30

Tommie was mightily impressed. Last night, late as they’d stumbled in, exhausted as he and Rachel had been, all he’d had the energy to do was climb into bed and nod off no sooner than the pillow hit his head.

But now—Man-oh-man!—looking around him at the room he’d spent the night in, sliding his feet from under the bedclothes onto the floor, moving his eyes along the walls, across the draperies, among the fixtures around him, behind him, beneath him—this place the Parkers lived in was incredible!—furnishings out of a palace; furniture owned by a king!

This was a whole different world, alright. Nobody he knew—not his friends or family for sure—but not even the rich folks he worked for, like Mr. Dworkin or Mr. Crane—not even they could have had the resources to live in environs as magnificent as this. Another class entirely: Not that anyone should envy them, or begrudge them the expensive things they had, but the Parkers’ residence sure was something fabulous to see!

The bed, for instance—just consider the bed: Wow! It had to be the strangest bed he’d ever slept in. Huge—big enough for a family of four—and with a satiny comforter and cushiony pillows that, as Rachel might have phrased it, were bedclothes you could die for!—Totally!

And the headboard and footboard and frame: Mahogany, it looked like—not cheap veneer, nothing chintzy in this amazing room, no way, but the genuine article through and through—all carved and lacquered like some antique artwork out of the Louvre. Totally amazing!

And the walls all covered in fabric—velvet of some kind, or mohair like the stuff he’d used to pleat the seats on that nineteen-twenty-something Buick—’23 or ’24, he thought—which ran eighty bucks a yard at wholesale, not a penny less!—Holy cow!—And the twelve-foot ceilings too, and cove moldings with ornate scallops at the corners, just like the décor in those Newport palaces he’d seen last year at Lainie’s house in a coffee table book: What had it cost to build this place? Princes maybe slept in rich surroundings like this—multi-millionaires. But Mr. Parker was a multi-millionaire, or seemed to be anyway, so given that, the fabulous house he lived in made pretty decent sense.

Tommy stood up lazily and yawned, thinking: Yep, no doubt about it, wealthy as a Midas, sharp as a tack and a really decent guy to boot, the kind of guy who deserved his multi-million dollars, however many he had made: Call him Eddie, Mr. Parker had insisted, but addressing an important man like Eddie Parker by his given name wasn’t all that easy to do. Dad had always taught him to be respectful toward his elders, and he’d always done his best to listen to his dad. Dad had really taught him everything—everything a guy would need to know about mechanical things, of course; and most everything an ethical person had to know about life itself as well—Maybe that was even more important than the rest.

And Dad had done it splendidly, no doubt: For here he was, top of his class through undergrad and grad school too, headed for a PhD summa cum laude, and with connections that would get him in the doors of the movers and shakers of the auto industry nationwide. In a couple of years—who knew? Ten more months to graduate, then another year on the job at Ford or GM to show his worth, and maybe he could have the wherewithal to move his mom and Rachel into a nice new house of their own—not as fabulous a place as guys like Mr. Parker lived in, no; but big enough, nice enough, with a little pool and a great big kitchen where Mom could bake her legendary pies at home, not in that stuffy diner laboring from morn to night for minimal salary and variable tips. Oh, and Rachel too: There’d be money for her tuition at ASU in whatever field of study she happened to be into at the time. Things were on the upswing, definitely—Yep, Tommie Mulroy’s life, at this stage of it, was pretty doggone good!

So up and in the shower (Had he ever seen marble like that? granite like that? fancy fixtures so elaborate, even in a magazine?) and got himself scrubbed and combed and dressed. Today would be a fascinating day, to say the least—Just imagine! A man who’d looked just like him when he was close to Tommie’s age—What are the odds?

And the two of them had looked alike; the picture that Sandy showed him proved it in no uncertain terms. How fascinating it would be for him to meet the man!—the world-renowned celebrity, as Mr. Atherton had turned out to be. Yes, fascinating for him, for sure—But imagine what it would be like for the famous man himself—Just try and imagine it!—looking at the spitting image of yourself back in your youth—Mind-boggling! Hard to even conceive! Just think of the memories that would evoke—some of them really awful memories, according to the story that Eddie had related on the plane. But some of the early memories would have to be good ones too. Nobody’s youth passes by completely without a fair amount of happiness stirred into the mix. So there would be at least a little benefit in his agreeing to fly out to meet this famous big-shot Ben. Which was good, really; which made coming out here way more tolerable. He wouldn’t want to bear the burden of causing another person’s pain.

OK, checking in the mirror, smoothing his hair back at the sides, the tie looked right, the jacket on straight, no bulges, no pocket flaps awry. So out the door and across the hall to the room Mrs. Parker had assigned to Rachel. A tap, a pretty long delay, and then a familiar voice that asked him: “Tommie? Is that you?” And in swung the door to show a Rachel in total disarray—as usual in the morning when she didn’t have to be at work or school.

“I’m getting set to leave, then, Rach. You need anything before I go?”

She yawned and shook her head.

“OK, so I won’t be here to make sure you’re dressed and ready. Remember, the limo driver is coming for you at 10:45. You think you’ll be up and set to go by then?”

“Uh-huh,” she drowsily assured him, and yawned again. Which was OK. Mr. Parker promised that one of the maids would get her up on time if she was still in bed at 10:15.

“You going back to Asbury Park? Mr. Parker said they’d take you anyplace you wanted. He said they’ve got a nice mall here too if you want to go there instead. And that money that he gave me—some of it’s for you too if you want to buy anything—OK? It’s in the envelope in my room. So anyway, we should be back by dinnertime at the latest, so, if you don’t need anything else, I’ll see you then, OK?”

“Uh-huh, that’s fine..”

“OK, and remember, they’ve got a whole house full of people here to help you out if you want breakfast or anything. Mrs. Parker’s probably gone by now—she’s coming to our meeting, I think—and Mr. Parker’s riding over with me, but if you think of anything else you need, you can reach me on my cell.”

Mr. Parker was waiting downstairs. He must have known they were up, what with the showering and all; and no sooner did Tommie reach the upper story stairway than he heard his name called up the steps from down below:

“Hey, Thomas Mulroy—You ready yet, kid? You need any breakfast? If you do, shake a leg, we haven’t got a lot of time.”

They grabbed a couple of sweet rolls and some juice and went out to the limo. It was parked in a semi-circular driveway that looked a hundred yards long from curb to curb. And the house itself! Now, outside, in the daylight, you could see how humongous it really was. When had he ever seen a residence as fabulous as this? Not up close in person, ever, but maybe from the distance, one of those princely castles up on Camelback or down some of the dead-end roads in Scottsdale with private guards parked at the outlet to the street—You could glimpse the fabulous houses there from time to time from far away. But now he could boast to all the guys at work and back in school that he’d actually stayed in one of those amazing mega-mansions you saw on HGTV or “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous”; that he’d actually slept in a mahogany bed fit for a museum. It was an experience—an adventure, truthfully—that he’d never forget.

They climbed into the limo, which was standard, not stretch. Nice, sweet ride, soft and cushy as a limo ought to be with its load of invaluable humanity aboard. Plenty of room in the back for him and Mr. Parker to spread out, but no jump seats or TV or bar like the ones the Hollywood moguls take to the award shows, though Mr. Parker told him the company had a couple of those custom limos in their fleet as well—Sure, judging from the room he’d slept in and the house the gorgeous room was sited in, Tommy figured that these guys could afford limos like that by the dozen if they liked. Judging from appearances, honestly, they could afford anything they had the least desire to own.

“Your sister like the trip so far?” First thing Mr. Parker asked him once the chauffeur swept them out of the driveway, navigated the millionaire’s row of a side street, and merged onto the nearest four-lane road.

“She is, sir. She really is. Rachel’s always wanted to see the ocean. In Arizona, all we get to see is sand.”

“Great; well I’m glad we had the opportunity to grant her wish; she seems like a nice, sweet girl. So how ‘bout you then, Tommy? Anything special you’d like to see or do while you kids are here? We’ve got this afternoon and tomorrow morning to take you places and show you stuff; with the time-zone change from here to back out west, there’s no need to leave before maybe 3:00 or 4:00 p.m. So maybe a helicopter ride over the city? Or we could take a little cruise down the river on Ben’s big yacht? Anything in particular strike your fancy?”

Nothing did though, not really. Rachel was the main reason he’d agreed to come, not the money—which was way too much for what the minimal effort was worth. Tommy had done his best to turn it down—never in his life had he taken anything he hadn’t worked for and legitimately earned—But that Mr. Parker, generous to a fault, just wouldn’t agree to his not accepting what he’d been offered on the phone: A deal’s a deal, he’d said, and stuck the envelope of cash in Tommy’s pocket, protests or not. To argue further would have seemed unjustifiably ungrateful and rude.

Yep, the guy was generous alright, you had to hand him that—and a really gracious man, to boot. Nice as could be, right from the get-go; kind, considerate, even to a couple of kids from way out west he didn’t really know. Ever since they’d boarded the plane in Phoenix, he’d done everything he could to make these country bumpkins from Arizona feel at home—Heck, inviting two total strangers to sleep overnight in your house—that’s about as close to making people feel at home as it gets.

So all in all, Mr. Parker was a genuine sweetheart of a guy. A really fun guy too, quick with a joke and a smile—That’s the way he was all day yesterday, on the plane, on the Boardwalk, in the car—although today…. It was curious, it was funny, but somehow today, this morning, Tommy had noted right from the outset, Mr. Parker didn’t seem quite as cheerful at present as he’d seemed last night. He acted, well, kind of down in the dumps a little, kind of tired, kind of sad in a way. Hard to put your finger on his manner exactly, but there seemed to be something weighing on his mind. And after a minute or two in the car, after Mr. Parker’s conversation had lapsed into a sort of pensive silence on his part, Tommie felt the urge to touch him on the sleeve and ask him: Why?

“Can I ask you something, sir? Do you mind if I ask you something kind of personal? I don’t mean to be impertinent, but I’m a little bit concerned.”

“Concerned? Personal? Yeah, sure, kid. Ask me anything you feel like asking, just as long as you drop that ‘sir’ business, and the ‘Mr. Parker’ business that makes me feel like some retired five-star general from the marines. Call me Eddie, OK? Ed or Eddie, the way I told you to before. Remember what I told you on the plane?”

“OK, then, I’ll do that, umm, Eddie—But what I’m saying is, you seem … How should I put it exactly? I guess you seem a little less talkative today. A little less cheerful, I mean—at least compared to last night. Would it be intrusive of me to ask you why?”

Mr. Parker—or Eddie, rather, if that’s what he wanted to be called—pursed his lips and nodded his head slowly, just a few degrees up and down, up and down: the kind of motion and expression that told you how conflicted he was with what he’d just been asked. Did he want to tell you? He sort of did, in a way, but at the same time he was reluctant. If his reluctance won the battle, that was it, he’d keep his gaze averted, and you wouldn’t learn a thing. But if his willingness to disburden won the final tug-of-war, then—Bingo!—just the opposite: He’d look you straight in the eye, and then eventually, though reluctantly, he’d talk. After a bit of delay—ten seconds or so—he raised his gaze toward Tommie’s face and stared unblinking dead on, saying:

“Why, is what you’re asking, huh? You noticed, did you? Well, there is something on my mind, matter of fact. Something I wanted to talk to you about anyway, so I’m kinda glad you brought it up instead of me. Last night when I turned on my computer, I came across this not-so-pleasant email in my box—And it’s about you in a way, Tom. The subject, I’m sorry to say, has a lot to do with you. Lemme ask you something, kid, anybody in your family have a serious problem with their health?” Aha! So there it was. He might have seen it coming if he’d thought a little bit: “Somebody did, sir—uh, Eddie. My dad did. Do you mind my asking who the email was from?”

“It was from the FaceMate guys—well, not from them exactly, but somebody new there who’s working for them. And what the email said was….”

“You don’t have to tell me, sir, I can figure it out pretty easily from the little bit you said. Sandy was the one who sent the pictures in—that’s the girl you talked to when you called my place of work—And she wouldn’t have known about my dad, I don’t think; so I’m guessing that something in the pictures themselves would be involved, which means….”

Tommie thought it over for a minute to get the phrasing right, then continued:

“Which means that there’s something in my facial features that’s associated with the disease…. Which means…. Oh sure—I get it. It means that their program would have kicked out Mr. Atherton’s picture too—So … so of course!—That’s why you’re kind of down today, isn’t it? You’re worried about your friend Ben, aren’t you? That makes perfect sense—But I don’t think you need to worry about him.”

“I don’t? Why not?” Mr. Parker’s eyes got wide, interested, and grateful in a way.

“The thing my dad had—He died seven years ago of this rare condition that they called ASH syndrome at the time, although they’ve changed the name now to ‘hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, Geneva variant’—You know those doctors, Eddie, they’re always using names that are long and complicated just to make them seem smarter than you—which they’re usually not, I’ve learned—Well anyway, Rachel and I were getting checked every year until last year when they told us all the tests were negative, so we could go to every two years instead of one. But as to your friend Ben, from what I’ve read about the condition—and as you can imagine I’ve read an awful lot—it generally comes on pretty early in life and Mr. Atherton is—how old now? Over fifty, isn’t that right?”

“Right, kid, fifty-five last June.”

“OK, so he’s probably out of the woods then. If he doesn’t have it by now, he’s probably not going to get it. He’s probably safe.”

“That’s great, Tom! You just relieved my mind tremendously.”

“I’m glad, sir—Uh, Eddie. Any other info I can give you that will help? Um, other than the fact that one of the motor mounts on the limo is getting worn and the catalytic convertor is starting to clog up. But anything else?”

“The—what? The catalytic convertor, you said? You can tell that from just sitting in the back seat of a car?”

“Sure. It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? Here, listen: You hear that little grinding when the car’s at idle? Can you hear it? Now. There. Listen close.”

“Yeah, I think I hear something like what you said.”

“That’s it. The element in the convertor breaks up and clogs the exhaust, and your mileage starts to drop. And now pay attention to the car when it just begins to accelerate: You feel that little lurch?”

“I’m not sure. Kind of, maybe. Yeah, I think I do. I think I did.”

“OK, well that’s the motor mount loosening, the right one, I think. I’d get that fixed too. It’s not urgent though.”

“Jesus, kid! You sure know your vehicles, don’t you? You know your vehicles as well as you know your goddamn planes, I guess. Brandon’s gonna get the plane checked out, and I’ll tell the guys to get the limo gone over too—But yeah, since you asked, there is one other thing besides the health bit, and besides the plane and the car that I’d like to talk to you about: You know that stuff I told you about Bennie’s girlfriend getting killed?”

Eddie looked a little sheepish when he asked that. Again the reluctance, again the eagerness to get whatever it was, out, and again the eagerness came out on top:

“Sure, sir. How could I forget something as horrible as that?”

“I didn’t figure that you would. But do me a favor, OK? Don’t bring the subject up with Ben. Don’t ask him about it or refer to it in any way unless he mentions it first.”

“No, I won’t. Of course, I won’t—But since you brought the topic up, I was thinking about it last night and I got to wondering—Do you mind if I ask you something else?”

“No, kid; sure, go ahead, ask me anything, just as long as you don’t ask stuff like that of Ben.”

“OK, I won’t, I promise. But I got to wondering: Whatever happened to the boy who was involved, the boy who committed the crime?”

“Him? That fucking little bastard?” Eddie shook his head. “He went to a nuthouse. One of those special nuthouses they put the crazy killers in. One of those institutions for the criminally insane.”

“And how about now? He must be fifty-something himself, isn’t he? Don’t they usually get old enough or well enough to get released?”

“Not him. No sir, no way. No getting out for crazy old Eugene. No way Bennie and I would ever put up with that.”

“So what happened to him then? He’s still locked up in the same place they sent him after more than thirty years?”

“Not really, no. He died, I think. I think I heard someplace that our buddy Eugene might just happen to be dead.”

Now Eddie’s visage changed. A lot. Now there was a fierce look on his face, lips pinched, eyes glaring, nostrils ever-so-slightly flared. Whew! This topic was personal with him, and heartfelt even after thirty-some-odd years. Anger generally fades with time, but Eddie’s anger clearly hadn’t faded, not the slightest bit. And it was odd, noted Tommy: Eddie’s gaze wasn’t direct anymore, not frank and open now, the way it had been just a bit before. He looked away; he looked downward and away, striving hard to mask whatever secret thoughts were rankling on his mind. Which got Tommie thinking, and prodded him to ask:

“Did you ever hear when he died, and how he died?”

Eddie glowered for a moment, but then the glowering disappeared completely; he nodded, smacked his lips, then looked up benevolently and smiled:

“Too many questions, kid. W-a-a-a-y too many questions for this early in the day. Maybe someday I’ll clue you in on everything you want to know. Only not today, OK? Today I’m just not in the mood. You’re smart like Ben. Too smart—way too smart for an intellectual lightweight like me to wrestle with mentally, any more than I could ever wrestle with my buddy Bennie brain to brain. Hey, think about it, kid. I’m sure you’ll figure out everything you ever want to figure given a little bit of time. But you’re impressive as hell in your smartness, I’ll tell you that: I can’t wait to see your mind and Bennie’s in the same place at the same time. You two together—Christ Almighty! That’s gonna be something for the books!”

Eddie was amazed. He was dumbfounded. He was practically in shock!

This kid, this goddamned brilliant kid! OK, he looked like Ben—That took some major getting used to when you saw him for the first time face-to-face. That first half hour of the flight, staring across the aisle in astonishment at this perfect drop-dead image of your childhood friend: No denying old Eddie Parker was floored at first—Oh, and Charlotte too, when he dragged the two kids in the house—She looked at Tommie as though he might be some kind of hologram or apparition from a genie’s lamp you’d rubbed in jest, then found out it was the genuine goddamn thing! But the visual impression—yeah, that was something you could get used to in time. It was the rest of him, though—Man, that got to messing totally with your brain!

Because the kid wasn’t merely like a younger Ben—He was a younger Ben, in every frigging way. His voice, his mind, his everything. Why, damn it if this genius kid didn’t sense things. Damn it if he didn’t sense things the way that Ben had always sensed things, things that hadn’t quite yet come to be. Ben was like that from childhood on, uncannily: He knew what you were gonna say before you said it, he knew what the teachers in the classroom were gonna ask before they asked it, and nowadays he knew what bidders were gonna bid or sellers were gonna sell their offerings for before the deal was halfway done. He knew all that before he bought or sold a thing. Which is why he and his millionaire partners had prospered these thirty-some-odd years.

And this kid—this amazing kid!—Damn it all, but he was just spot-on, exactly the same! He knew that this fellow Eddie was upset about something and then zoomed right in to the heart of the matter, reasoning it through precisely the way Ben had done it a thousand times to universal astonishment over the past fifty years. Infer point A, reason from point A to point B, get from there logically to point C, and so on and on and on, until you arrive at your infallible conclusion. A younger Ben coming to meet an older Ben: In five minutes’ time, they’d be parked out front of the Atherton Corporation entry door, then three minutes later, up the elevator and into Benny’s office….

And no sooner did that thought pass through Eddie’s mind, than there they were, striding into the building, elevator up to the penthouse, past Cindy with her wide, inquisitive eyes, and finally opening the door to Bennie’s office….

And dressed nattily in a brown sport coat, dress white shirt, patterned yellow tie, immaculately pressed and tailored dark beige slacks over spit-shined, chocolate wing-tip shoes, Thomas J. Mulroy, looking like a budding movie star, looking like some handsome current heartthrob straight from the centerfold of a teeny-bopper’s Hollywood gossip magazine, stepped rather confidently, and yet somewhat shyly, into the room.