Simple (2 page)

“That's good, anyway. And your wife?”

“We're … okay. The usual stresses.”

“She knows?”

“No.”

“Or like she's seeing anybody herself?”

“No, she would never.”

“Well, it does happen. Sure?”

“Absolutely. Why? Are you telling me something different?”

“No. No. This little girlfriend of yours. I watched her get into her car one day. She was crying. See? She was crying?”

What could he say? He'd seen the waterworks. They made him nervous, too.

“Tell me,” Simon said. “Remember, I'm on your side. You are our boy. A lot of people are putting up a lot of money on you. I need to know. The worst.”

“Once she said she was going to call my wife and suggest we all meet and hash it out.”

“Hash what?”

“Who ends up with whom?”

“So she's completely nuts. She doesn't get it, does she—what's at stake for you?”

“She's religious. She's upset. She needs to talk to somebody, I think. She doesn't know how to put it together.”

“She thinks she's going to end up with you?”

“Yeah.”

“And—you want that?”

“No. No. I want to keep things as they are.”

A long whistle came out of Simon.

TWO

THURSDAY, AUGUST 13

LATE AFTERNOON,
SIMON
was getting into his car in the lot. He'd made sure he parked it near Cassie Price's car. Just as she was getting into her little Focus, he muttered something and looked up at her and gave a big smile. “My cell phone is out of charge.” He smiled again.

“Don't you have a car charger?”

“I forgot it. Would you be willing … I'm sorry. I know who you are. I've seen you up at the offices. I'm the party man for—”

“Oh, I know who you are, too. I've seen you up there.”

“Yeah, yeah. Meeting with our boy. He's fantastic, isn't he?”

“Yes.” She handed over her phone.

He punched in a number and walked away, pacing a bit a few yards from her. Finally he said, “Simon here. We need it. I'm telling you we need it yesterday. Call me. Any time tonight.” He ended the call—the noncall. He went back to her, handing over her phone. “Thanks. Is anybody ever at the other end of a phone these days?”

“Not usually.”

“Thank you. Would you … What a day! Would you be willing to go someplace for a few minutes? Have a drink or a coffee?”

“Oh, I really couldn't.”

“Too busy?”

“Very busy.”

He made a halfhearted gesture of acceptance. “You see, I'm … kind of worried about our boy.”

“Oh!” she said, and then she pulled back and tried to ask casually, “Why? The campaign?”

“Yes and no. His health.”

She froze. “He's not well?”

“Maybe I shouldn't have said that. It isn't his physical health.”

“Oh.”

“He said … you needed to talk to somebody. I'm a friendly dope.”

“He said that?”

“He … confided in me. An hour? Give me an hour.”

“Yes, all right. Where?” She looked around the parking garage as if to suggest they lean against a wall.

“I have to have a drink.”

“Okay.”

“A bar near your place? Which end of town do you live in?” He knew perfectly well.

“Oakland. Parking is terrible in Oakland up where the bars are. It's not much better in Squirrel Hill. There are bars there that could be okay, but—”

“Hmm. Parking—you're right. How about that Shadyside—you know, Highland Park—area. You know where Casbah is?”

“I've seen it. Highland, right?”

“You got it. One car or two?”

“Two,” she said definitely.

He got into his Saab and followed her Ford down the ramps and out the gate of the lot and then into the city. She drove competently, not fast like he wanted to drive. When they got to Casbah twenty-five minutes later, he parked quickly and watched her fuss with a lot of back-and-forth adjustments to get her car evenly between the lines. He played out possible scenarios while he waited. He went to her and led her inside.

“It's dark,” she said.

“That way no one will hear us.” He winked.

When they'd settled on a padded banquette and he'd ordered a Scotch for himself and persuaded her to try a cocktail, she frowned at the fancy ones on the menu while she picked at the snack mix on the table.

“You like salt?”

“I do.”

“How about a nice margarita?”

She shrugged.

He tipped a head to the waitress, who went off, and sat back and looked at her for a moment. “Oh, you are so beautiful.”

“I'm not. I know that.”

“That's why you're gorgeous. Because you don't flaunt it.”

“You said—”

“I know what I said. Sit back. I want to do this slowly. I want to say everything accurately. Let's wait till we have some liquid relaxation—”

The waitress carefully put down cocktail napkins, glasses, and a fresh dish of cocktail mix. She asked if they wanted anything else. Simon shook his head.

“Drink up,” he said easily to Cassie, who was sipping and making a face.

“This margarita is … I mean I tasted one before, but this one is somehow different.”

“How?”

“Better. More salty. But tell me now. I can't stand this. You're worried about him?”

“And you. What do you call him? Our boy, Mick?”

“Michael. Mike.”

“Hm.

“I wish you'd say what it is. You're making me nervous.”

“In time. Sit still. Timing is everything. Breathe. We both need to be very patient. Tell me, the margaritas you had in college or wherever—was there much of that? Partying? Our Mick has the impression you didn't do much partying.”

“I didn't. I maybe sipped a margarita once. I didn't go to parties until my senior year and then not very many.”

“What did you do with yourself?”

“I studied.”

“I see.”

“What does this have to do with … Mike's health? I'm being patient. I just don't see the point of beating around the bush.”

“It's the whole picture. He worries about you, and that makes him vulnerable. He'll never get elected if anybody finds out about you. You understand that, I know you do, and yet you keep seeing him. You are willing to stand in his way.”

She stiffened and didn't say anything for a long time. “It's not like I'm forcing him.” He smiled at her. She returned it with an angry scowl. She took a sip of the drink, then another. “Which is more important,” she asked, “real life or the election?”

“The election.”

“I beg to differ.”

“So you will stand in his way!” He said this with as much outrage and alarm as he could manage in a whisper in Casbah. He could already imagine the jumble of things party bosses were going to fling at him in some meeting in some out-of-the-way bar with no customers—
thought you were watching, all that work, all that money, all this time and goodwill and a little two-bit intern or whatever she is gets away from you.

“I love him.”

“That isn't sufficient reason to kill him.”

“Kill him?”

“His career.”

“He loves me.”

“He doesn't.” He went very still for a moment because she did. He watched as she digested what he'd said, blinking.

“He does. He's going to leave his wife as soon as—”

“He's never going to leave his wife.”

“Oh, yes—because—”

“He's not going to. Why do you think he asked me to come talk to you?”

“What are you saying?”

“How old are you? Think. Think. Be a woman.”

“He wouldn't do it through you.”

“What else is he going to do? You cry, don't you? You make a sign of yourself for everyone to see.”

“Never at the office. I hold it back.”

“What is he supposed to do? Come on. You're a woman of the world now. Be that. You like the nooky. Have it. Have plenty of it. Have it with me! Just not with him.”

“You don't understand at all.”

“My dear, I understand more than you can imagine. Let me try you. Have a sip first.” She did. “Have another. Tell me if you can feel it, you know, the buzz in the knees, any of that?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Man. I might be in love with you.”

“No. Don't make fun of me.”

“Men fall in love with you. They do. Just looking at you. A little conversation and it's instant. That's what happened to Mike. You had some meeting, some conversation, I don't know what it was, his work on Veterans Affairs or the fund-raiser for the leukemia kid, whatever, you were impressed by him and he saw that and he wanted more of you being impressed by him. Then you, not having a lot of experience of shitheads, I mean
men,
and apparently ignoring your peer group culture totally, decided it was love. Nothing like love. It was not just lust, I know that, I'm not stupid, I know it was more than lust. It was imagination. Hope. A small fiction of an alternate life to the one you're living. What are you, some poor student? Living in a falling-apart house. All your college mates a year ago thought you were a dork because you weren't living it up when they were. Suddenly in your mind, you're better than any of those idiots, you're in the governor's mansion. You're in the newspapers. You're known for doing good works.”

“No.”

“When you say no, I fall out of love with you—when you play dumb.”

“Please. I can't stand this. He didn't send you.” She reached for her handbag. Her hand dropped weakly.

“I'm afraid he did. Take a drink and grit your teeth. We're going to laugh about this later, you and me. I promise you that. He doesn't love you. He doesn't. He is worried about you—because you cry. That's a different thing. Are you gritting your teeth?”

She nodded. Her eyes welled up.

He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Good girl.” When she didn't say anything, he moved closer and put an arm around her. When she didn't resist, he gave it a squeeze, a fatherly hug.

“I'll talk to him tomorrow,” she said.

“I wouldn't.”

“I don't care if the whole office knows.”

He kissed her on the brow again. “That's the point. You can't let anyone know. Ever.”

“They'll know when he leaves his wife.” She paused. “After the election.”

“He's not going to leave his wife. Ever. You make me say things I don't want to say. I like you. A lot. But you're being very difficult.”

“She's having an affair. She wants out, too. I could call her, meet with her. We could work it out. Women can be very logical.”

“She's not having an affair. He told you that, didn't he?” Then Simon took the leap. “He always says that. Always. To women.” He moved the drink toward her. “Here. Don't worry, you'll be fine tomorrow.” He kissed her cheek.

The waitress came to them, grinning as if she had just witnessed true love. “Ready for another?”

“Oh, yes.”

Then he told her about all the other women in Mike Connolly's life. He didn't give names, but he painted the general picture. Perhaps he exaggerated some. He called him Mick now so that she would understand she didn't know him.

“He's not like that.”

“You don't believe me.”

“I know what love is. I'm going to marry him.”

“You come from a religious family.”

“Very.”

“He told me.”

“I need to talk to him.” She took out her phone.

“Please. May I ask one thing? He asked you not to call him, didn't he?”

“Yes.”

“Don't make an enemy of him. He's in the bosom of his family tonight. They're all being photographed at dinner, at play, the whole gamut of pub photos so that we can all have him as our guv. After the photo shoot, he has meetings. With high-level bosses. You probably know that—he got called to Harrisburg tonight. A phone call will ruin him. If you love him, if you really love him, would you do that to him? Can't it wait until tomorrow?”

She looked at her phone sadly, put it away. “Will he be in late tomorrow?”

“Probably. They usual have early breakfast meetings—well, by now you know that.”

“You've really upset me.”

“I know. But who else should tell you? Right, right, okay, he asked me to talk to you, and … all right, I didn't give him a fight because I
wanted
to talk to you—you intrigue me. Honestly, I could fall for you just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“Quit it. How dumb do you think I am?”

“Not dumb, honey, just afraid of your own powers. Which are significant, let me tell you. Men are going to be crazy for you. Get used to it. It's okay that you did everything you did. You should have been doing more of it all along. And—hey, what's so wrong with me while we're at it? I'm insulted you don't take me seriously. I could take you wonderful places, delicious places. You could date me to get over your heartbreak. I would do things to your gorgeous body our Mick never dreamed of. I could make you feel such pleasure, such top-of-the-world glorious pleasure. I'm good at it. Believe me, I know how to make a woman happy.” He made a comic leer. “What, you don't like how I look?”

She was almost laughing. How he hated her.

“What,” he teased, “you won't date a Jewish boy? You don't like my nose? Remember Cyrano, my love. I am the real lover. Mick only happened to notice you after I raved about you. ‘Who is that delicious one?' I asked him.”

He got a hand on her breast. When she moved it, he let it fall to her lap.

The drinks arrived. He tried to imagine how he would report this. They were tough. Going to have his hide if he couldn't deliver Mick, unblemished.