Private affairs : a novel

by Michael, Judith

  And what about Matt Lovell? he asked himself silently. He'd thought he was fulfilling his own dream, after so many years . . . but all he'd done was replace one father with another: building Rourke's dream instead of Zachary's. He'd thought he finally had everything, and it turned out he'd had only images. A woman whose reality came from someone else. A job with someone else pulling the strings. Newspaper stories writ-

  ten from faked reports. Friendships as instant and shallow as conversations on a chair lift.

  I've been chasing mirages all this time.

  In the city below, tiny cars scurried around the 610 Loop and its branches, whipping around each other to pick up a few seconds here or there. He'd been one of them. He remembered that urgency, like a disease gnawing his insides, making hi m feel he had to go faster and farther, pushing aside anyone who seemed to be in his way. But something had happened to it. It had shrunk. It wasn't overwhelming anymore. It no longer drove him.

  Sour grapes, he thought with a smile. Maybe I'm just disappointed at not having what I thought I had, so I tell myself it no longer seems important. Or maybe I'm angry at myself for being fooled by image and mirages. Or maybe I'm sorry. Maybe I think that if I'd taken everything a little slower over the past three years, and looked around, I would have seen what was happening—and maybe salvaged something from it, instead of being left with nothing.

  He sat without moving for a long time; he didn't look at his watch. But at last he began to think of all he had to do, and he swiveled and faced his desk. The first step was learning the truth about Nuevo; the second was writing it and publishing it in a way that would clear Elizabeth's name. But it had been a long time since he rolled up his sleeves and plunged into investigative journalism; a long time since he got down to the real work of newspapering. He didn't want to do it alone: he needed a friend.

  And he had a friend. Maybe. If he could get in his explanation a lot faster than he had with Elizabeth. He turned on his green-shaded desk lamp, picked up his telephone, and dialed Saul Milgrim's number, at home.

  Y

  ou son of a bitch," Saul growled into the telephone. "Whatever you're looking for, I don't have it; you picked the wrong— M

  "Who's somebody named Bent?"

  "What?"

  "Bent. Possibly in Houston; more likely in New Mexico. Does it ring a bell?"

  Saul struggled between curiosity and outrage. Curiosity won. "Why do you want to know?"

  "Chet Colfax wrote the name Bent in the margin of a faked report on Nuevo; I'm assuming whoever he is, he knows about it, possibly even helped write it."

  "Faked? Which report?"

  "Resettlement help. I just got hold of a draft version and the final one."

  "I'll be damned." After a pause, Saul said, "There's a Thaddeus Bent in the New Mexico legislature. Chairman of the State Committee on Land Use and Recreation."

  "The one that recommended funding the dam?"

  "The very one." He paused again, long enough for his simmering anger

  to surface. "Listen, you bastard, you've probably found what I've been scrounging for and I'd give almost anything to see it, but I can't work with you. I have a friend, and you've fucked up her life—"

  "Wait a minute; I want to talk about that and don't hang up on me! That's what Elizabeth did, and God damn it, at least listen for thirty seconds! I didn't know Artner worked for the Daily News; I had nothing to do with that rotten story; the first I knew of it was an AP report that I read in Florida; I'm going to write my own version of it when I get the real story; and I resigned from Rourke's outfit this afternoon."

  Saul dropped into his desk chair. "Resigned. Why?"

  "What the hell difference does it make why I resigned? I'm not there anymore. I'm working on a story. I need help in getting information so I can write it. What else do you need to know?"

  "Need? Nothing. Am I curious? You're damned right." He began to draw stick figures on a pad of paper. "Who's going to publish the story when you've finished it?"

  "You are."

  He grinned. "If I like it."

  "If you do the research at that end, I'll make it a double byline. We've never written a story together."

  "It's a possibility. And then what are you going to do?"

  "I don't know. There are newspaper chains all over the country . . . magazines ... I have to look around. I don't know what I want."

  "Did you, with Rourke?"

  "I thought I did. It's a long story and I'll tell you some time if you want to hear it, but not on the phone and not now. Saul, I'm asking for your help."

  Saul drew a stick figure hanging from a gallows. "No close friends in Houston to help?"

  There was the briefest hesitation. "I don't owe you any explanations; I wish to hell you'd stop passing judgment on things you don't understand."

  "I understand everything I need to."

  "You don't, but I don't give a damn. I want to write a story that will help Elizabeth; if you're really her friend, you'll work with me."

  "You're doing it for Elizabeth?"

  "Damn it, why else would I do it?"

  "Maybe you want to make a name as an investigative reporter. How the hell do I know why you want to write it? You haven't been doing a whole lot of favors for Elizabeth in the last year. Have you talked to Holly recently?"

  "No. I'll be calling her tomorrow, and Peter, too."

  "She's stopped singing."

  "She's what? Stopped? Why, for God's sake?"

  "I don't know. I suppose her mother does, but we don't. She withdrew from the senior musical and she stopped her voice lessons."

  "I'm going to call her now. I'll call you back after I've talked to her."

  "She's not here; Elizabeth took her to Denver for the weekend. Anyway, why bother? Damn it, Matt, stop fucking around; either be a part of that family or disappear. It may not be my place to say it—"

  "It's not."

  Saul was silent, angry and frustrated. God damn it, who else is there, besides Spencer and Lydia? And they won't tackle Matt; afraid they'll make things worse. But there are limits to what a friend can do, and maybe Vve reached them. "You may be right," he said. He drew a guillotine and a stick figure with its neck beneath the descending blade. "Okay, I'll work on the story with you. To help Elizabeth." And because the damn thing has been driving me crazy since I first heard about it and this may be my only chance to find out what the hell has been going on. "Tell me about the resettlement report. Who faked it? Was it the only one? I saw the others, on jobs and all the rest, and they looked okay to me."

  "I don't know about them, yet. When will Elizabeth and Holly be back?"

  "Sunday night or Monday morning. I'll tell Elizabeth you called. Now are we going to get to work?"

  "Yes. Thanks. First let me tell you about my conversation with Chet Colfax—who's been bugging his leader's office by the way—"

  "Rourke's office? I'll be damned. Blessed are the weasels, for they shall use tape recorders to cover their asses."

  Matt chuckled. "My God, I've missed talking to you."

  "A pity Houston has no telephones. Otherwise you could have called me any time."

  There was a pause. "I was talking about Chet, wasn't I?" Matt said evenly. "But maybe I'll start somewhere else, with a small revelation. Do you know who owns ninety-eight percent of Nuevo?"

  "Ballenger. And his company. And unknown backers. I checked on him; he couldn't afford to do it on his own, but I couldn't get the names of—"

  "Keegan Rourke."

  Saul sat very still. "I will be goddamned," he said softly. "Very, very neat. First he buys the newspapers, then the valley, then the resort. And

  does he also buy the legislature? To make sure it all goes through without a hitch?"

  "It's the kind of thing a thorough man would do. Will you check on Thaddeus Bent? And any others who might have been on the take? I'd look for PAC contributions, trips to Europe, college scholarships for offspring—you know how to look for th
em. First, let me give you the gist of my talk with Chet; I'll send the rest in a letter. And I want to know what else you got from the scrounging you said you'd been doing."

  Heather passed the open door and glanced in. Saul must be talking to one of the reporters, she thought; his voice was intense and involved, as it only was when he talked to a colleague about an investigative story. And the way he was scribbling notes meant it was a big one. Saul looked up and met her eyes. "Matt," he said, his hand over the mouthpiece. "He left Rourke. We're doing a story on Nuevo; it should help Elizabeth." And he returned to his conversation.

  Stunned, Heather walked to the desk. "Is he coming back?"

  Writing, Saul shook his head.

  "Why not?"

  But Saul was hunched over, talking. Heather picked up the page of stick figures he had torn off to make his notes. They're all getting clobbered, she thought. Are Saul and Matt going to clobber someone? Or we're going to get clobbered—Saul and I—if Matt does come back and takes our newspaper away from us.

  She smiled ruefully. Our newspaper. She was as bad as Saul; loving the paper, wanting to help him run it forever. She looked down at her trim waist. Somewhere beneath that flat, girl's stomach, a baby had begun. If she could have all her wishes, the first would be that by the time the baby was born she and Saul would own the Chieftain. Then she would have put all the pieces of herself together: Heather Farrell Milgrim: wife of Saul Milgrim; mother of Jacqueline or Stephen—both, if she were lucky enough to have one of each; associate publisher of the Chieftain; friend of Elizabeth, Isabel, Lydia, Spencer, Holly, Maya, Peter, the staff of the newspaper, especially Barney Kell, who treated her like a favorite daughter. . . .

  I'm content, she thought. I know how much I have and it's more—and more wonderful—than I ever dreamed.

  "My God, he's changed," said Saul, hanging up. "His voice was melancholy. Honest-to-God, genuine, fourteen-carat disillusionment. Think of that. The great awakening."

  "Will he come back?" Heather asked.

  "Depends on the stars in his eyes. He's talking about looking for other

  newspapers, maybe magazines . . . says he doesn't know what he wants. It depends on how much he needs the fast life, or what he and Elizabeth do, or what his lady wants. I gave him a chance to say he wasn't good friends with her anymore, but he passed. I'll tell you what I think: you and I shouldn't speculate on it. We could grow old and feeble analyzing a future that may never come. He says Elizabeth is going to divorce him."

  "Since when?"

  "Tonight. He talked to her before he called me. She didn't give him a chance to say a word; just told him he was a little lower and more untrustworthy than a viper and she was divorcing him. I told him it was high time she did."

  Saul pulled her to his lap. "I remember when I was eaten up with envy for what those two had together. Now look at me: is any man more fortunate? But what can we do for Elizabeth? Can we find her a scintillating, handsome, wise, passionate man for companionship?"

  Heather kissed him. "I only know two. One I was smart enough to marry; the other isn't really wise, or he'd be here, instead of Houston. But I'll keep looking. What are you going to do for Matt?"

  "Blow the lid off Thaddeus Bent. And I'm going to ask Elizabeth to help. She knows Bent; she wrote the story of his son's wedding when she was a reporter on the Examiner, and she did a 'Private Affairs' column on his daughter-in-law a while back. I want her in on this anyway; if we do blow it open, it'll show why Artner wrote that smear, and she ought to be part of that. She deserves it, don't you think? I'm going to call her in Denver; do you want to pick up the extension and join the conversation?"

  "Yes," said Heather. "I want to be in on it, too."

  Four years earlier, Elizabeth had danced with Thaddeus Bent at his son's wedding. She had been remembering her own wedding that day, thinking about the passage of sixteen years, and Bent had gallantly told her she was too lovely to work as he held her carefully and led her through one dance. Since then, she had seen him occasionally as his public appearances became more frequent; it was common knowledge that he was chafing to get out of the state legislature and into what he called the big time.

  Elizabeth had written about Bent's daughter-in-law, using pseudonyms, in a "Private Affairs" story about what it was like to live with politicians and be the only family member who had no political ambitions of her own.

  "She was very discreet about Bent," Elizabeth told Saul as they walked through the statehouse corridors on Monday morning. "But she did say

  he was traveling a lot and having meetings at home on weekends. Probably looking for campaign funds."

  Saul nodded. "He leaks tidbits of information every few weeks. Did you call Matt this morning?"

  "No."

  "And you don't want to talk about him?"

  "No. Saul, even if he told the truth about Artner's story, and leaving Keegan, he's still off on his own journey and we're not part of it. I did think about what you and Heather said, but I don't want to call him. If he wants company in his job hunting, he has Nicole. If he wants to talk to me, he knows where I am."

  She stopped before a closed door. "Here's Bent's office. Listen, dear, dear Saul; I love you and Heather, and I love having you worry about me, but I have a few things to take care of right now and that's what I'm thinking about. What Matt does is his business; I can't wait for him, or anyone else. I want to clear my name and get back my contract with Markham—which means I have to find out what was behind Artner's story—and I want to spend as much time with Holly as I can before she leaves for college. That's even more important. She's had some troubles and for the first time in years we're close enough to talk about them."

  "About why she's not sing—" Saul broke off.

  "Thank you for not asking," Elizabeth said. "I can't talk about it right now. And," she went on, "I want to help Isabel and the others in Nuevo; if there's some way, from this meeting with Bent, or anything else, that we can get that town rebuilt on higher ground, I'm going to do what I can to help make it happen. That's a full schedule; I can't be bothered by Matt right now. If he's having troubles, I'm sorry, but they're his troubles, not mine. He went to Keegan with his eyes wide open and I assume he'll keep them open when he deals with whatever happened between them. I haven't got time to weep for him." With her hand on the doorknob, she said, "Is there anything else we should talk about before I go into my act in there?"

  "Not a thing. Can I say bravo to a very special speech by a very special lady? I'm proud to be your friend and your colleague. Now I'm going into that office and watch you take care of our would-be senator. Who probably takes bribes. Maybe we ought to work for his election: at least then he'd move to Washington. Ready?"

  "Saul."

  "What?"

  "Just a minute. I have to think about something."

  "Okay. Can you share it?"

  "Not yet." Elizabeth leaned against the door and gazed unseeingly down the corridor, remembering Holly's low voice as she sat in her mother's lap. He was going to move to New Mexico — something else for us to share, he said — and then he'd move to Washington when he got elected, and he'd meet important people and make me famous. The words repeated themselves. 'Tony Rourke thinks he's going to be a senator from New Mexico," she said to Saul.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Don't ask me how I know, but he's planning to establish residency here and run for the senate, probably in a few years, probably about the same time—"

  "—Thaddeus Bent will be running. My God, what a choice. Bent or Tony. I may relocate." He looked at Elizabeth. "You think you can use it in there?"

  "I don't know yet. But it's always nice to have bombshells handy; it's wonderful how they liven up an interview. All right, I'm ready."

  "I can't wait," said Saul, and they went in.

  Thaddeus Bent had fired his secretary and hired a new one to fit his idea of what a national statesman's secretary should look like: one-third the age and twice as pretty a
s his former one. Foolish, Elizabeth thought; he just lost a good part of the women's vote. But she smiled pleasantly as the secretary led them into Bent's office and he rose to shake hands. "My dear Elizabeth, it's been such a long time. How lovely you look; as exquisite as the day we danced at my son's wedding ... I hope you remember that interlude as clearly as I."

  Still smiling, Elizabeth nodded. "You know Saul Milgrim."

  "I do. A pleasure, sir." Firmly, Bent shook Saul's hand. "Sit down— my secretary will bring us coffee—and tell me what this is about. A newspaper story, you said. I'm glad to see, Elizabeth, that you're still writing and not letting that mean-spirited story get you down. I like spunk in a lady—that is true—and I say, Good for you. So. Are you here about your column?"

  Elizabeth shook her head. "You're too famous and influential, Thaddeus." She watched him preen, then said, "Once in a while I like to write about people who don't fit 'Private Affairs' and Saul has offered me space in the Chieftain for a profile on you. I like to beat the competition, you know, and since it looks like you're about to become one of our most powerful representatives, I want to be the first to do your story."

  Bent tried to be indifferent, but he failed. He beamed. "Recognition. It's the name of the game. What can I tell you?"

  Elizabeth began with casual questions that became a friendly talk more

  than an interview as she led him to describe his father's move from Detroit to Santa Fe almost forty-five years earlier, his athletic prowess at Santa Fe High and at college, his part-time jobs and early years as a lawyer, his wife and four children, and his election to the legislature and his chairmanship of the Committee on Land Use and Recreation. As the answers rolled out, Bent leaned back in his chair, enjoying the sound of his voice, and Elizabeth's murmured comments as she took notes; since both of them were concentrating on him, he was having a wonderful time.