early editions today? Did he think I had screwed up? Apparently not.
I sat rigid in my seat for the next three hours, assuming I was being watched. As the stewardesses handed out cold compresses to the sick, the groaning all around me eventually stopped. When we landed, I carefully, self-consciously collected my carry-ons and walked off the plane.
When I jumped into a taxicab, I said, 'Downtown, please.' In that sense, I knew where I was heading. In another sense, I had no idea at all.
ten
By the time I had made my way through the Grille Room, Lyle had already drawn me a beer, a Sam Adams OctoberFest, God love him, and God love the Boston Beer Company while we're at it. I could use whatever they had to offer tonight.
'You've become quite the celebrity,' Lyle said to me through barely pursed lips. He wasn't admiring or condescending, but matter-of-fact, as if pointing out to me, with his years of Washington wisdom, that this too shall pass, like so many other things in life. Lyle had seen it all. That's just one of the reasons I like him. The frosted pilsner glass he slid toward me was another.
As I took my first pull of beer, he nodded toward the pool table, casually, never rushed. 'Your colleague, Mr. Havlicek, I believe, arrived a while ago, and is engaged in a game of billiards.'
I looked. Havlicek had just made a long bank shot. He let out a loud yelp and held his open-faced hand over his shoulder, as if to high-five his opponent, who happened to be Sinclair Shoesmith, the great-grandson of one of the club founders, a former secretary of state. I swear to God, Mr. Shoesmith-I've never heard anyone use his first name before-flinched back, as if he might be under attack from Havlicek.
They don't high-five much over at the Chevy Chase Club or the Smithsonian Society, so I embarked on a rescue mission, though I'm not sure who was most in need of salvation-me, Mr. Shoesmith, or Havlicek.
I said, pulling up to the table, 'Good evening, Mr. Shoesmith. Steve, good to see you. Do you mind if I interrupt the game before ESPN tries to put you gentlemen on SportsCenter? Steve, it's actually important we talk right away.'
Havlicek hesitated, looking longingly at the table, while I tried to will him away with my eyes. 'Good, let's talk,' he said finally.
'Terribly sorry, Sinclair, but I've got some work to do here.'
Settled down at a table, he looked at me with a smile and said, 'Good to see you, slugger. Strange trip, huh?' He then looked at me closer, at the bruise on my left cheek from my recent scuffle, and said, 'Whoa, you look like shit. Everywhere you go these days, someone's taking a poke at you.'
'Yeah, violent business we're in. I took a shot from one of Nathaniel's lackeys. The whole trip was something worse than strange.
I've got some more news for you from today. First, though, I want to hear what you have.'
Havlicek didn't seem overly concerned about my physical well-being. He pulled a manila folder out of his briefcase and put a pair of half-glasses on his prominent nose. 'Good stuff,' he said. 'Not sure what it means yet, but I know it's good stuff.'
Truth is, when it came to work, to journalism, to investigative reporting, Havlicek was as good as it gets. He had no fear, not just of government officials or mobsters or white-collar criminals much smarter than himself, but of failure. Where other reporters would assume that they couldn't find what they needed, Havlicek would scrape away, pushing a little more dirt back every day until finally he had dug a nice little hole to put someone in. He was tenacious and he was street-smart, and at age fifty-six, he hadn't lost a bit of speed on his first step or his ability to open it up down the homestretch. When I'm that age, if I'm ever that age, whatever it is I'm doing, I hope to have one-tenth of Steve Havlicek's passion.
Havlicek flipped through a sheath of papers, saying, 'Okay, Tony Clawson, Tony Clawson, where are you? There you are. Here, this is the photograph everyone was running of Clawson after the shooting. It came from a Home Depot security badge out in Fresno. He used to work in their landscape and garden department. Check it out: dirty blond hair, blue eyes.'
I'd seen the photograph before. Not a great-looking guy, by any stretch. His eyes seemed wild, almost insane, as if he might club you over the head with a metal watering can, then leave you for dead by the terra-cotta pots, all because you didn't get your purchases to the checkout line by five minutes before closing time like the nice lady on the public address system had asked. Most people try to smile for their ID photos, especially when they're going to be wearing them on a badge. Clawson, I'd venture to guess, went out of his way to sneer.
I'm betting the guy behind the camera just wanted to get him out of his office.
I said, 'Okay.' Obviously, the issue of Tony Clawson was of great interest to me right now, given the note, but I decided to hold back on sharing my own revelation until Havlicek was done.
One of my favorite waiters, Carlos, stopped by the table. 'Mr. Flynn, a pleasure to see you again,' he said. 'Could I bring you gentlemen a bite to eat?' We ordered hamburgers and onion rings and an order of smoked salmon, along with another round of beers. Havlicek continued.
'So remember, the Secret Service shoots this guy six times in the head.
Every one of them connects. You shoot a guy six times in the head, there's not much left. You have any idea what a guy looks like who's been shot six times in the head?'
'I really don't.'
'Like this.' With that, Havlicek slid a large glossy photograph toward me. It was a picture, I believe, of a man who had been shot six times in the head, the man specifically being the man they are calling Tony Clawson. My first instinct, quite beyond my control, was to vomit.
Luckily my second instinct was to turn away to prevent myself from vomiting. In the photo, someone-I'm assuming the coroner-must have cleaned some of the wounds. Still, entire chunks of the man's face had been torn out. What remained was black and blue, almost beyond recognition as a human head. Oddly enough, and frightening beyond words, one eye remained in place, and that eye was open for the photo shoot.
'Pretty gross, huh?' Havlicek asked. 'Sorry about this. But do you have any idea what I had to do to get this photo slipped to me?'
I was stunned into silence, trying to regain my composure. I wondered if I could trade that hamburger in for a little bowl of fruit salad.
Havlicek continued. 'Take a look at that eye-'
'I don't want to look at anything in that picture again,' I interrupted.
'No, really, this is work,' he replied, straight as an arrow. He could overcome any queasiness in the name of a story. This was the hunt, he was the hunter. 'Take a look. What color does that look like?'
I couldn't believe I was doing this, but I found myself looking closer at it, bending my head toward the photograph, which sat on the table because I didn't want to touch it. I said, 'Looks to be brown.'
'Bing-fucking-o,' he said. 'Now take another look at the Home Depot ID
photo. What do you see?'
'Blue eyes,' I said. I paused. Dawn breaks on Mar8,4. I added, 'Holy shit.'
The waiter returned with the food. Great. Across the table, Havlicek merrily spread some condiments on his burger and bit into it like a ravenous dog. I opted to let mine sit for a while, waiting to see if my stomach might settle.
I said, 'But we can't jump to conclusions. One, this eye is barely an eye, and the color might be off in the photo, or if it isn't, he might be wearing tinted contacts.'
Havlicek began talking with his mouth so packed with food that I was surprised that words could even get out.
'Right on all counts,' he said. 'Which is why I got my hands on this beauty.'
He wiped his fingers on a napkin, then slid a folder marked
