congressman.'
'And senatorial aspirant,' I said.
'Senatorial aspirant? Jesus Christ. Want a job on the editorial page?'
'I need to know anything I can about Browne,' I said. 'I won't tell you why. Probably never will tell you why, and I'd rather no one knew I was interested.'
'Well, that sure sounds like a good deal for me,' Cosgrove said. 'Meet me someplace tonight, around six thirty, and I'll give you what I got.'
'Ritz bar,' I said. 'I'll pay.'
'You should,' he said. The phone rang and Cosgrove picked it up. I got up waved him good-bye and went out. I turned in the rental car and walked to my office. It was still raining, steady and cold now. No longer pleasant. The office was stale from emptiness and I opened both windows while I went through my mail. Across the way the art director was in residence and I blew her a kiss from the window. She smiled and waved. The mail was not worth opening. I dropped it all in the wastebasket. Maybe I should get an unlisted address. What if I did and nobody cared? I called the answering service. There were no messages. I sat down in my swivel chair and took out my bottle of Irish whiskey and had a drink. The cold wet air from the window behind me blew on my neck. I thought about lunch. I looked at my watch. Twelve twenty-five. I had another pull on the bottle. I looked at Susan's picture on my desk. Even filtered through a camera I could feel her energy. Wherever she was things coalesced around her. I made a small toasting gesture with the bottle.
'Like a jar in Tennessee,' I said out loud.
I drank another shot of whiskey and looked at my watch again. Twelve thirty already. I put the cap back on the bottle and put it away. Lunch.
I walked up to a Mexican place on Newbury Street called Acapulco and had a plate of enchiladas and three bottles of Carta Blanca. Then I walked to my apartment on Marlborough Street and went in and aired it out. There was a letter there from Paul Giacomin. Things were good at college. He was going to spend Thanksgiving with me, and he might bring a girl friend.
Whiskey, enchiladas, and beer did not make for a lively afternoon. At 1:15 I lay down on the bed to read Legends of the Fall. About 1:30 I rested my eyes for a moment and at 3:20 I woke up with the book still open on my chest and the thick taste of empty calories in my mouth. I got up and took a shower and put on sweat pants and a waterproof jacket and ran along the Charles for an hour until my blood moved once again without protest through my veins and the guilt of sleeping during the day was dissipated. Then I went over to the Harbor Health Club and worked on their new Nautilus until I felt sure of redemption and it was time to see Wayne Cosgrove.
I arrived at the Ritz bar freshly showered, shaved, and pleasingly exhausted at 6:20. I had primped for the Ritz bar, which was one of the few places in the city where ties are required and jeans are barred. I had on my brand new corduroy jacket with leather buttons and a tattersall shirt and a dark blue knit tie that picked up the blue in the tattersall. I took off my leather coat as I walked into the Ritz lobby and checked myself in the mirrors near the bar. With my gray slacks and my cordovan loafers I was fit for permanent display. My gun was tucked away on my right hip out of sight. I thought about getting a tweed holster but decided it would jeopardize my credibility.
The bar was uncrowded and I got a small table near the window where people passing on Arlington Street could look in and assume I was closing an important deal. Cosgrove hadn't arrived yet. When the waiter came I asked for a Rolling Rock Extra Pale in the long neck bottle. They had none. I had to settle for Budweiser. Even the Ritz bar must disappoint occasionally.
I had finished the first bowl of peanuts and managed to choke down three Budweisers when Cosgrove showed up. He was wearing the same outfit he'd had on earlier except he'd added a long plaid woolen scarf. He carried a big thick manila envelope.
'Sorry I'm late,' he said. 'Knowing it was the Ritz I had to go home first and brush my teeth.'
'I don't mind,' I said. 'It just meant more peanuts for me.'
Cosgrove sat down and handed me the big envelope. The waiter appeared. Cosgrove said, 'Martini, stirred not shaken, twist of lemon.'
'No olive?' I said.,
'Only a fucking beast would have an olive in his martini,' Cosgrove said. 'Olives are packed in brine, ruins the taste.'
'I figured the gin and vermouth had already done that.'
Cosgrove shrugged. 'No accounting for taste,' he said.
'You prove that,' I said. 'What's the scarf for?'
'Strangling muggers,' Cosgrove said. 'You still working for Meade Alexander?'
'You've been busy,' I said.
'Are you?'
'Yes.'
'That why you want the Browne stuff?'
'No comment.'
The waiter brought Cosgrove's drink and a fresh bowl of peanuts. He looked at me. I shook my head. I'd only been redeemed for a half an hour.
When the waiter left, Cosgrove took a sip of his martini, looked pleased, put the glass down, and said, 'No fucking comment? You work a week for a politician and you're walking around saying no fucking comment?'
'You're right,' I said. 'It's embarrassing. Ask me again.'
'You investigating Browne for Alexander?'
'I don't want to answer that question,' I said, 'and if you ask it again, I'll beat your teeth in.'
Cosgrove nodded. 'Better,' he said. He drank some more martini. 'How's Susan?' he said.
'She's away,' I said.
Cosgrove started to speak, looked at me, stopped, and then said, 'I wouldn't have thought Meade Alexander was your style.'
'I don't think he is,' I said.
'On the other hand,' Cosgrove said, 'who is your style, except maybe that goddamned African assassin you hang around with.'
'Hawk,' I said. 'I'll tell him you said that.'
'That was on deep background,' Cosgrove said. 'How come you're working for Meade Alexander?'
'Best offer I had.'
'How's Mrs. Alexander?'
'Fine.'
'Hear she drinks a little.'
'Don't we all,' I said. 'Know anything worth telling about the Alexanders?'
'We having dinner afterward?'
'Sure.'
'I'll think on it,' he said, and sipped more martini.
Chapter 9
We ate in the cafe.
'Ronni Alexander drinks. We both know that,' Cosgrove said. 'She drinks too much and when she does she gets boisterous, and sometimes mean. When I was in the Washington bureau it was sort of a common joke.'
'I picked up some of that,' I said. 'Why haven't I ever read about it?'
Cosgrove ate some scrod. 'We do news, not gossip. Or we try to. The fact that a congressman's wife's a boozer isn't news unless it involves her in something that is news, you know?'
'And I gather it didn't.'
'Not that I ever knew. They live in Georgetown. She didn't spend much time in public with him. When she did usually she'd be on good behavior. And the staff was very alert.'
'No other scandal?'
