of Tony Clawson, switched names again to Clayton Hutchins, became a prominent businessman in Iowa, was elevated to the governorship by the eleventh-hour whims of a fickle electorate, was nominated vice president without a public vote, became president when his predecessor dropped dead, and was now one day away from being elected to a full term.
How did I know this? Well, two of his cohorts on the armored heist told me-one who was now dead, another who wouldn't allow me to use his name.
While we're at it, let's not forget that the Federal Bureau of Investigation was trying to kill me and had succeeded in killing my colleague, Steve Havlicek. And how did I know this? Well, the suspicions of those same criminals and my own gut instinct.
All this would go over big with Appleton-trying to end the Hutchins presidency on the word of two admitted criminals, but without the benefit of sharing their identities with our readership. I couldn't help but smile to myself. My sourcing, if that's what you want to call it, was so weak as to be laughable. I knew the facts. I just couldn't put them in the newspaper. I imagined the pitying look on Appleton's face when he fired me, or maybe he'd just do it by telephone, and all I'd get would be the pseudo-sympathetic tone of his voice.
I flicked the television on and turned to CNN'S Headline News to see where Hutchins was campaigning. A couple of minutes later, the network played footage of him speaking to a huge rally at Rockefeller Center in midtown Manhattan, urging his supporters not only to vote themselves but each to bring a family member and a friend or neighbor to the polls-all, he said, 'To guide our own destiny, to renew that most sacred of institutions, the American dream.'
The camera showed men and women and children laughing and applauding and shouting high into the air. Balloons, red, white, and blue, fell from the sky, framed by the mammoth skyscrapers of New York. I stared hard at Hutchins, at his features, his smile, his face, his eyes, his graying hair. Frustrated, I flicked the picture off.
So do I call Martin? I decided it wasn't the right time yet. I decided I wanted to be armed with more information before he raced over and threw me off my game. On a legal pad, I scribbled down the names of people I needed to call: Sammy Markowitz, Kent Drinker, Clayton Hutchins. Neither Markowitz nor Hutchins would be particularly easy to raise, though I imagined by now, Drinker might well be all too easy.
Chances were, he would find me before I even began looking for him.
Which, of course, begged the question: which was, the killer FBI agent-Drinker or Stevens, Stevens or Drinker? Or both? Stevens was an obvious suspect, given her mysterious presence at the airport. But then I recalled Havlicek telling me in the car before he died that he had talked to her that day. He just didn't explain what he had said.
Perhaps he really had given her my arrival time.
Well, I wasn't going to answer that question now, so I flipped through my datebook for Markowitz's number. When I called, some dullardly gentleman picked up the telephone, announced the name of his fine establishment, the Pigpen, then yelled to someone nearby, 'Hey, leave the fucking jerky alone. I'll get it for you when I'm done.' Pause, then, 'Yeah, what.'
'Is Sammy there?' I asked.
'No.'
Great. This song and dance all over again. I said, 'Well, when he gets in from church, could you tell him that Jack Flynn called. Tell him it's urgent that I speak to him.'
'Hol'on a second,' the man said. I heard him ask someone else, 'Hey, Rudy, the boss go to church or somethin'? Isn't he in his booth?'
There was no pulling one over on this guy. A long pause followed, then the phone rang, then Markowitz's voice said, 'You have nine lives?
Hate to tell you, but I think you're down to about two.'
I wasn't much in the mood to make funny with him, given the day.
'Sammy, I need you to tell me something, and I need you to be straight.
Is there anyone up there in your world who'd be worried about me digging around on Curtis Black? Let me take it a step further. Is there anyone up there who'd kill over this? His cohorts in that failed robbery? Debtors? Anyone you can think of? And is there anyone who would want to kill Black himself if they found out who he is or where he is?'
There was silence. I heard the flick of his lighter, the sound of him inhaling a cigarette, then blowing smoke out toward the decrepit environs of his bar. 'No,' he said. 'Black kind of became a nobody when he left, and that was a long time ago-over twenty years. We don't hold grudges that long in my business. Only in the movies. Too much money to be made.' He paused as if he was calculating something, like that day's bookmaking receipts maybe, then added, 'And I'm tallying the people up here. Everyone involved in that particular heist is either still in jail or dead. There's no one free who gives a rat's ass about Curtis Black.'
I asked, 'You're absolutely sure?'
He paused again, then said, 'Yeah, unless there's something going on I don't know about, but that's at best unlikely. Yeah, I'm sure.'
I said, 'Let me ask you something else. You by chance mention to anyone that I was talking to you about Curtis Black? If you did, no hard feelings. But I'm at a point in my story that it would be really helpful to know.'
There was another long pause. I could hear him puffing on his cigarette. I could hear the mindless chatter of his small-minded clientele in the background, some woman on a jukebox singing a country song about a car stealing her man or maybe her man stealing her car.
'No,' he said. But it was the way he said it, anything but firm. He sounded uncharacteristically weak, begging more questions.
So I asked him one. 'Who? Who'd you tell? I need this.'
I heard him take a deep breath, then let out a mouth full of smoke. 'A fed, some fucker by the name of Drinker-I told him he should own a bar with that name. He came by, wanted to know what I knew. He kept pressuring me, wouldn't get out of my face. He was raising your name.
After a while, I just had to get him out of here. I told him you were looking into Black.' Another long pause, then, 'I don't normally say this, Jack, but if I hurt you, sorry.'
Dimed by a lifelong crook. 'Great. An apology. That means a lot.'
Sammy said, 'Look, I'm getting old. I'm in the market for friends, not enemies, and he was offering me friendship, said he'd keep an eye out for me, rather than on me.'
I said, 'Do me a favor, Sammy. When you screw me over again, just let me know about it, would you?'
Next, I called the White House switchboard and asked to have Royal Dalton paged in New York. This would be my most significant problem.
My past dozen days aside, a reporter doesn't just get in to talk to the president of the United States at will, especially on election eve. In fact, most reporters never get the chance to see the president one-on-one in their entire lives. The only time they are able to question him is on national television, at one of his rare press conferences-a venue that wouldn't work particularly well in this situation. Just imagine, me standing up in the East Room of the White House and saying, 'Sir, we are pursuing a story saying you were once Curtis Black, an armored car robber in Massachusetts. Do you care to confirm that fact here, and if so, is it true that the FBI has killed reporter Steve Havlicek in its effort to protect you?' Either the stock market would drop one thousand points in the day, or I'd be led off the grounds in a straitjacket by men who would load me into the back of a blue van and say repeatedly, 'You're right, the whole world is out to get you. But trust us. We're your protectors.'
Ten minutes later, my telephone rang back. An officious-sounding twenty-something said, 'This is Hamilton Carr. Could I help you?'
First off, I hate when someone returns someone else's phone messages.
Second, I hate it more when they just assume I know who they are.
This, by the way, is standard procedure in Washington, the world's self-importance capital.
I said, dismissively, 'I don't think so. I'm trying to reach Royal Dalton.'
'Well, can I help you with something?'
'Sure. You could take a message and pass it on to Royal Dalton. Ask him to call me at the number you just dialed.'
Exasperated, young Hamilton said, 'I am the duty person in the White House press office today. How can I
