An Image of Death (26 page)

“A torch?”

“Yeah. It even looked a little like that there sketch. Dude said he was in the Russian airborne.”

A buzz skimmed my nerves.

“Could be they’re hung up about fire over there. I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s one of the most powerful symbols there is. For Buddhists, it’s a medium of purification. Even more powerful than water.”

“How so?”

He leaned his elbows on the counter. “A burning fire is the mind ‘unawakened,’ agitated, full of passions and delusions. The goal is to extinguish the fire so that the mind is released. Unbound. You’re more aware. Closer to nirvana. It’s in early Buddhist scriptures: ‘The wise…they go out like this flame.’” He was starting to gear up again. “I can point you to a couple of books, if you’re interested.”

I hoisted my bag farther up my shoulder. “No, thanks. But you’ve been very helpful.” I looked over at Susan. “Okay, Miss Susan. Let’s go check your Bakelite now.”

“Not so fast.” She spun around and pointed to a tattoo that looked like a variation of a Celtic knot. “How much for this one?” she asked the tattoo artist. “And how long would it take?”

***

After I dragged Susan home and picked up Rachel, I stopped by Sunset, chatted with Stan, and walked out with twice as much fish as I needed. When dinner was over, I fortified myself with half a bottle of wine. Then I called David.

“Hello, Ellie.”

His voice was measured. Cool. I heard a quiet commotion in the background. Was that Willie? Or Brigitte?

“You didn’t call me back.”

“I couldn’t,” I said. “I—I heard her message on your machine.”

“I thought so.”

“David?”

“Yes?”

“Tell me it’s not true. This is just all some kind of horrible misunderstanding.”

He didn’t answer. An image of his hands stroking my skin swept over me. I pushed it away. “David?”

He cleared his throat. “I—I can’t say that, Ellie.”

Pressure built in my chest. The nightmare was back. “But—but what about us?”

He sighed. “Ellie, it’s no secret you and I have been having problems. You couldn’t call our relationship smooth.”

“I—I was thinking we could work it out. I never—I didn’t expect—this.”

“I wasn’t looking for it, either. It just happened.”

“What happened? What was it about her? Tell me.” Why was I doing this, torturing myself?

He was quiet. Then, “I don’t know if I can explain it. I didn’t realize it until I went to the airport. It was all—very fast. But when I saw her again, it was as if she was supposed to be there.”

“Supposed to be there?”

“She understands me, Ellie. She knows what it’s like to lose most of her family. To grow up on her own. And she doesn’t want to charge off and save the world. She’s content to stay home and take care of me.”

“David, you’ve only known her two weeks. How do you know?”

“How did
we?”

“Apparently, we didn’t.”

“She flew halfway around the world to be with me, Ellie.”

“Oh, so distance is the mitigating factor? What if I had flown over and met you in Germany? Would that have made a difference?”

“You didn’t.”

I thought about it, I wanted to say. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t say anything. I felt drained. Nothing would make a difference, anyway.

“What about Dad?” I said miserably. “And Rachel? What do I tell them?”

For the first time I heard uncertainty in his voice. “Tell—tell them…I’m so sorry.”

Tears started to well up. “David, I can’t pretend to understand any of this. I do think it has something to do with finding your uncle, and I understand that your perceptions might be skewed. That things might appear to be very different in a short period of time. But I—”

“Ellie, I’ve never seen things more clearly.”

So much for talking it out. Susan was wrong. I blinked back tears. Then I remembered the airport and Brigitte’s conversation on her cell. He might not believe me, but, in a way, I felt protective of him. And this might be the last chance I’d have. “David, be careful.”

“Careful? Careful how?”

“I—I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I appreciate your concern, Ellie, but don’t worry. I’m fine. And I want you to know—”

“No, listen. I need to tell you something.”

“Go ahead.”

I let out a breath. “After I heard Brigitte’s message on your machine, I went to the airport to go home. O’Hare was shut down because of the weather. So I went to the bar to check her out. She didn’t know who I was. I sat at the next table. She was talking on her cell phone.” I hesitated. “David, she was talking to someone in New York. A man. She told him as soon as you signed the papers to sell the shop, she would come to him, and they would go away together. David…she told him she loved him.”

There was silence.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you.”

“You haven’t signed the papers yet, have you?”

More silence.

“David?”

His voice was cool. “Ellie, I know I’ve hurt you deeply. I’m truly sorry. I should never have allowed you to come to Philadelphia and meet Willie. It wasn’t fair. But I have to wonder whether you’re telling me the truth now.”

“David, do you think I would ever lie to you?”

“I didn’t think so, but your timing is—well—it’s suspect.”

I knew I was grasping for straws. “David, she’s not your family. She’s not your uncle’s family, either.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, “Neither are you.”

***

That night the demons invaded my soul. Not just the dybbuks who come after me for a tasteless comment or hurtful look. These were the darker ones, the ones who delight in pointing out my essential worthlessness. The ones who chortle gleefully that I will be unmasked, revealed to be the fraud I am. It was your fault you lost David, they sneered. If you hadn’t been so cavalier, so driven, so insensitive, he would still be yours. I tried to argue it wasn’t me. It was Brigitte. She stole him away. Not so, they scoffed. It’s your fault. It always is.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-NINE

It was still dark when I met Mac and the crew at Cabrini Green. Jordan Bennett had given me the key to the apartment, and Mac started setting up lights. We would begin taping indoors, but when the moving van arrived, we’d take the camera off sticks and shoot handheld.

Jordan endeared himself to the crew by arriving just after dawn with coffee and donuts. When he passed me the box, I declined.

“You’re the first woman I’ve met who turned down a free Krispy Kreme,” he said.

“I’m boycotting them.”

“They’re the hottest things around.”

“Any food that has its own fan site on the Web is no longer a fad—it’s an obsession. A crass, unhealthy one at that.”

Jordan cocked his head.

“How many fan sites for tomatoes do you see? Or string beans? It’s exploitative. And commercial. I won’t be a party to it.”

“And you know it has its own fan site because.…” He looked puzzled, then smiled. “You wouldn’t be surfing the Net for Krispy Kremes yourself, now would you?”

I sniffed, trying to salvage the shreds of my dignity.

He offered the rest to the crew.

I bit my lip. “I’m sorry, Jordan. I’m in a lousy—I’m just not hungry.”

“No problem.”

The truck, donated by Feldman Development, showed up at nine. An enormous van capable of holding goods from two or three households, the meager possessions of six kids barely made a dent. We decided to shoot the furniture truck instead.

By the time it arrived, four of the boys had shown up. The other two kids had jobs and wouldn’t be there until evening. The boys’ eyes widened as they watched six beds, dressers, and desks being unloaded. It was just the basics, but for some of them, it was probably the first time they’d ever seen new furniture. Jordan had leased it for a year.

We followed the boys with the camera while they unpacked and started to set up. Three of them were African American. The fourth, in sleeveless denim shirt and multiple piercings, looked like a wannabe biker. I considered telling him what I’d learned about spiritual tattoos, but he didn’t look like a Buddhist, and he didn’t need the tattoos.

Although shy and withdrawn around us, the kids were easy and boisterous with Jordan, clinging to him like he was a latter-day Fagan. Unlike Fagan, though, Jordan cared, and I made sure Mac got B-roll of him dispensing high fives to one, quiet words of counsel to another. After the kids put away their things, we shot short interviews with them.

We were just wrapping up when I heard the click of heels on the parquet floor. I turned to see Ricki Feldman trotting toward us. With a black sable coat thrown over some kind of designer pantsuit, she looked too upscale for the place, but I pretended not to notice. Jordan’s look of surprise said he hadn’t expected her to show up, either, but he gave her a warm welcome and took her on a tour of the apartment. She stuck close to him. Only once did I catch them smiling at each other in a way that went beyond professional. I pretended not to see that, too.

“How about I take you and Jordan to lunch?” she said when they’d finished the tour. “My treat.”

I smiled politely. “Sorry. I have too much going on today.”

“No problem.” She waved dismissively, then turned to Jordan. “You’ll come, won’t you?”

“Just let me make sure the guys are settled.” He headed back toward the bedrooms.

She followed him with her eyes, then looked at me. “So, how’s it going?”

“We got some warm, beautiful footage of the kids and Jordan this morning.”

“When do you shoot the congressman?”

“He’ll be back in the district for Presidents’ Day. We have an interview set up.”

“Good. How about your friend David? Did you end up using him in the film?”

“No.”

The look on my face must have brooked no argument, because she didn’t pursue it.

Jordan came back out, cheerfully rubbing his hands. His manner was so open, so innocent, that my maternal, protective instincts snapped on. A relationship with Ricki Feldman was not for the fainthearted. I hoped Jordan knew what he was doing. But then, who was I to judge? I was no poster child for healthy relationships.

Ricki shrugged into her coat and started for the door. Jordan was two steps behind. Then she turned around. “Oh, Ellie, I almost forgot. I have a favor to ask. You remember Max Gordon, don’t you?”

I frowned.

“You met him in the restaurant with your friend David.”

Why did she have to keep bringing him up? “Gold Coast Trust, isn’t it?”

“Right. Well, he’s breaking ground tomorrow on his new skyscraper. You know, the one just north of the Loop.” When I didn’t answer, she added, “Don’t tell me you don’t remember that, either. I told you about it at the restaurant.”

I shook my head. Only Ricki Feldman would expect me to remember a conversation from weeks ago that lasted less than thirty seconds.

“He’s developing the site near Wabash and Wacker,” she said impatiently.

“Wabash and Wacker? Isn’t that the site that Donald Trump had his eye on?”

“That’s the one.”

Now it clicked. The proposal called for an eighty-story tower, the fifth-tallest in Chicago. It had generated the typical hue and cry: Some said it would destroy the skyline; others maintained it was critical for the city’s survival. The mayor approved it, but for some reason, Trump bowed out. Happily, Max Gordon stepped in. I hadn’t realized until now that was the skyscraper they were talking about.

“What’s the favor?” I asked.

“Will you shoot the ground-breaking ceremony for me?”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Ricki, I’m not a news crew. I don’t do that kind of work. Why don’t I find you a freelance crew?”

“But I want you to shoot it.”

“What time is the ceremony?”

“Noon.”

I started to say Okay—I could always use the extra money—but she didn’t give me the chance. “This could lead to something big, you know. It’s major construction, in the heart of downtown. I wouldn’t be surprised if Max wants a video of the building going up. You’d definitely have a foot in the door.”

“That’s fine—”

“Ellie. This is big. It’s on the same scale as Sears, the Hancock. Even the World Trade Center.”

The remark hung in the air for a moment. Ricki actually winced. “Please,” she said softly. “I’d like to give it to him as a present. He’s been a real friend. And I know I can count on you to do a great job.”

“Save the speech, Ricki. I was going to say yes.”

“Oh.” Her face relaxed. “Thanks.”

The rich and their gifts.

“By the way. Since it’s such short notice,” she added, “if you have to charge time and a half, so be it.”

***

The corner of Wabash and Wacker, a block north of the Loop, curls around a bridge that overlooks the Chicago river. South of the river, Wabash Avenue is noisy and gritty, with el trains clattering above, and older buildings crammed with tiny offices below. One-Eleven houses every medical specialist ever licensed, and if you can’t find the right ring at Jewelers’ Row, it probably doesn’t exist.

The site of Max Gordon’s tower, however, was north of the river, where property is more upscale. A huge lot on the east side of Wabash was surrounded by a chain-link fence. A man-made ditch, into which someone had thrown a load of gravel, had been dug in front. Inside, an area of hard-packed frozen ground stretched across the site, except for a small mound of earth that had been hacked up for the ground-breaking ceremony.

A podium stood a few feet away from the mound, and a gold banner with the words
Gordon Towers
in black letters hung behind it. Propped up against the podium was a shovel and two hard hats that had been painted gold. Of course. Gold Coast Trust.

A set of risers for the media had been set up about fifty feet from the podium. While Mac set up the camera, I snagged a program from a PR flunky who was trying to look important. The crowd was already gathering, and the newspeople filtered in, camera crews and producers jockeying for position on the risers. I spotted an earnest female reporter whose first name rhymed with her last; she would regurgitate whatever she was spoon-fed. They all did. Made you long for the days of Phil Walters, Bill Kurtis, even Skippy.