Too Easy (15 page)

She tries to smile. “Like, you know, somebody who's seen a ghost. Sorry. I don't mean literally. My mother uses that expression.”

Robert presses his hands over his face, and then through his hair. His skin's a little damp. Christ. Is it that obvious? Is it the sex I'm getting? Or the sex I'm thinking of getting? Or what we're planning. . . .

“Ferguson,” he confronts her, “this is a rough business. Lot of stress. Things sort of peaceful in Rochester, are they?” Always put down the cow towns. Only one New York. Etc.

“We're starting to get a lot more murders,” she says. “If that's any indication.”

Robert almost laughs. No, give her the steely look. You, little lady,
will never measure up in this man's eyes. “Makes you proud, doesn't it?” He gives that a David Letterman grimace.

“No,” she says seriously. “I hate it.”

“Hmmmmm.” A little whippersnapper and, what do you think, she wants to take the high moral ground. And mother me in the bargain. Look like a ghost, huh? No, Ferguson, it's Anne who's going to look like a ghost. Haha. And by the way, would you like to hear some of the things I did in a cab recently, me and Kathy? Gross you out. Or, if you're a lot more hip than you look, stick you to the seat. Haha. I could show you . . .

The cab passes 28th Street. He hears sirens not too many blocks away.

“So you're all right?” she says, looking at him with this concerned expression. For a second he thinks it's Anne.

“Damn it, Ferguson . . . Lucy. Drop that. Ask me something to do with newspapers.”

“I'm in the business four years, Mr. Saunders. I think I'll do a good job for you.”

Robert almost says, “Don't count on it,” but loses heart. Ferguson is the type you can't pick on. They don't notice or they burst out crying.

The cab swings left and stops near 24th. The street is barricaded. Three cops waving traffic away. Robert sees masses of people at midblock and beyond them a thin wall of smoke four or five stories tall. He pays the driver and gets out on the left.

“Okay, show time.”

She gives him a tight, military nod. If she were any more fucking businesslike, she'd creak. Bitch'll probably have my job in a few years. Damn, what a thought. Maybe I'm going too fast. Everything's going too fast. Yeah, but I'm in control. I am, right?

Robert holds his ID out for a cop to see.
“New York News.
She's with me. What's the situation?”

“Worst is over, I guess.” The cop nods them through.
“Almost put a car in a tree, though.” He smiles. “Might be a Guinness.”

“They didn't evacuate the block?”

Cop shrugs. “People who did it said it's okay now. You trust 'em?” He gives Robert a look—I'm glad I'm posted here, that way when the street blows up again, you'll be dead and I won't.

Robert gives him a disapproving stare, doing his Ferguson imitation.

“Come on, Lucy. Like I said, the front lines.”

“Yeah,” the cop says after them, “see if you can make ConEd surrender. Hahahaha.”

They walk east on 24th. Robert sees fire trucks, maybe ambulances, on the far side of the smoke. Several cars are parked at odd angles. Most of the people here are cops and other reporters. At least a dozen photographers. Medics in white clothes. Robert looks for faces he knows, finds two of his own people. He chats with them for a few minutes, turns to see Ferguson scribbling in her notepad.

“New kid on the block,” Robert says. “Do something good, or she'll get your desk.”

They all stare toughly. The smoky air stinging their eyes.

Robert grabs one of the reporters by the arm. “Listen, Owen, beside this, you got the Nash story. Don't forget it.”

The man gives Robert a funny look. “Boss. We went over all that day before yesterday. You got Alzheimer's already?”

Robert realizes the man is right. A little awkward. “I want to keep you on your toes,” Robert says with fake good cheer. Jesus. “Hey, I got a lot on my mind. Ecological collapse and, guess what, my fucking in-laws—you know what I mean?”

The reporter laughs. “Oh, I know. Seriously,” he whispers, “I know you got something on your mind. Be careful.”

“No problemo, pal.” Jesus! Robert breaks away, signaling Ferguson to keep up. They get closer to a big hole along the south curb. A hole big enough to put a minivan in. Some ConEd guys working in there, cops pushing the
photographers away. Robert looks up at the nearby trees, finds one with broken branches. Damned explosion pitched a car up there! This city'll get you, one way or the other.

They jostle past people. Everybody trying to move someplace else for a better look. Robert and Ferguson work along on the north sidewalk, closer to the thin smoke, which is drifting slowly eastward. They step between parked cars. Robert sees forms on the asphalt, the injured. No, two of the bodies are covered. A medic comes out of an ambulance and goes to one of the forms, lifting the sheet for a moment. Robert glimpses a woman's face, very bloody. Blond hair with red splotches in it. Roughly Anne's coloring. The little he sees of the face looks similar, too. Damn.

He turns away, bringing his fist to his mouth.

Ferguson is right there, watching him. “You all right?” she says. What a maddening person.

“No, damnit. Woman I used to . . . be in love with. Dead.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry. Oh, Mr. Saunders, forgive me.”

Once he gets the reaction he wants, he relents. Shakes his head, smirks a little, to indicate he's not entirely serious.

He turns away, toward the drifting smoke. No, it's too fast, that's all. Everything's happening too fast. Look what we're talking about, for Chrissake. . . . No. I've got to slow this down. What is it, three, four months? I know it's what I want, it's right. But come on, we don't have to run a hundred-yard dash on this thing.

In his mind he sees the dead woman. Yeah, he thinks, she's just lying there. Not moving again. All over for her. That's what it means, jerk. She's dead. Yeah, and Anne'll be . . . like that.

He takes a few deep breaths, watches how scrambled his thoughts are. Not good. Got to be cool. Hell, cold. Otherwise, forget it. Got to slow down. Tell Kathy it's the only smart thing, make sure we're completely clear on this thing. She'll understand. I hope she'll understand. Damn. What's that she said the other day? “I've invested a lot in you,
Robie, because I
believe
in you.” Oh, yeah, now I'm a god. Sure. Absofuckinglutely.

Ferguson's at his elbow. “I've got an idea. Let me bounce it off you.”

Robert looks hard at the green irises, then into the black pupils. Maybe make some kind of impression. “Yeah, I'd love nothing better.”

Alright,” she says, missing everything, “here's the angle. . . .”

He hardly hears a word she says. Nodding vaguely. Seeing Kathy in his head, taking off her clothes. Seeing the dead woman. Seeing Anne as he raises the knife, fires the gun, whatever it is, something final. Thinking how much he needs a drink. Telling himself, Nod, nod at this crazed rookie. Meanwhile, imagine Kathy's perfect breasts, they're so reassuring. Almost hemispheres, really remarkable, and these red grapes. . . .

“Mr. Saunders . . . you all right?”

There, just when he's about to kiss the nipples,
there she goes again.

“Ferguson, damnit, people are dying around here. Let's have a little respect.” Yeah, woman, let's shut the fuck up sometimes. Just for the novelty of it.

The young reporter stares at him, bewildered. Her face going from one uncertain expression to another. “Well . . . I'm . . . uh . . . sorry. . . . Did you really . . . recognize somebody?”

Robert tries to look haughty. Damned rookies—
when will they learn?

Now he tries a laugh. “Yeah, kid, I saw a ghost. Haha. Just like you said.”

She looks away. Wondering if he might be crazy. He sees this in her face. Right, I might be. Crazy for pussy. Crazy to think some of the things I'm thinking. What about crazy in love, that's not so bad, is it? Love justifies a lot. Helen of Troy, what was that all about? Some guy crazy in love, right? No, two guys! Just like me. One of them carries her off. I get
that! The other one takes a whole army to get her back. Let's go, soldiers—a woman like this, we don't mind dying, do we? Dying or killing, what's the difference? You do what you have to do. . . . But maybe not so fast. That's all I'm saying. Kathy, I love you. Do not doubt me. But, look, it's no good to run off half-cocked. We do it like pros. Careful, meticulous. That's all I'm saying.

Robert makes a point of watching some cops hassling a reporter from another paper. Pretending to react to this, when all he's reacting to is his thoughts. He finally turns back to Ferguson's obnoxious presence, says, “Hey, lighten up. That's a good idea. You'll do fine.”

She smiles, relieved, still watching him curiously.

“Think I'm a little nuts, right?”

“I'm . . . not sure what to think.”

“Yeah, well, sister, do five years in this crazy town, and then tell me about it. That a deal?”

She nods with a faint smile, accepting the challenge.

“This place chews people up and spits them out. Watch yourself.”

“Thanks. I will.” She relaxes. They're in this together.

He can tell she likes that. Good luck, little Lucy.

“Now, what we'll do is go to a bar, get drunk to inaugurate your lofty new position in the world of higher journalism, write your story up on some napkins, make you famous. That's the first thing the gods do if they want to chew you up.”

Robert laughs darkly, figuring he's got her mind pretty well fucked up, so it's a good day. She won't be putting two and two together, that's the main thing. And he can go back to thinking about Kathy's nipples, the way she says, “Now suck this one. . . . Ummm, nice. . . . Now this one,” holding them out to him.

“Mr. Saunders?”

This woman! With a pathetic sigh, Robert says,
“What,
Lucy?”

•
 Anne's standing by the large window in the firm's reception area, apparently looking down into the streets of White Plains. Actually thinking about some things Robert said on the tape. Thinking about them again and again.

Edd walks into the reception area, sees her profile, stops. She's totally preoccupied. He watches her for a minute or two. Then she turns slightly, or she feels his presence. They stare at each other.

He studies her with his bland, all-knowing expression. Or his know-nothing expression. With Edd you can't be sure. And how long was he watching her?

“Oh, Edd,” she says as casually as she can, wondering if she needs to invent an explanation. She feels flustered or violated or vulnerable. Emotions, in any case, she doesn't want to feel. How could she possibly tell him what she was really doing?

“Hi, Anne,” he says, his voice low and neutral. He moves closer to her side, glances out the window, says, “There an accident or something?”

“No, no.” She decides not to bother with alibis. Then she adds something that is true. “I've got a few minutes to kill. We're going out to dinner.” Never mind that he'd expect her to work at her desk until the last minute. Well,
she was.
Then she started out, and for some reason stopped to stare out the window.

“Right. Where're you going?”

“Carter's, I think. Nice place.”

“Yes, it is.” He stares into her eyes, shrugs. “So, everything's all right?”

“Oh, sure.” She smiles, thinking what a colossal lie that is.

“Can I walk you down,” he says. They stand uneasily for a moment. “Unless there's more time to kill.”

“No, no,” she laughs, looking at her watch. “All killed.”

They walk to the elevator. Anne wondering if she could confide in this man, maybe use his judgment? That's been a problem. Whom do you trust? After the first sentence, everything's out in the open. In particular, her life, her heart. She can't seem to find a way to confront Robert or ask him or tease him or sneak up on the topic from any direction at all. How's she going to mention it to her mother or her roommate at Wharton or her other friends . . . or this quiet, aloof man? No, she can't, that's the answer.

“So, Edd, how's the bridge game?”

“We're wininng a lot against the local talent. But I don't suppose we'd amount to much against the big boys.”

“Well, how do you know?”

They come out of the elevator, start across the lobby. “Ahh, it's like any game. The higher you get, the more it's a game of inches. Then quarter inches. Finally, there's some bastard beating you by an eighth. You play twenty hands and you're neck and neck. Then there's this hand where if you can count every card, you can win on a squeeze play.
But with the pressure and not seeing where it's going, you're down to a couple of cards, and you can't place the seven of diamonds. So you guess. Fifty-fifty, right? But this other guy
knew.”

Anne stares at him. “Sounds rough. You keep reliving it the next week?”

“Yeah, I do. . . . Same in pro football, tennis, whatever. You can't ever let up. You do, and the other guy doesn't, it's over. Another thing. The people who get to the top really want it bad. Maybe they cheat. In bridge, I mean.”

“Oh, don't say that.”

“There's a lot of borderline stuff, anyway. What they call card sense is partly the psychological signals that players give off.”

They go out the revolving doors, Anne thinking about people giving off signals. Outside, in the soft light of dusk, she asks, “Can you read them?”

Edd laughs. “Does a gentleman read somebody else's mail?”