Eye Contact (26 page)

Sensing that Elder Phipps has perhaps overplayed the CFC position, Buchman adopts a conciliatory tone and, shoving the sleeves of his jacket halfway up his stocky forearms, leans forward on his elbows to tell Zarnik, “I hope you’ll forgive my esteemed colleague’s testy manner, but y’see, these are issues that cut to the very core of our Bah-ble-based beliefs. It don’t help none, either, that you’ve posed this challenge so quickly after arrivin’ here in our country.” Buchman cocks his head and smiles. It’s a false smile, toothy and menacing.

Zarnik isn’t cowed, now that he sees so clearly what he’s dealing with. He sips his lemonade (daintily, hoping it will further annoy the elders) and tells Buchman, “I was always taught in my homeland that America prides herself as—how do you say?—the great melting pot. And yet, there are those who now espouse the concept of ‘America for Americans.’ It strikes me that such an isolationist attitude contradicts this great nation’s heritage. In the final analysis, are we not all, every one of us at this table, an immigrant people?” The elders visibly bristle at such a suggestion. Zarnik adds, “Then again, I am a foreigner, so I may be a smidge fuzzy on this issue.”

Buchman condescends to explain, “The immigration policies of the past, though noble in theory, simply don’t apply to these present times, Professor. When our country was founded, it was a vast, untamed wilderness, in need of manpower from whatever corners of the earth to settle its new frontiers, to conquer its savage natives, and to spread the word of Jesus. With God’s blessin’, those goals have long been met, and our nation now faces a moral obligation to be a little more—shall we say?—
selective
in its policy toward outsiders. F’rinstance, I’m sure y’understand that it’s simply not in our interest to admit fast-breedin’ Hispanics, Muslims of any stripe, or the AIDS-infested. What’s more—”

“Mr. Buchman,” Zarnik interrupts him, standing, “mind your words, lest you be branded a hypocrite.” The Council of Elders gasps as one. “Surely I need not preach to an assembly so devout as yours, but this discussion reminds me of a fable that is the heritage of my own homeland. It is a scrap of our history, far older than yours, that teaches a lesson in tolerance. May I share it with you?” Zarnik smiles.

Clearly, Elder Buchman wasn’t expecting such a question. Hesitating, he looks to the other elders, who in turn exchange uncertain glances—but it’s Buchman’s call. Slowly, he leans toward Zarnik, the bare skin of his forearms squeaking on the polished table. Something in his steely stare tells Zarnik there is no interest in his parable of tolerance. Buchman’s mouth opens to comment. “When hell freezes ovah.”

Angry voices swell around the table as the elders and deacons add their own invective to Buchman’s ruling—Zarnik’s matinee has bombed in the Golgotha Suite. Everyone is talking, everyone is laughing, except Zarnik, of course, and the man at the opposite end of the table. Carl Creighton looks down at a folder spread open before him, in which he calmly jots a few notes.

After dinner, Manning, Roxanne, and David stroll outdoors from the dining room, bracing themselves against a lake breeze. Roxanne says, “I told you the evenings were chilly.” She snuggles inside a fuzzy knee-length sweater styled like a topcoat with giant buttons and a shawl collar. The guys wear lightweight blazers—Manning’s is linen, David’s is silk—over knit shirts buttoned to the neck.

The sun has not yet set. These are the longest days of the year, and they stretch even longer this far north. But the sky’s western glow ends abruptly at the massed pines, which appear black and solid, like a craggy-topped wall constructed to keep out the light. Crickets choir antiphonally from their hidden cricket lofts. Locusts whir. David yawns.

Manning says, “I know it’s been a long day, and we were all a bit rattled by Maxwell Smart this afternoon. But it’s too early for bed—there’s still light in the sky—so why don’t we check out the Poop Deck?”

David’s not so tired after all. Gesturing toward the front door of the boathouse, he suggests, “Cocktails, anyone?” The three switch directions and head for the lounge, where lights beckon and music thumps.

Opening the door, entering, Manning sees in a flash that Roxanne wasn’t joking earlier when she said that the place caters to an older crowd. David is now easily the youngest person in the room—Roxanne and Manning are next. The other patrons stop gabbing for a moment to inspect the new arrivals, raise a few eyebrows, and drift back to their drinks. “‘I just called
[cha cha cha]
to say
[cha cha cha]
I luuuv you,’” croons a one-man act in a burgundy jacket. He has a rhythm machine cranked so loud the windows throb, a keyboard with more controls than a Univac, and hair dyed so black it’s blue. Manning and David stifle a laugh while Roxanne grins, I told you so. They cross the nautical-themed room and settle at a table alongside one of the windows overlooking the bay. Near their table, a ship’s wheel is mounted to the floor. David can’t resist—it’s too loud to talk anyway—and he excuses himself from the table to take command of the wheel.

At last the rhythm machine seems to run out of steam.
Cha cha chunk.
There’s a smatter of applause. The musician acknowledges the crowd, shuffles his sheet music, and … thank God, it’s time for his break. Heading for the bar, he grabs a few bills from his tip jar, a snifter the size of a muskmelon.

Now that conversation is possible, David scoots back to the table, asking, “What can I get you from the bar?”

Manning tells him, “Straight vodka on the rocks with a twist of orange peel—Japanese vodka if they have it.”

Roxanne is tempted, but no. “Perrier’s fine, or whatever.”

As David turns to go to the bar, Manning asks him, “Got your wallet?”

“Sure.”

“Just charge the drinks to the cabin,” Manning tells him, “but they’ll probably card you—in
this
crowd.”

David and Roxanne laugh. Yes, David is young, but his blazer, glasses, and mature bearing give him the air of a gentleman. Roxanne tells him in a coddling tone, “If the man gives you any grief about the booze, sweetheart, have him talk to Mommy.” As David traipses off to the bar, Roxanne’s lips ripple with a smile.

Noting the direction of Roxanne’s gaze, Manning tells her, “He’s a great kid.”

“
I’ll
say.”

“No, seriously. He’s a hard worker, smart, well mannered. …”

“Don’t tell me—he cooks too.”

Manning laughs. “I wouldn’t know. My point is: when my editor first assigned him as my ‘assistant’ last week, I thought he’d just get in the way. But I was wrong. He’s been a great help, and I enjoy his company.”

Roxanne leans close over the table. Her tone is confidential. “I’ll bet you do.”

“I mean, he’s …
interesting.
I haven’t really known anyone of his generation. They’ve got some different ideas.”

Roxanne leans back in her chair. Examining her nails at arm’s length, she ponders aloud, “I wonder if he likes older women.”

Now it’s Manning’s turn to be coy. He leans toward her. “Don’t bank on it.”

“What do you mean?”

With a know-nothing shrug, he again tells her, “You’ll have to ask David.”

David reappears with their drinks. “Ask me what?”

Roxanne eyes Manning wryly, then says to David, “I’m supposed to ask you about your taste in women.”

Unprepared for the topic, David stammers.

Changing the subject, Manning pulls out a chair for David and tells him, “Join the party. Did he card you?”

“Nope,” says David, distributing the drinks, “he was so stooped-over, he never even looked me in the eye. Hey, time for a toast.”

They all raise their glasses. Roxanne says, “For starters: To the successful completion of your big story. May a Partridge Prize await you.”

Manning returns the courtesy. “To the successful resolution of this crink in your relationship with Carl. May your worst suspicions prove unfounded.”

“And to Neil,” says David. “I wish he could be here with us.”

“Here here,” says Roxanne.

“To Neil,” says Manning.

And they all drink.

Just as they are about to settle into some frivolous conversation, having exhaustively discussed plots and counterplots all afternoon, Manning feels the tingle of the pager on his belt. He unclips it and reads the number. “Speaking of Neil,” he tells the others, “a summons from the home front. It might be important, and besides, I’d like to talk to him.” He rises. “Do you mind?”

“No,” they assure him. “Not at all.”

He picks up the glass that he has barely sipped, to take it with him to the cabin. “I don’t know how long this’ll take, so don’t wait around for me. If I don’t see you later, Roxanne, sleep tight.” He steps to her side of the table and leans to kiss her cheek. “Behave yourself,” he says into her ear.

“
I’m
not the one who’s drinking,” she reminds him, tapping her water glass.

He squeezes her shoulder, tells David to have fun, and leaves the lounge.

It’s noticeably darker outdoors now, cooler too, and Manning paces briskly toward the cabin, only a few hundred yards away, carrying his icy drink. Underfoot, the asphalt paving changes to gravel driveway. His shoes crunch the stones as he approaches the cabin, guided by the glow of a yellow bug-light near the door. Arriving on the stoop, he fishes for his key and turns the lock. (After that incident on the bay, he decided he’d been too lax and trusting. It was stupid to leave the cabin unlocked earlier. To everyone’s relief, there were no signs of intrusion during their afternoon absence. There was little worth stealing anyway—Manning’s computer, files, and notes were all safe in the trunk of his car.)

Entering, he switches on lights, crosses to the bedroom desk, and sets down his glass. Through the picture window in the living room, he sees the evening’s last glint of orange on the water. Even the indoor air is chilly now, so he leaves his jacket on, but doesn’t take time to fuss with the heat—he wants to return Neil’s call. The message light on the phone is blinking—but Neil comes first. Manning sits at the desk, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. He flips open his reporter’s notebook and sets his capped pen next to it, in case Neil has business. He sips his vodka, then dials.

The other phone rings four times, then the answering machine starts its spiel. Manning glances at his watch. Damn. Then Neil picks up the phone, interrupting the machine. “Hello?” He sounds winded.

“Hi there. Did you just walk through the door?”

“I just jumped out of the shower,” Neil tells him.

“Going out?” asks Manning, trying not to sound as if he’s prying. “You usually shower in the morning.”

“Rest easy, Mark. It’s been another hellacious day, and I had a few errands to run this evening. Just trying to cool off. They say better weather’s on the way.”

“It’s already here.” Manning huddles into his jacket. “It’s cold tonight.”

“Then you’d better build a fire.”

Manning relaxes in the chair, stretching his legs. “Matter of fact, there’s one ready to go. There’s a wonderful stone fireplace—none of that gas-log nonsense.”

Neil is impressed. “Sounds great.”

“Everything’s lovely, kiddo. I wish you were here to share it.”

“Me too. Here in the loft, I enjoyed having some ‘personal space’ for a change—for an hour or two—but the flush of independence faded fast. I want you back here.”

Manning sips his drink. “Come morning, David and I will be on our way.”

“How
is
the lad?”

“Fine. He’s over at the cocktail lounge with Roxanne.”

“And what about Rox—what was so urgent that you had to hightail it up there?”

Manning leans forward on the desk, as if inching closer to Neil. “Get this: Carl was called into town for a board meeting of the Christian Family Crusade.”

“What?”

Manning cups the receiver to his mouth, as if speaking into Neil’s ear. “It gets even screwier. Zarnik himself was apparently at the same meeting. Roxanne suspects the worst: Carl is involved with the CFC, and they’re all knee-deep in the Zarnik scam. Plus, I can’t help wondering about Cliff Nolan’s dossier on Carl.”

“There’s got to be some other explanation,” says Neil, his voice laced with doubt. “This is starting to sound way too sinister.”

Manning is tempted to tell Neil about the eavesdropper on the pier, but that would only worry him, and right now he has pressures of his own to fret over. Manning says, “You’re probably right. Even if Roxanne has correctly concluded that Carl Creighton is somehow associated with the CFC—he is, after all, a lawyer, and I’m sure the Crusade pays plenty of them—I can’t think of any plausible connection between a bunch of irrational fundamentalists and Zarnik, a man of science. Granted, he’s just putting on an
act,
but why?”

“Oh!”—Neil remembers—“The reason I called. Did Victor Uttley phone you?”

Manning looks at the winking red light. “I’m not sure. There’s a message.”

“Victor phoned you here at home tonight, and I gave him your number up there. You guys have been missing each other’s calls, right? He wouldn’t tell me exactly what he wanted, but he did say to let you know that he needs to talk to you about something important. In turn, I told him that you, too, have something to discuss with him—access to the laser projectors. He seemed to think he could pull some strings; he wants you to call him about it. Then, after we hung up, it occurred to me that he has theatrical connections all over the city.”

Manning swirls the ice in his glass. “So?”

“What did Claire Gray tell you? The man posing as Zarnik must be a professional
actor,
right? Maybe Victor could help put the finger on him.”

Manning has begun taking notes. He stares at them in silence for a moment. “Thanks, Neil. That’s an interesting angle. Remember, though, that Uttley ran those ads, so he already has something of a professional investment in Zarnik. He may not enjoy hearing that he’s involved the mayor’s office in perpetrating a hoax.”

“That’s a valid concern,” admits Neil. “But knowing Victor, I’d characterize him as a publicity hound. He’d
love
making headlines, even if they proved he was injudicious in running those ads. He could claim he was ‘victimized.’”