The Fugitives (40 page)

“I would encourage you to do just that. But that can’t have any bearing on whether and when we run a story.”

“Why not?” asked Richter.

“I would hope to maintain a definite separation between Mr. Denomie’s agenda and our mission,” said Nables.

“
Agenda
’s a pretty strong word, Ike,” said Foley.

“
Agenda
derives from the Latin,
agere,
meaning ‘do.’ It is the plural form of the gerund,
agendum
. Its current meaning, containing no pejorative connotation whatsoever, originates in the 1600s.”

“Thank you for the vocabulary lesson,” said Richter.

“You’re welcome,” said Nables.

“Ike has a master’s in English,” said Foley to Denomie. “What is it, UIC?”

“Northwestern,” said Nables.

“Be that as it may,” said Richter, “Ted’s interests and ours aren’t all that far apart.”

“Ours?” said Nables.

“The
Mirror
’s.”

“In what sense?”

“Let me field that, Susan,” said Denomie. “If I may. This kind of attention really shakes public confidence in the legitimacy of casino gambling.”

Nables’s face remained completely blank.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Denomie continued. “But we’ve worked hard to ensure that our reputation is spotless.”

“Maybe not hard enough,” said Nables.

“Maybe not, Ike. But is it fair to throw mud on us before we’ve had a chance to take action? I don’t need to tell you these are tough times. People are thinking carefully about where they want to spend their vacation dollars. And, to be blunt, a story like this could cost us dearly.”

“That’s no concern of mine,” said Nables.

Richter exhaled audibly, turning down the corners of her mouth.

“I knew you’d feel that way,” said Foley. “It’s one of the reasons why everyone around here looks up to you with respect.” He gestured at Richter. “Sue, would you mind?”

“By all means.” She reached into a briefcase that had sat on the floor beside her like a well-trained dog. “Here’s our BPA numbers from last quarter. I’m sure you’re familiar with them. The important numbers are here, here, and here. They establish our rate base for the standalone sections. Including yours, Ike. You can see that the numbers have declined, which means that even if we could continue to maintain ad sales at our current volume, revenue is down. But of course lineage drops along with circulation, a trend dramatically illustrated in this graph.” She reached to retrieve another document from the briefcase, and to Nables it looked as if she were reaching down to pet that obedient dog.

“I see,” said Nables.

“This newspaper can’t sustain itself if these trends continue.”

“And how can my editorial decisions contribute to the reversal of these trends?”

“If I may, Ike,” said Denomie. “In my position, I approve all the advertising expenditures for the casinos and other holdings in our hospitality and leisure portfolio. Chicago’s well within our visitor radius, and the
Mirror
’s always been an important partner of ours.”

“Very important,” said Richter, under her breath, almost reverently.

“Our own revenue declines, if any occur, will have to be met with corresponding cuts in our advertising budget. And I’m forced to determine where to apply those cuts. It’s best, as you can imagine, if it doesn’t even become an issue.”

“I see,” said Nables.

“Ike,” said Foley, “this is tough for all of us.”

“Less for some than others, I’ll bet,” said Nables.

“I’ll let that pass. I think we’re obscuring the point if we get involved in a discussion of principle. We want to survive to fight another day. Ted’s been frank with us, and we respect that.”

“Money’s always frank,” said Nables.

“Ike, I need to know you’re on board with this,” said Foley.

Nables was silent.

TODAY

Mulligan hid for a long time. He waited until fear had been completely overwhelmed by cowardice, and then waited some more until cowardice had been overwhelmed by self-disgust. After a while, there was nothing but the pale sound of branches stirring in the wind, and the distant cawing of a crow. He came out, cautiously, only when he heard the approaching sirens. He found Argenziano by the tree where he’d been shot. Mulligan didn’t look for very long but he could tell that they’d done something special to him, something extravagant.

The first cops arrived, in separate SUVs whose headlights flooded the scene and blinded Mulligan. There were two of them, and they approached with their weapons drawn.

“Freeze,” said one.

Mulligan put his hands in the air and one of the cops came over while the other held his gun on him.

“Put them on your head and spread your legs,” said the first cop.

The rear door of one of the SUVs swung open. Mulligan saw Kat leaning out of the backseat.

“It’s OK,” she said. “He’s the one who was with me.”

“Kat,” he said. She retreated into the vehicle and shut the door without another word.

“What happened here, sir?” said the first cop, frisking him anyway.

“Can you put those away?” Mulligan asked.

“Procedure, sir,” said the second.

They holstered the guns after they’d looked around.

“They really did a job on him,” said the second cop, crouching before Argenziano. “Did you see what happened?” He got to his feet, and brushed off his knee with one hand.

“I didn’t,” said Mulligan. “I mean, I saw them shoot him in the legs.”

“Them? How many?”

“Two guys,” said Mulligan.

“Can you describe them?”

“I didn’t really get that good of a look at them.”

The cop approached him gingerly, favoring the knee he’d gotten down on, and Mulligan could see now that he was the older of the two, maybe fifty. He wore a dark, sickle-shaped mustache and had ice-blue eyes.

“And you got away. Got lucky, I guess.”

“I guess,” said Mulligan.

“She was with you?” The cop gestured at the SUV and its passenger.

“I guess she was behind me,” said Mulligan.

The cop had stopped about a foot from Mulligan, who reflexively took a step backward.

“You guess.”

“I took off when I saw the chance.”

“You left her.”

“Everybody had guns.”

“She didn’t.”

“Everybody else did. People were getting shot, for Christ’s sake.” Mulligan’s voice broke. He felt like he was near tears. “I ran while I had a chance.”

“Just looking out for number one,” said the cop.

“It’s not like I’m her boyfriend or anything.”

“What are you?” The cop stared at Mulligan until he looked away.

“Cliff,” the other cop said, finally. He sounded as if he’d been waiting to speak. “What about this?” He was standing beside the open grave, panning his flashlight beam across its length.

“That,” Cliff said, turning from Mulligan, “I can’t fucking begin to guess. Let’s get the detectives out here.”

More vehicles, cars and vans, began showing up. A perimeter was established. Barricade tape, gloves, tools, cameras, receptacles, casting materials, measuring wheels, evidence placards. It wasn’t long before Mulligan spotted the helical masts of the news vans, sailing in to ensure that a story, fresh from the edit suite, received the moment of attention it deserved. Finally, a detective spoke to Cliff, who gestured at Mulligan. The detective looked him over.

“Does he need to go to the hospital?”

“He’s fine,” said Cliff. “You’re just fine, right?”

Mulligan could have done without Cliff’s sarcasm, but he was happy to agree: he didn’t want to go to the hospital. Already a man with a perfect head of hair wearing a khaki parka was picking his way over, accompanied by a guy with a camcorder balanced on his shoulder.

“Keep him away from me,” Mulligan said.

The detective nodded, but Cliff was way ahead of him: he was with Mulligan on that, at least.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he said, “sir.”

They put Mulligan in the back of an unmarked police car then, Cliff placing his hand on the top of his head to guide him in as if he were in handcuffs. He sat there a long time, watching the lights strobe over the scene outside. Finally, the detective got in the front seat and drove him back to the station, where he waited to tell his story in a small interview room. A window set in one wall looked directly into a matching room, like a mirror image on the other side of the glass. After a while, a uniformed sergeant led Kat into the matching room and left her there. She and Mulligan gazed at each other through the glass for a moment, and as Mulligan tried to think of some amusing pantomime to communicate with her, she came to the window, lowered the venetian blinds, and closed the slats.

SALTINO

B
OBBY
stood over an open hole, slumped in a posture you might naturally associate with mourning or grief. It was an old hole, one previously filled, and his sagging shoulders were actually the result of fatigue from having dug the hole—redug it, albeit using heavy equipment—his head bowed only so that he could look avidly into the hole: he was not mourning and he was experiencing no grief, although there was a body in there. The body was all that remained of what had filled it. The rest, all the dirt, was piled beside it. There was still a body in the hole. Bobby was happy because his expectations were fulfilled.

I knew Bobby for a long time and I can state this with confidence. Bobby was a man whose expectations were met in such simple ways—by his finding things where they belonged, or in the possession of the people with whom they belonged, or, conversely, by his finding them in the wrong place or with the wrong people and thereby confirming his suspicions; for suspicion always was a driving force in the mind of Bobby Argenziano. It was the suspicion of a greedy creature—one hesitates to say a
primitive
creature, although as you can see I have barely hesitated before going ahead and saying it; the suspicion of a primitive greedy creature who took no measure of his need before going ahead and doing what he deemed necessary to his survival, no matter how excessive it may have been in relation to that need.

Yet, despite everything’s being in its ordered place, even as Bobby’s expectations were met in this instance, his suspicions were aroused as well. How could I be
out there
in the world if I also was
down there,
in the hole he dug for me after firing a bullet into the back of my skull? It was a mental adjustment I daresay it would have been difficult for even the most open-minded among you to make, and as for Bobby, let us say that he was not the adaptive type, at least not in that respect. To draw upon the terminology of game theory (a set of concepts with which I had not the slightest familiarity during my lifetime, I regret to say), we might suggest that Bobby viewed human interplay in its essence as a zero-sum game, and one that he, as a constant or serial participant, wanted therefore to win at all costs. And he consequently incurred such costs numerous times, although it might be said of his kind that they can afford them. It might also be said, not inaccurately, that I was of his kind. Most others bear such costs much less lightly than Bobby and his kind, our kind, Bobby’s kind and mine. Most others find the very thought of such costs overly burdensome, and so they shoulder different burdens—burdens of responsibility, burdens of obligation, burdens of duty, burdens of guilt for falling short, burdens that they find it natural or decide to assume. Whereas Bobby and I, and those of our kind, declined to accept such burdens, and accepted instead those costs that to us feel light, or inconsequential. Although I am living proof (as it were) that such costs are in fact high, grievously high.

I wanted to suggest that Bobby did not adapt to conditions that had the effect of changing the nature of the game, especially if such changes made the game more complex than he had bargained for, given the zero-sum outlook he brought to the complexities that are a constitutive part of life. Bobby felt no guilt over my death, felt no responsibility for my life, which was, at the moment of truth, in his hands, and which he took without hesitation, having reckoned that my death was an essential part of his plan. The amount of reassurance that Bobby could derive from the presence of my body in that hole he dug was diminished by the possibility, however remote, that I might be out there—out
here
. I should note that Bobby was superstitious. He was full of fear. He was no more afraid of the physical body, the corpse, in the hole he dug than he would have been afraid of a side of beef, nor was he afraid of the deserted grove where he stood. But the unknowable did frighten him, as well it should have.

What’s unknowable? Nearly everything is unknowable. The desire of our time is to compile a total inventory, an accounting of all there is to know, but I’ve come to realize that the more data we acquire, particularly about one another and about our soiled behavior—from discreet whispers picked up with long-range microphones to intemperate moments memorialized globally and instantaneously at the touch of a button, from financial records that can be used to triangulate upon a hypothesized truth to graphic videos of compromised flesh that make any need for hypothesis obsolete—the more we discover that the only thing we can ascertain is that we are all capable of the most exquisitely unpredictable behavior. To rely on probability is always to guarantee surprise. Call it the epistemology of intelligence gathering: the future will always, finally, be immune to prediction. But none of that is what Bobby would have referred to as the
unknowable
. Bobby’s head was filled with the usual jumble. The jettatore, the blazing Catholic hell, the chainsaw-wielding maniac: stories he’d heard that tickle instinct and massage credulity outright. Bobby didn’t even bother taking stock in probability. He stockpiled objects and the means to acquire them. It’s why he committed his crime and it’s what he took solace in afterward, assuring himself of his immunity from judgment. A materialist, basically, like all the rest of you.