Howard Shrier - High Chicago

"Dammit, Martin!" he called.

Martin kept going.

"What about Eric?" Rob yelled. "Have you thought about him?"

This time Martin turned to face him. His eyes looked like they were tearing up. He unclenched his jaw and said, "I am thinking about him."

"Not if you're walking away."

"What would you know about-"

"I know you should come back and sort this out with me. Thoughtfully, Martin. Carefully."

But Martin turned away and didn't stop walking when Rob called his name again. Rob looked like he was fishing for something else to say, then gave it up and went back inside. I waited half a minute and then knocked and entered.

Rob said, "I knew you'd come-" then frowned when he saw I wasn't Martin. He had a set of working drawings spread out on a counter in front of him, his cellphone holding down one side, a hard hat the other. "You from Superior Electric?"

"No."

"Swifty didn't send you?

"No."

"Then who the hell are you? Swifty was supposed to have his guy here like ten minutes ago." His cellphone trilled and he held up his hand in a stop sign. One side of the drawing rolled when he picked up the phone and he smoothed it back across the table with his other hand. He said, "Yeah?" and then it took all of two seconds for his face to crease into a frown. "What are you talking, six hundred a ton. I can get rolled steel for that price. Charlie, don't mess around with this, you're flirting with the big time and you're blowing it. Excuse me? No, Mr. Birk does not deal directly with suppliers, Charlie. You have to go through me and at that price, I'm telling you, don't bother. Get back to me with a price I can live with or don't get back at all." He hung up the phone and looked at me. "If you're not from Swifty-"

"Jonah Geller."

"Who?"

"Geller. We had an appointment today."

"You're the guy Marilyn hired? Daniel's brother?"

"The same."

"I don't believe this. I told Florence to cancel you."

"And she told me. But I was passing by so I thought I'd stop in."

"What do you mean, passing by? No one passes by here." His cellphone trilled and he looked at the caller ID; picked it up and pressed answer before the second ring. The plan started to roll up again and he slapped it flat sharply, then shifted a coffee mug onto it.

"Douglas?" he said. "Have you looked at the brochure? Yes, it's beautiful. Have you looked closely though? Really carefully? No, I didn't think so, because then you would have noticed that on page three-you have it in front of you? No? Get it…"

He rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling, his body stiff with tension.

On top of a file cabinet behind him was a three-dimensional scale model of the final site: two point towers joined by a five-storey podium that mixed retail and professional offices. At fifty-four and fifty-five storeys, they would be the tallest buildings in the port lands-for now. The model featured a lush-looking park at the south end; small plastic children were posed as if playing on swings and a jungle gym.

"You got it?" Cantor said. "Yes? So look at page three. See what it says? 'Only the finest Carrara marble will grace the lobby floor'? Look again, Douglas. You spelled it c-a-r-a-double r-a. No, that's not how it's spelled. It's c-a-double r-a-r-a. Yes, it's a big difference. It's a huge difference. What are we trying to sell people here? What does Mr. Birk stress at every meeting? Quality at every point of contact. We're telling them this is Carrara marble from the same quarries Michelangelo used. Why bother saying it-hell, why bother getting it-if we can't spell it right. Rip 'em up, Doug. You heard me. Rip them the fuck up and start over. And it's coming out of your fee because you're supposed to proof this shit. I don't care who signed off on it here. You're my last line of defence, are you not? Well, you will if you want to get paid!"

He snapped the phone closed. "Moron," he said. Then to me: "Why are you still here?"

"Mr. Cantor, your wife hired me to look into your-"

"First of all," he said, "she's my ex-wife, thank God. Second of all, I've got no time for this. I have a giant hole in the ground where two towers are supposed to be."

"I'm sorry about your daughter," I said. "I'm sure it must be difficult to talk about. But your ex-wife just needs to know-"

"She needs. She needs. Well, her needs are not my problem anymore."

"She's in a lot of pain."

"You think I'm not? You think this doesn't affect me?" He was running his hand through his hair as he spoke, finger-combing it back.

"I'm sure it does."

"I just handle things differently than Marilyn. I'm not the wallowing type. I stay busy. I stay focused. It's taken me twenty-five years to land a deal like this and I'm not taking my eye off the ball."

"Can't you just give me a few minutes?"

"To do what?" Still combing his hair back. If he kept it up, he'd have a reverse Mohawk soon.

"Talk to me about Maya. Tell me why she might have done what she did."

"You think I know?"

Everything about the man-the darting of his eyes, the hand running through the hair, the stiffness in his body-suggested he might indeed have a clue.

"Maya was the last person you'd expect to take her own life," he finally said. "She was never one to mope around or feel sorry for herself. She's-she was-like me. When she was down about something she worked through it, like I'm trying to do now. So if you'll excuse me-"

"What did you fight about the night she died?"

He glared at me. "What? Who said we fought about anything?"

"Marilyn."

"She wasn't even there so what does she know? Goddammit, I wish that woman would just get on with her life and let me get on with mine."

"But there was a fight?"

"Whether there was or wasn't is none of your business. I only agreed to see you because I know your brother."

"But you didn't keep the appointment. You skipped out."

"Skip-I didn't skip out. Who the hell do you think you are? My construction director called in sick and I had a problem here I had to deal with. Every minute of every day generates problems on a project like this. I have electricians, architects, engineers, bureaucrats, all with questions that need answers."

"Which one of those is Martin?" I asked.

He stiffened like he'd been kicked in the kidneys. "What do you know about Martin?"

"You didn't seem too pleased with him just now."

"Join the club," he said. "Now get off my site. If you're still here in thirty seconds, I'll have you thrown out."

I held my hands up. "It's all right," I said, backing away. "I'm going."

Maybe I should have felt sorry for the man, for his unthinkable loss, but he hadn't made it easy to do. Andrew Cantor's taxi pulled up as I was walking to my car. He paid the driver, and walked toward me with the long cardboard cylinder under one arm.

I said casually, "I could have saved you the cab fare."

"The company pays," he said.

"So spare me one minute."

"About Maya? Why? What business is it of yours?"

"Your mother is trying to figure out why she killed herself. She asked me to help."

"What are you, some kind of therapist?"

I had to laugh at that. When it came to therapy, I probably needed it more than anyone I could counsel. "I'm an investigator," I said.

"My mom hired an investigator? About Maya?"

"She needs help."

"You're telling me." He looked down at the rutted earth around him and scratched absently at his neck, where the old acne scars were. "Look, I have to show my dad these drawings."

"Your dad said Maya wasn't the type to mope about things."

"He spoke to you?"

"Sure," I said. "Just now. So help me out here. Help your mom. Two minutes, Andrew. Come on."

"You said one minute before. And there isn't much I can tell you," he said. "We weren't that close lately. We used to be when we were little. When we were going to the same schools and summer camps. When we were living in the same house. But we grew apart once I got into the business."