Part 4 (2/2)
”Yes, well, 'sorry' is a particularly empty word to me these days. But I digress. I suspect you have a good idea of whom my piece will focus on. He's your client, if I may be so bold.”
”I can't dis-”
”-cuss my clients. Blah, blah, blah. Please, Mr. Prager. Next thing you know, you'll be telling me you can't drink whilst on duty.”
”Nah, I'm pretty confident the word 'whilst' doesn't appear once in the ethics code.”
Willie brought the drinks, placing them atop blue-and-white napkins embossed with a block Y.
”Enjoy your drinks, gentlemen.”
Wit and I clinked gla.s.ses. He took all of his in a gulp, got Willie's attention, and pointed at his urgently empty gla.s.s. When Willie looked my way, I shook my head no.
”Well then, for argument's sake, let us say your client happens to be a certain New York state senator whose biggest backer is a rather wealthy man from that part of Long Island once known as the Gold Coast. Let us further say that said senator had quite a bright-excuse me-a promising future until one of his interns went poof!”
”You're buying.” I took another sip of my scotch. ”It's only fair that I play along.”
”And now I hear that this certain senator feels he's spent enough time in the doghouse for circ.u.mstances completely out of his control and that the moment has come to begin resurrecting that once promising career.”
Willie brought Fenn's second drink. Both men dispensed with the pretense and chatter this time. Wit guzzled the bourbon right in front of the waiter and held up three fingers to indicate a third round would be in order. Willie gave me a glance, saw my drink was still half full, and left.
”As I was saying, resurrection is upon us, praise the Lord. But I'm as yet unwilling to let go of Moira Heaton's disappearance. No resurrection without resolution.”
”So you're paying off John Heaton for his exclusive story. At least that's what you're telling him, right?” I said. ”What you're really doing is trying to stall until you can dig up some dirt on this hypothetical client of mine.”
”Maybe. You know what fascinates me, Mr. Prager?”
”Other than bourbon, no.”
”Good. That was good. I'm curious why you went to Heaton first. It's not the logical place to start an investigation into the girl's disappearance.”
”You're right. It isn't,” I conceded. ”But all the logic got squeezed out of this case a long time ago by the cops and by the private investigators. I wanted to get a feel for who Moira Heaton was. That's important to me. It's the way I work.”
”You're a pretty sharp fellow.”
”For an ex-cop, you mean.”
He ignored that, and Willie's reemergence couldn't have been better timed.
”Bring me the chit, Willie,” Y. W. Fenn ordered, the false chumminess completely gone from his voice.
”Very good, sir.”
”So I'm a little slow on the uptake, but I get you didn't bring me here to buy me a drink. You want something, Wit, something from me.”
”Everybody wants something from somebody. It's Newton's unwritten law of thermodynamics. It's really what makes the world spin about. I think we might be able to do one another some good and get to the truth while we're at it. It's that simple, Mr. Prager.”
”I didn't know horse trading was a course offered up at New Haven.”
”Oh, indeed it is, or it was, once,” he said, this time sipping on his bourbon. ”I majored in it. I'll let you review all my notes and research and, if it's that crucial to you, talk to John Heaton.”
”And in return ...”
”Whisper in my ear so that no one else can hear. That's all.”
I got the odd sense that our setting impressed Wit far more than it impressed me, and the liquor wasn't helping his perspective any. Did he think I was just going to roll over on my client because he had Ivy League connections? Or maybe, just maybe, he was playing me. I didn't like either scenario.
I stood to go. As I did, I leaned over and whispered in his ear: ”Thanks for the drink and go f.u.c.k yourself.”
But if I thought this was going to get some angry rise out of him, I was dead wrong.
”We're going to do quite well together, you and I. Quite well.” I didn't hang around for an explanation.
Chapter Five.
I WAS USUALLY fairly forthcoming with Katy about my work, but not this go-round. She knew I was on a case, and this time that seemed to be enough for her. Neither one of us, it seemed, was willing to risk another setback. I think her falling apart at Connie's wedding had p.i.s.sed her off. That Sunday, the day after the wedding when I went to talk to Pete Parson, Katy's demeanor had changed. Enough was enough. So I was a bit surprised to find her up and pacing the living-room floor when I got back from the city. I was even more surprised at the smell of cigarette smoke and to see the half-empty bottle of Bushmills out on the coffee table.
”What's the matter? Is Sarah-”
”She's fine. She's fine,” Katy rea.s.sured me. ”I just wanted to talk to you, Moe.”
”You never needed a drink or a cigarette to talk to me before.”
”I never needed any courage to talk to you before.”
I moved to hold her, but she turned away.
”No, no, I need to get through this. I need to say the words.” I couldn't believe this was happening. Nausea rolled over me in waves and I literally lost my balance so that I had to prop myself up against the back of the couch. You hear stories about it, but you never think it's going to happen to you. Your doctor's never going to utter the words ”inoperable tumor,” and the wife you love more than your own soul is never going to say ”I'm leaving.” But the moment was here. Never was now.
”Say it, Katy.” I forced the words out of my mouth.
”Okay, here goes.” She drew a deep breath and turned back to face me, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. ”I just wanted to say I can't go through this again, Moe. I know you wanted more kids, but ... I just can't ...”
I was filled with such a profound sense of relief that I was struck dumb.
Katy misinterpreted my silence. ”You hate me now, don't you?”
”Hate you! Are you nuts? I couldn't hate you. Maybe I could dislike you a little bit,” I teased, ”get a little annoyed with you every so often, but I could never hate you.”
She folded herself into me in that way she had so that I knew our world was right again. Suddenly, without warning, my thoughts drifted to John Heaton, alone and drunk somewhere. And in that same moment I knew I wouldn't need to make deals with self-impressed little lizards like Y. W. Fenn. No, if John Heaton thought there was a chance of locating his plain-faced girl, he'd find a way to talk to me, payoffs be d.a.m.ned.
”So it's okay with you?” she whispered, her wet cheek pressed against my chest.
<script>