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“Afternoon, all,” Martin said. “What am I missing?” He didn’t look at Ray.
“Hey,” they all said back, suddenly less gloomy. Martin had the effect of a person with a golden glow.
“We’re talking about the firm’s direction,” Ray said. “Sit down.”
“What a good idea, Ray. I think I’ll sit down.”
Supercilious asshole. “Let’s keep this short. We all have work to do. Martin?”
Ears pricked up. Coffee cups clanked on the table.
“As you all know, Achilles Antoniou, the main donor to the museum project,” Martin said, “also wants to build a dream house in Laguna. He has three acres of land with an ocean view and no idea what to do with it. After a lot of legwork on my part, he agreed to a set of preliminary designs, which I know Ray and Denise are working up. We’ve got a meeting coming up on Thursday, tomorrow, and I’m feeling very optimistic. I’ve told him Ray’s a genius, and the rest of us are, too. I think he believed me about Ray. He had seen some articles-anyway, if Denise and Ray need help, you guys get on it, okay? This could solidify our name in the business, and that’s good for all of us. Plus-money. We all like bonuses, don’t we?”
They almost jumped up and down like cheerleaders at the thought, even though Ray noticed Martin hadn’t, in fact, offered any bonuses. As a partner, he had no power to offer bonuses on his own. You had to hand it to Martin. He had probably lavished a good five minutes of brainpower on this latest manipulation.
“If Ray lands this project,” Martin went on, “we’re all safe for the next year. Better than safe. We can expand.”
“If Antoniou likes what we do for him,” Ray said. Only he and Denise knew what a stretch that might be at this point.
“If you do your job,” Martin said, staring him down, “he will.” Excusing himself, he left the room.
They were all looking at him. “He seems to have the firm well in hand,” Carl, a junior associate and provocateur, said with a crooked smile. “So you entirely with us, Ray? Not pla
“Obviously, it’s too early to get into this discussion, Carl.”
“When would be good for you, Ray?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Because we have a right to know what plans you and Martin have for the company.”
All heads nodded somberly.
“We should talk.” Martin opened Ray’s door without knocking.
“Not now.”
“Come on, Ray, lighten up. I took my punch like a man, didn’t I? And I apologized, but if I didn’t apologize enough I’ll get down on my knees and kiss your loafer. Listen. I’ve been thinking about Leigh-wait-wait, I just want to say, I know you’d never hurt her. I’m sure she’s fine. You still haven’t heard from her?”
“No.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Martin repeated. He essayed a small smile. Ray was struck by a vision of Martin and Leigh at the cheesy motel, the way the cheap bed would have creaked, the way Martin would have taken her every which way. That last image Martin had left him with-
Turning his chair toward the window, he didn’t answer. Whatever Ray said would be very, very final, and a part of him didn’t want all this to fall apart, the business he had sweated and put his soul into for six years.
Eventually, the door closed. But Martin had brought up Leigh. Of course. Thinking about Leigh made him feel crazy, like throwing himself out the window. What should he do? The clenching tension that gripped him whenever he thought about her took over once more. Every muscle in his body fought every other muscle in an internal death-struggle. He stayed like that, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut.
What should he do?
After a while, relief came as his thoughts drifted back to the tapes.
Two tapes now. Thinking about the tapes was a way to manage the unmanageable tension of Leigh’s absence. He could mull over them endlessly, the tapes, the models, the keys, the memories-all these things at least were in his control, susceptible to analysis.
He replayed part of the tape in his mind, the second one. It was just a fragment of a conversation, like the first tape. He knew his mother’s voice.
“Stay away! How did you-”
“I’m giving you one more chance. I don’t know why I should. I loved you once, I suppose that’s it.”
“I hate you!”
“Yes. Hate. It all turns to hate. So you won’t do it?”
“I’ll never do it. Never!”
Ray’s mother, still young then, ran as fast as a spider. Ray admired how spiders run. So small and smart, they instinctively sense danger. A light comes on, freeze. A nearby movement, run for a dark crack in the cupboards. Why hadn’t they run to Canada, to Maine? He had figured that out. He and his mother had hidden far away in the anonymous, huge Los Angeles suburbs because Esmé’s beloved mother was in long-term nursing care in Montebello.
Some bastard had, meanwhile, stalked his mother. Esmé had always conveyed that impression, now that he thought about it. She kept few photos of his childhood, telling no happy stories, and remained mum on the subject of men, probably to spare Ray’s feelings.
A boyfriend, someone she had dated after Ray’s father left? After he died, when Ray was just two years old? It made Ray feel ashamed. He thought warmly of Esmé, who must have lived in great distress for many years. He would get her to share the story, and then they would put it away forever. Put the models away. Put the need to visit the houses away.
He sat down to his drawing board. He was not going to lose his work over Leigh, over the past. The museum design needed tweaking. Then he would design Antoniou a mansion that would go straight into Architectural Digest or heck, even Granta. He would show all the bastards the true meaning of original.
10
D ownstairs at home that night, while studying blueprints, the cassette burning a hole in his workbench, Ray heard thumping on the door. Ray peered at the large LCD screen in the corner of the basement that showed his front door. Two uniformed police officers stood out there, starched, laden with radios and holsters and clipboards and God knew what else. Behind them he saw a police car, red light spi
Walking toward the front door, Ray felt hot fear that flared through him like a sparkler, making his legs move slowly, painfully. Maybe everyone dreamed this moment, a moment when the jig was up. Didn’t everyone suffer from some guilty secrets and fear being found out? Had they talked with the kids, somehow identifying him as an intruder? Or was this about Leigh?
Ray shook his head, wishing the mixed-up disarray in his mind would clear up enough so that he could see his way down the hallway, through the door, and beyond, into the future. “What is it?” he asked the two men.
“Raymond Jackson?”
“Yes.”
“You work at Wilshire Associates?”
“I’m a partner, yes.” He asked for their identification, which they provided: Walter Rappaport, police lieutenant, robbery/homicide, a big man with bags flowery as broccoli under his eyes and a leery attitude; and Rick Buzas, police officer II, field training office, unlined and complacent.
“Nice house,” said Officer Buzas, younger, smaller, standing slightly behind the lieutenant. His fresh skin shone in the porch light. “Big. Bet you have a great view.” On this soft moonless night he was looking around at the landscaping, sniffing at the jasmine along the steps.
“What can I do for you?”
The big guy in front butted in. “Can we come in? We have a few questions.”
Ray closed the front door behind him and stepped outside to face them. “No. Sorry.” Ray didn’t want them in his house. He didn’t want them on his porch, either. He recalled a salient fact. The police had no obligation to tell the truth while discovering the truth. What a skewed world. He should be very careful. He didn’t want to get them interested in his business any more than they already were. “Now, could you please tell me why you are here?”