The Vultures

SEVEN

"What kind of game is this?" I ask to myself, as I approach Anton with care. "How many others have been put to the test by Lucia?"

I imagine these types of activities are not uncommon for the Diamond Woman. Distracting the young and ambitious members of the press with the promise of a juicy and exclusive story, that ends up being nothing more than gossip and waste, must be the national sport of Upper East Side women, the ones that enjoy toying around with their wide-eyed and clueless victims, just for the pleasure of watching them run, side to side, and going through fire hoops just to prove themselves to the unreachable Lucia Ludlow and her group of perfect and ice-cold friends.

And yet, something tells me there may be something there. Maybe.

Since our talk, I haven't seen Lucia around. "Find me when the night is over", she said, but only if I had the story. She dared me. She probably thought I wouldn't get it. Even if I do, where is she? Shall I have to look for her, perhaps, on top of finding the truth about Charles Anton's secret? Is that also part of the test? To look for her on every corner of her luxurious penthouse?

My eyes once again find Charles Anton, and this time I stop to examine him carefully. He's a tall man, 6"2 or more. Unlike Lionel, Anton is out of shape, and his belly, hanging on top of his tight and barely-resisting belt, can almost touch the old woman in front of him. His hands are so large, the glass on his hand looks like a mere toy, and his head seems to be too small for his body. After a while and once the initial mirage is over, Anton looks like an ice cream cone that's melting.

I size him up, trying to find something, but I don't know what. I'm really just killing time until the elderly woman finishes her conversation with him, which doesn't seem to be anytime soon, as they both continue to passionately talk about something trivial, I'm sure. My eyes then turn to make sure no other reporter is stalking him, and my doubts clear once I realize they're still around Lionel Ludlow, who continues his parade of salutes and hugs. If Lucia tried to pull her little trick on any of the others, she seems to have only gotten to me.

I turn around once more to discover the elderly woman has left, and Anton is now alone, standing next to a large window and checking his phone. No time to waste.

"Mr. Anton? Alec Láster, "New York Eye". Can I ask you a couple of questions?"

Charles Anton takes his time before taking his eyes off his phone, and when he looks at me, he does it with a mix of dislike and weariness, but he still nods and sighs, clearly wanting to get the whole thing over as quick as possible.

"Thank you. Lionel Ludlow just spoke about the constant efforts in the fight against cancer. Do you think they're enough, or should a more aggressive approach be considered?"

Anton's phone vibrates and he turns his attention back to the screen.

"I think both as individuals and as members of a society, we're doing all we can to fight this terrible illness," he answers, once he's done the same with the message on his phone and his eyes are back on me. The phone, however, vibrates again and Anton unblocks it once more, angrier by the second.

"What's your opinion about donating money to private organizations, instead of giving it directly to hospitals or government-backed medical research centers?"

The phone vibrates one more time, only seconds after Anton had blocked it again, and the man lets out a disgusted grunt as he rudely leaves his empty glass on the trade of a nearby waiter and grabs the phone with both hands.

"I think that money should be donated with an open heart. That's all that matters."

Anton is writing with such rudeness, that his fingers looks like they'll crack the screen at any moment. His left hand, which used to hold the champagne glass, is now visible to me and his wedding ring catches my eye. Small, discreet and once-golden, the ring is now dim and worn out, and I understand why. I used to have a teacher in college who had developed a rather annoying and persistent tic, which made him take his ring on and off, over and over, until the ring lost all of its golden coating and only the metal skeleton remained.

"What other foundations are you currently supporting?"

"The usual ones, the opera, the museum and..."

Anton's attention, barely present from the start, is now completely gone, and as his phone vibrates non-stop, he raises his eyes and looks at me, putting weariness aside and exchanging it for full blown anger.

"Are we almost done here?" he asks, irritated and pointing at the phone in his hand. "I have some business to attend to."

"Of course, sir, thank you for your time," I reply with a smile, and I immediately put down both pen and paper.

I politely nod, saying thank you without using the words, but he has already turned around, so I mimic him and I walk away, slowly, towards the terrace.

It's Friday and it's almost midnight, and Charles Anton is not the kind of man who takes his work home with him. There's only one reason why so many texts would be sent to him on a Friday at 11:50.

Suddenly, his weekly visits to Brooklyn are explained in a rather simple way.

"A mistress", I say to myself, angrily, as I take a new glass and finish it in one drink. It's gin, not champagne, and now it's gone to my head.

Nothing but a common and boring mistress, one of many, I'm sure. A mistress who needs a home far enough from Manhattan, so as not to attract suspicion, but close enough to visit any time he wants. A mistress with whom the wedding ring must be taken off, only to put it on again when he returns home. A sad and vulgar mistress.

The idea of reporting a money-laundering scandal was attractive enough for Jonas to agree to dedicate both time and resources to the investigation. A scandal that big fits right into his definition of "hard and sincere journalism".

Cheap gossip about adultery from a man that has faced countless similar accusations throughout his life, is something Jonas would never even consider pursuing. He wouldn't even listen to it.

What a waste of time.

My eyes go back to the sitting room; still no Lucia. I only see Lionel, who's about to finish his courtesies and is on his way to the press. I drink another glass of gin, and I make sure I have my three simple and silly questions prepared, then I step into the inside again, trying to ignore the big-ass vulture that has flown into the bannister again, and that, now more than ever, is bursting into laughter.