1 Breakfast at Madeline's (20 page)

24

"What are you doing here?" the mayor asked.

"What are
you
doing here?" I countered.

The mayor gave me a toothy Tom Cruise grin. "Same thing as you, I guess, you old sly dog. At least I'm not married."

I didn't buy his routine for a second. "Are you here to see Molly Otis?"

"Gentlemen don't tell," the mayor said with a wink.

I wasn't sure what he was here for, but I seriously doubted he was up to any good. Feeling a guilty need to protect little five-foot-two Molly, especially since I seemed to be exposing her to danger every time I talked to her, I stepped up so close to the mayor I could see where his teeth had been capped. "Mr. Mayor, if you threaten Molly in any way whatsoever—"

He stepped back with a surprised look.
"Threaten
her? I have no intention of threatening anybody. I'm here to offer her a summer job."

Now it was my turn to look surprised. "A what?"

"A summer job. Gretchen says she's terrific. And a local girl, too—good politics." The Cruise grin came back.

But I still didn't buy it. While he was busy grinning, I was busy thinking, and now I felt pretty sure I had the mayor figured out. "What's the matter, Harry? You scared she heard something she wasn't supposed to
hear? So you and Gretchen figured it might get her to keep quiet, if you handed her a cushy job?"

T
he
mayor's face
hardened. "Burns, you got some
thing you're trying to say?"

"I guess you figured throwing a brick at her might not be enough to shut her up. Right, Harry?"

The perfect eyebrows shot up. "What's this about throwing a brick?"

I eyed him closely. I read an article in the
National Enquirer
once:
"Seven Sure Ways to Tell if He's Lying."
Unfortunately, I can never remember any of them.

"Harry, don't play games with me," I said sneeringly.
"I know all about your fifty-grand sweetheart deal with Gretchen. I imagine the cops would want to know about it, too."

The mayor didn't bat an eye. "And you've got some evidence, I suppose? The cops won't think you're just some half-baked Hollywood screenwriter?"

He was right, of cou
rse, but I didn't bat an eye ei
ther; damn it, I was going to nail this yuppie politician scum. Since the best defense is
a good offense, I de
cided to be as offensive as possible. "Where were you on Monday morning of this week?"

The mayor shook his perfectly coifed head, amused. "What are you accusing me of now?"

"Poisoning Donald Penn."

He exploded into guffaws. "I can't wait to see your movie. What a great imagination!"

I had to admit, it sounded pretty preposterous to me, too. But you never get anywhere in this world by admitting self-doubt. "It had to be you. The Arts Council people are all a bunch of crackpot artists, not killers. And no one at Madeline's had enough motive. So that leaves you. You're the only other person who was giving him free coffee."

"Oh, is that so? What about your wife's little friend?"

What?
"Who?"

Tom Cruise came back again, but with a sarcastic edge this time. "Judy Demarest.
At the
Daily Saratogian
.
What, your wife didn't share that little detail?"

I found my voic
e. "Why was Judy giving him cof
fee?"

His eyes twinkled meanly. "Why don't you ask
her?"

Yeah, sure. If I interrogated Judy, my wife would kill me
...
and the mayor knew it. Typical politician: not too bright maybe, but clever as hell.

I fought back against his Tom Cruise teeth with my most evil Jack Nicholson leer. "Listen, pal, evidence or not, all I have to do is go public with this and I wreck your political career. And if you don't answer my questions, that's exactly what I intend to do."

"I hear Andrea's up for tenure next year," the mayor said, in a seemingly total non sequitur.

"So what?"

"So I happen to be a very close friend of her college president," the mayor said, his leer out-Nicholsoning mine.

He didn't say anything more. He didn't have to.

If the mayor pulled some strings and got my wife's tenure denied, her career was up the creek. She'd go back to teaching adjunct courses for chicken feed. To get a decent job teaching college English these days, you have to have at least two or three Ph.D.'s, publish at least nine or ten books, and most difficult of all, take literary deconstruction seriously.

No question, the mayor had found my weakness. I was screwed. I wondered, was he about to pull some similar sort of scam on Molly?

"Out of the way," the mayor said triumphantly, as he stepped around me toward Molly's dorm.

What I did next was stupid, I guess.

I mean, logically speaking,
I had no right to jeopar
dize my wife's career.

And I had no right to punch the mayor smack in the middle of his perfect nose.

And I definitely had no right whatsoever to kick him in the balls and leave him writhing on the doorstep.

But I did it anyway.

And, God, did it feel great. Not bad for a sensitive artist type, I thought proudly.

As I walked cheerfully away, it occurred to me that I had just added assault and battery to the growing list of major felonies I'd committed in the past six days.

Well, hell, you only live once.

William Goldman, the screenwriter of
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, All the President's Men,
and about a million other hits, as we
ll as a million flops, has a fa
mous saying abo
ut Hollywood: "No one knows any
thing."

Which, I suppose,
is why everyone out there is al
ways nodding knowingly.

As I drove back down Broadway, I reflected that this saying was turning out to be true of Saratoga Springs as well. No one in town, from the mayor on down, knew how much dirt Molly or I really had on them. In some ways that had been working to our advantage: Molly was being bribed with a cushy summer job, I had been propositioned by Saratoga's answer to Pamela Anderson, and neither one of us had been killed.

Yet.

When I got home, I found Andrea and the kids in the back yard playing a complex game of their own invention called "b
aseball-hockey." I've never man
aged to understand the r
ules, but if it keeps both Gret
zky and Babe Ruth happy, then I'm happy. I decided
now was not the ideal time to confront my wife about Judy. Of course, the ideal time would be never.

The phone rang as soon as I came inside. I grabbed it, but before I could even say hello, my agent shouted into my ear, "Did you send me the contract yet?"

Oh phooey, I'd totally forgotten. I'd brought it with me in the car, planning to hit the P.O. after Madeline's, but then I got sidetracked.

Andrew interpreted my telephone silence correctly. "Goddamn it, you fishmeal-for-brains," he roared, "these people are in a fucking hurry to get mo
ving al
ready and they're not like most producers, they won't do anything without a signed contract
in
hand,
they've been burned on verbal agreements before—"

"Don't worry, big guy," I lied, "I sent it this morning.

"You did?"

"Of course." I figured I wasn't
really
lying, since I'd be hitting the P.O. as soon as I got off
the phone. Un
fortunately, by the time Andrew finished haranguing me about various details it was already past noon and the P.O. was closed. I called Federal Express in Saratoga, but they were closed, too. Ah, the joys of small-town life.

I could have driven fifty-five minutes to the P.O. or the FedEx office in Albany, but Gretzky was in the kitchen with me now, tugging at my shirt to make me stand up. "Daddy, time to go! Daddy, come on!" I had promised to take him, Babe Ruth, and Andrea to the Big Game today. Our team, the Adirondack Red Wings, was playing the Syracuse Crunch in the final and deciding game of the American Hockey League playoffs. Now was no time for worrying about minor matters like murders or $750,000 movie deals. There was a hockey championship at stake here.

Besides, FedEx in Saratoga would be open from nine
to twelve tomorrow, and I'd send the contract then. That was soon enough. No need to spend my entire Saturday afternoon driving all over upstate like a crazed chicken. Hollywood agents and producers are always trying to bum rush you into a loony, panicked state, because it makes them feel powerful. You can't fall for their shit, I told myself.

Of course, it doesn't take a degree in psychology to know I was really acting out my ambivalence about mutant beetles.

So Andrea, the kids, and I piled into the Camry and drove north to Glens Falls, the blue-collar town where Andrea teaches. Glens Falls was rocking with Red Wing fans, and park
ing took a good twenty minutes—
which may not sound like much if you're from the big city, but in our part o
f the world it's practically un
heard of. By the time we got to our seats the game was already two minutes
old, the crowd noise was deafen
ing, and the joint was s
o packed they weren't even sell
ing standing room anymore.

It was an exciting first period, with the Red Wing goalie, a burly guy named Wenders, foiling the Crunch attack time after time. Meanwhile the Red Wings made good on a rare breakaway opportunity to take the lead, 1-0. Gretzky was so excited he spent the entire period bouncing up and down, while Babe Ruth and Andrea chattered away happily and chanted, "Munch the Crunch for lunch!"

But I had trouble relaxing.
I had spotted Judy up in the press box, covering the game for the
Daily Saratogian
.
She could have sent someone else, but she loved hockey almost as much as bowling. I kept glancing up at her and wondering how the hell I was going to deal with her and Andrea. When the buzzer sounded, I was relieved that Andrea and the kids left to buy p
rovi
sions, so I could have time to myself to think.

My thinking time didn't last long, though. Someone broke in with a "Hi, Jacob," and when I looked up, it was Judy. "Great game, huh? Where's Andrea?"

I stared at her, my mouth open, wondering where to begin. "What's the matter?" Judy frowned.

My favorite writing teacher back in college always used to say, "When in doubt, tell the truth." So I did. "I understand Donald Penn was blackmailing you," I told her.

Judy's eyes darted back and forth as she thought about denying it. But then her shoulders fell and she sank into an empty seat. "Damn, damn, damn," she said. "How'd you find out?"

"The mayor."

"Bastard."

"Judy, I don't want to make this any harder than it is, but I need to know."

"Why?"

"Because I do."

She looked at me curiously. "I figured the whole thing was in Penn's book."

I didn't answer directly. "I'd like to hear it from you."

Judy glowered at me, then shook her head and turned away. "Stupid. This whole thing is so stupid." She sat and stared silently out at the ice. The Zamboni machine was going ar
ound and around in its slow cir
cuitous path, and Judy seemed mesmerized. Just when I thought she had fo
rgotten all about me, or had de
cided to stonewall me, she began to speak.

"I
didn't mean for it to happen. It just did. I got sucked in." She turned to me with an imploring look. "It wasn't
extortion
. I don't even know if it was really
bribery."
Her hands were squeezed tightly together. "It started so innocently. I was up in Hudson Falls one day, and I happened to notice the new City Hall there
was being built by Kane Construction Company—you know, the mayor's
company. And I happened to men
tion it to the person I was with, and it turns out the mayor's compan
y had been awarded two other mu
nicipal building contracts in Hudson Falls recently. So I was kind of wondering, as I was driving home, why the Hudson Falls contracts went to a Saratoga Springs company, I mean, they're an hour north of here. There must be companies more close by that'll do it cheaper."

As she told this part of the story, Judy's hands flew apart and her eyes brightened with excitement. "And then, when I got to my de
sk that day, there's a press re
lease announcing that the construction contract for the new Saratoga Arts Center has been awarded to the Hudson Falls Building and Renovation Company. So I get this funny feeling,
and I call up my friend in Hud
son Falls, and lo and behold, he tells me that Hudson Falls B and R is owned by the
brother
of the
mayor
of Hudson Falls. So I put two and two together, and it looks to me like the two mayors are trading kickbacks back and forth, with a little help from their friends. So I call up the three other construction companies that bid on the Arts Center job, and one of them tells me he was pretty suspicious himself of the way the bidding was handled, but never said anything because it's such a small town and he didn't want to make waves. So I promise him anonymity and he brings over the initial Request for Proposals on the job, along with some memos and statistics and so on, we go over them, and it looks to me like, yeah, we got something here. So I call up the mayor. Of Saratoga."