Authors: Barbara Rogan
“For picking such a stupid place to meet. Come on.” He took her arm and they started walking, just walking, heading nowhere in particular.
“Nice to know you’ve got my back, anyway,” she said after a while.
“Anytime. Not that you needed rescuing.” He smiled, thinking of the first time he’d laid eyes on her. Must have been eight, nine years ago, at a town meeting in Martindale at the height of the busing furor: Jonathan Friedman at the podium trying to make the pro-integration case, and the audience drowning him in catcalls. Suddenly a little girl marched up onto to the stage, faced the audience, and pointed a scrawny finger at the lead heckler. “Sit down!” she said, in a voice so commanding and so incongruous that the man obeyed out of sheer surprise.
The girl scanned the crowd. “You folks can disagree all you want, after you’ve heard him out. Maybe if you really listen, you won’t want to disagree.”
Then she went back to her seat. It wasn’t exactly a
To Kill A Mockingbird
moment. Hearts didn’t melt, minds didn’t change. But Jonathan finished his speech without another interruption.
“What are you smiling at?” Gracie asked.
“I was just remembering the first time I saw you.” He told her the story.
She laughed. “I had a big mouth.”
“You loved your old man . Nothing wrong with that.”
The laughter left her face. She shrugged.
“I saw you at lots of events,” Barnaby probed. “ You were his biggest fan. I was his second biggest. I guess we have that in common.”
“I was a kid,” she muttered. “What was your excuse?”
With an almost audible click, Barnaby shifted into professional gear. She had something for him, he could smell it. But he didn’t stop walking or do anything to spook her, just continued the conversation. “What changed?”
“I grew up.” She looked away from him, and her eye fell on the Central Park carousel. “Oh, look! Let’s go on it!”
Barnaby bought two tickets. Gracie chose a black stallion with a fiery mane, and he took the horse beside hers. The music started, and the carousel jolted into motion. Gracie laughed and gathered up the reins.
He gazed at her. She wore an apple-green halter dress that left her brown shoulders bare. He kept flashing on the scene among the boulders: Gracie in full concentration mode, that wretch grabbing at her. He saw her through the other man’s eyes, and it was a shamefully arousing image: a juicy-sweet young thing, alone and unprotected.
Gracie flashed a smile. Her dress streamed out behind her, the soft fabric clinging to her breasts. His horse rose in counterpoint to hers. As they passed in midair, Barnaby reached out and laid his hand on her leg.
The carousel spun, the horses rose and fell. Their motion carried his hand up and down her thigh. He felt the warmth of her flesh beneath the thin cotton. Their eyes met and held. She did not remove his hand. When the ride ended, Barnaby could barely walk.
They sat on a bench. Maybe he could have his cake and eat it, too, he thought. He was only human, for Chrissake. And Gracie was of age. She leaned against him, and his arm settled itself around her shoulders. A small girl on skates shuttled back and forth in front of them, careening from a wastebasket to her father’s arms.
“Where are we going?” Gracie asked.
“Good question.”
“Let’s go to your place.”
It’ll come out,
he thought,
and I’ll be fucked. This is nuts. Why am I even thinking about it?
His eye fell on a Good Humor cart. “Care for an ice cream?”
“Instead? Seriously?”
“Gracie, have mercy on an old man.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“A boyfriend?”
“No! Jesus.”
“Why then?”
“You know why. I’m no Humbert Humbert.”
“And I’m no Lolita. That’s bullshit.” Gracie studied his face. “There’s something else.”
“What else could there be?” Stupid question. He could see her considering it.
“My father?”
Barnaby gave her his wounded puppy look. “Have I ever asked you about him?”
“You wouldn’t,” she said thoughtfully.
“You’d wait.”
She was too damn smart. Barnaby had no choice. He pulled her to him and kissed her. She kissed him back, hard. When they finally broke apart, Barnaby noticed the father of the young skater leading her away, casting a disapproving look back over his shoulder. He shrugged it off. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.
4
IT WAS A HOT SUNDAY, late in June. The Long Island Sound was full of brightly colored speedboats and water-skiers. Sailing the
Water Lily
was the only thing Jonathan and Gracie still did together, but they did it well, with an efficiency born of long practice. As long as they kept working, the morning passed in harmony. Then they put into a quiet cove for lunch, and over sandwiches and a thermos of coffee, Jonathan launched into his speech.
“A man like Barnaby,” he said, “lives through his work. He has to; he’s got nothing else. It’s his mission from God, his obsession. He couldn’t shut it off if he tried.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Gracie said.
“Set me right, then.”
“He likes me. I like him. Our relationship has nothing to do with you or his job.”
“Is that what he tells you?”
She flushed. “I know when people are lying to me.”
“Sweetheart, you haven’t got a clue.” The worst part of this whole thing, he wanted to say, is knowing you’re going to get hurt and being helpless to prevent it. But what was the use? She would only get that look on her face, the look he’d known since she started walking.
Hands off,
it said.
I’ve got this.
“Why are you so suspicious?” Gracie said. “Barnaby’s always been one of your greatest fans.”
“That was before he sank his teeth into Michael. Now he’s tasted blood. It’s made him hungry. I hear him clawing at the door; I hear him scrabbling on the roof.”
“I hear a touch of paranoia. He’s not the big bad wolf, Dad.”
“That’s precisely who he is.”
Gracie made a face and turned away. Kneeling on the seat, she reached down, cupped a handful of water and splashed it on her face and neck. The sun streamed down on water so clear she could see crabs scuttling along the cove’s sandy floor. The small pebbled beach was dotted with sunbathers. Distorted by rising waves of heat, the scene resembled a painting by Matisse. Distant voices mingled with the cries of sea gulls. Grace closed her eyes and imagined Barnaby was with her. Would he like sailing, or would he despise her for having such a decadent toy?
Jonathan said, “I cannot understand how you live with what that man has done to Michael and his family.”
She opened her eyes. “I’m sorry for them. But if Michael did what they say—”
“Michael’s no more guilty than I am!”
Gracie leaned forward, arms around her knees. “Then why doesn’t he defend himself?
If he’s innocent, why doesn’t he speak out, why doesn’t he sue the Probe?”
“Because the media
distorts everything. Anything he said would be twisted and turned against him.”
“If someone called me corrupt and I wasn’t, nothing in the world could keep me quiet.”
“It’s not that easy, Gracie. Michael has a good lawyer, and he’s taking his advice. Mud sticks. In the real world you have to do what works, not what feels good.”
“Seems simple enough to me. Either he did the stuff they say, took bribes and all that, or he didn’t.”
Jonathan collected the sandwich wrappers and stuck them in the cooler Lily had packed. The silence between them stretched out. Finally he said, “That’s not simple, it’s simplistic. You’ve got to look at the whole man. I’m not talking just about the glory days with the Freedom Fighters; I’m talking about his whole career. The man’s paid his dues and then some. He could have hung up his spurs years ago and no one would have said a word. But no, he goes on struggling, fighting the good fight: minority hiring, integration, women’s rights, day care, public schools, decent health care—the same old horses we’ve been flogging for decades. One step forward, two steps back, but he never gives up. For longer than you’ve been alive, he’s been fighting.”
Gracie started to reply, but he spoke over her. “How do you judge a man like that? On legal technicalities, the difference between a bribe and a contribution? Even politicians have a right to look after their own. Show me where it’s written that a man can’t look after his own family. Or do you think that to fight for the poor and homeless, you’ve got to
be
poor and homeless? That’s lazy, childish thinking. If you were down and out, who would you want on your side? Some poor
shlub
who can’t even buy himself a cup of coffee, or a man of power?”
“It matters, doesn’t it,” Gracie broke in, raising her face to his, “how you get the power?”
Damned knowing eyes she had, he thought, and was suddenly seized with anger. “You have no right to judge me!”
“I thought we were talking about Michael.”
She knew exactly who they were talking about. Jonathan took a deep breath. His heart was pounding. One of these days she was going to give him a heart attack. It never ceased to amaze him how the person he loved most in the world was the one who made him the angriest.
“When you grow up,” he said, in a measured tone, “you will learn that it takes power to achieve your goals. Not good intentions—power. If you want to change the rules, first learn to play the game.”
“Monopoly?” she asked. “Risk?”
* * *
Roger Hasselforth blew smoke at the ceiling. He squinted at the fluorescent fixture, removed his glasses, and wiped them with a crumpled linen handkerchief.
“Rumor has it,” he said to the overhead fan, “you’ve been sleeping with the Fleishman girl.”
“
Rumor has it?
Who told you that, Ronnie Neidelman?”
“No,” Roger said, which meant yes.
Barnaby glared at him. “And you believed her? Do you think I’m stupid?”
“You’re a lot of things, Barnaby, but stupid you’re not. I still need to ask.”
“I’ve met the kid a few times. I’m sure as hell not balling her.” Barnaby paced the editor’s office, weaving among stacks of old
Probes.
“This place is a fire hazard, apart from smelling like a stinking ashtray. Why don’t you clean it up once in a while?”
“We’re talking about your disgusting habits, not mine. Is the girl a source?”
“Not yet, but she’s got something for me, the little tease.”
“Does she know what you’re working on?”
“What do you think?”
“What happens when she finds out?”
Barnaby shrugged.
Roger stared up at him, and not for the first time realized that he loathed Barnaby’s way of looming over people. “Sit down, damn you. What do you need her for, anyway?”
Scowling, the reporter sat. “Do you want Fleishman or not?”
“Don’t be an ass. There’s no ‘either-or’ here. Of course I want him. She can’t be your only way in.”
“I can’t run an investigation and play nursemaid at the same time. I told you I’m not balling the girl, so drop it.”
“All right, all right. How’s the story coming?”
“I’ve just about nailed it. The scam is neat and tidy, and right where you’d least expect it: in the minority set-aside program.”
“His baby.”
“That’s right, it’s his baby and he controls it. Contracts awarded through the program are exempt from normal bidding procedures. They’re supposed to be vetted by a special affirmative-action board headed by the borough president; in reality, the B.P. just turns it over to Fleishman. He’s turned a program to help minority businesses into a stocked pond that he and his buddies fished dry.”
Roger shook his head sadly. “Hard to believe.”
“How do you think I felt? I fucking hero-worshiped the guy. When I was a kid, I wanted to grow up to be Jonathan Fleishman.”
“You supported that set-aside program. You called it the most progressive in the country.”
“It is. That’s the brilliance of it. All the companies he extorts are legitimately minority-owned. Fleishman’s brought equal opportunity to graft.”
“And this ties into Michael Kavin how?”
“They’re partners,” Barnaby said. “Those guys had their fingers in more pies than they had fingers, and every one of those pies does business with the city.”
Roger tipped his chair back, balancing perilously. “Can you prove it?”
“I’m gettin’ there.”
“When? We’re not the only paper sniffing around, you know.”
“Then you’d better quit wasting my time, hadn’t you?” Barnaby said, pleasantly enough. But his face darkened as he left his editor’s office and barreled through the rabbit warren to Ronnie Neidelman’s desk.