S Rozan - Absent Friends

Sixteen. The track, braced on angles, circled the gym. Volleyball practice today, some league team. These guys were good. Long volleys, sharp smashes. Worthy distraction. But not a game Phil took to. You stayed in one place, any given play. Doomed it for him.

Twenty-four. Heart pounding. Runner's high starting. He lived for that. Since September 11, the only time, the only place, he ever felt there was a point: a run, a game. In court? For the clients, so he kept at it. For himself? No. Now, just here. What this point was? No idea. All brain chemicals. Sure, he knew. Supplied by evolution, thank you, ma'am. So you'd run across savannahs. Away from predators. Toward your prey.

Thirty. Could he talk to Sally? Kevin? And say what? Last night, with Kevin: to do that again? But suppose he knew? If he could know, prove it was true? McCaffery, what he did? Phil was the messenger. First urge, kill the messenger.

Thirty-two. Talk to Spano. This might work. With Kev. Take him, show him. Might work. High getting higher. Phil's favorite chemical, always came last, flooding his brain: kicking in hope.

Thirty-seven. Faster, the last three faster. Breath burning, heart hammering. Outrunning thought. Sally, cold voice on the phone. Kevin, back turned. Spano. Huge vast generous fresh breeze of hope. Outrun it all.

Thirty-eight. Pain everywhere, lungs desperate. Legs still pumping. Why? He couldn't remember. Maybe that's the reason.

Forty. Hallelujah.

Slow the pace.

Spano.

Heart pounding.

Find the truth.

Jog one.

For Sally. For Kevin.

Sweat dripping.

Walk one.

Enough.

November 1, 2001

Afterward, whenever Laura reviewed her tapes-and she'd had both recorders going, of course she had, and both recorders played back exactly the same sounds, told exactly the same story, of course they did (it was like watching the film of the second plane hitting, the footage looped endlessly on TV and you watched it over and over, helplessly hoping this time it would be different)-none of the early part, the interview when she'd been sitting alone with Eddie Spano, sounded familiar to her. It was as though she were listening to the sound track of a film she hadn't seen. It wasn't until the knock, the creaking open of the trailer door, the new voice, that the images started to come; and even then, they were spotty. Until the shouting started. This she remembered. This sprang into full view. The rest of the morning from that point on was clear and sharp to her, full of detail, unrolling in perfect sync with her tapes, and no matter what she did, she was sure-she was afraid-she would never be able to stop seeing it.

Here, at the beginning, on the tape, was Eddie Spano, just as she entered his office. (He'd been sitting behind his desk, a bald, pudgy man. Had he looked up? He must have. Had he stood? No, he hadn't.) Impatient growl: “What?”

Her own voice, words she'd said a million times but didn't now remember saying to Eddie Spano. “Laura Stone, New York Tribune. ”

“Great.” A snort, caught for all time. “Go ahead, sit down. Or stand, I don't care. This isn't an interview. This is an order. Lay the fuck off.”

(A rustle on the tape. Laura sitting down?)

“Mr. Spano, my paper has information-”

“Your paper hasn't got shit.” (A small sound, a slap? Spano, irritated, closing the file in front of him; it might be that.) “I hardly knew Jimmy McCaffery, I don't know that goddamn lawyer, I never gave Keegan's widow any fucking money. I don't know anything about any of this shit, and I'm tired of seeing my name every fucking day in your fucking paper. Is that clear enough?”

Her voice again, persistent. “What was your involvement in the death of Jack Molloy?”

“You don't listen, do you?”

“If I'm wrong, show me where. What was your-”

“Zip. Zero. Nada. None. I make my point, or I have to draw you a picture?”

“I'm interested in the truth, Mr. Spano.”

“Bullshit. You and your paper are interested in smearing shit all over me. I don't know what I ever did to you, but, sweetie, people who play with fire get burned. Ask Jimmy McCaffery.”

“What can you tell me about the negotiations going on before Jack Molloy's death?”

“Negotiations? Jesus Christ, lady, what's wrong with you? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You and Molloy were making some kind of deal. What was it?”

“Deal?” (A change in Spano's voice. This must be when he adjusted his game to Laura's, to her tough-broad-reporter, to her cold eyes that told him she'd faced down nastier specimens than Eddie Spano. At least, that's what her eyes were supposed to be saying. That was how, heading over in the cab, she'd decided to approach him. Had she? It sounded like that, on the tape. But she didn't know. She didn't know.) “What was this ‘deal' supposed to be about?”

“After Jack Molloy died, you ended up with a lot of the Molloy empire.”

“ Empire? Shit, you're killing me. Molloy was a punk, his old man was a small-time ass-wipe.”

“But you don't deny you wound up running the Molloy rackets?”

“Rackets? You learn to talk like that from the movies?”

“You don't deny it?”

“Of course I deny it. I don't know anything about any ‘rackets.' I'm a businessman.”

“What kind of business?”

“Real estate. Insurance. I have investments all over this island.”

“So did Big Mike Molloy. Drugs, gambling-”

“Lady, are you too stupid to live?”

“Was Harry Randall?”

“What?”

“Too stupid to live. Someone murdered Harry Randall. He was breaking this story, and-”

“Fuck this shit! Lady, that's enough. One more word of this shit in the paper, and-”

Now-there, on the tape-now the knock, now the hinges whining.

Now the pictures started.

Eddie Spano, swinging his flushed face from Laura to the door. “Oh fuck, what now? Who the hell-?”

And the new voice. “Phil Constantine, Mr. Spano.” A pause, and then, “I work for you.”

Laura could see them standing just inside: the lawyer tall-taller than he'd seemed in his own office, and she remembered thinking that was odd-suit and tie, mud spots on his polished shoes. The young man-this must be Kevin Keegan, she realized, the center of this storm-red hair, muscled, and leaning on crutches. This picture was a snapshot, though, not a movie yet.

But the sound track went on.

“You work for-wait, you're that lawyer fuck? Jesus! What is this? Are you as psycho as she is? You do not work for me. I don't know what the hell you people want-”

“I just want to hear you say it, Eddie.” Constantine was smiling. Laura saw that. Smiling. A glittering, hungry grin. “I've been your bagman for twenty years, and I just want to hear you say it. I want you to tell Kevin what it's all been about.”

“Look. Shit. I don't know what you people are up to, but I've had enough.” A scraping sound as Spano pushed back his chair. Laura had an idea he'd been about to say something else, but Constantine's eyes had caught hers, and Spano saw that. “Fuck,” Spano said instead. “What? You two in this together? This some kind of shakedown? Get the fuck out of here. All of you. Out.”

“Ms. Stone, that means you,” Constantine said. “We'll leave soon, too, Eddie. But I passed your money to Sally Keegan for eighteen years. I was a good boy. I didn't ask questions. Jimmy McCaffery said it was his, I closed my eyes and covered my ears and passed it on.