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  “Jack, it’s just me. If you call in for messages, call me. I love you and I miss you. A lot, this time.”

  “Jack McMorrow, this is Ellen Jones. If you haven’t left already, I just wanted to move our appointment up an hour. Meetings, meetings, meetings, you know. If you don’t get this, that’s okay. See you in New York.”

  “Jackie, this is Butch. I guess I missed ya. Hope you have a safe drive down. Talk to ya, buddy.”

  “Mr. McMorrow, this is Barry Lowell. I’m a reporter for the New York Daily News, and we’re just trying to determine whether a man named Jack McMorrow who is involved in a case down here is the Jack McMorrow from Maine. I’d really appreciate it, sir, if you could call me. It’s a toll-free number. Eight-hundred. Eight, eight, eight. Eight thousand. If you could call me either way, I’d really appreciate it. This is a very important story involving the death of Mayor Johnny Fiore here in New York. Please call either way. Thank you.”

  “Mr. McMorrow, this is Stephanie Cooper. I’m with WNYC-TV in New York, and I’m trying to find the Jack McMorrow who is in New York this weekend. If this is the right Jack McMorrow, could you call me? Thanks.”

  She gave her number in a phone-sex voice.

  The onslaught continued.

  Four TV reporters, three from radio in New York. A guy from CNN’s New York bureau, a producer from CNN in Atlanta. A reporter from Newsweek, who sounded very kind and soft-spoken. Whatever works.

  The New York Post, where the reporter was a woman who sounded tough as the streets. Two tabloid types, each offering “sizable incentives” for anything that might lead to an exclusive interview or for unpublished photos of Butch Casey. One guy said he was talking “very major dollars.”

  And then David Conroy, from Fiore’s office. Normally so precise and exact, he sounded desperate and distraught, but I supposed I would be, too, in his position. A right-hand man suddenly left without the man, like one of those dismembered white gloves from a magic show.

  “We have to talk, Jack,” Conroy said. “It’s imperative. For the future of this city. Please call me. Really, I must talk to you. Your convenience. And, oh, no hard feelings I hope. It’s time to bury the past.”

  If only it would stay buried.

  There were more. Ellen Jones, sounding frantic. She’d called right after Conroy, at 11:17 that morning. She’d tried me at the hotel, was afraid she’d missed me. She said she was very worried about me, that I’d be “victimized by the media.”

  Or that I’d get away?

  D. Robert Sanders, sounding like a confidant. He suggested I call him, as though it were for my own good. “Anytime, anyplace, Jack. Please, remember we’re all thinking of you down here.”

  I was sure they were.

  Some of them called back. One of the tabloid guys said he wanted to be more specific, that he was talking “high five figures.” One woman said she was calling from Los Angeles, that she represented some very big people whose stories were potential properties. She’d just love to talk. Could I come to LA?

  “On my nickel,” she said.

  And then there was Roxanne, again.

  “Jack, call me. I don’t know where you are now, but I saw the TV. Oh, Jack, I’m worried. I love you.”

  So standing there, with the garish naked women staring me in the face, I called Roxanne. Her office number connected me to the state’s voice mail, which hung up. Her home number gave me an answering machine.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’m in New York, and I’ll call you tonight.”

  A half-truth if ever there was one.

  In the subway station at Sixth Avenue, I sat on a bench, sunglasses in place, hat pulled low, face resting on my hand. A dozen people were waiting, and when the train rumbled up, they moved silently through the doors, as automatic as the trains themselves. I took the first seat inside the door. Resumed my pose. The doors hissed shut and the train began to move, the block walls, too.

  A blond man moved in front of me, carrying a backpack that said NYU. He held the pole and rocked to and fro with the train. To my right, two boys, eleven or twelve, sat side by side. Across from me a thin Indian-looking woman was asleep, her head rocking back and forth like a stone balanced on a shelf. I sat and watched the people and stations come and go. At 57th Street, the doors opened and I stepped off, bounding up the stairs to the light. Rounding the corner on 56th, I slowed.

  On the sidewalk across from the entrance, a blonde woman in a sleeveless red top was standing in front of a camera, with the hotel as a backdrop. Another crew was setting up next to her. It was Japanese. Across the street, I saw print photographers, camera bodies draped around their necks like giant medallions.

  I pushed my glasses up. Pulled down my hat. Felt in my pocket for the key card to my room, and headed for the doors. There were people coming out, dressed for dinner, and I dodged behind them, shielding myself from the closest photographer, twenty feet to my right. The group started up the sidewalk toward Carnegie Hall and I quickly moved through the door. Darted through, then hesitated. I thought of Roxanne. She might have called the desk. I walked over, chose the young woman who looked at me most blankly, gave me a smile on reflex.

  I leaned over the counter. Asked if I had any messages. Softly said my name.

  “Monsieur McMorrow,” the young woman said, as though it rang only a distant bell. “Oh, yes. I remember that name from this morning.”

  I started to scowl but she stooped and popped back up. She was holding an envelope, a fat one. Large and white. There was a receipt stamp on the front: “6:48 a.m., 23 July.” In the top right corner were the words “Jack McMorrow—Parker Meridien Hotel.”

  Butch’s handwriting.

  I said, “Merci.” She smiled and I turned away, mind spinning.

  Had Butch gone back to the Village, picked up his package, come back uptown? Six forty-eight. Had he walked all night? Had he walked all night because of what he had done?

  Behind me, from the direction of the desk, I heard a voice say, “Who was that? You gave him that? Don’t you know who that . . .”

  I walked quickly to the elevators, punched the button, and stepped in. On the ninth floor, the doors opened. The hallway was empty, except for a table with cut flowers. I waited. Listened. Stepped out and turned to the corridor, walked fifty feet to the exit sign. Started down the stairs. It was cool in the stairwell, but the air was stultifying and dead. My footsteps made a scritching sound on the concrete steps and I tried to walk quietly. At the landing, I paused and listened again.

  Nothing.

  The door to the eighth floor swung open to an alcove. There was an ice machine in a tiny lighted room, and I stood beside it for a moment and listened to the machine grind out cubes. After a minute, I stepped out and went to the corridor.

  It was hushed and empty, with muted rosy lighting. Like a schoolkid at a crossing, I looked both ways. There was no one in sight. I turned to the right and started walking, padding along on the carpet.

  The room opposite was 828. I counted them down. Took the room card from my pocket. Grabbed the knob and slid the card in. The green light went on in the door, and I pulled.

  It caught.

  Too late.

  I pulled the card out. Heard voices, then quick steps somewhere down the hall. I slid the card in again. Saw figures come around the corner from the elevator.

  “Mr. McMorrow,” a woman’s voice called.

  “Could we talk to you, sir?” a man said.

  The green light went on. I turned the knob and the door opened.

  The woman was trotting. She was small, wearing a pale green suit. The man was behind her and much bigger.

  “Please, Mr. McMorrow. Could I just talk to you for—”

  I stepped inside and slammed the door shut.

  “Mr. McMorrow,” the woman said, from the other side. “Please. I’m Kate Moynihan from the New York Post. Could I just talk to you for a moment, sir? We’d really like to give you the opportunity t
o give your side of the story.”

  I peered through the fish-eye lens. Her hair was short, her dangling earrings big as fishing lures. She was looking at the hole in the door earnestly, as though it were a camera and I were Larry King.

  “Because your side of this really is missing from the coverage, and we’d like to be fair and not just rely on the police’s take on things.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Butch Casey is being portrayed as a real madman, and we know that you could tell us what he’s really like. As a journalist, don’t you feel a responsibility to disseminate the truth?”

  I hooked the door chain.

  “There’s your answer,” the man said, out of view. “Just wasted four hours.”

  “Shit,” the woman hissed.

  She pounded the door once and then disappeared from view. I exhaled slowly, started to turn.

  “Nice hat,” a voice said.

  11

  I jumped.

  “Christina.”

  “The door was open. I think the cops did it. There were all these cops getting in the elevator when I was getting out.”

  “So—”

  “So I just pushed on the door and it opened.”

  She was sitting in the armchair by the window, a magazine on her lap. Her feet were propped up on the end of the bed and her sandals were on the floor. Her legs were bare, her shoulders, too. There was a sweater sort of thing on the bed.

  “Well,” I said.

  I put Butch’s envelope on the desk and stood there.

  “I thought you might need a friend,” Christina said. “I didn’t know you’d need the fashion police.”

  I looked down at the Big Apple shirt. Took off the mirrored glasses.

  “I’m sort of trying to go incognito.”

  “Disguised as a dork?”

  “It worked.”

  “Good thing,” Christina said. “Your face is becoming an American icon.”

  “On the TV?”

  “TV today. The newspapers tomorrow. You always did know how to make an entrance, McMorrow.”

  “I know. It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?”

  “Bordering on the surreal,” Christina said. “Even for New York.”

  I walked over to her and she swung her legs off the bed and stood. She offered her cheek and I kissed it. Smelled her again and it all came back. I quickly put my hands in my pockets. She looked at me.

  “Been a long time since you dropped off the face of the Earth.”

  “I’m not much of a letter writer,” I said.

  “I noticed. Where’d you get the scar? You look like Zorro.”

  I smiled.

  “Cut myself shaving,” I said. “But you look good.”

  And she did.

  Her hair, long in our time, was cropped short. Her makeup was grayish around the eyes and plain. Pretty but odd. She’d always zigged when the rest of the world had zagged.

  “So,” Christina said.

  “So.”

  “A fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time.”

  “Yup.”

  “I always liked your cop friend, the few times I met him. He was sort of shy, like a little boy. Funny, considering what he did for work.”

  “He was different with criminals.”

  “After his wife died it was all over, wasn’t it?”

  “Certainly could be now,” I said.

  “You think he did it?”

  “I don’t—I can’t imagine. I just can’t picture it.”

  Christina shrugged, her shoulders flexing in this little tank-top thing.

  “Maybe you never can,” she said.

  “I like to think I know people. If you don’t really know anyone, then what good is any of it?”

  Christina gave a little chuckle.

  “I’ve been thinking that myself,” she said.

  “I heard,” I said. “You want a beer?”

  “Sure. You still drink, McMorrow?”

  “Only in moderation. You?”

  “Same. If I have more than two, I feel very old, and I hate that feeling.”

  “You don’t look any different.”

  Christina smiled at me.

  “Thanks, McMorrow,” she said. “I needed that.”

  The ale was warm, so I opened the minibar and pulled out two Carlsbergs, ice cold. We opened them, then raised them in unison.

  “To . . . to an end to all of this,” she said.

  The cans tapped.

  “And to old friends,” I said.

  “Is that what we are?”

  Christina smiled as she sipped. I took a long, cold swallow. Someone knocked on the door and we froze.

  “Mr. McMorrow,” the muffled voice began, “Kate Moynihan again. Please, could we talk? Even for two minutes. Whatever you’re comfortable with. One minute. Just the most basic questions. Anything to cut through the innuendo.”

  She paused, waited, started again.

  “This city needs some real information, and I don’t know who else can supply that but you. Even if you could give me some more names or just answer yes or no to a few questions. I have a deadline and you know what that’s like, I’m sure. I hear great things about your reporting for the Times. Where is it you live now? And what brought you down here? They’re saying some terrible things, Jack. WNYC is reporting that police are investigating whether you and Casey teamed up on this. I’d like to set the record straight.”

  “I’ll set her straight,” Christina said.

  I shook my head and put my finger to my lips. She looked at the door and gave it the finger. I took her by the shoulder and guided her back toward the chair and the windows.

  The windows—

  I looked out at the building across the way, its lights showing in the dusky light. I could see people in offices, sitting at computers, talking on phones, peering at papers on desks. To the left were two or three apartments, pricey Midtown places. The night before I’d seen a man in boxer shorts go to the refrigerator and get a glass of milk.

  Those windows were dark. I stood close to the wall and watched. Thought I saw movement. Closed the curtain.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” Christina said, behind me. “‘Can we have your kitchen? Here’s a thousand dollars. Go stay at the Plaza.’”

  I turned back to her.

  “This is nuts,” I said.

  “You’re cornered.”

  “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Come to my place. We’ll go out the back and grab a taxi.”

  “Taxis go there?”

  “Sometimes. It’s becoming quite hip, you know.”

  “No more bodies on your front steps?”

  “That was years ago. And it’s not like they killed them there, not in SoHo. It’s just not done. They killed them some other place and just left them there. I’ve never understood why that bothered you so much. You didn’t come over for a week, and that was a long time for us back then. Remember?”

  Christina looked at me and smiled.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I remember, too,” she said.

  She fished for her sandals and scuffed them on. There was something intimate and unsettling about it, her feet, her bare legs. I looked over at the phone, its message light beaming red hot.

  “How’d you find me, anyway, Christina?”

  “Ellen called me, looking for you. I’m sure she’s on your phone there.”

  “And a lot of other people.”

  I paused.

  Christina smiled knowingly.

  “It’s okay, McMorrow. Ellen told me you’d settled down with someone. I’m glad for you. Actually, I thought I had, too. But then he unsettled.”

  “Happens.”

  “Sure does. The shoot was in February in Saint Kitts. Absolut. A big coup for Christophe. And afterward, he stayed.”

  “Is that really his name? Sounds like a hairdresser.”

  “You’ve been in Maine too long. You sound like a redn
eck. Anyway, he left me and then sent for his kid.”

  “I heard,” I said. “A son?”

  “Philippe. He’s fifteen. Funny, in some ways, I miss him more than his dad. I always wanted children.”

  “I remember that.”

  “Then the whole thing just disappeared. Poof. Like I’d imagined the whole lot of ’em. But I’m doing fine now.”

  “Things have a way of working out,” I said.

  Christina looked at me, then went and sat on the end of the bed.

  “Yeah,” she said, her legs crossed, one foot etching circles in the air. “They do.”

  I had to take the messages. Christina asked if I wanted her to leave, but I said no. Where would she go? The bathroom?

  So I hit the button and listened again. The same cast of characters. Reporters, TV and print. The Hollywood woman. Producers at CBS and NBC, Fox and CNN. The tabloids, still offering money. Some guy who offered to handle my negotiations with the media.

  “I’ve done work for O.J.,” he said.

  And then Ellen at the Times, still frantic, still asking me to call her. Leaving three numbers. I managed to write down one. Clair in Prosperity, saying it was bad enough having to look at my mug down the road, now he had to look at it on the television, too. Call him, he said. And then Roxanne, beyond frantic. “Please, Jack. I need to talk to you. Call as soon as you can,” she said.

  So I did.

  Christina turned on the television, and sat on the end of one of the beds with the remote. I dialed and stretched the phone cord toward the bathroom. As I waited, I heard Fiore’s voice, plucked from some network archive. New Yorkers will no longer live in fear. Fear of violence. Fear of crime. Fear of the stranger who will take the fruits of your hard labor . . .

  “Hello,” Roxanne said.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Oh, my God, Jack. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. A little shell-shocked, but fine.”

  “I saw you on the news. My God, it’s horrible. Your friend, I can’t believe—”

  “I can’t believe it, either.”

  “Did you tell them that? What did you tell them?”