He jabs the whistle into his mouth, positions the phone in front of it, inhales so deep that his gut burns, then he blows.
Stunned by the pitch and the decibels, Farber claps his hands to his ears, dropping his jelly jar to the desk, where it crashes, sloshing Jack and Diet Rite squarely into Manning’s lap.
But Manning doesn’t care. He’s listening to the phone again, and when the ringing in his own ears has cleared, he hears … absolutely nothing.
Seconds before twelve minutes past nine, the television pictures from the stadium are following the descent of the laser spectacle toward the field, when without warning, it suddenly … blinks out. The crowd is hushed as a few charred birds drop to the ground. Then a hundred thousand spectators burst into applause, roaring their approval of the big finish.
Seconds before twelve minutes past nine, something goes wrong—again—with the laser projector atop the Journal Building.
Two minutes ago, Nathan Cain was distraught to realize that the unit was losing power. Perhaps the computer link with the planetarium had been severed. He was confident there was still sufficient time for the system to establish communication with its backup link in Washington, but he figured he’d better take action, just in case things got out of control. So he managed with difficulty to hoist himself onto the weapon’s seating fixture, taking hold of two armatures with which he might aim the device if the automatic controls should fail.
It turned out that this precaution was unnecessary—the backup link functioned flawlessly, and within moments, the laser gun was powered-up again, putting on quite a show at the stadium. Because the gun was now making jerky movements as part of its programmed routine, Cain decided to remain in the tractor seat—it might be dangerous to dismount. Besides, he discovered he had a much better view of the stadium from the seat up here, and he looked forward to witnessing the final moment of the spectacle, when his daring plan would be fulfilled.
With that moment at hand, Cain congratulated himself for masterminding a scheme that was, at the same time, both profoundly complex and devilishly simple. It was complex because of the conspiracy, the timing, and the computer technology behind it. The scheme was simple, though, in its brutally direct approach to curing a social ill and also in the rudimentary telephone technology used in patching together an invisible but powerful control system.
Telephones, he gloated. Just think—everyday household phone lines were made to serve as an indispensable component in a high-tech project that would, within moments, change the destiny of a nation.
But now, with only seconds remaining, something goes wrong again. Cain will never know it, but his foolproof, baby-simple telephone links have just been bested by a police whistle. A screech in the phone lines has just made mush of the network’s electronics, bouncing a jumble of conflicting commands to Washington, then back to the top of the Journal Building.
The light show at the stadium is over, but the fireworks have only begun in Nathan Cain’s laser cannon. Capacitors pop, relays fizzle, and circuit boards melt as the control systems of the device are shorted by a voltage surge that could blow fuses from Waukegan to Peoria. Nathan Cain’s body is equipped with no such fuse, of course, so the metal tractor seat, quite literally, fries his sorry ass.
For decades, Nathan Cain has been revered as Chicago’s living icon of journalism. In death, he is now but hissing meat.
EPILOGUE
THE CRITIC CRITIQUES HIMSELF
A new season’s opening gives pause for reflection and reconciliation
by Hector Bosch
Senior Critic, New York Weekly Review
SEPTEMBER 3, 1999, NEW York—Each year at this time, when the theatrical world prepares to lure, entertain, and enrich us with its latest wares, we inevitably look to the future with dewy-eyed optimism. This critic, however, before allowing himself to move forward, must first indulge in a painful bit of soul-baring to you, his gentle readers.
As most of you have already read elsewhere, I suffered a terrible loss two months ago when my nephew, David Bosch, 24, was murdered in Chicago by Nathan Cain, late publisher of the Chicago Journal, which employed David as a reporter.
The day he was killed, David, who was gay, approached me for advice on a personal matter. Instead of listening, instead of proffering the wisdom of my years, I rebuffed him—as I had done before when he first confided his sexuality to me—and I lashed out against his mentor at the Journal, Mark Manning, the heroic reporter whose name is now a household word.
David planned to talk to me again that same night, but then his life ended in pursuit of a career he loved, and I never had the opportunity to renounce the irrational prejudices that led to my thoughtless behavior.
I must now confess that those prejudices once led me to write a check to the Christian Family Crusade, the fundamentalist group that played a role in killing David. As all now know, they also conspired, in the name of righteousness, to slaughter our president and untold thousands of gay-rights sympathizers.
The check I wrote was not a large one, but it contributed to a cause that has now been thoroughly discredited, and I am remorsefully sorry.
David, I miss you and will always love you. Mr. Manning, I admire you and thank you for your investigative efforts, which both inspired my nephew and saved so many innocent lives.
Hector Bosch has spoken.
Saturday, September 4
MANNING STEPS UP to the curb outside Bistro Zaza and turns back to look at his car. He tells the valet, “And for God’s sake, be careful with it this time.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Manning!” The car-parker gives an obsequious little bow, opens the door with a handkerchief so as not to smudge the handle, waits for a long, clear opening in traffic, then slowly pulls the black sedan into the street.
Standing on the curb with Manning, Neil says, “I told you they’d be able to fix it.” Then he adds sheepishly, “I had no idea it would take this long, though. Pretty gutsy—bringing it back here the first week it’s repaired.”
As they step toward the door of the restaurant, Manning muses, “Now and then, one must simply confront one’s fears.” Dropping the rhetorical tone, he adds, “It’s only a car. I had too much of an emotional investment in it. I’ve come to recognize the obvious: Other things are far more important.” He puts his arm over Neil’s shoulder as he opens the door and escorts him inside.
At eight o’clock on the Saturday evening of Labor Day weekend, Zaza’s is booked to its I-beams. Clumps of patrons, who have been kept waiting more than an hour, drink and whine near the host’s podium. The noise from the stark warehouse-style dining room is oppressively loud, with people shouting to be heard above the din, only adding to it. Stepping through the door, Manning winces at the aural assault.
The host—he looks like the same sunken-cheeked young man who seated them two months ago, but he may be a black-garbed clone—rushes toward them with his clipboard, effusing, “Good evening, Mr. Manning. What an honor! Two of your party have arrived already. This way, please.” And he struts through the crowd with Manning and Neil in tow.
Traversing the dining room, they are stopped again and again as people recognize Manning, thank him, even ask for his autograph. As a prominent local journalist, his name has been widely known in Chicago for years, but now he is known on sight, especially since his visit to the Oval Office. He responds with good-natured indifference to his recent celebrity, assuring those who greet him that he did nothing extraordinary, that he was only doing his job. Extricating himself from a knot of admirers, he guides Neil by the elbow, leaning close to tell him, “Fame is fleeting. By Christmas, we’ll have to beg for a table.”
“For some reason,” says Neil, “I doubt that.”
Through the crowd on the main floor, they see Roxanne and Carl waiting for them, seated along the wall at the same prime, stepped-up booth they had occupied in July, when Manning and Neil learned the news of Carl’s political appointment. The curved booth can seat four, and ton
ight there is also a chair at the table, a fifth place, with its back to the room. As before, there is an ice bucket, stocked with champagne. Manning can tell from the protruding neck that it’s the good stuff again, a bottle of Cristal, which he ordered in advance. Roxanne waggles her fingers as they approach; Carl stands.
“Rox!” says Neil, leaning into the booth to kiss her. “You look great, as usual. Letting your hair grow back?”
She spruces. “The convertible season is waning, so I decided to get a jump on my winter look.”
Manning greets Carl with a handshake, mocking the formality of strangers. “Congratulations, Deputy Attorney General Creighton. Neil and I were delighted to learn that your appointment was confirmed without incident.” Then he drops the stiff manner. “Really, Carl—nice going.”
“Thanks, Mark. We’ve wanted to get together, but I guess we’ve all been busy.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Manning says wryly. “I’m glad you suggested this, but I reiterate: Tonight I host.”
Roxanne tells him, “I must admit, your pull has improved. Great table.”
“You taught me everything I know, Miss Exner.” He gestures that the others should sit. “Shall we? If you don’t mind, I’ll take the chair—we’ll have too many interruptions if I’m facing the room.”
They all get settled with Carl and Roxanne centered in the booth, Manning in the chair. Neil sits at the end of the booth, between Roxanne and Manning, leaving an empty spot at the end of the booth, next to Carl. A waiter appears, delivering mineral water to Roxanne, then uncorking the champagne and pouring, leaving an empty glass next to Carl. As they finger their stemware, preparing to toast, Roxanne says, “I hate to be blunt, but who’s missing?”
Manning grins. “You’ll see.”
Roxanne snorts, “You coy thing.” She hoists her glass. “Need we wait?”
“No,” says Manning, “our fifth may be late. So …” He raises his glass and opens his mouth to propose a toast.
But Carl interrupts, “If you wouldn’t mind, Mark, may I do the honors? You see, we have an announcement that we’re eager to share with you guys.”
“Not again,” says Neil with a smirk. “Don’t tell me this is ‘it,’ Rox.”
“‘It’?” she asks. Neil flashes his ring finger. She aborts a laugh with a hand over her mouth, then gives his wrist a gentle slap, telling him, “No, Neil.”
Carl says, “We’re still toying with that, but tonight’s news is career-related.”
“Don’t tell me,” Manning says to Carl. “The governor died, and you’re it.”
“Hardly.” Carl laughs. “This relates to Roxanne’s career. Since I’m now effectively out of the picture at the law firm, there’ll be a name change announced next week, as soon as the new stationery gets back from the printer. Kendall Creighton Yoshihara will soon be known as Kendall Yoshihara Exner.”
“God, Rox,” says Neil, “that’s fabulous! Congratulations.” He gives her a big kiss while raising his own glass. They all toast, then drink.
Manning tells her, “You’ll be working even longer hours now.”
“Yes,” she admits, “but I’ll also be billing even higher fees.”
“That’a girl!” says Carl, beaming. He tells the guys, “She’s a natural.”
They share a round of good-natured jabs before settling in quietly for their evening together. Despite the surrounding noise of the restaurant, they have created their own space, a protective shell of friendship. Manning leans forward on his elbows to tell the others, “I’m glad we were able to get together tonight.” His tone has turned pensive. “We haven’t really ‘talked’ yet.”
“I know,” says Roxanne, “but we didn’t want to push you, Mark. So much has happened, it’s surely turned your life upside down. So we’ve been waiting to give you the opportunity to open up. No pressure, though.”
“Hey, thanks.” He sips his champagne. “So—the update. The main thing, of course, is that Neil and I are very much back together.” He smiles.
Neil pats Manning’s arm, telling the others, “I was ready to come back anyway. I’d overreacted to the David thing, and I knew it. Then I got David’s letter, and then I learned David had been killed. …”
“In effect,” says Manning, “David died for me. It’s been awful sorting through this—”
“Shhh …” Neil grips Manning’s hands.
Manning continues, “And in a more direct sense, I was responsible for Nathan Cain’s death. I’m not used to killing people—I’m a writer. I’ve been thinking that a bit of therapy may be in order.”
“You did the nation a service,” Roxanne assures him. “And you’ve got the medal to prove it.”
“However,” Manning reminds her, “with Cain silenced, we’ll probably never know the identity of his contact in the Pentagon. Whoever it was, he knew how to cover his tracks, and Burlington Buchman claims he never knew him. Buchman seems to think that Cain ‘had something’ on the military man, and now that Project Zarnik has failed, the guy is no longer a danger—but who can trust Buchman?”
Carl says, “That sanctimonious bastard, the so-called ‘Reverend Elder’—I’ll never forgive him or his crew for the interrogation they put me through. Thanks for bringing him down, Mark.”
Manning allows himself a smile. “That did feel good, I admit. By the time they finish with his ‘trial of the century,’ Buchman will be in prison for life, and his Christian Family Crusade has already collapsed. I dealt them a setback once before, but now they’re through. Even the Gethsemane Arms was abandoned—within a week of its opening. Yes, I did enjoy squelching their fundamentalist diatribe, if only for a while. Unfortunately, there are plenty of other nut groups, even worse.”
Neil pulls the champagne bottle from the ice and refills their glasses—they’ve all been sipping. He says to the group, “I never met Nathan Cain, but instinctively, I could never stand the guy.”
“Not so fast now,” says Carl, feigning a note of sympathy for Cain. “He had the decency to send me on that wild-goose chase to Grand Rapids. I’d like to believe he intended to spare me from the cataclysm. At least he had that much heart.”
Roxanne says, “Try telling that to your friend Brad McCracken at MidAmerica Oil. He was duped to his eyeballs by Cain, who connived him into contributing millions to the CFC under highly specious pretexts. The litigation against Cain’s estate, which is a mess, will spell some handsome bonuses at Kendall Yoshihara Exner.” She grins, tracing her finger around the rim of her water glass.
“Cain was a piece of work, all right,” says Manning. “He had us spied-on in Door County, he had the loft ransacked for Nolan’s dossiers after he killed David, and of course he masterminded the whole Zarnik plot. It was supremely shrewd of him to keep me occupied with the ‘tenth planet’ scam, which diverted me from the true conspiracy and convinced me that he was being used by the Pentagon. As for his unholy alliance with the CFC, I didn’t realize—no one did—that his rift with the archbishop was so fervid. In hindsight, Cain should have been my primary suspect from the start, but instead I got sidetracked by five others—Zarnik himself, Lucille Haring, Dora Lee Fields, Victor Uttley, and even you, Carl.”
Roxanne leans to tell Carl, “Sorry about that, dear. It was all my doing. My imagination shifted into overdrive when you were called away from Door County.” She asks Manning, “What became of the others?”
“It’s no secret now that Lucy engaged in a bit of computer hacking that provided the key to foiling Cain, and she’s been duly commended for it. She’s still at the Journal, up in the executive suite. Now that Gordon Smith has been named acting publisher, he finds her indispensable. I think she’ll be around for a while—so you should phone her for a lunch date, Roxanne.”
Roxanne smirks. “I don’t think she’ll like me in longer hair.”
“Dora Lee is happy as a clam. The new tenant in Cliff’s old apartment is a disabilities consultant who happens to be deaf, so there’s no
music-playing at all anymore, and Dora Lee is enjoying the peace and quiet.”
“What about her Elvis act?” Neil asks.
“With the demise of the CFC”—Manning sighs—“she abandoned the stage and packed her jumpsuit in mothballs.”
The others laugh, then Manning continues, “As for Victor Uttley, no one was surprised when he got booted out of the mayor’s office. Lucky for him, he’d had sense enough to return the money he extorted from Arlen Farber, so there were no charges against him. In fact, he took the loot directly to police headquarters the same afternoon I was there filling out forms. I spotted him outside the building and thought he was following Arlen and me. His record is clean now, but he’s out of work again, just another unemployed actor.”
“Just like Arlen Farber,” Roxanne observes.
Neil jumps back into the conversation. “Not at all,” he tells her. “You’ve had your nose buried in too many torts, Rox. Because of the publicity Arlen got for helping Mark crash the computers, he’s become something of a media darling himself. Just last week, Arlen landed a new gig hosting a cable talk-show.”
They all lean back to chuckle at fate’s strange twists, at the series of events that brought them to this table. Neil puts a hand on Manning’s shoulder. He tells the others, “Even Mark has been getting TV offers—very lucrative network stuff, at that.”
“God, Mark, that’s wonderful,” Roxanne tells him. “Any interest?”
“Nope.” He shrugs. “I’ll leave television to the talking heads. I’m a journalist. I write. That has it’s own rewards.”
“And awards,” she reminds him. “Your copyrighted Zarnik series ran for a week on every front page in the country. You missed the Partridge Prize once before—it was stolen from you—but this time, it’s yours, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know,” he says, voice laced with wariness. “The coveted Brass Bird has proven highly elusive. I’ll bet you anything that this year’s prize goes to Clifford Nolan again, posthumously—his dirt-file antics were never exposed.”
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