The Lemur Part 1

The Lemur.

Black, Benjamin.

1.

GLa.s.s HOUSES.

The researcher was a very tall, very thin young man with a head too small for his frame and an Adam's apple the size of a golf ball. He wore rimless spectacles the lenses of which were almost invisible, the s.h.i.+ne of the gla.s.s giving an extra l.u.s.ter to his large, round, slightly bulging black eyes. A spur of blond hair sprouted from his chin, and his brow, high and domed, was pitted with acne scars. His hands were slender and pearly-pale, with long, tapering fingers-a girl's hands, or at least the hands a girl should have. Even though he was sitting down, the crotch of his baggy jeans sagged halfway to his knees. His none too clean T-s.h.i.+rt bore the legend Life Sucks and Then You Die. He looked about seventeen but must be, John Gla.s.s guessed, in his late twenties, at least. With that long neck and little head and those big, s.h.i.+ny eyes, he bore a strong resemblance to one of the more exotic rodents, though for the moment Gla.s.s could not think which one.

His name was Dylan Riley. Of course, Gla.s.s thought, he would be a Dylan.

"So," Riley said, "you're married to Big Bill's daughter."

He was lounging in a black-leather swivel chair in Gla.s.s's borrowed office on the north-facing side of Mulholland Tower. Behind him, through a wall of plate gla.s.s, gray Manhattan sulked steamily under a drifting pall of April rain.

"Does that seem funny to you?" Gla.s.s inquired. He had an instinctive dislike of people who wore T-s.h.i.+rts with smart things written on them.

Dylan Riley snickered. "Not funny, no. Surprising. I wouldn't have picked you as one of Big Bill's people."

Gla.s.s decided to let that go. He had begun to breathe heavily through his nostrils, hisss-hiss, hisss-hiss, always a warning sign.

"Mister Mulholland," Gla.s.s said heavily, "is eager that I have all the facts, and that I have them the right way round."

Riley smiled his goofy smile and swiveled the chair first to one side and then the other, nodding happily. "All the facts," he said, "sure." He seemed to be enjoying himself.

"Yes," Gla.s.s said with stony emphasis, "all the facts. That's why I'm hiring you."

In one corner of the office there was a big square metal desk, and Gla.s.s went now and sat down carefully behind it. He felt less panicstricken sitting down. The office was on the thirty-ninth floor. It was absurd to be expected to conduct business-to do anything-at such a height. On his first day there he had edged up to the plate-gla.s.s wall and peered down to see, a couple of floors below, fluffy white clouds that looked like soft icebergs sailing sedately across a submerged city. Now he put his hands flat on the desk before him as if it were a raft he was trying to hold steady. He very much needed a cigarette.

Dylan Riley had turned the chair around to face the desk. Gla.s.s was sure the young man could sense how dizzy and sick he felt, perched up here in this crystal-and-steel eyrie.

"Anyway," Gla.s.s said, moving his right hand in a wide arc across the desktop as if to sweep the subject aside; the gesture made him think of footage of Richard Nixon, sweating on the evening news all those years ago, insisting he was not a crook. The studios were so harshly lit in those days of paranoia and recrimination they had made pretty well everyone look like a villain in an old Eastmancolor movie. "I should tell you," Gla.s.s said, "that Mr. Mulholland will give you no a.s.sistance. And I don't want you to approach him. Don't call, don't write. Understand?"

Riley smirked and bit his lower lip, which made him look all the more like-what was it? A squirrel? No. Close, but no. "You haven't told him," Riley said, "have you. About me, I mean."

Gla.s.s ignored that. "I'm not asking you to be a muckraker," he said. "I don't expect Mr. Mulholland to have guilty secrets. He was an undercover agent, but he's not a crook, in case you think I think he is."

"No," Riley said, "he's your father-in-law."

Gla.s.s was breathing heavily again. "That's something I'd like you to forget about," he said, "when you come to do your researches." He sat back on his chair and studied the young man. "How will you go about it-researching, I mean?"

Riley laced his long pale fingers over his concave stomach and this time rocked himself gently backward and forward in the swivel chair, making the ball-and-socket mechanism underneath the seat squeal tinily, eek, eek.

"Well," Riley said with a smirk, "let's say I go way beyond Wikipedia."

"But you'll use ... computers, and so on?" Gla.s.s did not possess even a cell phone.

"Oh, yes, computers," Riley said, making his big eyes bigger still, mocking the older man, "all sorts of wizard gadgets, don't you know."

Gla.s.s wondered if that was supposed to be a British accent. Did Riley think he was English? Well, let him.

He imagined lighting up: the match flaring, the lovely tang of sulphur, and then the harsh smoke searing his throat.

"I want to ask you something," Riley said, thrusting his pinhead forward on its tall stalk of neck. "Why did you agree to it?"

"What?"

"To write Big Bill's biography."

"I don't think that's any of your business," Gla.s.s said sharply. He looked out at the misty rain. He had moved permanently from Dublin to New York six months previously, he had an apartment on Central Park West and a house on Long Island-or at least his wife had-yet he had still not got used to what he thought of as the New York Jeer. The fellow on the street corner selling you a hot dog would say, "Thanks, bud," and manage to make it sound merrily derisive. How did they keep it going, this endless, amused, argumentative squaring up to each other and everyone else?

"Tell me," he said, "what you know about Mr. Mulholland."

"For free?" Riley grinned again, then leaned back and looked at the ceiling, fingering the tuft of hair on his chin. "William 'Big Bill' Mulholland. South Boston Irish, second generation. Father ran off when wee Willie was a kid, mother took in laundry, scrubbed floors. In school William got straight As, impressed the priests, was an altar boy, the usual. Tough, though-any pedophile cleric coming near Bill Mulholland would likely have lost his b.a.l.l.s. Put himself through Boston College. Engineering. At college was recruited into the CIA, became a working operative in the late forties. Electronic surveillance was his specialty. Korea, Latin America, Europe, Vietnam. Then he had a run-in with James Jesus Angleton over Angleton's obsessive distrust of the French-Big Bill was posted to the Company's Paris bureau at the time. In those days one did not incur the displeasure"-again that hopeless attempt at a British accent-"of James Jesus without getting cut off at the knees, which is what would have happened to Bill Mulholland if he hadn't got out before Angleton could give him the shove, or worse. That was the late sixties."

He pushed himself up out of the chair, unwinding himself like a fakir's rope, and shambled to the gla.s.s wall and stood looking out, his hands thrust into the back pockets of his jeans. He went on: "After he left the Company, Big Bill got into the then-blossoming communications business, where he put his training as a spook to good use when he set up Mulholland Cable and right away began to make s.h.i.+tloads of money. It wasn't until twenty years later that he had to bring in his protege Charlie Varriker to save the firm from going bust." He paused, and without turning said: "You'll know about Big Bill's matrimonial adventures, I guess? In 1949 he married the world's most famous redhead, Vanessa Lane, Hollywood actress, if that's the word, and in 1949 the marriage was duly dissolved"-now he grinned over his shoulder at Gla.s.s-"ain't love just screwy?"

He went back to contemplating the misted city and was silent for a moment, thinking. "You know," he said, "he's such a CIA cliche I wonder if the CIA didn't invent him. Look at his next marriage, in '58, to Claire Thorpington Eliot, of the Boston Eliots-that was some step up the social ladder for Billy the Kid from Brewster Street. He had, as you will know, one child only, a daughter, Louise, by the second Mrs. Mulholland. Miz Claire, as this grand lady was called, died in a hunting accident-balking horse, broken neck-in April 1961, on the eve, as b.l.o.o.d.y-minded Fate would have it, of the invasion of the Playa Giron, otherwise known as the Bay of Pigs, a venture in which Big Bill was sunk up to his neck. The grieving widower returned from the sh.o.r.es of Florida to find the Eliots already moving his things, including his two-year-old daughter, out of the grand old family mansion in Back Bay."

He turned and walked back and slumped down in the chair and again turned his eyes to the ceiling. "Next thing," he said, "Big Bill was married a third time, to Nancy Harrison, writer, journalist, and Martha Gellhorn-look-alike, and living with her on a fine estate in County Somewhere on the west coast of Ireland, not an Oscar statuette's throw from the home of his old friend and drinking buddy John Huston. Grand days, by all accounts, but bound to end, like all such. Blond Nancy couldn't take the endless rain and the low-browed natives and packed up her Remington and hightailed it for sunnier climes-Ibiza, Clifford Irving, Orson Welles, all that." He stopped, and lowered his glossy gaze from the ceiling and fixed on Gla.s.s. "You want more, I got more. And I haven't even looked into the crystal ball of my laptop yet."

"What did you do," Gla.s.s said, "rehea.r.s.e this stuff before you came up here?"

A sharp something came into the young man's look, a resentful edge. "I have a photographic memory."

"Useful, in your trade," Gla.s.s said.

"Yeah."

He was, Gla.s.s saw, sulking. His professional honor had been questioned. It was good to know where he was vulnerable.

Gla.s.s rose, a finger braced against the desktop for balance, and launched himself cautiously out into the room. At each step that he took he felt he was about to fall over, and had the impression that he was yawing sideways irresistibly in the direction of the gla.s.s wall and the gulp-inducing nothingness beyond. Would he ever become accustomed to this cloud-capped tower?

"I can see," he said, "I've picked the right person. Because what I want is detail-the kind of thing I'm not going to have the time to find for myself, or the inclination, frankly."

"No," Riley said from the leather depths of his chair, still sounding surly, "detail was never your strong point, was it?"

What struck Gla.s.s was not so much the implied insult as the tense in which it was couched. Was this how everyone would see it, that by agreeing to write his father-in-law's biography he had renounced his calling as a journalist? If so, they would be wrong, though once again it was a matter of tense. For he had already given up journalism, before ever Big Bill had approached him with an offer it would have been foolish to refuse. His reports on Northern Ireland during the Troubles, on the ma.s.sacre in Tiananmen Square, on the Rwandan genocide, on the Intifada, on that b.l.o.o.d.y Sat.u.r.day afternoon in Srebrenica, not so much reports as extended and pa.s.sionately fas.h.i.+oned jeremiads-there would be no more of them. Something had ceased in him, a light had been extinguished, he did not know why. It was simply that: he had burned out. An old story. He was a walking cliche. "I want you to write this thing, son," Big Bill had said to him, laying a hand on his shoulder, "not only because I trust you, but because others do, too. I don't want a hagiography-I don't merit one, I'm no saint. What I want is the truth." And Gla.s.s had thought: Ah, the truth.

"It's not going to be easy for you," he said now to the young man lounging in the sh.e.l.l-shaped chair.

"How's that?"

"I don't want Mr. Mulholland to come to hear of you and what you're doing. You understand?"

He turned-too quickly, making his head spin-and gave Dylan Riley what he hoped was a hard look. But Riley was gazing at the ceiling again, gnawing on the nail of his left little finger, and might not have been listening.

"That's my job," Riley said, "to be discreet. Anyway, you'd be surprised how much information-detail, as you say-is on record, if you know where to look for it."

Gla.s.s suddenly wanted to be rid of the fellow. "Have you a standard contract?" he asked brusquely.

"A contract? I don't do contracts." Riley smiled slyly. "I trust you."

"Oh, yes? I didn't think you'd trust anyone, given the nature of your work."

Riley stood up from the chair and adjusted the crotch of his sagging jeans with scooping gestures of both hands. He really was an unappetizing person. "'The nature of my work'?" he said. "I'm a researcher, Mr. Gla.s.s. That's all."

"Yes, but you find things out, and surely sometimes the things you find out are not to the taste of your employers, never mind the people they are having researched."

Riley gave him a long, piercing look, putting his head on one side and narrowing his eyes. "You said Big Bill has no guilty secrets."

"I said I expect none."

"I'm here to tell you, everybody has secrets, mostly guilty ones."

Gla.s.s turned toward the door, drawing the young man with him. "You'll get to work straightaway," he said, a statement not a question. "When can I expect to hear from you?"

"I've got to get my head around this, get organized, decide priorities. Then we'll talk again." By now Gla.s.s had the door open. The much used air in the corridor smelled faintly of burnt rubber. "I've got to get my head around you, too," Riley said, with a suddenly bitter laugh. "I used to read you, you know, in the Guardian, in Rolling Stone, the New York Review. And now you're writing Big Bill Mulholland's life story." He inflated his cheeks and released the air in them with a tiny, plosive sound. "Wow," he said, and turned away.

Gla.s.s shut the door and walked back to his desk, and when he reached it, as if at a signal, the telephone rang. "This is Security, Mr. Gla.s.s. Your wife is here."

For a moment Gla.s.s said nothing. He touched the chair Dylan Riley had sat in, and again it made its tiny protest: eek, eek. The young man had left a definite odor on the air, a grayish, rank spoor.

A lemur! That was the creature Dylan Riley resembled. Yes, of course. A lemur.

"Tell her to come up," John Gla.s.s said.

2.

LOUISE.

Louise Gla.s.s was forty-eight and looked thirty. She was tall and slim and a redhead, though these days most of the red came out of a bottle. Her skin was pale to the point of translucency, and her sharp-featured face was lovely from some angles and fascinatingly harsh from others. She was, Gla.s.s acknowledged to himself, for the umpteenth time, a magnificent woman, and he no longer loved her. It was strange. One day, around the time he had given up being a journalist, all that he had felt for her, all that helpless, half-tormented pa.s.sion, had dropped to degree zero. It was as if the flesh-and-blood woman had, like an enchanted princess in a fairy tale, been turned to stone in his arms. There she was, as she had always been, a smooth, svelte, burnished beauty, at the mere sight of whom in former days something in him would cry out piteously, in a kind of happy languish, but whose presence now provoked in him only a faint, fading melancholy.

Today she wore a dark green suit and a Philip Treacy hat that was a minuscule square of black velvet topped with a few wisps of what might be spun sugar.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "You look ghastly."

"It's this place."

She looked about the office, frowning. It was she who had suggested he borrow the room-her father owned the building. "What's wrong with it?"

He did not want to admit his fright at being almost forty floors above street level. "It's too impersonal. I don't know if I can write here."

"You could work at the apartment."

"You know I can't write at home."

She settled on him her gray-green gaze. "Is it home?" The silence that followed this was a chasm into which they both cast a glance and then stepped quickly back.

"You could go out to Silver Barn." Silver Barn was their-her-house on Long Island. "The study is all set up. It's quiet, no one to disturb you." He pulled a face. "Well then," she said, with a tightening of the lips, "if you can't work, you can take me to lunch."

They walked east along Forty-fourth Street and Gla.s.s at last got to smoke a cigarette. The fine rain drifted down absentmindedly, like ectoplasm. The trouble with smoking was that the desire to smoke was so much greater than the satisfaction afforded by actually smoking. Sometimes when he had a cigarette going he would forget and reach for the pack and start to light another. Maybe that was the thing to do, smoke six at a time, three in the gaps between the fingers of each hand, achieve a Gatling-gun effect.

Mario's was crowded, as usual these days. The red-check tablecloths and rickety bentwood chairs proclaimed a peasant plainness that was contradicted by the breathtaking prices on the menu. The Gla.s.ses had been coming here since the early days of the establishment, long before they had moved permanently to New York, when Mario himself was still in charge and the place really was plain. They had nicknamed it the Bleeding Horse, for reasons no longer remembered. Now Louise gave up her dripping umbrella to a waiter and they were shown to their usual table in a corner by the window, set, Gla.s.s noted, for three. Flutes of Prosecco were brought at once. "I wish," Louise murmured, "I had the courage to tell them what a common drink I think this is."

Gla.s.s said nothing. He liked Prosecco. He liked the gesture, too, the drinks coming uncalled-for and set down before them with an actorly flourish. It made him feel an old New York hand; he could almost see the caption, "Gla.s.s in the Bleeding Horse, one of his favorite Manhattan eateries." He often thought of his life in journalese, it was an old habit. He wondered if Louise considered him common, too, like the wine.

"How is the work?" his wife asked, her eyes on the menu. "Have you made a start yet?" The rain-light from the window gave her the look of an early Florentine madonna as she sat there with her long, angular, pale face inclined, and the menu she was holding might have been a psalter.

"No," he said, "I haven't made a start. I mean, I haven't started writing. There are things I have to do first."

"Research, you mean?"

He looked at her sharply. But there was no way she could know about Dylan Riley; he had told no one about the Lemur. She was still reading the menu, bringing to it the rapt, radiant attention that she brought to everything she did, even, he ruefully recalled, lovemaking. "Yes, research," he mumbled, "that kind of thing."

The waiter came and Gla.s.s ordered linguine with clams and Louise asked for a plain green salad. It was all she ever ate at lunchtime. Why, then, Gla.s.s wondered, did she spend so long poring over the menu? Having taken their order, the waiter pointed his pencil inquiringly at the empty third place, but Louise shook her head. "David might look in," she told Gla.s.s. "I said we'd eat and he could join us for coffee."

Gla.s.s made no comment. David Sinclair was Louise's son by her first marriage, to a Wall Street lawyer who seemed to have pa.s.sed through her life leaving hardly a trace, except, of course, the young man who now occupied the center of her world. Gla.s.s looked round for the waiter and the wine list; if his stepson was joining them he would need more than a gla.s.s of Prosecco.

Their food arrived and they ate in silence for a time. The small rain wept against the windowpane and the cars and taxis going past s.h.i.+mmered and slid as in a wet mirage. Gla.s.s was wondering why he felt the need to be so secretive about Dylan Riley. Bill Mulholland's life was emblematic of the last two-thirds of the chaotic, violent, and dizzyingly innovative century that had ended not so long ago. No one would expect a biographer to do unaided the extensive research that would be required for the writing of the life of such a man-no one except that man himself. Bill Mulholland was the original rugged individualist and required those around him to be made of the same stern stuff. What sort of sissy writer would hire someone else to do the donkeywork? He had offered the commission, along with a million-dollar fee, to his son-in-law because, as he had said, he trusted him; trusted him, that is, as Gla.s.s well understood, to leave certain overly heavy stones unturned. It was Gla.s.s himself-not his father-in-law, as he had told Dylan Riley-who wanted all the facts, even, or especially, the inconvenient ones. Gla.s.s believed Aristotle was right: he that holds a secret holds power.

He took a drink of wine and studied his wife. She was attending to her plate of greens with the long-necked, finical concentration of a heron at the water's edge. She had urged him strongly to accept her father's offer. "You used to like nothing better than a challenge," she had said, "and writing my father's life will be nothing if not that." He had noted then, too, the tense employed. Used to. "And a million dollars," she had added, with a lopsided, ironical smile, "is a million dollars."

It was not the money that had made him take on the job. What, then? He supposed Louise was right. What greater challenge could there be than to write the official biography of his own father-in-law, one of the fiercest and most controversial of that last cohort of Cold Warriors who had, so they believed, brought the Evil Empire to the dust?

"You know you'll have to give the ma.n.u.script to the boys at Langley for their okay," his father-in-law had told him, with that famous twinkle. "There are some things that can never get told." And Gla.s.s, remembering that remark, thought again now of Nixon, poor old Tricky d.i.c.k, sweating under the arc lamps, in another age.

David Sinclair arrived. He was tall and sleekly slim, like his mother, but black-haired and swarthy where she was russet and pearl-Rubin Sinclair, his father, was a hirsute and barely civilized redneck from Kentucky. David was handsome, in a dandyish sort of way, but his slightly protruding eyes were set unfortunately close together-whenever Gla.s.s contemplated his stepson he recalled Truman Capote saying of Marlene Dietrich that if her eyes had been a fraction nearer to each other she would have been a chicken. Waspish, wicked Truman. Gla.s.s had tried to interview him once, over a hopelessly bibulous lunch at the Four Seasons in the middle of which the sozzled novelist had laid his cheek on the tablecloth and gone noisily to sleep. Gla.s.s at the time was young enough not to be embarra.s.sed, and contentedly finished his broiled squab and the remains of a bottle of Mouton Rothschild, calm in the knowledge that the lavish treat was being paid for by the Sunday Times of London.

"h.e.l.lo," David Sinclair said to Gla.s.s, sliding sinuously into his seat and unfolding a napkin across his lap. His att.i.tude always toward his stepfather was one of amused skepticism. "How is the great world?"

Gla.s.s smiled thinly. "It wasn't so great," he said, "the last time I looked."

David ordered peppermint tea. He was dressed in a dark wool suit and a white silk s.h.i.+rt and silk tie. His watch was a Patek Philippe, one of the more discreet models. His mother pampered him; he was her only weakness.

"David has some news for you," she said now. "Haven't you, darling?"