Random Hearts

by Warren Adler

  It did not surprise him that the Congressman did not call him into his office. He would be pouting now, in a funk. The office was not humming with work, the staff was not churning with deadlines. The man was undoubtedly frustrated, fuming with subdued rage. There was no more compelling sense of anxiety than that generated by a politician running for office. Months earlier, Edward had submitted a report to the Congressman on the necessity of keeping his name before the public with a barrage of issue-oriented press releases, filling the hopper with bills and stepping up case activity with constituents tenfold.

  "You sure we got the horses, Eddie?" the Congressman had asked. Edward felt strong then, ambitious, confident.

  "Sure, I'm sure."

  "To do it, I've got to have the backup."

  "You've got it."

  When a man had a secret oasis, he could trek any desert. His oasis was a mirage now. And he was tired and thirsty, and the sun was melting his eyes.

  Taking out the maps he had bought, he unfolded them. To do what McCarthy had suggested, he had had to buy both a map of northern Virginia and a map of the District. He cut them apart and pieced together the specific areas he needed. He estimated the outer perimeters in terms of time and distance, drawing a circle, as McCarthy had suggested, then dividing the circle, into manageable slices.

  As he worked with the maps, Jan Peters came in, looking troubled.

  "What is it?" He was hunched over his desk, studying the maps.

  "There's a nasty-looking man outside. Wants to see you."

  "Has he got a name?" He did not look up, although he could see the lower part of Jan's torso, fingers nervously tapping her thighs.

  "He wouldn't give his name." She was obviously annoyed by his lack of concern. When he did not respond further, he saw her body come closer. She bent over the front of his desk. He could smell her sweet breath.

  "What are these?"

  "Just maps."

  "The Congressman is working around you, Edward. He's madder than hell. You're going to lose your job. You know he doesn't care about people."

  Not as human beings, he thought. Ignoring her, he made marks on the map with this magic marker. He felt her hand on his arm, staying his movement.

  "It's no joke," she pleaded.

  At that moment, Vinnie burst through the door, a vast bulk, snorting like an animal, sending off waves of sweaty body odor combined with the stink of rotting wine grapes. Looking up, he saw Jan sidestep out of his way. She stood now with her back to the wall, a hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes popping with fear. Oddly, Edward felt no panic. Vinnie's meaty hand grabbed a handful of shirt just below his neck and lifted him out of his chair.

  "Fuggin' sombitch," Vinnie hissed as his free fist shot out and landed on Edward's cheek. The blow glanced off the bone. A large pinky ring opened a cut, and he felt the moist warmth of his own blood. Jan gasped out a scream.

  "This bastard trashed my sister," he said, turning fierce eyes to Jan, who obviously had little choice but to endure the role of witness. Edward struggled to get free of the man's grip, but without success. Vinnie's free fist drew back and shot forward again. This time, Edward shifted his head, and the blow passed harmlessly into the air. Vinnie's heavy body lost its balance and fell over the desk, shredding Edward's shirt.

  As a reflex, Jan shot forward and jumped on Vinnie's back, while Edward pinned down his arms. But the man was a bull, and all three fell to the floor. The thump knocked books and files off their shelves. As they struggled, Edward saw startled faces in the doorway and heard the Congressman's outraged voice.

  "Stop this at once."

  Vinnie continued to struggle, but they had gained the upper hand and the fight was going out of him.

  "All right. All right," he shouted. Edward and Jan released him reluctantly. When he was still, they backed off. Vinnie lifted himself off the floor. The Congressman shooed everyone but Jan, Edward, and Vinnie out of the office and closed the door.

  "Are you all crazy?" he asked. Vinnie had eased his bulk into a large leather chair, and Jan was staunching blood running out of Edward's cut cheek.

  "I insist on an explanation," the Congressman said, his eyes roving, inspecting in turn each face of the participants.

  "This man came running in..." Jan began.

  "It's not your problem, Jan," Edward interrupted "He's my brother-in-law."

  "Fuck you," Vinnie croaked, lifting a fat index finger and pointing. "I'll get you."

  "We can't have this," the Congressman said.

  Edward knew then that there was no sense playing the charade. Beneath the guise of command, he knew the Congressman was scared. Little incidents like this had a way of getting out to the press, spoiling public images. He brushed away Jan's hand, which held a crumpled ball of reddened tissue. His fingers probed the swelling. The blood had thickened although it still oozed. He grabbed a wad of tissue and held it to his cheek. By then, Vinnie was calmer.

  "Wasn't for him, she'd still be here," Vinnie said, his face puffed, his eyes filled with hate. "Now he's gonna get rich off her."

  With effort, Vinnie pushed himself out of the chair. "It's not finished," he croaked.

  "No, not finished," Edward said, noting that the Congressman's eyes had drifted to the maps. Far from finished, he thought. Vinnie glared at him, displaying the full measure of his hatred, then stumbled out of the room.

  When he had gone, the Congressman looked at Jan.

  "Leave us please."

  Hesitating, she looked at Edward, who nodded. Moist-eyed, she walked toward the door.

  "Not a word of this," the Congressman warned after her. She threw him a look of contempt, then softened, nodded, and left.

  "Shit," the Congressman said after she had gone.

  "I'm sorry," Edward said. With his free hand he tried to straighten his shredded shirt.

  "Are you trying to ruin me?" the Congressman asked.

  The question, of course, required no answer. Any explanation, however plausible, was useless. Invoking past loyalties and reminders of devoted service would have little meaning now. To both of them. It was as if Lily's scenario of deceit were unfolding from the grave, as if she were continuing to punish him for some unknown sin for which there was no forgiveness.

  "I'm counterproductive now," Edward said, feeling little regret. His cheek pulsated with radiating pain, making his eye twitch.

  "Maybe when you get over this..." the Congressman began.

  It was, Edward knew, a statement meant to be interrupted, and he did so, obediently. "Maybe. In the meantime, I'd suggest you get someone else. Perhaps Harvey."

  The Congressman nodded. Edward could see him winding up for hearts and flowers. Politicians were expert at eloquent farewells, flowery testimonials.

  "Not now," Edward said. He had had quite enough hypocrisy for one lifetime, thank you. He began to gather up his maps. Then he put on his jacket and moved to the door.

  "Edward," the Congressman called. Edward stopped in his tracks. It irritated him to know that he was still conditioned to respond. "He's not Mafia?"

  A thin smile curled on Edward's lips. To a midwestern congressman, all Italians were Mafia. Edward shrugged, leaving the question hanging in the air. It was nice to know he had left the man with a touch of fear.

  27

  Vivien washed his wound with peroxide and pinched it together with adhesive.

  "I'm a pharmacist's daughter," she said, watching him inspecting her handiwork in the bathroom mirror. It felt odd, being with a strange man stripped to the waist in the sanctum of the bathroom. More than strange, she knew. She could not deny the tingle of mysterious excitement. His shredded shirt and bloodied T-shirt lay in a heap on the floor.

  "Not bad," he said, patting the dressing, smiling broadly at her in the mirror. His body was softer than Orson's, his chest hairier. Blushing, she noted how a thin line of hair trickled onto his belt. Orson had a small patch on his chest and larger pectorals, with better defined muscles on his upp
er arms. She was surprised at her absorption of these details.

  Leaving him while he put on a fresh shirt, she went downstairs to broil the steaks. Despite the cold, she had set up a grill on the outside patio. In the quiet, she heard the faint rustle of pine needles. She turned toward the snowman, his size further diminished by time and evaporation. Thoughts of Ben intruded, which she thrust aside with a ruthless will.

  "I'll do that," he called from the kitchen. He was buttoning his shirt. She arranged the steaks on the grill and came back into the house, just as he was putting on his jacket.

  Earlier, he had explained briefly what had happened. It had shocked her to see him standing there in the doorway, blood caked on his cheek, a tattered shirt showing beneath his open coat. Under his arm he held a clean shirt. In his hand, inexplicably, he held a small tea rose, which he had taken the time to buy from a vendor.

  "Something to chase a bit of the bleak," he said, obviously hoping it would make the sight of him seem less forlorn. She put the flower in a bud vase and put it on the kitchen table.

  She gave him the grilling fork, and he went out onto the patio. As she tore lettuce and sliced tomatoes for a salad, she inspected him. Orson had never done the grilling. Orson, in fact, had rarely done kitchen chores. Watching him, intent on his work, squinting low over the glowing coals to get a better view of the steaks' progress, she grew curious about the way he and Lily had carried on with their daily lives, performed the mundane details of their existence. How did they divide the labor? Did he ever cook? Who set the table?

  Her mind tried to form pictures of Lily in their apartment. Was she left- or right-handed? What color were her eyes? Did she have good teeth? She tried to imagine the sound of her voice. Was it high-pitched or soft? Were her fingers graceful or boney? Tapered like hers? Conscious of her fingers, she discovered suddenly that she still wore her gold wedding band. Not once since her marriage had she ever taken it off. Reaching for a bar of soap, she lathered her hands and forced it over her knuckle, ignoring the pain. Then she threw it into the trash, along with the leavings of browned lettuce.

  He came in ruddy-cheeked. The steaks sizzled on a wooden board. She had lit candles and dimmed the kitchen lights. The little rose stood proudly in its vase. Rarely had she and Orson eaten their evening meal in the kitchen. The formality of the dining room was more to Orson's liking.

  "Real cozy," Edward said as he sat down. She divided the steaks, poured out red wine, and offered the wooden salad tools. He dipped them into the bowl and lifted salad onto his plate. The smell of garlic butter wafted upward from the toasting French bread.

  In the flickering light, Edward's face seemed altered, more angular. It was not just the swollen welt. When she had first seen him, he had appeared rounder. It could have been her imagination, since she had only the faintest recollection of their first meeting in the Medical Examiner's office. Now his presence seemed to dominate her perceptions.

  "We'll have more time to do what we have to," he said after having told her that his job with the Congressman was over.

  Beneath the appearance of apprehension, she was secretly pleased. "It doesn't worry you?"

  "Not a bit. First, we have this to do. When it's over, I'll take it from there. Besides, what I was doing no longer interested me." He shrugged. "I'm free. There's nothing to hold me. I've got a few bucks saved, and there's severance." He speared a piece of steak and held it up as a pointer, nearly touching a candle's flame. "I agree with what you did about the insurance. It was an act of moral courage. I'm going to do the same."

  "But you have no children." A wave of guilt about Ben surfaced, then passed. Would it ever be the same between Ben and her? she wondered, feeling sad.

  "There's always charity. Or I can do what you did—set it up for your kid."

  "That doesn't seem right."

  "There's such a thing as poetic justice. He and Lily were in it together. She was carrying his half-brother."

  So he was certain now, she thought with some comfort.

  He bit a piece of steak from the prongs and began to chew, watching her. She wondered what he saw, how he would describe her. She wondered what sort of an impression he had of her. A confidante? A companion? A buddy? She pushed the thought away. It was too foolish to contemplate. Their alliance had only one purpose: to crack open the meaning of their spouses' mutual activities. Again, the knowledge of the elaborate deception charged through her. She shivered with anger.

  "There are many who would think we're both crazy, not taking the money. The whole principle of insurance is to be compensated for pain."

  "I might accept that," he said, "if the pain was in their dying."

  "Sounds awful when you say it out loud."

  "I know. That's just one more barb they left us with, one more resentment, one more dimension to disillusionment and hate. Before this, I could barely find it in myself. Now its like something stuck in my tissues. Like lead poisoning."

  She put down her fork. Her appetite had left her. Noting that he had finished his wine, she refilled his glass and topped off her own. They finished the remainder of the meal in silence.

  He went into the living room and got his maps from the inside of his jacket pocket. When he came back, she had begun to clear the dishes. He helped her, then laid out the maps on the table. Coming close, bending over his shoulder, she listened as he explained the logistics of the plan.

  "We'll find it," he said firmly, looking up. His hand gripped her forearm. "You'll see."

  "I'm sure of that, Edward."

  He looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight.

  "We should start early," he said, getting up. "I suppose I should be going."

  She followed him into the living room.

  "A brandy?"

  "Maybe one."

  He sat down and stretched out his legs on a hassock, and she brought him a brandy. Before he drank, his eyes roved the room.

  "Grass is always greener." He shrugged, dipping his nose into the snifter. Then he drank and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. They glistened in the faint light, and she knew he was trying hard to prevent the tears from spilling.

  It gave her another chance to study him. Physically, he was a thicker man than Orson, less imposing, shorter, softer. His curly hair was growing longer, making him seem younger. If she had met him casually, she wondered if she would have noticed him. He was so different from Orson. Orson exuded an air of self-confidence, containment, and authority. He shopped for his own clothes and turned himself out in a special way, as if his costume were designed specifically for his role. On Edward, she noted now, clothes hung, creased and indifferent. She had taken a special secret pride in Orson's craggy good looks and in watching other women's eyes on him light up with interest. Sometimes, a tingle of jealousy assailed her. Yet he had never been blatantly flirtatious. Never in her presence, she thought bitterly, hating him now—not for dying, for destroying her innocence.

  Perhaps, underneath it all, all men were like that. Even Edward. She blinked her eyes, half expecting Edward's image to disappear. It remained, soft, vulnerable, not at all like your standard myth of manhood. Not weak, she added quickly to herself, noting the previous unreliability of her perceptions, or unmale. She noted that even the cleft in his chin had deepened. Her thoughts began to trouble her, and she was relieved when he slapped his thighs and stood up.

  "I've got to go."

  He had thrown his jacket coat over the back of a chair, and he moved to put it on. Orson would never have done that; he would have hung it up. All his jackets and suits were hung up on hangers, neat as soldiers.

  "But where?"

  "A motel somewhere." He shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Better than that place."

  "That's ridiculous," she blurted.

  "It's my choice."

  "But I have all this room." Her arm moved about like a wand. "Believe me, I understand your hesitation."

  "Do you?" His eyes probed her, and she turned away, addressing him while
she looked out into the cold night.

  "The house is mine, Edward. I picked it out. It's the only thing I really claim." A wave of panic crested, broke over her. I need you near me, she wanted to shout out.

  "I'm in the guest room," she felt compelled to explain. "You can sleep on the couch."

  "Like in old-fashioned movies." He smiled, felt awkward. Then he shrugged consent.

  "It would make it a lot easier all around."

  "I'll make up the couch."

  She went upstairs to get sheets, a blanket, and a pillow. She heard the front door open and close, then the slam of a car's trunk. When she came down, his suitcase was on the floor along with the hanging bag. She made up the couch into a bed.

  "I still feel funny about this," he said, watching her as she tucked in the blanket.

  "I don't," she said, smoothing the blanket. Giving it a final inspection, she said good night and walked up the stairs.

  28

  "It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack," he told her. It seemed like a gratuitous warning, as if he were still testing her interest.

  "As long as it takes," she said, pouring the coffee. Last night he had sensed the intimacy between them. This morning it frightened him.

  He had slept well, with little disorientation, knowing exactly where he was. Before falling asleep he had listened to the sounds she made as she moved. Once, in the middle of the night, he had awakened. Straining, he imagined he could hear the rhythm of her breathing. He must have fallen asleep again while listening. When he awoke, he was certain that her own waking movements had nudged him out of sleep.

  Dressing quickly, he took special care, wanting to look neat and presentable before she arrived. He felt like a teenager on his first date.