O'Farrell's Law

ELEVEN

O’FARRELL COMPLETED the files in the Lafayette Square office by midmorning. To ensure his success in the argument with Petty he carefully went through everything again, intently studying the photographs as well as the case reports. A real hotshot, he thought; then, glossy son of a bitch. Jose Gaviria Rivera certainly appeared that. The photographs were not just the snatched, concealed-camera shots of the ambassador with Pierre Belac. There were some posed pictures, at official diplomatic functions—sometimes with his dark-haired, statuesque wife—and others taken at various polo functions, several showing the man with an equally statuesque but fine-featured woman whom the captions identified as Henrietta Blanchard. From the accompanying biography O’Farrell knew the diplomat to be fifty-two years old; the photographs showed a man who kept in shape, and who dressed in clothes designed to accentuate that fitness, like Rodgers. There was another similarity in the perfect evenness of the teeth. The ambassador seemed to smile a lot. Although the circumstances of his studying both men were different, and it was difficult for him to reach a conclusion without seeing how Rivera moved and behaved, O’Farrell did not get the impression that Rivera was flashy, like Rodgers was flashy. Glossy, certainly, but the gloss of someone accustomed to luxurious surroundings and fitting naturally into them. O’Farrell decided that although the word hardly seemed appropriate for a representative of Cuba, the man’s stance and his demeanor appeared aristocratic, the chin always lifted, the arm and the frozen gesture invariably languid.

The second examination finished, O’Farrell reassembled the file and restored it to the safe, thinking about what he was going to do. He was right, he told himself; he was un-arguably right. And they’d made the rules, not him. He was merely—but quite properly—obeying them. To the letter, maybe, but wasn’t that how rules should be obeyed, to the letter? Of course it was. His decision. Always his decision. Another rule. Theirs again, not his.

Petty would see him immediately, O’Farrell knew, but he held back from making the contact at once. Lunchtime, after all. And he’d finally brought the sepia photograph and the cuttings in from Alexandria and made appointments at the copiers recommended by the helpful archivist at the Library of Congress. The afternoon would be fine for seeing Petty. Not that O’Farrell was avoiding the confrontation. He was giving the evidence he had studied the proper consideration it deserved, not rushing anything. Was there a chance of his changing his mind? Unlikely, but there was nothing to lose by thinking everything through again. The sort of reflection they would expect, would want from him.

At the copy shop O’Farrell impressed upon the manager the importance of the cracked and flaking newspaper cuttings, and the man assured him that he would personally make the copies. The discussion took longer at the photographic studio. The restorer there offered to touch up the original, assuring O’Farrell that it would be undetectable, but O’Farrell refused, unwilling to have it tampered with. There was then a long conversation about the paper and finish of the copy. The man suggested the heaviest paper and a high-sheen reproduction, which was precisely what O’Farrell did not want. He listened to various other suggestions and finally chose the heaviest paper but a matte finish, which he thought most closely resembled the photograph taken all those years ago. Not the same but close.

O’Farrell completed everything with almost an hour to go before he was due to return to Lafayette Square. He found a bar on 16th Street, near the National Geographic Society building, a heavily paneled, dark place. It was crowded, but O’Farrell managed a slot at a stand-up shelf that ran around one wall. Because the jostle was so thick at the bar he’d ordered a double gin and tonic and wondered when he tasted it if the man had heard him, because it did not seem particularly strong.

Would he still be called upon to make a recommendation about Paul Rodgers, now that he had reached a decision about Rivera? O’Farrell supposed the man could give sufficient evidence before a grand jury to get an indictment against Rene Cuadrado. In practical terms that would not mean much, because of course Cuadrado would remain safe from arrest in Cuba, but the media coverage would expose the Havana government as drug traffickers and Congress or the White House might consider that useful. What happened before a grand jury wasn’t his concern, O’Farrell recognized. It was the district attorney who would have to decide what deal to offer Rodgers in return for his cooperation. So what was he going to say, if he were asked? Stuff that makes you feel funny, he thought. Fuck him. Fuck Rodgers and his shoulder swagger and finger-snapping jive talk. Coke mainly, of course. Marijuana too. And pills. Methaqualone. Just like a salesman, offering his wares. How many kids—how many people—had been destroyed by the shit brought in by the bastard? Impossible to calculate, over the period he’d boasted—yes, actually boasted!—of operating. So he could go to hell. Literally to the hell of a penitentiary and O’Farrell hoped it would be for thirty-five years, which was a figure he’d made up at the interviews, just wanting to frighten the man. Perhaps the sentence could be longer than that. O’Farrell hoped it was. Clear the scum off the streets for life. Hey, you my man? No, thought O’Farrell. I’m not your man. If I’m asked, I am going to be the guy who screws you.

O’Farrell went to the bar and ensured this time that the man knew he wanted a double, and not so much tonic this time. He supposed he should eat something but he didn’t feel hungry. He’d wait until dinner, maybe cook himself a big steak. If he were going to do that, then he’d have to stop off on the way home and get some wine. It was becoming ridiculous, constantly buying one bottle at a time. Why didn’t he get a case: French even, because French was supposed to be superior, wasn’t it? Ask the guy’s opinion and buy something decent and lay it out like you were supposed to in the cellar. Ask about that, too; get the right temperature and ask whether to stand it up or lay it on its side. All the pictures he’d ever seen had the wine lying in racks, on its side. Okay, why not buy a rack then? Nothing too big. Just enough for say a dozen bottles, maybe two dozen, so he wouldn’t have to keep stopping.

He’d tell Jill about it when he telephoned that evening. She’d seemed okay when he called last night, although she was worried that Ellen’s payments still hadn’t been straightened out. Ellen was being silly about Patrick, holding back from taking the bastard to court. He’d try to talk to Ellen about it this weekend, when he went up. make her see that it wasn’t just herself and how she felt—although he could not conceive her retaining any feeling for the guy—but that she had to consider Billy now. That Billy, in fact, was more important, far more important, than her own emotions.

Just time for one more, O’Farrell decided. The lunch-time crowd was thinning, and when O’Farrell reached me bar and got the drink, he decided to stay there. He hoped the copier wouldn’t screw up and damage the cuttings. The Library of Congress archivist had been very helpful, talking of special acid-free storage boxes that sealed hermetically, cutting down on the deterioration caused by exposure to air. O’Farrell wondered if he should get some. He didn’t have a lot of stuff, so one would probably do by itself; two at the outside. He decided to call the man again to ask about it. Maybe this afternoon. No, couldn’t do it this afternoon. Had something else to do this afternoon. Soon now; less than an hour. Time for…? No. Had to get back. Make his argument. No problem. Knew the file by heart.

O’Farrell was sure he could get a taxi, so he didn’t hurry over the third drink, but there weren’t any cabs cruising 16th Street when he left the bar. He moved impatiently from one foot to another on the curb, looking both ways along the street, then started to walk, which was a mistake, because when he glanced back he saw someone get a cab from where he had been standing. When he finally picked one up, his watch was showing only five minutes from the appointment time, and two cars had collided at the junction with L Street, so there was a further delay getting through.

He was twenty minutes late reaching Petty’s office. The section head was tight-lipped with irritation, and Erickson, from his window spot, looked pointedly at his watch when O’Farrell entered.

“Sorry,” O’Farrell said. “One car rear-ended another on L; caused a hell of a tie-up.”

“That’s all right,” Petty said.

From the man’s tone O’Farrell knew perfectly well that it was anything but all right. What the hell? he thought. He said, “I’ve read the file.”

“And?” Erickson said.

“I don’t think it’s sufficient,” O’Farrell declared bluntly. He felt empty-stomached and there was a dryness at the back of his throat; he was glad at the strength that appeared in his voice.