O'Farrell's Law

in complete control of himself when the pitcher was empty. His difficulty was the difficulty that always existed: his complete and utter aloneness, never having anyone with whom he could discuss anything. And then he remembered that there was someone.

O’Farrell used the unlisted number that John Lambert had given him, feeling a positive stomach lurch of relief when the psychologist answered at once. Lambert said of course they could meet—that had always been the understanding—but not until the afternoon of the following day. O’Farrell agreed that would be fine. He canceled the Chicago flight and didn’t book another and reached Jill at their daughter’s apartment at the first attempt, too.

The same brittle tenseness there’d been in Jill’s voice when he’d announced the Washington visit came back when O’Farrell apologized for having to extend the trip. There was a lot of “what the hell” and “for Christ’s sake” (and “fuck” once or twice) but O’Farrell remained levelvoiced and very calm. There was something important that had come up, jobwise, and he had to see it through. There was no practical purpose in his being in Chicago; everything that had to be done had been. She asked how long and O’Farrell hesitated and said he wasn’t sure; just one day later than she’d expected him back, maybe. When Jill had worked the anger out of her system, she asked suddenly if there were anything wrong and O’Farrell hoped she missed the hesitation in his reply. There was nothing wrong, he assured her. He promised to tell her all about it when he got up to Chicago; there’d be more than enough time to create some fantasy about embezzlement inquiries or clerical mistakes. After so much practice, he’d become expert at such stories. Jill said she loved him and he said he loved her, unusually anxious to end the conversation. She sensed the keenness, asking if there were anything else the matter apart from work, and O’Farrell said of course there wasn’t.

He decided against any more to drink, leafing instead through the mail that had built up. He dumped the circulars and slipped the bills into his diary for payment. The only letter left was from the historical society that had provided most of his ancestor’s archive. There was a lot of photocopied material. A cover letter explained the society had been bequeathed several storage boxes of records kept until now by a family who’d researched their own ancestor’s arrival and subsequent career in America. The man had been a judge who’d actually sat upon some of the first O’Farrell cases. From their past dealings the society had known, without the need for an offering letter, that O’Farrell would want the copies, for which they enclosed their bill. They hoped O’Farrell would find the shipment useful.

O’Farrell flicked through the shipment without actually reading any of it, which was as unusual with such new and potentially exciting material as wanting quickly to terminate a conversation with his wife. There had to be about fifteen to twenty legal-sized sheets and other pages of different sizes. O’Farrell put them tidily upon the top of his bound archival books, which he didn’t bother that night to open. Which was the most unusual deviation from habit of all.

O’Farrell arrived early at Fort Pearce but Lambert had already given the authority for his entry to all the checkpoints. The psychologist actually came in person to the last guardpost to sign him through.

Lambert appeared to have walked down because he rode in O’ Farrell’s immaculate Ford back to the barracks-type building in which the man had his office.

“So how are things with Billy?”

Momentarily the question startled O’Farrell, and then he recalled the telephone call for help from Chicago. He said, “I was going to thank you. The psychiatrist you recommended, Mrs. Dwyer, has been tremendous.”

“Ms.,” Lambert said. “It’s Ms. She’s not married. So what’s happened?”

O’Farrell told the other man, and Lambert said, “Sounds like Patrick is a contender for the shit-of-the-year award.”

O’Farrell stopped carefully in the parking lot behind the building, choosing a space where he thought the Ford would be least likely to be hit by another motorist. He said, “There’d be no contest, believe me.”

As they walked side by side into the building, Lambert said, “Do you think all that you threatened will keep him in line?”

“I don’t think the bastard is capable of being straight if he wanted to be. At least we’ve got the court order now; we can pressure him. And Christ, am I going to pressure him if he screws up!”

Lambert led the way into the windowless office. O’Farrell, his previous visits in mind, saw that again the impossibly young-looking man was as always dressed with Ivy League smartness, the willing guest always ready for a party invitation. Without asking, Lambert filled a plastic mug from the permanently steaming coffeepot and handed it to O’Farrell. For once the television wasn’t on.

“So what’s the problem?” the psychologist asked.

He didn’t know how to begin, O’Farrell realized; not in a way that would properly convey his conflict of feelings to the other man. He looked around the room, trying to sort out his thoughts. There appeared to be several new rubber trees since last time, neatly planted in individual pots, but their leaves still looked dry. Near one stood a watering can. O’Farrell hadn’t thought rubber trees had to be watered very much.

“I asked what the problem was,” Lambert said.

“I want to explain it all so you’ll get the true picture, so that you’ll understand,” O’Farrell said. “It’s important that you understand how it all fits together.”

Lambert grinned openly at him. “Why not stop trying to think for me?” the man suggested. “I’ve got degrees that say I can understand things pretty well.”

“I wasn’t being offensive.”

“Just let it come out whichever way it comes.”

Which was what O’Farrell did, and he wasn’t happy with how it sounded. Several limes he backtracked, explaining parts of the meeting with Petty and Erickson quite differently on the second attempt than on the first; at other times he petered out in the middle of a sentence, unable to find an ending. At last he stumbled to a halt and said, “I didn’t get that across at all, did I?”

“I got most of it,” Lambert assured him. “It certainly looks like an ultimatum. I just can’t believe anyone could make it as awkwardly as that.”

“That’s something I find hard to believe,” O’Farrell agreed.

“He’s your boss; you’ve worked for him for a lot of years,” the psychologist said, “Is he normally as half-assed as that?”

“The opposite,” O’Farrell said. “Ours isn’t a division that can allow any misunderstanding.”

“So let’s turn it over the other way,” Lambert said. “If it’s not an ultimatum, then Rivera and Madrid don’t matter. And you’re still in line for the promotion.”

“Unless the panel or the director or whoever is making the final decision change their minds because of my refusal.”

“Good point,” Lambert agreed. “This promotion means a lot to you?”

O’Farrell paused before replying; he wouldn’t try to explain it because he was unsure if he could. He said, “A hell of a lot.”

“All the hidden extras, able to go on supporting everyone in the family and no longer having to be the executioner?” Lambert offered.

How was it that Lambert could sum it all up in about twenty words when he’d thrashed about for hours and still couldn’t put it in a comprehensible sentence? O’Farrell said, “I hadn’t thought about it as simply as that.”

“You’d still be involved, of course,” Lambert pointed out. “You wouldn’t be pulling the trigger or whatever, but with Petty and Erickson you’d be agreeing to the targets and initiating the operations.”

“I know that,” O’Farrell said.

“Still killing, then?” Lambert pressed. “The only difference would be that you wouldn’t be doing it yourself. You don’t find any difficulty there?”

“I thought we agreed on the need—and the justification—when I was here after the London mistake?”

Lambert nodded. “I thought we did, too. I was curious whether you’d changed your mind.”

“No,” O’Farrell said. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Not easier, perhaps, to be the judge rather than the man carrying out the sentence?”

Lambert hadn’t summed it all up, not in those first twenty or so words. It had taken him just a few more. Now he’d succeeded: everything laid out in the open, like items on a display stand. With that realization came another, the awareness of why he’d had so much difficulty expressing himself. It had all been so much bullshit the previous night, slumped in the den, pretending to examine all the options. He hadn’t examined anything, apart from the bottom of his martini glass. He’d refused to let himself think the thoughts that Lambert was making him