The Concealers (24 page)

Preston was reacting to all the external pressures on his life. The cumulative effect of obligations imposed upon him by his wife, P.J., Casey's threat to leave, reaching out to the Collectibles, hit him like an allergy—his mind breaking out in mental hives. And the guilt. He was always feeling the guilt. He hated it, but he knew the only way to make it go away—or at least diminish it—was to do what he'd been putting off. At this point in his introspection, Harry popped into his mind.

Harry was the last Collectible on his list—the one he never got to until Joe's funeral. Tommy had told him over clam shells that he and Missy didn't know Harry until then either, but they weren't under an obligation. Tommy thought a lot of Harry, a stand-up guy, said he was close to Joe. Then the photography at the wedding and the oompah band, whatever that was.
And now I have to reach out to this guy, earn his trust, and take care of him . . . forever.

“He's not a fast response kinda guy,” Tommy had said when he gave Preston Harry's number.
At what point is enough enough?
But guilt ruled. He made the call.

“You've got the oompah man,” a booming voice said on the recording. “Hit a note and leave it. If you're lucky, I'll get back at you.”

Preston hesitated for a moment, inclined to just hang up and then said, “Hello, Harry. This is Preston Wilson. We met briefly at Joe Hart's funeral. I would appreciate it if you would call me.” Preston added his telephone number. He hoped Harry wouldn't call.

But within seconds his phone rang. “Hey, car man. What's happening? Are you knocking 'em dead? I see on your fancy website you're selling the big stuff. How's it going?”

Preston didn't know which questions to answer first. He decided to start with hello. After that, he said, “The car business is cyclical, but we're getting along at the moment,” immediately feeling that the response was too technical or, at least, too formal.

“What's on your mind, big guy?” Harry asked.

“Well, we didn't get a chance to talk much at the funeral. I spoke with Tommy recently, and he was singing your praises. I thought I'd reach out—see how you're doing.”

“Tommy and Missy are good people. Man, can they dance. You should have seen them at their wedding reception.”

“I understand you have a band, played at the reception.”

Harry's booming voice burst into song, “
We sang at the wedding, too, we sang especially for you.
We played the brass, you danced on the grass. We played especially for you.”

Preston managed a synthetic laugh. “Where are you, Harry?”

“The great state of Buffalo. It's actually a city.”

“What are you doing up there?”

“Having the time of my life. A bunch of us have a band and, to our amazement, we're in demand. VFW, Elks Club, Fourth of July picnics, Oktoberfest, school dances, private gigs, you name it.”

“Are you still doing photography?”

“Once in a while, when I'm moved to take the shot.” The one thing Preston remembered about Harry was his placing a picture he'd taken of Joe on the bridge of his boat on an easel for all to see at Joe's funeral. The photograph showed Joe looking forward, with a relaxed smile on his face and a hopeful expression in his eyes, illuminated by the sun's rays.

“How about our getting together sometime, hanging out?” Preston said, immediately dissatisfied at the cavalier tone of his question.

“Why?”

Preston was stunned by Harry's response, mainly because Preston was wondering the same thing.
What is it about these guys?
They're all freaking mind readers.

“So . . . I can get to know you better.”

“Do you play an instrument?” Harry asked.

“No”

“Hunt, fish, shoot trap?”

“No.”

“Write, act, sing, dance?”

Preston said no again.

“What do you do?” Harry asked, “Other than play golf, sell cars, and drink at the country club? Just guessing there.”

“Well, once in a while I shoot craps and smoke cigars. Does that count?”

“Hell, yes. It shows you're human. I was doubting that for a minute,” Harry replied.

“So, what do you say?” Preston continued. “Do you want to figure out how we can get together? Do you ever come to the city?”

“Joe told me about you. He spoke about you in a positive light—that's what he does . . . did. I'm not sure I want to get together with you. I have good days and bad, ups and downs. I'd hate to meet you on a down day.”

Preston was at a loss for words.

After a while, Harry broke the silence. “If we ever get a gig in New York City, I'll let you know. You can come and hear the music, meet the boys. How's that sound?”

“Evasive,” Preston said. “Frankly, I'm disappointed by the way this conversation has gone.”

“I can fix that,” Harry said.

Preston heard the click and dial tone on the other end, and for the second time that day was left feeling like someone who'd just had a glass of cold water thrown in his face.

She stopped for a quick lunch to clear her head and walked down Hampton Road to the Golden Pear Café. Not a minute in the door, she spotted Marcia Wilson, two ahead in the short line. There was no way to avoid being spotted, and Katherine feared an awkward moment might be brewing. Marcia, however, made the first move, with a genuine kiss on Katherine's cheek.

“Hi, Katherine. What a surprise! It's good to see you. Are you working here now?”

“Yes—still learning the ropes, actually. Good to see you, too. Are you—what are you doing in Southampton?”

“We have a summer place not far from here. Nadine is in the city today with P.J., and Preston's away at a car dealers' shindig in Las Vegas. I wanted to take care of some errands at our place, and then I was going to treat myself to a day at the club, the spa, the whole nine yards, but, you know, I'm just not in the mood for the bitchiness some of our girls can bring to the table.”

Katherine could see the strain in Marcia's neck and the tightness in her lips. “Their loss is my gain,” she said. “Let's have lunch together.”

“You're a dear. I'd love to,” Marcia said, taking Katherine by the arm and escorting her to the table a waitress had just then signaled was free.

“I didn't realize you had a home in the Hamptons,” Katherine said.

“Yes. It's a little house here in Southampton. Not on the water but comfortable. To tell you the truth, I like it better here. The Trump Tower thing was your father's idea.”

Katherine reached for her pen and pad but stopped short. She thought Trump Tower was pretentious and priced for a migraine. But what intrigued her was the assignment of its choice to
her father
. Marcia could have said
my husband's idea
. Her mind swiftly scanned the implications, even responsibility, and her conscience was telling her to pay attention to Marcia. The scan won the battle.
Your mother's a nurse. Your father's a war hero.
Pride. Susan:
My father and mother are drunks.
Shame.
Your father's idea . . .
her conscience won the war.

“How's P.J. getting along?”

“Very well. Thanks for asking. And I mean that.”

Their food came, and Katherine started to eat as she wondered why the last four words were necessary. The answer came soon enough.

“P.J. finally has hearing aids—both ears. Because they were fitted this late, there's a process we must go through to put him at ease, so that he'll accept wearing them. It must be a happy experience. We're working on it, but it would be nice if your father was interested enough to participate.”

So much for a pleasant lunch,
Katherine thought. She searched for a different topic. “You said he was in Las Vegas. Did he see Tommy and Missy, or was it all business?”

“Yes, he said he had dinner with them. As I think we mentioned, they are opening a camp for children with special needs. I admire that.”

“So do I. Like to meet them one of these days.”

“How is your job going?”

“I'm already in over my head, but, honestly, I love it.”

“Can you talk about what you're doing?”

“Sure, without getting into specifics. In addition to the usual round of rookie assignments, I'm working on a story about the banking world, specifically the impact on the little guy when bank officials do what they shouldn't and not what they should.”

“Are those two different?”

Katherine laughed. “A distinction without a difference? Technically, there are omissions and commissions. I'm looking into both.”

“Well, I know banks can be difficult, and we need them. I hope you find what you're looking for.”

“I wish what I'm looking for didn't exist.”

“Careful what you wish for,” Marcia said with a smile.

“Do you miss teaching?” Katherine asked.

“Yes, but I love P.J. to death, and I want to be the best mother I can. The first year or two can be a challenge . . . to sleep, if nothing else.”

Suddenly, as if they were discussing a nuclear bomb or the bubonic plague, a sadness appeared to overtake Marcia. Her head dropped, and out came her handkerchief from her handbag—just in time to catch a miniature Niagara Falls.

“Are you all right?” Katherine asked, getting up and putting her arms around Marcia. “Can I take you somewhere, do anything?”

“No, let 'em look. I don't care. It's been a bad few months, that's all. Sometimes it just hits me.”

“What's wrong? Can you talk about it?”

“I can, but in this case I don't want to because it involves your father, and I don't want to let him down. Or you either for that matter.”

Now it was Katherine's turn to feel upset. “Does it have something to do with me?” she asked in an even, low but stern voice.

“Oh no, absolutely not. If that were the case, I would not be sitting with you right now. It is definitely not about you. It's about your father, P.J., and me. But If I go into it with you—and criticize him—it would place you in an awkward position, and I don't want to do that. Your father loves you, adores you. He so wants to be your father in your eyes.”

“I understand,” Katherine said in a much lighter tone. Seeing Marcia regain her composure, Katherine decided to probe a bit further. “When we had dinner and were discussing Joe Hart's friends, you mentioned something that stuck in my mind. May I ask you about it?”

“Sure, go ahead. You seem trustworthy, Katherine. That's a nice quality to have.”

“Thank you. You said Preston's relationship with the Collectibles was
evolving.
What did you mean?”

Marcia appeared to be in thought for a couple of beats and then said, “He started out quite taken by Joe—apart from being appreciative for all Joe did for him, for us—by the concept of reaching out to help Joe's friends. We—Pres and I—were having some troubles back then and meeting these people seemed to help him. He changed the way he looked at them, at life. Then he got busy with work and his interest—I say commitment—seemed to fade. By evolving I was trying to be polite, but it irks me.”

Katherine was busy taking notes on her paper napkin.

“Why are you so passionate about this subject?” Marcia asked.

“The same reason you helped Preston help Johnny. I met him a few days ago, along with Alice. Corey, too.”

“You went . . . you are some young lady, young lady.” At that, they both shared their first laugh of the lunch.

“Maybe, but if I don't get back to work I may be out of a job.”

“I've enjoyed this immensely,” Marcia said. “I'll let you know the next time I come out. And feel free to drop over. Bring your dog. Take a walk on the beach. It's not that far.”

“I've enjoyed it, too.”

“By the way, can we keep this conversation between us girls?” Marcia asked.

“You bet. We're not the bitchy kind.” And they laughed again, this time even harder.

Back at her desk, Katherine rewrote her draft of the human-interest story centering on Constance, her husband, and three others, polished it, and e-mailed the finished copy to Sol. She debated with herself whether to send Chuck a copy, but rationalized that Sol wanted her to pursue this.
Take it to another level.
She knew Thursday started a new week, and that Chuck would be assigning her more stories. If Sol liked the bank story, maybe that would be included.

She had no way of knowing the sandstorm she had created.

“Come into my office.” The line went silent.

She told Hailey to stay and walked to the editor's office. Chuck was sitting behind his desk, leaning his considerable frame so far back in his chair, it appeared to Katherine he might fall over backwards. Without looking at her, he motioned to her to sit. She did.

“I was about to call you in to give you an assignment when Sol sent me a copy of your . . . unemployment tear-jerker.” Once again, the air conditioner blew cold. The last thing Katherine wanted was a problem with her editor. She willed herself to be calm, feeling the heat in the back of her neck.

“Here's the way it works,” Chuck continued. “I'm the editor. Harold's my assistant. He edits the copy. If we're pressed for time, our assistant copy editor will give us a hand. Let's work backwards. Paper published Wednesday 2:00 p.m. Noon's the cutoff for production so the stories have to be edited and approved well before that. Thursday starts the new week—I make the next round of assignments. In between, we have to plug the holes, feed the Web with whatever we can. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“It's a little more nuanced than that. Number one: You didn't ask me or tell me you were writing this story. Two: I didn't assign you this story. Three: It hasn't been edited. Four: You decided it should be written under your byline—Luke, our senior writer, assisted Sol when this FDIC bank story broke, and he wrote the CCB takeover follow-up under his name—all of which I approved,” Chuck said. “I know it's your first few days, but we do have a process around here. I'd like you to follow it.”

“Completely understood,” Katherine said.

“By the way, who gave you the lead?”

“I'll tell you that if you tell me something first,” Katherine said. She saw a thin, twisted smile on Chuck's face, with no trace in his eyes.

“Are we negotiating?”

“No.”

“What?” Chuck asked.

“How did you like the piece?”

“It was too long for our paper. It did catch the human interest side. Your lead?”

“Went to CCB and got the lead myself. A young teller there happened to know Mrs. Shipman.”

“And how did you happen to know she would know that?”

“Because I'm an investigative reporter, and it's my job to know how to get them to talk.”

“I suggest you talk with Luke and tell him that you liked the work he did on the prior stories and that you're hoping it will be okay with him if you pursue an assignment that deals with the layoffs. We'll see what he says. In the meanwhile, cover the obits for the next week, and here's a list of five stories I'd like you to write.”

Katherine looked over the list: how a community radio station was getting along after leaving Long Island's Southampton University campus and moving to Southampton Village; Southampton Village's police chief passing his exam to become permanent chief; the district attorney's office dispute with the Southampton Town Board letter on moving police records; whether the Southampton Zoning Board of Appeals would approve a Southampton pool application; and a new director taking over at Southampton's animal shelter. She tried her best to maintain a neutral face, hoping Chuck could not read her thoughts. It wasn't that she didn't know she would be starting at the bottom. She had expected that. She enjoyed meeting new people and understood the value in finding local stories of interest. The problem was the transparency of her impatience with doing such stories the way they'd always been done.

Katherine wanted to expand these stories, uncover what the men and women in Southampton and Long Island were really all about, their aspirations, their frustrations. She wanted to learn what they were particularly interested in, how they were unique, and what drove them, but why not cover the bank stories as well? They were in the
Twin Forks Press
area, too. But in looking at Chuck's face, in gauging his general demeanor, she knew this was not the time to debate the matter. She simply smiled and said, “Thank you.”

“Get out of here,” he growled. “I have work to do.”

Katherine walked down the aisle dividing the partitions in the reporters' den and passed Luke's desk, saw he was busy writing, and went back to her station. She thought about her conversation with Chuck and decided she needed to rein in her enthusiasm a notch, or at least its appearance. An e-mail popped up that she hadn't expected.

Angelo Bertolini. She opened the attachment.

 

Katherine called Angelo right away to thank him for the thorough report.

“You got it. You had me shooting in the dark so I didn't know how far you wanted me to go. A friend of mine in Vegas helped me out—no charge. If you want me to do more, let me know.”

“No, this is fine. I appreciate it. But keep an eye and ear open for anything you think I should know about Preston Wilson or his company.”

“You ever gonna tell me who this guy is to you—why you're interested?”

“Maybe someday.”

“Is he causing you any trouble?”

“He's definitely not causing me any trouble. But thanks.”

“My pleasure,” Angelo said.