'This is not a negotiation. You make this deal now, or I replace you.' He looked at Brenton sadly as if he were calling up the memory of a dead friend. 'I'd still rather have you, Brenton.'
Wallace led him out into the entry hall, where they waited for the elevator. Wallace looked past the anchor to the elevator door as it opened.
'I need an answer, Brenton.'
When Brenton finally spoke, his voice sounded as if he were on life support. 'Can we call the new show The Spencer Report?' he asked, weakly.
C. Wallace Litmanpatted him on the shoulder but didn't answer the question. 'Nice having you up. I'll have Business Affairs pick up the two-year option. Give my best to Sandy.' And he reached in and pushed the down button.
As the door closed, Brenton looked at himself again in the antique mirror.
He looked older.
Chapter 15
Solomon Kazorowski had been in New Jersey for two days. He'd been sleeping in a down sleeping bag in his Budget rental car which he couldn't afford.
On Saturday, he'd found a good place in the woods above the Alo house. He'd had to cut down a few medium-size trees with a handsaw he'd bought, in order to get the small Chevy Nova up a hill to a place where he could park it and watch the house from inside the car. It was too cold to keep getting out and taking pictures with the starscope camera he'd borrowed from an old pal who was still working for the Vegas 'Eye.' The agent had also loaned Kaz five hundred and told him to please not get his ass shot off spying on the Alos. Kaz was determined to accept this advice.
From this spot, he could look down over the driveway and entry of the Alos' castle-style house. He figured unless somebody down there was really looking hard, they wouldn't see him. He'd gotten some good shots of a tall, blond, very handsome man who arrived on Sunday night with Mickey's sister. He didn't know who he was. He looked like an aging surfer.
On Monday morning, Mickey Alo arrived home. He went directly to his father's room. Kaz could see him through the starscope moving excitedly back and forth in front of the window. He was wondering what was going on.
Mickey was in his father's bedroom when the doctor left, having given Joseph a shot. Joseph was breathing in labored gasps. 'Who's downstairs?' he finally asked.
'It's Ryan. He came down from Princeton for the night. He's in the living room with Lucinda.'
His father grunted. Mickey had begun to regret having let Ryan and Lucinda fly east together. They had obviously started something up. Mickey had never dreamed Lucinda could get interested in Ryan.
Mickey had always been fascinated by Ryan. He never viewed him as a friend, because Mickey had no use for friends. Ryan played a different role in Mickey's life. Ryan was handsome and athletic-everything Americans worshiped, but Mickey had found that he could dominate him. As a boy, that had intrigued and entertained Mickey, made him know he was stronger, better. Now all these years later, that hadn't changed. Ryan's friends were a bunch of dipshits whose brains ran out their noses. It proved to Mickey he had been right to have no friends. He cared about no one.
At Harvard, he had learned that he was a clinical sociopath. The instructor had outlined the condition smugly before an abnormal psychology class. Sociopaths were highly intelligent psychopaths who felt nothing-not love, hate, gratitude, or jealousy. All his early life, Mickey had wondered, when his friends spoke of their emotions, what they were talking about. He had never felt anything. To cover, he had become an exquisite actor, learning to mimic emotions he didn't feel. Once, to test the depth of his hollowness, he had fantasized about killing his mother. Could he look her in the eye and blow her head off? Could he watch her brains and blood splatter on her upholstered headboard while she slept, or listen to her beg and plead for her lif e a nd still pull the trigger? He realized that he could easily perform the act. Except for a mild sense of gratitude, he had no feelings for her.
Lucinda came the closest to provoking any emotion. Lucinda was special to him, but he doubted if it was love as much as pride. She was his sister and she was beautiful. He took a perverse pleasure in that, as if she was the receptacle for all the beauty that had escaped him. He would not have his sister involved with somebody like Ryan Bolt.
Joseph was asleep now, and the phone rang in the bedroom. Mickey picked it up. A. J. Teagarden was calling from Providence.
'Everything's set for tomorrow,' the wonk said. And then he went on to fill Mickey in on the status of the campaign.
Downstairs, Ryan and Lucinda were sitting in the living room. They had been talking about Ryan's first day in Princeton. He was trying to explain how exciting it was. There was the feeling of something about to happen. He liked the youth and enthusiasm.
'I still don't quite know what I'm doing there,' he admitted, 'but I'm hiring a crew to film the announcement tomorrow.' He glanced at his watch. 'The Film Commission said I should call back at six to get a confirmation.'
'You can use the phone in Middy's office.'
Ryan moved out of the living room into the darkened hall.
Joseph Alo's office was next to the den, but Mickey had been using it for almost a month. Ryan moved to the desk and picked up the phone. He heard a strange hissing sound through the receiver. He tried to punch up a line but couldn't, and saw that the phone was attached to a large, black box labeled 'TelaCenturia.' There was a button on the box. He reached down, pushed it and immediately heard A. J. Teagarden speaking. The voice had a strange, tinny resonance.
'…. money coming in fast from the Bahamas. We're going to use it to buy TV spots in Iowa.'
'Just a minute,' he heard Mickey say. And then there was a click on the line. Ryan tried to get another line. This time he got a dial tone.
Seconds later, the door of the den exploded open and Mickey was standing there.
'What the fuck you think you're doing?' he said, spitting the words at Ryan.
'I'm calling this guy about confirming my film crew for tomorrow.'
Mickey moved across the office, grabbed the phone, and smashed it down in the cradle. 'You were listening in on my conversation.'
'Calm down, will you?'
'This is my fucking office!' Mickey's voice was now controlled, but his demeanor was deadly. Ryan felt a strange energy coming off of Mickey, almost a kind of heat.
'Lucinda said I could use the phone in here.' 'You were on that line. What'd you hear?'
'Nothing. Just A. J. talking about the Bahamas or something. What's wrong with you?'
Mickey moved around the desk and got close to Ryan. When he spoke now, his voice was a deadly hiss. 'You're a guest here. Okay? You're in my house. You stay outta my office. You don't listen in on my calls.'
'Mickey, I wasn't listening in. I was just trying to get a line.'
There was a long moment while they stood facing each other, and then Ryan put his hand on Mickey's chest and pushed him back gently. 'What the hell's wrong with you? You act like something's going on here.'
'Just don't spy on me.'
'What's this thing. . some kinda scrambler?'
'I do a lot of sensitive transactions. We've had some business espionage, Pop had that installed.' Mickey tried to evaluate Ryan. Then his expression softened.
'Look … I'm sorry. I guess my nerves are a little frayed. It's kinda hard watching your father die right in front of you.'
'I shouldn't have been in here. I didn't know. .'
'Naw, it's okay. You can use this phone.' Mickey gave Ryan a sad smile. 'The doctor just told me Pop is out of
