Sleeping Beauty (45 page)

“I want to know what's going on there,” he had told Keith. “What your grandfather is doing, how much he's expanding the place, what Leo's up to, where they're getting the money to expand . . . everything you can get. You keep an eye on things, and if I want you to do anything, you be ready to do it. I'll match whatever salary Leo pays you. But if I find you're doing drugs again or drinking more than you can handle, you're out. Marian and Fred find out about Miami and the hospital in Chicago, and so does Leo. And you can go back to Miami flophouses and fucking around with drugs and whores until you're the one who gets stabbed, probably by somebody who has better aim than you, and nobody will lift a finger. Do you need it spelled out any more than that?” Keith shook his head, and moved to Tamarack.

Not too smart, Vince thought, watching Keith make his way to Sid Folker's bar. But not quite stupid. And without a shred of a moral or ethical system to confuse him. It was actually pleasant to deal with him; he was uncomplicated, totally self-absorbed, and as loyal as a puppy. There could be no better assistant for Vince, who hated surprises, than predictable, transparent Keith Jax.

“So what was all that stuff he was making noises about?” Keith asked when Vince came home at midnight. He was sitting in the kitchen, drinking from a tall glass and eating a chocolate cake out of the box in which it had come from the bakery. “Lots of soda, a squirt of Scotch,” he said as Vince shot a glance at his glass. “Check the bottle, if you don't believe me.”

Vince leaned against the refrigerator. “Tell me about the crowd in Tamarack, at City Hall.”

“It was a hoot. Everybody carrying jugs, signing in like good Boy Scouts, the mayor saying how things were fine,
everybody talking at once, a couple reporters taking pictures . . . I mean it was a real crazy night.”

“They must have blamed someone. Who was it?”

“Nobody. They never blamed anybody. All they did was worry about how long would it last, and would the tank trucks be there all day so they could get water anytime, and were they starting to fix the problem, and—”

“Who were they talking about? Who was supposed to fix the problem?”

Keith shrugged. “They. It's always ‘they,' you notice that? The mayor said the town and the company were paying for the water.”

“And nobody blamed the company?”

“Not that I heard. They weren't really mad; they were mostly worried. Hey, Vince, was he saying you're gonna be president? Is that true?”

“It might be.”

“Wow. That'd be a hoot. Well, if I can help, you know, whatever you want . . .”

“I want you to keep an eye on things at Tamarack. Don't go running to Denver or anywhere else; I need you there. I want to know everything Leo does, how soon they figure out what happened with the reservoir, how long it takes to fix it. And that woman. I want to know when she's there and whom she sees. Whatever you can find out.”

“No sweat. Is that all? I mean, you just want me to see what she does? You don't want me to pay her off or whatever? I mean, you just tell me what you want, I'll do it, but if I don't know, it's hard.”

Vince felt his neck muscles tighten, as they always did when he felt frustrated. “I don't know yet. It depends on what happens. You just be there, and keep in touch.”

“Right. Uh, Vince? Listen. If you get to be president, can I go with you? I'd kinda like to live in Washington.”

“Why not?” Vince said as he left. “If you're careful and do as you're told.”

“Wow,” Keith said again. “Sure. Wow.”

Vince closed the door of his study behind him and called
Beloit, who had left Sid Folker's house before dessert was served to the private group. “How much did you get tonight?”

“Six and a half million. We don't have a problem with money, Vince; you know that. We'll go into the primaries in good shape. What I want is more support from the National Committee; they can do a lot for us behind the scenes and so far they're not doing it. But we'll get there; I'm a hundred percent sure we will. You were good tonight; charmed all the ladies and made the men feel like they were in on a cabinet meeting. You're good at that. How was the widow?”

“All right.”

“That's all?”

“Better than all right. I'm staying here for a few days to get acquainted.”

“She's not as smart as Maisie.”

“I don't need a woman as smart as Maisie. What's the problem with the National Committee? I thought you had them with us.”

“I will. Sometimes it takes a little extra push. I talked to your brother, did I tell you?”

“No. When?”

“A few days ago. He turned me down; said I was too low. He wants a heap of money, Vince. He doesn't sound to me like a man in trouble.”

“He is. And worse all the time. Give it a while; you'll get what you want. We've got to get the family with him.”

“They're still not with him?”

“They will be. I'm working on it. We only need a couple of them and then Charles can put it to a vote. You'll get what you want. Leave it to me, Ray; don't worry about it.”

“I'm not worried. I'm just waiting.”

So am I, Vince thought as he slammed down the phone. He hated it. Too much was in limbo; there was too much he didn't know. What that bitch was trying to do to him; what the mealymouthed bastards at the National Committee would do for him before the primaries began; how big a margin he'd have in the Senate election in just over a year.
He was sure he would win, as he'd won before, but he had to have a huge margin. And he'd started to move events in Tamarack, but he didn't know if what he'd done was enough.

The rest seemed out of his control. In the past two months, for the first time since Ethan had kicked him out, Vince had felt, more than once, the excruciating agony of helplessness, the pricking of nerve ends forced to stay still, the tension of muscles not allowed to spring.

“Fuck it,” he muttered in the silence of his study. He fingered a round glass paperweight, a gift from the Ladies Club of Pueblo. Its smoothness annoyed him; it felt slimy and untrustworthy. “Fuck it,” he burst out, and hurled the paperweight across the room. It struck the paneled wall, gouging it, bounced twice on the carpet, and rolled to a stop beneath a table holding half a dozen pictures of Dora. Josh, Vince thought. That bitch was going out with him. Not only staying with Gail and Leo, but going out with Josh. What the fuck was she up to? He'd warned her . . .

Vince looked at the scar in the walnut panel across the room and he knew he would have to take control and get people doing what he wanted, and he had to do it damned soon.

*   *   *

Anne walked slowly along the gallery of Josh's apartment, looking at his paintings. They surprised her with their variety and brilliance, from French impressionists to minimalists. “Definitely not all sunshine and shadow,” she murmured.

Josh, bringing two glasses of wine, heard her and smiled. “Not all of anything, as a matter of fact. It's not what you'd call a focused collection. My grandparents bought the impressionists when they were in Europe; my parents collected Picasso and Braque and the Eskimo sculptures in the living room; and I bought the rest. What you're looking at is a history of the Durants, especially my grandparents, as they wended their way around the world. They hadn't the faintest idea that they were buying great art; they bought
because something struck their fancy, or because they liked the artists when they met them. And I think they felt sorry for them because they thought they'd never amass money or possessions or any kind of power.”

“Did they think possessions were more important than art?” Anne asked.

“No, but they thought money was essential, possessions were pleasant, and power useful. They didn't see anything romantic about a starving artist. They were intensely practical Midwestern steel manufacturers who became modest patrons of the arts because they loved art and believed it was essential to a full life, and because they really thought it was their responsibility, since they had a great deal of money, to help artists survive and even prosper.”

They reached the end of the gallery and walked into the living room where the fireplace mantel and a wall of shelves were filled with Eskimo sculptures: tiny birds, large dancing bears, family groups, and walruses with fishermen riding their arched backs like cowboys on bucking broncos. “It's the most spectacular collection I've ever seen,” Anne said.

Josh nodded. “I've loved every one of those pieces since I was a kid. It all goes to a museum when I die. I don't want the collection broken up.”

He won't leave them to his children, Anne thought. Or he intends not to have children. That was probably it; he lived like a man who was settled and entire unto himself. And Dora had said he hated kids. She wandered around the living room, looking at the dozens of objects he had collected—Egyptian scarabs, Greek vases, French cloisonné, carved German nutcrackers, Russian lacquered boxes, Chinese jade sculptures, African masks, feather necklaces from New Guinea. The apartment was enormous—two apartments he had made into one, Josh had told her—its high-ceilinged, spacious rooms furnished—overfurnished, Anne thought—with antiques, overstuffed couches and armchairs covered in slightly faded woven fabrics, and Oriental rugs with their designs softened by a hundred years of footsteps. Mixed in with the objects he had collected were
photographs that ranged from a fisherman on a trawler to men and women whom Anne recognized from newspapers and magazines. His friends were as varied as his art, she thought.

“Do you want to see the rest of it?” Josh asked. She nodded, and they walked back through the gallery to the other end of the apartment. In his bedroom, on a round, leather-topped table, was a group of photographs in silver frames. Anne bent closer to look at them. They were all of the same couple, a man who might have been Josh and a tall, beautiful woman with blond curls cut short, like a cap. “Your parents,” she said. “I wondered where they were.”

“They belong in the private part of the house.” Josh stood with her, gazing at them. “They would have liked you, Anne; they admired people who shape their own lives instead of being shaped by others.”

She gave him a quick look. “You don't know that that's true of me.”

“I think it is. I think something happened to you, some time ago, that was devastating. Something like the death of my parents was to me, though I wouldn't presume to compare pain; we each suffer in our own way. But you didn't let it do permanent damage to you; you shaped your life and became a remarkable woman. I admire that. And my parents would have liked you a lot. Let's go back to my study; my housekeeper made a pâté, and we have to do it justice or she'll be disappointed. And then we can go to dinner.”

Without waiting, he led the way, commenting on some of the paintings they passed, telling an anecdote about an Albers drawing he had bought in an estate sale, relating a story about a Miró sketch in his study. It was as if, Anne thought, he was worried that he had said too much, gotten too close, and now was trying to erase it with a light, amusing monologue to distract her if she was upset.

But she was not upset. It was puzzling, but instead of shrinking from him, she found herself interested in what else he might have to say about her. No, not really, she
thought swiftly. She didn't want analysis from him; she simply wanted pleasant companionship. And it seemed to be all Josh wanted, too. That was why she was having such a good time.

“I made a reservation at Les Plumes for eight-thirty,” Josh said as they sat on a long, deep couch in his study, “but we can go later if you like.” The room was small and casual, with dark green walls, polished walnut bookshelves to the ceiling, beige corduroy couches and chairs, and a green marble fireplace. And there were books everywhere, crammed into shelves, stacked in precarious piles on the floor and the windowsills, strewn on tables with magazines and professional journals. In a corner, behind more books, was a television set; nearby were record and compact-disc players. Josh had turned on some music when they came in, and the intricate ripples of a Scarlatti sonata filled the room. Anne knew that this room was where he spent most of his time.

“I'd like to hear about your practice,” he said. He handed her a plate. “Do most divorce cases seem alike after a while?”

“No more than your Egyptian pharaohs do, I imagine,” Anne said. She spread pâté on a piece of bread and bit into it. “Oh, this is good.”

“One of Mrs. Umiko's many specialties. Wild mushrooms, about four kinds, I think. She knows every cuisine in the world; she and her husband worked in the Belgian embassy in France, and the American embassy in Switzerland, and then came here and registered with the agency I'd called just that morning. It turned out to be a perfect match.”

“That's not the housekeeper Dora hired.”

“No. She wasn't happy and neither were we.”

“She left while Dora was here?”

“She left six months after Dora hired her. Then I hired the Umikos.”

Anne gazed at him, frowning. “Why didn't you say that in my office?”

“Dora prided herself on her ability to hire people. I didn't think it was important enough to throw that up to her. It wouldn't have changed anything.”

“No, it wouldn't.” Still, she was amazed at his restraint. He might have used that information to weaken Dora's picture of their home life. She did not wonder if it had been Josh or Fritz Miller who had made that decision; she was sure it had been Josh. She wondered what else he had kept back. How astonishingly little Dora had known him, she thought. There was much to admire in this man.

“Well, then,” he said, “tell me about your practice.”

Anne described some of the cases that interested her the most, using no names but giving brief, vivid portraits that brought the people to life for Josh. He chuckled as she told him about a television actor who sued for divorce because his wife removed all fifty-four mirrors from their house and later told him he had to choose between her and his mirrors. He chose his mirrors.