He glances over once again at the corner of the room, at the drinks cabinet.
Takes a deep breath, holds it in.
Couple out walking their dog. In Wicklow. Remains of a body in a ditch – just bones really, and a set of clothes. Reckoned to have been there for at least two years. Unidentified, but no shortage of speculation.
He breathes out slowly.
Mary emerges from the bedroom in her at-homes and goes back into the kitchen.
Bolger stands there, not moving.
Couple out walking their dog.
In Wicklow.
Is this it? Is this beginning?
It’s nearly eleven thirty.
Too late to phone now, but then again maybe the perfect time to phone. Catch him off guard.
Jimmy is walking along by St Stephen’s Green.
He left Maria at the top of Grafton Street and while they didn’t make a specific arrangement to meet again, the understanding is that they’ll be in touch – once Maria has had a little time to think, and maybe consult a lawyer. Once he’s had time – not that this came up in conversation – to clear the decks with Phil Sweeney.
He gets his phone out and looks at it.
There’s no point in putting this off. Besides, things have changed. He’s on his own now, no longer a valuable asset working at a national newspaper…
He finds the number.
What has he got to lose?
He brings the phone up to his ear, and waits.
He glances over at the Shelbourne Hotel.
‘Jimmy?’
‘Phil. Hi. I hope I’m not calling too late.’
‘No, no, you’re grand. Thanks for getting back to me. I appreciate it. I wouldn’t want there to be a misunderstanding.’
‘Oh?’ Jimmy says, deciding to get straight into it. ‘Really? What’ll we call it then, an absence of understanding? Because you know what? I’m at a loss here. You call me up -’
‘I was just trying to help -’
‘How? By insulting me? And where did you hear about what I’m working on anyway?’
There’s probably no straight answer Sweeney can give to this, at least not one Jimmy will find acceptable.
‘The flow of information,’ he says. ‘I pay attention to it.’
‘Oh please.’
‘Look, I often hear things I don’t necessarily ask about, things I maybe shouldn’t even be privy to. Whatever. It is what it is.’ He pauses. ‘So, did you have a think about what I said?’
‘Yeah, I did, and the thing is -’
‘No, Jimmy, there’s no thing. Just take it on board, OK? Please.’
Jimmy stops in his tracks. A group of American tourists walk past him, one of them talking loudly, a big guy with a beard saying something about ‘this giant Ponzi scheme’.
At the taxi rank to his left a young couple appear to be having an argument.
‘I told you, he’s from work.’
Beyond them are lights, colours, a kaleidoscope, traffic stopping and starting.
Jimmy turns, takes a few steps towards the railings of the Green.
‘For Christ’s sake, Phil,’ he says in a loud whisper, ‘you can’t just dangle something like this in my face, and not expect me to bite. I’m supposed to be a fucking journalist.’
Sweeney exhales loudly.
‘It’s not like that,’ he says. ‘There’s no story here. It’s not -’
‘Susie Monaghan? No story? Her name on a magazine cover, let alone her picture, and you still get a huge spike in circulation, even after all this time, so don’t tell me -’
‘It’s not about her. Believe me.’
Jimmy reaches out and takes a hold of one of the railings.
‘Then what is it about?’
Sweeney clicks his tongue. ‘I know this is tricky for you,’ he says, ‘professionally, being told, being asked, to stay away from something, a story, it goes against the grain, I get that, but… the thing is, I’m good friends with Freddie Walker. Yeah?’ He pauses. ‘Ted Walker’s brother? And… they’re still suffering. Every time the story comes up, every time Susie Monaghan’s name gets mentioned, it brings the whole thing back, the tragedy, everything, and the prospect of a book, with all the publicity, the photos, dredging through the details again, and having it all be about her, with only a cursory mention of Ted and the others who died, it’s… well, frankly it’d be fucking torture for them.’ He pauses again. ‘So I’m asking you, Jimmy. As a favour. Give it a miss.’ He clears his throat. ‘And I certainly didn’t mean to insult you.’
Jimmy squeezes the railings until his knuckles are white.
Motherfucker.
He didn’t see this coming.
Black, white, headachy grey.
‘Freddie Walker?’ he says.
This is a question, sort of, but they both know what the answer is. It’s a no-brainer. It’s Yeah, sonny Jim, back in your box now and shut the fuck up.
Jimmy releases his grip on the railing. Behind him is kinesis, light and noise, the streets. Ahead, through the bars, is stillness, a dark blanket of shadows, the Green at night.
‘Yeah,’ Sweeney says, ‘Freddie Walker, he’s a client, lovely guy, you’d really like him, and of course -’
‘No,’ Jimmy says. ‘Stop it, right? I’m not listening to any more of this.’ He turns around and walks towards the head of the taxi rank. ‘Good night, Phil. I’m sorry, I can’t help you out.’
He snaps the phone shut and puts it away.
Steps around the arguing couple.
‘Hey -’
And opens the back door of the waiting taxi -
‘That’s our -’
– anticipating a musty whiff, the residue of long hours, long years, of sweat, smoke and overheated opinion.
‘Take that one,’ Jimmy says, pointing at the next car along, and gets in the back of the Nissan.
Maria will talk to him, he’s pretty sure of that, and it’ll add a whole new dimension to the story.
‘Sandymount,’ he says to the driver, ‘Strand Road.’
So Phil Sweeney can just…
‘That’s not a bad one.’
‘No,’ Jimmy says, as they cruise past the spot where he left Maria a few minutes earlier, ‘no, not a bad one at all.’
On his way down in the elevator of the BRX Building in Manhattan, Clark Rundle is about to flick through the latest issue of Vanity Fair to look for the article when he gets a call from Don Ribcoff.
‘Yeah, Don,’ he says, putting the magazine under his arm, ‘what’s up?’
‘Clark, I need five minutes. Are you around?’
Rundle looks at his watch. ‘It’s nearly seven o’clock, Don. I’m leaving the building. It’s been a long day.’ He’s also had this copy of Vanity Fair in his possession since lunchtime, and has managed to hold off opening it until now. He resents the intrusion.
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘Not really, Clark, no. Where are you headed? Let me meet you there.’
‘I’m going to the Orpheus Room. I’m meeting Jimmy Vaughan for a drink.’ He hesitates, then says, ‘Look, why don’t you join us?’
‘Twenty minutes?’
‘Fine.’
Rundle closes the phone. The elevator door hums open and he steps out into the lobby area.
Seems he’s not the only one leaving the building.
As he walks through the crowds, Rundle keeps the Vanity Fair under his arm, with the cover concealed. It’s absurd, but he feels a little self-conscious. He’s been interviewed before, many times, but usually under controlled conditions and not until multiple confidentiality clauses have been agreed to and signed.
None of which applied with Vanity Fair, of course.
Rundle didn’t mind, though. He was doing it for J.J., for this campaign he might be running. Plus, he finds there’s a certain cachet to being profiled in VF that even he isn’t immune to.