Saving Grace (8 page)

The waiter served their lunch and slipped away. Lily stared down at the dainty little rows of rolled sushi, whose fishy odor was suddenly overwhelming, and found she’d lost her appetite. Martha attacked her squid grimly, as if she weren’t hungry either, but expected this meal to be her last.

Lily’s head hurt. The headache had started on the jitney from East Hampton but suddenly it was much worse. The restaurant swam in and out of focus. Martha’s vermilion mouth jabbered soundlessly, and the sushi wriggled on Lily’s plate. She pressed her hands to her temples and shut her eyes.

Gradually, like the downside of a labor contraction, the pain ebbed. Martha’s voice
 
resurfaced. “What’s wrong?”

“Headache,” Lily said.
 

“You’ve gone white.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

Martha signaled for the check, but Lily was recovered enough to grab it when it came. She paid, and they went outside into the heat. Though they had no wish to go on together, their paths led the same way, toward Columbus Circle.
 
After a while Martha said, “Win or lose, this fight has cost us everything. Not just money. We’re talking divorce, when this nightmare is over. We’re talking kids who want to change their names and move to Arkansas. We’re talking my career down the tubes. And you know what kills me? We didn’t need it. Maybe in the beginning, but later, between his salary and mine?
 
It’s not worth it, I told him; but Jonathan wouldn’t leave him alone.”

“I wish you would stop saying that. Jonathan loves Michael.”

“Sure, in his own twisted way. That’s why he had to drag Michael down with him. If they were both doing it, it had to be okay.”

They’d reached the southern edge of Central Park. Lily stopped and glared at Martha, who suddenly remembered a younger, more formidable Lily. Where had she gone, and when had Tapioca Woman taken her place?

“That’s enough,” Lily said, sounding more like her old self. “I’m sorry if Michael’s done things he shouldn’t have, but he’s responsible for his choices, not Jonathan.”

“We’ll see,” Martha said. “I’ll tell you this: the buck won’t stop with my husband.”

“I don’t believe you. Michael would never drag Jonathan into his mess.”

Martha let out a bitter laugh. “Michael will do what he has to do.” The women glared at each other, all semblance of liking gone. “You know what your problem is?”
 

“No, but I’ll bet you do.”

“I finally figured you out. Behind that Mrs. Ramsay act you do so well, you’re nothing but a common coward. You take what Jonathan gives, but you don’t have the guts to ask where it comes from. You just drift along on the current.”

Lily flushed. “That’s absurd.”

“Is it? Listen.” Martha moved closer. Her breath smelled of squid. “I’m strong. Somehow I will survive this nightmare, and when it’s over, I will rebuild my life. But you, Lily: what’s going to happen to you?”

Lily had heard enough. She turned and fled into Central Park, where she wandered aimlessly, too upset to go home. After some time she found herself in the Sheep Meadow, where she and Jonathan used to attend the free concerts when they first came back to New York. They would arrive early in the morning to stake out a good spot, settle in, and get acquainted with their neighbors. Gallon jugs of wine circulated, and a sweet cloud of marijuana smoke lay over the meadow. She sat on the grass, legs outstretched, leaning back on her elbows. When she closed her eyes, she could see the bare-chested boys with flowing hair, the girls in Indian prints holding half-naked babies with peace signs stenciled onto their diapers. It seemed like yesterday. Where had the time gone? People stared at her, an elegant middle-aged lady in silk and high heels lolling in the grass, but for once she didn’t care.
 

* * *

The door marked “Jonathan Fleishman, Eastborough Democratic Leader” was usually left ajar, for the incumbent ran an open shop; but this morning’s unexpected caller had carefully closed it behind him.

“It wasn’t so much what he said,” Arthur Speigel said, “as how he said it, if you know what I mean.”
 

“Let’s start with what he asked.”

“He asked what the city was getting for the Rencorp lease.”

“Did you tell him?”

“What else could I do?” Speigel said. He was a pink-faced twitch of a man, with thick glasses and an air of perpetual worry. “It’s city property. I had no grounds not to tell him. Anyway, he could have got it through Freedom of Information.”

“You told him.” Jonathan sighed. “Let me explain something, Arthur. The Freedom of Information Act does not say that every time a reporter asks a question we have to fall all over ourselves to answer it. The law lays out procedures to be followed—detailed, time- consuming procedures. Reporters still have to work for a living; we don’t have to do their jobs for them. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
 

“Sorry, Jonathan. I just thought it was better not to seem obstructive. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. It’s not like there’s anything wrong, right?”

Jonathan leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. The chair was a custom-made orthopedic rocker, an expensive item, but the party had picked up the tag. Jonathan’s bad back was a badge of honor, like Jack Kennedy’s, and a part of his legend; it stemmed from a savage beating in an Alabama lockup some twenty-five years ago.

Except for the creaking of his chair, the room was very quiet.

“Did you mention the day-care center?” Jonathan asked.

“The day-care center, the jobs. I told him the deal was made with the city, not the party. I reminded him Rencorp is a minority business, I said it’s the opening wedge in a whole revitalization project for south Eastborough.”

“And?”

Spiegel lowered his eyes. “He kept coming back to the rent. He asked about you, too.”

“What about me?”

“He asked if you had some kind of side deal with Rencorp.”

There was a moment of silence. Jonathan leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk. “And you said…?”

“I said not that I know of.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“I’m sorry. He came at me out of left field.”

“That was the best you could do?”

Speigel pulled a large red handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “So maybe I didn’t handle it so great. He took me by surprise is all. I guess I should have seen it coming.”

“How so?” Jonathan asked with ominous softness.

Speigel took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “Ever since the
Probe
tore into Mike Kavin, people have been waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“And I’m the other shoe?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. Hey, don’t kill the messenger, my friend. I’m here, aren’t I?”

There was, nonetheless, a look in his eyes Jonathan had not seen before, a speculative glint. He walked Speigel out, an arm around his shoulders.

“Do me a favor, Art. Next time Barnaby calls, if there is a next time, duck the call. And if somehow he does get ahold of you, be less accommodating. Stonewall. You don’t know, you don’t have time, you’re not authorized, you need it in triplicate—know what I mean?”

Afterward, Jonathan poured himself a shot of bourbon from a bottle he kept in a cupboard. Spiegel’s after-shave had left a sweet, brackish odor in the room. The man was no rocket scientist, but he was useful and he had a good political nose: the kind of guy you could throw cold into a meeting of strangers and in ten minutes later he could tell you with absolute accuracy that A, ostensibly allied with B, was secretly playing footsy with C.

Respect bordering on the obsequious was his usual manner with Jonathan. Today there had been an undertone of doubt, the sound of a man hedging his bets.

His secretary buzzed him. “It’s your bank, Jonathan. The woman’s called twice; she says it’s urgent.”

“Thanks, Maggie. Put her through.”

“Mr. Fleishman, this is Maria, Mr. Gonzalez’s secretary from the bank? You remember you helped me out with my son a few years ago?”

He remembered doing some small thing—making a phone call when her boy was busted, getting the kid rehab instead of jail. “Of course,” he said heartily. “How’s the boy doing?”

“Fine, thank you. Mr. Fleishman, something terrible is happening here. Mr. Gonzalez couldn’t call you ‘cause they’re sitting right in his office, but he gave me a sign and I came out to the lobby.”

“What’s the problem, Maria?”

“These people came with a subpoena, Mr. Fleishman. They’re auditing your account.”
 

“Who is? The IRS?”

“No, sir,” she whispered. “I heard them say the U.S. attorney’s office.”

Jonathan felt a dull impact, like drilling on an anesthetized tooth. “They had a subpoena?”

“Yes, sir, because Mr. Gonzalez didn’t have no choice, he had to let them look. Only he gave me a wink to go call you. You better come right down here, sir.”

* * *

The bank was only two blocks from his office. He was there in five minutes. Maria was hovering by the entrance. As they strode through the front room toward the manager’s office, the tellers looked at him, then looked away. Maria opened the office door and stood aside to let him enter. When Jonathan squeezed her arm in thanks, she turned away, wiping her eyes.

Luis Gonzalez glanced up, and a look that was half-relief, half- embarrassment flooded his face. He spread his hands. “Nothing I could do, Jonathan.”

Three people were seated at a table strewn with computer printouts and ledgers. Two clerkish men glanced up incuriously, then went back to the papers before them. The third—a woman, red-haired, hard- faced, striking—took the time to scowl at Gonzalez. Then, without a word, she stood and thrust a subpoena at Jonathan.

He skimmed it and tossed it aside contemptuously. “What grounds did you give for this fishing expedition?” he demanded.

“I can’t answer that.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass—Bugalio, is it?” He knew damn well who she was—the bitch who was after Michael’s blood.

“Buscaglio, and we both know I don’t have to cite grounds to you, sir.” The “sir” was late and ironic.

“Lucas knows about this?”

“Of course.”

He needn’t have asked. Buscaglio might be flavor of the month in the U.S. attorney’s office, but she had nowhere near the authority or the clout to take him on herself.

They’re like roaches, Michael had said, but he was wrong: they were maggots. Jonathan felt a spreading sickness in his gut. It was happening to him. He’d seen it done to so many others, he knew just how the process worked. It was inexorable. Once they started, they never let go till they found something to justify their efforts; and if they couldn’t make a case, they’d manufacture one.

He stood in the doorway, paralyzed by the realization that after all these years of fighting for the system’s victims, he had finally joined them. It was all wrong; it was never supposed to happen. This pawing through his bank records was pure harassment. What else could they expect to accomplish by it—or did Lucas reckon him stupid as well as corrupt?

But he had to remain calm. People were watching. He told himself that he was an honorable man, and honorable men cannot be humiliated. Nevertheless, he couldn’t stop himself saying bitterly, “Lucas didn’t have the balls to confront me himself. Tell him I thought he had more guts.”

“You should leave now, Mr. Fleishman,” Buscaglio said with an insolent look.

Luis Gonzalez jumped up and came around his desk to stand beside Jonathan. His face was red. “Mr. Fleishman is an honored customer of this bank and he has every right to be here.”

Jonathan clasped his shoulder. “It’s all right, my friend. Let them look. They’re just wasting time and money.”

“My time,” Gonzalez said, “my tax money. I’m sorry, Jonathan, this just burns me up.” He turned to Buscaglio. “I grew up in Eastborough, and all my life this borough has been run by crooked politicians who got fat off the people. Nobody ever did a goddamn thing to them. Finally we get someone decent, someone who cares about our problems, and that’s who you go after. Lady, you want to do some good, why don’t you go after the drug money that flows like water through this borough? Why don’t you go after the dealers who sell crack to our children?” Why don’t you one-tenth of what this man has done?”

Jonathan could have kissed him.

Jane Buscaglio shrugged and picked up a ledger.

* * *

Clara sat at the kitchen table in the light, bright house that was built on water and wrote in a crabbed, uneven hand:

Dear Tamar,

How are you? And Micha? He should get out of the army. Seven years, enough already. He should go to college, get a real profession.

And you, my daughter, I’m very proud they made you chief of surgery. Maybe now you’ll think about what I said, about coming to America. Here such a respected doctor could live like a queen, with a beautiful house and fine things, good as your brother. What you got there on the kibbutz? A couple rooms, a few sticks furniture, not even your own telephone or car they give you. I ask you, this is fair?”