Christopher Sorrentino - The Fugitives

P EOPLEare not happy,” Argenziano said. “It weighs on me. I feel responsible. This is due in part because I am a responsible person. It’s in my nature. When people feel bad, I want to make them feel better.”

Kat was sitting with Argenziano in his suite at Manitou Sands. It was Wednesday. They sat in a pair of club chairs arranged before a slab of plate glass that overlooked the bay, where a single ship was moving across the water, navigating slowly around the fractal ice that clotted its surface. Argenziano was wearing a heavy terry-cloth bathrobe and was drinking hot water with lemon from a mug.

“That’s sympathetic of you,” said Kat.

“I’m trying to sincerely express myself and you’re being smart.”

“Maybe if you could tell me who’s unhappy and how it has to do with me.”

“Who and how it has to do with you is that after we talked I was obliged to go to my colleagues at South Richmond Consultants and inform them of the possibility that a story about an unfortunate loss occurring over March Madness last year would likely be appearing in a Chicago newspaper. And the prospect does not make them happy, for a number of reasons, some of them obvious. You don’t look so hot.”

“Bad night’s sleep. You are responsible, you were saying?”

“For what you do, only incidentally. I’m responsible for the original problem, in the buck-stops-here sense. I oversaw the operation in question.”

“And what operation is that, exactly?”

“Don’t come in, I invite you in here, and you come in taking an accusatory tone. You think that because the operation is something you don’t approve of, I couldn’t possibly feel a sense of responsibility. Your disapproval is nothing but a misunderstanding of the terms.”

“What terms?”

“You don’t need to know them. The people involved know and understand the terms. Everyone involved accepts the terms. These arrangements between people in a society have always been around, Kat. It’d be naive to think they haven’t. It’s very similar to feudalism. There’s a sense of belonging, of goals that can only be achieved through a recognition of common interests.” Again he pronounced it “innarests,” evidently a consistent imperfection in his presentation of himself. “I’ll bet you think that the higher up awareness of these situations goes, the more likely it is that someone, some upright person, will act to put a stop to it. Wrong. You are wrong. What happens is that the higher up it goes, the more institutionalized the acceptance of the terms becomes. That’s a lesson for you. It’s a lesson about money, like what I always seem to be teaching you, but it’s also a lesson about power, and about responsibility. In these situations you so disapprove of, according to these terms you can’t understand, people are bound to each other and responsible to each other in a way that just isn’t possible at all levels of democracy. For all of democracy’s many merits. People are attracted to these situations, these terms. Not just the economics of them, but the loyalties and allegiances they create. Because finally it’s also a lesson about what people aspire to. People aspire to these loyalties and allegiances. They look out for each other because they’re looking out for themselves. They want to belong to something bigger than themselves and what they say when they’re talking to the bathroom mirror. They aren’t looking out for abstractions —they’re looking out for each other. That’s true democracy.”

Kat massaged her temples with her thumb and middle finger and said, “So you’re saying why should I even bother with that part of the story.”

“The part about the details of our operation the loss arose from, no. I think that’s a nonstarter, is what I’m saying. That’s not your story, Kat.”

“I think people might be interested.”

“In that case you might have trouble finding someone to talk on the record about any of it.”

“But I have a source.”

Argenziano threw his head back. “Ahh,” he said to the ceiling. “A source. This would be your disgruntled former employee.” He dropped his chin to look at her. “I’ll tell you one thing. Let’s say that your story did have something to it. I wouldn’t rely too heavily on that source.”

“The countinghouse view.”

“You remembered.” Argenziano nodded approvingly, impressed.

“You took what I told you seriously enough to go to South Richmond with it.”

“What can I say? Your information was plausible. I had to at least raise the possibility that what you told me was true.”

“And you’re meeting with me again.”

“The fact of the matter is that I was urged not to communicate with you anymore.” He paused. “If this were a movie, we’d be meeting on a bench in a windswept, deserted park where nobody could overhear us.”

“And you would check me for a wire.”

“And I would check you for a wire. If this were a movie. But I said fuck it, pardon my french. Too damn cold and wet.”

“I appreciate your meeting me. I appreciate your not making me meet you in the cold. I appreciate your not checking to see if I’m wearing a wire.”

Argenziano regarded her warily for a moment, as if trying to figure out the balance between sarcasm and sincerity in what she’d just said. “Forget it,” he said. “Strictly selfish on all counts. My knee starts killing me when it gets like this out, for one thing. For another, I think it’s important that I act independently to expedite the solution of the problem. That means for starters that this conversation is completely off the record.”

“Again. We have to stop meeting like this.”

“Ha ha. Now, now, Kat. I’m trying to help you out. But, obviously, I’m interested in knowing everything you think you know about Saltino’s involvement. And of course the identity of your source.”

“The source is still confidential. And last time we met, you worked pretty hard to convince me that Jackie Saltino couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with the loss. You weren’t really even willing to acknowledge the loss.”

“Let’s say my position has changed.”

“That’s interesting. What changed it?”

“Don’t get technical. The point is, I think we can mutually agree on the parameters of a story that will satisfy both our needs.”

“Parameters.”

“What goes in, what stays out.”

“I still don’t know why I would agree to that.”

“Like I said, part of the story is a nonstarter.”

“The part about skimming money from the casino’s gross, you mean.”

“I didn’t say that and you couldn’t prove it if you wanted to.”

“Please. If some girl in the cage knew about it…” She trailed off.

“A girl?” asked Argenziano. He smiled. “That eliminates half my suspects.”

“All I’m saying is, at the very least the rumor is out there.”

“Yeah, that may be true. So I’m supposed to add fire to the fire? Give me a break. I want to put it out, the fire. And I’m telling you how.”

Kat waited.

“Look,” said Argenziano. “This is a story you want, am I right? You came here from Chicago because you wanted a big story. Because even a chickenhead like me can go onto the World Wide Web and see that you cover, what, high school chess tournaments? A committee meeting once in a while? You want a big story? You can have a big story. It’s a story about a trusted individual who got greedy and became a thief, a big thief. And I will consent to be interviewed about it, as a consultant to the hotel, and I will instruct the necessary people to give you access to the proper personnel to round out and complete that story, which is that somebody committed a crime, a crime that did not negatively impact our guests, or our fiduciary relationship with the Northwest Michigan Band of Chippewa Indians, or our legal obligation to the taxing authorities, or the Gaming Control Board, or anybody at all but us. We are the victims, the foolish and trusting victims, of that crime. That’s your story. It’s not as big as if it involved those other aspects you mentioned, but it beats covering the Winnetka Junior League. Now please tell me that you understand what I’m saying when I’m saying I’m setting the limits on your story. It would make it so much easier, and more pleasant, because I honestly and truly do enjoy your company.”