The Concealers (9 page)

Katherine had always wondered whether she was worthy of the love of her father, the love she never got. She saw now that worry was misspent, wasted, and likely in some way she was yet to understand, destructive. Worse for her, there were new worries, deeper worries. How would she react to her newly discovered father? Could she successfully rebuild the house she had mentally lived in all her life? Did she want to? This time the image of her father would be tested against reality. Would she be disappointed in her new father? In herself? The raw nature of these core questions ignited a fire in her mind, creating unbearable heat and little light. She was lonely. More lonely than she had ever been. And more scared.

“Your mother's proud of you. She's just protecting her cub.”

She felt the sting of her mentor's words. Katherine knew better. Her mother was not protecting her; she was protecting herself. Katherine had never seen this crafty side of her mother, or if she had, it had not registered. Or maybe it was irrelevant. Her mother had always been there for her, and Katherine was grateful for her mother's scrappiness. Katherine hated the lens through which she was now looking at the only parent she'd ever known. She pushed these thoughts as far back as she could, mindful that she needed money, had to get some pieces published, and had to get a job. As soon as she stopped thinking about herself, she registered Gerry's perplexed but patient look.

“Jobs,” Katherine said, pulling a list from her briefcase.

“I don't handle jobs,” Gerry said with a smile. “How'd it go at the Career Expo?”

“I'm in at
Mother Jones,
but I would have to go to San Francisco or D.C., and the stipend is only a thousand dollars a month.
American Banker
is a possibility, along with the
New York Times.
”

“
American Banker
gives its readers financial information.”

“Yeah, but I still have to look for the human side of the story.”

“It seems to me you have to make some threshold decisions—newspaper or magazine—and freelance or payroll.”

“I've thought about that. Most of these entry-level opportunities involve fact-finding and editing, not reporting. I want real reporting,” Katherine said.

“The question is how does an editor know you can be trusted to deliver? That comes from experience—their experience with you. You can submit freelance articles to them now. See what they'll accept, what they like. And if they bite, it's a source of money.”

Katherine sat silently, rubbing the back of her neck, and absorbing her mentor's words. She nodded, and Simpson continued. “You might have a better shot at establishing yourself through a six-month internship, and a magazine might be more inclined to give you the chance to prove yourself.”

“I'm feeling a lot of pressure about money, Gerry—student loans to repay, living expenses—but that's my problem, not theirs. I'm thinking about going to D.C. to talk with
Mother Jones.
And yes, I am going to write some articles and send them along.”

“Yes, unfortunately, money matters. You appear to be on track,” he assured her. “Forgive me, Katherine, but I have another appointment.”

“No problem,” Katherine said, standing up, gathering her briefcase and handbag, and heading for the door. As her hand reached the doorknob, she heard her mentor's words, “How is your assignment coming?”

Katherine froze and thought about what she would like to say to Simpson.
Well, Gerry, I've found your emotional core and I hate it. I'm broke. I need a job. My mother lied to me, a big lie. I now have a father, a different one, whom I need to investigate, which I don't have the time to do. I already know the influence he's had on my mother, and twenty-four years later, the impact he's having on my life.

Instead, Katherine turned her head and said, “I'm working on it . . . believe me, I'm working on it,” and then turned and walked to the stairs with her canine companion. She grabbed the corner post and waited for the staircase to stop moving.

The sight of people in sparkling metal chairs at the tables under the colorful umbrellas, taking advantage of a bright spring morning in the city, eased Katherine's spirits somewhat. She stopped, looked up and smiled as she saw the top of the Empire State Building against the clear blue sky.

She went into Argo Tea, ordered her favorite brew, and found a seat under an umbrella. As she put her briefcase and handbag down on the table, she took a sip and turned to stare up at the Empire State Building, as if to draw down some of its magic into her soul.

Suddenly she felt a tap on her shoulder and heard Hailey's cautious growl. Startled, she whirled around to see the burly bulldog face of a thick man maybe her grandfather's age, his large round head gone partly bald.

“Gotta be careful setting your handbag down on the table and looking the other way,” he said with a toothy smile. Hailey backed down and began wagging her tail.

“Are you going to steal it?” Katherine asked.

“No. Twenty years on the force. Old habits die hard.” He pulled out a chair. “Marco Angelo Bertolini. My friends call me Angelo. Mind if I join you?”

He didn't wait for her permission. “You're a cop?”

“Retired. Private investigator now. I like Argo Tea, and now that Bloomberg's created all these great seats, I like parking myself here.”

“Suit yourself,” Katherine said. “I'm leaving soon anyway.” She decided that any human Hailey trusted was okay with her, at least in a crowd in full daylight.

“I saw you come out,” Angelo said with a gesture to the Flatiron Building. “I love that building.”

“Me, too,” Katherine said. “So how's the PI business? What are you doing here?”

“I have a meeting in a half hour with a professor friend who I've done investigative work for, for years.”

“Really? Who?”

“Gerry Simpson.”

“No way. You've been doing work for Professor Simpson? He's one of my professors and my mentor. I just graduated from the Fletcher Thomas School of Journalism.”

“Small world. Congratulations. Now you can join the ranks of the unemployed.”

“If you're going to be a wiseass, I'm not going to let you sit at my table.”

Angelo laughed. “It ain't your table. It's the City's table. But I'll be good. Besides, you probably already got a job. You got the look.”

“Yeah? What's that look, Angelo?”

“Hungry. Inquisitive. Don't-mess-with-me look. The kind that gets you employed—if you got the talent.”

“Maybe I'm just in a lousy mood.”

“That helps, too. So, do you or don't you have a job?”

“I have offers. I'm thinking about it.”

Angelo seemed to swallow the seat he was sitting in, swirling his straw around in his drink and then slurping what was left of it. Rumpled white shirt, narrow dark tie stopping three quarters of the way down, belt a notch too tight. Not a trace of self-consciousness. Katherine found him interesting, even compelling. Looking into his face was like reading a complicated, worn roadmap.

“You like dogs?” Katherine asked.

“I love big quiet ones like yours. Hate little yappy ones,” Angelo said.

“How about bulldogs? You look like a bulldog.”

“I am a bulldog.” They laughed together.

Angelo's smile fascinated Katherine. She felt that Angelo could make it warm or cold depending upon the effect he wanted.

“How's your PI business these days?”

“You asked me that.”

“I know. You gave me an evasive answer. How about a real one?”

“Retired recently after I got my twenty. I'm no longer a detective, but retirement is for the birds. So I'm building up the PI work. So far, it's been a bunch of crap. ‘See if my husband's screwing around.' ‘I need some dirt on my boss so he'll stop hitting on me.' Nothin' I can get my teeth into yet. It's drivin' me nuts. Maybe you can send me some stuff.”

“I did my master's thesis on Medicare and Medicaid fraud. As a detective, you have to know a lot about fraud.”

“I do.”

“The
Village Voice
is interested in some short articles I've written on the banking industry. Do you know anything about bank fraud?”

“I imagine I do.”

“There are some bad guys in the banking business.”

“There are some bad guys in every business,” Angelo said with one of his smiles, this one lukewarm. “Sometimes you need a bad guy for a good friend.”

Katherine thought about that for a minute. “Are you a bad guy—or do you want to get the bad guys?” she asked.

“I'm a good guy who sometimes does bad things for good reasons to get the bad guys.”

Katherine pondered that as well, and wondered what sort of bad things he'd done for Gerry Simpson. “I've really got to get going,” Katherine said, finding the conversation interesting and not without potential, but at the same time feeling something deep inside her telling her it was time to move on. “I've enjoyed talking with you, Angelo, and my instincts tell me we should keep in touch.”

“I agree.” Angelo handed her his card. “If you need something, give me a call.”

Katherine took the card, looked it over, and placed it in her bag. “Thanks, Angelo,” she said. “I may just do that. You never know when I'm going to need some special information.”

“I figured that,” Angelo said.

Katherine got up, patted her new friend on the shoulder, and waved good-bye. As she ambled down Broadway, she realized she was smiling. She'd gotten a kick out of Angelo and would check him out.

Before long, she had reached Union Square, people everywhere. Amid the everyday bustle she thought she caught the incoming e-mail beep on her phone. No telling what news it might contain today. She sat on one of the large granite blocks lining the sidewalk.

How's the newest racer on the circuit these days? What are you up to? Sean O'Malley

She quickly responded.
Sitting in the entrance to Union Square, people watching and now reading your e-mail. How's the best racer on the circuit?

They traded mobile numbers, and in seconds Katherine's text alert sounded.

How r u, Kat?

OK. Sort of. Crazy things in my life right now.

Did you get your masters?

May 1st—What r u up to?

Finished my Secret Service basic training—finally in the field.

Wow. My racing hero is a Secret Service agent?

An agent who wants to get to know u better!

I u 2. How does that work?

Based in Washington. Any plans to come here?

Actually, I may be in connection with a job. Working on it. Will let u know.

Great. We'll make it work. Got 2 go.

 

Ha—maybe she'd move that
Mother Jones
interview up the list. And quickly.

“I have a peculiar request, Kat. It's a best friend request.”

“You want me to fix you up with the latest guy I didn't like, but you would think he's gorgeous?”

“No. This is sort of serious.”

“Oh. What?”

“I want you to come to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting with me tonight,” said Susan.

“Why? Are you writing a paper? What's going on?”

“I'm going because I've reached bottom and need to go.”

“Are you telling me you're an alcoholic?”

“Yes.”

Katherine was silent for what seemed like several minutes. She knew that Susan liked to have a good time and that certainly included fun at their favorite pub, but she had never considered Susan an alcoholic.

“Of course, I'll go with you tonight. How about getting together right now and talking about this . . . if you feel like doing that.”

“I'm working today. I'll pick you up at your apartment at 5:30 p.m. We can have dinner at the diner and then we'll go to the meeting at 7:00 p.m. I know this is a shock to you. I'd been sober for more than five years, stopped going to meetings and working with a sponsor—but during the last year, I've been drinking. I may be a functioning alcoholic, but I have a problem and I need to go back to AA. I just wanted to tell you because I know you'll be there for me.”

“Of course I will. Thank you for calling me. I'll see you at 5:30 p.m.”

As usual, Susan was on time, the diner was not crowded, and they found a comfortable table in the back. Katherine mostly listened and in the process learned considerably more about her good friend. Susan had mentioned her family in the past, but Katherine had no idea that both her father and her mother were alcoholics. Katherine had met Dr. Bernstein and his wife on a couple of occasions at Columbia a year ago and saw no signs of either having a drinking problem. In fact, Katherine had had the impression that Dr. and Mrs. Bernstein, when not traveling around the world, were busy all the time—her dad with endoscopies, colonoscopies, or whatever gastroenterologists do, and her mother with charitable work helping children and hosting events at their country club.

As Katherine would learn in greater detail, however, in talking with Susan that night at dinner, later at the AA meeting, and after, there are many alcoholics who don't fit the out-of-touch dysfunctional stereotype, and yet are struggling on a daily basis to deal with this dreadful disease. She knew that many people had a drinking problem and generally had understood that there was a genetic connection, but had not realized how many functional alcoholics there were and the strength of the genetic proclivity and statistical probability of children with one or more alcoholic parents, themselves becoming alcoholics.

Katherine was moved by what appeared to be openness and honesty of those who spoke at the meeting, and admired the courage it must have taken. When she saw Susan step up to the podium, she felt a burning in her throat and pain in the back of her neck. As Katherine listened to Susan say the obligatory opening, go on to explain her problem and what she had done and intended to do again to deal with it, she had to fight back tears.

Katherine's in-depth awareness and understanding of the universe of alcoholism had been considerably expanded, and she was grateful to her friend for allowing her inside. She found Susan's conversation about the alcoholic's relationship with her sponsor to be insightful, particularly with respect to how honestly each would speak with each other and the degree of trust, in some cases making their relationship stronger than the ones they had with their spouse or family members.

She wondered whether her thoughts were colored by the questions of maternal candor and trust she herself was currently facing. In any event, she knew she would look at alcoholism differently, with a more nuanced appreciation going forward. She also thought about the extensive experiences her mother had as a nurse and wondered how many alcoholics she had treated. Thinking about the genetic connection, she was glad that for her mother and grandfather, and to the extent she could remember her grandmother, drinking had not been a problem.

Now, she had a father. She wondered about him.
What is he like?
What are his parents like?
She found her mind running through the possibilities—alcoholism included.