Make sure no one else has quite as much information as you?”
“It’s one of the rules. I’ll tell you another in case you ever change your mind and decide to run for election: always have the capacity to be different things to different people, or to show another side of yourself to people who think they know you. It isn’t a matter of being two-faced. It’s the need to have inner resources to draw on. You have to be capable of doing different things, of showing a different character, when situations demand it. You’d be a natural — hockey player and lawyer, honest officer of the court and tough guy willing to go into a corner and stick in an elbow if the ref isn’t looking, even get into a fight if you think it’s a good idea.”
“That’s two sides. How many do you need, Jimmy?”
“As many as required. More than I had when we were younger.”
&
nbsp; “Back when I was going to make a career of playing a game or at least try to parlay the game into a Rhodes scholarship. You were going to make a living by roasting lamb and potatoes. Life takes you funny places.”
“It does. And you find you can’t turn back. How do things stand? Are you finished with the Apson case?”
“I don’t like Devereaux dying just as I was getting to the bottom of it.”
“Neither do I. Some people last and some don’t. It can’t be changed.”
“No. That aside, here’s the story. Apson spent several months digging up some kind of dirt. He was a nosy accountant who ended up collecting other people’s secrets the way some people collect old gas station signs. He somehow found out that Orion Devereaux was the Parson’s son.”
Karamanlis tipped his head slightly forward and stared hard at Asher but kept silent, waiting to hear the rest.
“I don’t know all the details. There was a lot of small-town intrigue involved. Turlock found out and went off the deep end. I had the general line right the last time we talked. I talked to Manchester after that. It’s hard getting a straight story out of him. You can’t tell when he’s being cagey and when he’s just a crazy old bastard. But he said enough to back up what I’d already learned.”
“What did he say exactly?”
“Nothing exact. He didn’t want to jeopardize his son and daughter. But when he was in his twenties, he apparently had a hard-on for some farm girl who worked in Farber’s office for awhile. She eventually gave him what he wanted. I don’t know how willingly. He seemed to think anyone in her position would have thrown herself at him. Either that, or he thinks she was playing around and drawing him into sinfulness. It doesn’t matter what he thought at the time or how it happened. She had a kid, Devereaux. He got placed with a foster family. The girl disappeared. Manchester was readier to talk about Devereaux than about her.”
“And that’s all he said?”
“He talked about sin and how it destroys people. Seems to think the province is a black hole of sin. Probably because of all the oil and gas we’re sitting on. We’re all tempted or tainted because of all the money he worked so hard to help people make. Or maybe the oil itself is sin, black and gooey as it is. And people know it but can’t give it up.”
“Then he is a crazy old bastard. He’s got it wrong. Sin isn’t what destroys people here. It’s their dreams that do that.”
Asher regarded Karamanlis. “You never used to be a philosopher, Jimmy. Did age make you think like that? Or was it having power?”
“I have less power than you think, Harry. You fight to get into the office and then you fight every day to stay there, if you’re smart. It doesn’t take much to trip you and make you fall flat on your face. A piece of paper can do it. I’ve heard the story. I want to see what backs it up.”
Karamanlis paused. “I want to see what Apson had on paper. He must have had something. As long as it’s floating around loose, it’s dangerous.”
“Can’t help you, Jimmy. The Parson certainly wouldn’t have anything like that. The widow says she doesn’t. I believe her, but that doesn’t make it so. Maybe there is something. Why would she want to hide it? Keep it as a souvenir of her husband? She’s sorry he died but not that sorry. Use it to blackmail the Parson? He would have heard by now. Anyway, I don’t think she’d play games like that. She’s scared.”
“You going to protect her?”
“The thought crossed my mind. She brings that out in a person. Barnsdale’s a long way off, though, and I don’t think she has any real enemies. She’s been through a lot.”
“Then we’re going to leave it there? If there’s something on paper, I don’t like leaving it unfound.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe something will turn up. Maybe the widow is holding out and she just needs more time to think. You’re forgetting the other loose end.”
“And what’s that?”
“The woman. Devereaux’s mother. I haven’t heard anyone mention her. The Parson won’t talk about her — in fact, he got quite angry when I asked him about her. She seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. There must be some trace of her somewhere, alive or dead. For all I know, she’s living in the Barnsdale nursing home. I’ll see what I can do about tracking her down.”
Karamanlis stared at his shoes, smooth leather, glistening and black. Eventually he said, “I don’t think that’s wise. It could stir up a situation I want to keep quiet. There’s a difference between tidying loose ends and pulling on them. You pull on this one and who knows what you might bring crashing down. You saw what being too nosy got Apson.”
“Granted, if I go looking in too many places someone could start to wonder what’s so interesting. But I have a hunch someone is already wondering. Apson didn’t dream Devereaux out of thin air. He didn’t find a birth certificate with Manchester’s name on it, either. Guaranteed. Someone else must already know something.”
“It isn’t wise, Harry. Gerald will see to it that you get a cheque in a few days. You have an open brief on finding anything that’s in writing. If you get a line on whatever Apson had on paper, let me know. Or better yet, just get the paper and bring it to me. You’ll get paid more for that. Otherwise this job is finished.”
“Then I don’t have a client with any interest in Devereaux’s mother?”
Karamanlis looked up. He had smiled hello when Asher walked into the room but had kept his business face on since then. Now Asher saw a regretful half-smile.
“You’re going to look for her out of friendship, then. With the widow.”
“Why not? I don’t have that many friends. Sandra took most of the ones we had along with the house.”
Karamanlis sighed. “You should have stayed married, Harry. What if I call on our friendship? You’re divorced and Angela Apson is a lonely widow. Too much competition for me, I suppose?”
“I could ask who’s more your friend — me or Gerald Ryan. I’ve worked on things for you. And I’ve done other things out of friendship, starting with that two-bit hood who got big ideas about himself and thought he could run a shakedown on you at the restaurant. You haven’t forgotten that?”
“No,” Karamanlis said, “I haven’t forgotten.”
18
THE OFFICE HAD SPROUTED ITS USUAL CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS — nothing so obtrusive as to distract from work or provoke distaste among the non-Christian clients, but enough colour and sparkle to remind everyone that it was time to feel cheerful, despite the fact that the sun’s sinking arc left them in darkness more than fourteen hours a day.
There were extra decorations and a short office party to say goodbye to Sherry Kozak. She was leaving to go back to school and study speech therapy.
Jackson handled the ceremony. He was his usual model of taste and humour. He told stories but left out the one about Sherry spilling coffee on the lap of the CEO of one of the biggest investment managers in town, then deliberately spilling more when he suggested he would not mind her sponging the blot with a wet cloth.
The man survived the extra dousing of hot coffee. Two months later he needed seventeen stitches to close a gash on his forehead when his mistress threw a heavy crystal vase at him from close range. The brawl ended up making the newspapers. His wife forgave him because she already knew about the girlfriend and she liked being able to afford her annual trips to St. Lucia and Paris. She didn’t want to bring in a lawyer who would take a cut of the money. The investment manager lived with the embarrassment because his was only the latest in a long string of such stories in the city. They seemed to break out every two or three years, like cold sores.
Jackson was used to
departures. Asher had been seeing too many. He said goodbye to Sherry and watched her back for a few seconds as she turned to talk with two of the firm’s other associates. He wondered if speech therapy did more to make the world a better place than drawing moral lines with the law.
He turned and found George Rabani. George was always good for entertainment, one of the reasons he had not been made a full partner. That didn’t bother Rabani. He was more interested in studying human foibles than in gaining status. Asher was almost sorry that he couldn’t tell Rabani about Apson and Devereaux; he owed him a good story or two, but Rabani was always so happy to tell his own that he didn’t expect much in return. They talked while the party wound down.
After most of the office cleared out, Asher walked into Jackson’s office. He was surprised to hear Handel’s Messiah playing softly. Jackson usually did not care for anything but silence when he was reading briefs. Jackson looked up, saw Asher’s eyebrows arching and said, “I object to noise when I’m reading. Sublime art is not noise, at least not when it’s appreciated only once a year.”
“You can’t concentrate on Handel and work at the same time,” Asher said.
“No, but I’ve heard the Messiah before. I just need reminders of it for now, not the whole experience.”
Asher sat in the leather visitor’s chair and looked out the window at the downtown streets. Car lights moved slowly through them like white and red blood cells flowing through a hibernating body. There were more cars on the streets than people on the sidewalks. Some of the people were homeless. They wore faded hats and jackets and often lacked gloves.
“How does a person disappear, Morley?” Asher asked. “Even nearly fifty years ago, when we weren’t all being tracked by computers?”
“Usually, she changes her name or moves somewhere, or both. Or dies without anyone noticing. I assume we’re talking about Devereaux’s mother.”
