Private affairs : a novel

by Michael, Judith

  testified what, and you bribed key men to get the bill through the legislature when it came to the floor. Right?"

  "They may have. I knew nothing about it."

  "And you promised your son you'd spend whatever it takes to get him elected when Andy retires. Right?"

  "Even if it is, it doesn't concern anyone here."

  "It concerns Thaddeus Bent's cooperation. You insist on denying all the rest?"

  "You heard me." Rourke stood. "I've listened to a string of accusations, with not a word of proof. If you're through, I'm leaving. Don't come to me again for campaign contributions, Mitch, or introductions to my friends—"

  "What about me?" Chet cried. "What the hell's going to happen to me if you leave me here?"

  "He's not leaving," Greene said.

  "Of course not," said the governor. "What will you do about Bent's testimony in court, Keegan?"

  "Nothing. Why should I? Even if anyone believed this man's cock-and-bull story, the only people Bent has named are Chet and Ballenger. What does that have to do with me?"

  "Goddammit, they work for you!" Greene bellowed.

  "And may have committed crimes I knew nothing about. You fools," Rourke spat. He stood beside the door, tall, straight, his dark suit impeccably cut, his gray hair perfectly in place. Only the line of his mouth betrayed his tension. "You have nothing to tie me to anything. You have the word of that deluded hick Thaddeus Bent, and that's all Ballenger is the one you should have ordered here today, and Chet, of course." He grasped the handle of the door. "Talk to them; I'm too busy to waste time on you."

  "Chet," Matt said casually, "will you tell Keegan about the microphones you have in his office, or shall I?"

  Rourke froze. His back to the others, he stood motionless, head tilted, as if he were listening to the echo of Matt's words.

  "You fucking bastard!" cried Chet. "I had a chance! He would have taken care of me! He always said he would if somebody had to take the rap—"

  "YOU DISLOYAL SON OF A BITCH!" Rourke's sleekness was gone; in one instant he lost fifty years of cultivated poise and assurance. His features contorted with fury, he leaned over Chet, his face close to Chefs wide, anguished eyes, and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Sneak-

  ing around at night? Hiding microphones? A clever little shit, aren't you? Spying on the only man who ever cared for you—"

  "You didn't! You never did! I thought you did, once, when you treated me better than Tony—shit, did I fall for that—I thought you liked me better than your son of a bitch son! And then you got Matt! And I was nothing! Go get Matt and the senator a drink. You hardly knew him, but you were giving him a party and I was the servant! I'm not a servant! If I was good enough to spread your money around Durango to get your ski resort built—"

  "Shut up!"

  "What difference does it make? You've fired me. You're not going to take care of me. Why should I shut up? I never made any tapes until you got Matt, but then I started thinking maybe I ought to protect myself, and see, I was right, wasn't I. I taped all that shit about bribes and blackmail—everything you wanted me to take care of. And I took care of them! I got your fucking four-lane highway through that corner of Colorado where there was another one just twenty miles away, and I spread enough money around Santa Fe to build three lousy dams, not just one, and I promised Bent, that poor ass, he could be everything but president if he was a good boy—and what good did it do me? You still treated Matt like some fucking Greek god and me like a servant. And when Matt walked out—you didn't fire him; he walked out; it's all on tape; I heard it all—when he walked out, you didn't come to me—you were too busy taking care of Tony! Who takes care of me? Tell me that! Tell me who—" He ducked way from the blazing eyes and dead-white face just above his, and jumped from his chair, crying, "I want protection! He'll have me killed; I want protection!"

  "Why do you think that?" Laidlaw asked. He had been sitting very still, listening to Rourke and Chet; now there was a different kind of alertness in his eyes. "Has anyone else been killed?"

  "Not recently. Maybe never. I don't know. I just want it!"

  "You're not being honest, Chet!"

  "It doesn't matter! Promise me you'll take care of me!"

  "All right." Laidlaw sighed deeply. "I think we all know where we stand. Keegan, sit down. We're not through. When Matt gave me all this information, he also gave me some ideas for Nuevo. I approve of them; I expect you to, as well. He's going to explain them and you're going to listen and then you're going to agree to do what we say. Chet, sit down and be quiet; once you deliver the tapes to the state's attorney, we'll all do the best we can for you. Go ahead, Matt."

  "We're going to move the town," Matt said. "Money has been coming

  in steadily; I'm told volunteers are already arriving; Governor Laidlaw will provide emergency funding to make up the difference, if necessary, for moving the church and a few houses, building new homes and stores, and housing the people until their homes are ready. The new town will be on one hundred acres of high ground on the shore of Lake Nuevo, on the new road that's being cut into the valley and to the ski area. Keegan will donate the land and pay for the layout of the new townsite, including streets and utilities."

  There was a pause. No one spoke. Rourke looked steadily at the window between the governor and Senator Greene; very slightly, he shook his head. "The townspeople are forming the Nuevo Corporation to own the town," Matt went on, talking to Rourke's averted eyes. "The corporation will also buy back from you all the land you bought for a resort, at the same price they sold it for."

  "It's worth more now," Chet murmured. "The dam, the roads. . . ."

  "It is," Matt agreed. "However, Keegan will be paid exactly what he paid for it and the Nuevo Corporation will build the resort. To get the money, they'll sell a percentage of the corporation to a developer. The governor's staff will help them find a suitable one."

  "Simple and neat," Senator Greene said. "Absolutely beautiful. Stuck in my craw to have Keegan make a profit on land that appreciated because of bribes. Of course after this I can't endorse Tony in the election, Keegan; in fact, I think you'd be wise to give up that idea. It was ill-advised, you know; he's a pleasant young man—might even make a good senator; couldn't be worse than a lot of them—but there would always be doubts about him because of your influence. Not good, you know. Empire-building causes problems."

  How quickly Andy Greene has become a moralist, Matt thought.

  "That's the plan, Keegan," said the governor. "You don't have to tell us you don't like it; we know. If nothing else, it'll cost you a good deal—"

  "Twenty-five million," Rourke said through thin lips. "But I have no intention of going along with this insanity. Why should I?"

  "Because you're a gambler," Laidlaw said. "You gambled on a resort bringing you a profit; this time you'll gamble on earning a few points with the state's attorney."

  "You're going to make a deal with him!" Chet cried. "What about me?"

  "I don't make deals. Our candidates can't run on a platform of deals; I'm going to see justice is done. But there are mitigating circumstances in every case. Helping save a town and helping poor people become part owners of a major resort are noble gestures and I believe they'd influence

  an attorney general to seek minimum penalties for criminal acts; they might even convince a judge to decide on probation instead of prison. One never knows what might happen."

  There was a long silence. The plane was getting warm as the air conditioning struggled against the blazing sun on the unshaded tarmac. Senator Greene refilled his glass. "Keegan," said the governor.

  Rourke had been gazing out the window at the tail of his own plane, parked nearby. He still had almost everything: his oil company, the Du-rango ski area, resorts in Arizona, television stations and newspapers—he needed a new publisher, but they were a dime a dozen—and office buildings throughout the southwest. And of course no one would send him to prison; he was too powerful. Someone
, somewhere, would make a deal; someone always did.

  The worst of it was that Lovell and his wife and that woman Aragon would win this one—but he could take care of them: keep the Lovells from building their own newspaper chain, defeat Aragon in the next election. It was just a question of keeping his wits about him. "All right," he said flatly. "I assume you have something you want me to sign."

  Laidlaw was already pulling documents from his briefcase. "You'll want to read these. Transfer of ownership of the hundred acres for the town; bills of sale for individual plots of land—"

  Rourke skimmed them, pulled a pen from his pocket, and scrawled his signature on each. He put the top back on his pen. "Am I allowed to stand up, Mitch, and leave your very warm cabin? I'm flying back to Houston."

  "I thought you were going to Los Angeles," said Greene.

  "I've changed my mind, Andy." He was regaining his assurance. "You know what a useful skill that is; you practice it daily."

  "You'd better come to Santa Fe with us," said the governor. "To get some formalities taken care of."

  "Ah." Rourke shrugged. "I suppose I can change my mind once more. Am I allowed to fly in my own plane?"

  "Certainly."

  "Thank you."

  Matt listened to the absurd civilities. He glanced at Chet, sitting stiffly, with a fixed stare, and Andy Greene, smiling as he drank his gin and tonic in the happy knowledge that the scandal would be diluted, the party barely touched: it had cleansed itself.

  Elizabeth should have been here to watch Rourke cave in, Matt thought. She should have been the one smiling with pleasure because her

  story on Olson had started the whole chain of events. This was all done for her; she should have been here.

  But then he realized that was wrong. It hadn't been done only for her. / owed it to her and I did it for her, but I had to get my own house in order, too. It wasn't only a political party in New Mexico that needed cleansing.

  Rourke had left, refusing to take Chet in his plane. "Matt," Laidlaw said, "Andy's going back to Washington; Chefs my only passenger. Can I offer you a scenic flight to Santa Fe?"

  Matt shook his head. "Thanks, but I'm not very popular there, at least in some parts of town. I'm going to get away for a while, Mitch. I moved out of my apartment yesterday—it belongs to Keegan, as a matter of fact —and arranged to have the furniture put in storage; now I just want to get the hell out of the southwest and the newspaper business . . . everything familiar."

  "The north woods?" Laidlaw hazarded.

  Matt opened the door. "Palo Alto for a couple of days to see my son and daughter, and to write this story. Then Paris and Rome. Good places to recover."

  "You didn't say you'd been ill."

  "I was, in a way. I'll tell you about it some other time. Thanks for everything you did this morning. You were superb. They'll name a street after you in Nuevo."

  They shook hands and Matt went down the steps and strode across the tarmac to the small terminal. And when he was gone, Governor Laidlaw pulled shut the door of his plane and gave instructions to the pilot to take off for Santa Fe.

  H

  .oily and Peter were waiting in the restaurant when Matt arrived. He hugged each of them tightly, feeling a surge of relief when they hugged him back without hesitation. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "I had to finish the story and get it to Federal Express. You look wonderful, both of you; Holly, you're so lovely, but you're pale; Peter, who's cutting your hair these days?"

  "Relax, Dad," said Peter. "We love you."

  After a moment, Matt put an arm around each of them. "Thanks. Is anybody hungry?"

  "Always," sighed Peter. "I thought I'd outgrow it, but now I think I probably won't. Ever." They followed the hostess to a table in an alcove overlooking the bay. "I apologize for the clouds. I specifically ordered sunshine and balmy breezes."

  Matt smiled. "You're forgiven. I read your story on Navaho settlements; it was very fine. But I must confess I was baffled by the boxed story on the myth of how the world began."

  "It wasn't supposed to be there; it was from one of my articles they're publishing next fall. The stupid editor got them mixed up. Can I sue them?"

  "Probably not. It could be worse; they could have mixed you up with someone writing on chopstick techniques."

  Holly laughed with them and Matt finally did begin to relax as they talked casually together; they were good to be with, he thought: bright, warm, charming. I'd like them even if they weren't my offspring, he reflected as the waiter brought their salads. But there's that added love and pride that goes with knowing they are. As they ate, he admired the table with its white damask cloth, blue Limoges china, and slender vase with one blue iris. "Good taste," he told Peter. "Have you been here before?"

  "This is Mom's favorite place when she's here."

  "Well, she has good taste, too," Matt said after a moment. Then he asked about Peter's classes, and they stayed with safe subjects all through lunch.

  "After my two o'clock," Peter said as they finished coffee, "I'll take you to my new apartment. I need your approval."

  "Of what?" Matt asked.

  "You'll see when we get there."

  When they left him at the science building, Matt turned to Holly, sitting beside him in the front seat of the car. "What needs my approval?"

  "Peter will tell you," she said. "It's his news; not mine. Don't worry, though; it's not anything dreadful."

  "Is there something dreadful in your life?" Matt asked bluntly.

  Holly flushed. "No."

  "It looks to me as if there is, sweetheart. I won't pressure you to tell me anything, but I'd like to help, if I can."

  Holly shook her head.

  "Can you tell me why you're not singing anymore?"

  "How did you know that? I told Mother not to tell you!"

  "She didn't. Saul told me. Can you talk about it?"

  "No." When Matt did not respond, Holly's voice rose. "I'm sorry! I really am, I'd tell you if I could, but don't ask me!" Tears were running down her cheeks like shining threads. "Please! There isn't any way . . . there's no way I can tell you!"

  "Sweetheart, it's all right," Matt said quickly. He put his arm around her. "It's all right," he repeated softly. "I know you'd tell me if you could."

  Holly rested her head on his shoulder. "It's just something that happened and I can't"—Matt held out his handkerchief and she took it— "Thank you. I can't tell anybody but Mother."

  He pushed aside the jealousy that flared up. "I'm glad you can tell her. It would be terrible if you couldn't talk to either one of us."

  "Oh. that's nice—that you understand." Holly pressed her cheek against his shoulder. "I don't know why I'm not singing. I wish I could; I miss it; it's like a big piece of me is gone. But when I try, nothing happens. I'm all numb inside, where the songs begin, and I don't know what to do about it."

  "Whatever happened to you must still hurt," Matt said. "Deep down. And the songs are trapped there, waiting for you to find a way to free them."

  Holly looked up at him. "Mother said the same thing."

  "Did she? Well, your mother and I often think alike."

  Still looking at him, Holly said, "Then why don't you come home?"

  He frowned. "Didn't your mother tell you . . . ?"

  ••What 0 "

  "That she's divorcing me?"

  **Oh. Yes. but . . . oh, I don't know. That was weeks ago. We haven't talked about it since that article came out, except she told me Saul said you didn't know anything about it. I don't know whether she's even talked to her lawyer since then."

  "But, Holly, as far as I know, she wants a divorce."

  •*Do you want one?"

  He held her in silence. "I don't know," he said at last. "I don't know what I want. Everything changed so suddenly, I haven't put all the pieces together yet. One day I thought I knew what I was doing and the next it all fell apart."

  "I know what that's like," Holly said. "Do you miss it? Everythin
g that fell apart 0 "

  "I miss pans of it a lot. I miss a job, for one thing. Do you know, I've never had a day since college when I didn't wake up in the morning knowing I had an office, work to be done, people waiting for me to make decisions. . . ."He laughed ruefully. "I feel like I've come unraveled."

  Holly smiled. "That's the kind of word Mother would use."

  "Yes, it is, isn't it? Well, that's how I feel. And I miss being at the center of power, too. I wasn't as powerful as I thought I was, but I did have influence, I was part of an organization that made news instead of only being affected by it. It felt good to have that; it's not easy to walk away from it without missing it."

  "And thinking you made a mistake by leaving it?"

  •'No. I'm sure I didn't make a mistake. About the job, or anything else I broke away from. It's just that I miss parts of everything I had, and I

  don't know what comes next. I can't even go after it until I decide what I absolutely need, and how much of it is really possible and how much is only a beautiful mirage that will disappear if I get too close." Smoothing her hair, he kissed her forehead. "Lots to think about."

  "What about Mother?"

  "I have to think about her, too. But your mother and I have changed, Holly. I don't know if it's ever possible to recapture what we had."

  "Wasn't that what you tried to do when you bought the Chieftain?' 1 Matt nodded. "Well, if it worked then, why can't it now?"

  He smiled. "Damned if I know. You make it sound so simple. But we'd have to find our way through all the debris of years apart, and misunderstandings, and separate—" He stopped.

  "Private affairs," Holly said.

  "Yes."

  She shivered. "Let's talk about something else."

  "We got off the subject of your singing."

  "I don't want to talk about that either. Tell me where you're going in Europe. I wish I could go."

  "You will. Next time, when you're not in school. I'm going to wander around Paris and Rome and not think about newspapers or Texas or America for at least a couple of weeks. Maybe more."