Eye Contact

by Michael Craft

  “Nice job, Victor,” Manning tells him, surprised that he was able to arrange it. “Where do I go? Who do I see?” Manning uncaps his pen and makes detailed notes of the logistics that Uttley recites to him. Manning asks, “This is all hush-hush, right? It’s just a feature story, not hard news, but I want to be the first to break it.”

  “It’s all yours, Mr. Manning, compliments of Chicago’s cultural liaison to the world. I hope that you’ll consider these arrangements a favor from a friend.”

  Manning rolls his eyes. “Indeed I shall. Tell me, Victor, why the overnight press release hinting about the spectacle?”

  “No harm in drumming up a little extra interest—and it certainly won’t tarnish the luster of my own office. What’s more, tantalizing the public early will only heighten the impact of your story later.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Manning tells him. “Most of the stories I work on don’t involve hype—they’re just news.”

  “Bullshit. Journalism is hype.”

  “No,” Manning insists, “I can’t agree with that. I admit that journalism can sometimes stray into sensationalism, and television does it all too often, but real journalism—reporting, pure and simple—is not entertainment. It’s an essential component of a truly free society.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Uttley doesn’t care enough to argue. Changing topics, he asks, “Any progress with that story on the mystery woman, the actress?”

  Manning’s tone is cautious. “It’s coming along. As we discussed yesterday, I may need some help.”

  Uttley reminds him, “As we discussed yesterday, I may need some help. Have you spoken to your editor about the, uh …”

  “Honorarium,” Manning supplies the missing word. “Yes, we had a chat about it this morning. He’s looking into it for me. As soon as I get the go-ahead, if I get the go-ahead, we can talk terms.” Manning poises his pen above the note with the phone number. “How much did you have in mind?”

  “That depends on how valuable the information is.”

  Manning retorts, “That depends on what you’re able to tell me.”

  “If I draw a blank, you owe me nothing. But if I finger the gal, I want ten.”

  Manning is silent.

  Uttley amplifies, “Ten grand.”

  “Jesus, Victor, who writes your material? Ten grand?”

  “All right already. Ten thousand—or would twenty make you happier?”

  “Let me work on ten first.” Manning discreetly jots the figure on the yellow note. While capping his pen, he notices David Bosch approaching his cubicle. He tells Uttley, “I have to go now; I’ll let you know about the money. Whatever the outcome, I really do appreciate your help with the laser business.”

  “I’ll bet you do,” says Uttley. “And I hope we’ll be talking again real soon.”

  “Soon enough,” Manning tells him. “Good-bye, Victor.” And he hangs up.

  Grinning, David sits on the corner of the desk. It’s not just Manning’s imagination—David has been emulating his dress lately. He wears a pinstripe oxford shirt, a preppy knit tie, and a pair of dressy khaki slacks that Manning hasn’t seen before. David looks even hotter than usual in them, and Manning would surely remember them.

  “A call from our neighborhood extortionist?” David asks.

  Manning leans back in his chair, getting a full view of David. “No, actually, I phoned him. It turns out, he was able to arrange for me to examine the laser projector at the MidAmerica Building. Tomorrow at five-thirty.”

  David’s brow wrinkles. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—what’s that all about? You don’t write ‘soft news.’ We’ve got a whole separate staff for features.”

  Manning recounts to David the incident in Cain’s office on Monday when he saw the menacing device being hoisted to the Journal’s tower platform. “It just didn’t look like the type of apparatus that might be used for a light show, so I want to get a look at one of the other projectors to see if it’s the same. More than likely, I’m acting on an empty hunch, but even at that, it will make a damned good feature piece.”

  “Want me along?” asks David.

  “Maybe,” says Manning. “Let’s see how tomorrow shapes up. Besides, five-thirty on Friday, you’ve probably got a big weekend planned.”

  David shakes his head. “I’m all yours.” He grins slyly.

  Oops. Manning does in fact want to talk about “that,” but not here. He tells David, “Our friend Victor named his price, by the way.”

  “To identify your ‘mystery woman’? How much?”

  “Ten thousand dollars—pricey for a local tip, but both Cain and Smith have authorized whatever it takes, so Victor may be in for some easy money.”

  David flips open Uttley’s folder. Victor’s publicity photo smiles at the ceiling from the top of the pile. “When do you go to work with him?”

  “Not yet.” Manning lifts the photo from the file and stares back at Uttley’s crooked smirk. “I just don’t know if I can trust this guy. Let’s see if he can actually deliver on his promised access to the laser projector before I reveal to him that it’s Professor Zarnik, not some woman, whose true identity I need to establish. In order to stall, I said that the money wasn’t approved yet.” He tosses Uttley’s photo back into the file and closes the folder.

  David stands, and their conversation lapses. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he seems reticent to say what’s on his mind. When he does speak, his usual breeziness is tempered by a hint of bashfulness. “I was wondering, Mark, if I might take you and Neil to dinner sometime.”

  “Of course,” says Manning, amused that David would be apprehensive to ask such a question. “That would be great. But we wouldn’t expect you to host.”

  “No, I want to,” David continues. “You guys have been really good to me, and it’s the least I can do.” He gives a furtive glance over both shoulders, then leans toward Manning with a conspiratorial grin. “How about tonight? Afterwards, maybe the three of us could … you know.”

  Whoa. Manning should have seen that coming, but he wasn’t ready for it. Awkwardly, he reaches for his calendar, already knowing what’s on it, needing a moment to think. “Sorry, David, but we have plans with Roxanne and Carl tonight—presumably the mystery of his Tuesday excursion will be explained.” Manning stops. The previous engagement is not the point, not by a long shot. He rises and rests a hand on David’s shoulder, telling him, “Let’s talk. Out front.”

  “Sure, Mark.” And he walks off with Manning toward the reception area outside the newsroom.

  The door to one of the little conference rooms is open, the same room in which they met with Uttley yesterday. Manning leads David inside, switches on the light, and closes the door. With a banging of chrome legs, they settle into chairs next to each other, ready to talk at close range. The room is eerily quiet, with no ambient noise other than the hum of fluorescent lights in the tiled ceiling. Compared to the charged atmosphere of the newsroom, with its two-story ceiling and muffled but constant din, this cramped, silent space evokes the feeling of a confessional.

  With elbows on the table, Manning leans near the young reporter. “David,” he begins, “I just can’t forget what happened Tuesday night.”

  “Me neither,” says David, beaming.

  “I mean I can’t dismiss it,” Manning clarifies. “I want to, and I thought I could, but I can’t. Believe me, I’m overwhelmingly flattered that you’ve taken such an interest in me, and I’d be a liar if I tried to deny that I find you attractive—hell, you’re one of the most beautiful young men on the planet—but I’m committed to Neil. He’s the man I love. And there’s just no room in that relationship for fooling around. Yes, I’ve wondered if there might be, but I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s just too risky, especially with you. It’s not only risky, but dishonest—primarily to Neil, but to you and to myself as well. Do you understand why I’m telling you that sex can’t be a part of our future friendship?”

  David eye
s him with a wan smile. “I don’t like it, but yes, I understand it.”

  Manning laughs softly. “It’s ironic. Last week this issue crept into my dreams, a full-blown fantasy of what might develop between you and me. Last night I had a similar dream, but it concerned the aftermath of what I’d done, and now I can’t shake the … guilt. Oh sure, on a purely intellectual level I can rationalize that what happened between us was merely a no-fault extension of natural, physical drives that led to a situation we were powerless to resist. I never intended to cheat on Neil or to harm our marriage—but that’s precisely what I’ve done.”

  David rests his fingers on Manning’s forearm. “Mark, aren’t you being a little hard on yourself?”

  Manning rests his own fingertips atop David’s. “Yes, I am. But it’s the only way I can face the reality of what needs to be done.”

  Warily, David leans back in his chair, withdrawing his fingers from Manning’s arm. “What do you mean?”

  Manning exhales, pauses. “I mean that I’ll have to tell Neil what happened.”

  “Don’t be nuts, Mark. That’ll serve no purpose whatever.”

  “It’ll clear the air,” Manning insists.

  “For you, maybe. But what about Neil?”

  “He’s rational and mature. He’ll understand why I need to level with him. He’ll doubtless be pissed, but I’m confident we’ll be stronger for it in the end.”

  “Possibly,” says David, “but he’ll come after me with an ax.”

  Manning forces an uneasy laugh. “Neil isn’t that sort of person.”

  David dismisses the thought with a wave of his hand. “Oh, I know he won’t lash out physically, but he’ll hate me. I’ll be the villain, the homewrecker.”

  “Not if the home isn’t wrecked, and I won’t let that happen. Besides, I’ll be careful not to cast you in that light. I’ll be baring my soul, not yours. I also happen to know that Neil has harbored a few fantasies of his own about you. If he suffers a bout of jealousy over this, it won’t be because you and I had sex—it’ll be because I got you before he did.”

  David wags his head. “Totally bizarre.”

  Manning leans back in his chair to tell him, “Yes, my young friend, the complexities of human relations present a mystery that only deepens with years. Just when you grow confident that you’ve at last got it all figured out, you learn that you don’t know squat.”

  “That’s encouraging.” They both laugh before David continues. “I’d like to talk you out of this, but it sounds as if you’ve made up your mind.”

  “I have, David. I don’t want you to fret over it, but I thought you deserved to know my intentions.”

  Resigned to the inevitable, David asks, “When will you tell him?”

  “Soon. Maybe tonight.”

  David puckers, exhaling a silent whistle. After a long pause, he nods—once, decisively—as if he’s reached a conclusion of his own. “Let me know how it goes, okay?”

  Manning smiles. “Sure, David. Thanks for being so mature about this.” Glad to be through with this conversation, but still dreading the one yet to come, he checks his watch. “Let’s get back to work.”

  They squeeze out of their chairs, trying not to scuff the walls, but their good intentions are for naught. As Manning opens the door for them to leave, he notices the back of a familiar figure standing at the receptionist’s desk. The man’s frumpy frame and frizzy hair can belong to no one else. “Christ,” says Manning, stopping David in the doorway, “it’s Zarnik. What’s he doing here?”

  David states the obvious. “I assume he wants to see you.”

  Manning strides forward, calling, “Good morning, Professor. What an unexpected pleasure.”

  Zarnik spins on his heel. “Ah, Mr. Manning, hello! And Mr. Bosch.” He trundles toward them, and they all shake hands, David engaging him in the pinkie-shake. “I was running an errand along Michigan Avenue when I realized that your offices are here in the tower. I had planned to phone you this afternoon, so I decided to pop in for a visit. Big-city newspaper—how exciting!”

  “Would you care to see the newsroom?” Manning offers.

  “Ah, pfroobst. I would like that very much, but remorsefully I am running very late.” He shakes his watch free of his cuff and squints at it. “Perhaps you could extend the courtesy of a tour some other day. I shall take—how do you call it?—a rain note.”

  “Rain check,” David corrects him, playing along with the actor’s faulty command of idiom.

  “Whatever,” says Zarnik to David, lapsing out of his accent for a moment. Recovering, he tells Manning, “I simply wanted to inform you that I have compiled the data with which I was unable to supply you last week. I am sorry that it has taken this long, but I had to be certain the numbers were correct.”

  “I appreciate that,” says Manning. “I need to flesh out my next story with more hard facts. Have you brought notes that you can leave with me?”

  Zarnik crosses his hands over his chest. “I am desolate, Mr. Manning. Since I did not intend to come here this morning, I did not bring my notes. I wonder if you might pick them up at my lab tomorrow.”

  “You could just fax them,” David suggests.

  Zarnik wags a finger. “No, my friend, that is not possible. You see, the data are supported by background information that is highly confidential. I must deliver it into the hands of Mr. Manning.”

  “Fine,” says Manning, aware that Zarnik is blowing smoke, but happy to play along and let him take the lead. “What time would you like to see me?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  Friday at five is an odd time for a business appointment. Besides, Manning is due at the MidAmerica Building at five-thirty. He says to Zarnik, “Could we make it earlier in the day? That’s not a very good time for me.”

  Zarnik hesitates. Then he steps close to Manning and looks him straight in the eye. With no inflection and barely a trace of his usual accent, he says, “Please come at five. It’s very important. You’ll understand.”

  Manning looks to David for a moment, then back to Zarnik. “Five o’clock.”

  “Excellent,” says Zarnik, clapping his hands, fully in character again. “I am so delighted that we had the opportunity to have this little chat.” He skitters away from Manning and David toward the bank of elevators, where one of the cars has just arrived with a ding, ready to go down. He taps his watch and tells them, “I truly must dash now.” He waves his fingers and hops into the elevator. Its doors slide shut, and he is gone.

  David turns to Manning. “What was that all about?”

  Manning shrugs. “We’ll find out tomorrow.” Still staring at the closed elevator door, he asks, “David? That goofy walk of Zarnik’s, that skitter—do you suppose that someone might describe it as a ‘limp’?”

  Bistro Zaza is mayhem. Trendy restaurants come and go, first blessed by the adulation of a jaded, fickle public, then doomed by the ennui that sends patrons packing for the next garage gone gourmet. Indeed, it seems the brighter the initial flame burns, the quicker it is snuffed. Judging by the chaos and noise here tonight, Zaza’s won’t make it till Christmas.

  At ten minutes past eight, Manning and Neil squeeze through the mob at the door, having waited at the curb for an overworked valet to roar away with Manning’s car. “Jesus,” says Neil, reacting to the confusion at the host’s podium, “it’ll be a miracle if Rox and Carl actually got a table.” Would-be diners clump about as if they’ve been waiting for hours. Some bitch, most drink, all are loud.

  Manning elbows his way to the podium, fetching perturbed glances from others standing nearby. The host is model-perfect with sunken cheeks, wearing expensive casual clothes, all black. He looks up from his clipboard with a may-I-help-you expression. Manning says, “We’re meeting another party. I don’t suppose Carl Creighton has arrived.”

  The man in black smiles, utterly unfazed by the commotion that surrounds him. “Why yes, Mr. Manning, they’re here. Your table is waiting.” He p
arts the crowd. “This way, please.” The others’ perturbed glances turn indignant as Manning and Neil whisk past, traversing the cavernous dining room beneath its raw I-beam rafters, finally arriving at a prime booth in the far corner, raised a couple of steps on a platform, like a throne from whence to survey the underlings.

  Carl rises, reaching his long arm to shake hands with the guys. Roxanne just lolls there against the tufted velvet cushion, asking, “See? I told you we’d get in.”

  “I should never have doubted,” says Manning. He leans over the table to kiss her, then sits next to Carl.

  Neil scoots into the booth next to Roxanne, telling her, “I’ve always said you were ballsy.”

  She admonishes him with a rap on the hand, then smiles and kisses him. “I know a compliment when I hear one, and I’ll take all I can get.”

  Neil and Manning are seated at the ends of the booth, forming a semicircle with Roxanne and Carl in the middle. They look like characters in a play, with half the table open to the proscenium. In front of the table (downstage, as it were), a bottle of champagne chills in a bucket on a silver stand. Though only the neck of the bottle can be seen, there’s no mistaking the clear glass and gold foil—it’s Roederer Cristal, the best.

  A waiter steps forward and distributes four frosty champagne flutes, placing them on the white kraft paper that covers the top of the tablecloth. The word Zaza is rubber-stamped randomly on the paper in acid green.

  “It seems we’ve stumbled into a special occasion,” Manning says.

  Carl laughs, raking his fingers through a shock of that distinctly white hair. “Well, Mark, it is special. And we wanted you guys to be the first to know.” The waiter pops the cork.