Eye Contact (33 page)

Roxanne and Carl appear momentarily stunned, then break into laughter. “Heavens,” says Roxanne, “I guess I was sending the wrong signals.”

Carl adds, “As a matter of fact, that topic
has
been discussed lately, but Roxanne and I need to concentrate on one midlife upheaval at a time.”

She pats Carl’s hand. “Fair enough.” She tells the guys, “You’ll be the first to know if and when there’s news on that front.” Then she hails the waiter and orders mineral water for herself.

Manning drinks more of his champagne. At a lull in the conversation, he tells Carl, “You certainly had Roxanne in a dither over your meeting in Chicago on Tuesday. She was under the impression you’d gotten involved with the Christian Family Crusade.”

Carl signals the waiter to pour more champagne. “Roxanne told me about that, and I’m sorry, Mark, that as a result of my secretiveness, she dragged you up to Door County. No—God no—I’ve never had any connection with the CFC. Frankly, I detest all they stand for. Somehow they learned of my impending appointment, and they wanted to grill me about my background—you
know
how politically active they’ve become. My position is appointed, but the attorney general is elected, and they could make things really tough for him in the next election if I didn’t pass inspection. I resent being put through that, of course, but those damned hicks have become a political reality that’s hard to ignore.”

Manning grins. “How did you make out with them?”

“Fine, I guess. I tried to wow them with my credentials while evading the stuff they’d find sticky. They know I’m no Bible-thumper, so I took care not to come across like a flaming libertine, and apparently they bought it. I got word from the attorney general’s office yesterday that the appointment is a done deal—it hits the news tomorrow.”

Neil has listened while idly stroking the stem of his glass. He looks up to ask Carl, “When did you first get wind of the appointment?”

“A few weeks ago. But it wasn’t till last Friday that I learned it was looking like a sure thing. Great timing, I thought—I wanted to surprise Roxanne with the announcement at your party on Saturday. Then there was that union snafu at JournalCorp, and Nathan Cain called an emergency meeting Saturday night. Since I had to miss the party, I decided to wait and pop the news to Roxanne while we were on our trip—
then
I got called back by the attorney general’s office to attend the CFC’s inquisition. So Roxanne didn’t hear my news till yesterday.”

Roxanne leans forward over her water glass. “What still has us stumped, though, is how the CFC found out about the appointment so quickly. Carl learned about it Friday and didn’t say boo to anyone at the office. Saturday was, well …
Saturday,
and the only people he talked to were the
Journal
bigwigs at that strikebreaking session. Sunday we drove north; Monday he was called back.”

“It must have been a leak within the attorney general’s office,” Carl suggests.

“I suppose,” says Roxanne.

Manning has pulled the Montblanc from his breast pocket and started scratching notes on the white paper that covers their tablecloth.

Neil snaps his fingers. “I
knew
there was something else, Carl. Rox said Pavo Zarnik was involved with your CFC meeting. What was that about?”

Carl laughs. “I wish I knew. Yes, he was there, and he gave quite a performance, attempting to defend tolerance and diversity. The elders didn’t buy it, to say the least. Neither did I, for that matter, since Roxanne had already clued me that Mark suspects Zarnik to be a fraud.”

“What actually happened?” Manning asks.

“The board grilled Zarnik first, then me. I got the impression that the point of the whole show was to impress upon me their ability to summon someone of Zarnik’s celebrity stature. Maybe the guy was just acting, but it seemed they genuinely made him squirm.”

Manning has ripped bigger and bigger pieces from the paper on the table, stuffing ragged notes—written around the bright green
Zaza
logo—into the pockets of his jacket. “Carl,” he says tentatively, “I hate to dampen this evening’s celebration, but there’s something I have to ask you about.”

“Yes, Mark?” he responds, surprised by Manning’s change of tone, but sounding unconcerned by it.

“As you’re probably aware from Roxanne, I’ve been assigned by the
Journal
to investigate last week’s murder of our science editor, Clifford Nolan.”

“Such a brutal tragedy,” says Carl, looking directly into Manning’s eyes. “Any progress?”

“Yes, actually,” Manning answers. Roxanne leans forward with interest. Neil leans back, aware of what’s coming. “I made the startling discovery last Sunday that Cliff was keeping dozens of ‘dirt’ files, extorting hush money from a number of victims. I’m sure it won’t come as news to you, Carl, that Cliff kept a dossier”—pause—“on you.”

Roxanne’s mouth drops in astonishment. Neil closes his eyes. Carl responds dryly, “Indeed he did.” His tone is forthright and unemotional. “Clifford was a grad student at the University of Chicago while I was still an undergrad. I hope you’ll respect that I’m telling you this off the record, Mark.”

Manning nods, capping his pen.

“I admit that I was involved in a minor academic infraction at that time, but my involvement was tangential, and indeed, the facts of the incident were open to dispute. The school never took disciplinary action against me, and ultimately, I graduated summa cum laude. That was thirty years ago, and I rarely gave the matter a second thought. At the time, though, it was reported in the school paper. Clifford was an editor, and he must have begun keeping his files way back then.”

Carl downs a mouthful of champagne, swallowing hard. He continues, “I don’t know if his timing was sheer coincidence, or if he had somehow gotten wind of the attorney-general business, but he phoned me out of the blue a few weeks ago and said we needed to talk. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted.” Carl shrugs. “You can surely figure out the rest. He had the information, and he wanted money. I put him off for a while, but I knew that if he ever went public with his file, my chances for the DAG appointment would be shot to hell—there would be zero tolerance for even a
hint
of scandal. Then, at the height of my quandary, I learned that Clifford was dead. Murdered. Was I relieved? You betcha. Was I in any way involved?
No
.”

Roxanne takes his hands. “My God, Carl, I wish you’d shared this with me. What a terrible dilemma to deal with alone.”

Carl wags his head, talking to both Roxanne and Manning. “I’ve been wracking my brain, and I
think
I can establish an alibi for that Monday night—if I ever have to—but I must admit, I can’t account for those crucial late-evening hours. I was alone, working, without witnesses.”

“Whoa, Carl,” says Manning, assuring him, “no one is accusing you of anything—no one even knows that your file exists, just us at this table.”

Relieved, Carl asks, “Just out of curiosity, what
happened
to Clifford’s files?”

“I found them. I kept them. They’re safe at home. Conferring with Nathan Cain, we agreed not to turn them over to the police. The less they’re handled, the better. When all this is over, I’ll destroy them.”

“Thank you, Mark.” Carl touches Manning’s sleeve. “Since coming to know you and Neil through Roxanne, I’ve learned to think of you as friends. Now, I’m truly indebted to you.”

“Nonsense,” Manning tells him. “At this point, you’re merely the victim of suspicious circumstances, and those circumstances are known only to us. I hardly think you’re the sort who’d put three bullets in a man’s back.”

“Let alone
four
,” Carl corrects him with a laugh. He adds, “I believe that’s what the news accounts said.”

The waiter returns with menus and pours the last of the Cristal from the bottle. Carl orders another. Before long, the foursome is involved with dinner, switching topics with the progression of courses, frequently interrupting the festivities with further toasts to Carl’s success in public life. Everyone is pleasantly surprised to discover that Zaza’s has not been overrated—in spite of the noise and the frenetic atmosphere, it’s a top-notch meal.

By the time dessert arrives, all four feel overfed and sated, cowed by the platefuls of rich, fanciful creations that bristle with chocolate twigs, wallowing in pools of exotic fruit purees. “I’ll never eat again,” moans Roxanne.

Neil tells her, “You say that now, Rox, but come noon tomorrow, you’ll be chowing down with the best of them.”

Carl snorts. “I don’t know what plans Miss Exner may have for tomorrow, but as for me, I
will
be lunching with the best of them—MidAmerica Oil chairman Brad McCracken and
Journal
publisher Nathan Cain.”

“Oh, really?” says Manning, forking a gob of something crusted with a crackly substance that looks like electrified shredded wheat. “You seem to see quite a bit of Mr. Cain. Are you … friendly?”

Carl swirls his spoon in a puddle of something purple. “Interesting question. Nathan’s a hard guy to get to know—stiff, opinionated, strictly old-school. But I
have
come to like him. He brings a unique perspective to any discussion, and of course he’s brilliant as well as powerful. I’ve done business with him for years, and with time, he’s become something of a confidant, sort of a father figure.”

“Same with Bradley McCracken?” Manning asks.

“Lord no. Brad is Nathan’s friend. The two of them, along with the mayor and the archbishop, constitute a rarefied social circle all their own—way too rich for this humble lawyer’s blood.”

“Oh
please,
Carl.” Roxanne licks a smear of chocolate from her thumb.

“It’s true,” he insists. “With that kind of wealth, commanding their individual empires, they’re in a class uniquely theirs. I’m honored to rub elbows with them. It’s not
every
day I’m invited to lunch in a private dining room at the Central States Club—high atop the MidAmerica Building.”

“Hey,” says Manning, “I’ll be up there myself tomorrow—not as a lunch guest at noon, but to research a story at five-thirty. The mayor’s office got me clearance to inspect a laser projector up on the tower platform.”

Neil explains to Carl and Roxanne, “It’s part of a surprise finale to Saturday night’s human-rights rally at the stadium. There was talk of it in the news today.”

“I heard about that,” says Roxanne. “Sounds exciting. Carl and I can’t wait.”

The evening has grown late—it’s after eleven—and all four will have a busy Friday. They agree to skip coffee, and after some initial check-tugging, Carl prevails as host. A few minutes later, they are on the street exchanging good-byes.

Manning gives the valet his stub for the car while Roxanne and Carl get into a cab. They wave and yoo-hoo through an open window as the cab pulls away from the curb, disappearing into traffic.

Neil turns to Manning. “Do you suppose they’re sleeping together?”

Manning shrugs. “They’re adults.”

“I know, but I do feel sort of protective of Rox—even though she’d scoff at the idea. We’ve known each other so long. I mean, I used to
live
at her place whenever I was in the city. I still have her key somewhere.”

“She’s been a good friend to both of us,” says Manning. “And I like Carl too, in spite of this stickiness about Cliff Nolan. All said, it’s been a nice night out. A perfectly good time.”

Then, from around the corner, appears a sight that brings their perfect evening to an abrupt end. The valet pulls Manning’s big Bavarian V-8 to the curb—there’s a deep scrape running the entire length of its passenger side. The sheet metal is dented badly, the mirror is missing, and the door doesn’t quite close. Manning gapes at it, dumbstruck.

The valet hops out and holds the driver’s door open for Manning as though nothing had happened. Upon questioning, he mumbles something about a tight squeeze, a cement guardrail, an insurance form.

Manning just wants to go home. He needs to pop a Xanax, crawl into bed, and put this behind him—he can’t possibly deal with it now. In a daze, he pulls the car away from the curb and manages to wing the back of the car parked in front of him, smashing a headlight and crimping his hood.

Manning and Neil arrive home before midnight. It was a quiet ride, Manning driving in glassy-eyed silence, Neil trying to assure him, “They’ll fix it good as new.” Neil didn’t realize, though, that Manning was preoccupied not only with the car, but with a difficult conversation he was saving till their return.

“Nightcap?” Neil asks him as they walk through the door, switch on the lights, and lock up behind them.

“A very short one,” Manning tells him. “We had quite a bit of champagne, and I plan to take a pill tonight.”

Neil pours shots of vodka over ice and garnishes them with orange peel. Manning removes his jacket and shoes, drops onto a sofa, and puts his feet on the coffee table. Then he broods. Neil joins him on the sofa, putting an arm around his shoulder, handing him one of the glasses. They don’t bother with a toast. Neil sips his vodka; Manning just holds the glass in his lap.

“Neil,” says Manning, looking straight ahead, through the dark window, “there’s something I need to talk to you about. This isn’t easy. It’s about David.”

Neil looks up from his glass and turns to Manning. “Yes?”

“Something ‘happened’ in Door County.”

There’s a long pause. Manning doesn’t seem ready to volunteer more information, so Neil gives a nervous laugh, telling him, “If you’re trying to make me jealous, Mark …”

Manning turns and interrupts him, “No, that’s the last thing I’m
trying
to do. But I need to be honest with you—because I love you so much—even though I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe me.”

“What happened?” Neil asks flatly.

Manning can’t face Neil as he tells him, “David and I had sex.”

Neil strains for patience as he asks, “What did you do—exactly?”

“Everything.”

“Was it safe?”

“Yes. I may have lost control, but at least I held on to
that
shred of sanity.”

“Thank God.” Neil falls silent. Then he rises from the sofa and paces the room. When he turns back to Manning, there are tears in his eyes. He shouts through a sob,
“Why would you tell me such a thing?”