HardScape (20 page)

“Maybe we should go for a change of venue.”

“Not a bad idea, if you could pull it off. But keep in mind, the judge as well as the state's attorney would like very much to hold the trial right here—Hey, with any luck there'll be no trial. Everybody agrees they've got a thin case.”

Long rubbed his face. “Jesus, I hope you're right. I've got my absolute top people on it, but I'm scared. For just the reason you're saying. What if they make my wife a symbol? For God's sake, she's just a woman like any other woman.”

That I would argue with.

“I hear you hired Ira Roth. That was a good move. He's never lost a case.”

“So he told me,” Long replied dryly.

“What does he think about the ballistics conclusions?”

“He's hired an expert witness who swears the shot came from the woods.”

“What do
you
think about the ballistics?”

“What do you mean?”

“I gather you're a shooter. And an engineer. What do you think? Could the shot have come from your tower?”

“
I
certainly couldn't have scored a bull's-eye at eighty yards from the tower.”

I refrained from remarking that Ron Pearlman's back was bigger than a bull's-eye. “What about Rita?”

“She's a fair shot. But the state's attorney is talking about some pretty fine gun work.”

“Who do you think shot Ron?”

“Goddamned deer poacher is my guess. Shot at movement, or sound, the way some of these damned fools will, realized what he did, and faded into the woods.”

“That's how I read it,” I agreed.

“I'm glad to hear that.” Long rubbed his face again. “You see, if Ron had been just an ordinary houseguest, that's how the state police would have seen it too, but goddamned Rita went and spilled her guts to that woman state trooper—told her everything.”

That was news to me. Marian Boyce was even better than she said she was. And closer-mouthed than she pretended. I said to Long, “You can hardly blame her. She was really upset.”

“Too late to blame her, but thanks to her big mouth, Ron jumped from ordinary houseguest to millionaire's wife's boyfriend.”

“And a millionaire in his own right.”

“Yeah, right,” Jack conceded bitterly. “Born with a silver spoon up his ass.”

The rosewood paneling in the stairwell, I recalled, had come from Jack's mother's Park Avenue apartment. “Well, you're not exactly a self-made man either, are you?”

“The hell I'm not. I left home when I was fourteen. I didn't go back until I could buy out my old man.”

“Was he proud of you?”

“The bastard was dead by then.” Long looked in his glass and saw that it was empty, and that he had probably said too much.

“Interesting,” I said.

“How so?” he demanded harshly.

“You and Ron had similar business backgrounds. He was born comfortable too, and he also pushed out on his own.”

“Bullshit! His old man gave him the money and told him what to do with it. He was the quintessential preppy airhead. If they weren't Jewish he would have been a trust-fund baby. Since they
were
Jewish his old man wanted him to make a decent mark for himself. Too dumb to be a doctor, so Daddy bought him an electronics factory. The old man's a pisser, by the way. You ought to meet him sometime. Salt of the earth. Ron was Momma's boy.”

“I'm getting the impression you didn't get along.”

“I can't stand fakers.” He looked into his glass again. “Jesus, how did we get started on Ron?”

“Tell me something?”

“What?” he asked warily, but I had shifted gears, reckoning I had drawn his personal well dry for a while.

“If you're right about the productivity bind, what's your plan?”

Long grinned. I knew he had a plan. It went with the philosophy. “Volume. Build simple stuff you can sell to everybody in such volume that you have to hire more people to handle it.”

“Personal electronics?” I ventured, borrowing the phrase from Rita, on the assumption this was the basic Long family line.

“Exactly. Personal electronics. Single phone numbers for every person on the planet. Pocket computers. Digital tape. And a virtual-reality game in every rec room in the country. That's four highly marketable items off the top of my head. We're testing others I can't talk about. I'm going to sell them to every man, woman, and child in America. And then to every citizen in the rest of the world.”

“What about the Japanese?”

Long grinned happily. “They can buy 'em too.”

Again I said, “Good luck.”

Rita hurried in with high color in her cheeks. I couldn't tell whether she was flushed from cooking or had overheard Jack's low opinion of Ron. “Dinner,” she said. “In the dining room.”

“Christ I'm hungry,” said Long. “I'll open some more wine. You want another of those, Ben?”

I told him wine would be fine and followed Rita into the cavernous dining room, where beneath the silver chandelier stood a card table set for three. A linen cloth draped halfway down its spindly legs. The silverware was sterling; the fresh wineglasses crystal; and the china, Pottery Barn. I glanced over at the lonesome Empire sideboard, and it seemed to glower back disapprovingly.

“Light the candles, Jack,” said Rita, racing out as he blundered in with the wine. I approached the table, wondering where to sit, and found place cards written in a clean, Gothic hand.

Jack poured the wine. He noticed me eyeing the label and said, “California. I bought a little vineyard next door to Josh Jensen's.”

“That sounds like a wonderful thing to own.”

“The candles?” the cry repeated from the kitchen.

“You got a match?”

“No.”

He went in search of matches for the candles and I stood there alone—me and the sideboard, which I was feeling affection for. It looked like Newbury's venerable school principal, who taught his students to spell the homophonous title by reminding them that he was their
pal
.

Rita pushed through the swinging door, deliciously backside first, carrying a huge platter.

I lunged to help.

“Thanks, I'm all right. Where the hell's Jack?”

“Looking for matches.”

“Jesus Christ.” She hesitated, considering the distance of the sideboard from the card table.

I said, “Why not on the table, since there's only three of us? Here, I'll just move the flowers a hair and…Right.”

She put it down, stood back tentatively, and wiped her brow. She had perfect ears, with a fat diamond stud in each. “What do you think?”

“Beautiful.”

“Really?”

Whether she could cook was still an open question, but she was an artist and had arranged the chicken breasts, baked potatoes, and string beans in a parkland of parsley.

“I just remembered, I owe you for the groceries.”

“Rita, chicken doesn't last.”

“Don't worry, I used yours to experiment.”

Jack came back with the matches, complaining, “I can't find a goddamned thing in this house.” He lit the candles and finally noticed the platter.

“Jesus, hon. You did that?”

“No, Federal Express from Fraser-Morris.”

“Looks great.”

Rita sat down. Jack and I took our places.

So far, I had learned a very few facts: Jack disliked Ron; Jack and Rita, whose marriage of nine years resembled one of thirty with its practiced wrangling, had called some sort of blind-eye truce; Jack
said
he thought a poacher had accidentally shot Ron; he claimed he was worried Rita wouldn't get a fair trial. What else did I know? Rita was a hell of an actress. Jack was very nervous. Edgy myself, I proposed a stupid toast:

“Confusion to the state's attorney.”

It went down big. Rita's eyes darkened. Jack's narrowed. I amended it to “Cheers” and we drank and fell on the chicken, which was cooked rare.

Rita watched me chew.

I said, “I think I'm familiar with this recipe. You've got a nice touch with herbs.”

“The builder gave us a spice rack,” Jack explained, then, a bite later, “This is really good, hon.”

“Thanks, hon. Ben, did you say you cook?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think these same spices would work with veal?”

“Ground veal,” I replied, and got a secret smile. I ate around the red parts, thinking how much fun flirting with Rita Long would be if poor Ron hadn't lived and died.

Jack burned his mouth on his potato. She had microwaved them, and the skins were as crisp as wet Xerox paper. The green beans, however, crackled admirably. I complimented Rita on them. She credited the Gierasch farm stand on 361.

“Jack, pour Ben some more wine.”

I covered my glass. “Driving.” Jack had quietly switched from wine—which he occasionally touched to his lips for appearance sake—to water. Now and then his gaze would alight inquiringly on me. He was wary, maybe even rethinking what I was doing in his home.

“How long you going to stay in the real estate business?”

“Oh, I think I'm in it for the duration.”

“You could have a problem.”

“How so?”

“It's possible homeowning patterns are changing. We might go back to a situation like England used to have, where people live in the same house their entire life.”

“I hope not. But even so, people still marry and die. There'll always be some market.”

“But a lot less real estate agents.”

“The newer ones could have some problems,” I agreed, drawing a smile from Rita. I was sorely tempted to say, Look, Jack, Rita and I will wash up. Why don't you go to New York?

“Did you ever think of getting a job?” Jack asked.

He made it sound more like an insult than my third genuine job offer that week. I suppose I was a little touchy on the career subject, which cropped up nights I couldn't sleep and days my bank statement arrived. But his superior tone did not inspire me to admit that occasionally I did long to get back in the action.

“No,” I answered. “My business keeps me busy.”

“I'm told you used to be some sort of genius at structuring debt. I'm always looking at new acquisitions—I say buy it before it buys you—I could use a man with that talent.”

I pretended to give this absurdity my full interest, before replying, “Keep in mind, Jack, when I worked on Wall Street, debt was the
goal
. I doubt that's your position these days.”

“Talent is talent. You telling me you're too old to adapt?”

“I have adapted.”

“What are you, thirty?” Jack scoffed.

“Thank you. Thirty-five.”

“That's not too old to change.”

“Ben is saying he's already changed,” Rita interrupted. “He's gone from Wall Street to…Main Street. Haven't you, Ben?”

“Right. If you're offering me a job, Jack, I'm flattered. Very flattered. And I'm grateful, particularly if you assume I'm in desperate straits. But I'm not interested in that sort of work anymore.”

“What's wrong with it?”

“Mainly, it doesn't go anywhere.” I looked across the table at Rita, who gave me a noncommittal smile. Jack, however, laughed.

“You're too young for forty-something angst.”

“No I'm not. Wheeling numbers is for the young and dumb. Pass the time, make a ton of money.”

“You've got plenty of time on your hands not selling houses and damned little money from what I can see.”

“Jack, shut up,” said Rita. “That's no way to talk to a guest.”

“Relax, hon. Ben and I understand each other. Don't we, Ben?” Fully on the attack now, he hunched over the table, probing for any ambivalence he could turn against me.

“You probably understand me better than I understand you. What do
you
want to be, Jack?”

“Nothing I'd waste time thinking about. I just do it.”

“Why bother? Aren't you rich enough already? Why not bank it, move full time to Newbury, and grow flowers Rita could paint? What are you trying to prove? You going to beat your father again?” No way to talk to a host I barely knew, but he'd set the tone. Nor did he seem to mind.

“The fight's not over, man. That's all I'll say. Look, Ben, I'm offering to put you back in the game. You got a ban on you? I'll get it lifted.”

I wondered whether he had guessed I was working for Rita and was trying to buy me off. Rita seemed to wonder too. She looked a little worried that I'd succumb to visions of Bentley convertibles, fast women, and Sutton Place digs, so I said, “I'm a country boy, Jack, back home where he belongs.”

“Country boy my ass! I know a player when I see one. Guys like you don't sell houses, you sell towns.”

“Not anymore. At least when I sell a house it's the beginning of something. I've enhanced the house. When I ran takeovers, people got fired.”

“They should have been. Goddamned bloated payrolls were killing us.”

“We used to tell ourselves that at the celebration dinner—improving efficiency, raising productivity, streamlining.”

“Somebody had to do it.”

“Somebody else. I don't want to play God anymore.”

Jack snickered. “Sanctimonious bullshit, Ben. Sounds to me like the U.S. Attorney turned your head.”

“Jack!” Rita protested. “Apologize. Or I'm leaving the room.”

“I apologize. Okay, Rita? I apologized.”

“Ben? All right?”

I should have excused myself and gone home before it turned ugly, but I saw real alarm on Rita's face.

“No problem.”

Jack said, “Just because I apologized doesn't mean I believe you. Nothing's that simple.”

He was right, of course, but I could not abandon Rita, so I tried to smooth it over: “I'll tell you a story, Jack. This happened long before the U.S. Attorney came down on me.…Leaving Chanterelle, late one night. Way downtown? Dark, empty streets. I put the client I'm about to gut into his limousine, and after he's gone I discover I'm locked out of mine. My driver's stuck inside, can't get the doors and windows open, dead battery or an electrical short or some damned thing. Anyway, I'm locked out, and this old black beggar comes along and corners me with a paper cup.”