“One more thing,” said Bolden, leaning forward, arms resting on his knees.
“What’s that?”
“Tell me about ‘the committee’ or ‘the club.’ ”
“What club is that?”
“The club that gives you your marching orders. The people who told you to act dumb when you saw the doctored tape of me shooting Sol Weiss on television. The people who ordered you to beat up Diana Chambers, and to plant those fictitious e-mails on the company server. I know Jacklin’s involved, but I think there are others, too. It’s too big.” Bolden stood and circled the coffee table, eyes locked on Schiff. “Help me out, Mickey. It’s got to have a name.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re out of luck, then.” Abruptly, Bolden scooped up the documents and walked toward the door.
Schiff let him get five steps before shouting, “Sit down, Tom. Come back. You got me by the balls, okay?”
Bolden remained standing.
“Look, you’re a good kid,” Schiff went on. “I’m sorry you’ve gotten mixed up in this, but there are some things you have to know. The world is not always run according to the rules.”
“Is that supposed to surprise me? So do you agree or not?”
“Yeah, sure. Have a look at the accounts. But I’m not saying a thing about Jacklin. You want to expose me? Go ahead. Call the Journal. Call the Times. Do what you got to do. But that’s as far as I go.”
“As far as you go?”
“Yeah.” Schiff tugged at his cuff, and spent a moment adjusting it so that exactly one inch of white cotton was showing.
Bolden crossed the distance between them in four steps. He grabbed a handful of Schiff’s hair and yanked his head back. “They shot my girlfriend. Do you understand that? She’s pregnant. I asked you who are they, Mickey.”
Schiff arched his back, and batted at Bolden’s hand. But beneath the pain, he was looking at him sadly, as if for all his own problems, he didn’t envy Bolden one bit. “All you have to know is that they exist.”
Bolden let go of Schiff’s hair. “Get up,” he said. He was disgusted with Schiff and disgusted with himself for having to make a deal with the devil. “You can drive me down to the office.”
“I need my keys and my wallet.” Schiff gestured haltingly toward his bedroom.
“Help yourself,” said Bolden, keeping a half step behind him.
They’d covered half of the corridor when Bolden heard a noise coming from the door to his right. A muffled cry. He stopped. “What was that?”
Schiff looked at him, then bolted for the door of his bedroom.
Bolden hesitated, then ran after him. Ahead, the door slammed shut. Bolden rammed a shoulder into it, feeling it budge. The lock flew home. Bolden backed up a step and kicked at the door handle. Two blows splintered the doorjamb. The third sent the door buckling on its hinges.
Schiff stood next to his bed, a phone cradled under his ear, pulling an imposing nickel-plated automatic from the drawer of his night table. He was desperately trying to chamber a round. Bolden stalked across the room. Schiff dropped the pistol and picked up a ten-inch jade statue. Lunging, he brought the statue down on Bolden’s shoulder. Bolden ducked, but the blow staggered him. Schiff raised the statue again. Bolden grabbed his wrist and wrenched it. The statue fell to the carpet. Still grasping Schiff’s arm, Bolden freed the phone and slammed it into the carriage.
“Who’s in that room?”
Schiff didn’t answer.
“Who’s in that-”
Schiff’s knee caught him in the stomach. Bolden doubled over. A blow to his back forced him to the ground. Schiff ran from the bedroom. The pistol lay a few feet away. Rising to his knees, Bolden picked it up and followed, stumbling, fighting for his breath.
Schiff paced at the far side of his living room, his back to the window. A lone figure floating on clouds. He had a phone to his ear.
“Put it down,” said Bolden.
Schiff stared defiantly at him. “Hello,” he said. “This is-”
Bolden raised the gun. The trigger had a feather’s weight. The window behind Schiff shattered, but did not break. Schiff fell to a knee, clutching the phone. “Hello,” he said. “Mr.-”
Bolden clubbed Schiff on the neck with the butt of the pistol. Schiff fell to the carpet. Bolden hung up the phone and returned to the room where he’d heard the muffled voice. The door was unlocked. Diana Chambers lay on the bed. A stack of melted ice packs sat on the night table, alongside several containers of painkillers. Her eye was puffy, the bruise a deep purple. “I heard shouting,” she said, pulling herself up.
“It was just Mickey.”
“Is he all right?” Even drugged up, she sounded like she really cared. “You didn’t shoot him, too?”
“What’s it to you?”
The look she gave him said it all. She was in on it, too. Mickey’s office squeeze looking to do her share for the cause. What was a black eye, after all, compared to the daily bruising she took just trying to break through the glass ceiling?
“What did he promise you?” Bolden asked. “A raise? A promotion? A ring?”
Diana slumped back on the bed, her eyes fixed to the ceiling.
Bolden came closer. “Why is Mickey doing this? Did he tell you?”
Diana Chambers glared at him, then turned her head away. Bolden took her by the jaw and turned her face toward his. “You’re being very rude, Diana. We haven’t finished our conversation. Tell me something. What is ‘Crown’? Did Mickey mention that? Did he ever talk about a woman named Bobby Stillman?”
“No,” said Diana after a moment. “Never.”
“Then why is he trying to destroy me? What did he tell you to make you agree to let him hit you? You’re a smart woman. There had to have been a reason.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know or you won’t tell?”
“I don’t know,” she repeated.
“Bullshit!” Bolden slammed a hand on her pillow, just missing the injured eye. “Tell me!”
“It’s for them. His friends.”
“What friends?” Bolden leaned over her, his face inches from hers. “You will tell me, Diana. I promise you that. You’ll tell me, or I’ll go get that gun and shoot you like I shot Mickey.”
“You didn’t?”
Gently, he pressed the tip of his index finger to the center of her forehead. “Right there,” he whispered. “One shot. You won’t feel a thing. It sure as hell won’t hurt as much as that black eye he gave you. Or did someone else do the honors? A guy named Wolf? Tall, bad attitude, built like a block of cement?”
Diana shook her head, anguish stiffening her body.
“Go take a look,” said Bolden.
She started to get up from the bed, then fell back again. She stared at Bolden, then slapped him across the face. He grabbed her hands and locked them to her sides. “Who are his friends?” he asked, shaking her. “Names! I want names!”
“No!”
“Tell me, dammit.” Bolden fought to keep her on the bed. She was possessed of a fear, a hatred, that he could not comprehend. Finally, she calmed, but her face remained a mask of revulsion.
“The club,” she said. “In Washington. They make things happen. Big things. The power behind the throne… you know how it goes.”
“I don’t actually,” said Bolden. “What are their names?”
“Mickey’s Mr. Morris. I don’t know the others, except that he calls them Mr. Washington, and Mr. Hamilton…” She looked away. “It’s for the country, that’s all I needed to know. Mickey told me it was my chance to serve. After all, he’d put in his twenty years in uniform. Why shouldn’t I take a couple of bruises for Uncle Sam?”
“And it was fine by you if they knocked me off in the process.”
“You’re dangerous. You’re trying to harm the club. You and Bobby Stillman. She’s been after them for years. She’s crazy, you know, just in case you think you’re really doing something good. You’re both crazy. You’ll never win, you know. They’ll stop you.”