A Crack in Everything Page 3

  I swallowed my annoyance. Twenty thousand dollars entitled Chaz to a little of my patience, after all. “You’ve got your hands full. I’ll take a cab home.”

  “From Telford? Don’t be silly. Johanna lives just up the road.”

  On our way to Chaz’s car, we passed a silver Jaguar straddling two spaces. “That’s Torie’s car?” I tried not to squeak my surprise.

  “It is.” Chaz moved quickly ahead to the Sonett where Torie was ensconced in my place, her head lolling. I squeezed behind the driver’s seat, my knees digging into my chin.

  No one spoke until we pulled into a driveway that continued for hundreds of feet to Johanna’s house, lit up like a film set. All the windows were open, and laughter floated out.

  “I thought you were taking me home.” Torie’s voice was a sleepy whine that faded as she floundered out of the car.

  “Someone else can have that pleasure.”

  I watched them walk past a line of cars, Torie listing toward Chaz who adjusted his step to her drift. As they climbed the porch steps, she stumbled, black hair and white fringe mixing and flying.

  Back in a minute, Chaz had told me, but after Torie’s critique of Johanna, I was eager for a look at the woman. And I was damn tired of waiting. Elbow by knee, I crawled out of the Sonett and followed in their wake. Like Torie, I tripped on the porch, proving that even a sober annoyed person can miss a loose board. After I dusted my knees, I stationed myself on the wraparound railing. Through the tall front windows, I could see people standing about, drinks in hand, but no sign of Chaz or Torie or the lusty Johanna.

  “Hey!” A voice boomed through the screen. “You on the porch. Come on in!”

  “No, no.” I slipped off the railing. “I’m waiting for someone.”

  A balding head popped out. “Whyn’t you wait inside? Have a drink.” He hooked a thumb around a red suspender printed with what looked like a rooster design.

  “Bart!” someone shouted behind him. “Can you take Torie home? She won’t go with anyone else.”

  Bart pulled in his head, and the screen door snapped shut.

  So that was Bart Bievsky. He didn’t look like a letch, but then, I didn’t look like a lawyer. I checked my watch. Chaz’s minute was fast becoming ten. I strolled around to the dusky side porch, a better place to spy without being spied.

  “Who’re you?” The low boyish voice came from a basket chair buried in shadows under a cranked open window.

  “Susan. Who’re you?”

  “Glenn.”

  “Glenn. Your dad mentioned you.”

  “You’re a friend of my dad?”

  “I’m a consultant.”

  “What’d he say about me?”

  In the dim light Chaz’s nineteen-year-old son looked barely sixteen and seemed to lack the confidence needed to manage a campaign. Before I could answer his oddly eager question, light flooded the porch, and the side door creaked open.

  “There you are, Susan.” Chaz moved past Glenn and rested his hand on my shoulder until I took a small step away.

  “Hi, Dad.” As he rose from his chair, Glenn’s smile faltered. In spite of the heat he wore a CSI-type jacket, and in the bright overhead light I saw that his dark hair hung over his ears. “Want a piece of Mom’s birthday cake?”

  “Not tonight. Susan’s been very patient. I’m taking her home.”

  “Brookline,” I explained as we headed for the steps.

  “Brookline?” Without warning, Glenn erupted into song: “So faahr away.” His light voice actually warbled, and I wondered if, like Torie, he’d gone a drink too far or ingested some mind-bending substance. He flopped back into his chair. “See you tomorrow, Dad.”

  Where the porch angled left, Chaz paused. “On time, please.” His tone told me who would be micromanaging the campaign and, if I felt a twinge of pity for Glenn, I was also relieved. Glenn could manage the paper clips. Chaz would provide the confidence.

  Halfway to the car, I heard a shriek that frizzed my hair. Torie had materialized on the porch, waving both white-fringed arms. “Hellooo,” she shouted, as if she’d finally remembered her manners. Her mouth was a red dot in the distance. “Helloooo.” She put me in mind of a sea gull.

  ***

  We were on the open road. Through hazy glass, I could see the three-quarter moon floating on a band of dirty clouds. “Secretaries must make big bucks at NGT,” I said, thinking about lustrous Jaguars and boxy old Beemers.

  “When she’s sober, which is always, at work,” Chaz stared straight ahead, “Torie is a skilled administrator with a strong science background. She’s highly paid and worth every penny.”

  Well. That’ll learn me to make snide remarks to a man about his beautiful assistant, even if he is pissed off at her. I gave my bag an ironic pat. Like Torie, I was perhaps being overpaid, and by the same man.

  In the Sonett’s high beams, a farm stand and stalks of field corn flashed in and out of view. “By tomorrow night,” Chaz said, in a lighter voice, “I’ll be halfway home. In fact, I’ll take you to dinner to celebrate the first three hundred signatures.”

  Dinner again. The man was obsessed with food. He downshifted, and the engine whined pitifully.

  “I ought to check my calendar before committing.”

  “Your desk calendar?” He threw me a smart-alecky grin. “The one with all the blank spaces?”

  I bit the smile off my own lips. “All right. I’ll have dinner with you, on condition we make it a working session.”

  “Whatever you say. When it comes to my campaign, you’re the boss.” There was a certain lack of conviction in his voice, I thought. But if he passed the first hurdle, Chaz Renfrow was going to learn that he could count on me.

  “Where should we eat? I love Italian cooking.” His drawl was voluptuous, and for the first time in months I took an interest in…nutrition. “Slow, fresh, all the joy that goes into it. Know any place like that? Outside the North End, I mean?”

  I wondered if he was fishing for a home-cooked meal, under the delusion that all Italians cook like angels. Tavola Rustica sprang to mind, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to bring Chaz there. Nino might tease, or urge me to eat. Or mention Michael. “Let me sleep on it,” I said, as casually as if I weren’t plagued by insomnia.

  ***

  Just after one, Chaz walked me to the front porch of the two-family Victorian I share with a pair of Harvard B. School professors who’d picked it up at a bank auction. I locked the door behind me and ran up the stairs. From my front window, I caught a glimpse of the Sonett pulling away, and an intricate feeling, a tissue of discontent, regret, relief, came near to smothering me.

  Or maybe I was hungry. Crackers don’t count, and I hadn’t bothered about food today.

  “How can a daughter of mine be such a picky eater?” my mother, a gifted cook, used to lament, but even as a child I suspected she was talking about love. I went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Way in the back with all the really weird stuff, I found two clementines left from a box Michael had brought me in March. Under shriveled skin the fruit was as fragrant and juicy as the day he’d carried up the little crate labeled darling clementines and called me his darling. I ate them, pretending the last sweet slices were his kisses. Of course, everybody knows what happened to Clementine.

  Tired but, as usual, wide awake, I moved slowly to my bedroom. My kind of insomnia is rooted in reluctance to let go of the day, to lose consciousness, to give in. While I slipped out of my clothes, my unease over Beauford’s message and Chaz’s retainer began to mount, nothing a mindless soak in a hot tub wouldn’t rid me of. Tomorrow was soon enough to fret. I’m a world-class avoider. Even when I sleep I try not to dream.

  In the bathroom I put three fat candles on the edge of the sink, and lit them with Michael’s old Zippo. The mirror double
d the light, painting my face with fire. Shadows flickered on the tile, and my heart stirred, as if Michael had guided my hand. I wished I could step back to April: “Don’t go to Tucson,” I’d whine. “I’m jealous.”

  Instead, I’d urged him to take a short leave and help out the ex-girl friend who had shattered her tibia or her fibula, something Latin and important, when she fell off her horse. “I guess Nancy needs you,” was all I’d said. Noble me. But I hadn’t been able to speak words I knew Michael wanted to hear, words about love. Words he had never spoken to me. “You first” was the game we had played, and lost. Truth was, I missed Michael, terribly. But love was a fire, not this dull ache; love had perished three years ago, along with Gil. I’d have married Gil, if Gil had asked me.

  I filled my clawfoot tub, dropping in ginseng sachet, bath pearls, blue and green salts, oat powder, everything in my cupboard but lemon-fresh Joy and extra-virgin olive oil. Portable radio tuned to Sinatra, I steeped myself in the scented waters. Leaning back, I tried to remember Michael’s face that day at Logan airport, but all I saw was his hand gripping the bag I’d helped him pack, and his dark hair, long at the neck the way I liked it. Because all I could see was Michael walking away from me.

  A newscaster invaded my alpha state, and I emerged from my bath, snuffed the candles and crawled into bed with a book. Gil Roth was dead. Michael Benedict was out of my life. And there was nothing I could do about any of it.

  Chapter Three

  Body Check

  “Good morning!” I chirped to the two men standing outside my office. Nino Biondi and Peter Lombard were ignoring each other, but given the insults and threats that had ended last week’s talks on Lombard’s turf, even sullen silence looked promising.

  Inside, I left them in the bookcase-walled conference area with copies of the latest, positively last, final, lease buy-out, my nimblest weaving of terms they’d both insisted on. For maybe forty-five seconds, I left them alone while I filled the coffee machine. Over the gurgle, I heard chairs scraping, raised voices. Something crashed.

  “Nino! Peter!” I rushed back, too late to see who had shoved first, though odds favored Nino. Even at seventy-three, and dressed in hot flannels, he moved faster than his flabby landlord.

  “Stop!” I plunged between the two men, but Nino pushed me away. He grabbed Lombard’s tie, one of those rep cloth jobbies. Lombard swatted weakly at Nino’s hand.

  “Dammit!” I yelled. “Break it up!”

  Nino dropped into a chair and closed his eyes. “Villiaco,” he muttered.

  “Susan?” Belly against the table, Lombard lined up his stripes. “Tell your lunatic client he takes the deal, or I see him in court.”

  Nino’s eyes snapped open, blue as match tips. “Go ahead and sue. I got me the best lawyer in town. She’ll fix you.” He patted my hand. “She’ll fix you good.”

  This was not the kind of talk I wanted to hear from a client who paid me a tenth of the going rate for my legal services, even if he was an old friend. “Let’s think things through, Nino,” I said, holding the draft like a plate of hors d’oeuvres nobody wanted.

  “Nothing to think about. I’m not trading my lease. Cambridge don’t interest me.”

  “Tell it to the judge.” Lombard stalked out, an unlighted cigar wedged between his oddly elegant fingers.

  As soon as the door closed, I moved in on my client. “Listen to me,” I said. “The man wants his building back, and you’re the holdout. You’ve already breached your lease six ways from Portofino. If he sues, you lose.”

  “Watch how you talk!” Nino chopped the table with the edge of his hand. “I’m the one you’re supposed to stand up for.”

  “That’s what I’m doing. Lombard’s in a hurry. He made you a fabulous offer. Run with it.”

  A sigh escaped Nino, who was not given to sighs. “I’m too old to run, Susie.” A strand of dyed black hair spilled across his forehead. “Pretty soon, I’ll be too old to breathe.”

  “Don’t say that.” It shook me, hearing such words from my half-stand-in grandpa. In my mind, Nino Biondi was one of those stocky, energetic types who go on forever. “Don’t even think it.”

  ***

  “Puck!”

  A cannonball slammed into the Plexiglas, followed by clumps of scuffling helmets and sticks. “Get the puck out!”

  The man in the stands was yelling at the blue team, I realized, not me.

  “Use your body!”

  My own body was shaking so hard it sent shock waves through my teeth. I hadn’t thought to dress warmly this morning. The wrinkled but clean cotton vest I’d found on my closet floor hardly covered my shoulders and chest. I circled the rink. A roar from the crowd told me someone had scored. “Beauford!” I had to shout over hollow thunder. “Beau!”

  His hair, formerly ponytailed, was now buzzcut, and when he turned, I saw that his signature ear stud had gone with the pony tail. “Hey, Susan. I didn’t see you come in.” His smile was way too lazy for such a cold place. “Geez, how long’s it been?” Keeping one eye on the game, he hugged me. “Let’s use the athletic office.”

  I followed him out of the rink into a room crammed with shin guards, shirts, socks, everything leaning stiffly against lockers. The reek sent me scurrying out to the fruit machine, where I bought an orange, for its pungent perfume.

  At a desk in a partitioned off corner, Beauford sat toying with what looked like two strainers and a gigantic eggshell, possibly a broken helmet. I plopped onto a bench and breathed though my mouth. “So why the scary message? Deirdre’s tearing up the Yellow Pages looking for exorcists.”

  “It’s not a joke, Susan.” A silence fell, so prolonged I wondered if locker room stench had stunned Beauford, too. “Keep away from Charles Renfrow.”

  “Too late.” I peeled the orange and offered him a slice, which he cradled in his palm. I bit into a juicy wedge of my own. “I’ve already taken his money.”

  “Give it back. The man is malignant.”

  “Come on.” It’s hard to feel scared with your mouth full of orange. “Are you saying he’s crooked?”

  “I’m saying he’s venomous. Keep away from that…pit viper.”

  My God, southern WASP Beau sounded like a suspicious Italian, I thought, ignoring the tiny part of me that was listening hard. “Beau, is this something personal between you and Renfrow?”

  “I’ll get to that. Why did he come to you, if I may ask?”

  “Does it matter? I’m having dinner with him tonight. Please tell me in plain English why I shouldn’t.”

  “The man is a killer. Plain enough?” As a political consultant of long standing, Beauford used hype reflexively. “That’s the good news.”

  “Oh, really?” I licked a trail of juice off my fingers. “Who’s he killed?”

  “You know he owns a biotech company?”

  I nodded. “NovoGenTech. His lease expires in January. He’d like to renew it and expand on site. The mayor wants to run him out of town.”

  “The mayor’s got it right.” Beauford crushed his orange slice, then wiped his hands on his pants. He made a sound like a chuckling sigh. “Susan, if there’s justice on this planet, Renfrow’s going to fall into the toils of the EPA. NGT’s a secret polluter, with a cancer zone just up the road.”

  “How come the media haven’t jumped on the story?”

  “They will. Telford’s Biohazards Committee started investigating six months ago. Renfrow tries to buy everybody, but this time the truth will come out.” Beauford turned the helmet over and brought it close to his face. “Could be soon.”

  “How do you know so much about NGT?”

  “Grapevine.” He found a screwdriver in the desk, and began attaching straps. It was finicky work and the helmet skidded away. “Dammit!” The screwdriver slipped though his fingers. �
�Look, a little girl in the zone died of myeloma last March. Myeloma! That’s what old people get. As far as I’m concerned, Renfrow killed her.”

  “But it takes years for pollution to do its dirty work.”

  “It’s been years. When Biohazards gets off its duff, the EPA will drag Renfrow through the courts, and he knows it. Is that why he hired you? Don’t be cagy. I can keep a confidence.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong. Renfrow wants a campaign consultant, not defense counsel, and anyway I do real estate law. When I must.”

  A few bolts thunked on the floor. Beauford opened his mouth and shut it. Finally he managed to stutter, “You’re telling me that corrupt bastard is running for office?”

  I didn’t answer which was answer enough. “So what’s your bad news?”

  The bolts had vanished under the desk, and he took a long time finding them. “You’re right,” he said when he came up for air. “It is personal.” His neck flushed, and I remembered Chaz’s almost contemptuous dismissal of him last night. “I hired myself out to him.”

  “Then why are you so astounded that he wants to be mayor?”

  “Because Charles Renfrow doesn’t know a voting booth from a Sani-Kan. The Senator’s race was my last campaign. When Renfrow hired me, I was a full-time facilitator.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Is that as shady as it sounds?”

  “Sounds like political consultant.” He threw down the bolts. “I advocated for clients in front of boards and commissions. I know small town ropes and how to untangle them.”

  “What exactly did you do for Renfrow?”

  “Last year he wanted to conduct research not allowed under his permit.”

  “Wanted to upgrade his facility, he told me.”

  “He would call it that. His proposed research is hazardous…with a capital H. When I brought his petition before the town, I stressed all the built-in precautions: sterilization, HEPA filters. Sealed chambers. Air locks. Yada, yada. I even lobbied the mayor. This was before I knew about the polluting or I wouldn’t have touched Renfrow’s business.”