Running of the bulls

CHAPTER TWO

Half an hour later, Marty stood in the hallway outside his ex-wife’s apartment.

He removed a set of keys from his pants pocket, knowing-but not really caring-that Gloria would be angry that he hadn’t called before coming by.

He’d already taken care of the doorman. In the lobby, he asked Toby not to call Gloria and tell her he was here. Better to just walk in, make the call to Roz and visit with his girls. Gloria might even be out.

He stuck the key in the lock and opened the door. Soft music, soft lights and Gloria met him in the entryway. She was standing at a curving chrome side table, a glass of bubbling champagne in one hand, a spray of tulips in the other.

Without so much as a glance at Marty, she put the glass of champagne down beside a framed photograph of her dead mother and started placing the tulips one by one into the vase filled with water. Her voice was cool when she spoke. “What are you doing here?”

It wasn’t the response he was hoping for, but he’d certainly heard worse.

Nudging the door shut with his elbow, he stood looking at the woman he had married twice, divorced twice and unfortunately still loved. Tall and slender, her skin as pale as the cream silk suit she wore, Gloria Spellman had the contented look of a woman enjoying life. “Sorry, I didn’t call,” he said, looking past her into the living room. “Are you with someone?”

She didn’t answer.

“Mind if I come in?”

“You are in.”

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“It’s just a question, Gloria. You look nice.”

She turned to him. “That’s sweet. Jack Edwards is coming by to look at my paintings. He feels I’m ready for another showing. He should be here soon. Why are you here?”

It was interesting, Marty thought, to note how much she had changed in the six months that had passed since her first showing. This wasn’t the shy, introspective woman he’d fallen in love with fourteen years ago. Success had freed her. Rarely one to voice her opinions, Gloria now looked people in the eye and shared those opinions with confidence. Her hair, once light brown and shoulder length, was now black, angular and severe. She wore makeup and narrow glasses, smoked clove cigarettes and spoke of reincarnation. She was an evolving woman in a constantly changing shell.

“I’d like to see the girls,” he said. “They around?”

“Of course, they’re around. But now isn’t a good time to see them.”

Nevertheless, she glanced at her watch and stepped aside so he could move past her. At least she understood how much they meant to him. “Fifteen minutes,” she said. “And not a second more. They’re in their bedroom.”

“Can I use your phone first?”

“It’s your fifteen minutes,” Gloria said. “I could give a rat’s ass how you use it.”

She certainly was a bitch tonight.

But as Marty walked down the hallway and picked up the telephone, he understood. His choice to focus more on his job than on their relationship had twice cost them their marriage. Psychiatrists and psychologists all gave him the same textbook reasons about why he was so screwed up now-his parents were murdered when he was a boy. They’d lived in a rough section of Brooklyn. His father was a cop who paid too much attention to the local gangs. When he was on the verge of bringing down a gang leader, three gang members shot him and his wife dead in their apartment while Marty, seven at the time, hid under a bed.

A cascade of sketchy foster parents ensued. At eighteen, he was able to go to university on scholarship, where he received a film degree because, as a boy, movies were the one thing that offered escape.

And better yet, they didn’t require the sort of commitment a relationship required.

The phone was answered by a friend of his at the FBI. “Roz, it’s Marty. Got a minute? Great. I was wondering if you’d run a check on someone for me. Name is Maggie Cain, otherwise known as Margaret Cain, the writer.”

Gloria turned to him with interest.

“If she’s in your files, do you think I could have a background by this evening? Find out where she got her money. The woman has a goddamn Matisse in her entryway. I know, right? Next time the pasta’s on me.”

When he hung up the phone, Gloria was standing behind him. “You’re investigating Maggie Cain?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He stepped past her and moved down the hallway to the girls’ bedroom. His professional life was the one thing he shared with no one-and Gloria knew why. Too many times in the past he had been threatened by someone who learned of his surveillance. Marty didn’t take the repercussions lightly, especially after what happened to his parents.

“I can’t believe it,” Gloria said. “Maggie Cain! She’s one of my favorite writers. You know I love her books. What’s she done?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, please.”

“Leave it alone, Gloria.”

“Just give me something.”

Behind them, the service telephone rang.

Gloria stopped mid-stride and went to answer it. When she returned, she was all business. “That’s Jack and he’s early. I need you to leave. This is a night for art, not ex-husbands.”

“Define art.”

“You wouldn’t understand it.”

“See how little you know about me? Consider what you’ve done with your makeup. Now, that’s art.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve still got ten minutes to see my daughters.”

“Mom’s got a new boyfriend. Met him yet?”

Marty closed the door behind him and entered the one room Gloria had been banned from redecorating when she overhauled the rest of the house. Large and dim, the purple- and green-striped walls peppered with posters of that month’s hottest teen idol, his daughters’ bedroom had become in the year since his second divorce from Gloria a sort of battleground for Katie and Beth.

Clothes were missiles that had exploded on the floor, desks and bureaus. The beds were fortresses piled high with tapes and magazines, books and stuffed animals. In a large glass container, three hamsters raced frantically through an alarming network of scratched yellow tubes-perhaps seeking exercise, but maybe, Marty thought, trying to escape. Guilt had prevented Gloria and him from demanding the girls keep their bedroom clean.

Beth’s question lingered in the air.

“Have you two become hoarders?” he asked.

“You’re dodging the question.”

Seated in the middle of her bed, her tanned legs crossed at the ankles, she looked at her father with the same level gaze she had inherited from him but had perfected by imitating her mother.

In an effort to buy time, Marty kissed her on the forehead, turned to where Katie was sitting on her bed and kissed her on the cheek, then looked around the room for a place to sit. Since divorcing Gloria, he had never been comfortable discussing her private life. While he knew she dated, it was somehow easier living under the illusion that Gloria’s life revolved solely around her painting, this apartment, the two girls. But he sensed Beth needed to talk and so he sucked it up, despite the sinking sensation he felt in his gut.

“No,” he said, sitting on the edge of her bed. “I haven’t met him. I wasn’t aware your mother was seeing someone.”

“She’s more than just seeing him,” Beth said. “He practically lives here. Last night, they woke Katie and me up. It was fucking embarrassing.” She caught the look on his face. “Sorry, but it was. Mom kept saying his name over and over. Jack this and Jack that. Please, Jack, please. Oh, Jack, oh. I just wanted to die.”

What, Marty thought, was he supposed to say to that?

“Like, I don’t mind if Mom sees someone,” she said. “But if she can’t keep it down, Katie and I are thinking of moving in with you. Is that all right?”

He’d take them in a minute, but each time he tried to get custody, he failed. “You know what the judge said.”

“Weekends and holidays, I know. But what about what we think?”

“The judge thinks you’re better off with your mother.”

“Why? That’s sexist. We’d rather be with you.”

“And I’d rather have you with me.”

“Can I talk to the judge?”

“You can certainly write him a letter. Both of you can.”

“Great. We’ll get on that.”

In the growing silence, Katie glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. She had stopped flipping through a magazine and now was nibbling the inside of her cheek. Nine years old and almost as tall as Beth. Blonde hair to her shoulders and lips as full as his. She looked at him now with an impatience he had never seen in her before.

He cleared his throat. “In the meantime, I’ll speak to your mother about her… behavior.”

Beth rolled her eyes. “What good’ll that do? She doesn’t listen to you anymore. If anything, she’ll put on more of a show just to spite you.”

At what point, Marty wondered, had Beth become so comfortable talking about sex? She was thirteen years old, for God’s sake. What had happened to the child?

“You leave your mother to me,” he said. “I pay the rent on this place, not her.”

Beth looked amused. “Oh, Dad, please,” he said. “Don’t you see what’s happening? Mom’s going to be famous. She’s going to make a lot of money and won’t need you anymore. She told us so this morning.”

There had been a time when the sound of Gloria’s laughter had left him feeling whole and well, fit and strong. Her smile, broad as the map of America, could get him through the worst of days. But now, as he left his daughters’ room and moved toward the living room, the sound of her laughter unleashed feelings in him he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.

Gloria was moving on. He was losing her to another man. And what that touched in Marty was an emotion he hadn’t felt in years-a sudden, deep jealousy.

He entered the living room.

Gloria and Jack were standing across the room, in front of the painting of a red wheelbarrow she’d hung on the north wall. Their backs were to him and they were discussing the painting. While Marty stood there, watching, Edwards reached out a hand and lightly brushed the nape of Gloria’s neck.

Marty cleared his throat.

Edwards dropped his hand casually to his side and turned with Gloria, whose pale skin now had a rosy glow. From laughing?

“You must be Marty,” Edwards said.

Marty came across the room, his mind like a camera, photographing this moment. Immaculately dressed in tan silk trousers and a white button-down shirt, Edwards was taller than he expected, in decent physical shape, his balding head tanned, his smiling mouth bright as the moon. Forty years old, Marty thought. Maybe forty-two.

He shook Edwards’ smooth, manicured hand and noticed the carat diamond glimmering on the man’s little finger. With raised eyebrows, Marty looked at the ring. Then, with disappointment, he looked at Gloria, who was standing behind Jack, looking brave but uncomfortable. “Yes,” he said with a smile. “I’m Marty.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Edwards said. “Gloria’s told me a lot about you.”

“I haven’t heard anything about you.”

“She says you’re a private investigator,” Edwards said. “And a movie critic. How does that happen?”

“Magic.” He turned to Gloria, whose decorated lips had drawn into a thin line of discomfort. “Can I talk to you?”

They walked toward the twin glass doors that opened onto the terrace and stepped outside. Marty closed the doors behind them. His voice was low when he spoke. “I’ll keep this brief.”

“You’ve got no choice.”

“Are you aware that Beth can’t sleep at night? All she can hear is you and Edwards having sex. Same goes for Katie. Now, look. You know I won’t tell you how to live your life, but when you sleep with this guy, at least show some respect for the girls and keep it down.”

Gloria lifted her eyes to his, Manhattan’s Upper West Side sparkling behind her in the late-afternoon sun. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle this,” she said.

The coolness in her voice took him off guard. “Handle what?”

She paused to tap out a clove cigarette from the rumpled pack she’d brought with her. “My seeing Jack.” She lit the cigarette with a match. “You can’t handle it. He’s intimidated you and you feel threatened. Admit it.”

“The man wears a goddamn diamond on his pinky, Gloria. He doesn’t threaten me.”

“That’s a lie. You can’t stand seeing me with another man.”

“You’re probably right,” Marty said. “But what I hate even more is what you’ve become. Look at yourself. You’re not even the same person anymore. You’ve redefined yourself. You’ve sold out and become the very kind of person you and I used to mock when we were young. Who are you, Gloria? Do you even know?”

She shook her head sadly, the gesture somehow condescending. “You’re asking me if I know who I am, Marty? Let me ask you this. Since your parents were murdered, how many times have you asked yourself that very question?”

He turned to leave and when he did, she laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was below the belt. But I’m happy. I’ve met a man who’s got his act together. I’ve found a man who’s willing to put me first. Don’t blame me for wanting this. Don’t blame me for being angry because you couldn’t give it to me.”

“Just keep it down in the bedroom,” he said.

And he was gone.

Later, in his own apartment, Marty poured himself a glass of Scotch before calling Roz. “Tell me you hit the jackpot.”

“Still working on it. Give me thirty and I’ll call you back.”

He clicked off the phone and went to his study, which offered one of the better views of Central Park. On his desk was his computer. On the screen was his blog. In his spare time, he reviewed movies. It was just a sideline meant to clear his head and retain his connection to his first love-film-but it had become an unexpectedly popular sideline, with tens of thousands of people visiting the site daily.

Right now, he was working on the review of the Blu-ray release of Billy Wilder’s “Double Indemnity.” Just a few additional paragraphs and it would be finished.

While he waited for Roz to call back, he sat down to have a look at the review. Last night, he pulled his favorite scene from the movie so he could discuss it. He read it again.

NEFF

Look, baby, you can’t get away with it.

PHYLLIS

Get away with what?

NEFF

You want to knock him off, don’t you, baby?

PHYLLIS

That’s a horrible thing to say!

NEFF

Who’d you think I was, anyway? A guy that walks into a good-looking dame’s front parlor and says, “Good afternoon, I sell accident insurance on husbands. You got one that’s been around too long? Somebody you’d like to turn into a little hard cash? Just give me a smile and I’ll help you collect.” Boy, what a dope I must look to you.

PHYLLIS

I think you’re rotten.

NEFF

I think you’re swell. So long as I’m not your husband.

PHYLLIS

Get out of here.

NEFF

You bet I will. You bet I’ll get out of here, baby. But quick.

Marty smiled at the passage, admired the dialogue and was about to reflect on its importance in the movie when the telephone rang. He reached for it. Roz.

“Learn anything?” he asked.

“Oh, I’ve learned something,” she said. “But it’s not going to be enough for your tired white ass. If I’d had clearance to her file, I would have learned more.”

Marty stood and went to the windows overlooking the Park. Two helicopters were sailing toward one another, their blades glinting in the fiery light of the setting sun. For a moment, it looked as if they were going to collide. “Clearance to her file,” he said. “She has one?”

“She has two files, sugar, and one of them’s top secret. Can’t lay my pretty black hands on it. But I do know this much-since 2006, Maggie Cain has been under surveillance by the FBI.”