He was three beers into it now, and had made and unmade his mind too many times to count. The beers weren’t helping, and yet they were.
“I just talked to Jane Ryland,” Ackerman went on. “You know who that is?”
“Queen a’ Sheba?” Aaron said. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Why was Ack making him guess? Say what he had to say.
“Where are you?” Ackerman’s voice was a whisper.
“Can I guess again?” Aaron felt like laughing, some reason.
“Shit. Listen. Gianelli. Jane Ryland is a reporter. She was calling you. You. And thank the bank employees’ freaking handbook your Mindy or whatever her name is-”
“Mandy?” The assistant in his office. What was this about?
“Had the sense to call me instead of you. Listen up. Jane Ryland is a sneak and a liar. Like every reporter. She’s at the Register. You know, Jane Ryland, the one who used to be on TV. She purported to be asking you about Liz McDivitt-bad enough, but that I could deal with. But then she asked about the REOs. Whether the bank rents them. How the hell did she-why is she asking about that?”
“How the frig do I know?” Aaron hunched over the bar now, one hand cupped over the phone, the other covering his face. The place stank of beer, and he probably did, too, and now-the bartender, a batter-faced bodybuilder with cheap tattoos and a once-white apron, swiped the bar in front of him with a striped towel and pointed, inquiringly, to Aaron’s empty glass. “Sure,” he said.
“Sure what?” Ackerman said.
“Not you,” Aaron said. “What’d you tell her?”
“What d’you think I told her, asshole?” Ackerman said. “I’m the PR guy. I told her no comment. But it’s not what I say that matters, it’s what you say. Do not-I repeat-do not talk to her. Or to anyone else. Say it’s bank policy, which has the added benefit of being the truth.”
There was that truth thing again. Aaron smiled into his empty glass. Did Jane whoever really call? Or was Ackerman trying to prevent him from telling his side of the story? If Aaron didn’t talk, it’d look like he was hiding something. Wouldn’t it?
Aaron accepted the beer, his fourth? Fifth? Who cared. Toasted to his future. “My lips are frigging sealed,” he said. Even though that was a lie.
“We’ll take care of her,” Ackerman said. “Reporting is a dangerous job. I’ll call you when I know more.”
And he was gone.
Aaron clicked off his dead phone, stared at the numerals on the keypad. This whole idea had seemed logical at the outset, easy to justify, the bank with so much money, him with so little. When Ackerman presented it, he’d made it feel reasonable, even brilliant. Certainly safe enough. But then, what happened to Lizzie-that was horrible. Like, horrible. And Ackerman was behind it. Waverly Road, too. And the other one. Now he was threatening some reporter? A little tinkering with bank finances, that was one thing.
But-his mind could hardly face the concept. Murder. And he was going to get blamed. Ackerman always talked about “we.” Who the hell was we?
Him and Ack, he guessed. Some “we.”
Aaron saw how the bartender’s towel had streaked the bar, ran his finger through the residue, left a trail that disappeared.
It had gone too far. It had. He’d already decided what to do.
Question was-right now? Or later?
Maybe later. After one more beer.
55
Jane turned off the shower, listening. Was that her door buzzer? She paused, hair dripping, yanked back the map of the world shower curtain, listened again. Coda, balanced on the bathroom sink, was passionately licking the condensing water off the mirror. Cat was nuts. And, yes. The buzzer.
Someone at her front door at nine at night? Not Peter. He’d called, saying something had come up-seemed to be a pattern, but who was she to judge. And truth be told, she was looking forward to a night at home. A little TV, a little nuked baked potato and broccoli, a glass of wine. Tomorrow, she’d follow up on the not-empty house situation. And Sandoval.
She grabbed her fluffy terry-cloth robe, slipped on her black flip-flops, and flapped down the hall. Maybe it was Margot from downstairs, bringing her restaurant’s leftovers? Or Neena, her building manager, with some condo news. If it was some kind of salesperson, she’d-whatever.
She buzzed the intercom.
“Yes?”
“It’s me,” the voice said.
Jake.
“Is everything okay?” she said. Silly question, but she was so surprised it was him. Last person she’d expected. Funny to think so, after all they’d-
“Sure,” his voice bristled over the intercom. “Janey? Can I come up? Can we talk? Okay?”
And of course it was okay, this was their lives, the push-pull of responsibility and desire, like two poles of a magnet, repelling and attracting, but physically unable to undo what nature, or something, had designed.
Wine for two. Pretzels and reasonable cheese, Jake on the wing chair. Jane on the couch. Small talk, small talk. She yanked the belt of her robe tighter as she tucked herself into the corner.
“Thing is.” Jake took a sip of wine, then put his glass on the coffee table. Picked it up, swiped away the ring, replaced it on a napkin.
“Sorry,” he said.
“No problem,” Jane said.
Silence.
She laughed. “We’re really communicating, huh?”
“I’m tired of it,” Jake said.
Jane closed her robe tighter, even though it couldn’t go tighter. Was this the end of their-whatever it was? Was this why he’d canceled Bermuda? Now he was telling her the truth? Saying good-bye? “Tired? Of what?”
“Pretending. Calling you ‘Miss Ryland.’ Ignoring you in court this morning. At Sandoval.”
“Why’d you-?” Jane began.
“Let me finish, or I won’t, okay?” Jake interrupted, smiling.
“Okay,” she said. Felt weird to be in a bathrobe, towel over her shoulders. Hair wet. Vulnerable, kind of, with Jake all dressed still in his sport coat and oxford shirt. He’d left his court tie on-the one she’d given him, blue like the Bermuda sky, she’d told him-though he’d yanked it open at the neck. He needed a shave, and maybe a haircut, but it was all she could do not to get up and-but she wouldn’t. Not now.
He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. “I’m tired of having to be so careful. I mean, what if we admitted it? Told the Supe, told your boss? Victoria?”
“Marcotte.” What he proposed-was proposing, she almost laughed when the word came to mind-was impossible. Wasn’t it? She took a sip of wine, the last sip in her glass. Two glasses, she could handle that. Even though she was starving. She sliced off some cheese, balanced it on a cracker. Took a bite. Stalling.
“Marcotte.” Jake reached over, poured more wine. “Just consider it. Would they really fire you?”
Jane held the remnant of cheese on her cracker, one tiny crumb falling onto the couch. How was she supposed to answer that? It wasn’t really about whether she’d be fired, it was about the reality of this conversation. Their truth.
Stalling. She took a sip of wine, the soft red wrapping itself around her food-deprived brain.
A noise. What? The door buzzer.
Jake stood, smoothing down his jacket. He eyed her robe, her hair, her bare feet. “Expecting someone?” he said.
She stood, making sure of the terry-cloth belt. Now what? “Grand Central,” she said. “And-no.”
He gestured toward the intercom. “Better check.”
She pushed the button, baffled. “Yes?”
“It’s me,” the voice said. “Peter.”