The Rain

by Andrew Klavan

  “Wal.”

  He stammered, fell silent. He had run out of words. He was only a student preacher after all. He stood above me with his finger still jabbed at my face. His shoulders rose and fell with his breath.

  “Wally,” I said quietly. “She doesn’t want you, man. She just doesn’t want you.”

  He stood another moment. The fury faded from his eyes. The insecurity came out behind it. A young man’s fear. Maybe every young man’s fear.

  “I’m sorry, pal,” I said. “But she’s got to go her own way. People have got to go their own ways.”

  His hand lowered slowly to his side. “But a woman …” he said weakly.

  “Women, too,” I said. “Gotta go their ways. It’s not Satan. It’s not even me. It’s just … what it is. It is what it is.”

  His mouth hung slightly open. He looked like I’d hit him. He took a slow step back, then another. He sank down onto the chair again. He brought his hands up and pressed the heels of them against his forehead. He looked pretty bad, and I felt bad for him. I’d sat in just that posture over more than one woman in my time.

  “Sorry,” I said. I reached out for another cigarette. I leaned back against the wall as I lit it. He just kept sitting there like that. The poor bastard. “Look, uh, there’s other women, you know. Plenty of girls feel just the way you do about things and you find one and you go your way together. You know?” It was the best I could do. One divorce and a few dozen disasters did not qualify me to be a counselor on young love.

  Wally threw his hands down on his lap. “You don’t understand,” he said. “Georgia and me, we … we did things.…”

  “I do understand.”

  “We … we … got engaged.…”

  “That just ain’t engaged, Wally. Hell, even engaged isn’t engaged. People change their minds all the time. It’s just words, man.”

  “It’s holy matrimony,” he whined.

  “Yeah, okay. But it’s just words unless they want to be there. Believe me: I know about this part.”

  This seemed to reach him a little. He looked me over with some interest as he sat there forlorn. “You mean, you were married?”

  “I was married,” I said. “I was very young and I met a very beautiful, very rich young lady and she wanted to show her daddy that she didn’t care which of her suitors he liked. And she was very beautiful and I was very young and that was fine. I knew that’s why she was doing it. I went along anyway. Hell, I’d have done a lot more than that for her. She was very beautiful. And I was very young.” I dragged in some smoke. “But I guess it wasn’t much of a reason for a wedding, was it?” I asked him. And when he shook his head, I said: “Neither is yours.”

  “But …” said the soon-to-be-reverend Wally.

  “If you sinned, go wash yourself in holy water,” I told him. “Take a pilgrimage. Take an aspirin. Take a long vacation. But don’t hold her to an old promise, man, because it won’t make things all right when they go all wrong, finally. And by that time, there might be a gir … a kid around to go down with you.”

  He kept looking at me. “I gotta find her,” he said. But he didn’t sound so sure now. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. I couldn’t tell if he was thinking.

  “Go home to Ohio, pal. That’s Mother Wells’ advice. And you can start by getting the fuck out of my apartment.”

  He just kept looking at me. “I gotta think on this,” he said slowly. “I gotta think on this.”

  “You do that,” I said. “But somewhere else.”

  He stood up. Up and up. He nodded his big head on his big shoulders. His big body started moving toward the door.

  I watched him go. I waited. I heard the door slam. I reached out and turned off the bedside light again. I lay down and pulled the covers up under my chin. The air-conditioning was kicking in now and it was downright cool in here.

  I closed my eyes. I heard Wally’s voice again. He was gone now, but in my head I still heard his voice.

  You’re trying to deceive me so I’ll leave her to you. You’re trying to deceive her so you can write your filthy stories.

  “Oh shut up,” I murmured.

  And the long day was over.

  18

  I stumbled into the city room the next morning at the crack of eleven.

  “What happened to you?” said Rafferty.

  “I fell down a flight of stairs.”

  “You look it.”

  “Thanks. Fran!” I shouted.

  I went to my cubicle. Fran brought me coffee and the paper.

  “What happened to you?” she said.

  “I tripped over a sleeping dog.”

  “Ooh,” she said. “Your face.”

  “Just give me the coffee.”

  I drank the coffee. It burned my swollen lips. I lit a cigarette. My jaw ached when I toked it. I read the paper. We’d led with the heat. NO RELIEF IN SIGHT, we declared. We sky lined Abingdon’s press conference. The Times had led with that, but they didn’t have anything new either. Neither did the News. I was safe for another day.

  I tossed the paper on the floor. I began digging through the debris on my desk. I dug till I found the phone. I dragged the phone to me. The effort made my arm ache. I picked the receiver up and dialed. I listened to the ringing. It rang five times. I was about to hang up.

  “Hello.” It was hesitant.

  “It’s me, Georgia. It’s Wells.”

  “Oh hi. Hi.” Her voice brightened and warmed.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Shaky. Shaky, but better. Better, only I cry a lot.”

  “Good. It’s good for you.”

  “It makes my face puffy.”

  “I like puffy faces.”

  She managed to laugh a little. “No, you don’t.”

  “Well, I’ll like puffy if you can go for purple.”

  “Are you purple?”

  “Only around the head, torso and legs.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She sounded sorry. It sounded nice. “Does it hurt a lot?”

  “Yes.”

  Oh, poor guy.

  “More, more. Sympathize.”

  She laughed. “I do. I sympathize.”

  I smiled at the phone. “Let’s talk,” I said.

  There was a pause. “Okay.”

  “Don’t be too enthusiastic. It’ll go to my head.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just …” She lapsed into silence.

  “Let me come by.”

  The silence lengthened. Finally, she said: “Tonight.”

  I had to fight back a curse. “Tonight’s too late,” I said. “My deadline’s eight o’clock.”

  “Oh, but can’t it wait a day? Just another day.”

  “No.”

  “But why?” she pleaded.

  Because if I got scooped on this one, I’d be through. But I didn’t tell her that. I said: “Georgia, it’s news. And it’s good insurance against acts of God and Marino.”

  More silence. “I just … I need time, Mr. Wells.” Her voice had begun to tremble. “I need time.”

  I listened to her breathing. I could run it without her, I thought. I had the name, I could identify her myself. But I did not want to do that. I was sure she was a victim in this thing, and I did not want to put her name in the papers without telling her side of the story.

  I wrestled with the angel for a minute. If I were a younger man, I’d have taken him easy. Either the angels were getting tougher or I was slowing down.

  “When?” I said finally.

  “What about seven?” she said. “That’s enough time. I promise I’ll tell you everything. I really will. I promise. I just … I just have to … get myself together.” She barely got out a last: “Okay?”

  I closed my eyes, nodded. Seven. I could still make the bulldog if I phoned it in. It would be tight, but I could do it. Besides—maybe I could get a hot angle somewhere else. Maybe I could get a job somewhere else. So what if Bush blackballed me? I hear the Ellenville Register
is always shorthanded.

  “Okay, kid,” I said.

  I heard the start of tears. “You’re a nice man, Mr. Wells.”

  “Call me John when you lie to me,” I told her.

  I hung up. I sat back. I killed one cigarette. I lit another.

  “What happened to you?”

  I looked over my shoulder. It hurt my neck. McKay was there, leaning against the edge of the doorway.

  “I hammered in a nail with my face,” I said. “Didn’t you read the notes I left you?”

  “I just got in. I had an interview with a former mental patient who rode from San Francisco to New York on a unicycle.”

  “Sounds like a future mental patient.”

  McKay laughed. “He was raising money for a charity.”

  “I’m deeply moved. Go read the notes.”

  “Hey, you ever try to sit on one of those things? God, your face looks awful.”

  “At least I have an excuse.”

  “I think I’ll go read the notes.”

  “Bye.”

  I dialed the phone again. Now, it rang ten times.

  “Manhattan South. Sergeant Hatch.”

  “Hey, Sarge, it’s Wells at the Star. Is Gottlieb around?”

  “Yeah, hold on.”

  I held on. Gottlieb picked up. “Don’t be happy,” he said.

  “Believe me, Fred. I’m not happy.”

  “Good.”

  “Why aren’t I happy?”

  “Who could be happy when he looks like a fool and a liar?”

  “Not me.”

  “So don’t be happy.”

  “I’m telling you: it’s not a problem.”

  “Right.”

  “I take it you haven’t found the Abingdon pictures,” I said.

  “No naked Abingdon pictures. No naked lady pictures. No naked Abingdon with a naked lady. Right now, as far as the New York City police department is concerned, you’re a person who has sex fantasies about Senate candidates.”

  “Terrific.”

  “And, just so you shouldn’t even think of happiness, there’s more.”

  “Oh good. For a minute there, I flirted with the thought of contentment.”

  “Don’t flirt. It looks like Kendrick was starting a modest business in the neighborhood of Avenue A.”

  “Prostitution.”

  “A terrible thing.”

  “So you think he stepped on Alphonse Marino’s toes and Alphonse Marino stepped on his throat.”

  “This by Alphonse is quid pro quo, yes,” Gottlieb said.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. A mob rubout of a smalltime pimp. No pictures. No other leads. I was going to look pretty bad in tomorrow’s editions. “You gonna make a statement today?” I asked him.

  “Statement! It’s already leaking all over the place. What can I do? It’s a terrible situation. Who knows what’ll happen?”

  “Those pictures exist, Fred, I’m telling you. And Marino is looking for them.”

  There was a pause. “You know this?”

  “It’s as plain as the welt on my face.”

  “Ah,” he said carefully. “This welt. Is this something maybe your friendly neighborhood detective should be informed about?”

  I sighed heavily. “Yeah,” I said. “But not yet.”

  “Eesh,” said Gottlieb.

  “Yeah,” I said again. I hung up. I laid my head back in the chair, my eyes closed.

  “Jesus. What happened to you?”

  “I danced with a guy named Moose,” I said angrily.

  I swiveled around in my chair. It was Cambridge. He was wearing an off-gray pinstripe suit. It was perfectly pressed. The striped tie on the white shirt was perfectly knotted. I wondered how he got from home to work in this heat without getting sweaty and rumpled like me. Maybe he slept here. Maybe he changed clothes once he got here. Maybe he just didn’t sweat. Maybe he was secretly dead.

  He was carrying a leather folder in one hand, tapping it against the other. This was not a good sign. He was also smiling pleasantly. This was even worse.

  “Well,” he said sweetly. “I hope you got those bruises pursuing the Abingdon story.”

  “Something like that,” I said. “It was pursuing me.”

  “Heh heh.” He was laughing, I guess. “Heh heh. That’s good. Come up with anything?”

  “Yeah. But it could take me another day to get it nailed down.”

  He pursed his lips, shook his head. He looked concerned for my welfare. “Johnny, Johnny,” he said. “This is the newspaper business, remember? Tomorrow doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Oh now,” I said. “It’s only a day away.”

  “Heh heh,” he answered. “Well, we’ve only got until Sunday, remember. Although maybe if we show Mr. Bush those bruises, he’ll give us an extension for good behavior. What do you think?”

  We. Us. My stomach hurt. I grinned at him in answer. Smoke seeped out between my teeth. Cambridge wagged a finger at me.

  “You know, I’m really going to have to send out a memo about smoking in here. There’s not enough ventilation, and it’s really bad for everyone.” His eyes were gleaming. Like polished steel. He’d never had this much fun before in his life. “You know,” he said quietly, gently, “when this blows over, things are going to be a lot different around here.” He nodded thoughtfully. He tapped the leather folder against his hand. I grinned and grinned. I kept grinning as he walked away, nodding and tapping, into the cubicle maze.

  I stopped grinning. “Eat shit and die,” I muttered. I swiveled around. I picked up the phone. I dialed.

  The phone rang once. Then a young woman’s voice chirped: “Abingdon Campaign Headquarters.”

  It was a long shot, but until Georgia came through, it was all I had. “This is John Wells at the Star.” I waited for her to hang up. She didn’t. “I want to talk to him,” I said.

  “Hold on one moment please.” The woman was not chirping anymore. She was speaking one icy syllable at a time.

  I waited. I put out my cigarette. I waited some more. I pulled out a new cigarette. I toyed with it. I waited. There was a click.

  “Hello?” I said. I expected a dial tone. I got a voice instead.

  “This is Paul Abingdon.”

  I lit the cigarette. I didn’t want the sound of surprise in my voice. “How’re you doing, Congressman?”

  He answered quietly, precisely. “Not as well as I was a few days ago.”

  “No. No, I guess not.”

  “What do you want, John?”

  “I want an interview.” I waited for the slam of the receiver.

  “Two-thirty,” said Abingdon at once. “Here.”

  “Well, I …” He hung up. I stared at the receiver. What the hell, I asked myself, was that all about? The receiver started humming at me. I set it down in the cradle. I stared at it some more. I swiveled to one side and stared at it out of the corner of my eye. A new voice came from outside my cubicle.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I got beat up,” I said. “All right?”

  “It’s all right with me,” said Lansing.

  I turned to her. She flinched when she saw the damage straight on. Then she cursed and shook her head and her long hair fantailed. She stamped her foot. She put her fist to her waist. “Did you go to a doctor, John?”

  “What doctor? What are you talking about?”

  “Did you put anything on …? Oh Christ, Wells, did you even wash it?”

  I reached up and touched the painful places on my face. “I don’t know. I mean, I showered this morning. What am I supposed to do?”

  Lansing stepped up to me. She touched my forehead. Her fingers were cool and gentle. The smell of her was sweet and when she leaned down to me I could breathe all of it. I could look way down into her eyes.

  “Ouch,” I said.

  “You need stitches on that, Wells. I’m serious.”

  “Stitches. I didn’t need stitches before you started gouging me. Jesus,
Lansing.”

  She stamped her foot again. “It’s not funny.”

  “All right, all right. It’s not funny.”

  “What happened?”

  “Alphonse Marino happened. That guy is off my Christmas list for sure. I mean it.”

  “That’s going to get infected,” said Lansing, looking at the gash on my cheek. “What’s he doing knocking around a reporter? Dellacroce hates that.”

  “Well, then Dellacroce and I have a lot in common. Not to mention we both want to get our hands on those photographs of Abingdon. Last night I found the girl who was in them. Unfortunately, Marino intercepted her. Kendrick must have blabbed about her. Anyway, I had to get her out. The girl I mean. I had to shoot a guy.”

  Lansing let out an exasperated sigh. She released my bruises and sat down on the edge of my desk. She crossed her arms. “You shot a guy?”

  “Yeah, a big guy too. Looked like Frankenstein.”

  “You kill him?”

  “Hell, no. Are you crazy? I was lucky I hit him.”

  She lowered her head to her chest. “Dellacroce’s gonna be thrilled.”

  “I know. But he won’t do anything about it once we run the story. If he does, Maldonado’s through, which is just what he doesn’t want. Anyway, I’m hoping he’ll be more pissed at Marino for bungling it than at me. Stop looking at me like that, Lansing.”

  “Well, at least you’ve got your story anyway,” she said sullenly. “That ought to keep you out of Dutch with the bosses for a while.”

  “Uh … yeah,” I said.

  She eyed me. “What?”

  “Nothing. I got it. It’s all right,” I said.

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Well, the girl’s a little reluctant to talk.”

  “The girl with the scarf. So what? You saw the pictures. If you’re sure …”

  “Oh, I’m sure. But it’s my word against hers,” I said, without much conviction.

  “Your word’s good,” said Lansing. “Especially if you write about what happened last night.”

  “Look, I’ve got till tomorrow,” I told her. “I’ll play it by ear.”

  She came off the desk again. Her skirt spun out as she pivoted to me. “Wells! What are you talking about? You haven’t got till anything. Every reporter in town is after this story. You’ve got it. You can’t afford to get beat on it You can’t let yourself get scooped on your own story twice.”