Before the Fall(64)

Is that what you do? she thinks. I thought you reported the news.

“What is the latest on this thing?” asks Doug, sipping his beer. “We’re, you know, we try to stay focused on the kid and not—” Then, worried he’s alienated his celebrity guest, “I mean, you understand—watching the news isn’t really—”

“Of course,” says Bill. “Well, they’re still looking for the rest of the plane.”

Eleanor shakes her head. Are they insane?

“No. Not in front of JJ.”

Doug’s mouth gets tight. He has never liked being scolded by women, especially in front of other men. Eleanor sees it, adds it to the list of today’s offenses. She puts the boy in a chair and goes to the fridge.

“She’s right, of course,” says Bill. “Women are better at these things than men. Feelings. We tend to focus on the facts. What we can do to help.”

Eleanor tries to tune him out, focuses on feeding her nephew. He’s a picky eater, not fussy but selective. He’ll eat cottage cheese, but not cream cheese. He likes hot dogs, but not salami. It’s just a question of dialing it in.

Bill, meanwhile, has decided it’s his mission to get the boy to smile.

“You remember Uncle Bill, right?” he says. “I was at your baptism.”

Eleanor brings the boy a cup of water. He drinks.

“And your sister,” Bill continues, “at hers too. She was—such a beautiful girl.”

Eleanor gives Bill a look. Watch it. He nods, shifts focus without hesitating, trying to show her he’s a good listener, a good partner. That they’re in this together.

“And I know I haven’t been around much lately, unfortunately. Work and, well, your dad and me didn’t always see eye-to-eye. Too close maybe. But, you know, there was love there. Especially on my end. But in the end it’s what we do, grown-ups. You’ll see. Or I hope you won’t, but probably you will. We work too much at the expense of love.”

“Mr. Cunningham,” says Eleanor. “It’s nice of you to visit, but this is—after we eat it’s nap time.”

“No. He napped this morning,” her mother offers. Eleanor glares at her. She too is a people pleaser, Bridget Greenway, especially men. The original welcome mat. Their father, Eleanor and Maggie’s, left their mother when Eleanor went off to college, divorcing her and moving to Florida. It was the smiling he couldn’t take, their mother’s constant Stepford grin. Today he lives in Miami and dates brooding divorcées with fake tits. He’s meant to come next week, after Bridget leaves.

Bill picks up on the tension between mother and daughter. He looks at Doug, who raises his half-drunk beer as if in a toast.

“Good, right?” he says, oblivious.

“What?” says Bill, who has clearly decided Doug is some kind of hipster douchebag.

“The beer.”

Bill ignores him, reaches over and ruffles the boy’s hair. Four hours ago he stood in Don Liebling’s office and faced down Gus Franklin from the NTSB and representatives of the Justice Department. They said they wanted to know where he got O’Brien’s memo.

I bet you do, he told them, thumbing his suspenders.

Don Liebling straightened his tie and told the government shock troops that of course their sources were confidential.

Not good enough, said the attorney from Justice.

The black guy, Franklin, seemed to have his own theory.

Did O’Brien give it to you? Because of what happened?

Bill shrugged.

It didn’t just fall out of the sky, he said. That much we know. But I’ve been to court before, defending a source, and I’m happy to go again. I hear they validate your parking now.

After the agents stormed out, Liebling closed the door and put himself in front of it.

Tell me, he said.

On the sofa, Bill spread his legs wide. He’d been raised without a dad by a weak woman who clung to shitbird men like she was drowning. She used to lock Bill in his room at night and go paint the town red with menstrual blood. And look at him now, a multimillionaire who tells half the planet what to think and when. The f*ck if some silver spoon, Ivy League lawyer was going to shake him in his shoes. No way was he going to out Namor. This was about David. About his mentor. His friend. And okay, maybe they didn’t get along that well at the end, but that man was his brother, and he will get to the truth here, no matter what the cost.

Like the spook said, he told Don, it was the FBI man. They kicked him off the team and he was pissed.

Liebling stared at him, wheels turning in his head.

If I find out, he started.

Gimme a break, said Bill, standing, then walked to the door, step by step, putting himself in the lawyer’s face. Forget you’re in an office, he said with his body. Forget hierarchy and the laws of social behavior. This is a warrior you’re facing, king stud on the open savanna, poised and ready to rip off your face, so either lower your horns or get the f*ck out of my way.

He could smell the salami on Liebling’s breath, saw him blink, off balance, unprepared for the old bear versus bear, the dirt-pit cockfight. For thirty seconds, Bill hate-f*cked him with his eyes. Then Don stepped aside and Bill sauntered out.

Now, in the kitchen, he decides to take the high ground.

“Just a friendly visit,” he says. “These are difficult times and you—well, to me you’re family—you were family to David and that makes us—so I want you to know I’m looking out for you. Uncle Bill is looking out—watching over.”