The Spoiler (34 page)

“There's a rally at Hillside this afternoon, and a game tonight. I want something sweet in tomorrow's
Dispatch
. Then leave Holyoke, Mr. Lofton. Go back to your wife in Colorado.” Brunner stopped. He smiled. “Or if you have somebody else in mind, take her. Take the money and go.”

Lofton swallowed. His face hurt, and so did his chest. So far Brunner had done everything the way Amanti had said he would: offered him money; asked him to write a story; promised him an easy way out of town. And now that he had done so, there was for an odd moment the look of the patriarch about him, a sort of gentleness that implied that the rest of what he had done had been a stern act, for Lofton's benefit, but that Lofton had better pay attention. In another instant, though, the gentleness was gone.

“A hack feature? That's all you want?”

“Timing,” Brunner said. “It's all timing. You're a baseball fan, you know that. I want it in the
Dispatch
tomorrow.”

“Why trust me?” Lofton asked. “Arson is great copy. So's bribery. Maybe I'd hang you.”

“You'd hang yourself. The people at the
Dispatch
are my friends. And Kirpatzke, he's had a hard life. He's sympathetic to me. We're buddies, you might say.”

“I knew Kirpatzke had to be friends with somebody, might as well be you. But I have other contacts. I know other editors.”

“So do I.”

Brunner smacked his hands together. Lifting his sunglasses, Lofton took a closer look at the check, then threw it back on the desk. “I've already written out the real story, the truth,” he lied. “Anything happens to me, and the story's printed, no questions asked.”

“If you believe that, good.”

“I want more money.”

Brunner circled out from behind Lofton. He gave the reporter a long, brutish look which Lofton did not quite believe.

“Maybe the amount needs adjusting,” Brunner said. He reached for his checkbook and drew up another draft. The check was for fifteen thousand dollars.

Lofton held the check in his hand. “Maybe it's not a question of money?”

“Tell me, Mr. Lofton, is it a bad thing to give money to be distributed to the poor, money which—if not helping them find a better place to live—gives them a little food? Is it bad to destroy the slums; is it bad to give landlords the money to tear down their buildings, to rebuild; is it bad to give a beaten man a chance, to help him take care of his dying wife? And if the government does none of these things, is it bad to do it our own way?”

There was the slightest trace of a whine in Brunner's voice, a misery that the man himself did not recognize.

“But people died in those fires,” said Lofton.

“That couldn't be foreseen.”

“What about Gutierrez, did he have to die? And is Mendoza really giving that money to the poor, or is he keeping it for himself? From what I hear, he's using it to buy drugs and push them around town. I don't see the saintliness in that.”

“The minor players, the bit actors, cannot always be controlled. They have visions of their own. I would like to know your vision, Mr. Lofton?”

“My vision is cash.”

Brunner smiled now. “Ah, a pragmatist. But I am a pragmatist, too. I like to keep these checks. They act as receipts later, you know, in case I need a record of your involvement, for whatever reason.”

“Considering everything …” Lofton added slowly, smiling, “considering the moral dilemma … this still isn't enough money.”

“There are limits.”

“Yes, but aren't you up against one yourself? How long can you wait to burn American Paper? Aren't the insurance companies ready to pull out? Isn't that why you want me to write a sweet story about you now, something to deflect the attention away from the buildings you're about to burn?”

“The story's just icing. I don't need you that much. Don't get too convinced of your own importance.”

“No.” Lofton drummed his fingers on the table. He stalled a bit longer, smiling faintly, deliberately to himself, then put the check in his pocket. “I'm intelligent, remember. And reasonable. I'll take what I have here.”

“Good.”

Lofton felt his sweat growing cold now on his skin, in the air-conditioned room. Even so, he was pleased with himself. Brunner believes he bought me, Lofton thought; I acted the thing well.

“I'll call the bank and tell them to cash that draft for you. No waiting. No questions. They'll cash Nassau's check, too. That way I get my receipts, you get your cash.” Brunner opened the door. Lofton stood, and the two men looked at each other.

“Kelley found out about your arson scheme, didn't he? He tried to use me to put pressure on you to switch sides in the primary. Did it work? Are you going to switch sides?”

Brunner glowered; his pupils were ice white, it seemed, and his neck was red. The anger was genuine. “No,” Brunner said. Lofton decided to go on, to press whatever advantage he had while Brunner was angry. “All right, I'll write the story in a way that makes you look good. But there's one thing I want to know. For a while someone's been on my tail. Someone contacted Golden, got him all worked up, and told him where to find me. And somebody trashed my room. I want to know who that person is.”

“You're talking too much, Mr. Lofton, and asking too many questions. It makes me doubt your sincerity.”

“No, like I said, this is something personal.” Lofton gestured at his face. “I want to know who set me up for this bruising.”

“I can't help you with it.”

Getting up, saying nothing, Brunner walked behind him and opened the door. Though he knew Brunner was telling him it was time to go, Lofton stood there for a few stubborn seconds. Then he followed Brunner down the hall. Mrs. Brunner stood on the front stoop, perspiration dampening her silver hair.

“Mr. Lofton, this is my wife, Helen. She always enjoys meeting young men on their way up.”

The woman smiled demurely. She was tall, handsome, big-boned. “Are you in construction, too, Mr. Lofton?”

“Yes. I'm working on something for your husband.”

“Profitable, I hope.”

“Yes, I think so.”

Brunner laughed. “But I'm afraid Mr. Lofton's going to make his killing and leave us. Back to Colorado. He was just telling me how the simple life is the best.”

Lofton looked at Brunner for a sign of sarcasm, of mockery. He could not find it. He headed down the walkway. Halfway down the street he turned and looked back. Brunner stood in his front yard with his wife, the two of them bending over, tending to some late-summer flowers.

The old steel bridge over the Connecticut River vibrated all around him, rumbling and wailing as the cars rushed over its grating. Toward the Holyoke side of the river, water spilled over the milling dam and rushed southward through the weeds. On the South Hadley side, not far from Brunner's, a wider, shallow channel swept around the dam, or appeared to from this angle, carrying the water not needed for the mills. The center of the river was dry, an island of gray rock, mostly, river grass, and rusting metal. Lofton walked toward the Holyoke side, studying the line of the city. Upriver were the flat roofs, tenements—gray, brown, and dirt-colored buildings, porches streaming with laundry—which had housed Holyoke's immigrant families since before the turn of the century. Closer by, new steel and concrete apartments—the projects—towered over the mills. Already graffiti covered the new buildings.

Lofton reached the edge of the bridge. He looked back toward South Hadley and the houses along the other bank: weeping willows, wide green lawns, picture windows. He kept walking, taking a road that wound along one of the old canals. There were more canals, he knew—or so he had heard—underneath the city, a system of tunnels and gates that moved the water from place to place.

He watched a band of kids disappear into the weeds behind an old warehouse and thought of the Latinos. He had not seen them since the day they confronted him on the street in front of his hotel. No doubt they were still searching out Mendoza; the street war was continuing. If he wandered around the streets of Holyoke long enough, he could find the Latinos. This was their territory. He did not know if he wanted to find them. Even if by some chance they could help with the story, the gang was still dangerous. Lofton also wondered how much real chance he had of getting his story into the
Dispatch
. Was Kirkpatzke really in Brunner's debt? If so, Lofton might have to forget the Holyoke paper altogether and go see his old friend Warner at the
Globe
. When you got down to it, he thought, what real difference did it make if he wrote the story? Who cared if Holyoke burned, if Brunner made money destroying buildings that no one should live in anyway?

Brunner is right, Lofton thought, I should go home.

He went into Brunner's bank to cash the checks. It was welfare day, and people were lined up at the windows for food stamps: old men who spat on the bank floor; women with too many children; young men, who stared at the well-dressed tellers with glazed eyes.

“I was told you would cash these for me,” Lofton said. He handed the teller both checks: the one Brunner had given him and the one he had gotten a few days back, in the hospital, from Nassau. For good measure, he handed her a third check also, the one Liuzza had written in Northampton. “Ask your manager if there's a problem.”

The woman came back after a minute or two. She said there was no problem. She counted out the money in big bills, a thousand at a flip.

“Break one of these up for me,” Lofton said. “And put the rest in an envelope.”

Lofton put the small bills in his wallet. He tucked the envelope with the big bills into his inside jacket pocket and left the bank. The rally up at the Hillside Mall, the one Brunner wanted him to see, was scheduled for three-thirty. He had some time, so he walked over to the small park in the center of town. Across the street from the park a fireman sat in front of the station, arms folded, waiting for a call. An old man dozed on one of the green benches, and pigeons skittered along the hot concrete.

The Hillside Mall was brightly lit, full of color, its windows decorated with back-to-school displays, manikins in plaids and sweaters. Out in the white stone corridors, teenagers clustered in groups, drinking Cokes, smoking cigarettes, and staring sullenly at the passersby.

At the center of the mall three tiers of shops came together. Lofton stood on the top tier, staring down at a platform which had been set up at ground level and decorated with balloons and crepe paper. An awning was stenciled:

RICHARD SARAFIS AND THE HOLYOKE REDWINGS MAKING HITS IN WESTERN MASS

He walked down the concrete spiral. At the bottom of the platform, arranged at angles, were glossy black-and-white photos: Richard Sarafis and Senator Kelley and Tony Luizza, all standing together, grinning; Mayor Rafferty throwing out the first ball; a panorama of MacKenzie Field, a mill stack rising in the background.

He went back up to the second tier and waited. The TV crew arrived, including the young woman reporter who had been at MacKenzie Field interviewing Dazzy Vance, the old Hall of Famer. A young white girl wearing a baseball cap and a Sarafis sweat shirt handed Lofton a leaflet. A Puerto Rican boy followed behind her. Very dark-skinned, cleanly dressed, loose-hipped, he reminded Lofton of those young men who hung around in the squares in Mexico waiting to meet American women. He looked at Lofton with piercing eyes, as if Lofton were trash.

A crowd started to gather below. Lofton saw a reporter from the
Springfield Post
milling with the shoppers. A mall employee drummed his fingers against the stage microphone.

Not too long after, no longer than it took to smoke another cigarette, Brunner & Co. appeared at the platform. Amanti was there, dressed in a straight skirt and a high-collared blouse that might have seemed demure on another woman. She wore the collar open and the sleeves rolled high. Senator Kelley walked beside her. Except in photographs, Lofton hadn't seen the senator before. He was smaller than Lofton expected, just slightly taller than Amanti, a surprisingly fair-skinned man with a smile that seemed shy, at least in this crowd, today, and disarming eyes, even from a distance. Walking just behind was Brunner, not quite the malevolent presence he had seemed earlier but simply a tall, heavyset man, obviously in the circles of power. Glancing from Amanti to Kelley to Brunner, you could feel the tension among the three; it was a kind of electricity that the crowd felt, too, Lofton thought; at least they drew the crowd's attention more completely than Richard Sarafis, the gubernatorial candidate who walked a little farther back, alongside Tony Liuzza.

Rickey Sparks and Kirpatzke followed the others. Sparks was awkward, out of place in his baseball uniform; Kirpatzke dressed like one of the politicians—blue suit, white shirt, tie—but somehow a little shabbier, a little seedy. In a few minutes they all were on the stage, except Kirpatzke, who drifted into the crowd. The loudspeaker played “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

Last night at her apartment Amanti had told Lofton that she was going to be at this rally, that Kelley and Brunner had wanted her to be here. After the rally, she had told him, she was supposed to go to dinner with them, then over to MacKenzie Field, where there was a special promotional night planned: The Hollywood Chicken was scheduled to be at the field, entertaining the kids, doing handstands and stunts along the sidelines.

“I don't understand,” he'd said. “If they want me to run off with you—if that's their whole plan, to get rid of me—how come they're keeping you so tied up?”

Amanti had not given him an answer. Lofton didn't like it. It seemed Brunner and Kelley had every minute of her time accounted for, down to the time they had scheduled her to meet him. Meanwhile, they kept him busy with this story, something any number of paid hacks could take care of easy enough. Part of the reason, Lofton guessed, was that Brunner liked control; he liked to have his hand on your head, your face underwater, a firm grip that let you know he'd let you up, if at all, when he pleased. Lofton doubted, however, that he had such tight control over Amanti. Brunner might want such control, Kelley might want it, too, but neither had it. She played her part in all this; no matter what she said or how she pointed at grim fate, she still played. None of what had happened, or whatever might happen, would be possible without her. Brunner, Kelley, both knew that. They were depending on her to help escort him out of town, but Lofton wondered if they really meant to let him get away, and just what Amanti's part would be.