Greenwich (12 page)

Finally, he said,
“Enjoy
isn't the right word. I liked the priest, but I didn't get a chance to talk to the nun. You spoke to her. Did you like her?”

Sally nodded. He almost never asked her opinion about anything.

“She was very kind.”

“Kind?” His brow knit. “Why do you say kind?”

“She helped me,” Sally said without conviction.

“For God's sake, Sally, you're afraid of me. I haven't been that bad to you, have I?”

“No, of course not. You've been very good to me. No one was ever so good to me.”

“Then tell me how she helped you,” he said, softening his voice.

“Well—I mean”—struggling for the words—“about myself—about what makes me unhappy.”

He had never felt that she was unhappy. She was always smiling and always being very sweet to anyone who came by and never angry at what anyone did. In Richard's mind, notwithstanding that she would be forty in a month or two, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and in bed she responded lovingly to whatever measure or aspect of sex he had in mind.

“But you're not unhappy,” he protested. “I know I'm more than twenty years older than you, but before you married me you said that makes absolutely no difference. I know you had terrible difficulties in your childhood. Does it make you unhappy because I keep telling you what to do?”

Actually, she was grateful for that. When she brought home a dress that Richard didn't like, she exchanged it. When he mentioned her table manners, she immediately corrected them to do as he said. She knew Richard was very smart, that he had a college degree and a law degree, and she willingly accepted the fact that he knew about everything—how she should dress, how to greet people, the names of the flowers in the garden—and when they went to the club, he always chose what she should wear, and he never objected to the fact that she never spoke or offered an opinion when other people were present, except to agree with whatever was said about the weather or clothes or children.

“No, no. I'm glad when you tell me what to do.” Still, she was unhappy. How was she to explain that when she couldn't understand it herself?

“Richard—” No, she couldn't.

“What do you want to tell me?”

“You'll be angry. I don't like to make you angry.”

“For God's sake, I won't be angry. I promise.”

“All right, Richard. I'll tell you. I want to believe in something.”

“In what?”

“I don't know. Now you're angry with me.”

He shook his head tiredly. “Honey, I'm as fucked up as you are right now. I'd like to believe in something, too. I used to have a mind. I haven't opened a book in ten years. I read the
Wall Street Journal
and
Barron's.
I can't even fuck right. I'm jerking off my life until I'm dry. Do you know what that priest asked me?”

Sally shook her head. She had never heard him speak like this before. It frightened her.

“He asked me whether I believed in God. Can you imagine? He asked me whether I believed in God.”

She was afraid to mention that Sister Brody had asked her the same thing. She thought that perhaps that was a question priests had to ask, and she wondered what he had replied and why the question had upset him so. She felt drawn to him, and she went to him and put her cheek against his breast, and he put his arms around her and kissed her forehead and whispered, “Go up to bed, honey.”

“I want you to come with me, Richard.”

“I'll be up later.”

“Then I'll read in bed until you come up.”

“Sure.”

“I might fall asleep. Please wake me up if you want me.”

“Yeah, I'll do that.”

She went to the stairs and started up. Then she turned and looked back at him, and he thought he saw tears in her eyes. Then she went on up the staircase.

Richard went into his study. He had formed the habit, when he was troubled, of sitting down at his desk and thumbing through his book of investments. This was a large, leather-bound loose-leaf book, which he kept locked in his desk, that listed every stock and bond and every other investment and real-estate interest that he had; his net worth, according to the vagaries of the market, varied from $100 million to $120 million. He had a mathematical mind and he could follow day-to-day changes almost to the dollar. There were more wealthy men than he in Greenwich, but he had come late to the game, leaving government because there was no money in it, no real money, bribes and tidbits here and there, but no real money.

But tonight, he didn't unlock the drawer. Tonight, everything was different, everything had changed; and behind this change was the dawning realization, a tiny possibility at first if indeed even that, growing and taking over his whole consciousness, first the notion, then the putting aside of the notion, then the growth of the notion, then his talk with Monsignor Donovan, and now its acceptance: Larry was coming here to kill him.

Or was he? What then? How could he be sure? He had never given much thought to death; for his age, he was a healthy man, no trouble with his heart or his blood pressure; he had a physical every three months and he came out of each with flying colors. He kept in shape, limited his drinking, and played golf and tennis. Sally had often remarked on what a fine body he had, and while much of his hair was turning white, he had lost very little of it.

Now he sat at his desk, and a cold chill took over his body. What was death? Dark and endless? He braced himself and whispered, “Fuck Larry. Fuck the whole lot of them. It's over, it's done with, it's long, long ago, and nobody gives a damn.”

He always kept half a million in cash in the big safe behind the shelves of books that weren't books. If Larry had a gun—oh, bullshit! Larry was a onetime congressman, not a killer. He'd probably say, “We want you out of the country, Richard. Take that gorgeous wife of yours to the Cayman Islands and live a little.”

Still, the cold chill of death would not leave him. His thoughts turned to Sally—what in hell would she do if he died? How could she deal with it? He had a trust fund of twenty million or so for Dickie—not that the little bastard deserved it—and the rest went to Sally. His lawyer, Jim Cartwright, had objected strenuously. “You have a place and a name in the community. You have to leave something to charity.”

“I earned the money. It's mine. I can afford to pay you four hundred an hour, that's what money does for me. If Sally leaves me—well, we have the prenuptial agreement. If she stays, she gets it. I want it that way.”

Money—for God's sake, did any of them understand money? … And how much would it take to buy Larry? The half million in cash that he kept in the big safe? The monsignor had asked him whether he believed in God. If God moved the world, God was money. He had never known anyone who didn't believe in money—except Sally. Why did he think that? He never overestimated Sally, yet he was never able to say to himself, simply, that she was stupid. She never asked for anything. He bought her gowns, jewels, fur coats, and she always thanked him.

Castle had no mother, no father, no sisters, no brothers. He stood alone in the world, and he had always stood alone. He made his own decisions. He condemned himself for having a moment of sheer stupidity, to confess to a priest. He owed Monsignor Donovan for not allowing him to speak. The ten thousand dollars was nothing.

He calmed down now. In a few minutes he would go up to bed, and Sally would be waiting for him. No one gave a damn for the dead; they might pile on the bullshit, but bullshit was bullshit. He might have put together the plan to get rid, once and for all, of those crazy Jesuits who were screwing up the works in El Salvador, and it was his written decision that the bishop had to go. He could make a decision; all his life he had made decisions, and there was hardly a ripple in the media when the bishop was shot. Even Drummond had wavered, but he had decided, and he had said, “Let's do it and get it over with and put the fear of God into them.”

The truth is that then he didn't even know what a Jesuit was or what a bishop was, except that they were commies and working hand in hand with a commie movement. Now all that had changed; everything had changed. And Larry? Larry, he decided, needed money. Those fuckin' politicians always needed money. No matter how much you gave them, it was never enough, and if it weren't for that damn story in the
New York Times
, the notion that Larry was going to kill him would never have entered his mind.

He put it all away, all the ideas and fears of death, and started to go upstairs. There was nothing like a woman, naked in bed with you, to put away fear of death.

And then the doorbell rang.

It startled him and stopped him. Who on earth could be ringing his bell at this hour, already almost midnight? If it were one of those snotty kids that Dickie ran around with, he'd catch hell. He had warned Dickie about his friends showing up at all hours of the night, kids who had no sense of time. He switched on the outside lights and looked through the small iron grill, seeing two policemen and their car, lights flashing, in the driveway behind them. He opened the door to let them in.

“Late call, Mr. Castle,” one of them said. “I hate to bust in on you like this, but we got orders to pick up your son.”

“Dickie? For what?”

“Is he home, Mr. Castle?”

“He's home. I heard him come home about two hours ago. What in hell are you talking about?”

“The way I understand it, Mr. Castle, he was out with his girlfriend, and they had some kind of a fight and he messed her up. They had to take her to the hospital.”

“For what? Is she claiming he raped her?”

Wrapped in a pink silk robe, Sally came down the big curved staircase that led to the floor above. “What happened, Richard?”

“You tell me, Oscar,” Castle said to the officer. “You know Dickie. He's a little wild, but he wouldn't rape anyone.”

“It's not rape. They're not making any claim of rape. Like I said, he pushed her around and sprained her shoulder and put some scratches on her face, but her father's sore as hell and he wants to charge Dickie. The sergeant told us to bring him in.”

“Whose kid is it? Who's her father?”

“Frank Manelli, the plumber.”

“Oh, my God,” Sally said. “I had Frank out here this afternoon. He doesn't want to arrest Dickie.”

“I'm afraid he does, ma'am.”

The other policeman said nothing. Sally was surprised at how calmly her husband was taking all this.

“What does it come down to?” Castle asked.

“We read him his rights, bring him in, and then there's a hearing tomorrow, and I suppose there'll be a fine, and maybe he gets some community service hours or maybe Manelli will calm down and forget the whole thing.”

“I'll go upstairs and get him,” Castle said.

“Let me go,” Sally said.

“No, I'll go,” and he started up the stairs.

Dickie was in bed, watching television, the sound turned low, and he switched it off with the remote as his father entered the room. Castle caught a glimpse of a porn film, but just a glimpse. Dickie was a good-looking boy, blond hair and blue eyes, and ah innocent expression as he faced his father, brows raised inquiringly.

“What's up, Dad?”

Castle was strangely calm. “Get dressed,” he said. “There are two cops waiting for you downstairs.” Strangely calm, because under other circumstances he would have blasted the boy with anger.

“Cops?”

“Cops. They've come to arrest you.”

“For what?” Dickie cried indignantly. “What did I do? I been right here in bed.”

“For beating up Frank Manelli's kid.”

“I didn't beat her up! I swear to God I didn't beat her up. I didn't touch her. All I did was grab her arm!”

“You're stupid, Dickie. What's her name and how old is she?”

“Her name's Christina.”

“How old is she?”

“I don't know, fifteen, sixteen. But I didn't touch her.”

“Yeah, like Clinton didn't touch Monica. You stupid little bastard. You're lucky it's a couple of cops and not Manelli downstairs. Did you fuck her?”

“No! I swear I didn't. She jumped out of the car into a stone wall and scratched her face. I didn't do that. All I did was grab her arm.”

“Was the car moving?”

“No, we were parked.”

Castle looked at Dickie thoughtfully and shook his head. Dickie and his friends always puzzled him, rich kids, the generation gap, the language they spoke. His son's mother was on drugs and going downhill quickly, and she had readily surrendered Dickie to his father. Castle paid her ten thousand a month in alimony, but it was Sally who had gently persuaded him to have the boy live with them. The very fact that he had grown up apart from Castle contributed to the lack of feeling on the part of both of them.

Now Castle said, “Finish dressing.”

They went downstairs together.

“We're not going to arrest him,” Oscar had decided. “We'll just take him downtown and maybe in the morning, it can be worked out.”

“Do you mean that you'll put him in jail overnight?” Sally asked woefully.

“The cells are clean. You can come along with him, if you want to, Mr. Castle.”

Dickie looked at his father pleadingly, but Castle shook his head. “You'll take good care of him. I'll be down tomorrow.” And turning to Dickie, “Consider it a lesson in propriety.”

“Oh no,” Sally pleaded. “Does he have to go to jail?”

“The sergeant said bring him in. I don't know where else he can sleep downtown. We won't book him until Mr. Castle sees him tomorrow.” Then Oscar said to the other officer, “Take him out to the car and make him comfortable.”

Tears in her eyes, Sally watched Dickie walk out with the officer.