Free Outerbridge Reach by Robert Stone

Hillsborough’s numbers.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Harry asked. “We got all his boats. Down on the river. And his big race that we’re paying for. You know who that guy was—the guy that was in here with Joyce? Some asshole he hired to make a movie about the race.”
    â€œMatty’s going to have to bear a lot of the responsibility for this,” the second lawyer said.
    Thorne turned to him. “A lot? You see that he bears it all, counselor. All of it.”
    The lawyers left. Livingston and Thorne stood together by the window, looking toward the river.
    â€œAre you letting this movie thing go ahead?” Livingston asked.
    â€œI don’t want to cancel any of these Matty Hylan projects until I have to. Appearance of normalcy. When the time comes we’ll pay him off.”
    â€œIf you ask me,” Livingston said, “we should tear down that boathouse. When this is over you’ll probably want to.”
    â€œWe won’t tear it down,” Thorne said. “We’ll put a Turkish bath in there.”
    In the well-appointed club room of the boathouse, Strickland sat in a leather chair while Joyce Manning had an actual Filipino steward bring him coffee.
    â€œDo you sail?” she asked.
    â€œNo,” Strickland said. “But I can row.”
    While Joyce read yachting magazines, Strickland drank his coffee and watched various visual celebrations Hylan had commissioned of himself. Many of them featured him as skipper of his International Cup entry—studies of him at the helm in every weather, tight-lipped, osprey-eyed and born to win. There were shots of his wholesome young crew, cheering, dapping and throwing high-signs, while stirring anthems of an inspirational, competitive sort swelled on the sound track.
    â€œAm I allowed to use any of this?” Strickland asked Joyce.
    â€œYou betcha.”
    Then there were talk-show appearances, news interviews and a couple of corporate cheerleading sessions. Contrary to what he had read, Hylan at close quarters appeared touchy, ill-spoken and smirking. After a while Joyce came up to watch.
    â€œNone of this does justice to the man himself,” she said.
    They watched an excess of Matty Hylan’s seagoing home movies—tossing decks, towering waves, telltales taut against the billowing sails.
    â€œO.K.,” Strickland said finally. “I g . . get the idea.”
    She took him for a walk along the riverside dock, where a number of boats were tied up under tarpaulins, and through the boathouse itself, which had two vacant slips partly enclosed. The structure smelled of caulking and dank river water. Their footsteps echoed. Liquid shadows played on the walls.
    â€œWhat if he doesn’t win?” Strickland asked.
    â€œHe expects to win,” Joyce said. “But I think he’ll settle for being seen as a lone competitor.”
    They walked back over the lawns.
    â€œThe lone competitor,” Strickland mused aloud. “Hylan agonistes.”
    â€œMan against the sea,” Joyce said. “Be serious.”
    Strickland decided it might be amusing to see more of Joyce Manning.
    En route to the parkway, Strickland pulled over and looked down at the Hylan headquarters. Dusk had come to the valley in which it stood. The last light played on the bare trees at the summit of the Plattsweg. The broad plane of the river reflected the darkening sky. Lights burned in Shadows’ leaded windows.
    From where Strickland stood, the absurd building with its turrets looked tortured and desolate. You could see the desperation that informed it. Its shape, he thought, must reflect the unhappy lives of those who had built it—the grafting financier, his exquisitely embittered lady. In spite of their fortune, two of their children had died there. Everything was overbusy, overdone, grasping, hysterical. It was a place without rest.
    About to turn away, he saw a line of cars drawn up at the light