No, no, you heard wrong. I said my contact said the old woman was out tonight. Reliable staff, hard to find.
Christ, Christ, Christ, is she dead?
Better safe than sorry, Joe.
A neat little setup, Joe Napier admits in his sleepless cabin. A shackle of compliance. Party to the clubbing of a defenseless, elderly activist? Any dropout law student with a speech impediment could send him to prison for the rest of his life. A blackbird sings. I did a great wrong by Margo Roker, but I’ve left that life. Four small shrapnel scars, two in each buttock, ache. I went out on a limb to get Luisa Rey wised up. The window is light enough to discern Milly in her frame. I’m only one man, he protests. I’m not a platoon. All I want out of life is life. And a little fishing.
Joe Napier sighs, dresses, and begins reloading the Jeep.
Milly always won by saying nothing.
56
Judith Rey, barefoot, fastens her kimono-style dressing gown and crosses a vast Byzantine rug to her marble-floored kitchen. She takes out three ruby grapefruits from a cavernous refrigerator, halves them, then feeds the snow-cold dripping hemispheres into a juicer. The machine buzzes like trapped wasps, and a jug fills with pulpy, pearly, candy-colored juice. She pours herself a heavy blue glass and slooshes the liquid around every nook of her mouth.
On the striped veranda sofa, Luisa scans the paper and chews a croissant. The magnificent view—over Ewingsville’s moneyed roofs and velveteen lawns to downtown Buenas Yerbas, where skyscrapers rear from sea mist and commuter smog—has an especial otherworldliness at this hour.
“Not sleeping in, Cookie?”
“Morning. No, I’m going to collect my stuff from the office, if you don’t mind me borrowing one of the cars again.”
“Sure.” Judith Rey reads her daughter. “You were wasting your talents at Spyglass, Cookie. It was a squalid little magazine.”
“True, Mom, but it was my squalid little magazine.”
Judith Rey settles on the arm of the sofa and shoos an impertinent fly from her glass. She examines a circled article in the business section.
In a joint statement, the White House and electricity giant Seaboard Power Inc. have announced Federal Power Commissioner Lloyd Hooks is to fill the CEO’s seat left vacant by Alberto Grimaldi’s tragic death in an airplane accident two days ago. Seaboard’s share price on Wall Street leaped 40 points in response to the news. “We’re delighted Lloyd has accepted our offer to come onboard,” said Seaboard vice CEO William Wiley, “and while the circumstances behind the appointment couldn’t be sadder, the board feels Alberto in heaven joins with us today as we extend the warmest welcome to a visionary new chief executive.” Menzies Graham, Power Commission spokesman, said, “Lloyd Hooks’s expertise will obviously be missed here in Washington, but President Ford respects his wishes and looks forward to an ongoing liaison with one of the finest minds tackling today’s energy challenges and keeping our great nation great.” Mr. Hooks is to take up his new responsibilities next week. His successor is due to be announced later today.
“Is this a project you were working on?” asks Judith.
“Still am.”
“On whose behalf?”
“On behalf of the truth.” Her daughter’s irony is sincere. “I’m freelance.”
“Since when?”
“Since the moment KPO fired me. Firing me was a political decision, Mom. It proves I was onto something big. Mammoth.”
Judith Rey watches the young woman. Once upon a time, I had a baby daughter. I dressed her in frilly frocks, enrolled her for ballet classes, and sent her to horse-riding camp five summers in a row. But look at her. She turned into Lester anyway. She kisses Luisa’s forehead. Luisa frowns, suspiciously, like a teenager. “What?”
57
Luisa Rey drops into the Snow White Diner for the last coffee of her Spyglass days. The only free seat is adjacent to a man hidden behind the San Francisco Chronicle. Luisa thinks, A good paper, and takes the seat. Dom Grelsch says, “Morning.”
Luisa feels a flare of territorial jealousy. “What are you doing here?”
“Even editors eat. I’ve come here every morning since my wife’s . . . y’ know. Waffles I can make in the toaster but . . .” His gesture at his platter of pork chops implies, Need I say more?
“I never saw you in here once.”
“That’s ’cause he leaves,” says Bart, performing three tasks at once, “an hour before you arrive. Usual, Luisa?”
“Please. How come you never told me, Bart?”
“I don’t talk about your comings and goings to no one else either.”
“First one into the office”—Dom Grelsch folds the newspaper—“last one out at night. Editor’s lot. I wanted a word with you, Luisa.”
“I have a distinct memory of having been fired.”
“Can it, willya? I want to say why—how—I’m not resigning over how Ogilvy crapped on you. And since my confessions are rolling out, I knew you were in for the ax since last Friday.”
“Nice of you to let me know beforehand.”
The editor lowers his voice. “You know about my wife’s leukemia. Our insurance situation?”
Luisa decides to grant him a nod.
Grelsch steels himself. “Last week, during the takeover negotiations . . . it was intimated, if I stayed on at Spyglass and agreed I’d never heard . . . of a certain report, strings could be pulled at my insurers.”
Luisa maintains her composure. “You trust these people to keep their word?”
“On Sunday morning my claims man, Arnold Frum, phones. Apologies for disturbing us, blah-blah, but he thought we’d want to know Blue Shield reversed their decision and will be handling all my wife’s medical bills. A reimbursement check for past payments is in the mail. We even get to keep our house. I’m not proud of myself, but I won’t be ashamed for putting my family ahead of the truth.”
“The truth is radiation raining on Buenas Yerbas.”
“We all make choices about levels of risk. If I can protect my wife in return for playing a bit part in the chance of an accident at Swannekke, well, I’ll have to live with that. I sure as hell wish you’d think a little more about the risk you’re exposing yourself to by taking these people on.”
Luisa’s memory of sinking under water returns to haunt her, and her heart lurches. Bart places a cup of coffee in front of her.
Grelsch slips a typewritten page over the counter. It contains two columns of seven names per column. “Guess what this list is.” Two names jump out: Lloyd Hooks and William Wiley.
“Board members of Trans Vision Inc.?”
Grelsch nods. “Almost. Board membership is a matter of public knowledge. This is a list of unlisted corporate advisers who receive money sourced in Trans Vision Inc. The circled names should interest you. Look. Hooks and Wiley. Lazy, damning, just plain greedy.”
Luisa pockets the list. “I should thank you for this.”
“Nussbaum the Foul did the digging. One last thing. Fran Peacock, at the Western Messenger, you know her?”
“Just to say hi at superficial media parties.”
“Fran and me go back a ways. I dropped by her office last night, mentioned your story’s salient points. I was noncommittal, but once you’ve got battleworthy evidence she’d like to say more than just hi.”