The Showstone

by Glenn Cooper

  The old man reached under his hospital gown and clutched the silver crucifix that Hiram Donovan had given him. He began to sob.

  Father Warda returned to the rectory at the Cathedral of Mother Mary of Sorrows and immediately sought out one of his younger brothers.

  ‘Father Zora, you are quite clever on the computer, are you not?’

  The younger priest replied modestly that he was not without certain skills.

  ‘Then please help me with a task. I need to find the telephone number of an Iraqi who left the country for America shortly after the first Gulf War. He was from an important Catholic family in Kirkuk.’

  ‘Where in America, do you know?’

  ‘It was New York City.’

  ‘Do you know if he is still there?’

  ‘I am not certain.’

  ‘All right, what is his name?’

  ‘Mustafa Hamid, but he also went by a Western name. He called himself George Hamid.’

  THREE

  Cambridge, Massachusetts, the present

  Cal Donovan felt like an idiot, but this was his punishment for doing something terrible.

  Only he couldn’t quite remember his transgression. Whatever he had done or said had happened months earlier during the dead of winter when his girlfriend’s chosen punishment and his agreed upon amends were impractical, to say the least. It probably had to do with standing her up for a date or saying something unspeakable in the heat of an alcohol-fueled argument. Although Cal spent some of his time doing archeology, nothing would be gained by digging up his sin. Better just to take his punishment like a man and get it over with.

  He winced at his reflection in his bedroom mirror. The polo shirt was pink. Pastel pink. It was the only pastel article that had ever made its way into his closet. She had bought it for the occasion and had insisted he wear it. She’d also bought him a pair of golf shoes that, mercifully, were brown, not her alternative choice of buckskin white. At least he got to wear his own khaki trousers, not the micro-fiber Tiger Woods brand that she’d purchased in the wrong size. Why that particular brand, he had asked, walking into the punch? Because you’re both pigs.

  Jessica Nelson emerged from the bathroom in her own little golf outfit, a short white skirt that flattered her long, tanned legs and, unfortunately for him, a matching pink polo shirt.

  ‘Great, just great,’ Cal said.

  ‘Twins!’ she exclaimed.

  He looked out the window onto his leafy Cambridge street, a manageable walk to his Harvard office. It was a gloriously sunny June morning.

  ‘Looks like rain. We should cancel.’

  ‘I’ll drive,’ she said, grabbing the keys to her Mercedes.

  She was a member at the Dedham Country and Polo Club, located about twenty miles south of Boston, and she was an excellent golfer, one of the best women at the club. Cal had never played a round. As the CEO of an important Cambridge biotech company, Jessica used the club for business a fair deal. She’d taken Cal there for dinner once and though he drank a fair number of vodka martinis (hold the vermouth) that night, he’d done nothing to besmirch her member-in-good-standing reputation. Defying the predictions of Jessica’s friends, their relationship seemed to have some staying power and it was probably because of parity. They were about the same age, both in their late forties. They both had big jobs. She was one of the better-known and best-regarded young healthcare CEOs in the country. He was a full professor of the history of religion at the Harvard Divinity School with a joint appointment at the Harvard University Department of Anthropology, where he also taught biblical archeology. In the world in which he inhabited, the name Cal Donovan was a conversation-stopper. He was a rock-star academic, an expert in the history of the Catholic Church, a personal friend of the Pope. She had been the youngest female biotech CEO in the country when she landed her current job. He had been one of the youngest full professors in the history of Harvard. They were both wealthy. She’d made her money from stock options, he’d inherited his from a trust fund. They both enjoyed their wealth without pretension, and both dabbled in philanthropy. They were equally strong-willed and could dish it out to each other and absorb the blows without being steam-rollered. And, not for the least of it, they were both handsome physical specimens who were sexually compatible to beat the band.

  On arrival at the club, Cal unloaded his clubs from the trunk. An eager young man rushed over to collect them.

  ‘I’ve got a 10:15 tee time,’ Jessica told him, ‘a twosome.’

  ‘Of course, Miss Nelson.’

  ‘I didn’t ask where you got the clubs,’ she said to Cal.

  ‘A kid on the Harvard golf team.’

  ‘Well, they’re an excellent set. Try not to snap them in frustration.’

  He met her outside the locker rooms and the two of them headed to the first tee where a foursome of men in their fifties were getting ready to hit off. Jessica knew them in passing and exchanged some pleasantries about the weather and how the wet and chilly New England spring was becoming a distant memory. To be sure, the fairway that stretched before them was an emerald incantation for the coming of summer.

  Compared to Cal, the men looked remarkably unfit. They had spindly legs, overhanging guts, and puny arms. He was flat-bellied with heavily muscled arms that stretched the sleeves of his silly pink shirt. Golf was not and would never be his sport. He had played football in high school and boxed in the army. When he washed out of the service and landed at Harvard College, football seemed too tame. Rugby was more primal, more like combat, and he had been a bruiser as an undergraduate. He continued to play in local leagues when he was a junior faculty member, but the sport took its toll on his joints and he eventually retired his rugby cleats. But he still boxed at the club level at Harvard to keep fit.

  One of the guys asked if he’d missed the memo. Jessica smiled sweetly and asked what he meant. ‘I didn’t know it was matching shirt day.’ Cal wondered if it would be too impolite to punch the guy’s lights out.

  The men teed off. Their shots weren’t all that long but they were straight. They waved goodbye and marched down the fairway.

  ‘That guy who said the shirt thing,’ Jessica said, ‘is a state Supreme Court judge.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have been good to send him to the hospital, I guess,’ Cal said.

  ‘Not good, no. They’re all lawyers.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘I’m going to hit from the ladies’ tees,’ she said. ‘You should do the same.’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Okay, macho man. You’ll be sorry. Let me see you take a practice swing.’

  ‘Which club should I use?’

  ‘It’s a long hole. Use the big dog.’

  ‘I assume that means the driver.’

  ‘Clever boy. Put your little glove on.’

  He took the driver out of its cover and took a swing so hard that he almost lost his footing.

  ‘You’re too damned strong,’ she said and advised him to take a little off it. ‘And try not to lift your head on the follow-through.’

  ‘Head down, got it.’

  She kept feeding him tips until the foursome ahead of them shrunk to tiny figures.

  ‘I think it’s safe for you to go,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yeah? How far do you think they are?’

  ‘Two-eighty.’

  ‘What if I hit them?’

  ‘Well, number one, that would be bad, but number two, you’ve never played before. You’re not going to hit the ball two hundred eighty yards straight. You’ll be lucky not to top it and have it squittle onto the ladies’ tee-box.’

  ‘I don’t know, Jess.’

  ‘Would you hit already? Let’s go! The next group is coming.’

  He flashed her a smile. ‘Okay, whatever you say.’

  He put a ball on a tee, stood over it, then took a deep breath and swung away, every bit as hard as his first practice shot. But his balance was good this time and his head stayed down. The ball sailed off, rising straight and long i
nto the bright sky, splitting the fairway.

  She muttered something unintelligible at first, then shouted, ‘Fore!’ when it became all too clear that the foursome was in harm’s way.

  The lawyers scattered as the ball bounced in their midst before rolling another twenty yards past them. The wind carried some of the horrible things the men were shouting.

  ‘Sorry!’ she screamed, waving her club.

  ‘Yeah, sorry,’ Cal said under his breath.

  ‘You hit a three-hundred-yard drive,’ she said in a menacing tone, hands on hips.

  ‘Lucky shot?’

  ‘Don’t give me that crap. Did you take lessons?’

  He grinned. ‘I didn’t want to make a fool out of myself. The captain of the golf team gave me a few pointers.’

  ‘How many lessons did you take?’

  ‘Is a dozen a lot?’

  ‘You bastard. I’m going to get kicked out of the club or sued by those guys or both.’

  ‘I’ll buy their drinks after the round. We’ll be best buddies. And Jess?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Still want me to hit from the ladies’ tees?’

  Cal mainly taught Church history at the Divinity School but this semester he had been teaching a popular undergraduate course on the archeology of the Holy Lands, something of a sweeping view of the field. He maintained an office on the third floor of the Peabody Museum, just large enough to keep a few books and papers and entertain one student at a time for office hours. It was a pale comparison to the spacious digs he had across the street at the Divinity School, but what he liked about the space was that it was next door to his father’s old office, now occupied by the chairman of the anthropology department. Outside the door, a small brass plaque honored the memory of Professor Hiram Donovan and Cal, when the spirit moved him, would sometimes run a finger over it.

  He was alone with a stack of blue books on his desk, marking final exams, when there was a knock.

  ‘Yeah, come in,’ he said.

  Father Joseph Murphy, Cal’s former graduate student, now a junior faculty member in the history department, was carrying two paper cups.

  ‘I come bearing coffee.’

  Cal took one and thanked the Irishman. ‘How’d you find me?’

  ‘I stopped by across the way. Trish knew you were over here.’

  Cal patted his stack of paper. ‘Exam books. No joy until they’re done. You finished?’

  Murphy gave a thumbs-up. ‘I am officially a free man.’

  ‘What’s the plan for the summer?’

  ‘I’m off to Galway to see my mom for a week, then I’ll try to get stuck into my book on Irish saints. You?’

  ‘Same old same old,’ Cal said, peeling the lid off his cup. ‘I’m editing a book of papers from last year’s Danish congress then back to Rome in August for the usual couple of weeks of prowling around the archives. Pope Celestine’s invited me to spend a few days with him on holiday at Castel Gandolfo, so I’ll do that too.’

  ‘How’s he doing?’

  ‘You know, hanging in there. Tough job but someone’s got to do it.’

  Through a series of shared crises, Cal and Celestine had become close friends, and Cal continued to enjoy the rare privilege of being the only outsider to have unfettered browsing rights at the Vatican Apostolic Library and the Vatican Secret Archives.

  ‘Sounds like you won’t have much time for golf, then.’

  ‘Allow me to raise my middle finger to both of you.’

  Murphy and Jessica had a standing monthly dinner date but often saw each other more frequently. They’d met through Cal but had become something along the lines of best friends forever, pledging that – as she put it – when, not if, she and Cal broke up that she and Murphy would remain pals. She loved having a funny and wise guy as a friend who didn’t harbor aspirations and moon all over her. He’s not gay, Jessica told her girlfriends, but he’s the next best thing, a priest.

  ‘She’s still somewhat traumatized by your prodigious drive.’

  ‘Fortunately for her, I couldn’t chip or putt for shit. She beat me senseless.’

  ‘She did mention that too. You’re off to Foxwoods tonight, I hear.’

  Cal nodded. ‘My life’s an open book.’ He glanced at the wall clock. It was almost five. ‘Screw it. The coffee’s fine but let’s toast the end of the semester with something stronger. I’ve got my overnight bag. Jess can pick me up from the bar.’

  Jessica had never been to a boxing match and the thought of the violence she was about to watch seemed to unleash animal spirits. Seated at the ringside seats at the Foxwoods Resort that Cal had wrangled, she watched the first two fighters on the under-card go through their introductions and last-minute preparations.

  She leaned over to Cal, her breath hot and boozy from her last cocktail at the casino. ‘They’re magnificent,’ she said to Cal.

  ‘They’re good athletes but wait till you see the title match. Those guys are incredible.’

  ‘Why have I never done this before?’ she asked.

  ‘Because you weren’t with me before.’

  She squeezed the top of his leg when the bell rang.

  By the time the middleweight championship bout started, it was after midnight. It was a classic slugfest and Cal and Jessica were so close to the action they were sprayed with sweat. The challenger was taking the worst of it in the early rounds, but Cal told Jessica that he thought the guy was holding off, trying to tire out the older champ. Sure enough, in round nine, the challenger awoke alike a hibernating beast and started to show his true self. Jessica had started out as a passive spectator but by the time the bell rang for the last round, she was on her feet, screaming and waving her program.

  At the decision – the challenger eked out a two-judge to one victory on points – she whooped for joy and threw her arms around Cal, whispering hoarsely into his ear, ‘That was so amazing. I want to go upstairs and go fifteen rounds with you. Now.’

  He whispered back, ‘Not going to say no to that.’

  It was nearly 3 a.m. when their bodies finally gave out. Cal rolled over, drenched in sweat despite the air conditioning. He lifted the bottle of Grey Goose from the hotel ice bucket, surprised that there was still some left.

  ‘Want another shot?’ he said.

  ‘God no,’ Jessica croaked, pulling a sheet over her ass. ‘Get me some water and Tylenol. Hangover, I’m talking to you. Do not invade my person.’

  He was about to pour himself a last cold one when his cell phone rang, showing a 212 number.

  ‘Who the hell’s calling me from New York?’ he mumbled.

  ‘Make that noise stop,’ she said, draping a pillow over her head.

  ‘Hello? Donovan here.’

  ‘Mr Donovan, this is Detective Atwal from the NYPD. Are you the son of Bess Donovan?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m her son. What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m over here at your mother’s apartment on Park Avenue. I’m afraid there’s been a situation.’

  Cal winced hard. When he clamped his eyes shut he was half-drunk. When he opened them he was all but sober.

  ‘What do you mean, situation?’

  Jessica took the pillow off her head and turned her head toward Cal.

  Considering what he had to say, the detective’s voice was jarringly neutral. ‘I’m very sorry to inform you that your mother has been murdered.’

  FOUR

  It was a full moon and a super moon at that, low in the sky, cartoonishly large and glowing above the cooling Arizona desert. Eve Riley was getting things set for the arrival of that rare and precious individual, a paying client. She had a patio at the back of her house where four rather uncomfortable chairs stood on flagstones around an empty space. Eve buzzed around, carefully positioning an assortment of candles on a tall wrought-iron candelabra. She caught a look at herself in the reflection of a sliding door and ran back inside to do something about her hair. Her bangs were a mess. She’d have to make an appointme
nt to get them trimmed but for now, some clips would have to do the trick.

  From the bathroom, she heard a car in the driveway. Peeking out the bedroom window, she swore. It wasn’t her client, it was Henry’s truck.

  He bounded in without knocking, which wasn’t all that unusual, but tonight she took offense.

  ‘There’s a doorbell, you know,’ she called from the bedroom.

  He headed for the fridge, got a beer, and tossed his cowboy hat onto a leather footstool. It kept going and wound up on the floor.

  ‘Yeah, so?’

  ‘So, you can use it sometimes,’ she said. ‘Your phone too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In case I was busy.’

  ‘When are you busy?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Busy how?’

  ‘I got a client.’

  ‘Hell you do.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  She came in, scowled at his hat, and hung it on a peg.

  He slurped down a quarter of a can. ‘Well, I don’t see no client.’

  ‘He’s coming. I don’t want you here tonight, if you’ve got to know the truth. You should’ve called.’

  ‘Doorbells, phones,’ he muttered. ‘You’d think we were strangers or some such shit. Well I’m here. I’m not driving all the way back to Tucson.’

  Jason was, as her female friends put it, a healthy specimen. More brawn than brains, but not all together lacking in cerebral function, he sold and installed solar panels. They’d met at City Hall. He needed a permit to do an installation. She worked as a clerk in the planning and development department. He flirted. She was thirty-eight and available, he was age-appropriate and not a bad looker despite the early makings of a beer belly. She took the bait. The first time he made the trek to her place he asked her how come she lived all the way the hell out in Amado, and she had slid open the patio doors of her little bungalow and pointed toward the vast expanse of nothing but desert with low brown mountains at the shimmering horizon, and replied, ‘That’s why.’