Arthur Hailey - Overload

"Grandfather says there's a lot I'll have to learn." Benjy still sounded doubtful. "He said I ought to have started a long time ago."

Was there an accusation in Benjy's small precise voice? It was entirely possible-in fact, probable-Nim thought, that Benjy at ten understood a great deal more than his elders assumed. Therefore did Benjy's questions now reflect the same instinctive search for identification with his ancestry which Nim had been aware of in himself, and had subdued, though not entirely? He wasn't sure. Nothing, however, lessened Nim's anger at the way all this had surfaced, though he curbed another sharp answer, knowing it would do harm, -not good.

"Look, son, what you said just now simply isn't true. If we decide you should be barmitzvahed there's plenty of time. You have to realize your grandparents have some views which your mother and I don't agree with."

Nim wasn't sure how true that was of Ruth, but she wasn't around to contradict. He went on, "As soon as your mother is back, and you come home, we'll talk all this over. Okay?"

Benjy had said "okay" a touch reluctantly and Nim realized he must keep his promise or lose credibility with his son. He considered the idea of flying his father in from New York and having him stay for a while, which would expose Benjy to a counterbalancing influence. Old Isaac Goldman, while frail and in his eighties, was still acid, cynical and biting about Judaism and enjoyed slamming haymakers into Orthodox Jewish arguments.

But no, Nim decided. That would be just as unfair as the Neubergers were being now.

After the phone call, and while mixing himself a scotch and water, Nim caught sight of a portrait of Ruth; it was in oils, painted several years ago. The artist had caught, with remarkable fidelity, Ruth's graceful beauty and serenity. He crossed to the painting and studied it. The face, especially the soft gray eyes, was exceptionally good; so was the hair-shiny black, neatly and impeccably arranged, as always. For the sittings Ruth had worn a strapless evening gown; the flesh tones of her graceful shoulders were uncannily real. There was even, on one shoulder, the small dark mole which she had had removed surgically soon after the portrait was done.

Nim's thoughts returned to Ruth's serenity; it was what the painting showed best. I could use some of that serenity right now, he thought, and wished he could talk to Ruth about Benjy and a bar mitzvah. Dammit! Where in hell has she gone for two weeks and who is the man? Nim was sure the Neubergers would have some idea. At the very least they would know where Ruth could be contacted; Nim knew his wife too well to believe she would cut herself off completely from the children. Equally certain: Her parents would be closemouthed about the arrangement. Tbe thought refueled the anger at his in-laws.

Following a second scotch and more perambulating, be returned to the telephone and dialed Harry London's home number. They hadn't talked in a week, which was unusual.

When London answered, Nim asked him, "Want to drive out to my house and booze a little?"

"Sorry, Nim; I'd like to, but I can't. Got a dinner date. Leaving here soon. Did you hear about the latest bombing?"

"No. When?"

"Happened an hour ago."

"Anyone hurt?"

"Not this time-but that's the only good part."

Two powerful bombs had been planted at a GSP & L suburban substation, Harry London reported. As a result more than six thousand homes in the area were now without electric power. Mobile transformers, mounted on flatbed trucks, were being rushed in, but it was unlikely that full service would be restored until tomorrow.

"'These crazies are getting smart," London said. “They're learning where we're vulnerable, and where to put their firecrackers to do the most damage."

"Do we know yet if it's the same group?"

"Yep. Friends of Freedom. They phoned Channel 5 News just before it happened, saying where it would happen. Too late to do anything, though. That makes eleven bombings we've had in two months. I just added up."

Knowing that London, while not directly intervened in the investigation, still had pipelines of information, Nim asked, "Have the police or FBI made any progress?"

"Nil. I said the people doing it are getting smart; so they are. It's a safe bet they study the targets before they hit, then decide where they can get in and out fast, unnoticed, and do the most damage. This Friends of Freedom mob know, just as we do, that we'd need an army to guard everything."

"And there haven't been clues?"

"Nil again. Remember what I said before? If the cops solve this one it'll be through a lucky break or because somebody got careless. Nim, it ain't the way it is on TV or in novels where crimes always get solved. In the real police world they often don't."

"I know that," Nim said, mildly irritated that London was slipping into his lecturer's role again.

“There is one thing, though," the Property Protection chief said thoughtfully.

"What's that?"

"For a while the bombings slowed down, almost stopped. Now suddenly they've perked up, making it look as if the people doing them have got a new source of explosives, or money, or both."

Nim pondered, then changed the subject. "What's new with theft of service?"

"Not a hell of a lot. Oh sure, we're working hard and catching some small fry. There's a couple dozen new cases of meter tampering we'll 1take to court. But it's like plugging a hundred leaks when you know there's ten thousand more out there if you just had the people and time to find 'em."

"How about that big office building? the one where you're keeping watch?"

"Zaco Properties. We still have surveillance on it. Nothing's happened yet. I guess we're going through a flat spell." Uncharacteristically, Harry London sounded depressed. Maybe it was infectious; perhaps he had transmitted his own low spirits, Nim thought as be said good night and hung up.

He was still restless, alone in the silent house. So who else could he call?

He considered Ardythe, then dismissed the idea. Nim was not ready yet-if he ever would be-to cope with Ardythe Talbot's onset of religion. But thinking of Ardythe reminded him of Wally Jr., whom Nim had visited in the hospital twice recently. Wally was now out of danger and removed from intensive care, though ahead lay months, perhaps years, of tedious, painful plastic surgery. Not surprisingly, Wally's spirits had been low. They had not discussed his sexual incapacity.

Half guiltily, as he remembered Wally, Nim reminded himself that his own sexual ability was unimpaired. Should he call one of his women friends?

There were several whom be had not seen for months but who, quite probably, would be available for drinks, a late dinner somewhere, and whatever followed. If he made the effort, he need not spend the night alone.

Somehow he couldn't be bothered.

Karen Sloan? No. As much as he enjoyed her company, he wasn't in the mood.

Work, then? there was work aplenty piled on his office desk at GSP&L headquarters. If he went there now it would not be the first time he had toiled at night taking advantage of the quietness to accomplish more than was possible in daytime. It might also be a good idea. The Tunipah hearings were already consuming much of Nim's available time, and the demand would continue, though his normal work load had to be fitted in somehow.

But no, not that either; not desk work in his present mood. How about some other kind of work to occupy his mind?

What could he do, be wondered, to prepare himself for his debut Monday on the witness stand? He was already well briefed. But there was always something more to be prepared for-the unexpected.

An idea jumped into his mind, from out of nowhere, like bread emerging from a pop-up toaster.