Eye Contact (14 page)

“Mark,” says Claire, approaching from behind, “I’m in search of a partner. Hector’s a skilled dancer—his tango’s truly wicked—but this isn’t quite his style.”

“I’d be delighted,” Manning tells her. “But first, have you met Gordon Smith? He’s managing editor of the
Journal.
”

After an exchange of pleasantries, Smith says, “I seem to need a drink, so I’ll leave you two to boogie. If we don’t talk later, Mark, let’s meet first thing Monday at the office.” And he’s gone.

Manning tells Claire, “Be forewarned: I’m not too current with dance trends, but I can probably muster something more timely than a fox-trot.”

“Whatever,” says Claire. “I just enjoy moving to the music. More important, I hoped we could talk by ourselves.”

“Oh?” Manning lifts his hands. Claire does likewise. They touch, palms to palms, and sway their bodies—a restrained interpretation of the frenetic beat that has other dancers whirling and stomping, flapping their elbows like wounded birds. Manning tells her, “I’ve never been much for the club scene, and to be honest, I haven’t danced with a woman for a while. Hope you’re not disappointed.”

“Don’t be so modest, dear. You move naturally and with self-assurance. You’re a splendid dancer, to say nothing of a perfect host.”

Not expecting such flattery, Manning says, “I’ve never been told
that
before.”

She squeezes his fingers. “Ah, gay men …” she trails off. “I do enjoy your company.”

Manning says wryly, “I’ll bet Hector doesn’t quite approve.”

“No,” she admits, “but it’s my life to live, and I like it that way. I love Hector, but I could never marry him. Isn’t that curious? We’re so different, but in many ways, we’re too much alike.”

“The mysteries of human chemistry.”

She laughs. “I shouldn’t burden you with my emotional musings, not when you’re wrapped up in mysteries of your own. Persevere, Mark. You’ll unravel it. You’re good at this—probably the best. When you solved that missing-person case, it wasn’t for sloppy reporting that they handed you a Partridge Prize.”

An uncomfortable grin falls across Manning’s face. He tells her, “They
didn’t
hand me a Partridge.”

“Oh dear, I’m sorry,” she says. “I remember reading something about it. I assumed you had it sewn up.”

“I assumed so too—most everyone did—but the awards committee saw it differently. There was a problem with the fact that I had delayed announcing my find until the last minute, at a public inquest. There was a feeling that I had unduly sensationalized the story, and it didn’t help matters that I accepted a half-million-dollar reward from the estate. Some of the committee felt that I had already gotten my prize.” He pauses, weighing the possibility that these concerns of the committee might be justified.

Then he tells the rest. “But the deciding factor, I’ve since learned, was sheer politics, if not outright prejudice. The
Chicago Post,
our competitor, has some contacts on the committee, and they managed to sway a vote or two. Their objection—get this—had nothing to do with the method or ethics of my reporting.”

The pace of their dancing slows to a shuffle as Manning explains to Claire, “Shortly after breaking that story, I came out in print. It was no big deal. I worked it in as an aside where it was relevant to another interview. I still feel it was the honest, responsible thing to do. But there are still a lot of people, sophisticated people, who have trouble with gay issues. So the bottom line is that I wasn’t deemed quite worthy of the Brass Bird.”

Claire has listened quietly. “I’m stunned. I had no idea that such prejudice could still exist at an official level.”

“The Partridge Prize is handed out by a private foundation,” Manning reminds her. “They can set any standards they please, and I defend their right to do so.”

“Under the circumstances, you’re more understanding than I’d be.”

“Intellectual honesty is a path that sometimes leads to unexpected conclusions.”

She eyes him askance. “Did you just make that up, or did you cop it from a fortune cookie?”

“I’m not sure,” he tells her with a laugh that acknowledges the heavy-handedness of his dictum. “You can quibble with the rhetoric, but the notion is sound. Whenever we’re willing to abandon self-evident principles for the sake of a quick fix, we indulge in the irrational. And when we forsake reason, choosing to disregard logic and the evidence of our senses, we toss away our very
humanity,
our innate tools for survival. We lay the groundwork for self-destruction.”

They no longer dance, but their hands still touch. Claire says, “Thank you, Mark. It’s easy to lose sight of objectivity. We’re tempted at every turn, often in the name of so-called ‘higher ideals’ that are rooted in little more than mysticism. I needed a reminder. Keep doing what you’ve always done, and eventually the skeptics will notice the inescapable.” She ponders their discussion for a moment, then asks, “In light of what you’ve told me, do you even
want
a Partridge?”

“Of course I do,” he tells her. “There’d be some money, sure, and the flash of fame would feel good, but most important, it’s an affirmation. The Brass Bird may look like a cheap trophy, but it happens to be investigative journalism’s highest award. It would tell me that I haven’t been wasting my time. In short, it would prove that I was right.”

Claire draws their hands together, holding his between hers. “You
were
right,” she assures him, “but you were robbed. Fortunately, your attitude is not only philosophical, but practical. You’ll have other shots at the prize.”

“That’s the beauty of this business,” he tells her. “You never know what’s next—when opportunity might knock.”

Right on cue, someone answers the front door, and in walks Dr. Zarnik. He has been in the news so much lately, he is recognized by many in the crowd as Chicago’s reigning celebrity. But he’s a scientist, not a pop-cult hero, so he’s greeted not by a giddy mob, but by a round of whispers and sidelong glances.

Claire tells Manning, “Better get cracking.”

“Come with me,” he says. “I’ll introduce you.”

Across the room, David has also noticed Zarnik’s entrance. He sets down the remnants of another cocktail. “Come on,” he says to Neil. “I’ll introduce you.”

Manning, Claire, David, and Neil converge upon Zarnik as he finishes ordering a drink. The waiter turns to fetch it, but Zarnik reconsiders and tells him, “With
diet
cola, please, if you have it.”

The guy from Happy Happenings nods and disappears.

“Ah, Mr. Manning,” says Zarnik, spotting his host. “I hope you will forgive my tardy arrival, but your story in this afternoon’s paper prompted numerous telephone calls. There were many requests for interviews, which of course I would not grant. These interruptions not only prevented my timely departure from the laboratory, but diverted me from a crucial phase of my research there. Such, alas, is the downside of public recognition.” He punctuates the thought with a playful toot of the whistle that hangs, as always, with keys on the chain around his neck.

His white lab coat has been left behind, replaced for the evening by a dark tweed jacket, years out of style as well as wrong for the season. He wears the same necktie that Manning has already seen twice this week, but its knot is now pulled tight under Zarnik’s chin, where the collar of his shirt bunches, unbuttoned. Manning notices, in fact, that the button is missing. The edge of the collar has not yet frayed, but has pilled, abraded by the stubble of neck-beard that escaped Zarnik’s razor.

Manning shakes his hand. “Better late than never, Professor. We’re delighted you could come. You haven’t met Neil Waite yet, have you?”

“No, I haven’t,” says Zarnik. He turns to Neil and extends his hand. “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Waite.”

Neil tells Zarnik, “We’re honored to have you in our home …
Professor
.” The word is spoken with hesitation, as Neil doesn’t know the man’s true identity, and he’s not as adept as Manning at acting out the charade.

Zarnik says, “I understand that congratulations are in order. May you enjoy many years of happiness here.” Then he notices David. “And Mr. Bosch. It is good to see you again. I hope that yesterday’s visit to the planetarium proved gratifying.”

With wide, innocent, boozy eyes, David overplays the dumb kid, telling Zarnik, “More than you’ll ever know, Professor.” Finding the insinuation clever, he tries to suppress a sloppy laugh.

Manning grabs Zarnik’s shoulder and whirls him away from David. “Claire,” he says, “permit me to introduce Dr. Pavo Zarnik, the astrophysicist I told you about.” He says to Zarnik, “I doubt if you keep tabs on American theater in your country, Professor, but I’d like you to meet one of our most respected directors and playwrights—”

“Ah,
pfroobst
!” he interrupts. “Introductions are hardly necessary, not for the illustrious Claire Gray. Even in my homeland, we have quickly become fans of—how is it called in English?—
Barterers
.”

“
Traders
,” she corrects him.

“Of course. Forgive me. I am humbled by your presence, dear lady.” He bows.

Claire smirks at Manning, who makes a silent appeal for her to play along. She extends her hand to Zarnik, who kisses her fingers.

Manning asks, “So, Professor, were you satisfied with the story verifying your discovery?”

“Entirely,” says Zarnik, beaming. “However, recognition for one’s work, which I daresay we all crave, seems to bring with it an abrupt lack of privacy. Would that we might achieve the one without the other.”

“Good luck,” says Claire. Her wistful tone suggests that she has long abandoned such futile wishes.

“Whoa,” says David, stepping forward, a bit unbalanced, shaking his head as if Claire should know better. “That’s
bad
luck—right, Professor?” David crooks his pinkie and displays it to the group, explaining, “You’ve gotta hook ’em.”

Zarnik laughs. “Mr. Manning’s young colleague is referring to a custom of my people. It surely appears silly to an outsider, but like most traditions, it has taken on meaning for us through the momentum of repetition. Miss Gray?” He offers her his little finger.

Claire happily obliges, offering her own pinkie. They shake. She pauses in thought for a moment, as if something has dawned upon her.

She asks Zarnik a question about his research, but finds that he is far more interested in discussing her opinions of the current Broadway season. They both lament that New York’s theatrical scene has become dominated by revivals. Claire observes, “Some of the best original theater in the country is coming out of Chicago these days, and I plan to get a healthy dose of it during my visit.”

Bowing out of their conversation, Manning summons David with a finger-wag, signaling that they need to talk. He leads David a few yards away, out of Zarnik’s earshot. Neil follows.

“David,” says Manning, “you’d better shape up. There could be a lot at stake this evening. You want to blow it?”

David leans close to Manning’s ear so that Neil won’t hear him. “I’d love to.”

But Neil has heard, and he looks at Manning with blank astonishment.

“Cut it
out
,” says Manning. He’s losing his temper, and David can tell, drunk as he is, that he’s gone too far. “If you want to stay on this story, you’d better clean up your act—and fast.”

“Sorry, Mark.” He turns to Neil. “Sorry, Neil. I’ve had way too much to drink.”

“It’s okay,” says Neil, relieved that David’s tone has taken a new turn. He offers, “Can I get you something—Coffee? A sandwich maybe?”

“Thanks. You’re a bud.”

Manning gives Neil a quick hug and sends him off to feed David. He notices Roxanne standing alone near the door, sipping a tall cool one—ice water. He makes his way through the crowd and asks her, “Having a good time?”

“I am,” she tells him. “You’ve collected a colorful circle of friends lately.”

“Are you talking about the
Journal
folks,” he asks, “or the gay contingent?”

“Both. I spend
my
days, and many nights, with lawyers.”

Manning thinks he’s heard a rap at the door. The music and the yammering now make it impossible to hear the buzzer, so most new arrivals simply walk in. Again he hears it—someone
is
knocking—patiently, methodically, waiting to be admitted. Manning shrugs an apology to Roxanne, then reaches to turn the knob and swing open the door.

There stands Lucille Haring, Nathan Cain’s assistant. She wears a colorless suit, similar to the one she wore at the office on Thursday, except that it has pants instead of a skirt. The tuft of cropped red hair blazes atop her head, a conspicuous exception to her otherwise featureless appearance. Even tonight, stepping out for a party, she wears no jewelry, no frills, nothing that acknowledges the festivity of the occasion, let alone her womanhood. She stands stiff in the doorway.

“Hello, Mr. Manning,” she tells him. “I’m here. Reporting as instructed.”

“Good of you to come,” says Manning, not at all sure what to think of this guest who was not invited, but ordered to attend. “Do come in.”

She crosses the threshold, and Manning closes the door, telling her, “Miss Haring, let me introduce a great friend of mine, Roxanne Exner.”

Lucille Haring pumps Roxanne’s hand with a firm grasp, all business. The ladies exchange a few comments about the summer weather, about their jobs, about the loft. Roxanne mentions, “Over the years, I’ve seen most of Neil’s design projects, at least photos of them, and I can tell you without hesitation that this is his best work to date. Isn’t it marvelous?”

The redhead glimpses about, jabbing the air with her nose as if sniffing a fire—but she’s just looking, absorbing the room with a series of quick mental snapshots, giving no facial clue as to whether she likes the place or not. “Very nice,” she tells Roxanne without a trace of enthusiasm. Then she turns to Manning and in the same flat tone tells him, “Congratulations.” She grips his hand and shakes it smartly, once.

“Can we get you something?” he asks her, snagging the arm of a waiter who is brushing past.

“Scotch, please. Neat.” She dismisses the waiter with a sharp nod, then pivots to face Roxanne again, asking, “Your law work—do you ever see the inside of a courtroom, or is it all paper-pushing?”