The Conspiracy Club

16

Jeremy wasn’t sure when it happened- sometime during the meat course.

Three meats, arranged like corporeal jewelry, along with braised root vegetables and haricots verte and toasted spinach, complemented by a velvety Burgundy.

Jeremy, once a hearty eater, but of late poorly inclined toward pleasure, had his plate filled with a medallion of rare beef, slices of goose breast, veal loin wrapped around a foie gras nugget. Laurent distributed the flesh while Genevieve doled out the greens.

All of which fit handily on his plate. Jeremy noticed for the first time that the dinnerware was oversize- closer to platters than chargers.

Soft violin music streamed down from the ceiling. Had it been playing all along? Jeremy searched for the speakers and spotted eight of them, positioned around the room, nearly camouflaged by plasterwork.

A room put together with care. And big money.

The old people ate with continued alacrity. Edgar Marquis said, “Genevieve, be a dear and bring me the goose leg.”

The woman left the room and returned shortly with a daunting cudgel of meat. Marquis lifted the leg with both hands, attacked at the top, and proceeded to gnaw his way down the limb. Jeremy tried not to stare- no one else seemed to consider the behavior unusual. Marquis made slow but steady progress, seemed no less shrunken for the accomplishment.

Jeremy recalled something he’d never really been conscious of knowing: a joke some distant relative had tossed his way during a family gathering. Back when he’d been part of a family. Somewhat. How old had he been? Not much more than a toddler.

Where do you put it, kid? Got a hollow leg?

Who’d said it? An uncle? A cousin? Had he really been a ravenous child? What had happened to his appetites? Where had his life gone?

Next to him, Tina Balleron fanned her napkin and dabbed daintily at her lips. Across the table, Arthur Chess chewed away like a stud horse.

Norbert Levy said, “Yum.”

Jeremy faced the food. Dug in.

It wasn’t Arthur who brought it up, of that Jeremy was nearly certain. Nearly, because red wine and protein overload had pushed him to the brink of stupor.

Who had it been… Maynard? Or possibly Levy.

Someone had raised the topic of criminal violence.

Ah, thought Jeremy. The punch line, this is why they’ve brought me here.

But no one consulted him. Not in the least. They talked among themselves, as if he weren’t there.

Might as well seat me at the kids’ table.

He decided to withdraw into his own mental space. But the old people’s voices were hard to ignore.

Harrison Maynard was saying, “Punditry is nothing but fatuous prigs reciting the same nonsense so many times they come to believe it. Poverty causes crime. Hah.” He placed his knife down. “I won’t bore you with yet another sad reminiscence of my wretched, racism-blighted, brutally segregated youth, but suffice it to say that no matter where you grow up it becomes apparent, early, who the bad guys are, and that’s a color-blind phenomenon. Villains stand out like boils on a supermodel.”

Tina Balleron made an index-finger gun and pointed it at no one in particular.

“Pardon, dear?” said Maynard.

“Bad guys and good guys, Harry. Very macho, it’s rather… Louis L’Amour.”

“Great writer,” said Maynard. “Great human being. Do you quibble with the concept?”

“I was a judge, darling. Bad guys were my stock-in-trade. It’s the alleged good guys I’m not sure of.”

Edgar Marquis said, “I encountered a good deal of evil in the corridors of foreign service. Lying for fun and profit, if you will- at times venality seemed to be the department’s primary product. The profession attracts rapscallions.”

Maynard said, “Ah, the things they don’t tell you in diplomat school.”

“Oh, yes,” said Marquis. Mournfully, as if it really troubled him.

“Don’t fret, Edgar, the same goes for academia,” said Norbert Levy. “I coped by ignoring the fools and concentrating on my work. I suppose your work didn’t afford you that privilege, Eddie. The collaborative nature and all that. How did you stand it?”

“For years I didn’t, lad. My Washington days were a torment. I finally figured out the key was to avoid what passed for civilization. I was offered a position in England- the Court of Saint James, as it were. Assistant to the harlot who’d been appointed ambassador. I couldn’t imagine anything more repugnant than that particular amalgam of double talk and peerage. I turned the job down, doomed my future, sought out remote outposts where I could be useful without succumbing to the culture of cravenness.”

“Micronesia,” Arthur explained to Jeremy. The first indication, in a while, that anyone was aware of his presence.

“The smaller, more obscure islands of Micronesia and Indonesia,” said Marquis. “Places where antibiotics and common sense could make a difference.”

“Why, Eddie,” said Judge Balleron, “you’re a social worker at heart.”

The old man sighed. “There was a time when good deeds went unpunished.”

Another silence engulfed the room and, once again, Jeremy thought they all looked sad.

There’s some back story I’m not privy to. Something they share- something they’re not going to explain because I’m temporary.

Why am I here?

Another attempt to catch Arthur’s eye was unsuccessful. The pathologist’s eyes were back on his plate as he dissected his veal.

Norbert Levy said, “I think your point is well-taken, Harry. There will always be bad guys among us and they’re not that hard to spot. On the contrary, they’re banal.”

“Banal and cruel,” said Harrison Maynard. “Entitlement, callousness, the inability to control one’s drives.”

Jeremy heard himself speak up: “That’s exactly what the data show, Mr. Maynard. Habitually violent criminals are impulsive and callous.”

Five sets of eyes upon him.

Tina Balleron said, “Doctor, are we talking about actual psychological data, or mere supposition?”

“Data.”

“Case histories or group studies?”

“Both.”

“Conclusive or preliminary?” The woman’s murmur did nothing to blunt the force of her questions. Judges start out as lawyers. Jeremy imagined Balleron cross-examining strong men and reducing them to whimpering sots.

“Preliminary but highly suggestive.” Jeremy filled in details. No one responded. He went on, elaborating, quoting sources, getting specific.

Now they were interested.

He continued. Delivered a little speech. Found himself heating up, having trouble separating the cold facts from the images that danced in his head.

Humpty-Dumpty situation.

Science was woefully inadequate.

He felt a sob rising in his throat. Stopped. Said, “That’s all.”

Arthur Chess said, “Fascinating, absolutely fascinating.”

Harrison Maynard nodded. The others followed suit.

Even Tina Balleron looked subdued. “I suppose I’ve learned something,” she said. “And for that, I thank you, Dr. Jeremy Carrier.”

An awkward moment. Jeremy didn’t know what to say.

Edgar Marquis said, “Will anyone be offended if I call for the goose wing?”

“Knock yourself out, Eddie,” said Harrison Maynard. “I’m calling for champagne.”

This time, a toast.

Clean, dry Möet & Chandon bubbled in the repousse goblets, the chill seeping through the glass insets, frosting the silver.

The wine fizzed in Jeremy’s cheap flute. He took hold of the glass and raised it as Arthur toasted.

“To our articulate guest.”

The others repeated it.

Five smiles. Real smiles, pure welcome.

The evening had gone well.

Jeremy had done well. He was sure of it.

He sipped his champagne, thought he’d never tasted anything quite so wonderful.

Never before had he felt so accepted.