Blow Out
Page 76
Jimmy Maitland said, “Danny O’Malley sounded like an opportunistic little prick.”
“Yes, unfortunately he was. And deep down, Annie knew it, but she was too young and too in love to admit it. She does now.”
“You sound like her father, Savich.”
“I felt ancient when I was speaking to her.”
“Nothing on the briefcase, the black book, or the cell phone.” A statement, not a question.
Savich shook his head.
Jimmy Maitland said suddenly, “When was the last time you were at the gym?”
Savich’s head whipped up. “Two, three days. Why?”
“That’s your problem. You need to sweat this out of your system, have one of the guys bust your butt a little, let this slide off you for a while. Go, Savich, go work out, you need it.”
Savich slowly rose. “Maybe you’re right, sir.” He grinned. “Then I can get Sherlock to rub me down with BenGay.”
“Hey, that woman Valerie Rapper still at the gym? The one who came on to you?”
Savich was clearly startled. “How did you know about her?”
Jimmy Maitland, father of four sons, all of them built like bulls—like their father—and all firmly in the control of his wife, whom he could tuck under his armpit, said, “I know everything, and it’s best you never forget that, boyo.”
Savich was actually smiling when he left the Hoover Building to head to the gym. And when he walked through the front door of his house, so beat he could barely walk upright, Sherlock shoved him into the shower, then fed him a big plate of spinach lasagna. He fell asleep lying on his belly in the middle of the bed, Sean beside him, pressing his teddy bear’s nose in the BenGay as he followed the path of his mother’s massage.
BECKHURST LANE WASHINGTON, D.C. THURSDAY EVENING
BEN AND CALLIE followed Margaret Califano into her house. Her friends were waiting inside the front door—Janette, Anna, Juliette, and Bitsy. Their families had evidently gone home.
Ben said, eyebrow up, “Are they going to move in?”
Callie said, “I’ll assume that was an attempt at a joke. I guess they’ll be here for her as long as they believe she needs them.” Callie watched the women surround her mother as the group walked back into the living room. At least her mother was home again. Callie paused a moment more, watching them from the living room doorway. “They’ve always been around. For each other, and for all the kids. I grew up with these women. Each of them taught me something special—”
“Like what?” Ben asked.
Callie looked toward Janette Weaverton, who was laying the fire in the fireplace. “Janette taught me how to knit. Anna taught me how to play the piano. Juliette taught me tennis, and Bitsy, well, she taught me how to make the best pizza crust in the world. And that gives me a great idea.”
She headed into the living room, Ben on her heels. She smiled as she clapped her hands. “Hey, everyone, I’m calling in for pizza. It’s on me. Mom’s home again, you’re all here, we got through the day and the media. We’ve got champagne to celebrate Stewart’s life and being here together, and we’ve got beer for our guy here. What does everyone think?”
For a moment, there was silence. Then Margaret smiled at her daughter. “Do you know, I think Stewart would like that.”
“Good. It’s done.”
It was pretty clear to Ben that the women would as soon see the back of him, but they were all nodding and smiling, polite to their undoubtedly beautifully polished toenails. It was Bitsy who said, “Anchovies for me, Callie.”
“As if I didn’t know,” Callie said.
Janette said, “I want double pepperoni.”
Ben nodded. “A woman after my own heart—make that two.”
Callie ended up ordering seven pizzas, including a large caper and olive for herself.
It was Margaret’s first night home. Callie was going to stay with her for a while, but Ben got the distinct impression that her mother really didn’t need her to stay or particularly wanted her to stay either. She had her four friends. Were her friends closer to her than her own daughter? They were all of an age, all of them had shared so many years of their lives together, each other’s pain as well as happiness. He supposed they knew each other as well as old married couples must.
He turned to Janette Weaverton, who’d gone to open the drapes a bit to look out. “No more media,” she said over her shoulder. “Margaret did an excellent job with them.”
Ben joined her at the window. “Yes, she did. I understand from Callie that you taught her how to knit.”
“Yes, unfortunately he was. And deep down, Annie knew it, but she was too young and too in love to admit it. She does now.”
“You sound like her father, Savich.”
“I felt ancient when I was speaking to her.”
“Nothing on the briefcase, the black book, or the cell phone.” A statement, not a question.
Savich shook his head.
Jimmy Maitland said suddenly, “When was the last time you were at the gym?”
Savich’s head whipped up. “Two, three days. Why?”
“That’s your problem. You need to sweat this out of your system, have one of the guys bust your butt a little, let this slide off you for a while. Go, Savich, go work out, you need it.”
Savich slowly rose. “Maybe you’re right, sir.” He grinned. “Then I can get Sherlock to rub me down with BenGay.”
“Hey, that woman Valerie Rapper still at the gym? The one who came on to you?”
Savich was clearly startled. “How did you know about her?”
Jimmy Maitland, father of four sons, all of them built like bulls—like their father—and all firmly in the control of his wife, whom he could tuck under his armpit, said, “I know everything, and it’s best you never forget that, boyo.”
Savich was actually smiling when he left the Hoover Building to head to the gym. And when he walked through the front door of his house, so beat he could barely walk upright, Sherlock shoved him into the shower, then fed him a big plate of spinach lasagna. He fell asleep lying on his belly in the middle of the bed, Sean beside him, pressing his teddy bear’s nose in the BenGay as he followed the path of his mother’s massage.
BECKHURST LANE WASHINGTON, D.C. THURSDAY EVENING
BEN AND CALLIE followed Margaret Califano into her house. Her friends were waiting inside the front door—Janette, Anna, Juliette, and Bitsy. Their families had evidently gone home.
Ben said, eyebrow up, “Are they going to move in?”
Callie said, “I’ll assume that was an attempt at a joke. I guess they’ll be here for her as long as they believe she needs them.” Callie watched the women surround her mother as the group walked back into the living room. At least her mother was home again. Callie paused a moment more, watching them from the living room doorway. “They’ve always been around. For each other, and for all the kids. I grew up with these women. Each of them taught me something special—”
“Like what?” Ben asked.
Callie looked toward Janette Weaverton, who was laying the fire in the fireplace. “Janette taught me how to knit. Anna taught me how to play the piano. Juliette taught me tennis, and Bitsy, well, she taught me how to make the best pizza crust in the world. And that gives me a great idea.”
She headed into the living room, Ben on her heels. She smiled as she clapped her hands. “Hey, everyone, I’m calling in for pizza. It’s on me. Mom’s home again, you’re all here, we got through the day and the media. We’ve got champagne to celebrate Stewart’s life and being here together, and we’ve got beer for our guy here. What does everyone think?”
For a moment, there was silence. Then Margaret smiled at her daughter. “Do you know, I think Stewart would like that.”
“Good. It’s done.”
It was pretty clear to Ben that the women would as soon see the back of him, but they were all nodding and smiling, polite to their undoubtedly beautifully polished toenails. It was Bitsy who said, “Anchovies for me, Callie.”
“As if I didn’t know,” Callie said.
Janette said, “I want double pepperoni.”
Ben nodded. “A woman after my own heart—make that two.”
Callie ended up ordering seven pizzas, including a large caper and olive for herself.
It was Margaret’s first night home. Callie was going to stay with her for a while, but Ben got the distinct impression that her mother really didn’t need her to stay or particularly wanted her to stay either. She had her four friends. Were her friends closer to her than her own daughter? They were all of an age, all of them had shared so many years of their lives together, each other’s pain as well as happiness. He supposed they knew each other as well as old married couples must.
He turned to Janette Weaverton, who’d gone to open the drapes a bit to look out. “No more media,” she said over her shoulder. “Margaret did an excellent job with them.”
Ben joined her at the window. “Yes, she did. I understand from Callie that you taught her how to knit.”
