The Associate by John Grisham Page A

studio thoroughly absorbed in creating some of the most dreadful art never seen in a gallery or an exhibition. Visits with his mother were painful. She rarely left her loft, for any reason, so the suggestion that they meet for coffee or lunch was always dismissed. If the meds were in sync, she talked incessantly while forcing Kyle to admire her latest masterpieces. If the meds were out of order, she would lie on the sofa with her eyes closed, unbathed, unkempt, often inconsolable in her gloom and misery. She seldom asked about his life—college, law school, girlfriends, plans for the future. She was much too absorbed in her own sad little world. Kyle’s twin sisters stayed far away from York.
    He left the message on her recorder as he was hustling out of town and hoped she didn’t return the call anytime soon. She did not; in fact, the call was never returned, which was not unusual. Four hours later he was in Pittsburgh. Joey Bernardo had tickets for the Penguins–Senators hockey game Saturday night. Three tickets, not two.
    They met at Boomerang’s, a favorite watering hole from their college days. After Kyle quit drinking (Joey did not), he avoided most bars. Driving to Pittsburgh, he had hoped for some quiet time with his old roommate, but it wasn’t to be.
    The third ticket was for Blair, Joey’s soon-to-be-announced fiancée. By the time the three of them settled into a tight booth and ordered drinks, Joey was gushing with the news that they had just become engaged and were looking at wedding dates. Both were glowing with love and romance and seemed oblivious to everything else. They held hands, sat close, even giggled at each other, and after five minutes Kyle felt uncomfortable. What had happened to his friend? Where was the old Joey—the tough kid from South Pittsburgh, son of a fire captain, accomplished boxer, all-conference high school fullback, tremendous appetite for girls, a cynical, smart-ass wisecracker who believed women were disposable, the guy who’d vowed he wouldn’t marry until he was at least forty?
    Blair had turned him to mush. Kyle was astonished at the transformation.
    They eventually tired of their wedding plans and potential honeymoon destinations, and the talk turned to careers. Blair, a chatterbox who began every sentence with either “I” or “me” or “my,” worked foran advertising agency and spent far too much time detailing some of their latest marketing maneuvers. Joey hung on every word while Kyle began glancing at the clock behind them, high above a row of windows. As she prattled on, Kyle worked hard at maintaining enough eye contact to feign interest, but his mind drifted to the video.
    “Is she awake?” Joey asks as Baxter has sex with a dangerously intoxicated Elaine Keenan.
    “Blair travels to Montreal quite often,” Joey said, then Blair ricocheted onto the subject of Montreal and its beauty. She was learning French!
    Is she awake? Joey, sitting there with his hand under the table no doubt rubbing some flesh, had no earthly idea that such a video existed. When was the last time Joey even thought about the incident? Ever? Had he forgotten it completely? And what good would it do for Kyle to bring it up now?
    After the Pittsburgh police quietly closed the file on Elaine and her rape, the brothers of Beta buried it, too. During his last two years of college, Kyle could not remember a single instance when the episode was discussed. Elaine disappeared and was quickly forgotten.
    If Bennie Wright and his operatives had been snooping around Duquesne and Pittsburgh in recent weeks, Kyle wanted to know about it. Perhaps Joey might have seen or heard something. Perhaps not. Joey wasn’t noticing much these days except for Blair.
    “Have you talked to Baxter?” Joey asked when Blair finally stopped for air.
    “Not in a month or so.”
    Joey was grinning as if a joke was on the way. “He finally got in a movie, you know.”
    “No kidding. He didn’t tell me.”
    Blair