Christopher Smith - Running of the bulls

He left the cab and scanned the confusion of cameras and cables and vans and people for Jennifer, found her reading her notes in front of the police barricade, and smiled to himself. Around her neck was the necklace he gave her when they first dated.

The cab sped away and Jennifer looked up, but not at him. She said something to her cameraman, laughed with him and lifted her face to the dozens of birds darting above them in the umbrella of trees. He heard her say, “If one of them shits on me, I swear to God I’m smearing it on that bitch from Fox 5.”

Marty called out her name.

Jennifer spotted him in the crowd and waved him over. “What are you doing here?” she said, smiling. “I thought we were going to talk at eight.”

“We were,” Marty said. “But I need to talk to you now. Got a minute?”

“I don’t know.” She looked at her cameraman, a short man with a cap of white hair who was nearly twice her age. “How much time?”

“Seven minutes and your pretty face will be smiling at half of New York.”

She touched the man’s forearm. “That’s sweet,” she said. “My pretty face. If I had a fan club, Bob, I’d make you president.”

“If you had a fan club, I’d be working elsewhere.”

“Oh, come on. You’d Tweet me if you had the chance.”

“Not unless you took your ass to the city clinic first.” He raised a finger before she could speak. “Careful. You don’t want me to fuck with your lighting, girl.”

Jennifer kissed him on the cheek and followed Marty across the street. “Isn’t he great? You don’t find cynicism like that just anywhere. I love him.” She squeezed Marty’s hand. “What are you doing here? Something tells me it isn’t just to see me.”

“You’re right,” Marty said. “It isn’t. Though this is a nice surprise.” He cocked a thumb at the row of houses behind them. “Emilio DeSoto and Helena Adams. I’m interviewing them.”

Jennifer’s eyes widened. “How’d you swing that?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Sure, I do.”

“It was Gloria,” he said.

“Gloria?”

“Just got off the phone with her.”

“But I thought you were pissed at her.”

“I am,” Marty said. “But I knew she could get me inside so I said to hell with it and called her.”

“She really does know everyone, then.”

“She makes it her business to,” Marty said. “It’s what she does.”

“Think they saw something?”

“It’s what I’m hoping.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Actually, there is,” Marty said. “What are you doing after this?”

“Bob was going to buy me a drink but I can get out of that,” she said. “Bob’s a pushover. He loves me, too.”

“Enough to Tweet you?”

“Oh, please. He’d Tweet the hell out of me if he was straight.”

Marty smiled. “Too much information. If he’s willing to take a rain check, I was wondering if you’d drive over to Carra Wolfhagen’s and keep tabs on her husband. He’s staying with her.”

That was enough for Jennifer. She took him by the arm and led him farther down the street, away from the other reporters. “Wolfhagen’s there?” she said in a low voice. “But they can’t stand each other.”

“You think?”

“Why would she let him stay with her? She’s divorcing him. Everyone knows how they feel about each other. You’d think he’d find some other place to stay.”

“It is interesting, isn’t it?”

“What else do you know? You’re holding back-I can tell.”

“I’ll tell you everything later,” he said. “But only if you’ll watch him.”

“Of course, I’ll watch him.”

They walked back toward the crowd of reporters.

“Bring your cell,” Marty said. “Call me on mine and follow him if he leaves. I don’t know when I’ll be able to join you, but I’ll get there eventually.” He looked at her. “You’re okay with this?”

She frowned at him. “Oh, please. It’s not like I haven’t pulled surveillance before. Remember Gotti?”

How could he forget? At that early point in her career, she may have been a young reporter, but she’d tailed the mob boss for three weeks without getting caught. She’d gone undercover and dated the man’s son to extract information about the family. She won a Peabody for her report, which exposed sides to Gotti he never wanted made public. And it made her a star.

She squeezed his hand. “I’ll see you after you interview DeSoto and Adams. It’ll be fun, like old times.” She winked at him. “And do me a favor-wear those tight jeans I like so well, the ones that show off your ass. You never know. You might just get lucky again.”

With that, she crossed the street, stood in front of the camera, skimmed her notes and took a breath as the camera’s floodlights flashed on. Bob pointed a finger at her and Jennifer began speaking to half of New York, as did the other reporters around her.

Marty turned to the building behind him.

Emilio DeSoto’s home was tall and narrow and painted bright white-bright white door, bright white bricks, bright white awnings over the wide white windows. The steps were painted white, the trim was painted white, the wrought iron railing that ran alongside the house was painted white. The only hint of color here was on the door-the number “21” in pearl gray. Marty knocked twice and waited. Experience told him that gaining entrance to this home might take awhile.

E, as he was known in the New York art circle, was one of Manhattan’s premiere minimalist artists. A close friend of Gloria’s, his mere presence at her first showing had given her career the kind of boost every debut artist desires. He had purchased the smallest of her paintings-a tiny stamp in a collection of sprawling canvases-and whispered in her ear all evening. When asked by the media what he thought of this new artist’s work, E surprised them all by answering in a complete sentence: “Her work is arresting.”

Her work is arresting. Those four words helped Gloria and the gallery net seven figures in sales by evening’s end.

The door opened slowly, carefully, finally exposing a sliver of E in white silk pajamas, white satin slippers, his head and eyebrows shaved clean. He was a thin slip of a man with skin so pale, it was almost translucent. They’d met only once-here, for tea with Gloria-but E hadn’t spoke to him, only stared when Marty commented on the man’s paintings.

Now, Marty wondered how in hell he was going to get this odd man to talk to him about Judge Wood and what he may have seen over the years as her neighbor. But Gloria promised he would talk. “Death fascinates him,” she said. “It’s a major force in his work, especially during his black period, which coincidentally coincided with mine. And he’s different when he’s alone. He’s different when he doesn’t have an audience. You’ll see. You won’t be able to shut him up.”

But looking at E squinting at him, frowning at all of the colors that made up Marty’s clothes, he couldn’t be sure. “Thanks for seeing me, E,” he said. “I know you’re busy and I appreciate it.”

E said nothing. He looked past Marty to Wood’s home, moved to speak, but then pursed his lips into a tight pale line and said nothing. He lowered his gaze and with an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, invited Marty inside.

A long white corridor stretched before them like a tunnel of snow. Strategically placed lights were hidden in the ceiling, concealing shadows, casting others. There was no furniture, no paintings on the walls, no signs of life present or past. E locked the door behind them and wordlessly turned to walk down the blinding hallway.