Bloodland: A Novel (37 page)

Jimmy starts, fixing his gaze on a knot in one of the floorboards.

He tells it pretty succinctly, and doesn’t hold back as he did with Lessing. He explains about the biography. He describes his conversations with Larry Bolger and Dave Conway. Then he spells it all out – the conference, the mine, the thanaxite, Gianni Bonacci, the helicopter crash.

BRX, Gideon Global.

At one point he realises that the clacking has stopped and he looks up.

Ellen Dorsey is staring at him. ‘Holy shit,’ she says, holding her mouth open. ‘Holy
shit
.’ Then she laughs and shakes her head. ‘You couldn’t make this up, so I’m assuming you haven’t.’

‘No, I haven’t.’ He shifts his weight in the chair. He realises he has made quite an impression on her. ‘My only problem,’ he says, ‘as you’ve probably guessed, is the lack of hard evidence.’

Dorsey nods. ‘Sure, sure, but
still
.’

First time he’s heard that.

‘The other thing I don’t have’, he goes on, deciding to lay all his cards on the table, ‘is a job. This started out as something else, a book about that actress who died in the crash. So I don’t have resources, or any kind of support.’ He pauses. ‘I came here to New York because it seemed like the next logical move.’

Dorsey considers this, swivelling in her chair. ‘Have you made contact with any of the principals? Do they know you’re looking into this?’

‘Not directly, but someone knows.’ He tells her about the break-in at his apartment. ‘Also, I’m not sure, but I have the impression I’m being followed.’

Dorsey laughs again. ‘Well, if you’re not, you certainly
will
be when you leave this place. I get a lot of attention from interested parties. You get used to it.’ She stops swivelling. ‘By the way, what’s the connection with Bob Lessing?’

Jimmy explains – the eighties, Phil Sweeney, his old man.

Dorsey seems to get it. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Look. This is an incredible story, and I’ll be honest with you, it doesn’t surprise me one bit. The scramble for resources in Africa has thrown up a lot of nasty shit going back for the last, what, hundred, hundred and fifty years? But the problem, as you say, is proving it. With companies like BRX, guys like Rundle, that takes a lot of work, a lot of digging, a lot of
time
. You don’t come at them head-on or they’ll crush you, in some cases literally. You
gnaw
at them, like a tiny rodent they can’t see until it’s too late. And that’s the thing about this job. It’s got a glamorous image, but most of the time it’s
mind
-numbingly boring.’

Jimmy wants to say,
I know
,
believe me
, but he holds back.

‘So, what have we got here?’ she says, shunting her chair forward and leaning on the desk. ‘I’m the one with experience and connections, you’re the one with the story, is that it?’

He supposes it is, and nods.

‘Well, you’re going to have to give me time to think about it, do a little background. How long are you here?’

Jimmy’s heart sinks. ‘End of the week.’

She clicks her tongue. ‘Hhhm. I got to finish this.’ She taps the pile of notes on her desk. ‘Let me call you tomorrow, OK? Then we can sit down and hammer it out.’

‘Yeah, thanks. I appreciate it.’

She smiles. He stands up.

Back out on Ninety-third, Jimmy finds it hard not to be disappointed. Whatever expectations he had coming over to New York were clearly unreasonable. This is a big project, requiring time, and lots of it.

But how much time does he have?

He walks back towards the Ninety-sixth Street subway station – slowly, lost in thought. As he approaches the entrance stairwell, his phone rings. He stops and takes it out.

‘Hello.’

‘Jimmy? Ellen Dorsey. Listen, I’ve just been flicking around online and I came across something. Might be an opportunity.’

‘Yeah?’ He stands there looking out at the passing traffic.

‘Clark Rundle’s brother – you know, the senator? He’s speaking at some thing tomorrow morning at the Blackwood Hotel on East Fifty-eighth Street. Apparently, there’s a lot of buzz about it because people are speculating that he might be about to announce his candidacy.’

‘Oh.’

‘And if that’s the case, you should go along, hang around outside, because more than likely Clark Rundle himself will be there, supporting his bro. At least it’d be a chance for you to get a
look
at him. Might be the only chance you ever get.’

*   *   *

He can’t get a straight answer out of them. They say she’s just not available.

But what does that mean?

So when will she be available?

It’s not possible to say at the moment.

Jesus
Christ
.

Rundle slams the phone down.

Why can’t he just buy Nora, buy her outright, set her up in an apartment and have done with it?

Heading off now to have dinner with J.J. and Sally and Eve, he should be in a good mood, but he isn’t. He actually has to remind himself that things are going pretty well at the moment.

Tomorrow morning, for instance.

J.J. announces, then with any luck Jimmy Vaughan shows up, endorses, commits. And that’s pretty much it.

It all gets taken to the next level

Clark
gets taken to the next level.

Because Vaughan has already brought him in on this Paloma robotics programme, and that’s a long game by anyone’s definition. On top of which, what, two years campaigning and maybe eight years in the White House? Outstanding. But Jimmy Vaughan won’t be around for most of that, which he must know, so Clark can’t help seeing this as a process being set in motion.

A sort of …
succession
mechanism.

Is it any wonder he’s a bit jittery?

Dinner at Quaranta proceeds nicely. J.J. has had a few good days – plenty of media exposure, his celebrity growing at a rate that can only be described as exponential. He seems to have an appeal, something indefinable the camera draws out of him when he’s sitting in a studio, an X factor for politicians you couldn’t pay for. Tomorrow morning’s announcement is set to ramp that up a further few notches.

During the meal, J.J. takes call after call on his cell phone. His staff are setting things up at the Blackwood and J.J. likes to micro-manage. Herb Felder even drops by with the latest draft of his speech, which J.J. asks Rundle to throw his eye over. Sally and Eve tease them about this.

The two brothers.

Echoes.

‘Any chance you’ll make Clark attorney general?’

The atmosphere at the table is light, even skittish, but everyone understands how this works. They
have
to be excited or it won’t play.

It’s a confidence trick.

Anything could happen between now and the nomination, let alone afterwards, so they might as well enjoy it while it lasts. At the same time, and up to a certain point, the confidence trick must also apply to themselves. Because if they don’t believe, and act as if, they have a reasonable stab at this, who else is going to?

At the end of the meal, as they’re finishing their coffees, J.J.’s phone goes off again. Then Rundle’s does, too. As they both reach out to answer them, the wives roll their eyes.

Rundle looks at the display and sees that it’s Don Ribcoff. ‘Don.’

J.J.’s eyes widen and he mouths something at Rundle.

‘Clark, I have an update. I need to talk to you.’

Rundle is confused.
What?
This across the table.

J.J. mouths it again.
Jimmy Vaughan
. He points at his phone, then sticks his thumb up.

Rundle’s heart skips a beat. Confirmation. This is fantastic. ‘Don, what is it, what do you need?’

‘Can we meet?’

‘No, Don, we can’t.’ Rundle rolls
his
eyes. ‘I’m having dinner. What is it? Tell me.’ He’s watching J.J. working Vaughan, the way he works a room, but over the phone. Confidence is such a weird thing, he thinks, self-perpetuating, self-regenerating, the more you have …

‘I don’t really –’

‘Jesus, Don, just
tell
me.’

‘OK. That thing we talked about the other day, the guy?’

What thing? What guy? Rundle is caught now between his excitement and a sudden burst of extreme irritation. ‘What the fuck are you talking about, Don?’ he whispers into the phone. ‘Spell it
out
, would you?’

Ribcoff pauses, then sighs. ‘The guy? The journalist? Jimmy Gilroy? He’s becoming a problem.’ Rundle furrows his brow. ‘We took another look at him. He went to Italy last week. He spoke to Gianni Bonacci’s widow.’

‘What?’

‘That was before he met with Dave Conway. And that’s not all.’ Ribcoff pauses again. Rundle waits, the room around him going slightly out of focus now. ‘He’s here. In New York.’

‘
What?
’

‘He arrived yesterday –’

‘
Jesus
, Don.’

‘I swear to God, Clark, I’ve only just been given the report this minute.’ He sighs. ‘Look, there was a delay.’

Rundle can’t believe this, any of it. ‘He’s
here
?’

‘Yeah, we tracked his movements online. He booked a room at a hotel in the West Village, five nights. Arrived into JFK yesterday afternoon.’

Rundle gets up from the table, nodding, but not making direct eye contact with anyone. He moves away. ‘Are you
on
him? I mean, what’s he doing?
Jesus
.’

‘Yeah, we’re on him, but he doesn’t seem –’

‘Don, I don’t care how he
seems
.’ Rundle stops. He’s standing between two tables near the side of the room, facing the bar. Quaranta is generous when it comes to table spacing. Acoustics might be a different matter. ‘What can you
do
about him?’

There is a pause here, during which Rundle takes a quick look on either side of him. Sitting at the table to his left is Ray Tyner, baby-faced teen star turned serious-contender leading man. At the table to his right, judging from the get-up, is a Roman Catholic bishop, or a cardinal maybe.

‘Options are limited,’ Ribcoff says, ‘because there’s something else.’

‘Jesus fucking
Christ
.’ The cardinal flinches. ‘
What is it?
’

‘He paid a visit this afternoon to Ellen Dorsey, she’s an investigative –’

‘I know who Ellen Dorsey is. Fuck.’

‘So, the point is, she gives him a little cover, some profile. Whatever about him, you don’t want
her
on your tail.’

‘Meaning?’

Ribcoff hesitates, then whispers, as though he can see the cardinal too. ‘We can’t just take the motherfucker out. We’ve got to be careful.’

Rundle swallows. He walks towards the bar and sits on a stool, but turns outward, facing the room. After a while he says, ‘You know what, Don? He doesn’t know anything. He can’t. Maybe he’s been told some stuff, but that’s as far as it goes. Has to be. It was three years ago. We’re covered. There’s no proof of anything. He makes a move, says a word, and we’ll get legal to shit all over him.’

‘OK.’

He catches J.J.’s eye from across the room and nods.

‘But don’t let him out of your sight, you hear me?’

12

J
IMMY GETS UP EARLY
and goes out in search of coffee. It’s another really nice day and he just about manages to dress appropriately. He walks along tree-lined, sun-dappled West Fourth Street and tries to imagine living in one of these brownstones. They’re gorgeous, but he could never afford the rents around here.

Besides, he’d miss the sea from his window.

He finds a coffee shop out on Sixth.

Convinced now that he is being followed, he can’t help feeling self-conscious, as though every move he makes, every gesture, is being watched and graded. A corollary of this, of course, is that his life might be in danger.

He stays in the coffee shop for an hour, until just after nine, sipping coffee and watching people as they come and go.

When he is out on the street again, he flags down a cab. He does this on impulse. He tells the driver East Fifty-eighth Street and they quickly join the flow of traffic heading uptown.

Jimmy half turns and looks through the rear window.

If he has a tail, could he lose it this easily?

Seems
possible.

He turns around again, and looks ahead.

But it isn’t as if they’d have much trouble trying to work out where he’s going.

They.

Jimmy feels a surge of frustration here. Over three years ago six people died in a helicopter crash. They were murdered. He knows who was responsible, and why. He was told, and he believes it.

But that incident, and what led up to it, is locked away now, in a glass case, perceived by the public at large, and by the authorities, as a tragic accident.

So what does he think, he can come along and change that? He can smash the glass and replace what’s behind it?

With what?

The cab turns east at Fifty-seventh Street.

This event at the Blackwood Hotel is supposed to start at ten o’clock. He’ll arrive half an hour early and hang around. See what he can see. Without a press pass, he won’t get inside the door of the hotel, that’s for sure, won’t get near it, but he might catch a glimpse of Clark Rundle on his way in.

He gets the driver to pull over between Madison and Park. He pays and gets out. He’ll walk the rest of the way, one block north and two over.

From about half a block away he identifies the hotel, sees the marquee, and a small gathering of what look like photographers.

And security.

It’s a busy street, lots of midtown bustle, so no need to be overly self-conscious. He comes to One Beacon Court, and peers in at the glimmering, elliptical courtyard as he passes.

A few moments later, two or three buildings before the Blackwood, he stops and leans against some railings. He looks around, up the street, towards the hotel. There are more arrivals, technicians, a camera crew.

People standing around, random individuals like himself, free country.