Vaughan cracks a smile, a sour one. “Oh, relax, Craig, would you?” He shifts his focus back to the spoon. “I was just kidding.”
“Right.”
The next mouthful of chowder Vaughan takes has a chunky piece in it that requires chewing. The chewing goes on for quite a while, and Howley becomes exasperated. He’s just about to ask why he was summoned up here in the first place when Meredith slaps her hand down loudly on the countertop.
They both turn to look at her.
“These people.”
Howley tilts his head to get a glimpse of what she’s reading. It’s a two-page spread covering the Connie Carillo trial. In between blocks of text, he can make out pictures of Judge Roberts, of Ray Whitestone, and of Connie herself.
Vaughan puts his spoon down. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
She flicks the back of her hand against the spread.
“This. I’ve had enough of it. They’re like vultures.” She shakes her head. “Poor Connie.”
Vaughan shrugs. “What do you want? It’s a murder trial.” He turns back to Howley. “You been following this, Craig?”
“As much as anyone, I guess. It’s hard to avoid.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. Meredith here was at Brearley with Connie. Isn’t that right, Mer?”
She tenses. There is silence for a moment. “Just because I was at school with her doesn’t mean-” She stops and slides off the stool. “Oh, what would you know? Finish that slop there and take your medication, would you?”
She grabs her soda roughly, spilling some on the countertop, and storms out of the kitchen.
“My word,” Vaughan says, picking up his spoon again. “What’s eating her?” He takes another sip of chowder. “So, Craig. What do you think? Is Senator Pendleton going to take the stand?”
Howley can’t quite believe the way this is shaping up. It’s certainly not what he had in mind. Nevertheless, he looks around, thinking… Connie Carillo, Pendleton. He heard something about the trial this morning. People were discussing it in the elevator.
“I doubt it,” he says eventually. “Too much exposure. It’s the name. If she was still a Pendleton, then maybe, but I figure the old man’s going to let her fry.”
“Yeah,” Vaughan says, “but if she fries, he’s finished anyway. In fact, he’s already finished. Connie screwed her old man over years ago by marrying Ricky. I mean, what, we’re going to elect a governor who’s got an ex-son-in-law with ‘Icepick’ for a middle name? Please.”
“I don’t see why not,” Howley says. “These days? It’d take a lot more than that to crush Gene Pendleton.”
“Maybe, but it’s not over yet. I think there’s still a bunch of stuff to come out. That campaign funds thing, for instance, with Meeker… the missing checkbook.” He pauses, then coughs. “There’s also this guy at the moment, the doorman, what’s his name?”
Howley hasn’t seen enough of the coverage and is out of his depth here. A missing checkbook? The doorman? He has no idea what Vaughan is talking about.
He shakes his head.
“Mrs. R?” Vaughan then says, turning awkwardly. “The doorman, the guy on at the moment, what’s his name?”
Mrs. Richardson looks up from the sink and clicks her tongue. “Joey Gifford.”
“Thank you. Yes, of course.” He takes another old-man slurp of chowder and quickly wipes his chin with a napkin. “And let’s not forget the question of method, the carving knife.” He pauses, looking up. “Not exactly an icepick, but hey.”
Howley remains silent and gazes at the tiny splashes of cherry soda on the countertop. Sticky and crimson, they look like speckles of blood.
“Anyway,” Vaughan says, “Ray Whitestone is going to have a ball working the various angles.” He puts his spoon into the bowl and pushes it aside. “Case is made for him.” He reaches into the pocket of his robe and takes out a silver pillbox. “It’s got everything,” he goes on, more slowly now, concentrating, his mind fixed on getting the box open. “Politics, sex, the mob… Wall Street, grand opera. You couldn’t make it up. Right, Craig?”
Howley nods. What else is there to do?
The old man clears his throat. “Get me a glass of water, Mrs. R, would you?”
She does.
Over the next couple of minutes, and in silence, Vaughan takes his various tablets. When he’s done, he stands up, ties the sash of his robe, and nods at the door. “Come on, Craig, let me walk you out.”
Walk him out? He just got here.
Resigned, Howley nods at Mrs. Richardson, who’s standing at the counter now, scrubbing at the soda stains with a spiral wire brush.
On the way out, Vaughan starts coughing. It escalates, and to get it under control he has to pound his chest with the palm of his hand. Howley finds this alarming.
“You okay?”
“Do I sound it?”
After he’s regained his composure, and as they’re crossing the foyer, Vaughan turns and says, “So, Craig, tell me, what do you make of these shootings over the weekend?”
Howley exhales loudly. He doesn’t know, and at this point he doesn’t really care. He’s more concerned-or, at any rate, baffled-by Vaughan’s behavior. It’s clear that the old man is unwell, and very frail, but also that he’s as sharp as ever, and as calculating. The fact that they haven’t discussed either the succession question or the proposed IPO is no accident as far as Howley is concerned. This other stuff, the Carillo trial, the shootings… Howley sees it all as smoke and mirrors, a form of misdirection.
Sleight of hand.
Or is it?
In truth, he can’t be sure. Because the thing is… could Vaughan have actually forgotten what he’d called Howley up here to discuss?
It can’t be discounted as a possibility.
“I don’t know, Jimmy,” he says, eyeing the old man warily now. “I refuse to believe any of this conspiracy stuff in the papers. There’s no mystery about it, really.” He shrugs. “It’s simple. The murder rate goes up in a recession.”
Vaughan shakes his head. “I think you’ll find the most recent stats contradict you on that one, Craig.” He starts coughing again, but manages to contain it this time. “Big drop in violent crime, five, almost six percent last year alone.”
Okay, whatever, Jesus.
“Well, Jimmy, what do you think?”
This is what he wants, isn’t it?
Vaughan presses the button for the elevator and the door whispers open. “Whatever this is,” he says, “I think it goes pretty deep.” He holds his arm against the elevator door to keep it open. “It could be some form of, I don’t know… bloodletting.” He looks very weak all of a sudden, and a little spaced. “I don’t think we’ve seen an end to it.”
Howley nods and steps into the elevator cab.
It goes deep? Bloodletting? An end to it?
He’s not quite sure what the old man is talking about. But maybe-it occurs to him-just maybe, the old man isn’t sure either. In fact, maybe he’s losing his marbles. Maybe this is the end of an era, or the start of a new one. Howley has a quick vision of himself steering Oberon to a successful IPO, and then beyond, to his own rightful place at the table, CFR, Trilateral, Bilderberg, whatever-the old man, meanwhile, stuck here in the apartment coughing his lungs up, fumbling with tablets, sucking his food out of a straw, and watching endless coverage on TV of some tawdry celebrity murder trial…
Howley turns around.
Maybe he should think about rearranging the furniture in Vaughan’s office, because chances are this decrepit old bird in front of him now won’t be leaving home anytime soon.
Unless it’s in a box.
“Okay, Jimmy,” he says, looking out from the overly ornate interior of the elevator cab. “Good night.”