According to Their Deeds (29 page)

AFTERNOON

“He cost us dearly,” Charles said. His suit was gray, and Dorothy’s coat was black. The umbrella was black and the rain was gray.

“He was very dear to us,” Dorothy said. The upright stone was gray. All the stones were gray and upright in the emerald grass, and the rain darkened them to black.

“Desperately valuable,” Charles said. “If only I could have given enough.”

“Oh, Charles. If only I knew why.”

“If only we knew why.”

He held the umbrella over them as seas fell around them, and seas rose within them.

EVENING

The rain had fallen and was all on its way to the sea. Only chill, moist winds were left, and the smell of the rain in the open window.

“I think I’m ready to be finished,” Charles said.

“Finished with what?”

“Secrets and sins and confusions.”

“How will you finish with them, Charles?”

“When we were out there this afternoon with William, I thought I knew.”

“What did you know?”

But he shook his head. “Don’t ask me yet.”

“Of our philosophers, Charles, did any practice what they preached?”

“Do you mean, were any of them more than theorists?”

“Yes. They could scribble their reams, but did they live any of their principles? Adams risked his life to put his signature on the Declaration.”

“Madison would be the real example. He was the real brains behind the Constitution, and then he had to govern by it for eight years.”

“Hoisted on his own petard, wasn’t he, Charles? He had his theories about divided government, and then he had to pay the price when he was president. He must have wished at times he’d written the Constitution differently.”

“But he knew what he was getting into. You know, Derek, I think his experience in real governance would have convinced him that his theory of governance was correct. He would have been willing to pay the price.”

“And Thomas Hobbes was exiled to Paris.”

“And Voltaire was exiled from Paris.”

“I would have preferred Hobbes’s position, Charles. Yes, I suppose many of them did pay some price for their ideas.”

“Derek, do you have any theories or ideals for which you would risk your life?”

“Not at all. Power and control aren’t theories. What about you, Charles?”

“I do, Derek. Though I rather hope it doesn’t come to that.”

MONDAY

MORNING

“Good morning, Alice. A new week.”

“Yes, Mr. Beale! And a man called a few minutes ago for you. I told him you’d be in about now.”

“Who was it?”

“He didn’t say, but he was British.”

The telephone on the counter rang.

“Alexandria Rare Books,” Alice said, and then she nodded. “It’s him,” she said.

“I’ll get it up in the office.”

Dorothy was at her desk. Charles popped over to his own and blew her a kiss.

“This is Charles Beale.”

“Mr. Beale.” The voice was very British. “My name is Mr. Smith.”

“Good morning, Mr. Smith. Or afternoon?”

“Morning, and a very good morning to you.” It wasn’t clipped, nasal, competent British; it was unhurried, assured, very competent British. It wasn’t British at all; it was English. “Mr. Beale, I think you might have something of interest to me.”

“I hope I do. What would that be?”

“An Alexander Pope Homer.”

Charles waved to get Dorothy’s attention.

“The
Odyssey
?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

He had her attention.

“I do have a Pope
Odyssey
. I hadn’t listed it for sale yet.”

“All the better, Mr. Beale. Please don’t. I’d rather discuss a private purchase.”

“Well, certainly, Mr. . . . Smith. We can discuss that. I expect you’d like to see it?”

“I would very much.”

“Do you know where we are in Alexandria?” Charles asked.

“Please allow me to suggest a different location.”

The grammar was of a very polite request, but the tone, while also very polite, was not a request.

“Of course,” Charles said. “Where would you like to meet?”

“I will be at Rusterman’s on Twenty-eighth Street in Manhattan on Wednesday evening at nine o’clock.”

Charles wrote quickly on a notepad. “Nine o’clock. Rusterman’s. Yes, I’ll be there. Is there any way to reach you, Mr. Smith, if I need to?”

“I’m sure there will be no need, Mr. Beale. I’m also sure there will be no need to mention this to anyone else.”

“Certainly.”

“Very good. Then, until Wednesday.”

“I look forward to meeting you,” Charles said.

“What is Rusterman’s?” Dorothy asked.

“Apparently, a restaurant in New York.”

“You’re going to New York?”

“Apparently. On Wednesday. How interesting!”

“Did he say how he heard we had the book?”

“No. He was English, and said his name was Smith. Although he didn’t sound like a Smith.”

“What did he sound like?”

“Oh, a Hampton-Smythe, or a Bolingbroke or something like that. Or . . .” Charles stared back toward the telephone. “Or maybe a Saxe-Coburg-Gotha.”

“A
what
?”

“Just a thought. Never mind. Anyway, did we ever finish the fall catalog?”

“Yes, dear,” Dorothy said. “It is at the printer.”

“Thank you, dear.”

“And Angelo’s meeting starts in thirty minutes.”

“Mr. Beale?” Alice was smiling in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“You have a telephone call. Mr. Edmund Cane.”

“New York again!” Charles said. “I wonder if he’s still looking for the woman who bought Derek’s desk?”

“Mr. Cane! Good morning! This is Charles Beale.”

“Good morning, Mr. Beale.” The syllables were as distinct and unconnected as ever.

“What can I do for you? Are you still looking for your desk?”

“No, Mr. Beale. I am afraid the Honaker desk is rather a dead subject at this point.”

“A dead subject—not literally, I hope?”

Pause. “No. I didn’t mean that literally.”

“Of course. Anyway, what
can
I do for you?”

“I believe you purchased some books at that auction?”

“Yes,” Charles said. “I did.”

“I would like to purchase those from you.”

“All of them?”

“I believe it was thirteen volumes? Yes, I would want all of them.”

“Mr. Cane—I’m sorry, but they aren’t for sale.”

“I see. I hope they haven’t been purchased by someone else?”

“No. I have them.”

“Are they committed to someone else?” Mr. Cane said, inexorably.

“No.”

“I am prepared to offer above market price.”

“You certainly did for the desk.”

Another confused pause. “Is price important to you?”

“No. Price is not the issue.”

“Then may I ask what is?”

“It is simply that they aren’t currently for sale,” Charles said.

“I see. In that case, I hope you will let me know when they are. The offer would stand.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cane. May I ask what your interest in them is? I suppose you have a client?”

“I won’t comment on that.”

“Well, then, I think we’ve run out of things to say.”

“I will try again later, Mr. Beale.”

“Please do.”

“What was that?” Dorothy asked.

“Mr. Cane wants Derek’s books.”

“Charles—what does that mean?”

“It means too much to think about. However, it’s time for me to leave.”

And on cue, Angelo was standing in the doorway.

Charles checked his watch. Angelo stood beside him, patiently silent.

“It’s time,” Charles said. He opened the heavy door, and they passed from the sunlight into the courthouse lobby. The guard eyed them.

“Your knife?” Charles asked.

“I do not have any knife here.”

Charles emptied his pockets to go through the metal detector; keys, wallet, change, his magnifying glass. Angelo had nothing.

Then corridors, up and down, left and right, back and forth, to and through the door that said
Probation Services
, into its small lobby, and sitting to wait.

“Angelo Acevedo.”

They stood and passed through the open door into the cheap, plain little office, and closed the door behind them.

“Good morning, Angelo.”

“Good morning, Mr. Conway.”

Mr. Conway wasn’t old, but he was shiny bald with a fringe of black. “And, Mr. Beale.”

“Yes, good morning,” Charles said.

Mr. Conway had an open folder on his desk. He read with his finger, which moved across the paper in front of him, line by line, inching down to the bottom. “How is everything?”

“It is good,” Angelo said.

“Good. Mr. Beale?”

“Everything is going quite well, Mr. Conway.”

“Did anything happen this month?”

Charles answered. “Angelo has been conscientious at his job, as usual. This last week I’ve had him out on business calls by himself and I believe he’s been doing very well at that.”

“Have there been any problems? Contacts with previous associates?”

“I really don’t think so,” Charles said.

“Okay.” Mr. Conway closed the folder; his finger got out just in time. He looked up at them with a bureaucratic smile. “Then I think—”

And the door opened.

Everything plain and routine about the meeting collapsed. Mr. Conway’s mouth dropped open and Angelo hardened into pure rock.

Charles blinked, and partly smiled, and said, “Congresswoman Liu! What a surprise!”

Karen Liu took in the room in a deliberate glance and planted herself directly behind Angelo.

“Good morning, Mr. Beale,” she said.

“Mr. Conway,” Charles said, almost up to normal conversational speed. “Allow me to introduce Congresswoman Karen Liu. This is Mr. Conway, our probation officer.”

“Congresswoman . . . ?” Mr. Conway said.

“Every bit,” Charles said.

“Good morning,” Karen Liu said. “I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Conway, and please excuse my interruption. I am here on behalf of Mr. Acevedo.”

“I’m honored, ma’am,” Mr. Conway said, very calmly. “What can I do for you?”

“I have taken an interest in this case,” she said. “Please let me make it perfectly clear that I am
not
using my position in the Congress of the United States, and as the Chairwoman of the Subcommittee on Judicial Policy, to influence the due procedures of your office. I am here
only
as an advocate for Mr. Acevedo, to be sure that he is being treated fairly and according to the law.”

“I can assure you he is,” Charles said. “Mr. Conway has been extremely helpful and supportive.”

“Ms. Liu,” Mr. Conway said, “are you here as a character witness for Angelo?”

“I am here as a witness for Mr. Acevedo.” The intensity of her stare had reached searchlight proportions. “I am also here as witness of the system. I am here on behalf of every person in this country who is struggling with a judicial system and an economic system that is too often set against them. Mr. Conway, I had my office review the public records of this case. I have interviewed Mr. Beale.”

The spotlight beam dimmed dramatically to a quiet glow.

“I believe,” she said, passionately, pleadingly, patiently, “that the terms of this probation should be reviewed immediately. There has been no violation of any of his probationary conditions. Mr. Acevedo has been a model employee and citizen, and I believe that an additional two years of probation is unnecessary.” With a hint more firmness she added, “And excessive.”

“The judge set the terms,” Mr. Conway said, still very calm. “He would have to make any decision to change them. I only administer the court’s orders.”

“I am quite familiar with judicial procedures,” she said. “So I would like your office to request an immediate hearing to reconsider whether the original terms are still in the best interest of Mr. Acevedo and of this state.”

“Actually, Virginia is a Commonwealth,” Mr. Conway said.

She rewarded his comment with a tight smile. “And I will be taking a
personal interest
in this case.”

“I’ll have my secretary call the clerk of the court right away. Judge Woody usually has a few open spots in his schedule.”

“Thank you, and please inform my office of the time. It has been a sincere pleasure meeting you, Mr. Conway.”

The door closed and the room shrank back to its normal size.

Charles jumped to his feet. “Mr. Conway—I am so sorry—I had no idea she would do such a thing.”

“It’s fine.” Mr. Conway shrugged, still staring thoughtfully at the door.

“I’ll talk to her.” He had the door open again.

“I’m just going to toss this whole thing to the judge. I’m not going to tangle with someone like that.”

“I’ll be right back, Angelo,” Charles said, and hurried out after Karen Liu.

“Congresswoman!”

In the front lobby, he caught her.

“Mr. Beale? Yes?”

“Just a moment. I’m sorry,” he said, “I have to catch my breath.”

He caught it.

“I needed to say,” he said with his breath, “we’re doing fine with Angelo. You really don’t need to trouble yourself.”

“It isn’t any trouble.”

“Then I’ll be a little more direct. I think it’s best for him to keep things the way they are.”

“I understand. I’ll be very direct.” Her eyes, as always, were. “It might be best, or it might not.” Her tone was friendlier than her words, somewhat. “But I have reasons of my own to take the trouble.”

“Could you tell me what they are?”

“Not at this time, Mr. Beale. I have an important meeting I’m already late for. I’ll repeat, though, that I have a very good reason for doing this. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Charles watched her push through the door and jump into a waiting car.

“I’d like to know the reason,” he said.

“ ‘I am not
using
my position in the
Congress
of the United States and as the
Chairwoman
of the Subcommittee on Judicial Policy to influence you.’ ” Charles shook his head wearily.

“Was she overbearing?” Dorothy asked.

“Only in the friendliest and most cooperative way.”