Summitt

Chapter Twenty-One

The night before Earl Thomson’s trial, George Thomson and Dom Lorso took an electronically monitored elevator to the penthouse in one of Philadelphia’s tallest and newest high-rise apartment buildings.

Marvin Quade escorted them into a drawing room where modern paintings and tall lamps were framed by an electric glitter of the skyline beyond glassed-in terraces.

In a dress the color of ivory, Jennifer Easton stood at a bar, adding white mint to a pitcher of brandy and cracked ice. Above her blond hair hung an arrangement of shining discs and triangles, swaying in balanced patterns. Behind the bar a checkerboard mural was illuminated in chiseled precision by gallery lights which sparkled on her bare shoulders.

She greeted the men with a pleasantly vague smile and poured herself a drink. Quade stood in front of the glass-walled terrace where his bulk partially blocked out the city’s lights.

Simon Correll came in from the adjoining study, and Jennifer excused herself and took her pitcher of brandy stingers upstairs.

“Sit down, gentlemen, sit down.” Correll’s expression was tight as he watched Jennifer stroll along the railed balcony above the drawing room.

Thomson and Dom Lorso settled themselves in leather chairs at a mirrored coffee table. Lorso lit a cigarette and looked for an ashtray. He caught Quade’s eye, but Quade frowned and shook his head. Lorso dropped the match on the carpet.

Correll poured himself a whiskey and added a splash of Evian water. “Would you gentlemen like a drink?”

“Not for me, thanks.” Thomson glanced at his watch. “Perhaps we should get right down to it, Mr. Correll.”

Correll said, “I wouldn’t have asked you here, Thomson, if I didn’t plan to get right down to it. I’m sorry if this meeting has inconvenienced you.”

Lorso tapped a length of ash onto the coffee table. “We got some considerations with the trial, Mr. Correll. Mr. Thomson meant we’ve still got things to arrange. The way Davic wants it set up—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Lorso,” Correll said, “but I understand exactly what Mr. Davic requires. I intend to tell you how to satisfy those requirements, considering certain other priorities. The trial is important, yes. Clearing Mr. Earl Thomson of those charges is a first order of business. But that has to be done within the legal framework. There can be no question of outside pressures. We are — I speak of Harlequin, Summitt City, the Correll Group — a goldfish bowl that is not made of bulletproof glass. We are vulnerable and can be hurt, by public opinion and by the government.”

A phone in the study rang and Quade went to answer it. Correll looked at his watch, knowing from the special chiming alert that it was Mount Olivet. A Snow Virgin was on the bar beside a bottle of Fundador. Correll picked up the globe and rocked it gently. The motion caused a miniature storm of white flakes to fly about the blue and gold figure of the Madonna.

Quade returned and said, “It’s Brother Fabius, Mr. Correll. He’s talking to Miss Jennifer on her extension.”

Correll put his drink down, excused himself and went into his study. Dom Lorso moved closer to Thomson, lowered his voice and said, “This is bullshit, Giorgio. Listen to me. He says leave it to a jury. But who knows what a goddamn jury’s going to do? Get a fucking bunch of coloreds, they might stick it to Earl because he’s wearing a clean shirt. I know how to protect him, and you do, too, Giorgio.”

“No, forget that.”

“Shit, you know I’m talking sense.”

“And I’m telling you, forget it.”

Lorso sat roiling with frustration. Giorgio hadn’t been himself since the warrant was served on Earl, he’d lost either his guts or his nerve or his brains, maybe all three. His skin was gray, the usual healthy brown color washed out of it. Lorso knew what they had to do, but he couldn’t force Giorgio to face it. There was no foolproof safety for Earl, and even more important, no satisfaction for any of them as long as Selby and his bitch daughter were walking around with lies on their lips. One of their family had been called a rapist, a torturer, an animal who’d tear a girl to pieces, do sick, filthy things to her, not able to screw her like a man should...

Correll returned and continued the discussion where he had left it. “Senator Lester’s investigation is confined to Harlequin Chemicals and I don’t intend to give him the opportunity to expand it.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Lorso said, “I don’t see the connection. What I see is that somebody has Earl Thomson’s balls in his fist and is about to bust them wide open. My idea is to stop that from happening. You mind explaining what that’s got to do with the senator?”

Correll said, “Mr. Lorso, a computer study by our people in Switzerland projected that if I explained all my decisions, it would cost our companies about half a million dollars a day in wasted time alone. So I’ll tell you only this. An orderly trial is what I intend to have. I will not tolerate any irrelevant publicity. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Spots of color flared up in Lorso’s gray cheeks. He lit another cigarette. “Sure, I understand you, the words are clear enough and I’m no dummy, Mr. Correll, but maybe I don’t happen to see it that way.”

Thomson said, “Let it go, Dom, let it go.”

“Mr. Lorso,” Correll said quietly, “I didn’t ask you here to debate these issues. This meeting isn’t intended to be an exercise in democracy.”

“Then what’s the point of me saying anything?”

“None whatsoever. I want you to listen. Democracy embraces moral indulgence, a tolerance of wasteful eccentric diversity in human activity. Such is largely responsible for the condition we see around us in the world today. I lecture, I’m sorry... but you must understand. Violence is not a solution, it is a symptom of the disease that brings feelings of shame, futility, helplessness. Violence is a reaction to personal inadequacy, Mr. Lorso, an explosion of personal impotence. We won’t resort to violence of any sort, because we are not helpless, we are not impotent. We’ll proceed as I’ve outlined, within the legal system.”

“But what if worst comes to worst? Supposing those assholes on the jury decide to nail the boy. What’s the good then of this stuff about the legal system?”

Correll picked up the Snow Virgin, his eyes narrowing as he studied the swirling hakes. His mother had painted the eyes a dark blue, with streaks of pale gold at the centers. At certain angles the figurine’s expression was solemn; in others, the Virgin smiled at him. The second Snow Virgin she’d made was having some finishing touches. It was at Mount Olivet; his mother kept it in her room there...

“The legal system,” he said to Dom Lorso, “will work for us, you can depend on it.”

Lorso shrugged. “Maybe, but what’s wrong with a little insurance?”

Correll slammed the Snow Virgin down on the bar. “Dammit, will you please shut up and listen?”

Quade moved forward, his body tense, like an attack dog reacting to the anger in Correll’s voice.

Thomson’s face was a sickly gray. Even Lorso’s little monkey fingers, yellow with nicotine, shook slightly as he sucked on his cigarette.

Correll said, “The worst cannot and will not come to the worst. But that requires care and discretion from all of us. In seriatim, there will be irrefutable contradictions of each and every piece of alleged evidence the prosecution presents. I’m aware of the role Judge Flood will play. I know to the dollar his indebtedness to you, Mr. Lorso. I’m also aware of the conclusions that will be reached by Dr. Leslie Clemens. But one more stupid act of violence — I will refer once and only once to the death of a man named Gideen — one more such mistake could compromise the trial, and everything the Correll Group has been attempting to accomplish for years.”

When he stopped speaking the silence deepened in the large, glowing room. He stared out at the city’s lights flashing beyond the terraces, his fingers stroking the globe embracing the Snow Virgin.

Lorso thought with relief that Correll knew nothing about Aron and Ben Cadle, Davic’s “investigators” from New York. There had been no police report on the attempted hit-run in the East Chester mall. Slocum had assured him of that. Which meant the DA and Selby had figured it was a drunk behind the wheel, or some pot-head kid...

Lorso also had an uneasy feeling about Quade. He had heard things about the bodyguard he didn’t quite believe. Which was why he tested him by lighting a cigarette and dropping a match on the carpet, because that was the kind of thing you had to do, not just challenge your enemies but challenge your fears about them.

After a moment Correll shrugged and said, “Perhaps I’m at fault for not advising you gentlemen of the complexity of our problems.” His tone was almost amiable; it was apparent that the flashpoint of his anger had cooled. His glance at his watch was a gesture of courteous dismissal.

After they had gone Correll went upstairs to Jennifer’s bedroom. The walls and furniture were done in red, the bed scattered with tasseled black pillows.

The doors leading to the terraces were open and Jennifer stood outside in the fine rain, arms held in a graceful circle above her head, pirouetting with a slow, deliberate elegance. She had changed into gray leotards and tied her long hair back with a dark ribbon, and was smiling dreamily, eyes closed against the misting winds.

When she became aware of Correll watching her, she lost her concentration and balance and stumbled slightly, catching herself with a quick hand on the terrace railing.

She smiled at him and her eyes were as blank and merry as a doll’s.

Correll led her back into the warm bedroom. After a dizzying glance at the balconies below Jennifer’s room, and the sheer drop beyond them to the street and sidewalk, he closed and locked the terrace doors.

He helped her out of her soaking jersey and gently eased her onto the bed, straightened her legs and smoothed her tangled hair on the pillow.

“I don’t like you out on the terrace at night, and I don’t like you talking to the good brother when you’ve been drinking,” he said. “What did Fabius want?”

She laughed at him. “You were listening, Simon. I heard you pick up the phone. I could hear you breathing. The way some people breathe is... like fingerprints, Simon.” She laughed again, her eyes closing, the lashes dark and wet on her pale cheeks.

“I listened, Jennifer, because I thought there might be news of my mother. I have a notion Bishop Waring would prefer you to tell me if her condition is worsening.”

“No, Simon, it wasn’t that. Your mother is sleeping very quietly. Everybody is asleep now.”

“What did Fabius want to talk to you about?”

“Like little mice, that’s what you told me, and I thought that was rather dear. Little laboratory mice.” She moved her head restlessly. “Fabius has some shells, Simon, tiny pink and blue shells from Portugal. He’s making a rosary for your mother. He wanted to know if the first and last decades should be made with the pink shells...”

She was breathing slowly and deeply, the muscles of her flat stomach rising and falling in gentle contractions.

“Or what, Jennifer?” Correll asked her.

“Or the blue shells, of course, darling.”

“What does it matter? Did Fabius tell you what in the name of Christ difference it makes?”

“I forget, Simon.”

Correll took off her slippers, the thin leather soles damp and slick from the rain. She murmured drowsily as he untied her cord belt and slowly slipped the tight, clinging leotards from her legs, which were white and slack and vulnerable against the flaming red covers.

As he lay beside her slim, warm body, and studied her face for a moment, Correll was moved by the stillness in Jennifer’s expression and her lack of awareness of him, of everything around them, of everything in the world. He was grateful for the promise of oblivion she offered him, that welcoming and sustaining darkness. Reaching across her quiet body, he turned off the lights.