Cut And Run. Carla Neggers
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quiet air of competence, he’d always felt helpless where Otis Raymond was concerned. “You were the best, buddy.”
Dragging on his cigarette, Weasel headed out. He gave Feldie a grin that was almost a come-on, and Matthew had to laugh. He could hear his buddy’s out-of-tune whistle as he disappeared down the corridor. The stupid shit thought he’d won. That Matt Stark was on the story and all was well.
Stark stood up, feeling the sorrow and anger he always felt after he saw Otis Raymond, but he kept the mask in place, the one that said he was always in control, always at a distance. He picked up his coffee and went over to Feldie’s desk. She’d finally sat down, but he’d been aware of her looks in his direction—suspicious looks tinged with concern. Feldie was a stickler for facts—give people the facts, she said, and let them arrive at their own truths—and a damn fine editor, but she also cared. Trying to reform him gave her something to do besides going after facts and pleasing the big guns upstairs. But she’d never admit as much, and although Matthew admired her for it, what the hell. He’d had his fifteen minutes of fame. He still led a pretty good life, and as much as Feldie carped, he did get his assignments in, more or less on time. Maybe a few years ago he’d had the drive and ambition to do more—to make a difference. But that was a few years ago.
Feldie pulled off her glasses and snapped them closed. “Well, what did he have to say?”
“Nothing.”
“You two yakked it up enough.”
“Catching up.”
“On what? I want facts, Stark.”
“You don’t get facts from Otis Raymond.”
“You’re not going to tell me,” she said. There was resignation in her tone, and maybe a little respect.
Stark smiled. “Nothing to tell.”
“Christ, Stark, you drive me fucking crazy.”
“Without me around, who’d give you ulcers? I’m going up for some fresh coffee, you want anything?”
“No, jackass, I want you to tell me what that conversation was all about!”
Mug in hand, Stark started across the newsroom but, as if remembering something, turned back around. “Hey, Feldie, you want to do me a favor?”
“No. Sit your ass back down and tell me what that sorry-looking bastard wanted. He said he had something for you—”
“I’ll be taking the shuttle to New York tonight,” Matthew said, cutting her off, “probably spend the weekend. I’d like to take in tomorrow night’s concert at Lincoln Center, on the paper.”
She frowned, opening up her glasses with both hands. “Why?”
“Something to do while I’m in town. I figure the paper can afford to spring me a ticket.”
“You’re checking out something this Weaze character said, aren’t you? He gave you a hot tip.”
“I just like music.”
“Then who’s playing?”
“Has to be someone good.” He grinned. “It’s Lincoln Center, right?”
“Stark, damn you.”
But he ducked out for his coffee, leaving Alice Feldon sputtering.
Juliana immediately sensed her mother’s tension when she came to the table, but Catharina smiled tenderly and introduced her friend. Rachel Stein rose, also smiling. “Ahh, Juliana, I’m so happy to meet you at last. You could only be a Peperkamp.”
“You know my mother’s family?” Juliana was surprised: she had never met anyone who did. She knew Aunt Willie and Uncle Johannes, of course, but none of their friends, none of the people who’d known her mother when she had lived in The Netherlands. “You’re Dutch, aren’t you? I detect an accent.”
“We knew Rachel in Amsterdam,” Catharina supplied quickly.
“Yes, and I’m sorry I can’t stay,” Rachel said. “A pleasure meeting you, Juliana.”
“Likewise. You’re sure you can’t stay another minute? I’d love to talk.”
But Rachel hurried out, and Catharina swept away the remains of their tray and had a fresh one brought over. “It’s so good to see you, Juliana. I missed you. Now,” she said, filling two porcelain cups with hot tea, “tell me about your tour. Was it successful?”
“Yes, but, Mother—”
“A friend of mine heard you in Vienna. She said you were magnificent.”
Juliana sighed. She wasn’t going to hear about Rachel Stein. She considered asking but knew it would do no good. Only on rare occasions would her mother discuss her life in The Netherlands, and then in the most general terms. Even her father remained relatively ignorant of that phase of his wife’s life. Catharina Peperkamp Fall had survived five years of Nazi occupation when she was little more than a girl, and she’d left her homeland not on the best of terms with her family, especially Aunt Willie, who was, to say the least, difficult. She hadn’t seen her older brother and sister since the concert in Delftshaven seven years ago, and neither Wilhelmina nor Johannes would travel to the United States. But no matter how deep her own curiosity, Juliana hated to pry into a past her mother obviously didn’t want to discuss. In any case, she knew better. Catharina would only tell her daughter precisely what she wanted her to know, no more.
Already, simply by changing the subject she was exerting her will. If Juliana pressed for information on Rachel Stein, her mother would only get upset—and still would not talk about Rachel and how they’d known each other in Amsterdam and what she was doing in New York. You don’t need to know these things, her mother would say; they are of no consequence. You shouldn’t worry. You should be happy. They were the refrains, well-meaning but maddening, of Juliana’s childhood. She’d learned not to argue and, eventually, to keep quiet about her own problems, because they would always cause her mother more grief than they did herself. As a result, Catharina Fall had no idea her daughter was playing jazz incognito in a SoHo nightclub, no idea Shuji thought she was in a funk, no idea she both dreaded and looked forward to her long-awaited performance at Lincoln Center tomorrow night, her final concert of the year. Juliana wouldn’t tell her. Her mother would worry that something wasn’t quite perfect in her daughter’s world. And Juliana didn’t want her mother to worry.
“Tell me everything,” Catharina said.
Juliana did. At least everything her mother would want to hear.
When Stark returned to his desk an hour later, Alice Feldon had left a note on his keyboard. “I want a story out of this. You can pick up your ticket at Lincoln Center before the concert. By the way, Juliana Fall will be performing the Beethoven Piano Concerto No. 1 in C Major, Opus 15, with the New York Philharmonic. That’s Beethoven as in Ludwig van.”
Matthew grimaced. “Sounds like a yawner.”
Four
Master Sergeant (ret.) Phillip Bloch settled back in the oak swivel chair and watched a fat cockroach scurry across the pine floor of the rustic fishing camp he was using as his temporary headquarters. A rich man’s idea of country living. There was natural pine paneling on all the walls, a big fieldstone fireplace, lots of dark, sturdy furniture. He had a little fire going now, just to take the edge off, and the place glowed. It was a hell of a lot nicer than anything Bloch had ever known. But you couldn’t keep out the cockroaches. They crawled over a fancy hand-braided rug just as easily as over some old rag. Didn’t make no never-mind to them. Sometimes Bloch liked to catch the cockroaches, especially the fat ones, and squeeze them between his fingers. It was something to do to pass time. He’d hung around in enough of the cesspools of the world to have learned to amuse himself.
He pressed one knee up against the rolltop desk, a giant hunk of furniture,