Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [111]
“I don’t want to see my father hurt.”
“Neither do I. I understand wanting to protect him, Neil, but what about the people at Marshalk? Do you have that same need to protect them?”
“Of course not. I mean, I wouldn’t want to hurt them. Rick Marshalk has been good to me, Phil. I’m sorry, but suggesting that Rick or someone else there might have had something to do with Mom’s death is ridiculous. They wouldn’t do anything like that.”
Neil’s desire to protect his father came across as sincere and credible. Marshalk was a different story. What Neil said sounded forced, a denial rammed through reality.
The barmaid passed the booth and observed that their pasta and salads had barely been touched. Rotondi smiled at her. “It’s good,” he said. “We’re not as hungry as we thought.”
She continued on her way without comment.
“Phil,” Simmons said.
“What?”
“Could I see what Mom gave you?”
“No. It wouldn’t serve any purpose.”
“I don’t care if it’s offensive or harsh. I just want to see it for myself. Mom never showed it to me and—”
“For good reason,” said Rotondi.
“I should be the judge of that.”
“Sorry, Neil, but it remains with me.”
Up until this point, Simmons had been low-key, almost lethargic. He spoke without animation or emotion, his face unexpressive. But a flush of anger was now evident. “I really resent this, Phil. What are you going to do, blackmail my father over that garbage?”
“That’s not worthy of an answer, Neil.”
“You really do hate him.” Rotondi started to respond, but Simmons continued. “You come off like some saint, some holier-than-thou person. You limp around with that cane so people cut you some slack, but what you really are is a goddamn Judas. Whatever Mom had belongs to me, not you. Who the hell do you think you are telling me I can’t see it? Give it to me!”
He’d become loud, which caused people at the bar and in a nearby booth to turn in their direction.
“Calm down,” Rotondi said.
“I’ll make you give it to me,” Neil said, sliding from his side of the booth. He now stood over Rotondi. “I’ll get a lawyer and make you give it to me. You have no right to do this.”
A man appeared through a door beyond the booths. “Is there a problem?” he asked.
A red-faced Simmons responded, “Yes, there is,” before walking through the bar area and out the door.
“There’s something wrong with the food?” the man, who’d said he was the manager, asked.
“No, the food was fine,” Rotondi said. “The conversation wasn’t. I need a check.”
• • •
Rotondi stood in front of the restaurant and looked for Neil on the street. There was no sign of him. He hadn’t had time to react to Neil’s charges inside, but now that he did, he ran a gauntlet of responses. There was anger, of course, but that quickly dissipated. What was left was more pity than ire. He wondered whether his friend’s son was teetering on the verge of some form of breakdown. He’d been through a lot. He was the son, conceived out of wedlock, of one of the Senate’s most influential members, a domineering, overbearing man who wasn’t likely to win the father-of-the-year award. His mother had become a browbeaten semi-recluse who’d turned to the bottle for solace. His sister had fled at the earliest possible moment and harbored a continuing resentment of her father and what he stood for. Aunt Marlene was mentally unbalanced. He knew little about Neil’s marriage to Alexandra. He’d attended their wedding, a happy, festive, albeit tense event as many weddings can be. Lyle had dropped hints that he didn’t approve of his son’s choice in a mate, and had made similar remarks long after the wedding and the birth of their two sons. Too, Neil worked in a high-pressure environment at the Marshalk Group where, as far as Rotondi could ascertain, he was still nothing more than a figurehead, one whose sole contribution was his relationship to Senator Lyle Simmons, possibly the next president.
Not a life to be envied.
He decided to walk until his leg protested. As he did, he focused on Neil’s admission that he’d discussed with his father