an election.” Crully threw the back of his hand at Ray, dismissive of the law and all its routine monkeyshines and its predictable inefficiency.
Ray generally found Crully amusing, perhaps because Ray had been on the team that found him. But Horgan looked nettled. He stood up to hang his suit coat on the back of his chair. Like Paul, he preferred just to ignore Mark at times.
“Are there risks, if we sue? Sure,” said Ray, as he rolled up his cuffs. “But Hal’s got you pretty well cornered here. He’s going to keep saying you murdered his sister to anybody who will listen. If you sue him, maybe a few more people pay attention. But there’s also a chance he shuts up. Maybe the judge
“How about if I say I didn’t do it.”
“You need to back it up. You sue him, you have skin in the game.”
Paul closed his eyes to think. Even at moments like this, he loved this life. Or most of it. The money part was horrible and getting worse. Close to unbearable. You didn’t get really big dollars from anybody who didn’t have an agenda and a ring to be kissed. But the rest he still relished. He knew enough about himself to admit that he liked the heat of the spotlight-Lidia had taught all her children that they deserved attention. But he still found a thrill in the magnitude of the problems, and figuring out how to get them solved. The county had been playing a shell game for a decade-there wasn’t the money to run the schools or pay pensions, not if you’d passed fourth grade arithmetic. But he, Paulie Gianis, he would be the one working it out. There was no other job with this kind of impact, where the effect of your brief time on earth was magnified so far beyond your own circle. You could invent the semiconductor or make a movie and change lives, too, if people happened to bump up against those things. But in politics the effect was universal. Every person you passed on the street had a stake in what you did and usually an opinion about it. The world was what it was, full of love and cruelty and indifference. But it could get better, with less need, less violence, more opportunities. In his lifetime, black people had gone from the back of the bus to maybe, considering the results in Iowa last week, the White House. And if you put up with all the hard stuff, you could be laid to rest knowing you had helped make that kind of change happen.
“To be frank,” said Raymond, “the only thing that gives me second thoughts is that he’s basically daring you to sue.”
“That’s Hal,” said Paul. “The guy’s like a windup toy who turns his own key. If I win twenty million dollars in this lawsuit, he appeals for five years and doesn’t even notice when he writes the check. Besides, he thinks all Democrats are socialists who want to destroy the free enterprise system that made America great. He’s always been crazy-right. I remember when I was six years old, Hal had all these campaign banners for Barry Goldwater in his bedroom. This is 1964. There weren’t R’s in Kewahnee in those days. Even Zeus, his dad, only became a Republican when they moved to the suburbs and he fell in love with Reagan. The hard-right stuff was Hal’s defense against being a nerd. It was his way of saying he was the only guy who knew the truth.”
“OK,” said Ray. “But he can’t really believe that any Republican is going to win in this county. If he knocks you out and the D’s splinter and Flanagan gets into the runoff, he gets crushed. So if Hal’s rational-”
“He’s not.”
“OK,” said Ray, “but let’s pretend. Common sense says that to go public with this kind of accusation, he has to have something to back it up. So you tell us, Paulie. Does he?”
“Not that I know of,” Paul answered. Horgan, who’d done criminal defense work for decades, had asked the question so casually that Paul had responded with equal nonchalance. But Ray was still a sly cat. Only now that his steel blues stayed put on Paul did he realize that Ray had been asking the same thing for ten minutes, in hopes of an unequivocal response.
But Crully wouldn’t let him answer. Mark stood up, all five-six of him, but still looking, from the hard set of his face, like somebody you wouldn’t want to mess with. He was done wasting time.
“You have to sue. Period. Personally, Ray, I’m not spinning my wheels asking what Hal’s got. Because if he’s got anything real, Paul’s not gonna be mayor anyway.” Crully turned toward his candidate. “So, Paul, either quit now or sue.”
Crully flipped his pencil in the air and let it bounce on the table and left the room.
4
Tim Brodie lived in the same Kewahnee neighborhood in which Paul and Cass Gianis had grown up, and where Hal had started out. The little hip-roofed bungalows, all of them built of brick before the Second World War, sat squat as toads on forty-foot lots, with huge old trees in the snowy parkways. When Tim bought his house in 1959, not long after he’d made detective, he felt he’d done whatever people were talking about when they had told him to grow up and make something of himself.
Now he awoke with a start. He was on the plaid family room sofa, a heavy volume on his chest. He sat up with an ominous grunt and waited until his body and his head came back to him. His leg ached unbearably just for a moment whenever he awoke. Tim didn’t know if the pain subsided or he merely got used to it. He had waited all his life for time to catch up to him and now it had.
He recognized the doorbell. When he could move, he made his way to the front door. Ordinarily, he’d expect it to be his granddaughter, Stefanie, but he’d been over there with her and her funny little husband last night. Instead, he saw a woman on his stoop, breathing fog in the cold. She was someone he knew, he realized, but he just couldn’t place her.
He opened the front door but not the glass storm.
“Evon Miller,” she said, and offered her hand. “From ZP.”
“Oh, hell,” he answered. He stepped back at once to welcome her. He’d met Evon a few times, the first when she took the position at ZP of his pal from the Force, Collins Mullaney. Collins had liked the job, but had to fall on his sword because a ZP real estate manager in Illinois was paying bribes to lower the company’s property taxes. Collins parachuted out with a big package and had no ill will toward Evon. She was a good egg, a bandy little gal, a former FBI agent who years back had busted several state court judges. She’d been in the Olympics, too. Field hockey was Tim’s memory. Also didn’t make any secret of the fact she was gay, which was something Tim had gotten over early in his life when he tried to make a go of it playing the trombone. What the hell did he care who you slept with, if you had good pitch and kept time?
“To what do I owe the honor?” he asked, once he had her inside. He told her to take off her coat. She was OK-looking, thick-built but with a little bit of a stylish way about her and short blondish hair. Her face was wide, and in the strong daylight, he could see she had kind of pebbly skin.
“Need to talk to you about something,” she said. “I’ve been calling your cell for three days.”
“Really?” Tim saw the contraption on the table in the foyer where he’d set it when he got done following around Corus Dykstra from YourHouse. Dead. He laughed as he slid the phone in his pocket. “I was actually wondering why my daughter called the landline yesterday. Don’t get old,” he told her. It was the drifting part of age, the way his mind seemed to have no home on earth, which often surprised him.
He offered Evon coffee, but she declined.
“Grew up in a Mormon town,” she said. “My dad was a Jack, but I just never developed the habit. I’ll take a glass of water, if that’s OK.”
He was in a plaid flannel shirt and twill pants and Evon could see he’d been asleep. His face was red and his white hair, some of it starting to yellow, was sticking straight up in patches where it should have been pushed over his bare scalp. He had a lumpy, marked face like an old potato, and he had become one of those elderly guys with a permanent wary expression, seemingly afraid that any second now somebody might take advantage of him. Tim handed her the glass and then led her back toward the family room, where he said he liked to sit. She had some memory that Tim was a widower, and the house probably looked just the same as when his wife passed a few years back, crowded with the relics of a lifetime. It was the kind of place where you had to turn sideways to move
