Chương 12: Dangerous Introductions

After the formal dinner, things started moving faster. I climbed another step up in high society and picked up a couple of interesting acquaintances along the way. The owner of a hotel chain on the East Coast, a pair of bankers, two lawyers from major firms. But Whitmore helped me the most. The meeting with him was interesting. I have to admit, I even felt a certain pressure during it. When you're alone with a man like that, it feels as if you already owe him something just because he spent a few minutes on you.

Whitmore sat behind his massive desk, leafing through my documents and looking at me with eyes that weighed and measured everything. He told me that a close friend of his would soon be running an election campaign, and that it would need financing. That settled it. Money, golf games, formal dinners — all of it turned him into a decent contact for me, one that covered the main share of my needs in city-level connections.

Sometimes he needed me to point certain people in the right direction, introduce someone to someone else, arrange a meeting, help with a contract. Sometimes I had to put money into organizing certain events: a charity dinner, a campaign meeting, a reception for the right people. But those were small things compared to what I received in return.

I had entered a circle where I could walk into a police department, say that I wasn't satisfied with the security around my office, and two patrol cars would quietly be assigned to regular rounds in the area. Not officially, of course. They would simply decide to increase their presence there. By coincidence. The same thing happens in other neighborhoods all the time… I think it was worth the money and effort. Naturally, all the inspections stopped.

A week after the first dinner with Whitmore's people, not a single inspector, not a single call from any department, not one nitpick. As if someone had snapped his fingers and all that riffraff had backed off at once. But I never managed to find out who had been sending them. Knowing who your enemy is can be extremely useful. Especially when you don't understand why you are being pressured in the first place.

So during one of our golf games, when Whitmore and I ended up alone, I tried to carefully figure out what was what.

"You know, Charles," I said, choosing a club, checking the wind, and making my swing, "thank you very much for helping me with my problem. Constant inspections and nitpicking turn out to be incredibly annoying. Now everything is quiet. Would you happen to know who might have been behind it?" The ball didn't fly as far as I'd wanted. I was too tense. Whitmore gave me a long look. Then he struck his own ball, and it landed exactly where it was supposed to.

"Come now, David," he said as we walked farther down the course, "your help hasn't exactly been minor either. Everything is moving the way it should now, and you've brought us a number of interesting people. I'm satisfied with our cooperation." A pause. He stopped, studied the field, calculating his next shot.

"As for your question…" He turned to me.

"There are things you're better off not touching if you don't want to get dirty. This is one of them." The hint was fairly obvious. Someone tied to crime, then. Or someone dirty enough that Whitmore didn't even want to say it out loud.

"But—""I'll handle it myself," he cut me off. His voice was calm, but firm. The kind of tone that didn't tolerate objections.

"I have all the necessary resources for that. You would do better not to stick your nose in. Understood?" I nodded.

"Understood."

"Good." He relaxed slightly.

"Your job is to grow your business. Mine is to make sure no one interferes with you. So forget about this and focus on what you know how to do. You're young and promising, David. Don't ruin yourself with unnecessary questions." The conversation was closed. We continued the game, and the subject never came up again. I didn't insist. Whitmore was right: getting involved in that mess without understanding who was involved and why would be stupid. The problem was solved, and that was enough.

But I wasn't going to forget. Someone had decided they could squeeze my company. Someone with enough influence to sic departments on me. Who knew how else he might decide to screw me over in the future? Sooner or later, I would find out who it was. And then I would deal with it in my own way.

My second protector was harder. I invested in Holloway's wife's charities, and in a couple of others too, so as not to make it too obvious. That, by the way, is a very good strategy and one worth remembering. If all your donations go to one place, people start asking questions. The newspapers wrote about me and praised me in every possible way, which I couldn't exactly complain about. Thanks to that, I remembered that image matters, and that it has to be managed.

Which meant I could calmly use some developments from the future to make myself reputationally untouchable. A good public image can cover a lot of problems. Of course, that is a complicated game, and it can turn against you very easily, so I would need competent specialists. But that would come later. Right now I had another problem. The whole situation spun in a rather interesting direction, one I honestly wasn't prepared for. Though, to be fair, very few people would be prepared for that kind of turn.

My carefully planned operation almost went completely to hell. I began deliberately building bridges with Catherine Holloway. I specifically looked for places where she might appear. Exhibitions, charity events, certain restaurants. I tried to make the meetings look accidental. I was polite and careful with my words, didn't push too hard, kept my distance. Stern helped with information. Where Catherine would be that week, what events she was attending, what foundations she worked with.

I chose points of intersection and appeared there. Not too often, so it wouldn't look suspicious. Once every two weeks at most. It all began innocently. A society conversation at an exhibition in the Museum of Modern Art. I was standing in front of a Pollock painting, pretending I understood what the hell it was supposed to be, when she came up beside me.

"Interesting work, isn't it?" she said.

"To be honest, I don't understand what's interesting about it," I admitted.

"To me it's just splashes of paint." She laughed.

"At least you're honest. Most people here pretend they see some profound meaning." We started talking. About the exhibition, modern art, and why people pretend to understand things they don't understand. The conversation was light and pleasant. I didn't push, didn't pry, just acted like myself. The second meeting happened at the office of a charity organization. I had come to discuss another contribution, five thousand dollars for a program helping poor children. She was there on business for her foundation.

We ran into each other in the hallway.

"Mr. Miller," she said with a smile.

"What a pleasant surprise."

"Mrs. Holloway." I nodded.

"Glad to see you." We had coffee in a café nearby. I told her that what she had said during our first meeting at the riding club had stayed with me. That I had thought about it and decided she was right. Charity wasn't just reputation laundering. It could truly change something if done properly. She appreciated that. I could see it in her eyes; she was pleased that someone had actually listened to what she said. And from there we ended up building rather close communication.

A third meeting, then a fourth, then a fifth. Lunches in restaurants. Walks through Central Park after another event. Conversations about foundations, the city, plans for the future. I thought everything was heading toward her introducing me to her husband. I was even pleased with how smoothly things were going. I had already started imagining how I would become a friend of the family, then a useful contact for William Holloway. But I failed to account for one tiny little detail.

Catherine Holloway decided I was courting her. And she wasn't against it. I didn't realize it right away. First there were hints I let pass me by. Then looks that lingered just a little too long. Then she began touching my hand during conversations — lightly, casually, but too often. And when I finally understood where this was heading, I got a little shaken. This could cause more than minor inconvenience. This could simply destroy me. Affairs were not rare in those circles, of course. But no. Just no.

She was beautiful, yes, but this would kill me. A relationship with the wife of an influential politician was suicide. Holloway would find out. And he would find out, make no mistake. Then everything I had built would collapse. And that was without even taking into account principles, which I apparently still possessed. I didn't even understand how she had fallen for my face. David Miller, and now me along with him, was not handsome. Ordinary face, ordinary appearance.

But apparently I didn't behave like the other sycophants circling around her. I was an interesting conversationalist, didn't try to impress her with money. And somehow she took that for courtship. Damn it. A beautiful woman was practically falling into my hands, and I would have to hurt her.

We met at the same small French restaurant on Seventy-Second Street. Lunch began as usual. A conversation about her foundations, upcoming events, new projects. But I could feel the tension in the air. Catherine was too attentive, too interested in what I was saying. When she touched my hand for the second time in half an hour, I realized I couldn't keep putting this off.

"Catherine, I need your advice," I said, interrupting her mid-sentence. She blinked in surprise.

"Of course, David. About what?" I paused, as if choosing my words. Then I exhaled and said:"There's a woman. I keep seeing her at social events, and… I don't know how to approach her. She's from your circle, and I'm afraid of seeming intrusive." This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it Her expression changed instantly. The smile became a little harder, her eyes a little colder. The hand that had been lying near mine a second ago pulled back.

"Really?" She took a sip of wine. Her voice remained even, polished, social — but I could hear the strain in it.

"And who is the lucky lady?" I named someone at random. I remembered her mentioning an Anastasia once. Just a name that surfaced in my memory.

"Anastasia," I said.

"You mentioned her once." Catherine froze. Her glass stopped halfway to her lips. She looked at me as if I had just slapped her.

"Anastasia," she repeated slowly.

"Are you serious?"

"I understand this may seem strange—""Strange?" She set the glass down harder than necessary, and wine splashed over the rim.

"David, she is twenty years old. She is eight years younger than you. She hasn't even finished university." Apparently, I was a fantastic shot when firing blindly. Lucky I hadn't landed on an infant.

"I know, but—""No, you don't know." She cut me off. Anger and hurt began to show in her voice.

"Do you know what Anastasia is like? A spoiled girl living on her daddy's money while pretending to be an intellectual." I stayed silent, unsure what to say. The plan was starting to malfunction.

"And you," she continued, her voice growing sharper, "you, instead of…" She stopped herself abruptly and fell silent, as if frightened by what she had almost said. I sat there and looked at her, trying to understand how to get out of this now.

"Instead of what?" I asked quietly. Catherine looked away. Out the window, onto the street, anywhere but at me.

"Nothing," she said finally.

"I just thought… never mind. Apparently I was mistaken."

"Catherine…"

"You're an asshole, David," she said calmly, almost matter-of-factly, which was worse than if she had shouted. That calm sounded painfully false.

"Do you know that?" I sighed.

"I know." She finally looked at me. It was as if only now she realized that I had never actually given her any reason to think I was interested in a relationship with her. But the hurt was still there. Strong.

"I have never flirted with men," she said quietly.

"Eight years married, and not once. With anyone. And then you appear. Interesting, intelligent. You don't crawl out of your skin trying to impress me. You speak to me like a person, not like a politician's wife. And I thought…" She fell silent and ran a hand over her face.

"It doesn't matter what I thought. I'm a fool. You're here because of William, aren't you?" I could have lied, but lying now would only ruin everything.

"Yes," I admitted.

"I need access to your husband. City and state contracts. And I thought that through you…"

"Of course," she said with a bitter little laugh.

"Of course. That was it. And I, fool that I am, thought…" She picked up her napkin and dabbed at her eyes. Well, isn't this just wonderful. I understood that I wasn't exactly guilty. Or rather, I was stupid for not noticing what was happening right under my nose. But I wasn't entirely guilty because a married woman had decided to pay attention to me. Still, women have a way of making you feel like the guiltiest man on the planet.

"Listen," I said, leaning forward.

"I didn't want to hurt you. Truly. You're an intelligent, interesting woman, and I genuinely enjoyed—""Don't," she said, raising a hand.

"Don't do that. I don't want to hear comforting lies." Now that was offensive.

"Catherine, don't cross out everything I said just because of this," I said, keeping irritation out of my voice.

"Yes, I acted like a hypocritical, pragmatic asshole trying to reach a husband through his wife. But our conversations and meetings were genuinely interesting to me. Otherwise, I would have behaved differently. For that matter, I could have simply asked you much earlier to introduce me to your husband directly. I didn't, because I saw in you an interesting person — someone I could befriend and discuss many things with. I am guilty of not noticing… a great deal."

"Befriend?" she spat the word with contempt.

"You wanted to be friends?"

"Yes. Exactly. Friends." I didn't look away.

"Or do you think I spend time with people who don't interest me? I have more important things to do than sit in restaurants discussing modern art with people I can't stand." She turned toward the window.

"And yes, damn it, I enjoyed talking to you. That doesn't cancel the fact that I wanted to reach your husband through you. But it doesn't make everything else a lie either." I fell silent. We sat in silence. A waiter came over and asked whether we needed anything else. Catherine dismissed him with a motion of her hand without looking. Finally, she exhaled and looked at me.

"Fine," she said.

"Fine. You want to meet William? I'll arrange it. You're intelligent. Your company deserves attention. And my husband would benefit from knowing men like you."

"Catherine…"

"But after that," she continued, not listening to me, "after that we are merely acquaintances. Do you understand? Not friends. I will not be friends with such a hypocritical man. Acquaintances. I will be polite if we meet at events. I will make small talk. Nothing more." Fine. Let's pretend there is only one person at fault here. Probably for the best. So I simply nodded.

"I understand."

"And Anastasia," she said with a smile touched by jealousy.

"If you truly need an introduction to her, I can help. Next week we're hosting a charity dinner. She will be there, and I'll introduce you properly."

"You don't have to—""I know I don't have to." She stood and picked up her purse.

"But I'll do it. Because it's the right thing to do. Because I don't want to be the kind of woman who takes revenge because she was hurt." She looked at me one last time.

"Goodbye, David. I'll expect you at the dinner next Tuesday." She turned and walked toward the exit. I stayed at the table with two unfinished lunches and the feeling that I had just done something very right and very wrong at the same time. The waiter brought the check. I paid, leaving far too large a tip. Somehow, I had managed to steer it toward an acceptable ending. True, that acceptable ending was mixed from a strange cocktail of anger, jealousy, and hurt. But I think it would pass. At least, I hoped so.

The charity dinner for children's hospitals was held in a small hall of a hotel on Madison Avenue. Eighty people, maybe more. Tuxedos, evening gowns, champagne, muted music. Catherine met me at the entrance. Polite but restrained, radiating coldness. More than that, she kept trying to slip some little barb in my direction.

"David, how lovely to see you." Her smile was perfect, but her eyes remained cold.

"I hope your special friend appreciates that you came." I pretended not to notice the sarcasm.

"Thank you for the invitation, Catherine."

"Come along. I'll introduce you to a few people. Though you seem quite capable of making useful acquaintances on your own." Another barb. I said nothing. I didn't care much, I wanted to tell myself, but my eye twitched traitorously. She led me through the hall and introduced me to a few new faces. A textile factory owner, a partner at a law firm, a city council member. Handshakes, polite smiles, business cards exchanged. Then she stopped by a window where a young woman stood with a glass of champagne in her hand.

"And here is Anastasia Hardy," Catherine said with a light, barely noticeable irony.

"Your special girl." The girl turned. Twenty, maybe a little older. Blond hair gathered into an elaborate updo, emerald dress that cost more than my annual salary at my old job. Beautiful, that much was fact. But her face showed open indifference to everything happening around her. She fit my mental image of Felicia Hardy's future mother perfectly. The Black Cat. Interesting — had the thief already managed to catch her interest, or not yet? Then again, that wasn't my business.

Right now I was more concerned with why the hell Anastasia turned out to be Hardy, of all people. May I never again poke a random name from a list. Never. Lucky One, they said. Sure. Of course. Still, I wasn't going to have children with her. And for business contacts, the Hardy family was more than suitable… God, I'm an asshole.

"Anastasia, dear, meet David Miller," Catherine said, making an inviting gesture.

"A young entrepreneur. David, this is Anastasia Hardy." The girl looked me over appraisingly. Then she held out her hand with a smile that was fake all the way through.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Miller," she said sweetly.

"Catherine has told me so much about you."

"Likewise, Miss Hardy." Catherine said something about how we would surely find it interesting to talk and moved away to other guests. But before leaving, she tossed over her shoulder with faint venom:"Enjoy yourselves." I was left alone with Anastasia, and an awkward pause immediately appeared between us. She looked at me with a faint smirk, clearly waiting for me to begin. So I simply smiled.

"Are you here of your own free will, or were you dragged here too?" she finally asked. I smirked.

"Of my own free will. Charity is useful for one's reputation."

"At least you're honest." She took a sip of champagne.

"Most people here pretend they truly care about orphaned children, or programs for the poor, or whatever it is tonight."

"And you don't care?"

"I don't care about anything, Mr. Miller," she said, looking at me with challenge in her eyes.

"I'm here because Father said the family image needs to be maintained. So I'm maintaining it. Standing here, drinking champagne, smiling at the right people. Deadly boring."

"So you're one of those who considers herself above all this?" I tilted my head.

"A cynical rebel who despises society functions while wearing a dress worth a few thousand dollars?" Her eyes narrowed.

"And you're one of those men who enjoys labeling people he's met for the first time?"

"I'm not labeling you. I'm drawing conclusions from observation and from your own words. You don't care about anything. You're here because of your father. All of this is boring. Sounds like the classic set."

"The classic set of what, exactly?"

"A disappointed young woman from a wealthy family searching for the meaning of life in Sartre and jazz." She choked on her champagne.

"How did you—""Guessed." I shrugged.

"You're too obvious, Miss Hardy. Couture dress, but demonstrative contempt for society. Boredom on your face, but perfect hair and makeup. You want to look like a rebel, but you're not ready to give up comfort. That isn't condemnation, just observation." Her face flushed.

"You are incredibly self-assured for a man who just admitted he came here for reputation."

"At least I don't hide behind cynicism to seem smarter."

"You hide behind arrogance?"

"No." I smiled.

"I'm simply honest. I'm not interested in playing intellectual. If you're bored, you can leave. If you want to talk honestly, let's talk. But without theatrical sighs about the meaninglessness of existence." She looked at me for several seconds. The anger in her eyes gradually gave way to curiosity.

"Are you saying I'm pretending?"

"I'm saying you're trying to test me the same way you test everyone else. Ask the right questions, watch how a person reacts, try to make him look foolish. Classic defense mechanism of clever people who fear being considered insufficiently clever." Her glass stopped halfway to her lips.

"Are you a psychologist?"

"No. Just observant."

"And arrogant."

"That too." A pause. Then she laughed.

"Do you know you're the first person in the last six months who hasn't tried to impress me with Camus quotes or stories about his achievements?"

"I'm not trying to impress you. I simply don't like it when people play games that don't mean anything."

"What games?"

"You begin the conversation from a position of superiority. You're bored here, everything is meaningless, you're above it all. Then you watch how the other person starts making excuses or trying to prove that he is also intelligent and cynical. But in my eyes, a person who wants to make others look stupid is no different from the people she talks to." Anastasia set her glass on the tray of a passing waiter.

"You are a very unpleasant man, Mr. Miller."

"I've heard that before."

"And rather interesting."

"I've heard that too." She smiled.

"All right. You win the first round. What do you actually think of this event?"

"A necessary and useful thing." I shrugged.

"The money goes to children's hospitals. That is good. The fact that half the guests are here for connections rather than charity does not change the fact that the money will still help children."

"Cynical pragmatism."

"A realistic view of things. The world is imperfect, but that doesn't mean you can't do something good in it."

"And Sartre?"

"What about Sartre?"

"You mentioned that I was searching for the meaning of life in Sartre. Have you read him?"

"I have. Nausea, in particular. Interesting book, but I don't agree with his conclusions."

"Why?"

"Because existential anxiety is the privilege of people who can afford to think about the meaninglessness of existence instead of thinking about how to pay rent. For such people, philosophy is a luxury." She blinked.

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely. Sartre wrote his books while sitting in Paris cafés. Most people in the world can't afford an existential crisis because they have more urgent problems. Hunger. Sick relatives. War, at worst."

"That doesn't cancel the value of his ideas."

"No," I agreed.

"But it puts them into context. You can afford to read Sartre and think about meaninglessness because you have money, education, and free time. That isn't bad. But one shouldn't build intellectual superiority out of it." Anastasia looked at me with a strange expression.

"You really are an unpleasant man," she repeated.

"But damn it, you're right."

"I often turn out to be right," I said with a smirk.

"Unfortunately, that doesn't solve my problems." She laughed again.

"All right, Mr. Miller. Since you're so clever, tell me something interesting. About anything. I'm curious to hear your thoughts." We talked for another forty minutes. I told her about my company, about how business worked, about my plans for the future. She asked sharp, precise questions. It turned out that behind the mask of a cynical rebel there really was an intelligent young woman with a keen mind. She was studying art history at Columbia University, but planned to drop out.

Not because she was bored, but because she didn't see the point of spending time on something she wasn't going to use. She loved jazz, especially Coltrane. I had guessed that one. She couldn't stand opera and considered it pompous and dull. A good girl, yes. Interesting. But very cunning. Even when the conversation became more open, I felt how she was trying to manipulate me. Light hints, the right questions, creating the feeling that the two of us could become close. Classic. I call such people brainpeckers.

They like pecking at your mind, digging around in it for something interesting. When the interest ends, so does the communication. If not for the chance of securing the support of her family, I would already have left. By the end of the evening, she took a card from her purse and handed it to me.

"If you find yourself at one of these dull events again, call me," she said.

"At least I'll have someone decent to argue with."

"Argue?"

"Well, talking is far too boring." She smiled.

"Arguing with you was fun. You're the first person who wasn't afraid to tell me I'm an idiot."

"I didn't say you were an idiot."

"But you meant it." She winked.

"And it was refreshing." I took the card. The fact remained: I had obtained Anastasia Hardy's contact. Her father owned one of the largest construction companies in the state. A connection to the Hardy family could open doors I hadn't even dreamed of.