"What are you doing?" Whitey said.
"Have to tell me exactly."
"Don't have them come around here," Whitey said.
"All right, fine, just be sure, and then I'll go ahead—I'm in a doorman's uniform. That's what I'm saying. Now you're learning! All right, when you get here." He hung up and stepped out of the booth.
"What did you do?" Whitey said.
"They're coming to interview me in half an hour."
"Where?"
"Here. At the bar. Or in the back, what do you think?"
"I don't want cameras in here."
"Why not?"
"What if Gene doesn't want it?"
"Aw, Whitey, fuck Gene. Honest to God. Gene's not here. Gene's never here. If Gene gave a shit, Christ, Gene don't even come around to pick up the bag of money anymore. Speaking of which, look at this place, all the cash dropped in here, can't slap some paint on the walls, and you're worried about Gene? Whitey, please."
* * *
The interview Connie gave to WNEW-TV made the New York Times, the interview itself becoming news for reasons he could not envision. Hundreds of viewers called the station with complaints that the report was the "exploitation of an unfortunate person"—meaning Connie—while the piece in the Times did not address the performance of the Secret Service, or John's mugging, but rather the ethics of a television station which may have taken advantage of a disturbed drunk in a bar, and the station's defense of its reporting. My God, people cried into their phones, to abuse such a man in such a manner, shame on you, WNEW.
It was one of those things that demonstrates television's tentacles. Maureen and Arthur and Steven saw it. Three of Maureen's brothers saw it. Walter and his wife and half the guys on staff saw it (as well as three influential members of the board). At the rooming house Susan saw it with Justin and David, prior to the three of them stepping out to a midnight meeting. John and the governess and the mother saw it, the mother having flown up from Washington. Arthur's friends saw it, becoming ever more eager for their next stairwell sounding session.
A non-logoed, wood-paneled boat of a station wagon had pulled up outside Grant's, the sun having set just long enough to call it night. As the crew started to dewagon themselves, Connie ducked into the bathroom to take a leak, unsure how to play it. Should he not be conscious of the cap's angle on his head? Should he, once the cameras roll, remove the cap, thoughtfully feeling its rim between thumb and forefinger, considering each question posed to him with contemplative modesty?
With a wet palm he had jabbed at the stainless steel stem of the Borax dispenser, letting its coarse crystals drop and dissolve in his hands. He splashed water on his face, turned and yanked blindly for a fresh section of towel. At the mirror he made one last cap adjustment before heading out, an insane swagger of authority in his walk.
"There he is," Whitey said.
A man introduced himself, and Connie hid his disappointment: they had sent a lightweight. The guy tried too hard, going for a Gabe Pressman–like effect, an everyman in shirtsleeves, but couldn't quite pull it off. He had yet to acquire the gravitas and bona fides, and his assignments to date, as Connie recalled, didn't have much import. The reporter, whose name was Harriman, hammered on points in his stories that were common knowledge like they were profound revelations, the pieces no more than fluff.
"Let me ask," Connie had said. "I mean, how did they decide to send you?"
"It's an important story," Harriman said. "We're talking about the president's only son. Not just another mugging in the park, not any kid's bicycle."
"Got that right."
"The desk put the call out and we jumped on it, because what happens to those kids has serious implications for the future of our country. They are our future is how I look at it, if only, you understand, symbolically."
And Connie had thought, Huh. This could be his breakthrough assignment, and the guy will look back fondly at the role I played in his career jump. I'll see him here and there over the years and remind him I knew him when.
"Give us a couple minutes to set up," Harriman said.
"Where do you want to do it?" Connie said.
The producer, a woman with long blond hair and angular features, said, "How about right where you're standing?" before she slid into the phone booth and unfolded its door.
Besides Harriman and the woman, there were two crew members, camera and sound, moving equipment around.
"Ripped," the sound guy whispered. The camera guy saw Connie making the thinnest stabs at sobriety, but despite the absence of slurred speech, his alcohol intake had circled back on him, and he was plowed.
Connie had no on-camera experience, possessing only an autodidact's amount of PR guile from what he read on the fly, and he was practicing a nonchalant pose of integrity against the bar when the crew banged on the lights.
"Whoa," he said, "little on the bright side."
"Want a minute to adjust?" Harriman said.
"Let's go for broke," Connie said, shaking out a smoke.
The camera guy gave a hand signal he had given a thousand times, and the reporter, microphone in hand, started talking.
"Sir, what is your name?"
"Cornelius Sky."
"By the way," Harriman said, "some of this we'll cut, so don't worry."
"I don't want to tell you your job," Connie chuckled, "but don't cut it all."
"It's great you have the uniform on."
"Thank you."
"Where do you work?"
Connie stated the address.
"Is this the residence of the former First Lady and her children?"
"Correct."
"And you called the station yourself, did you not?"
"Correct."
"Why did you call us?"
"Tell you what, I was watching Eyewitness—"
"Don't mention another station by name," Harriman said.
"A report about the kid getting mugged in the park. And they made it out like it was the fault of John
himself."
"How did they do that?"
"He got robbed in the park, somebody took his bike, brand-new ten-speed Bianchi."
"That's the story so far, yes."
"Now, why would they want to slant it in such a way that they go and try to put blame on the kid, follow me? They made the story out like the kid's always running away."
"Eluding," Harriman said.
"Very good, eluding," Connie said. "When in fact the Secret Service, the two guys assigned to protect the kid, they don't give a shit."
"Don't curse."
"Could care less, that's my main point, why I called you guys down here—that's the story, the story behind the story. We're talking about the president's son, correct? Kid loved that bike, could see it in his eyes."
"In what ways have the Secret Service not done their job?"
"Surprised nothing's happened sooner, 'cause what they do, sit there in the shade, eat buttered rolls, drink coffee from the Greeks, and then to have the gall to turn around and blame it on the kid? The family doesn't present the itinerary, they say—but the kid doesn't have an itinerary, doesn't want an itinerary, he's thirteen years old. Whitey, please," Connie said, holding up an empty glass. "Sit there in their sedan, their buttered rolls, I kid you not. Only time they come into the house, to use the facilities, if you follow me. Concerned is my point, extremely concerned." Connie half turned his back to the camera with polite discretion and drained a shot. "With the kid's interest in mind, first and foremost, why I called. I know all about people not saying boo on a kid's behalf. But not on my watch. As a doorman I do all I can, but what can I do as a doorman? They should not put it on the kid like it's his fault, that's all. Let the kid be a kid, and you be the Secret Service. What is the job description when you think about it? You would think part of the job's to, you know, check on the comings and goings in and around the house, no? What's the word?"
"Background checks? Vetting?"
"Exactly," Co
nnie said. "Very good. Part of the Secret Service's job, you would think. Yet everybody and their mother comes and goes, no questions asked. Like part of my job description: to open doors, get cabs, hold packages, deliver the mail, buff the floors, polish the brass, who knows what else. Be of service to the tenants the best I can. That's my job description. What's your job description? To get the truth, right? What's their job description? To eat buttered rolls, drink coffee, not move a muscle? You tell me."
"How much have you had to drink today?" Harriman said.
"Me? How much? I've had a few beers, but really I have no reason to count."
"And a few shots?"
"Perhaps," Connie said. "This is a drinking establishment. Why do you ask? It seems a little off the subject at hand."
"I want to know who I'm talking to," Harriman said. "You talk about background checks. I need to know the information you're giving us is accurate and valid."
"Fair enough, fair enough." Connie removed his cap and showed it to Harriman. "You see what it says right here? Want the camera to get a shot of this?" Around the cap's band, in cursive stitching, the house's address.
"Fine," Harriman said, "you work in the building, let's assume that's true, but making accusations against a venerable government agency should not be taken lightly."
"It grieves me, you kidding? But I should do what, put the agency's reputation before the protection and safety of the kid? You tell me. How venerable's that?"
"Of course not."
"This time a stolen bike, next time what, follow me? And don't tell me people don't get stabbed in that park for a funny look, forget a Bianchi. Think about it: president's son stabbed to death in Central for his bicycle. How's that for a story—would you like to cover that one?" They stared at one another a long moment. "Let me ask you something," Connie said to Harriman. "Did you have a bike when you were a kid?"
"Yes, I did."
"I bet you did. And I bet you had a father too."
"I did."
"Good for you," Connie said. "Good for you."
"What about yourself?"
"Me? Sure, I got my hands on a bike or two."
"Did you have a father?"
"Did I myself personally have a father?"
"Yes."
"Good question."
"Did you?"
"I would say yes and no."
"Yes and no?"
"In the sense he died at a certain point."
"I'm sorry."
"That's okay."
"When?"
"When?"
"How old were you when he died?"
"He died when I was nine years old."
"How did he die?"
"How did my father die?"
"Yes."
Connie looked at him, chuckled in a sad manner. "He put his head in the oven."
The producer quietly opened the phone booth, stepped out, and moved closer to the scene, next to the sound guy, who held the squirrel-tailed boom just out of frame.
"Your father committed suicide."
"Yes," Connie said. "Yes he did. Turned the oven on and took our youngest brother with him. Though Edward's death was by all accounts unintentional, that my father assumed himself alone in the apartment at the time. This should be stated for the record, I would say."
The crew and the producer exchanged looks, unsure what, if anything, they were getting.
"That must have been difficult for you, as a child," Harriman said.
"How so? Whitey!" Connie said, holding up his glass. Then back to Harriman, "Go ahead, I'm curious to hear your take."
"To lose your father at the age of nine. By his own hand. You must have felt a terrible loss."
"Yes and no, yes and no," Connie said, with some drunken reflection. "Truth be told, prior to his death, he was basically a blur in any case."
"What do you mean, blur?" Harriman said.
Connie spelled it: "B-L-U-R. Come on, you know what blur means. And you have concerns about my drinking! Whoa. Now that son of a bitch could put it away!"
Several men had entered, customers, regulars who clustered together down the bar to watch and listen.
"You mentioned the number of people that come and go. Do you think the security the building provides is sufficient?"
"Well, the staff of the house, it doesn't have the whatchamacallit, wherewithal, the resources, to check the background of every guest, deliveryman, contractor. That's the job of the Secret Service, wouldn't you say? And how many more times will they drop the ball is my main point."
And as he spoke Connie again considered the true source of his disdain, if it had more to do with Francis Ramey reminding him of the kid who foot-tapped his desk for the month he spent as a ninth grader at Cardinal Hayes.
Only God holds the list of secret motives.
"Proof," the producer woman said, sotto voce, to Harriman.
"You said on the phone you had proof," Harriman said. "What proof do you have for your claim?"
"You want proof?" Connie said.
"We need it, we—"
"All right, all right, here's the deal, I'm catching up to you. You talk about staff, talk about people coming and going. Okay, now I know personally, personally for a fact, that those kids have been left alone many times with people, let's say, with problems, an official record of problems, let's say."
"In the building."
"Correct."
"What kind of problems?"
"What kind of problems? People, let's say, with a history of . . . all right, let's call it mental illness for lack of a better way to express it."
"Are you talking about a tenant in the building? A member of the staff?"
"No. Yes, staff."
"A member of the family's staff?"
"No, no, there's only—"
"The building staff?"
"Correct."
"Who is it?"
"An employee, let's say."
"What's his name?" Harriman said.
"His name?"
"Yes."
Connie looked at Harriman a moment, then smiled strangely. "It's me. Me myself." He snorted, perversely enjoying the look of confusion on Harriman's face. He shook out another Camel and lit it with the Zippo's wild flame. "See what I'm saying? As an example of so-called proof, I say this to you. So if somebody like me, for example, who's been to Bellevue himself, who they say has a small history of mental illness of some kind, a nervous disorder, call it what you will, if someone like me, on paper, has access to the kids, the question then becomes who else has access? Follow my point? Is it not a reflection of what we're talking about, a laxity, let's say?"
"You've spent time as a mental patient at Bellevue?"
"Correct."
"Why?" Harriman said. "I mean, under what circumstances?"
"First time I thought I was going to kill myself, and my wife walked me over, pregnant with our first son, and they went ahead and admitted me just to play it safe."
"The first time? And then? I mean . . ."
"The second time I'm not sure is the truth. They found me nude behind the wheel of a stolen Dodge Charger on 8th Street. What a mess. But the main point, vis-à-vis how lame, or forget lame, nonexistent, the background checks."
"And you, yourself, have been alone with the children?"
"Sure," Connie said. "Many times. The elevator, whatever. Part of the job. Which is my point."
Harriman adjusted his body, lifting both feet off the ground slightly, one at a time, as if to reset himself. "And you, yourself, do you ever feel as if you might be in danger of hurting the children?"
"Hah?"
They exchanged looks, and Connie thought he saw something in the other man's eyes. Harriman showed teeth, a dark grin in service to the scoop he could taste, his face flushing like a bright bird of prey.
"You say you've been to Bellevue as a patient."
"Right, right."
"That you have a history of mental illness."
"I'm listening to yo
u."
"And you, you called us yourself, because you're concerned about John and—"
"Correct."
"And I'm asking you, directly, if you have ever felt you could possibly hurt them, yourself."
"Me? Hurt them? I—"
"Have you hurt them already?"
"Hurt them already?" Connie stared at Harriman, as the meaning of his questions washed over him, and the stark camera lighting brought into relief a look of profound and naked disturbance.
"I . . . Wait now." He half turned, reached for the bar.
"Is that why you called us, Mr. Sky? To protect the children?"
"In what? How?"
"Protect them from yourself?"
"I . . . I mean. How would I hurt them?"
"I don't know! You tell me!" Harriman demanded. "You're the one who called the station. You're the one with the history of mental illness. You're the one with access to the children. You're the one who has spent time with them alone."
"I . . . You."
"Have you hurt them?"
"I called because."
"Answer my question: have you hurt the children?"
"Hurt them? Hurt them?" Connie said. "I would never hurt them, never, not ever in a million years. I love those kids too much, I love those kids. I could never hurt a kid." And he started to weep.
A man at the end of the bar said, "Ah, Christ."
"I could never hurt them. Can you . . . can you shut it now?" Connie said, gesturing feebly at the lights and camera. "How could you? To ask me such a thing . . . Your implication," Connie said. "I could never hurt those kids. I love them too much. That's why I called you, that's why I called you, to make sure they're protected, that no harm comes to them."
"Would you like them to be protected from you?" Harriman said. "Is that why you called?"
Connie stared at him a moment, aghast. "My God, oh my God," he said. "To be so accused. To be so accused," and he turned away, hid his face against his arms, folded down onto the bar, and he wept loudly, shoulders bobbing.
The producer said to the cameraman, "Push in, Joe. Hold on him," and the cameraman did, they all did, the entire bar, Whitey and customers and crew, they all held on Connie as he soaked the sleeves of his jacket, the only sound in Grant's his mournful cries.
"Good," she said, "let's wrap."
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