Eye Contact (31 page)

My God. Manning’s eyelids flutter open. His eyes turn in their sockets to view the form of the man above him, a shadow rocking against the drifting clouds. Glancing to his side, Manning laughs, confirming that he knew the color of his visitor’s shoes. Manning watches the flexing of the muscles in the other man’s thighs. From this curious perspective, he examines details of the physique that are rarely seen. The view is enjoyable, indeed spectacular, but reveals no features that might hint at the visitor’s identity. Manning considers stopping him for a moment. He could tap the guy’s ass and ask, Excuse me, sir, but who exactly
are
you? But that would be rude. If this guy is so eager to slake the libido, Manning shouldn’t pester him with trivial questions.

But it’s
not
trivial—it matters. Who
is
he? Manning flops his head from side to side, brushing his temples against the other man’s calves, trying to get a better look at his face—but the guy’s busy down there. Manning can’t tell if he wears Armani glasses; from this angle, he can’t even get a look at his nipples, wondering if they’re ornamented with bits of silver jewelry. It might be David. It might be Neil. Or it could be anyone else, anyone at all. The uncertainty, at first so stimulating, is now vexing. Gripped by the onset of panic, Manning feels his penis shrivel in the other man’s mouth. Gobbling deeper, the faceless visitor literally has Manning by the balls.

This never would have happened if Manning hadn’t wavered from the path. It was a rut, yes, but one of his own making, the product of countless hours’ effort, ongoing work, predictable but reassuring. Now he’s trapped—splayed on the sands of a never-never land. Even if he could escape this lusty aggressor-thought-friend, he couldn’t find his way back. He is lost.

“Good morning.” What? “It’s six o’clock in Chicago, and cooler weather has at last arrived, pushing in from Wisconsin through the night.”

Manning sighs, relieved but still shaken. He opens his eyes and feels the tension start to drain from his body, which is curled into a tight fetal knot.

“It’s the first of July, which means that the opening of Celebration Two Thousand, our long-awaited civic festival of culture and science, is now only two days away. It’s the buzz of the town, and indeed, the nation. The White House has announced that the president will definitely attend Saturday’s ceremony. …”

Neil groans from his side of the bed. “I wish I could enjoy five waking minutes without hearing about that damned festival.”

Manning laughs, relaxes his body, and rolls over on the bed to gaze squarely into Neil’s eyes. “Good morning, kiddo. I’ve missed you.”

“Oh yeah? Where have you been?”

“Goofy dream. Guess I’ve been struggling with something.”

Neil smooths Manning’s hair, mussed from a restless sleep. “Anything you want to share with me?”

Manning flops onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Only not right now.”

“Sounds a trifle heavy.”

The radio continues. “The human-rights rally, which will be the central event of Saturday night’s celebration, will be dressed up with a little extra dazzle. A press release issued from the mayor’s office by fax overnight …”

Manning and Neil turn their heads to eye each other with a deadpan stare.

“… announced that preparations are now complete for a surprise spectacle that will be staged as a finale to the evening. Details are sketchy, but the city’s cultural liaison revealed that the spectacle involves cutting-edge laser technology. The display will be repeated nightly throughout the yearlong festival. …”

Manning asks, “
Now
what’s Victor up to?”

“Beats me,” says Neil.

“Turning now to our musical programming, let’s enjoy a portion of the oratorio
The Raft of the Medusa.
Today we celebrate the birthday of its composer, Hans Werner Henze.”

Manning and Neil ask in unison, “Who?”

Around eleven o’clock, Manning is working at his desk in the city room of the
Journal
when he senses that there is someone behind him. He looks over his shoulder to find Gordon Smith standing there, arms crossed, watching, grinning. The managing editor says, “Knee-deep in it, eh, Marko?”

Manning swivels to face him. “No, Gordon, I’m
neck
-deep in it, but so far it’s only questions and loose ends. Clearly, something very strange is going on, but nothing fits. I can’t make sense of it.”

Smith plants a palm on the desk and leans to ask Manning quietly, “Is there any reason to think Nathan Cain is endangered by all this?”

Inching closer, Manning responds, “Nothing I’ve learned points to that, but still, I’ve uncovered nothing that explains the military’s interest in Zarnik. If my suspicion is correct—that they’re using Cain for something clandestine—we could
all
be in danger. Cliff Nolan didn’t fit into the plan, and look what happened to him.”

“Then maybe it’s time to confide your suspicions to Nathan.”

“Not yet. Give me another day or two. I’ve been trying to unravel this from too many angles, and I’ve gotten nowhere. So now I’ll concentrate on a single issue—Zarnik’s true identity. If we can lay bare the Zarnik scam, I’m reasonably certain we’ll hold the key to Cliff’s murder. I’ve got a lead, a slim one, on Zarnik now. And by the way, I may need to come up with an ‘honorarium’ for my source.”

Smith reminds him, “Cain gave you carte blanche. Go for it. I’ll sign.”

“Thanks, Gordon. I don’t like bribing people for clues, but so far, my ‘free’ information hasn’t been worth much. I wasted a day and a half up in Door County.”

“I know. Nathan mentioned it to me.”

Manning blinks. “Really?”

Shrugging, Smith says, “He must have seen some expenses come through.”

Possibly, thinks Manning, but not likely—he returned only yesterday. He asks, “Has Cain shown much interest in my progress with the story?”

“He’s asked me about it a couple of times, but only in passing, while discussing other business. Of course, Nathan’s a hard guy to read. Why do you ask?”

Manning rises, stretching his shoulders, working out a crick that developed from his morning at the keyboard. “No reason, just natural curiosity. It’s always worth knowing when the boss is breathing down your neck.”

Smith laughs. “Don’t I know it! So keep me posted, okay, Marko? I’d sure like to report
something
to Nathan.”

Sitting again, Manning assures him, “You’ll be the first to know, Gordon.”

Smith pats him on the shoulder, turns, and saunters off through the newsroom toward his office.

Manning slides his keyboard aside (he’s not on deadline—he was typing his notes to help focus his thoughts) and pulls Victor Uttley’s morgue file from the stack on his desk. There’s a phone number on a Post-it note stuck to the front of the folder. Manning checks his watch. He’s getting anxious, so he reaches for the phone and punches in the number. He flips open the folder while the other phone rings.

A man answers, “Cultural liaison’s office.”

“Hello. This is Mark Manning from the
Journal.
Is Victor Uttley available?”

“Speaking,” he says. “I may have a title, Mark, but I don’t have a secretary. I’ll try to remedy that during the mayor’s next budget review. What can I do for you?” Then he adds with a chortle, “As if I couldn’t guess.”

Manning stares at Uttley’s photo while speaking to him. “Just wondering if you’ve had any luck securing access to one of the laser sites. Tomorrow would be great if you could swing it.”

“Consider it done.” Uttley’s voice rings with the pride of accomplishment. “I had to pull a few strings, but that’s what I’m here for.”

“A true public servant,” Manning says dryly.

“That’s right,” says Uttley, attuned to Manning’s cynicism, which, perversely, he seems to enjoy. “Let’s see now. …” The sound of shuffling papers carries over the phone. “Here we are. The other two projector sites, in addition to the Journal Building, are Sears Tower and the MidAmerica Building. Sears won’t work for you—too many tourists—I don’t even know how they managed to get all that equipment up there without drawing a lot of attention. Which leaves us with MidAmerica Oil. You’re in luck, Mark. The mayor’s pretty thick with their chairman, Bradley McCracken. I know from the mayor’s calendar that he often has lunch with Brad at the Central States Club—
very
exclusive, you know, top floor of the MidAmerica Building. Anyway, a favor was called in, and you’re welcome to explore the tower platform tomorrow evening at five-thirty.”

“Nice job, Victor,” Manning tells him, surprised that he was able to arrange it. “Where do I go? Who do I see?” Manning uncaps his pen and makes detailed notes of the logistics that Uttley recites to him. Manning asks, “This is all hush-hush, right? It’s just a feature story, not hard news, but I want to be the first to break it.”

“It’s all yours, Mr. Manning, compliments of Chicago’s cultural liaison to the world. I hope that you’ll consider these arrangements a favor from a friend.”

Manning rolls his eyes. “Indeed I shall. Tell me, Victor, why the overnight press release hinting about the spectacle?”

“No harm in drumming up a little extra interest—and it certainly won’t tarnish the luster of my own office. What’s more, tantalizing the public early will only heighten the impact of your story later.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Manning tells him. “Most of the stories I work on don’t involve hype—they’re just news.”

“Bullshit. Journalism
is
hype.”

“No,” Manning insists, “I can’t agree with that. I admit that journalism can sometimes stray into sensationalism, and television does it all too often, but
real
journalism—reporting, pure and simple—is not entertainment. It’s an essential component of a truly free society.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Uttley doesn’t care enough to argue. Changing topics, he asks, “Any progress with that story on the mystery woman, the actress?”

Manning’s tone is cautious. “It’s coming along. As we discussed yesterday, I may need some help.”

Uttley reminds him, “As we discussed yesterday,
I
may need some help. Have you spoken to your editor about the, uh …”

“Honorarium,” Manning supplies the missing word. “Yes, we had a chat about it this morning. He’s looking into it for me. As soon as I get the go-ahead,
if
I get the go-ahead, we can talk terms.” Manning poises his pen above the note with the phone number. “How much did you have in mind?”

“That depends on how valuable the information is.”

Manning retorts, “
That
depends on what you’re able to tell me.”

“If I draw a blank, you owe me nothing. But if I finger the gal, I want ten.”

Manning is silent.

Uttley amplifies, “Ten grand.”

“Jesus, Victor, who writes your material? Ten
grand
?”

“All
right
already. Ten thousand—or would twenty make you happier?”

“Let me work on ten first.” Manning discreetly jots the figure on the yellow note. While capping his pen, he notices David Bosch approaching his cubicle. He tells Uttley, “I have to go now; I’ll let you know about the money. Whatever the outcome, I really do appreciate your help with the laser business.”

“I’ll bet you do,” says Uttley. “And I hope we’ll be talking again real soon.”

“Soon enough,” Manning tells him. “Good-bye, Victor.” And he hangs up.

Grinning, David sits on the corner of the desk. It’s not just Manning’s imagination—David
has
been emulating his dress lately. He wears a pinstripe oxford shirt, a preppy knit tie, and a pair of dressy khaki slacks that Manning hasn’t seen before. David looks even hotter than usual in them, and Manning would surely remember them.

“A call from our neighborhood extortionist?” David asks.

Manning leans back in his chair, getting a full view of David. “No, actually, I phoned
him.
It turns out, he was able to arrange for me to examine the laser projector at the MidAmerica Building. Tomorrow at five-thirty.”

David’s brow wrinkles. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—what’s that all about? You don’t write ‘soft news.’ We’ve got a whole separate staff for features.”

Manning recounts to David the incident in Cain’s office on Monday when he saw the menacing device being hoisted to the
Journal’s
tower platform. “It just didn’t look like the type of apparatus that might be used for a light show, so I want to get a look at one of the other projectors to see if it’s the same. More than likely, I’m acting on an empty hunch, but even at that, it
will
make a damned good feature piece.”

“Want me along?” asks David.

“Maybe,” says Manning. “Let’s see how tomorrow shapes up. Besides, five-thirty on Friday, you’ve probably got a big weekend planned.”

David shakes his head. “I’m all yours.” He grins slyly.

Oops. Manning does in fact want to talk about “that,” but not here. He tells David, “Our friend Victor named his price, by the way.”

“To identify your ‘mystery woman’? How much?”

“Ten thousand dollars—pricey for a local tip, but both Cain and Smith have authorized whatever it takes, so Victor may be in for some easy money.”

David flips open Uttley’s folder. Victor’s publicity photo smiles at the ceiling from the top of the pile. “When do you go to work with him?”

“Not yet.” Manning lifts the photo from the file and stares back at Uttley’s crooked smirk. “I just don’t know if I can trust this guy. Let’s see if he can actually deliver on his promised access to the laser projector before I reveal to him that it’s Professor Zarnik, not some woman, whose true identity I need to establish. In order to stall, I said that the money wasn’t approved yet.” He tosses Uttley’s photo back into the file and closes the folder.

David stands, and their conversation lapses. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he seems reticent to say what’s on his mind. When he does speak, his usual breeziness is tempered by a hint of bashfulness. “I was wondering, Mark, if I might take you and Neil to dinner sometime.”

“Of course,” says Manning, amused that David would be apprehensive to ask such a question. “That would be great. But we wouldn’t expect you to host.”