Evening's Empire: The Story of My Father's Murder by Zachary Lazar Page A

them in the car, they got too hot to wear—and went out to the secretaries with the bag and his mail in two clipped bundles, interoffice and postal.
    “What time did Elaine come in this morning?” he asked Sharon, stern, his brow coming down at her like that of a bird of prey.
    “She was here early,” Sharon said. “She was here at eight-thirty, I think. Why?”
    Ed shook his head. “I doubt that very much.” He sighed. “Get your things together. You’re fired. Get out.”
    Sharon’s face went blank.
    “They just waltz in here,” Ed said, leaning over her desk. “They waltz in and they think you’ll cover for them. Is that the way it is?”
    He didn’t know why he was doing this. It took Sharon a long time to realize he was only joking. She tried to smile then, her eyes a little wet. “That isn’t funny,” she said.
    He brushed her on the shoulder, tilting his head at her skeptically. “Come on.”
    She wouldn’t smile. He placed the mail on her desk and left.
    The Jewish Community Center. Two men playing tennis on their lunch hour, white shirts and white shorts. This was the person he was, the ball a yellow blur over the net, no thought but the thought of the motion. The deep pock sound of the ground strokes. The hesitation before the ball toss, the long inhale, the smooth rise of the racket up the back, past the shoulder blade, the sudden overhead slam. The game in endless deuce—first serve, second serve. Afterward, the shower, the thick white towels, a sandwich and an iced tea on the deck.
    He played with Barry Starr that day. Barry Starr could not have known what was going on in his mind.
    That afternoon, Warren came into the office in a brown suit with his briefcase. He had Sharon bring him in a coffee with cream and two sugars.
    “Cornwall says he wants to keep his override,” he said.
    Ed nodded, poker-faced. Great Southwest was in such trouble by now that Consolidated Acceptance was managing some of its sales, helping it scratch out a profit on its newly acquired subdivision near Casa Grande. Even now, Cornwall refused to take a pay cut, nor did Warren insist that he do so.
    “Where’s he going to find the money to pay himself?” Ed asked.
    “I told him the same thing. I told him it would be Chapter Eleven if he keeps it up, but he doesn’t listen.”
    Ed pushed a folder toward Warren. There was only so much of his bluff you could resist before the struggle made you feel ridiculous. “We’ll sell his lots on our contracts, not Great Southwest’s,” he said. “They pay the up-front costs, the promotion. They give us fifty percent of the down, then fifteen of the flow. If it works, fine. If it doesn’t, we’re through with them. I assume you’ve been pulling your money out all this time.”
    Warren sipped his coffee. He pretended to contemplate the folder but didn’t even open it up. “I’m going over to see Talley now,” he said. “I’m going to talk to him some more about this Chino Grande deal, the subdivision approval. What we can do to make this work. I think you should come along.”
    Ed was silent for a moment. Warren wasn’t looking at him, and Ed sat there with his fingers on his chin, watching Warren’s face as he looked down at the folder. First there was the line about Great Southwest— I told him the same thing. I told him it would be Chapter Eleven if he keeps it up —as if the bankruptcy weren’t a likely possibility, as if Warren weren’t instigating it. Now there was this prod to go watch him hand Talley the envelope full of cash.
    “I’m not doing that,” he said.
    Warren tapped the folder. “You sounded very concerned about Chino Grande on the phone before, that’s all.”
    “I am concerned.”
    Warren took a long sip of his coffee. He squinted, running his tongue along his upper lip. “I don’t like it any more than you do that we’re tied in with these people,” he said. “Cornwall. Ross. They’re the ones that should be bearing the brunt