Eye Contact (2 page)

“Right. And that’s what got Neil involved with the festival. He’s really got his hands full with the architecture committee—
so
involved that most of his building projects have been back-burnered till after the Fourth. And now he’s tied up with another committee that’s planning the human-rights conference.”

David hesitates, uncomfortable with the topic. “That’s like, gay rights, right?”

Manning stands. “It sure is.” He closes Zarnik’s folder. “And it’s got a lot of people upset. The Christian Family Crusade wasted no time announcing they’d stage a counterdemonstration at the opening.”

David stands to look Manning in the eye. “Don’t mind them. They’re just a bunch of crazies.”

Manning exhales an odd noise, something between a sigh and a laugh. “That’s what makes me nervous.”

From the aisle, a lilting voice interrupts their discussion. “Here you go, darlin’. A fresh supply of bedside reading.” Into the cubicle sidles Daryl, a gay black copy kid, still a student at Northwestern, who has never made a secret of his general interest in men—or his particular interest in Manning. He carries a hefty stack of oversize books, foxed and musty-smelling, just plucked from the reference section of the paper’s morgue. He nudges between the two reporters—“’Scuse me, David”—and drops the books onto the desk with a dusty thud.

Manning looks askance at Daryl. “What’s this?”

“Basic astronomy, hon. Time to brush up on the cosmos.”

“How’d you know?”

Daryl’s gaze glides first over one shoulder, then the other. Coyly, he responds, “My ear’s to the rail.”

Manning flips through the titles, recognizing that Daryl has chosen well. “I suppose I should thank you for your efficiency.”

Daryl purses his lips, cooing, “You owe me one, Mark.”

David smirks at the comment, but Manning lets it pass, picking one of the books from the pile, a thin primer of astronomical theory and vocabulary. He hands it to David, telling his new assistant, “Spend some time with this over lunch. It’ll be helpful background if we get to meet Zarnik this afternoon.”

David tucks the little book under one arm. “Will do, sir,” he tells Manning, cuffing him on the shoulder with his massive fist—a playful gesture typical of his jock-friendly manner. Then he turns and leaves the cubicle, heading toward his own desk at the far side of the newsroom.

“Unh-unh-unh,” croaks Daryl. “Remember, gorgeous—you’re ‘married.’”

Manning sits. “What’s
that
suppose to mean?”

“I saw you watching David’s sweet derrière strutting down the aisle.” He plants himself on the edge of Manning’s desk and looks down at the reporter with an accusing grin. “If you’re entertaining a dip in the company inkwell, I’ve got first dibs.”

“Christ, Daryl, there’s no harm in looking. I confess, you caught me—David’s an eyeful. But he’s off-limits. I’m happily coupled, and he’s happily straight.”

“Ha!”
Daryl’s reaction is so explosive that it briefly quells the surrounding hubbub. He leans into Manning’s face to say, “That four-eyed muscle-boy may
look
like a big butch stud, but I’m telling you, honey, when the lights go out, his feet hit the ceiling.”

Manning’s blank stare conveys disbelief.

“It’s true,” Daryl assures him. “We were in school together. Not that I’ve had the pleasure, mind you, but I know plenty of others who have.”

“I had no idea,” says Manning. “He’s worked here almost two years….”

“He’s a
closet case,
Mark. Or would it be more charitable to call him ‘guarded’?” Daryl’s tone turns confidential. “In any event, if you’re interested, he’s makable.”

Manning laughs at the idea, pointing out, “I’m old enough to be his father.”

Daryl tells him, “He’s twenty-four; you’re forty-two. That would make you one very young, very attractive daddy.”

“Get off it. He’d never be interested in me.”

“I happen to know otherwise.” Daryl gives him a lascivious wink.

“Besides”—Manning’s voice rises a register—“
I’m
not available.”

“Uh-huh,” says Daryl, sounding unconvinced.

“Now hold on,” says Manning, dead serious, needing to sort this out. “Neil and I are committed to each other. I changed my whole lifestyle, my very self-identity, in order to build a life, a
home
with him. And he moved cross-country, walked away from an established career in Phoenix, in order to be here with me. We love each other, Daryl. We’re happy. Why would I jeopardize that?”

Equally serious, Daryl tells him, “Because you’re human, Mark. You’re a man. You’re curious. Neil brought you out—God bless him—and I can see why you were bowled over. But that was two years ago, and you’ve never played the field. Neil has.”

“Before I came along, sure.”

“Sure.” Insinuation hangs in the air.

They eye each other warily for a few long seconds, then, as if responding to some unspoken signal, they each break the stare. They have often sparred like this, though always over trivial matters, office chat. Daryl has never strayed into such intimate territory, and he has gone too far. “Sorry,” he says, removing his butt from Manning’s desk, “I oughta keep my yap shut. You and Neil are great together. Keep it that way.”

Manning smiles. “Coming Saturday night?” He and Neil have just finished an extensive renovation of their loft on the city’s Near North Side, and they’ve invited Daryl to a housewarming party.

Sheepishly, he answers, “If I’m still welcome.”

“Of course,” Manning assures him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get hold of Dr. Pavo Zarnik.” As Daryl turns to leave the reporter alone with his work, Manning mutters into the messy pile of books strewn on his desk, “I still think Cliff Nolan would be a far better choice for this assignment.”

“He probably would be”—Daryl turns back—“if we could find him.”

Manning looks up. “What?”

“Smith expected him to interview Zarnik and file his story by Monday night, but he didn’t. Then Tuesday—yesterday—he didn’t show up at all, so Smith reassigned the story to you.”

“And this morning?” asks Manning, guessing the answer.

Daryl shrugs. “Still no Cliffy-poo. Smith told me to start phoning his apartment every hour, but I haven’t been able to reach him.”

Manning wrings his brows. Clifford Nolan is a dedicated and intelligent writer—with a Partridge Prize to prove it. Manning has always admired the man’s refined tastes and astute mind. He’s at least fifty now and not much fun, but he’s certainly dependable, and it’s not like him to fail on a story. Even so, Manning considers, Cliff is still single, with an adolescent appetite for women. And though he rarely drinks, when he does, he binges. Manning has seen him out of control at a party or two. So the unexplained absence may not be such a mystery after all.

Manning tells Daryl, “When you hear from Cliff, let me know.”

Driving south from the Journal Building along the lake toward Civic Planetarium, Manning reflexively checks his pockets, confirming that he is equipped with pen, notebook, cell phone, and pager. Seated to his right is David Bosch, who has turned in the passenger seat to face Manning, speaking with animated gestures that cause his owlish glasses to inch down his nose.

“When Gordon Smith took me aside this morning to say that I’d just been assigned to assist
Mark Manning
with the Zarnik story, I was blown away. I mean, J-school was one thing, and the internship was another, but there’s nothing like on-the-job experience to really
learn
a field—and now they’ve placed me at the feet of the master.” He mimics an elaborate bow to the sultan. “What is your will, O Great One? I am here to do your bidding.” His glasses have slipped down his nose again. He cuts the act and pushes them back. “Really”—his beefy hand now rests on Manning’s shoulder—“this is awesome.”

Manning glances at the hand on his shoulder, then returns his gaze to the road.

“Oh, sorry.” David plants his hands in his lap, looking absurdly prim.

Manning isn’t sure how much more flattery he can stand. When they left the office this afternoon, David couldn’t stop gushing about Manning’s car, which pleased him greatly—to a point. But now this personal-hero routine leaves Manning ready to reopen the discussion of his “plus one” wheel upgrade. He decides to shift the topic back to business, asking David, “In what capacity does Gordon expect you to function as my assistant? Any clues?”

“Guy Friday, I guess.” He laughs. “It’s up to you, sir. Anything goes.”

“Please, don’t call me ‘sir.’” He tries to keep his sense of humor, but doesn’t find this especially funny. David’s subservient attitude makes Manning feel older than he’d prefer. Even more unsettling, in light of Daryl’s recent revelation, it hints that David has plans for an after-hours slave-and-master romp with the boss. This is nuts, Manning tells himself. Laughing at his overvivid imagination, he tells David, “Don’t call me Marko, either.”

“Right. Mark.”

“Hey,” says Manning, “I almost forgot. Neil and I are having a party Saturday—no big deal, sort of a housewarming at the loft. Care to come?”

“You bet!” Then his enthusiasm drains. “Sorry, but I’m booked. My uncle and a friend are arriving from New York on Friday. They’re involved with the theater festival as part of Celebration Two Thousand.”

“Oh?” Manning turns to David. “Who are they?”

“My uncle’s name is Hector Bosch. He’s a—”

“My God,” Manning interrupts, “he’s the most influential theater critic in New York. He’s one
hell
of a writer. The name never clicked—Hector Bosch is your
uncle
?”

“One and the same,” replies David with a shrug. “Maybe you’ve heard of his friend, too. She’s Claire Gray, a director. Supposed to be pretty good.”

“Well,
sure,
” says Manning, amazed that David seems unaware of her celebrity status. “Claire Gray is not only one of Broadway’s best directors, but also a superb playwright. Her first script,
Traders,
ended up as a movie a few years ago.”

“Yeah,” says David. “I saw it. That’s her.”

“That is
she,
” Manning dryly corrects him. Then, lightening up, “Why don’t you invite
them
to the party? Neil would be thrilled to meet them—so would I.”

Big smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

Spotting the planetarium ahead, Manning reins the conversation back to business. “Did you get very far with your astronomy lesson?”

“I read all I could, but I’m not sure how much I absorbed.” He knocks on his skull. “In grade school, I memorized the planets in order from the sun, and I can still recite them, but the rest is way beyond me.”

“Ditto. And Zarnik is among the elite, the most knowledgeable in his field. He seemed friendly enough on the phone when I called—in fact, he sounded inexplicably eager to meet me—but I simply don’t feel qualified to question the man. We’ll just have to wing it, and that makes me uncomfortable.”

Manning turns the car off the road and onto the grounds of the planetarium, parking at the farthest reaches of the lot to minimize the possibility of door dings. The Bavarian V-8 is new enough that its interior still smells of leather and its exterior has not yet been baptized to the ravages of city driving. It’s slick. It’s black. It’s perfect.

As they leave the car and Manning sets its alarm with the fob button, David glances back with a gleam in his eye. “Sweet rims.”

Once inside the building, Manning is surprised to find Zarnik himself waiting for him and David at a circular receptionist’s desk in the noisy, echoing lobby. Manning recognizes the scientist from file photos, but Zarnik cannot identify the two reporters among the crowd. Manning approaches him and extends his hand. With a smile he asks, “Dr. Zarnik, I presume?”

“Ah!” says the scientist, checking his watch, “I
knew
that you would be prompt. Welcome to my domain.” His English is fluent, though colored by a nonnative stiffness, spoken with an indefinite accent.

“Thank you, Professor, and welcome to Chicago.” Manning introduces David, and they all exchange pleasantries. The fusty astronomer then leads the two reporters through the back hallways of the planetarium, away from the yattering clumps of children, away from the meteor exhibits and the circular theater with its sky show, up a metal stairway, and down another hall.

“Monday’s announcement was timed, Mr. Manning, to coincide with the summer solstice. I do hope such punctilio was not wasted on your readers.” Zarnik skitters along with quick, short steps, stopping at a locked door that bears a red plastic sign:
Observatory, Authorized Personnel Only.
He examines each of several keys hanging from a chain over his white lab coat like baubles on a necklace. A hefty chrome police whistle rattles among the keys.

With, a laugh, David asks, “What’s that for, Professor? Expecting trouble?”

“Ah,
pfroobst
!” He shrugs. “One never knows. Where I come from, everyone believes that Chicago is yet riddled by gangsters. Now that I have come to know your city, I am happy that this seems not true. Nonetheless—as you Americans are fond to say—better safe than sorry.” He gives his whistle a toot, unlocks the door, and waves David and Manning inside.

Arcane electronic hardware clutters the fluorescent-lit room, whirring constantly, blinking randomly. A dusty chalkboard runs the length of one wall, but instead of mind-boggling formulas, it bears only a grocery list, a stray phone number. Computer screens stare blindly at the new visitors. Manning, in turn, absorbs the visual details of the laboratory, uncapping his Montblanc and scribbling a few hasty notes.

Dr. Zarnik asks, “Is something amiss, Mr. Manning? You appear perplexed.”

“Your observatory isn’t what I expected,” he explains. “I was hoping for a giant telescope—it would have made a great backdrop for a photo.”

Zarnik clucks as though Manning should know better. “No telescope could possibly fathom such depths of space to view so small a planet, a dead speck of cosmic sand spinning wildly in the darkness. No, Mr. Manning, this”—he pats the top of a computer monitor—“
this
is my window to the universe.”

David asks, “How does it work?”