The waitress came again and Pratt ordered a burger and a Coke; I had the vegetarian chili. Pratt was quiet, and I thought that embarrassment and worry might be setting in. I didn’t want her dwelling on it.
“I heard he had a lively meeting with Turpin the day he left,” I said.
Pratt smiled. “Lively- that’s a nice term for it. Any more lively, and we would’ve called the cops.”
“Any idea what it was about?”
“The same old thing, I’m sure: the lawsuits. That’s what Greg and Tampon always argue about.”
“Tampon?”
Pratt colored again. “That’s what Greg calls him. It’s kind of caught on.”
“I can imagine. What about the lawsuits do they argue over?”
“Fight or flight, Greg calls it: fight it out in court or settle. Greg is all about fighting.”
“And Turpin wants to settle?”
Pratt nodded. “That’s what they brought him in to do.”
“Who are they?”
“Management. They brought Tampon in five, six months ago-to clear the air, they said- so we could focus on other things. Apparently that meant settle the cases quickly, quietly, and as cheaply as possible.”
“Greg disagrees with that strategy?”
Pratt snorted. “It makes him crazy. He says they aren’t giving him an opportunity to clear his name and that they’re selling him out. Greg is not the most trusting guy in the world to begin with, and this plays right into his paranoia.”
“I gather he doesn’t have that market cornered, though.”
Pratt gave me a quizzical look. “You mean Turpin?”
I nodded. “If his attitude is anything to go by, Pace management seems pretty nervous about Danes.”
“Between the arguments and the rumors about another look-see from the regulators- and now with Greg being gone- yeah, I guess they’re tense.”
“Should they be?”
“About Greg turning on them or something?” I nodded, and Pratt’s brow furrowed. “I’d like to say no, but the truth is- I don’t know. Greg is paranoid, and he never, ever leaves his ass uncovered. He’s definitely not a guy I would play musical chairs with- not without a lot of padding. But… I don’t know.”
The waitress brought our food. Pratt took a desperate swallow of her Coke and a bite of her burger. Juice ran down her chin, and I handed her a napkin. I took a spoonful of vegetable chili. It tasted like old succotash, soaked in Tabasco. I pushed it aside.
“You’ve said Greg can be difficult”- Pratt snorted-“is there anyone he was particularly difficult with? Anyone holding a grudge?”
She shook her head. “He’s difficult with everyone.” She chewed some more of her burger. “But someone holding a grudge? Nobody jumps out, unless you count the people suing him.”
“Who else is he close to, besides you?”
Pratt wiped her hands on her napkin and pulled her hair back and was quiet for a while. She shook her head slowly.
“I don’t really know. I know he loves his kid- Billy- as much as he loves anybody. He may not know what to make of him half the time, but he loves him. Besides that?” She shrugged.
“No other family?”
“There’s the ex, if she counts. They still talk- about the kid, mostly- and she still pisses him off. And I think he has a brother or stepbrother who got himself in trouble a few years back- somewhere out in Jersey, I think. A reporter picked up on it, and it was five minutes of embarrassment for Greg.”
“How about his friends?”
“There’s some guy he goes to hear music with, up in the country someplace. I don’t know his name, though.” She thought some more and hesitated. “And… there was Sovitch.”
“Linda Sovitch? From Market Minds?” Pratt nodded. “They’re friends?”
“They used to be- when Greg was on the show all the time. I’m not sure how friendly they are now; he wasn’t happy when the guest spots dried up. But I know Greg had lunch with her- right before his last session with Tampon.”
I finished my ginger ale and crunched on an ice cube and thought. “Did he ever talk about leaving?” I asked.
“Leaving Pace? We talked about it a lot- especially lately- about going out on our own, setting up a research company. One of the things that drove him nuts about settling the lawsuits was he thought it would screw that up- screw up his reputation and his earning power. Screw them up more, I guess.”
“You would do it- go into business with him?”
She nodded vigorously. “For an equity stake? You bet I would. Nothing like that is coming my way at Pace.”
“You’re not in line for Greg’s job if he walks?”
Pratt made a derisive sound. “Are you kidding? I’m fine to keep the seat warm while Greg’s away, but when it comes time to fill his spot permanently, they’ll bring a name in from outside- assuming they want to keep a research department at all. If Greg leaves, I’ve got to make plans, one way or another.” She fiddled with the pile of slaw on her plate and looked at me. She wasn’t as light-headed now, and worry was coming back into her eyes. I didn’t have long.
“Do you remember what he said in his voice mail- when he told you he was taking vacation?”
She nodded. “I remember. It wasn’t a long message- something like I’m out of here for three weeks- starting now. Tell whoever you’re supposed to tell. Good luck.”
“That’s it? He didn’t say anything else?” She shook her head. “Any thoughts about his timing- about why he left when he did?”
She pursed her lips and ran a hand absently through her hair. “I know he was pissed off about a lot of things- the lawsuits, all the bad press, Tampon- and he had been for a while. I guess it all just got to him that day. Tampon was the last straw.” Pratt worried her lower lip and checked and rechecked her watch. She glanced down the block, toward her apartment building.
“Has anyone besides me come looking for Danes? Has anyone else called or come to see you?”
“As far as visitors go, you’re it, but people call for Greg all the time. If it’s business they talk to me or one of the other analysts; otherwise we refer them to Nancy Mayhew.”
“He ever do anything like this before- just take unscheduled vacation time?”
Pratt nodded. “Two or three times, I guess, but then he called after a few days and told us when he’d be back.”
“But he hasn’t called this time, and he hasn’t come back. Any idea why?”
Pratt got quiet and looked away, at the street beyond my shoulder. She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I just don’t know.”
“Are you worried about him?”
Pratt’s eyes were large and dark behind her glasses. She looked at me for a long time and nodded.
Peter Spiegelman
JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home
7
It was a long run- two miles up, six miles around, and two miles back home- and I was right in the middle of it, at the north end of Central Park, on the steep climb up one side of Great Hill. It was five-fifteen, just past dawn, and the thin clouds that had brought showers overnight had begun to fray. The pavement was still wet and traffic was light: a few cabs, a few black cars, an aggressive peloton of racing bikes, and some other solitary runners, cocooned in thoughts and breath. I leaned into the hill and tried not to gasp. My own thoughts turned to Nina Sachs and her family.
It had been close to ten last night when I’d walked from Clark Street down Old Fulton to Water Street. Brooklyn was cooler, and the breeze off the river had sent a chill through me. Lights were burning in Sachs’s loft and also at street level, in the I-2 Galeria de Arte, Brooklyn branch. I stood at the big glass door and looked inside.
It was a huge space, as large as Sachs’s loft, with bleached wood floors and a wall of sidewalk-to-ceiling windows. The other walls were white, and a dense constellation of lights hung from the ceiling. Also hanging- from ceiling-mounted tracks- was a platoon of room dividers, movable walls of various widths presently arranged to divide the gallery into three exhibition bays. In the foreground, about ten yards inside the door, was a long mahogany counter, chest high and elaborately paneled.