“The Senator asked me to make sure you’re not wearing a wire,” he said. He seemed sorry about this, but duty-driven.
I stood and held my arms away from my sides. The driver went over me as if he’d done it before.
“May I look at the gun?” he said.
I held my jacket open so he could make sure it wasn’t a recorder disguised as a 9mm Browning.
“Thanks,” he said.
We went out to the Lincoln Town Car, which he had parked under a tow-zone sign. He held the back door open for me and I got in. Berkeley Street is one way the other way, so we had to go via Boylston, Arlington, Columbus, and back down Berkeley. I could have walked it in about a quarter of the time, but I wouldn’t have been certified wire free.
Grill 23 is high-ceilinged and hard-floored. It is the noisiest restaurant in Boston, which is probably why Stratton chose it. It is hard to eavesdrop in Grill 23. The maitre d‘ managed to show me to Stratton’s table without losing his poise. Stratton had a dark, halfdrunk scotch and soda in front of him. He stood as I arrived, and put out a hand, made hard by a million handshakes. It was a politician’s handshake, the kind where he grabs your hand with his fingers, no thumb, and spares himself squeezing. It was also damp.
“Bob Stratton,” he said. “Nice to see you, nice to see you.”
We sat. I ordered a beer. Stratton nodded toward his drink, which, from the color, was a double. Around us the room rattled with cutlery and china, and pulsed with conversation, none of which I could make out. For lunch the crowd was nearly all men. There was an occasional sleek female, normally lunching with three men, and one couple who were probably on vacation from St. Paul. But mostly it was men in conservative suits and loud ties.
“Well, how’s the case going?” Stratton said. “Loudon Tripp is a fine man, and it was a real tragedy for him. You making any progress on running the son of a bitch to ground?”
It was a bright room, well lit, full of marble and polished brass and mahogany. Through Stratton’s carefully combed and sprayed and blow-dried hairstyle, I could see the pale gleam of his scalp. His color was high. His movements were very quick, and he talked fast, so fast that, particularly in the noisy dining room, it took focus to understand him. I didn’t answer.
The waiter returned with my beer and Stratton’s scotch. It was a double, soda on the side. Stratton picked up the soda and splashed a little in on top of the whiskey.
“Gotta do this careful,” he said, and smiled at me with at least fifty teeth, “don’t want to bruise the scotch.”
I nodded and took a sip of beer.
The waiter said, “Care for menus, gentlemen?”
Stratton waved him away. “Little later,” he said. “Stay on top of the drinks.”
The waiter said, “Certainly, sir,” and moved off.
Stratton took a long pull on his drink. There was a hint of sweat on his forehead. He looked at me over the rim of the glass like a man buying an overcoat.
“I’ve had my people check you out,” Stratton said. “They tell me you’re pretty good.”
“Golly,” I said.
“Tell me you are a very hard case, that you’ve got a lot of experience, and that you’re smart.”
“And a hell of a pistol shot,” I said.
Stratton smiled because he knew I’d said something that called for it. I was pretty sure he didn’t know what.
“Ever think of relocating?” he said.
“It’s often suggested to me,” I said.
“That a fact?” Stratton said. “I was thinking that there would be some real challenges for a man like you in Washington.”
“Really?” I said.
“Absolutely,” Stratton said. He drank most of the rest of his dark scotch, and his eyes began to look for the waiter. “Absolutely.”
“That’d be great,” I said. “I love those Puget Sound oysters.”
The waiter spotted Stratton and came over, Stratton nodded toward the almost-empty glass. The waiter looked at me, I shook my head.
“What was that about oysters?” Stratton said.
“Nothing,” I said. “I was amusing myself.”
“You bet,” Stratton said. “Anyway, I think I could help you to a pretty nice setup in Washington. You could be on staff, and still free-lance.”
“Gee,” I said.
The waiter returned with Stratton’s double scotch-soda on the side. The open bottles of club soda were starting to pile up. Stratton paused long enough to splash in very little soda, from the newest bottle.
“So whaddya think?” he said.
I took a swallow of beer. It had gotten warm sitting there while Stratton inhaled his winedark scotch.
