‘You have my word,’ recited Northcote, in immediate reply.
He despised this man, Carver abruptly decided. It was as much a shock as all the other revelations of the last thirty-six hours. Maybe even greater. Until now he had been in awe – in trepidation – of this lion of a man with a lion’s mane (but a bull’s shoulders) who had dominated his life and Jane’s life and so many other lives but whom he was now coming to regard as nothing more than a clay effigy – a hollow clay effigy at that – of the supposed Colossus who could not have stood guard, legs astride, over any empire. Most certainly – and provably – not over his own, which wasn’t his at all but which had been allowed and granted him, in return for his usefulness.
‘You’re going to give them all the records?’ Itself a criminal – certainly a professional – offence but that no longer seemed a consideration.
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re making copies?’
‘Yes.’
‘Over so long you’re talking in tons!’
‘Things went back, after the statutory limitation. It’s just what’s in my personal section of the vault.’
‘Where are the copies?’ Carver repeated.
‘Safe,’ insisted Northcote.
‘Where are the copies?’ persisted Carver.
‘Not all together yet. You’ll know, when they are. And where they are.’
‘Don’t you think they’ll expect – suspect at least – you’ll do this?’
‘There’s no reason why they should. Everything’s amicable.’
Both men shook their heads to the offered humidor but both ordered brandy, Carver deciding he genuinely needed it. He said: ‘Only for as long as they choose to let it be amicable.’
‘I told you, you watch too much television.’
Carver had to push the calmness into his voice. ‘George. Don’t you have any idea how serious… dangerously serious… all this is!’
‘This is not Chicago in the twenties, Al Capone and machine guns. I know these people. Have done, over a lot of years.’
He was wasting his time, Carver realized, incredulously. ‘I’ll need more than the location.’
‘What?’
‘Names.’
‘It’ll involve you.’
‘I am involved, for Christ’s sake!’ said Carver, in continued exasperation.
‘Let me think on it.’ Northcote smiled abruptly over his brandy snifter. ‘I’m driving up with Jane this afternoon.’
‘I know. What about Friday?’
‘It’ll all be settled by then. You got everything in hand?’
Carver didn’t answer, looking across the table at his father-in-law, who stared back. Finally Northcote said: ‘I’ll make the formal retirement announcement in the keynote speech. Everything will be confirmed by Friday.’
Carver acknowledged that he’d condoned a crime: crime after crime after crime, more crimes than could be counted. Which had – astonishingly – been easy. All so logical. All so acceptable. All – all and every aspect of it – so illegal. Was he prepared to go with that? Was he ready, prepared, to be Superman in the red shorts? Or Eliot Ness? Or John Carver, trying to preserve an empire from crumbling? He said: ‘You were my icon. You were Jane’s icon. Everyone’s icon. God.’
‘Grow up, John.’
‘I just have,’ said Carver. ‘I didn’t enjoy it.’
Alice was already at their table, at their place – the place in the Village he couldn’t remember choosing for those early lunches but which had become their place since. Everyone called everyone by their first names, the moment they were regulars. A very different club from the Harvard: a preferred club even. In which he felt comfortable. Easy. Here – despite the suit in which he definitely felt un comfortable – he was John: anonymous John, no one John. In the Harvard Club he was Mr Carver. Or more often, sir. Rich son-in-law of richer father-in-law, both of whom could order, as they had carelessly ordered, $250 lunches and not eat anything, nor drink more than a token sip of their matchingly expensive wine. Alice was drinking beer.
He said: ‘Sorry I’m late.’
She shrugged. ‘Not a problem.’
How many more times was that phrase going to jar through his mind. ‘Beer?’
‘I was thirsty, OK?’
‘OK. You look fantastic.’ She did, wearing blue jeans, a white shirt and with a blue sweater as a wrap around her shoulders.
‘You don’t. You look like shit on a stick. What’s up…?’
The waiter, who’d had a walk-on part in a movie that no one could remember but who called himself an actor said: ‘Hi John. You wanna cocktail?’
‘Straight up gin Martini. A twist.’
‘Please,’ added Alice, before the man left. To Carver she said: ‘There’s bad days and there’s bad days. This was a very bad day, right?’
‘The baddest day in the history of bad days.’ That sounded flip, like a joke, and the last thing in which he imagined himself was a flip, one-liner joke scenario.
‘So, yet again, do you want to talk about it?’
He did, decided Carver. He couldn’t, to Jane, because he would be talking about her father. And he shouldn’t, to Alice, who was a financial – even an investigative – journalist. But he needed – had – to talk to someone. And he trusted Alice as much as he trusted Jane: just as he trusted Jane as much as he trusted Alice. It would not occur to Alice to use anything he told her professionally: doing so would risk exposing their relationship. His Martini arrived and he said: ‘Thanks. And sorry, about before,’ and the waiter smiled and shook his head. To Alice, Carver said: ‘I’m going to tell you something you won’t believe. That I don’t want to believe. But which has happened… I…’ He shook his head, a lost man not knowing his direction. ‘Just listen.’
Which Alice Belling did, through two nodded-for replacement drinks and head-shaking against menu offers and when Carver finished, Alice, who’d held back her impatience, said: ‘This is absolutely fucking unbelievable!’
‘I thought I’d said that already. More than once.’
‘It needed saying again.’
Carver said: ‘You’re the guy on the white horse, wielding the sword of truth. What would you have done?’
‘I’m not going to become your conscience, darling. Or your reassurance. You’re old enough to go to the bathroom by yourself. You decide which way to piss.’
‘I’ve decided.’ It hadn’t ever seemed like a decision. Nothing more than a natural progression. He raised and dropped his arms, the stupidity of the gesture heightening his embarrassment. ‘It was like… like… the obvious thing to do.’
‘You know you’ve compromised me!’
‘Yes.’
‘Bastard!’
Their passing waiter said: ‘Nothing’s terminal, guys.’
Picking up the remark, Alice said: ‘This could be.’
‘It was the only way I could go. Is the only way I can go.’
Briefly they enclosed themselves in their own silence.
Alice said: ‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘Trusting me, so completely.’
‘Didn’t you think I did?’
‘Not this much.’
‘I do.’
