“So you’re not here at the request of the police?” He wasn’t bristling, merely confused.
“I’ve spoken to Detective O‘Boyle and he asked for my help with something about Gene, but no. I just want to have a talk with Ms. Copley for my own sake. This isn’t official. Is she available?”
“Do you have any identification? I’m sorry, but we have to check.” He didn’t sound sorry.
“No problem,” I said. I showed him both my driver’s license and my AMA card.
He was more interested in my medical identification. He gave it a long look and then offered me a becoming smile. “She’s on an overseas phone call right now, but she should be available in ten minutes. Why don’t you sign in here?” He pointed to a book on the receptionist’s desk. “And I’ll take you to the conference room. She’ll be with you soon.”
The conference room was banal. A long rectangular black table, black leather swivel chairs, two water pitchers. The only unusual item was an impressively sleek computer set apart at a workstation in the corner. Nevertheless, seeing the nondescript room gave me the sort of chill one might feel in the presence of a great landmark. I looked out the smoked glass windows and confirmed that they faced the parking lot. This was the scene of Gene and Halley’s first kiss.
I didn’t care about anything. Not Cathy, or little Pete. Or even me.
I settled in one of the swivel chairs, but soon I was on my feet. My eagerness to see her was disturbing, but I couldn’t dampen it. I paced until I thought to check whether the computer was Gene’s machine. The label read H-1000. I was ignorant of that model. It could still be Gene’s handiwork. I hadn’t seen him for his last year at Minotaur, a period in which he was supposedly in charge of all design. Perhaps this was his last creation.
Stop romanticizing, I warned myself, and moved to the window to stare at the dull view of parked cars, giving my back to the door.
When it opened I didn’t turn. I saw enough of a reflection in the dark glass to know a woman had entered. She lingered just inside the conference room, her hand still on the doorknob. I waited.
“Dr. Neruda?” she finally spoke. Her voice was deep, perhaps somewhat hoarse, but I doubted her sultry tone was caused by a cold in the throat. Gene said everything about her was sexy.
I turned for my first look. She was shorter than I expected. Gene’s awed passion for her had inflated her height in my imagination. In fact, she was petite, five four, certainly less than a hundred pounds, small hands and feet. She wore a bulky black jacket over a white blouse buttoned to her neck, but there was enough of a rise against those layers to let you know her breasts were probably not petite. Her nose and brow were delicate. I was also surprised by her coloring. I had pictured her as blonde and fair. In fact, her long straight hair was raven black and her skin, unblemished and smooth, appeared almost tanned. Her full lips were painted bright red, her eyes were dark circles, set a little too close together, and they glistened, watching me somberly. The overall effect was like a doll: pretty, small, passive, and lovable.
“Halley Copley?” She nodded, still not fully in the room. I walked to her, my hand out. “Nice to meet you.” Her head tilted back, eyes forced to rise to maintain contact with mine as I came near. They didn’t waver. It was an unafraid gaze, yet not bold. She gave me her hand. It was as small as a child’s. The tips of her fingers were cool. Her handshake was quick and firm. She let go and gestured to the table. “Have a seat, Doctor.”
“We could go somewhere else,” I said.
She was en route to the head of the table. She pulled the chair out, asking, “Excuse me?”
“If being here is uncomfortable for you,” I said softly, the way one might speak to a grieving widow. “We could go to your office or we could take a walk.”
My unexpected remark interrupted her intention to sit down. She released the chair and looked back at me over her shoulder, long shimmering black hair draping her jacket. This gave me her profile, a single eye staring with what seemed to be a flash of anger. Makeup can cover a great deal, but I was sure at that moment it was not covering grief. “What?” she said and gave up on sitting. She faced me.
“I thought you might prefer to talk somewhere else,” I said.
“Doctor—” she tossed her head slightly, as if her hair were in her eyes, although it wasn’t. “Are you a doctor?”
“Yes, I’m a psychiatrist.”
“Excuse me, but I don’t know who you are.” She laughed. Not really a laugh; she released a burst of air, a kind of snort of feeling. I can’t describe it easily. Although the noise seemed a mixture of several emotions—scorn, astonishment, amusement, resignation—they weren’t truncated. Each of these feelings was somehow fully expressed, their contradictions resolved, confusion expelled. She took a deep breath and looked away as if, with that said, I and the mystery of me, no longer interested her.
“I’m sorry. Let me explain.”
She nodded, but her eyes didn’t acknowledge me. With her hands on the back of the chair she stood in perfect tranquility, waiting without anticipation.
“I treated Gene Kenny for many years. He first came to me as a teenager. And I saw him again for a few years just before you both met. Unfortunately, he stopped seeing me during the past year, and I’m …” I paused, thinking how to be honest without revealing too much. I didn’t want to pollute what she might say about Gene.
“You’re guilty,” she finished for me in a private tone, as if she were alone in the room.
She’s managing me, I noticed. Listening carefully and reacting self-consciously. “Well, I’m certainly concerned. Gene didn’t seem to me to be suicidal—”
She made another sound, a different chord of feeling—disgust, sadness, amusement, and a hint of relaxation. She touched the back of the chair, lightly pushing it toward the table. “You were sure wrong about that.” She walked in my direction, but there was no eye contact; she was moving to the door. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said without strain, the words neither a rejection or a rebuke, merely a fact. Her small left hand reached for the doorknob. I noticed she wore a big old-fashioned men’s watch, square-shaped, divided into two small clocks set to different times. She opened the door, ignoring me. “I’m leaving,” she said as she passed through to the hall.
“Why?” I called in a very loud voice. I hoped to stop her determined progress with a provocation.
“I don’t want to talk about Gene with you,” she answered back, not slowing or stopping. There was another expulsion of feeling—this time astonishment, regret, and irritation mixing with triumph—as she turned the corner and disappeared into the main lobby.
I stood alone in the room for a minute or two. Reviewing the encounter, she did seem, in fact, to be grieving. Gene told me she had been heartsick at the death of her brother. She claimed not to have unburdened herself until she met Gene, who listened sympathetically. Even if that was a flattering exaggeration, it still meant she was reluctant to express loss. Also, she immediately assumed I felt guilty, an obvious projection. Nevertheless, my instinct told me otherwise. Anger at me was perfectly natural, perhaps justified. But the utter lack of curiosity, the quickness to avoid even the pleasure of attacking me, was too cool and rational for a head clouded by sorrow.
A guard appeared. This one was bald and overweight. He told me it was time to go and gestured toward the lobby. I was amused. I must have smiled, because he frowned and said harshly, “Come on,” as if I had shown resistance.
The redheaded guard raised the gate for me before I reached his booth, hurrying my exit. He glared at me as I drove past. It was too late to return to Baltimore. I took the Saw Mill to the city and considered during the drive whether my desire to break through this wall Halley had thrown up was anything more than stubbornness. What right did I have to intrude on her or her father? None, of course. Once I reached the Fourteenth Street turnoff from the West Side Highway, I had to admit there was nothing but willfulness behind my decision to
go on.
I asked Susan and Harry to put me up for the night. I lied to her, saying I was in town to get some of my files from the clinic. I was sorry to give her a glimmer of hope that Diane and I were reconciling. I realized, while we opened her couch into a bed, that I was reincarnated as the boy Rafe: alone, keeper of secrets, on a mission whose goal I could not quite define. From a clinical point of view, I would have had trouble arguing with a professional judgment that I was displaying symptoms of a nervous breakdown.
In the morning I phoned my lawyer, Brian Stoppard, the high-priced talent I had inherited from Uncle Bernie. He knew I could no longer pay him four hundred an hour, but that hadn’t stopped him from taking my calls.
“Do you know anything about a man named Theodore Copley?” I asked.
“Copley. Sounds familiar. I can’t place him. Who is he?”
“He’s the—I think he’s the CEO of a small- or medium-sized computer company called Minotaur.”
Brian let out a Bronx cheer. “Not small, Rafe. Now I remember him. Minotaur used to be medium-sized, but he just bought out Haipan’s American division and he took over some Frog company too. He’s backed by somebody you know—Edgar Levin, Irving’s son.”
I was thrilled. Irving Levin was a crony of my uncle’s, a real estate baron nearly as rich as Bernie in the sixties. He had two sons. Edgar expanded his father’s holdings and now owned varied chunks of the city, from cable television to a slice of the Mets. Alex, the younger son, went west to Hollywood and produced several hits. He and Julie were friends and colleagues, or at least they were five years ago, the last time I spoke to her. So I had at least two avenues of approach.
Stoppard continued talking while I celebrated privately. “In fact, one of our partners, Molly Gray, handled Edgar’s investment in Minotaur. And you probably know Molly’s husband. Stefan Weinstein? He’s a shrink too.”
“Of course. Brilliant man. But I’ve never met him.”
“He’s brilliant even when you meet him. Talk with Molly. She probably knows more about Cowley’s financing than he does.”
“Copley,” I corrected him.
“Cowley, Copley, what’s the difference? All those high WASPs are the same. Give them a sailboat and a gin and tonic and they think they’ve seen God.”
“You’re a racist, Brian.”
“WASPs aren’t a race, they’re a club. I should know. I’m a member now. What’s up? I hope you’re raising money to open a new clinic. Do you want me to get Molly on the line?”
“No thanks. I assume Edgar will know my name—”
“Are you kidding? He still talks about how you psyched him out in some golf tournament—”
“Junior tennis. He remembers? That was twenty-five years ago.”
“Yeah, well, it was probably the last time he lost anything to anybody. Except for him, everybody in New York is losing their shirt. Communism is collapsing and they’re taking us down with them. Even your cousin is in trouble. Of course, we should all have his troubles. Poor guy might actually have to live on ten million a year—”
“Enough, Brian. I’m sorry your life is so difficult.”
“Yeah, look who I’m complaining to. St. Francis himself.”
“Vaya con Dios, Brian.”
“Bye, Rafe. Let me know if you want to talk to Molly. Jesus,” he said with a despairing sigh to someone in the background as he hung up, “he told me to go with God.” Perhaps everyone is having a breakdown, I thought.
I called Levin & Levin’s corporate headquarters in Manhattan. It took quite a few transfers to reach Edgar’s secretary. Her tone in reaction to my request to speak to him implied I was irrational. “He’s not available,” she said. “What’s this in reference to?” she asked with a remarkably undisguised note of contempt.
“It’s a personal call. I knew him as a teenager.”
“I see,” she said with amusement, as if identifying me as a harmless lunatic. “I’ll tell Mr. Levin you called.”
“Don’t you want my number?”
“Sure,” she said breezily and I knew she didn’t believe there would be a return call. She might not bother to relay my message.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
She didn’t skip a beat at my non sequitur. “Ms. Dean.”
“All right, Ms. Dean. I have an urgent favor to ask of Edgar. It’s merely that he introduce me to someone. I think he’ll be angry if he finds out you were slow to let him know I phoned. My name is Dr. Rafael Neruda. I need to talk to him today. Will you be speaking to him within the hour?”
Her tone changed, but she wasn’t rattled. “I can’t give out any information about Mr. Levin’s schedule. Those are his instructions. If you leave a number where you can be reached, he’ll call you back.”
“I can’t.” I was at Susan’s, but I didn’t want to wait around. “I’ll call back in an hour. Please give him the message as soon as possible.” I hung up without the courtesy of a goodbye. Had my uncle behaved like these modern millionaires, erecting so many barriers to talking with them? Had they truly become the Marxist nightmare: unapproachable royalty?
An hour later, Ms. Dean’s tone changed. “Oh, yes, Dr. Neruda. Please hold on. He’s in his car. I’ll transfer you.”
There were two rapid beeps. “Rafe?” Edgar called to me from the distant end of a windy tunnel.
“Hello, Eddie. Are you really in a car?”
“Ridiculous, isn’t it? They haven’t perfected them—” his voice disappeared completely for a few words “—a time saver. How are you? Are you in New York? I’m busy today and tonight, but are you free tomorrow for a gala dinner? I’m hosting a benefit for the ballet.”
“I don’t think so, Eddie.”
“Edgar. People call me Edgar now.” I think he laughed, but he was drowned for a moment by a whoosh. “Hello?” he called, surfacing.
“Edgar, I’m calling to ask a favor. I need an introduction to Theodore Copley.”
“Stick Copley? What sort of introduction?”
“An employee of his, or an ex-employee, was a patient. He committed suicide four weeks ago.”
“Hold on, Rafe. Don’t go away.” The two rapid beeps were repeated. Ms. Dean’s distinct voice returned to the line. “Dr. Neruda? Mr. Levin asked if you could call back in five minutes. Although what would be best is if he could call you back.”
“I’m at a public phone.”
“I see. Could you possibly call Mr. Levin from a residence or an office? We’re having some trouble with the connection and that would work better. Sorry.” I was two blocks from Susan’s and I still had her key. I agreed.
At the loft, I called Ms. Dean again. This time, when she transferred me, there was no preliminary beep. Also, Edgar had come out of the wind. “Hello, Rafe. That’s better, isn’t it?”
“Where are you now?”
“In my office. I don’t know why the cells were so bad today. Maybe because you were calling from a public phone. How come, Rafe? What were you doing out on the street?”
I paused to think it through.
“Are you there, Rafe?” Edgar prompted me out of my reverie.
“Why didn’t you want to continue the conversation from your car? I’m ignorant about modern technology.”
Edgar chuckled.
“Okay, Rafe. I should’ve known you’d see through me. Car phones are really radio signals. Anyone with a scanner can listen in. And public phones are easy to pick up too, although I don’t suppose someone’s following you with a telescope mike. I know it sounds silly, but there are people so eager to make a killing on Wall Street they eavesdrop for info on a tender offer, the next quarterly report …” He made a noise. “Anything. Anything they could make a dollar on.”
“And your wanting to make this a private conversation had something to do with my mentioning Stick Copley’s name?”
Edgar chuckled again, although this was more of a grunt. “Yes, wise guy, of course. I’m in business with Stick. I’m what my Pop
used to call a silent partner in Minotaur, and you said something about an employee committing suicide. You know Gore Vidal’s definition of a paranoid?”
“No,” I said.
“Someone who is in possession of all the facts.”
“Let me relieve your anxiety. My patient’s suicide doesn’t have any bearing on Minotaur’s business. At least that’s not why I want to talk with Copley. I’m curious about what my patient was like during the past year. We were out of touch.”
“Tell me something, Rafe. You wouldn’t, by any chance, happen to be writing a book?”
I hesitated.
Edgar continued in a relaxed tone that managed somehow to communicate ominousness. “You see, I’m ignorant about modern psychiatry. Haven’t been to a shrink in ten years. I don’t know if you fellows are in the habit of washing your dirty linen in public.”
“Are you being combative out of habit, Eddie, or do you really not want to help me?”
He grunted. “You know, I think I like being called Eddie. But I can’t indulge it. Eddie Levin sounds like a counterman at the Second Avenue Deli.”
“I’m sorry. Do you really not want to help me, Edgar?”
“I just don’t want to piss off my partner. You say this guy worked for Stick and he committed suicide? Doesn’t sound like a model employee. What was his story?”
“Edgar, everything I know about my patient is confidential. I’m not a gossip.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Edgar’s smooth tone shifted. He was ready to help, so he immediately sounded less friendly. “Okay. How do you want this done?”
In fact, there was a Minotaur board meeting scheduled to begin at eleven and run through lunch at a private room in the St. Regis Hotel. It was arranged I would meet Copley there after they adjourned. (All this was a fortuitous consequence of my knowing Edgar; as a major investor in Minotaur, he was of course on the board.) Following Ms. Dean’s instructions, I arrived at the St. Regis by two-thirty and identified myself at the desk. I was passed on to the concierge, who summoned a bellhop, and said he would take me to Mr. Copley. We went up to the sixteenth floor, passed a hallway with two rows of serving carts littered by empty trays, into a large ballroom naked except for a piano covered by a sheet, and then through a door the bellhop unlocked.
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