Winner Take All

by T. Davis Bunn

  ———

  10

  DALE STEADMAN’S LIBRARY BAR was built into a corner opposite the rear French windows. Sunlight played a reflector’s game off the dual mirrors and the crystal glasses and the bottles. Dale studied his own fissured reflection. None of the guilt or anguish showed, only a stone-flat gaze and features that had gained fifteen years’ worth of creases in the past eleven months.

  He dropped ice cubes into his highball glass and poured in two inches of bourbon. He knew he should wait until after he had met with the attorney. But the worry and the strain and the huge empty house were bearing down hard. And the silence. Before, there had always been music. He had told the architect that every room had to be wired to a central system. Every single room, even the seven bathrooms, even the kitchen pantry. The house had thirty-four rooms and over three hundred Bose speakers. The amplifier was the size of a double oven and hulked beneath the cellar stairs. He had dreamed of the moment when Erin would step across the threshold and hear her favorite aria soaring from every room. A welcome fit for a queen, one guaranteed to woo her and bind her firmly to her new home.

  He had been wrong before, but seldom so completely.

  Dale poured another two inches, then added more ice. He carried the glass and bottle and ice bucket over to the sofa. Despite the plastic sheet blanketing the entire northern wall and the air conditioner on full blast, the room still stank of oily ashes and sawdust. The contractors were gone for the day. He missed their chatter and hammering and the tinny radio and the saws. He knew he should move out, find a place where he was not plagued by the ghosts of past errors. But he could not think beyond the one next step.

  He glanced down and was surprised to find his glass empty. He poured another couple of inches, decided he didn’t need to bother with ice. The bourbon had a different heat when taken straight, a liquid smoke to match the flames he saw every time he shut his eyes. Dale glanced at his watch. The minute hand was cemented to the same place it had been since his arrival home, or so it seemed. This one final glass, he decided, then he wouldn’t have any more until after the meeting.

  He stared out the rear windows past the slate patio to where the sun was turning the Intracoastal the color of a blast furnace. Despite the constant rush of cold air, Dale was sweating heavily. He looked down at his glass, and watched how the tremors in his hand cut fierce little ripples across the bourbon’s surface. The glory days, was how he had always thought of his move back to Wilmington. The start of how things should have been from the beginning.

  The sound of tires drumming over his private bridge drew him to his feet. Dale picked up the bottle and glass and carried both into the front hall. He fought to bring his chest and his emotions back under control as the car pulled around his drive. When he was certain he could hold the bottle steady, he poured another glass. Then he set it on the side table untouched. He just wanted something to anchor the moment, and the one after.

  The drive from Rocky Mount to the coast had been a journey through aeons. High-tech modernity was soon replaced by an atmosphere of crinoline and molasses. East of I-95, they traversed a region where older men still tipped their hats to passing ladies, where sidewalks were used as an extension of front parlors, and tobacco remained undisputed king. Kirsten kept her face turned toward the summer greens as she first recounted her telephone conversation with the senator’s aide, then summarized her findings about Dale Steadman. The efficient researcher briefing the top guy. A perfect picture, minus the heart.

  “UNC-Wilmington had a football team up until ten years ago,” Kirsten related to Marcus. “They axed it in favor of soccer and other equality sports. Dale Steadman was a walk-on the team’s fourth year.”

  “Where was he raised?”

  “Burgaw. A reporter at the Wilmington newspaper described the town as, blink and you’ve missed all the fun.” Her hair caught the sunlight and teased him with the afterglow. “According to the same reporter, Dale took the UNC-W team from the swamps to the treetops. He won the conference title his junior and senior years, more or less single-handedly.”

  “Now I remember where I’d heard his name before.”

  “The paper dubbed him the Wilmington Wonder. The Bengals took him in the second round. But during the final game of the regular season, he was hit bad and broke both his collarbone and his hip. He was stretchered off, never to return.”

  Kirsten recounted Dale’s rehabilitation and MBA and return to Wilmington without referring to her notes. “The company barely held its head above water for three years. Then Dale hit pay dirt when, of all things, a leading maker of wedding gowns offered him a long-term agreement. They liked his precision sewing, they wanted an American supplier. Dale’s turnover doubled in eleven months. Four years later, New Horizons bought him out.” She pointed ahead. “That’s your turn. The Steadman residence should be four miles down on the left.”

  Marcus halted at the traffic light, studying her and the vast distance between them. Her skin glowed with the fabled luminosity of a perfect blonde. The open file in her lap did not quite cover the stockinged legs emerging from the sky-blue linen skirt. Her lips were as pale as her lashes and just begged to be kissed. Kirsten turned to him then, and recognized the hunger. She did not draw away. Instead, the gemstone gaze melted with resignation and fear.

  The question was out before he could halt it. “Who hurt you?”

  Her lips parted, reaching not for words but air.

  “Did it ever occur to you that maybe the only answer is in trusting me? Just for a moment, long enough to separate me from whatever it is you’re carrying around inside?”

  Kirsten began trembling. He could see the tight shivers attack her frame. He reached over, but halted his hand in midair when she flinched from the coming touch.

  A horn honked behind them.

  Marcus took the turn and drove a tunnel of country greens down to where the road forked. A half-mile farther on, he started across a long plank bridge that led to Dale Steadman’s private island preserve. Before them rose a faux French manor of cream-colored brick, with gray shutters and a peaked slate roof and eleven dormer windows on two floors. Marcus cut off the motor and sat there.

  He hated the fear she showed him. Hated how vulnerable she looked, unable to move yet awaiting his next words as she would a vicious blow. Which was why he swallowed down what he wanted to tell her, and instead merely said, “I think you should take the meeting with Senator Jacobs.”

  He could see she was tempted to refuse, and knew with dagger-like certainty she was close to departing. “All right.”

  “I might need more time down here to map out a strategy with Dale.”

  “I said I would.” She ended the discussion by rising from the car.

  The front portico was domed in the manner of a European palace and ringed by ornate columns. The manor’s south side was gutted and blackened, such that a dozen windows watched their arrival like charred and wounded eyes. As they started across the drive, Dale Steadman opened the front door. Marcus realized instantly the man was drunk. Dale observed their approach with a bleary gaze, muttered a half-formed greeting, pushed off the doorway, and shuffled inside.

  Although the rooms through which they walked were relatively unscathed, the stench of cold ashes was everywhere. Tools were piled by sawhorses and lumber. Plastic tarpaulins split the central hallway and covered the south-facing doorways. Dale led them into a rear parlor that ran the length of the house. Three walls were fashioned as a rich man’s study, with panels of oiled walnut and burl. A spiral brass staircase rose to a long balcony fronted with bookcases. The fourth wall was a ribbon of French windows, through which Marcus could see slate decking and the precision of professional gardening. Beyond the lawn, the Intracoastal Waterway sparkled with a carnival’s myth of easy living and only good times.

  As Kirsten followed Dale over and settled him into a sofa, Marcus’ phone rang. He stepped back into the hallway. “Glenwood.”

  It was hi
s secretary. “I couldn’t find you a hotel at any price. It’s summer, it’s the weekend, it’s the coast.”

  “Now that I’m here, I can’t wait to get back,” Marcus replied. “Any luck on that other matter?”

  The previous afternoon Marcus had given Netty a list of Wilmington attorneys he had met over the years, and asked her to call around and see if anyone would meet with him. “One lawyer by the name of Garland Perry. Now Judge Perry.”

  “I don’t remember him.”

  “He couldn’t place you either. But he knows Mr. Steadman, and it didn’t add a good flavor to his Saturday to hear why I was calling.”

  “But he’ll see me?”

  “Only if you can be there in a half hour’s time. He’s on his way out of town.”

  “Call him back and tell him I’m coming.”

  He slipped his phone into his pocket, reentered the back room, and asked Dale point-blank, “How drunk are you?”

  Strangely, the New Horizons chairman gave his response to Kirsten and not to him. “Still looking for that place where it won’t matter anymore.”

  Kirsten focused upon Marcus, finishing the triangle and keeping him from saying what he was thinking, that Dale was wasting everybody’s time.

  Dale only slurred his words a small amount. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m new to this game.”

  “Which game is that?”

  “The one where I have mercenaries going to war in my place. I’ve always fought my own battles.”

  “Your ex-wife is working hard to keep custody of the child.”

  Dale used the hand holding the glass to punch himself upright, leaving a dark bourbon stain on the sofa’s arm. He weaved his way over to where he stood before the central glass doors. He was burly, loud, and almost comic in his glorious wreckage. “That makes no sense whatsoever.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  The bourbon stained his mouth with golden tears. “Erin never cared about the baby. Not till the publicity started.”

  “That doesn’t jibe with the fact that she has hired a courtroom brawler.”

  “Hamper Caisse.”

  “That’s right. Yesterday he brought in witnesses who attested to your unfitness as a father.”

  Dale’s next gesture collided with the window. “That makes even less sense.”

  “That they would condemn you as they did?”

  “No. That Erin would go to all this trouble.”

  “You’re not worried about your good name being demolished in open court?”

  “Only got room for one worry right now. And that’s not it.”

  Kirsten spoke up for the first time. “Marcus is a fighter. But you’ve got to help him.”

  “Show me how.”

  Marcus extracted the custody agreement from his pocket. “Your ex-wife’s attorney has presented a notarized agreement to the court, claiming you and she settled the issue of your child privately.” He waited while Steadman gave the pages an owl-eyed scan. “Is that your signature on the last page?”

  “Absolutely.” He tossed the pages to the floor. “And I’ve never seen this before.”

  “You’re claiming Erin Brandt’s lawyer lied in open court?”

  “Somebody sure did.”

  “Sir, I dislike carrying on important business under these circumstances.”

  Dale Steadman carried his laugh into his glass. “That makes two of us.”

  “I have to see a local attorney about a matter. Then we’ll be leaving for Rocky Mount, since I couldn’t find us a hotel room. I’ll come back tomorrow and we’ll try again. I’d appreciate it if you would try and be sober for the occasion.”

  “Stay here.” Dale tapped his tumbler on the window. A long wooden finger stretched into the Intracoastal Waterway, molded into fable by the setting sun. A magnificent yacht was moored at the end. “The guest room’s not redone yet, but that thing out there sleeps eight. I bought it for Erin, she begged me for one, then never stepped on board except for cocktails at sunset. Be nice to see somebody in love out there for once.”

  Marcus glanced at Kirsten, but found an unreadable stare. “Thank you, sir, we are most grateful for your invitation.”

  As Marcus rose from his chair, a sudden thought occurred to him. He did a careful search of the room, then said, “Kirsten, could I have a word?”

  When she joined him in the front hallway, he was still intent upon his search. “What is it?”

  “Stay there just a moment, please.” Marcus walked to where the house was dissected by the plastic tarpaulin, swept it aside, and stepped through. Sawdust and old ashes drifted in the air. The house’s articles had been stuffed in packing crates and draped with more plastic sheeting. He unpacked several boxes in different rooms, until he was certain his search was both futile and discomfiting.

  Kirsten called from the hallway, “Marcus?”

  “Just a minute.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for something. Don’t come back, it’s filthy.”

  When he stepped through the plastic drape, Kirsten asked, “What did you find?”

  “Step outside with me.”

  He waited until they were removed from the man’s influence to say, “There is no sign of the child.”

  “What?”

  “Not a picture, no mementos, dolls, toys, nothing.”

  “The baby is sixteen months old, Marcus.”

  “Listen to what I’m saying. There’s nothing. We arrive to find the man drunk. His only response to the custody document is a slurred denial. What kind of father does that imply?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I’m going to meet this local judge. See if you can find some reason for me not to drop this case.”

  Wilmington’s old town held an aura of carefully preserved history, capturing through struggle and money a past that never was. Gone were the seedy bars and topless joints and the beer wagons’ rutted tracks. Wilmington had entered a second heyday, fueled by two Hollywood studios who had fled the union-dominated west coast and a sudden upsurge in high-tech business. The ancient coastal oaks had been trimmed back, the rotting wharf district restored, the pre-Revolutionary houses as carefully done up as a bevy of aging brides.

  Marcus turned by the church where the British military had stabled their horses after taking the manor next door for General Cromwell’s residence. He pulled into the drive of a house only slightly smaller than a full-blown plantation.

  As Marcus left his car, the Wilmington judge appeared on his front veranda. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me, sir.”

  Garland Perry was thirty years senior to Marcus, and proclaimed his staunch membership of the old school by appearing on a Saturday afternoon in starched white shirt and suspenders. He removed the pipe from his mouth. “I don’t normally like to do business on a weekend. But your secretary indicated this could not wait for next week.”

  “I have to be back in court on Tuesday. You might have heard I’ve been asked to represent Dale Steadman.”

  “Rumors to that effect have been circulating ’round here.” The judge rapped his pipe against the nearest pillar. A dark smudge suggested this was a long-held custom. “Personally, I find the idea that you’d take the side of a former opponent very repellent.”

  “This case has nothing to do with New Horizons.”

  “So you say.”

  Marcus remained standing upon the front walk, looking up the three stairs to the older gentleman. “Are you opposed to my handling this case, or my representing Dale Steadman?”

  “Mr. Steadman has the right of every citizen to legal aid, I suppose.” He blew hard on his pipe, then stowed it in his pocket. “But there are any number of lawyers out there.”

  “He came to me.”

  “Then I question his motives, as I do your own.”

  “What do you have against Dale Steadman, sir?”

  “Nothing more than any number of local people. He’s brash, he’s a drunkard,
and he’s a stain on our good city.” He met Marcus’ gaze for the first time. “My advice, sir, is you’d be well served to send him packing.”

  Marcus took Highway 132 back out toward Pine Grove. He drove past the Wilmington Golf Club, then took the Greenville Loop Road out to Towles Road. It was a round-the-elbow sort of drive, but he needed time to think. The absence of clear answers made for much disorder and no resolution. Near Dale’s plank bridge, Marcus halted and got out. Back behind him the day’s final glow bid him a pleasant farewell. The surrounding marshland was dotted with stick figures of salt-blasted deadwood. Their inky branches pointed him toward every step of the celestial compass, which only reflected the state of his cluttered mind. A pair of redwing hawks screeched from either side of the bridge, as though they’d selected Marcus as their feast and now sought to scare him from cover. Up ahead, the night only accented the house’s damage. The northern half gleamed a yellow welcome. The south side was nothing but shadows and mystery.

  The front door opened as he pulled through the stone entrance and into the circular drive. Even from this distance Marcus could see Kirsten’s distress. He climbed the stairs and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  In reply she took his hand and led him inside.

  “Where is Dale?”

  “Asleep.” Kirsten drew him through the front corridor.

  “Tell me what’s wrong, Kirsten.”

  “I asked him your question for you.” She drew him up the stairs and halted by the middle landing’s only door. “Look in there.”

  A ring of keys dangled from the lock. Marcus twisted the handle.

  The room was crammed floor to ceiling with Celeste.

  Boxes spilled photographs and teddies and kittens and dolls. Crates were stacked so high the bottom ones were crushed almost flat. An antique rocker was lost beneath a pile of smiling stuffed animals. The little desk held a trio of plastic mixing bowls filled to overflowing with pewter teething rings, pacifiers, and plastic infant’s toys. The roller crib was a single mass of fluffy angels. Silver frames had been roped together like plates and piled upon the diaper table so that one leg had given way, and the table was now supported by a high-backed chair.