“What’s wrong?” asks Roxanne, studying Neil’s scowl as he stands there in the kitchen, lost in thought.
Neil snaps out of it. “Sorry. It’s just that I expected the security alarm to be set, and it wasn’t. Also, I get the feeling that Mark didn’t sleep here last night.”
“You mentioned that he left a message at Roxanne’s. What was it?” Claire asks.
Neil strolls toward the big east window. “He sounded really strange, but maybe he just felt awkward leaving the message, knowing I didn’t want to talk to him. He said that something big had developed on his story, that he wouldn’t be able to make it to the stadium today, and that he was glad I was staying with Roxanne for a while. I could tell by his tone that he wasn’t being snide. The implication, which makes no sense at all, was a concern for my safety, as if there might be some danger lurking here.” He glances around the loft, then shrugs his shoulders. “Everything seems okay, though.”
“Of course everything’s okay,” Roxanne assures him with a hug. “You need to work this out with Mark. Concentrate on what’s been right between you. And for God’s sake, dismiss any notions of boogeymen under the bed.” She pecks his cheek, reminding him, “You’re not the paranoid type, Neil.”
Claire snorts. “I wish I could say as much about Hector. He’s still in a snit over all this, and yes, he is most definitely paranoiac. I was with him at the hotel yesterday morning when David dropped over to have his talk. Hector turned irrational and put his own spin on everything David told him. Then he stormed off to the Journal to confront Mark, and I understand he put on quite a performance. Hector and I argued about it into the afternoon, only to be interrupted by David on the phone. David was calm, and he tried to get Hector calmed down, insisting that we all meet again later. Then, of course, Hector’s suspicions were fed all the further when David, offering no explanation, never showed up last night. It sent Hector right off the edge.”
David didn’t show up? That’s news to Neil, firing a suspicion of his own.
Claire continues, “The bottom line is that I didn’t stand a chance of getting Hector to the festival today. The last thing he’s in the mood for right now is the gay-rights agenda. He’d rather sulk in his room.” She laughs, but it’s bitter. “I told him he should join the march at that Christian hotel. To my amazement, he said he had a mind to. Anyway,” she steps to Neil and Roxanne, grasping their hands, “thanks for letting me tag along today. Sorry to be the third wheel.”
Roxanne pats her hand. “We’re all in the same boat today, just three singles looking for fun. It’s ironic. Carl has been trying to wheedle out of this for weeks—he truly doesn’t like crowds, not even football games—but I finally had him convinced that this will be the event of the decade, something he’d hate to miss. Then what happens? Nathan Cain phones him at home this morning, Saturday, with another corporate crisis that no one else seems capable of handling. So at this very moment, Carl is strapped into a puddle-jumper, winging his way over Lake Michigan to Grand Rapids. He’ll be back tomorrow morning, but he’ll have missed the big spectacle.”
“Well,” says Neil, “buck up, sob sisters. We’ll make the best of this outing, in spite of our missing menfolk. I just need to change clothes, so you gals make yourselves comfortable, then let’s discuss lunch. We’ve got plenty of time before the stadium gates open.” He heads toward the stairs that lead up to the balcony.
“There’s not much to discuss,” Roxanne calls after him. “I’ve got a table booked at Zaza’s in fifteen minutes, so shake it.” Neil bounds up the stairs, leaving the ladies to settle themselves on the sofa while gabbing an appreciative commentary on the view of the lake—it is indeed a perfect day for the open-air festivities that will launch Celebration Two Thousand.
Neil’s need to change clothes is the purpose of this midday visit to the loft. When he wrote the note to Manning and left early yesterday morning, he took a few basic toiletries, but no extra clothes. He was so angry he couldn’t think straight, and he had no idea how long he’d be away, but his principle reason for not packing was that he didn’t want to wake Manning and explain what he was doing. He just wanted out. If tensions didn’t ease, he might have to buy clothes as he needed them—he really couldn’t predict how the near future would shape up between Manning and him. Fortunately, their day apart has lent an uneasy calm to the whole situation. This morning, Neil decided he’d risk a run to the loft to get a few things. Manning probably wouldn’t be there, but just in case he was, Neil brought the ladies along so that he wouldn’t be stuck alone with him—Manning would surely want to talk things out then and there, he’d want to reconcile, but Neil isn’t ready yet.
One step at a time. For now, he’ll be happy enough to get into some fresh clothes. He reminds himself that even though it’s the middle of summer, they’ll be at the stadium till after dark, and the night could turn chilly. Planning his outfit, he decides he should carry a sweater.
These thoughts end abruptly, though, as he walks into their dressing room and gasps. The place is a shambles, with clothes thrown everywhere, drawers emptied … Then he hears a scream. It’s Claire.
“What’s wrong?” yells Neil, rushing to the edge of the balcony, looking down at the sofa. Both women are convulsing with laughter.
“Sorry, Neil,” Claire calls up to him, “but your friend just told me the most deliciously lewd story.”
“Oh.” Neil cautiously returns to the dressing room, grasping the doorjamb as he looks within. What the hell? His first theory is that Manning did this—a declaration of war—but Neil quickly dismisses the notion, ashamed, for Manning’s things have been trashed too. Did Manning’s obscure message attempt to forewarn Neil of this? Neil can’t be sure, but it doesn’t seem that anything has been stolen. Downstairs there are all kinds of expensive things that might have been taken but weren’t even touched. So this wasn’t a robbery. And the motive couldn’t have been vandalism, or there’d be damage throughout the loft. No, it appears as if someone was searching for something. Then Neil thinks of Cliff Nolan’s dossiers. Of course. Carl Creighton asked about them Thursday night at dinner, and Manning told the table that he was keeping them at home. Now Carl has been called away (supposedly) on urgent legal work in Grand Rapids (of all places). Was he that threatened by Nolan’s files?
Neil gingerly picks through a few things on the floor, assembling a fresh outfit as best he can, then changes clothes fast and traipses back downstairs, anxious to leave.
“All set?” he asks, striding toward the sofa. He’s decided not to mention what happened—there’s no point in burdening the ladies with his own fretful thoughts.
They rise. “Raring to go,” Roxanne tells him.
Neil leads them without comment to the door, then, as he opens it, he turns back to ask, “Rox, could you grab that last stack of envelopes, please? There, in the kitchen—the smallest pile. I’ll deal with it later, mostly bills.”
Roxanne picks up the mail, drops it in her purse, and joins the others at the door. Neil takes a furtive look back into the loft, setting the alarm as they pass into the hall. Biting his lip, he makes a point of double-locking the door behind them.
Manning checks his watch. It’s three-thirty already—he’s wasted the middle of the day. Standing on the curb outside police headquarters, he asks Arlen Farber, “Hold this, will you?”
Farber takes the handle of the zippered nylon carrying case and is surprised by its weight. Packed inside is Manning’s computer, charger, modem, disks, and an assortment of file folders. Farber says, “You don’t exactly travel light, do you?”
“That’s just the half of it,” says Manning, patting his jacket. “I’ve still got my phone, pager, and pocketfuls of notes that I ought to get organized—but there’s been no time.” He doesn’t need to mention that he carries his pet fountain pen, the antique Montblanc, clipped to the inside breast pocket of his blazer.
“Where to now?” asks Farber, positioning the strap of the case over
his shoulder.
“If we can get a cab—and that’s a big ‘if’—I’d like to head over to the stadium and cruise around a bit. I want to see firsthand what’s happening there, and there’s a long shot I might spot Jim. Then we’ll drive back to the planetarium.”
He steps off the curb into the street and tries hailing a cab that’s working its way through the traffic. This may take a while. The streets seem crowded all over the city—everyone’s outdoors today, and many need cabs to the stadium. Manning has mixed feelings about his own car, which he didn’t even try to retrieve from the MidAmerica Building, assuming he should steer clear of the place after what happened to David. If he had the car now, he and Farber would be on their way, but there would be nowhere to park it when they arrived at the stadium. It’s much too far to walk, so the only solution is a taxi, and one of them just cruised by, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with passengers. Manning’s only option is to venture farther into the street and keep waving.
It was bad enough getting here from the Gethsemane Arms. Throngs of the righteous were gathering noisily, the voice of intolerance preparing to march, raising a war cry against the forces of Sodom. Some of the marchers had stayed at the hotel, but most were converging from elsewhere in the city, so there were plenty of cabs available as they arrived to disgorge the placard-hoisting moralists.
Funny, Manning thought, watching them step from their taxis—most of them look like ordinary folk, people with whom he might have grown up. What happened to them, though? Where did they get their goofy ideas, their irrational sense of certitude? What kind of brainwashing has transformed these probably decent people into a mob of narrow-minded zealots? These questions, Manning knows, are purely rhetorical. He knows exactly what force has robbed these people of their innate ability to think straight. He knows exactly what force has clouded their reasoning and stolen a slice of their very humanity. They have been infected by the force of religion.
To their credit, though, they delivered an abundance of empty cabs, so Manning hopped into one with Farber, telling the driver to take them down to police headquarters. The ride, which should have taken about twenty minutes, took more than an hour and cost Manning the remaining bills in his wallet. So he replenished his funds with a stop at a cash machine before ducking inside headquarters with Farber, hoping to catch his detective friend on the run.
It wasn’t meant to be, though. Jim wasn’t there—he hadn’t returned since Manning called around noon. With everyone so busy with the president’s visit, the offices were in the grip of bureaucratic deadlock, manned by assistants and other underlings who seemed confused at best. The urgent pleas of a reporter to tell a tale of murder were met with a stack of forms to fill out and an endless wait on a bench in a hall.
Disgusted, Manning decided his time would be better spent doing some sleuthing of his own. So he nudged Farber, who dozed next to him on the bench, telling him, “Let’s get out of here.”
Standing in the street now, he waves at a cab in the distance, and this one, at last, switches lanes to pull over and pick him up. Moments later, he and Farber jump into the backseat. Manning tells the driver, “Stadium, please.” The cabbie nods, saying nothing—he could easily guess their destination.
As the cab nudges its way into the congested traffic, Manning turns in his seat to zip open the computer case and dig out a folder. As he glances out the rear window, something catches his eye. A familiar figure, lanky and catlike in his Ray-Bans, has just rushed out of the building and limped to the curb, frantically hailing a cab several car-lengths behind them. Under his breath, Manning asks, “Huh?”
Farber turns to him. “Huh, what?”
“Take a look,” says Manning, jerking his head over his shoulder. “It’s our pal Victor Uttley. He just flounced out of the cop shop. Do you suppose he was there on business of his own? Or was he following us?”
“Way down there?” asks Roxanne. “I’m impressed, Neil.”
Roxanne, Neil, and Claire have arrived at the stadium, worked their way through the main entrance, passed through the metal detectors, and followed directions to the gate that takes them inside the arena itself. They stand at the top of a steep aisle that leads down past many rows of seats—hundreds, it seems—to a special seating area on the field. Neil has secured passes for an enviable block of seats only eight rows from the stage.
“You may wield clout at Zaza’s, Rox, but this is my domain, at least for today. I deserve some special treatment—I’ve worked my butt off for over a year on this project.”
Roxanne glances behind him, eyeing his derrière. “It’s still there,” she assures him, “and it’s fetching as ever.”
“Thank you,” he says dryly. “Shall we descend through the masses, ladies?”
They begin the long trek toward the field, stepping past row after row of spectators, who form giant concentric rings of fluttering color. The rings grow tighter with each step downward, until at last the threesome has arrived on the ground. From that perspective, the sky has been reduced to a luminous blue circular ceiling, as if painted there in the manner of an old movie palace. Wisps of a few unthreatening clouds drift silently eastward. From huge stainless-steel poles topping the aisles, flags of every nation snap in the warm July breeze.
“Here we are,” says Neil, finding their row. “Those must be ours.” He points to a section of six empty seats, conspicuous among the crowd, which by now is packed tight, numbering nearly a hundred thousand.
As they excuse themselves and sidestep past other seated spectators, Claire comments, “What a pity that the others will miss this.”
Sitting, Neil sighs. “Who knows?—maybe they’ll see it on TV.” He can’t shake the uneasiness of finding the loft trashed. And he’s still plenty angry about Manning’s episode with David. He knows, though, that Manning would have enjoyed today’s ceremonies, and he’s proud to have helped make this happen. He’s proud to have secured this seating—they wouldn’t have gotten nearly so close if they’d relied on Manning’s press connections. This is Neil’s day to shine, and Manning’s not here to share it. Yes, Manning is involved with an important story, but Neil knows only too well, in the final analysis, that Manning isn’t here today because Neil walked out on him, Neil made a show of smashing a crystal glass on the floor, Neil called him a son of a bitch. Neil tells the others, “At least we have the luxury of a little elbow room.”
They arrange themselves with Neil in the middle. There are two empty seats next to Claire, one next to Roxanne. Claire tells the others, “There’s plenty of room here for our sweaters, if you’d care to pass them over,” which they do. Then Roxanne offers, “I can keep an eye on the purses over here.” Claire passes her purse to Roxanne, thanking her, but Neil tells her, “I forgot mine.” Roxanne jabs his ribs with her elbow.
Claire squints at her watch. The sun glares on its too tiny face. She asks, “What time do you have, Neil?”
He checks. “Four-forty. Only twenty minutes to go. Having been involved with much of the planning, I’m sure the program will begin at the stroke of five precisely. It’s funny: I’ve spent a heap of time on all this, but it’s out of my hands now. Even so, I’m a nervous wreck.” Discovering the intrusion of his home hasn’t helped either.
Claire laughs. “That will pass, dear, as soon as things get under way. I’ve sat through enough opening nights to know exactly what you’re feeling.” She pats his arm. “And believe me, I sympathize. It’s a long show, isn’t it?”
“Right,” Neil tells her. “It’s a four-hour program, so it has to move like clockwork. The president doesn’t finish till nine, then the sky show begins. We’re not certain how long that will last—it’s all been so hush-hush—but by then it won’t matter. It’ll all be over.”
“God, Neil,” says Roxanne through a chortle, “you make it sound like doomsday.” She snaps open her purse and puts on a big pair of rose-tinted sunglasses.
Outside the stadium, Manning and Farber scan the crowds from
the backseat of their cab, which moves at a crawl. The driver asks, “Want me to drop you here?—we’re not gonna get much closer, and the meter’s pushin’ fifty bucks.”
They’ve wasted another hour in traffic, and Manning checks his wallet before answering. “No,” he says, confident he won’t need to visit another cash machine, “just keep going. We won’t be getting off here anyway.”
The driver looks over his shoulder as if Manning must be nuts.
Manning fans the cash from his wallet, jerking his head onward toward the stadium. The cabbie shrugs, returns his eyes to the road, and drives forward, deeper into the crowd.
Farber is half asleep, but tries to appear alert, assisting Manning in his search, although he wouldn’t recognize Jim, Manning’s detective friend, even if he saw him. Manning’s gaze darts through the crowd from face to face, but he knows, of course, that the odds of actually finding Jim are infinitesimal. Jim could be anywhere in the city at this moment, and even if he happened to be out here, working the throng, Manning could not reasonably hope to find him.
What Manning hopes, in fact, is to spot Neil. Even if only in passing, only through a glimpse, Manning wants to see with his own eyes that Neil is safe, that he’s made it here to this event, the opening of a festival that he’s worked so hard to create. He knows that Neil will be with Roxanne and Claire—with Carl and Hector, too, he presumes—so Manning is searching for any of those five faces. But it’s Neil’s face he wants to see, and he wonders what that face will tell him. Will Neil be giddy with the excitement of the day (he certainly deserves to be), or will his happiness be overruled by the tyranny of emotions that forced him away from the loft to stay with Roxanne? And what if Manning were to beat the odds and actually see him here? What would he do—stop the cab, elbow through the crowd, drop to his knees, and make a scene that would only humiliate Neil, dashing any possibility of reconciliation?
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