Sins of the Flesh (5 page)

They clambered into Rocky's gleaming roadster, the last of the day's raindrops beaded on its highly polished surface. “I closed my office,” Jerry said sheepishly. “I gave everyone a month's vacation. My old man is probably drawing up my commitment papers as we speak.”

Rocky grinned. “You're bonkers, but you aren't the only one. I did the same thing.”

Both men looked longingly toward the western horizon. If Daniel had given the word, they would have leapt into what they were now considering an adventure.

At last Jerry reached over and patted the steering wheel. “Start this baby up,” he said resignedly. “I think we should head for the nearest bar and tie one on. We'll be more than sober by the time Daniel gets to France.”

“In that outfit?” Jerry said, pointing to Rocky's hairy calves. “There isn't a place in town that'll let you in.”

Rocky shrugged. “Then I'll buy the fucking place! And you can hold the mortgage.”

“I know this tailor on Fourteenth Street…”

It was a warm, golden day, the kind California was known for, the kind pictured on glossy travel brochures inviting you to accomplish something wondrous with the brilliant sun at your back. But Reuben Tarz admitted there was very little left in his life to accomplish. The pictorial reviews and trade papers and magazines continued to report that he had it all, still touting him as a wonder boy even though he was over forty. Wonder Boy…If any of them could have heard him chuckling cynically over the image, they would have been puzzled to say the least.

He looked around at his quiet, manicured garden and wondered, not for the first time, if his Japanese grounds-man had a drawn plan of the terrain. His prime Beverly Hills acre of color almost blinded him with its brilliance. Nests of sweet peas, beds of begonias and cyclamen, huge healthy clumps of daisies, and intensely fragrant bougainvillea and gardenias all bloomed in pampered profusion. When he died he hoped some kind soul would drape his casket with daisies; they were his favorite flowers. The morbid image brought him up short, and he quickly banished it from his thoughts. Death was years ahead of him; he wouldn't even consider it. Why, he hadn't even reached the halfway mark yet! His career came first; then, when he was ready to retire he would do something about the things he wanted to do and the places he wanted to see.

Reuben turned and started toward his horseshoe-shaped rose garden, shears and gloves in hand. He'd come out to the garden for a reason, not to stand and gawk. Almost completely surrounded by the five-foot rosebushes, he began to cut away dead stems and dried leaves. They were hardy, these roses, and he'd taken over their care despite Osawa's protests. Of course, he wasn't proficient by any means, but the need to tend something, to watch it grow and thrive through sheer persistence, was important to him.

Intent on his occupation, he examined each new bud and marveled over every full bloom still shining with early morning dewdrops. The deep emerald leaves looked as though they were sprinkled with diamonds, and the earthy fragrance of the new day filled his lungs.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the maid bringing out the
Examiner
and a pot of coffee and placing it on the terrace table a short distance from where he stood. Soon she'd return with a frosty pitcher of orange juice and a crystal glass. The benefits of wealth: a maid, breakfast on the terrace, and a newspaper just waiting for him to pick up. Reuben sighed.

There were days when he liked his solitary coffee and juice, but today wasn't one of them. Today he felt his aloneness acutely, like a swift, unexpected pain. The children were busy with their lives, and his wife was off God knew where, while he was swallowed up in a huge mansion with four servants.

He'd spent the entire Fourth of July weekend alone, puttering about even though Jane Perkins had asked him weeks earlier to attend her annual barbecue and Max had called and suggested he stop by the club if he wasn't doing anything. But he couldn't face the warmth of Jane's homey get-together, even though she was a trusted friend and he loved her dearly, and Max's invitation had only made him burrow deeper into his solitude.

Thinking over the next few business days at the studio, he realized that with the exception of one meeting, things were so under control he didn't even have to show up. If he wanted to, he could take off for days at a time at this point and not worry about what was going on. But he did worry. After all, someone might come out of the blue and snap at his heels the way he'd snapped at Sol Rosen's heels some twenty-odd years ago. And he hadn't stopped snapping, either; he'd taken a good-size bite and then gobbled up the whole shooting match. Well, almost the whole shooting match. Forty-nine percent of Fairmont stock was his free and clear—stock ol' Sol had cannily gifted in trust to his grandsons in a clever twist on an agreement he and Reuben had made together. The same stock that Bebe had later turned over to him the night he'd been awarded an Oscar for his accomplishments in the film industry—to help put their troubled marriage back on an even keel, she'd said at the time. But that had not happened. If anything, he and Bebe were further apart now than they'd ever been. It wasn't even a marriage of convenience anymore. It was just a mutual, miserable existence.

Reuben stared down at the garden flagstones, littered now with dead twigs bearing sharp, treacherous thorns. After meticulously piling them to the side, he moved on to the salmon-colored roses and continued to snip. If only he could cut an armful of the lush, fragrant blooms and present them to someone, someone special who would know that he and he alone was responsible for their beauty. But there was no one he cared to share his roses with, no one who meant enough to him. His heart felt heavy.

How in the name of God had he become such an emotional cripple? Why couldn't he feel love? Why had it been ruthlessly snatched from his grasp? Would he ever again feel that pulse-quickening, heart-thumping magical excitement that made him want to rip open his heart to bare his love? Jesus, where had it all gone?

His mind raced as he kept snipping away, his thoughts circling around another topic of concern. For the last few days he had been experiencing a second gut-churning emotion, one that tied his stomach in knots and made him want to look over his shoulder like an escaping criminal, as if hounds were at his heels. Fear. Fear that something was going to happen to upset his world. It had started the night of Daniel's phone call, this intangible feeling that was setting his hands to tremble and his heart to pound.

Reuben pulled off the gardening gloves and tossed them and the clippers onto the mound of cuttings. Turning his back on the garden, he walked to the white glass-topped table on the patio. Marcy had poured his juice but not his coffee. He gulped the freshly squeezed juice, savoring the pulpy thickness, then poured himself a cup of the dark and spicy coffee—made just the way he liked it. It had barely hit bottom when he looked down at the paper nestled beside the cup. His gut began to churn faster. Maybe something was in the paper…. Either it was that or…Daniel.

There was nothing new in the paper, just a rehash of the previous day's news. As he refolded the paper, a picture of Roosevelt standing at Hyde Park stared back at him. The article reported the president's Fourth of July speech, a wealth of platitudes about the greatness of America, about dying for one's country in order to preserve the human freedom established by the Founding Fathers 165 years ago today. Reuben pushed the paper from him. Daniel knew something, had heard something, was privy to some information…and his call was to…see if he had heard it, too!

“Marcy!” he roared. When the startled maid appeared at the French doors, he demanded a phone. He didn't give a shit what time it was back East.

The phone rang twenty-five times at Daniel's Georgetown house before Reuben hung up. The phone at the house on Fire Island was picked up on the seventh ring. In a sleepy voice Nellie told Reuben her father was back in Washington. Reuben hung up again and then tried Daniel's answering service. This time a receptionist told him that Mr. Bishop was out of town but someone would be in the office by nine if it was an emergency. At that Reuben lost his patience.

“I'm Reuben Tarz, miss. Mr. Bishop
always
leaves word where
I
can reach him, and, yes, this is an emergency.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” the operator answered contritely, “Mr. Bishop left no messages other than what I've just told you. All I can suggest is that you call the office at nine o'clock.”

“Out of town, my ass!” Reuben seethed at the sound of the dial tone. Hell, he'd talked to Daniel a little over twenty-four hours ago, and nothing had been said about going out of town. Not that he told Reuben each time he made a business trip, but he'd always left a number where he could be reached, or his secretary would track him down if Reuben needed him, and he'd be on the phone within the hour.

Reuben looked at his watch. Five minutes to six—five minutes to nine in Washington. Five minutes to wait.

Promptly at six Reuben placed a call to Daniel's private office number. His nasal-voiced secretary answered on the second ring. “Daniel Bishop's office, how may I help you?”

“Reuben Tarz here, Irene. I need to get in touch with Daniel.”

Irene's voice became attentive and expectant. Besides knowing about him through her love of the movies, Irene was well aware that Reuben Tarz was Mr. Bishop's best friend, and in all the years she'd worked for Mr. Bishop he had always left a number where Reuben Tarz could reach him. This was the first time that she would have to tell him Mr. Bishop simply couldn't be reached. “I'm sorry, Mr. Tarz, but Mr. Bishop left the office early today, and as yet I have no number for him. If this is an emergency…” Her voice trailed off lamely.

“What about his appointments? Check his calendar,” Reuben ordered. His voice was so authoritative, Irene began to rise from her seat even though the appointment book was right in front of her. But she knew it contained no further clues.

“Mr. Rockefeller and Mr. Vanderbilt are seeing to Mr. Bishop's clients. I'm sorry I can't be of more help. I can have Mr. Rockefeller return your call when he gets in if you like….”

“I want him to call me as soon as you hear from him or he sets foot in that office. More important, I want to be in touch with Mr. Bishop. Do you understand me, Irene?” Reuben said coldly, and rang off.

He immediately dialed the house on Fire Island for the second time. This time Rajean answered the phone. “This is Reuben, Rajean. I'm trying to reach Daniel. Do you know where he is?”

“Oh, hello there, Reuben, how are you?” Rajean drawled.

Reuben fought to keep his calm, sensing Daniel's ice-maiden wife was only trying to get a rise out of him. She knew he didn't want to chat. “I'm fine, thanks. Do you know where Daniel is?”

“No, Reuben, I don't, as a matter of fact. His secretary called yesterday afternoon and…” Rajean took a drag from a cigarette and blew it out leisurely.

She was toying with him. Reuben took a deep breath, waited a beat, and then said, “Yes?” drawing out the syllable as if coaxing a child.

“She said he was going out of town for, as she put it, ‘an indefinite period of time.' She said that when Daniel got back to her with a number she'd call me.” Rajean sounded peeved as she offered this information, as if she didn't appreciate being kept in the dark—even about matters that didn't interest her in the least. “Why, Reuben, is there something wrong?”

Reuben deliberately kept his voice light. “Nothing earth-shattering. I just need to talk to him about something. It can wait.” It wouldn't do to stir up a hornet's nest—at least until he knew what was going on. He continued to speak in a friendly, less urgent manner. “How are you, Rajean, and when are you and Nellie coming to the land of sunshine?”

“Daniel said something about October, but it isn't definite. How is everyone?” she responded politely. One never knew when the services of a Hollywood mogul might come in handy.

“Just fine. When Daniel phones, will you tell him to give me a call?”

“Of course. Take care of yourself, Reuben, and give my regards to…your wife and boys.”

“You bet.”

His forehead deeply furrowed, Reuben stared at the shiny black telephone for a long time. Now he had a new set of worries. Where the hell was Daniel?

The next call he made was to his own office. His secretary assured him Daniel had not called, and his third meeting with the union men had been canceled, but everything else was fine.

When he hung up, Reuben looked around and realized the day was rapidly picking up speed. The dew of morning was gone, the debris of his gardening labors had already been cleaned up, and his coffee was dead cold. In that moment he made up his mind to fly East.

It was more than a whim, he told himself as he stood beneath the stinging spray of his bathroom shower. Something was wrong, he could feel it, sense it in every pore of his body. Daniel was in trouble of some kind and hadn't asked for his help. Instead he'd obviously turned to his two Harvard friends. Why? Was he in some kind of political legal trouble? When Daniel had called him, his voice had sounded strained, that much he remembered, and the call itself had triggered his own jittery feelings.

As he dressed, Reuben's mind whirled. Some kind of political intrigue, something top secret. That was the only situation that would account for the fact that Daniel couldn't be reached. “Ah, shit!” Reuben exploded. An indefinite period of time could mean anything from a few hours to a few years. He knew Daniel to be an honest man, but politics was a dirty business, and no one had to be a Harvard graduate to figure
that
out.

Reuben had one foot on the running board of his car when his maid called to him that a Mr. Rockefeller was on the phone long distance. He walked back to the house, his thoughts churning at this turn of events. An inner voice cautioned him to tread easy, but after he'd identified himself, he threw discretion to the winds. “I need to get in touch with Daniel, and I need to do it immediately. Where is he?” he demanded coldly.

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “I wish I could help you, Mr. Tarz, but I don't have a number for Daniel. He said he'd get back to me with one, but so far he hasn't done that. Jerry and I are manning the office, taking turns until Daniel gets back…. I'll be more than happy to give him your message as soon as he calls.”

Reuben instantly sensed in Rockefeller's voice the same strain he'd heard in Daniel on his Fourth of July call. “Look, Mr. Rockefeller, in all the years Daniel and I have known each other, we have never, I repeat, never, neglected to leave at least a phone number. The simple fact is I'm not buying your story, or his secretary's story. Now, what kind of trouble does Daniel
think
he's in? Is it something to do with the government work he does?”