I put my phone on the counter and looked out the window. The rain had stopped and a breeze stirred the water that pooled at the curbs and on the rooftops. Umbrellas had vanished and people moved more easily on the sidewalks. Traffic was light and nicely unfamiliar.
Peter Spiegelman
JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home
16
“You’ve got to take it outside, sir,” the security guard said. “And there’s no loitering anywhere on this block.” He was six-foot-five and about 275 pounds, and his maroon blazer was strained to tearing across his shoulders. Of the dozen or so armed guards in the stone lobby of BNN’s fortresslike West Side studios, he was the most petite. He held his big arms wide and made a little pushing motion in the air, in the direction of the revolving doors. I was not inclined to argue. Besides, I was used to it; people had been telling me to get lost for much of the day. I walked over to Broadway and found a coffee place.
I’d spent the morning trying to reach Linda Sovitch and failing miserably at it. Her supersecret cell phone number was no longer in service, and if she’d gotten a new one it was either not in her name or not yet for sale on the gray market. The number I’d found for Lefcourt’s place in Greenwich, Connecticut, was answered by an officious-sounding woman who’d informed me that unsolicited phone calls were unwelcome and refused to take any messages.
My calls to BNN were received less warmly still. I didn’t get as far as Sovitch’s assistant, Brent; I didn’t even get as far as Brent’s assistant. Going down to the studio itself had been a desperation play, and not one I’d put much faith in. I’d been right not to. The big guys in the lobby would not, of course, let me see Sovitch or anyone who worked for her, nor would they accept messages. And there was no chance of catching a glimpse of her, as all BNN talent came and went from the studio through a distant and well-guarded garage entrance.
I’d had better luck with Danes’s maid service: Maid for You. I’d pulled the name from Danes’s credit card bill and called the number early this morning. With only a little coaxing, an obliging fellow named Les had confirmed that Danes was a client, and told me that he’d suspended his weekly cleanings about six weeks before. Danes had told him that he was going out of town for a while and would call to resume service when he got back. He hadn’t called yet.
I paid for my latte and slouched in a big chair and watched a couple of twenty-somethings type furiously on their laptops. I thought about Linda Sovitch, and eventually I had an idea. It wasn’t novel, and I wasn’t sure it was good, but I knew it would read better on my invoice than napping at Starbucks would. I hauled myself out of the chair and took my coffee home.
I powered up my laptop and went online to the BNN Web site. It was badly designed and festooned with blinking advertisements, and I had to hunt for the icon that would open an e-mail window I could use to send a note to Linda Sovitch. While I was hunting, I got lucky. Under a banner that read Today on BNN. com, and next to a little picture of Linda, I read: Chat live with Market Minds host Linda Sovitch. Today at 2:30. It was 2:20.
I found my way to the chat page and registered, and then I waited. At 2:40, a message flashed on my screen and the moderator introduced virtual Linda. I typed my question into the chat window and let it sit for the next fifteen minutes, while people with monikers like muniluv and buynsell and stockgal asked Sovitch questions about equities and bonds and interest rates- none of which, it seemed to me, was she qualified to answer. Which didn’t stop her. When the moderator informed all concerned that time was running out, I hit enter.
I didn’t expect my message to show up on the chat board and I wasn’t disappointed. Linda took a final question and the moderator thanked all the participants, plugged Linda’s show, and ended the exchange. Ten minutes later my phone rang.
“What the fuck are you doing?” It was Linda Sovitch. “You call my house, you call the studio, you show up here, and now this shit. This is coming damn close to harassment- and maybe stalking too.” Her voice was brittle and tight, like nothing I’d heard on her TV show.
“You didn’t like my question?” I asked.
“You think you’re fucking funny?” she said, and she read my question aloud, with plenty of bile. “ ‘What do you say to critics who charge that members of the business press are hopelessly compromised by conflicts of interest- that they are cheerleaders for business and too close to the people they’re supposed to be covering- that they are, in essence, in bed with their subjects?’ You think that’s cute?”
“I thought it was a pretty good question- and relevant, too.”
“Relevant to what?” she asked. I didn’t answer and after a while Sovitch’s breathing was audible. “Come on, asshole, spit it out. Relevant to what?”
I sighed. “Relevant to you and Danes.”
Sovitch started to say something but stopped. “What the hell do you want from me?” she asked eventually.
“I want to talk to you about Danes. I want to know where he is.”
Sovitch snorted. “I’m tired of this,” she said. “Keep bugging me and you’ll be talking to my lawyer.” She hung up. I shook my head and closed down my laptop. I thought it was a good question.
Perhaps, upon reflection, Linda Sovitch thought so too. An hour after she’d hung up on me, and not long before Market Minds was due to go on the air, she called back. She was brisk and efficient.
“Tomorrow morning at ten,” she said.
“Where?”
“Give me your address; I’ll send a car.” I gave it to her and she was gone.
I put the phone down and wondered what had changed Sovitch’s mind. Worry about how much I knew, or about what I wanted? Worry about who else I might be talking to? All of the above, most likely.
I yawned and went into the kitchen. My footsteps were loud on the wood floors. I heated some coffee in the microwave, but it was bitter and muddy and made my stomach feel the same. I looked down the length of my apartment. Late-day light fell in big yellow rectangles across the room but didn’t seem to warm it. It was quiet, and quiet upstairs too. I hadn’t seen Jane since yesterday morning, and she’d told me that I wouldn’t see much of her for the rest of the week, but I was listening for her footsteps nonetheless.
I’d spent a lot of time alone in this apartment- a lot of time alone, period, in the past few years- and I’d wanted it that way. Alone was quiet and predictable. Alone was disciplined and organized and safe. It was sticking to my job and to my running and to an even keel. It was the opposite of static in my head and glass in my chest and aimless, calamitous motion and incinerating anger. It was the opposite of chaos. And if the cost of that stillness had been a certain austerity, even bleakness, then it was no more than I’d been willing to pay. It was getting off cheap. Alone was what I knew. It worked for me. But lately- since Jane- it didn’t work as well.
I turned on the stereo. Jane had left a disc in: Flora Purim singing “Midnight Sun.” I flicked through the others in the changerNikka Costa, Lucinda Williams- and switched to the radio. The Iguanas were playing something funky on WFUV, but even they couldn’t dispel the mood that had overtaken me. I browsed my bookshelves and ran my hands across the spines, but the titles slid by unread. I opened my laptop and made a halfhearted attempt to update my case notes. One hour and two sentences later, I closed it again and went for a run.
A town car pulled up in front of my building at ten on the dot, its black skin gleaming in the morning sun. There was a small man with gray hair behind the wheel. I got in back and we drove off. We headed uptown, but we did not make for the Manifesto Diner or the BNN studios. Instead, we slid onto the FDR Drive.
“Where’re we going?” I asked him. He started a little, as if I’d roused him from a nap, and checked some papers on the seat next to him.