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  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I might deal with death every day, Mr. Stutzer, but I’m not immune to its effects.”

  “Go easy on the man, Doc,” O’Connor said. I waved off the protection.

  She pushed a button to unlatch a cold-storage drawer. The sheet on the body had yellowed a little, or might have just looked that way next to pale blue-whiteness of my father’s skin.

  “Yes,” I squeaked, “that’s him.”

  O’Connor and I traced our steps back in silence, but when we got to his office he brought out two glasses and poured generous shots from a bottle of bourbon he kept in his squat brown refrigerator. “I always need a shot of this before I do one of these jobs.” I nodded at the glass in thanks, but I didn’t touch it. Maybe it’s growing up the way I did, I don’t know. I just learned to never drink if you have to make an excuse to yourself to do it.

  “What do you need to know?”

  “Name, age, date of birth, place of birth, residence, social security number, when you last saw him, when you last heard from him, any illnesses you knew he had, any reason to suspect malicious intent,” O’Connor read from his form. I told him all he needed to know. When he got to where to ship the body, I gave the name of my mother’s church in Cleveland. She lived with him longest. I figured it was her privilege to bury him as she saw fit. O’Connor poured himself another stiff one before we finished. I had a sip to wash down a pain pill. He didn’t offer me a second dose when he saw I hadn’t dented the first.

  It was just past six as I got up to go. O’Connor shook my left hand and clapped me on the shoulder. “It’s a bloody shame about your dad,” he told me, “but it shows even a drinking man can raise a son like you. I’m proud to know you.”

  “One more question. Did he have my credit card on him?”

  O’Connor shook his flabby head. “He’d been robbed. No ID, no wallet, certainly no credit card. Just an address book, mostly blank, and a scrap of paper with your name and number on it. Just luck he wrote his name in the book and wrote your last name on the paper, or we never would have found you. Sorry.”

  There was a cooling mist falling grey outside. I waited a long time in it for a taxi. My driver’s name was Amir, I noticed on the registration hanging over the glove compartment. I didn’t say anything to him except the Upper East Side address.

  89.

  Elizabeth’s father woke me from a nap on the couch. He let himself in with his own key; I assume he asked the doorman not to announce him. He sat in a cushioned, wooden-armed chair at my feet before I could pull myself awake enough to even sit up.

  “Hello, Ron.”

  “Roger,” I croaked.

  “I want you to know something right off. I owe you a tremendous debt, one I can never repay. Any time you want something, you only need to ask for it and it’s yours.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

  “Don’t be so appreciative until you hear me out.” He shifted his weight around the chair, which creaked in compliance. “I don’t like owing people things, and I don’t handle it easily. So any time you want anything — and I mean this whether you continue your involvement with my daughter or not — you get in touch with my lawyer. Here’s his card.” He put a white slip at the base of the lamp beside him.

  “Well, I hope we’ll be seeing each other anyway, sir.”

  “Perhaps.” He clapped his hands to his knees and hauled himself up. “I was sorry to hear about your father. I’ll leave you in peace.”

  I moved to rise. “Let me see you out at least. It’s your place.”

  “It’s my place; I know the way. Please don’t bother.” He walked away, and I heard the door open and close before I could make myself steady on my feet.

  90.

  I worried that Elizabeth’s father would mind a long-distance call, so I had the operator put it on my card. “Ma?”

  “Is that you, Ron?”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Where are you? Are you in Lebanon?” She was shouting as if I was.

  “No, Ma. I’m in New York.”

  “New York City?”

  “Yes, New York City.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “That’s the reason I’m calling.”

  “You went to New York to call me?”

  “No, Ma. I went to New York because I had to identify Dad’s body.”

  “Your father’s body?”

  I waited a beat to make sure the news had sunk in. Then I said quietly as I could, so I knew she’d have to strain to hear. “The police called me after they found him yesterday morning. He had my name and number in his pocket. He drank too much, and he died out on the street.”

  “Your father always drank too much.”

  “I know, Ma. Listen, I arranged to have the body go to your church. I didn’t remember the name of the priest so I gave your name. I’m sure they’ll be calling you about what to do.”

  “Do? I don’t know what to do.” I could tell she was crying now, soft tears. “He wasn’t a bad man, Ron. He was a drinker, but not a bad man.”

  “I know, Ma. Ma listen, are you OK now?”

  “How can I be OK?”

  “I know. Call some friends. Call your priest. Have someone around.”

  “What about you? You have somebody? Is that pretty girl with you?”

  “What pretty girl?”

  “That one you saved. I know it doesn’t sound right right now, but everyone here is very proud of you. I have gotten calls all day to say how proud. And now the day ends on this note.”

  “It’s bad, Ma,” I agreed. And yes, I’m alone, I thought. “I’ll be out there as soon as I can. The day after tomorrow.”

  “I loved your father from the first day I saw him,” she sobbed now. “And I’m going to love him until I die.”

  “Me too, Ma.”

  When I hung up the phone I felt like a cold steel ball had lodged in my gut. It made me shiver and sob. I blearily dialed home; Roger wouldn’t mind a call to his daughter on his bill. But the phone rang and rang. Jim never put the answering machine back on, and the noise echoed around the empty apartment. I wanted to call Elizabeth at work, but I couldn’t for my life remember her number there.

  I took two pain pills that night, one for my head and the other for my heart.

  91.

  The next morning I made a series of calls. First, to Elizabeth, full of sympathy and hurry. “We’ve got a big meeting this morning,” she told me. “We’re going to have to evacuate Beirut, the fighting is getting horrible. It won’t change anything, but still they fight.”

  “Why won’t it change anything?”

  “Because the people who own the hashish still own the armies. Like the Bowmans. They’ll stay in charge, whoever gets killed.”

  “Did I do something bad working with Brian?”

  “If you could have gotten me out without him it would have been better, yes. It would be better if I were still a hostage, in some ways.”

  “You don’t mean it.”

  “I don’t know what I mean.”

  “How about the press?”

  “The fake press conference caused a huge scene yesterday, but at least you got away. You see my father?”

  I wanted to hold that off for later. “Yes, he dropped by for a second last night. I’m going to have to go to Cleveland tomorrow.”

  “Your father?”

  “It was him, yeah.”

  “Ron, I’m so sorry.”

  “I should have known that’s where he was heading. I could have done something.”

  “Didn’t you already do enough?”

  “I guess. I don’t know. What’s enough?”

  “You can’t save everyone, Ron.”

  “But my father.”

  “Just
take care of yourself, Ron. Call me from Cleveland.”

  I was going to ask her whether she would come, but we don’t involve ourselves in each other’s families. Roger made it clear he knew the rule. I wished I could forget it. “I will. I tried you last night.”

  “Not at work.”

  “I forgot the work number.”

  “Well, write it down so you don’t forget it again.”

  “I feel like I have a huge hole in my head and everything keeps falling into it.”

  “It will be better soon. I’m sure it will. Call me, whenever you want.”

  92.

  I called VISA to report the card stolen. The supervisor asked right off if I was the Ron Stutzer in the newspaper and forgave all the expenses. They had already put a block on it last week, he told me, when the odd uses came up to the credit limit. I didn’t tell them I had given the card to my father. If they hadn’t shut the card down, he probably would have found a hotel to die in.

  I called the literary agent who called me. We arranged lunch. I told him to bring whatever contracts he wanted. The number he left on the machine put me to an assistant, so I knew he must have had some stature. I didn’t really care. An agent would put someone between me and the people who wanted my story; that’s all I wanted. I told him that over lunch. He gave me the contracts, he paid, he took me back to his offices, which were huge, two or three floors of a nice building. He wanted me to take the agreement to my lawyer, but I wanted fast protection, so I signed. Everything.

  I called Professor Nusanti, who told me to meet him at his Columbia office at three. He was in a rickety old building somewhere off the center of campus. His cubby reminded me of all the professors’ places when I was in school, but it was bigger and better furnished. Still, the walls were covered to the molding with untamed bookshelves and each flat surface had a sloping pile of paper perched on it.

  “So, how is the returned warrior?”

  “Injured,” I offered my left hand. He took it without comment.

  “Sit down on the couch. Relax, you look like you could use it.”

  I was going to mention my father, but there was no point really. I wanted knowledge, not sympathy. “So, can you tell me what the hell happened in Lebanon while I was there?”

  “Aside from you nearly getting yourself killed and starting a new explosion of the civil war?”

  “I did do it, didn’t I? No one’s told me what I did.”

  “Tell me the story.”

  So I told him as much as I could, as briefly as I could. I didn’t tell much about the bees — he was incredulous — but I described everything else the best I could.

  “Well, your friend is a very smart lady. As far as I can tell, her plan was first to make the point that America could control Lebanon, and then to concede Lebanon to Syria in exchange for Syrian partnership on other issues, such as Israel and Iran.”

  “Why does Syria care about Lebanon?”

  “Money and a port, for economic factors, but they have long regarded Lebanon as part of Greater Syria. The Lebanon was originally a district of Syria, but it had been taken away from them by a treaty between European powers. Of course, they feel the same way about Israel, but they’d be willing to recant their claim to Israel in exchange for control of Lebanon.”

  “Is Lebanon ours to give away?”

  “Apparently not. That’s what the Amal was saying when they took your friend. The religious, military and business interests all have claims.”

  “And Brian?”

  “Mr. Bowman serves his family’s interests. If Syria takes over Lebanon, the Bowmans, the Gamayels, the Hamadis and the other clans will have to strike a bargain with them — and the Syrians are notoriously hard bargainers. A weak national authority allows the families the most freedom to pursue their business.”

  “Hashish.”

  “You’ve been listening to the State Department. Yes, hashish, among other things.”

  “But what’s this nationalistic stuff going on now?”

  “The clans see that a strong national government — controlled by themselves — is better than Syria, but not as good as no government. They can’t have no government anymore, so they go for the next step.”

  “So Brian’s behind this now?”

  “I’m sure the Bowmans have worked out something.”

  “Why did he help me?”

  “Look at it this way. The Amal, which is supported by Iran, took the girl so that the US would not forget them in the negotiations. Without the girl, Iran and the Amal feared they might lose all their status in Lebanon. Without the girl, they would have to join with someone else to defend their claims. It could be anyone else, as long as it wasn’t Syria. The Bowmans knew that the Syrians knew that they would have to deal with the families, but the Syrians also felt the factions were so small and divided they could either smash them or integrate them. You freeing the girl made them doubt their assumptions. Syria, acknowledging it couldn’t control the independent Lebanese factions, breaks off negotiations. The General comes home empty-handed, and the families accept Iran’s help to strengthen the central government. It’s a very big shakeup, or shakedown, can’t say which.”

  “So I blew the game for the home team.”

  “Not really. Lebanon was never ours to concede to Syria in the first place. The premise of the negotiations was wrong, and the deal would have blown up anyway. That’s the myopia of the Defense Department, though. They think we own everything, or ought to. You see the way that Colonel treated you. He owned your driver. He thinks he owns it all.”

  “So the Defense Department thinks I scotched everything.”

  “I’d bet they do.”

  “Great!” I was thinking of Elizabeth.

  Nusanti was not. “They’re not the worst enemy to have, you know. Many people do well without armies behind them.”

  93.

  The funeral had more festivity than mourning, not because people were singing “Ding! Dong! The Witch is Dead!” but because of all the news about me. So many people showed up to the church that they had to rig some quick speakers for the crowd outside. I said one or two things, just a couple of memories of going to ball games and honoring my mother for keeping the marriage together. Most of the people who were there either didn’t really know my father, or knew that he was a violent and difficult drunk who died like a beggar, and so I figured that people arrived for the pageant of it, the new hero toasting his roots.

  The only conversation I remember was with my dad’s old boss, Mr. Hamlin. He pulled me aside during the receiving line. “I’ve got it set up so that your mother will receive pension benefits just like your dad retired. You know she’s been getting his check all along.”

  “Is it enough for her?”

  “With the life insurance policy? Sure.”

  “What life insurance policy?”

  “I know drunks,” Irv told me. “They think they’ll live forever, but they live shorter even than poor people. Years ago, I got your father to sign on a policy and we’ve been taking his premium out of his check. It should come to a hundred thousand dollars more or less. Your mother’s the beneficiary.”

  “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “It’s a savage world,” he told me. “You ought to know that. The most we can do is protect the little part we come in contact with.”

  “I didn’t do much of a job protecting my father.”

  “How could you? I wasn’t protecting your father. I was protecting you and your mother. Like you were protecting that girl of yours.”

  “If I’d protected her,” I told him, “I never would have let her go.”

  94.

  Days spread into one another. Word had gotten to the press that an agent representing my interests had arranged an exclusive interview with Life, so the rest of the press backed off. My mother went t
hrough patches of incredible pride at her own survival and my accomplishment, and then unrelievable sorrow at having lost her man and at the same time having lost most her life to him. I could only stand by her, that’s all I could do. Seems like so little.

  I expected that just being in the house would scrape up painful memories, but it didn’t. The memories floated up slowly, rose and fell like tide, like seasons. Even the tough times, when my father behaved with unpredictable violence, bloomed in muted colors. The pastels didn’t absolve him, I don’t mean that, but seeing who I had become, I could forgive him for what he had done to me, to our family. To thank him for making me went beyond reason; but at least I could forgive him for it.

  I called Elizabeth to tell her how I felt, but I could hear the patience in her voice.

  “Maybe we can end this taboo on talking about our families,” I told her. “Maybe it’s time.”

  “What taboo?”

  “You know, your family goes your way, mine goes mine. That’s how it’s been and I’m not sure I like it.”

  “I guess that’s just the way it fell out. They never had much in common.”

  I took the opening. “Well maybe you can explain something about what your father said to me in New York.”

  “I don’t know. If you have any questions, maybe you should ask him.”

  “He was very supportive, said he owed me a great debt and that I could ask him for anything.”

  “He does. I do too.”

  “But he wanted me to ask his lawyer if I wanted something, not him.”

  “It’s hard to be in debt, like that anyway.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Then that’s your answer.”

  “I just don’t get it. Why did he send me over there if he couldn’t deal with me coming back?”

  I could hear her voice hesitating even as she spoke. “Maybe he didn’t expect you to succeed.”

  So I stayed in Cleveland for longer than I thought I would. My agent called every day with an update on negotiations, and Jim called with love and reports on the vagrant Control Tower. He’d found one swarm from the hive and installed them back into the Control Tower, with mixed results. Some of the bees from each half fought.