Jonathan Franzen - The Twenty-Seventh City - A Novel

“OK. The fact is, I do know of a group of men, good men, men you’ve known all your life, who do match up with the picture I’ve drawn for you.”

“Why aren’t they speaking to me themselves?”

“In a sense, they are. Call me a representative.”

So: an admission. “Is Rolf Ripley another representative?” Probst asked. “Because if he is, then I’m quite sure you’re mistaken about their interest in involving me.”

“Martin. Have you ever stopped to think what life might be like in other businesses besides contracting? In businesses that are more speculative? If you have, then I’m sure you can imagine how loath we are to widen our circle prematurely.”

Circle. Ring. Clique. Something clicked in Probst and pulled him to his feet. “I have no more questions,” he said.

Wesley stared as if he hardly dared to hope he’d convinced Probst without a struggle. “Surely you’d like some details.”

Probst put on his coat, and now that he was standing he observed that the spools in Mayor Wesley’s Dictaphone were turning. “No thanks.” He looped his scarf around his neck and tugged it to a choke. “I’ve no use for cliques.”

“Sit down, Martin.” Wesley’s tone was kindly. “Please. Sit down. I’ve obviously given you the wrong impression. This isn’t a clique — God knows, I hate the very idea. This is something for everyone.”

Probst checked to see that he had his glove. Yes. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll wait until I hear about it like everyone else.”

Wesley shook his head at Probst’s failure to grasp. “People aren’t going to be interested if men like you aren’t.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find plenty who are interested. Takes all kinds. Because, Pete, if what you’re saying is true, then all you have to do is bring it up at Municipal Growth. Thursday night, seven o’clock.”

“I’m ex officio.”

“Hammaker then. Or Ripley.”

“Martin, you know damn well you’re the one they’ll listen to. Some of these men aren’t even going to Municipal Growth anymore.”

“I’ve noticed. I’ve spoken with them.”

“Well, you should know they’re not above resigning if the group doesn’t start showing a little more relevance to their concerns.”

“If they miss a third meeting they’re out anyway,” Probst said. “Now, I’m going to leave, Mayor, but first, if you’re so inclined, you might answer me one question: Why try to bargain? Either you need me or you don’t.”

“Well. I like you, Martin. There’s nobody who doesn’t—”

“Blah, blah, blah.”

“Now wait a second. I’m telling you this for your own good. I’m doing you a favor. Do you understand? Sometimes I wonder if you’re not just a little bit of a snob. The redevelopment is going through no matter what, with you or without you. There’s nothing you can do to stop it. But we’re your friends. We want you aboard. We want you on the team. You’re a team player, and we’d miss you. The business community has stuck together under the same leadership for more than twenty years—”

“The white business community.” Probst wondered where this line had come from.

“The community that counts, the people who have a real stake in St. Louis. We’ve stuck together, taken care of our own, and we’re going to keep on doing just that. So let’s not have any ugliness.”

Probst strolled to the windows. The white Chevy was gone. The Arch was black. “And my bargaining power?”

“Very simple. You don’t have any if you won’t play ball. But if you do play, you can have just about anything you want. You’d automatically be chairman, you’d—”

“Chairman of what?”

“Whatever. You’d have constant access to the big picture. You’d have more work, and could do it more efficiently, than you ever could before.”

“And if I won’t play ball?”

“Don’t expect many offers.”

“Some friends.”

Wesley stuttered. “I didn’t—”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Probst spun around. “Make no mistake about it, Mayor. I don’t believe ten percent of what you’ve told me. But even hypothetically, what you’re talking about is unfair advantage . I imagine you’ll tell me it’s legal, and I’ve heard that kind of crap all my life. Legal. But no matter how you paint it over, you’re still talking about an unfair advantage for someone, either for me or for someone else. That’s not my idea of good business, that’s not my idea of right living. Now, Mayor,” Probst realized he was close to tears, “I still have a little bit of say in how this city is run, and I can assure you right now I’m going to do everything in my power to see that this community doesn’t fall into the hands of any syndicate, no matter how nice the people running it are, no matter what good friends of mine they are. As for the rest, we will discuss it later, seven p.m., Thursday, and if you’re not there, you’re gone, you’re kicked out, you’re through — I’ve got the votes, Pete — and we can talk about this in the presence of more than just your Dictaphone.”

“Oh, for shit.” Jammu peeled off her headphones and threw them on her desk. “What’s he doing running the Dictaphone?”

Singh removed the other set of headphones and placed them on the desk next to hers. “He knows we’re listening?”

“No.” She fell heavily against the back of her chair, working herself into a brand of snit Singh recognized but hadn’t seen for quite some time. “But he knows I don’t need a transcript. A summary would do.”

“He’s dabbling in conspiracy,” Singh said. “It’s catching.”

She stamped on the floor, slammed a drawer, stamped again.

“The Dictaphone had nothing to do with it,” Singh continued in tones well crafted and soothing. “Probst was already quite ‘exercised’ enough—”

“Asshole. Self-righteous asshole .”

“Calm down, hey? Why not. You must be hungry.” He nudged a half-eaten blueberry muffin, the second of the two he’d brought her, into greater prominence on her desk.

She flattened it with her fist and knocked the pieces to the floor. “Get out of here, Singh. You’re on my nerves. The phone’s going to ring—”

“Any minute,” said Singh. “And you will rush off and we will not have had our ‘conference.’ I’ll be at a loss. Won’t know what to do. Valuable hours will go wasted.” He moved to the eastern windows with steps that softly stroked the carpeting. “Calm down. Why not. So Wesley misplayed him. So what. I’m not surprised.”

“Wesley did fine,” Jammu hissed. “It was your Probst—”

“Mm, quite. As I said. It wasn’t the Dictaphone. It was my Probst. And if we’d had just a very few minutes before my Probst arrived next door, I would have told you why this was no surprise.”

“Because you’ve wasted three entire months.”

Singh gazed out the window at the silhouetted Arch. The sun was gone but the day was bright. “Could be,” he said. “Although you know I’ve done as well as anyone could. The same goes for Wesley. My compliments. Especially his avoidance of any mention of your name. Shows dedication. A true political trooper. Now me, for example, I would have blamed you for everything at the first sign of resistance in Probst.”

“I can’t stand that bastard.”

“Sure, Chief. That’s natural.”

“He’s a disaster.”

“Oh, hardly.” Singh prepared a clove smoke, lit it, drew, and heard his powerful exhalation. “The informational aspect is not at all dire. I had more than enough time to silence his house. He did, I admit, surprise me when he found the mike in Meisner’s study. But this is not unhelpful. Now he’s convinced that his devices work. I’ll rewire both devices in the next few days, and we’ll be in business again. ‘Green lights’ only. You’ve said it yourself: all leaks here are self-containing. And the loss of data has been minimal. The only substantive exchange I missed was an hour he spent with Wismer. Small price to pay. And where else was he today? I sense you are about to ask me this question.”